Cat's Cradle (18 page)

November passed in a procession of cheerless, dank days. I rarely saw the sun, except for a fleeting glimpse at dinner time, as we now rose in the dark and returned to the dormitory after nightfall. Colds and snuffles passed from one girl to another like a baton in a relay race, and soon all of us were sporting unattractive red noses and teary eyes. Martha, who had still not warmed to my presence in her bed, complained that I kept her awake with my sneezing. I pointed out that her icy feet were chilling my back. I think that made it a stalemate.

One frosty morning, I woke with a sore throat and aching bones. For one moment I considered the possibility that my malaria (caught while in the Caribbean) had returned, but then discarded that idea for the more likely chance that I had succumbed to the influenza doing the rounds of the mill. Annie reported my condition to Goodwife Ross and I was allowed to remain in bed. Despite feeling wretched, it was a luxury to have the covers all to myself and sleep the day away. Bridgit came to visit after work, the Moir boys and Jamie sent a basket of chestnuts to cheer me, even the dominie sent a note wishing me a speedy recovery.

Fortunately, I did not have the illness too badly and shook it after three days. Allowed Saturday off to recuperate, I was expected back at work on Monday.

I emerged on Sunday afternoon to take a breath of air with Bridgit, walking somewhat wobbly like a newly birthed foal. She had invited me to eat with her rather than in the hubbub of the dormitory dining room. Giving me the
warmest spot by the fire in the kitchen of the two-roomed cottage, Bridgit set about cooking a hearty stew for us and her landlady.

‘This is lovely.' I stretched my hands to the grate, pausing to admire the neat arrangement of the kitchen. A little pot of geraniums sat on the windowsill; one late flower in bloom. An alphabetical sampler decorated the wall. By the other chair, the schoolteacher had a shelf of books – copies of
The Rambler
, Richardson's
Clarissa
in many volumes, a collection of Shakespeare's plays. I could imagine such a future for myself: a little cottage furnished with the belongings I had paid for out of my own earnings. A proper home.

‘So, tell me what's been happening while I've been in bed,' I said, stretching my toes out to the fire.

Bridgit put the pot on the stove to stew and sat opposite me, wiping her fingers on her apron.

‘I've some bad news for you, I'm afraid.'

I sat up straight. ‘What's happened?'

‘The Moirs have gone down with the flu.
Jeannie is very bad, they say. Mr Moir – you know he's not healthy at the best of times – he's seriously ill. The worst is that Mrs Moir has developed pneumonia.'

Pneumonia. That was often a killer.

I mentally chided myself when I realized my first thought had been fear that if Mrs Moir died I'd never find out the truth. So selfish. I gave my better self a shove to the fore.

‘What about Dougie and Ian?'

‘They are helping look after their parents. Their older sister, Katrine, is in charge. Have you met her yet?'

I shook my head.

‘She's about my age. Red-headed.' Bridgit paused. ‘She looks a lot like you, in fact, except she's much bigger.'

My heart did a clumsy flip-flop like a badly trained acrobat. There it was again – the hint that there might be substance in the claim that the Moirs were related to me.

‘Can we do anything to help?'

‘I was going to offer some of the stew. You can
take it along if you like.' Bridgit knew I had been looking for a chance to meet the Moirs at home for weeks now.

I gave a jerky nod. ‘All right. Thank you. I'd like to do that.'

An hour later I knocked at the door of Number Five. The door was pulled open abruptly and I found myself face to face with the oldest sister, Katrine. She gave me a hard look.

‘Do I ken ye?' she asked, wiping a weary hand across her brow.

I fumbled for an answer, too busy ticking off the points where I resembled her – freckles, eyes, curling red hair . . .

‘Um, yes. I mean no. I know your brothers and Jeannie. I work with your mother in the mill.'

She nodded. ‘Och, aye, the wee Sassenach. Can I help ye?'

‘Sorry, I meant to say – I've brought you some stew if you would like it. Bridgit cooked it – she's Irish so it must be an excellent stew.' I was blabbering but I couldn't seem to stop myself.

She stepped back and waved me in.

‘Thank ye both. I could do with some help, if the truth be told. Ian's caught the fever and I'm no feeling so good myself.'

