Beggar's Miracle Read online

  Fiona longed for the time when Dungarran stood as the center of the entire county. People had jobs, made a good living, supported the local businesses and had no trouble feeding their children or heating their homes, humble though they might be. The festivals at the Dunaghy Meade High Cross at each turn of the season buzzed with the laughter of children and parents alike.

  “Ah,” she whispered, “those were the grand times.”

  But now, in 1955, things had changed for their little town. The cheese factory closed first and put people out of work. The Murrays left, followed by all twelve of the Sullivans, then the Ashleys and their cousins, the Gradys.

  One by one, the local businesses dried up. The little boutique that Fiona loved so dearly shut its doors first.

  When Fiona thought of it, she sighed. “I did love that little place. Lovely hats they had there.”

  The thought of the hats reminded her of her beloved Emalyn, always dressed just so in the latest fashions looking as beautiful as any other girl Fiona had ever seen.

  Fiona closed her eyes and fought back tears. Emalyn and Owen had been gone for twenty years, yet she felt their loss as deeply as she had the first few weeks afterward. At times, she would walk by Emalyn’s room and smell her perfume or go into the kitchen and find the scent of chocolate. There were even times when she thought she could hear the couple laughing. Everywhere she looked, she could swear she saw Emalyn standing there with Owen right beside her.

  Fiona longed for her beloved girl, for the smile on her face, the soft voice, the gentle touch…all was lost to her now.

  “I do miss my sweet girl,” Fiona said and sniffed. “Ah, well, she’s with her Owen and they’re happy for eternity. Shouldn’t begrudge them that.”

  She’d hoped to be able to keep Emalyn’s chocolate shop open. The community rallied around to open it and work the shifts, but no one could make chocolate like Emalyn, at least no one in Dungarran. So, the shop opened for a few weeks then closed.

  The book shop nearby was the next to go. And when the big hotel and restaurant finally drew its last breath in Dungarran, forty families lost any hope of employment.

  They’d all left now.

  Down the way in Clonmel, the woolen factory closed, and over in Cashel, the big dairy shut down.

  Fiona knew that many of the families tried their hands in Dublin, making a move that would prove disastrous since work there was just as scarce as in their little town here. But with no jobs and no hopes of finding work in any of the nearby towns, Fiona reckoned that they had to do something.

  Then, every newspaper seemed filled with stories of emigration. The Great Flight, it was called. People from all over Ireland left by the hundreds of thousands on ships bound for America, the land of plenty, the land of big dreams.

  The families who stayed worked the land, harvested what crops they could, or worked at the whiskey factory. And because the linen mill remained open, many of the townsfolk had been able to keep their jobs, jobs their grandmothers and grandfathers had worked before them. Working at the linen mill came to be thought of as an inherited position.

  Fiona sighed and tightened her scarf as a gust of wind blew across her face.

  “My Percy, though, he’s adding some life to the town.”

  Percy had put together a team of forty or so young people to play football. The team had been good enough to be admitted into the Gaelic Athletic Association, and for a hometown church team, that was no small feat. In the short while that they’d had to practice, the team grew so strong that they become worthy opponents. During the Great Flight, the team lost several members, so many that the games were discontinued.

  Now, though, her Percy had managed to inspire them, to get them to practice, and to build them into a solid team ready to take on any other team that would play them.

  “My boy,” Fiona said. “He’s done something for the town. I hope it lasts with all this trouble now.”

  She gazed out over the large pond, the one built in memory of her beloved Emalyn and Owen. Twice, she had it enlarged to suit the needs of the growing numbers of cygnets. Around the edges sprang multi-colored wildflowers in bright pinks, reds, and yellows that never seemed to fade or wither, and within the pond, water lilies grew to enormous size, their large white and purple blooms on thick stalks above each pad.

