The Edinburgh Bride

by Anne Douglas

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Maeve O'Donovan has arrived in Edinburgh from County Cork, trying to forget her unrequited love for the man who has since married her cousin. However, life in a strange city is at first difficult and Maeve is shocked when she encounters prejudice against her Irish roots. When she loses her job as a maid, she is delighted to find a job as an assistant in the wardrobe department of the Queen's Theatre. It's a new and exciting world for Maeve - not least because she finds herself attracted to the brooding Harry Alpin, a theatre lighting man who harbours a desire to act. However, will his prejudiced family ever to be willing to accept an Irish girl as Harry's bride?

Release date: January 3, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

The card was in the newsagent’s window.

Lodgings – Suit Young Person. Nice clean room in respectable flat. All meals found. Apply Mrs Beith, Number Eight, Victoria
Row.


Maeve Clare O’Donovan, usually known as Mae, stood with her finger to her lip, reading the card again. She was just twenty
years old. Tall and slender, with a fine complexion, Irish blue eyes and black hair recently bobbed. Rather late in the day,
perhaps, to be modern, for this was 1928 and bobbed hair was nothing new, even in Mae’s village in County Cork.


All the same, her employer had sighed and her da had groaned, but here was Mae in Edinburgh, beginning a new life, and glad
to look different. Sure, her old life could go with her great knot of hair, as far as she was concerned. Too late now to bring
it back.


Yet this new life of hers, she had to admit, had not got off to a good start, for hadn’t there been a tragedy before she’d
even unpacked her bag? Shivering a little, Mae quickly opened the shop door. She had decided to ask inside, if they knew anything
about Victoria Row.


‘Victoria Row?’ repeated the woman at the counter, straightening magazines with hands black from newsprint. She had a thin,
avid face and inquisitive eyes. ‘Why, it’s just across the road, hen! Is it the lodgings you’re after? Wi’ Mrs Beith? One
o’ ma customers, and a nicer woman you couldnae meet, I’m telling you!’


‘Just across the road?’ Mae repeated.

‘That’s right. You go out o’ here, at the top o’ Broughton Street. You’ve Victoria Place on your left and the Catholic cathedral and the Queen’s Theatre opposite, and straight across from them
is Victoria Row.’ The woman nodded. ‘If I was you, I’d try for the room, lassie. It’d suit you fine.’


‘I think I might,’ said Mae. ‘But there was no rent mentioned on the card.’

‘It’ll no’ be very dear and you can just have a look, eh? No harm done.’ The woman’s eyes were travelling over Mae with continuing
interest. ‘You’re no’ from round here, are you?’


‘From Ireland,’ Mae answered reluctantly.

‘Ireland? Well! I was just thinking, this lassie here could be Irish!’

‘Thank you for your help. I must be going now.’

‘You from Miss Thorburn’s hostel, then? Just along the street? We get a lot o’ girls coming in here from her place.’ The woman
gave a sniff. ‘All smokin’ and turnin’ over ma magazines without buyin’. If you’re in there, I’m no’ surprised you want out!’


‘Thanks again,’ said Mae coolly. ‘You have been very helpful.’

‘Nae bother!’ called the woman, as a man, entering, opened the door for Mae to leave. ‘Any time!’

If I need a newspaper, I think I shall go elsewhere, thought Mae, for the interest of the woman behind the counter had not
appealed. And why should she have been so unkind about the girls from the hostel?


It was true that Mae was staying in Adelaide House, Miss Thorburn’s hostel, and also true, as the newsagent had guessed, she
was not the same as the rest of the girls. But then they were unfortunates, some of them expecting babies, others the victims
of violence, and Miss Thorburn herself had founded the hostel for such poor souls and should be given every credit.


Settling her cloche hat more firmly against the chill April wind, Mae reached the top of Broughton Street and looked about
her for a place to cross. Sure, the traffic here was as bad as the City of Cork’s, or even Dublin’s. You just had to take
your chance. Dive in through the motors and taxis, the bicycles and horse-drawn carts, and come up outside the grey stone
building of the cathedral and its neighbour, the Queen’s Theatre, that was all gables and turrets, and darkened by time. What
a strange thing, then, to find a theatre and a place of worship jammed up against each other! But Mae hadn’t time to ponder
on it. She was looking for Victoria Row.