Now she mentioned it, she did look unnaturally pale. This family needed rescuing.

Perhaps my family.

‘My name's Catherine,' I said as I placed the stew on the stove to warm through. I spotted Jeannie lying on a little truckle bed by the hearth. Her eyes flickered open and she gave me a wan smile. Kneeling down beside her, I brushed her hair off her forehead.

‘How are you, sweet pea?'

‘Getting better, Catherine,' she whispered hoarsely, slipping her hand into my palm. ‘And ye?'

‘Fit as a fiddle now, just like you will be in a day or two.'

She nodded, though I didn't like the hectic flush on her cheeks. I raised my eyes to Katrine who was swaying by the kitchen table, a pile of vegetables waiting to be chopped. She shook her head slightly and sighed.

‘I dinna ken what to do, Catherine,' Katrine
suddenly burst out, a sob in her voice. ‘Faither's mortal sick, Mither is worse, and now Ian.' I could almost hear the snap as she broke under the weight of responsibility for so many sick people.

I stood up, my duty clear. ‘I tell you what you should do, Katrine: go to bed. There is no point you getting sick as well. I'll make broth and see everyone gets some.'

Katrine fought a feeble rearguard action – really she was desperate to go into full retreat. ‘The doctor said I must bathe Jeannie to keep the fever down.'

‘I'll do that. Just let me tell Bridgit where I am and I'll then be back to stay.'

As soon as Bridgit heard that Katrine was sickening she, of course, wanted to help too. Refusing further argument, we took over the kitchen, ushering Katrine up to her rest. Not long after, Dougie came down from getting Ian into bed, a tough task despite his stocky strength because Ian had been adamant that he should look after his parents and sisters. Wrestled into submission, Ian was now asleep. Relieved to have our company,
Dougie insisted on helping Bridgit with the soup, grabbing the little paring knife and setting to on the carrots. He said he welcomed the distraction from worry for his family. Together they prepared enough for the following day while I tended the little girl. Then, leaving Jeannie slumbering, I went upstairs to find the rest of the patients. In the back bedroom Ian was fretful, blankets tossed on the floor. I covered him up and left a cup of water by his bedside in case he woke with a thirst. Katrine was lying quietly in her bed behind a curtain on the other side of the room. I wondered if her problem was exhaustion more than anything as she had dark rings under her eyes. She did not seem unduly hot when I touched her.

Finally, I ventured into the front bedroom. In the double bed I found the most serious cases. I could hear Mr Moir's pained breathing, the rattle of each gasp. By contrast his wife was very still and for one ghastly moment I thought she might be dead, but no, she was taking shallow breaths. Gingerly I touched her wrist, stroking it gently. What was she to me? That question would
have to wait until they were better. I left the bedroom, deciding that they needed sleep more than soup.

‘I'm going to stay until they are recovered,' I announced on my return to the kitchen.

Bridgit nodded, accepting my decision without protest. Dougie, however, was quick to object.

‘But ye canna do that, Catherine: ye'll get into trouble with the overseer! He'll dock your pay.'

‘I don't care. Your family needs a nurse.'

Dougie frowned. ‘I'll do it.'

‘You might be next to fall ill. I've had this flu already – I won't get it again.'

‘But ye're a stranger. Why do this for us?'

That was the question, wasn't it? Was I really a stranger or one of their blood? Would Dougie know the answer? I had to speak to his mother first; I'd only ask him or Ian as a last resort.

‘I'm doing this because I want to,' I replied firmly. ‘So let's not argue about it, please.'

That night, I slept in a chair by Jeannie's truckle bed. The little girl passed a quiet night and I began
to hope that she really was improving. The next morning, she ate a little soup before falling asleep again. At least I could give over bathing her as her temperature had fallen back to normal. That was just as well as I was now required to sponge Ian whose fever had soared. I got several cuffs from him in his delirium as he objected to the tepid water trickling down his neck. On his way out to work, Dougie told me I was welcome to save up the blows and hit Ian when he got better. I said I would look forward to it.

‘And tell the overseer I've had a relapse,' I added.

‘Ye'll lose another day's pay, Catherine.' He was obviously having second thoughts about handing over responsibility for his family to me.