  Fiona’s favorite, though, were the dazzling blue water hyacinths. Tall and elegant, the plants covered an entire far edge, its blooms cascading toward the surface of the water. A professor who’d visited once commented that he’d never seen a blue hyacinth. He marveled at their abundance and even asked to take a sample. He’d come back a year or so later for another visit to The Swan House, as the locals called Dunaghy Manor, and declared that this was a new species found nowhere else on earth.

  Fiona had simply smiled at him and nodded.

  “My Emalyn would have it that way, sure.”

  A pair of swans nuzzled her legs.

  Fiona looked down at them.

  “You’ll have to come in now, you and your babes. We’ve a freezing storm moving in around noon. Can’t leave you out here. The greenhouse is ready, so when you’re finished, take yourselves inside. And no dawdling, either.”

  Fiona tucked a few wayward strands of hair under wool cap. During the weeks after the deaths of Emalyn and Owen, her once brunette hair turned white as snow. Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she thought she looked at someone else. The white hair shone and turned up on the ends in soft curls so that when once she spent a good bit of time trying to curl her dark hair, now, it almost fixed itself.

  At times, when she walked by one of the many mirrors throughout the house and caught a glimpse of herself, she was taken aback. Even without makeup, her brows had a rich color and her lips and cheeks took on the natural blush of a much younger woman. She often marveled at the transformation, especially when—at certain moments—she swore that she saw in reflection not herself but her beloved Emalyn.

  “Tis an old woman’s fantasy,” she’d say. “Me mind is slipping.”

  One of the swans honked.

  “Come on, now,” Fiona said. “Bring your family in from this cold.”

  She clutched at her coat collar and shivered.

  “Sure, I’m talkin’ to them like they’re people.”

  As she walked up the steps, she turned and saw the swans waddling to the greenhouse. When she reached the last one, she felt relieved and a bit winded. She’d been climbing these same stairs for years, sometimes two at a time if she was in a rush. She stopped for a second and took a deep breath.

  Something brushed across her leg, and when Fiona saw the culprit, she chuckled.

  “Well, now, who do we have here?” she said. “Could it be the Lady Bluebelle on her morning stroll?”

  Fiona bent and picked up the fluffy, bluish-gray cat with the bright green eyes.

  “Come on, then. It’s too cold out here for the likes of us.”

  The large cat nuzzled Fiona’s neck and purred.

  “Sweet wee girl, you are,” she said and reached to open the door.

  Lady Bluebelle jumped out of her arms and dashed to the bottom of the steps. Then she looked directly at Fiona and meowed.

  “Time to go in now. Come along,” Fiona insisted.

  But the Lady Bluebelle darted around to the side of the house, screeching like a wild cat.

  “What in heaven’s name is it?” Fiona said as she hurried down into the yard after her.

  Bluebelle took off toward the smallest of the sheds in the back of the Manor.

  Built inside a circle of yew trees, the shed housed gardening tools and Emalyn’s prized chocolate molds. Scrubbed from top to bottom once a month, every implement in place, and even a heavy braided rug on the wooden floor, the pristine shed never had a cobweb nor a buildup of dust. It was a shrine, of sorts, to Lady’s Emalyn’s skill at gardening and chocolate making. Too painful for Fiona to see each day in the kitchen, the cooking utensils and specialized
molds had been moved to the shed years ago. Shined and polished, neatly organized, they hung on hooks or stayed packed away in bins.

  Her fluffy tail swishing back and forth, Bluebelle nosed around the brick pavers.

  When Fiona finally caught up, she bent and put her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

  “Land’s sakes, you’re a runner,” she said.

  Bluebelle pawed at the doors.

  Fiona slid them open, and the large cat charged inside.

  With the overcast sky, the two windows gave off little light.

  “I can’t see a thing in here. What’s bothering you, Bluebelle? Is it a mouse you’ve found?”

  From the far corner came a loud meow.

  Fiona moved about as quickly as she could, using her hands to feel her way to the back of the place. It was warmer than usual inside for this time of year. Normally, the cold would have seeped right to her arthritic joints, but today, it was bearable, even comfortable.

  “Mercy,” she said. “What’s got you all stirred up this morning? We should be makin’ breakfast for Percy and gettin’ the food and blankets ready. You’d be curled up beside the fire, as usual, not helping one little bit.”

  Another loud meow.

  “I’m comin’ as fast as my old feet will carry me, Love.”

  When Fiona reached the cat, she could barely make out the bulk of something on the floor of the shed. She knelt and ran her hand along a heavy wool coat.

  Suddenly, the coat moved.

  Fiona heard a gasp, then a whimper.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “Oh, Lord have mercy on us.”

  5

  Eliza

  Eliza Elizabeth Farrell puttered in the greenhouse adjacent to the newly-abandoned Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. She tended the bright red begonias, the deep pink fuchsia, the pure white roses, along with multiple pots of tarragon, sage, mint and parsley. She touched each bloom on the flowers, each leaf on the herbs. With her finger, she pierced the soil, smiling at the familiar grittiness of her special ingredient mixed with soft earth of the Irish countryside. She lingered over the pungent aromas.

  “Ah, just right,” she said and moved a few steps to the newly-planted grape vine.

  She grasped the bottom of the vine to test for strength and sniffed the soil at several different spots to detect any hint of disease or disorder.

  Her sense of smell quite acute, Eliza knew the sweet smell of the roses and begonias, the earthy and tangy scents of each herb, parsley being her favorite. And she had a nose for detecting that most virulent of vine killers, the gray mold. She’d honed these skills over the years as the proprietor of the greenhouse.

  A few times, someone had sneaked in a new plant, perhaps to test her “good nose,” as the townsfolk of Dublin referred to it. As soon as Eliza entered the greenhouse after such a trick, she smelled the new addition immediately, walked to it, and either identified it as a plant she might like to grow or as an invasive newcomer that needed a different home.

  That she talked to her plants and sang tunes to them each day was well known in Dublin, and so successful had she been at growing flowers, herbs, vegetables, and fruits—even in the dead of winter or the stifling heat of the summer or even the persistent dampness of the daily rains—that she had been dubbed Lady Eliza of the Flowers.

  People sought her out as the doctor for all their ailing plants. She’d been called upon by people as far away as Donegal, the most northwestern part of Ireland. Sometimes, as far away as Northern Ireland itself or the golden beaches of the eastern shores of Wicklow.

  And it was in the winter when most of her “patients” were brought in for recovery in the enormous greenhouse called Lady Eliza’s Manor. Dying herbs, withering vines, wilting blooms, moldy stems found their way into the Manor where the recovery rate, after only a few weeks, astounded the previous owners. Most took their plants back home where they immediately died, but a few left their patients in the care of Lady Eliza where they knew that the plants would prosper year after year.

  Visits were not uncommon. Former owners would stand in awe at the sight of their once-sickly begonias or dying lavender now lush and green, filled with brilliant colors cascading over the sides of the pots. Moldy tomato plants, apple tree saplings, and grape vines sprang to life without a sign of any disease.

  She smiled each time one of the visitors tapped her on the arm and said, “You work miracles, Lady Eliza, plain old miracles.”

  Occasionally, she would host a community dinner for the visitors in the dining area of the abandoned “laundry,” the term used by townspeople all across Ireland to signify the atrocities committed at the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. They referred to the orphanage as the “laundry,” since much of the damage done to innocent young girls—some as young as eight years old—occurred in that room, or rather, in a room off the laundry set up by the good sisters. For a hefty price, rich American or European men were given preferences as to their tastes in age and beauty. In that same room, bargaining took place for the illegal sales of babies born out of wedlock, some, of course, fathered by the wealthy strangers who visited each week.

  The good sisters handled all the transactions secretly, discreetly, and without the knowledge of either the Bishop or the Archbishop… until one Sunday morning a year ago when the Bishop’s nephew paid a visit.