This had never been about wages as far as I was concerned. ‘That's no matter, Dougie. You've got five people relying on you – you've got to work.'

Fortunately, Katrine was well enough to tend to her own needs but I soon became familiar with the mechanics of bedpans for the other members of the household. When I had wished to become
better acquainted with the Moirs this wasn't quite what I had in mind.

I suppose you might say, Reader, that the reward for my labours came mid-morning as I tried to get Mrs Moir to take some broth. Sitting her up against some pillows, I gently eased the spoon between her lips. She sipped it, not even bothering to open her eyes, until a spasm of coughing shook her.

‘There, now,' I said softly, wiping the soup off her chin. ‘When it's passed I'll give you some more.'

‘Who is that?' she whispered.

‘It's Catherine – from the mill.'

She opened her eyes a crack. The room was in half-light, curtains drawn, so she could only see me in silhouette against the window. Reaching out she took my wrist in her feeble grip.

‘Nae, it's Jesse: ye canna fool me, lass. Ye never could.'

Rather than annoy her, I agreed. ‘Yes, yes, it's Jesse. Now take another spoonful for me.'

Mrs Moir's brow furrowed in confusion.

‘What ye doing here, Jesse? They said ye were dead.'

‘Well, I'm not. I'm here with some lovely soup. I didn't cook it so it's bound to be good. You need something to eat, Mrs Moir. You need your strength.'

She batted the spoon away, more interested in the puzzle I presented than the offer of food. Her cheeks were sunken; so frail, she looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.

‘Ye canna be her. But ye look like her wi' yer hair all wild.'

I touched my head self-consciously, realizing for the first time I was in her company without my cap.

‘Who are ye?'

My heart was turning over and over like cotton in the carding machine. The moment to tell the truth had arrived.

‘I'm Cat Royal, Mrs Moir. Maudie Stirling if you like,' I added, remembering the name from the letter.

Mrs Moir's hand dropped back on the cover. ‘Ye came then,' she said in a flat voice, not really surprised. ‘I would have come to ye – it was my
duty. It would have been better that way. I didna want ye here bringing the shame with ye.'

‘I know. You asked for money to do so.'

She shifted on the pillows uneasily. ‘Ye see how we live, Maudie. There is nae money to chase after Jesse's mistakes.'

Was she saying that I was one of those mistakes? Her coldness left me empty. This was not the rapturous reunion for which I had once hoped – an outpouring of tears, hugs and joy.

‘Who is Jesse, ma'am?' My tone matched hers in coolness though inside my feelings were tumbled, scraped and buffeted.

‘
Was
, lass. Yer mither's dead. Buried in Stirling where the family came from.'

My hand was shaking. I put the spoon down and clutched my fingers together in my lap. I had been foolish to hope that my mother might still be living. Of course not. Life wasn't like a fairytale.

‘Will you tell me about her?'

Another bout of coughing racked Mrs Moir's body. I waited for it to pass. Mr Moir turned over in the bed, mercifully still deeply asleep. I wanted
no interruption to this conversation.

‘I've never told anyone the whole story,' Mrs Moir said in a wisp of a voice.

‘I think you should tell me.'

Her eyes locked on my face and she half-lifted a hand to touch my cheek before thinking twice and letting it fall back. ‘I must protect my weans from the disgrace.'

I would swear to anything to get this story from her. ‘I will not endanger you or your family if you would just tell me what I need to know.'

She took a breath. ‘Ye are my wee sister's first child.'

‘Jesse was your sister?'

She nodded.

‘That makes you my aunt?' My mind clutched on to this wonderful news: I did have family! Real, proper blood family! ‘And – and Jeannie, Dougie, Ian, Katrine: they're my cousins?'

She nodded again. ‘But they're no to ken about ye – they mustna know what wicked things Jesse did.' Her face looked quite bitter as she spoke these words. ‘I must have yer word on that.'

‘You'd keep my family from me because of something my mother did?' I asked incredulously.

‘Aye, I would. Ye've gone the same way. I read the stories. I ken ye, Maudie. Ye're just like Jesse.'

Those wretched pamphlets! A rogue publisher had stolen my manuscripts and then sensationalized them, making me out to be a thief, queen of London's underworld, to improve their circulation.