  The good sisters provided him his choice of innocents, unaware that he was not only the Bishop’s nephew, but the head of the investigative department.

  That single visit sealed the fate of the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage.

  Eliza recalled the three years she’d spent there and shuddered. A sudden flash of memory sparked in her thoughts. The ship. The lightning.

  Eliza covered her face with her hands and sent the memory back into the dark corners of her mind.

  With the help of an entire community in Dublin and the generous donations from churches all across Ireland, the abandoned orphanage—the infamous Laundry—became her home. Though it was an enormous three-story brick building, Eliza occupied only two rooms on the ground floor plus the kitchen and large dining hall where she hosted weekly dinners for anyone who wanted to come and eat their fill for only a dollar or the occasional donation of beef, chicken, pork, or her favorite: fresh fish. Those who could not pay due to their difficult circumstances were fed for free, but only in exchange for work around the home or in the gardens. A large old building with acres of surrounding land and several outbuildings always needed some sort of repair or a bit of freshening. Those who ate for free seemed overly generous with their time and skills.

  A superb cook, Eliza catered special occasion banquets for a nominal fee using the fresh produce from the garden or the greenhouse. If meat were required, the client provided it. With her skills at the extreme end of proficient, Eliza had no trouble mastering the steps required to produce tender meats for mouth-watering stews and hearty soups, though healthy salads and fancy chocolate desserts became her signature dishes.

  Eliza had grateful clients in most of the thirty-six counties of Ireland. They marveled at her prowess, issued healthy doses of praise in various forms, and returned the love they had for her many times over.

  They had long since learned to ignore the fact that when she walked through the rooms, a white cane swept the floor in front of her.

  6

  Discovery

  A strange sound had roused him from a deep sleep. Percy squinted his sleepy eyes and glanced at the window. He could tell it was still dark outside, so he grumbled and pulled the covers over his head.

  Too early to get up.

  Settled into a cozy spot, he fluffed his pillow and drifted into slumber.

  Moments later, the sound came again, a distant but distinct cry for help.

  With an exasperated sigh, Percy flung the covers off, slipped his feet into his bedroom shoes, and pulled on the thick terry robe. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. Half past five.

  “Aw, geez,” he muttered. “Another good h
our I could have in this warm bed.”

  He stepped to the window and opened it. A harsh wind blew in and needled across his face. When he’d tightened his robe around him, he braved the stinging wind and leaned his head out to see if he could hear that faint cry again.

  Nothing.

  Percy ducked his head back into the warmth of the bedroom, reached to close the window, and stopped dead still.

  There it was. The cry.

  “Mam,” he whispered as he closed the window and rushed out, going as fast as he could with his one leg dragging behind.

  He rushed down the wide staircase of Dunaghy Manor to the first floor, opened the double doors, and charged around the side of the house. The sharp wind whipped so forcefully that it blew the sides of his robe away from his legs. The cold made the pain in his leg throb.

  Then, Percy heard the thunder, saw the lightning, and braced himself against a sudden downpour.

  “MAM,” he called, his voice muffled by the blowing rain. “Is that you? Are ye hurt?”

  “Percy,” she called back. “Percy.”

  The sound came from the back lawn, so he dashed over the wet grass, the slippers doing little to protect his feet from the icy cold rain. He ran past the line of white winter roses growing alongside the manor, sliding occasionally, but maintaining his balance. When he came to the stands of lavender waving about in the wind, he inhaled the sweet fragrance, the wind and rain seeming to have intensified it. He spotted the first of the sheds.

  “Mam,” he called again.

  “In here,” came the faint reply. “Help us.”

  Us? Sweet Mother Mary, who is with my mam?

  Stepping carefully to avoid slipping on the concrete pathway now covered in a fine sheet of ice, the rain pelting his head, Percy maneuvered his way into the building. To his surprise, it was so warm inside that his wet robe felt almost like a body warmer.