* * *

It was a long line of tenements, directly across a slip of a street from the cathedral and the theatre. Solid stone houses,
several storeys high, blackened, like the Queen’s, with the soot of years; some with windows sparkling clean and curtained,
others not. And of the children playing at the doors, some were wearing boots, and others not. A varied sort of place, then,
but not a slum.


I’d be all right here, thought Mae.

The door to Number Eight was open. Perhaps it was never locked? At least it had been painted recently, and gave on to a wide
passage that had been swept. There were two closed doors and a flight of stone stairs, on which sat two small girls with rough
fair hair and freckled faces that lit up when they saw Mae.


‘Who you wantin’, Miss?’ cried one, running towards her.

‘Seekin’ the lodgings?’ asked the other.

‘Susie! Jannie! Leave the lady alone!’ cried a fair-haired young woman appearing at one of the doors. Clearly the mother of
the girls, she gave Mae an apologetic smile as she pulled them out of her way. ‘Sorry, hen. They’re that excited, you ken,
watching the folk going up to Mrs Beith’s.’


‘There have been a lot of people round?’ asked Mae, with sinking heart.

‘Aye. Well, this is a good place to stay, you ken. Nice and central. There’s been plenty looking.’ The young woman hesitated.
‘Mind, up till now, Mrs Beith’s only taken young men as lodgers. Thinks they’re useful. Likely to do little jobs.’


‘Denny was a young man,’ one of the children put in. ‘He went to Glasgow.’

‘I liked Denny,’ said her sister. ‘He gave us pennies.’

‘Maybe I have a penny—’ Mae began, but the young woman shrieked and bundled her daughters into her door.

‘Och, what a shame you are to me, you lassies!’ Mae heard her crying. ‘Hinting for money, what next?’ Then she put her head
round the door, as the girls began to wail, and told Mae to go on up.


‘Second door at the top, hen. Mrs Beith’ll be all ready and waiting, dying to see who’s next. But she’s no’ seen any young
men yet, I can tell you that.’


‘I am hopeful, then,’ Mae answered, with a smile, and began to climb the stairs.

The woman who opened the second door on the top landing looked to be in her middle forties. Her face was round and smooth,
and her light-brown hair, touched with grey, short and wavy. She wore a hand-knitted cardigan over a print dress, and the
pale-blue eyes she fixed on Mae were friendly.


‘Mrs Beith?’ asked Mae.

‘That’s me, dear.’

‘My name’s Mae O’Donovan. I am here about the lodgings.’

‘Come away in, then, come away in!’

Ushering Mae into her living-room, Mrs Beith went immediately into her patter.

‘You’ll like ma room, though I say it maself. No’ many folk have got a spare room, you ken. Och, no! Lodgers sleep on the
floor, as often as not. Never expect a room like mine. But there’s only me, you ken, since ma husband died, and ma Norrie
joined the Argylls.’ She pointed to photographs on a heavy Victorian sideboard. ‘That’s ma Frank there, and that’s ma Norrie.
He’s abroad.’


Mae looked at the studio portraits of the serious-looking man in stiff dark suit, and the young fellow in soldier’s uniform,
his round face like his mother’s, and made appreciative noises.


In fact, she was appreciative, not only of the photographs, but of the living-room, which seemed to her so clean and well-cared
for, with the blackleaded range gleaming, the shabby old pieces of furniture polished, every dish on the dresser shining.
Mrs Beith was obviously house-proud and could make things comfortable.


‘You’re no’ Scottish, are you, dear?’ asked Mrs Beith, watching her.

‘No, I’m from County Cork.’

‘An Irish girl? Fancy! A long way from home, eh? Are you looking for work here, then?’

‘I had a job.’ Mae hesitated. ‘Well, I was thinking I had, but – something happened. The lady died. Before I arrived.’

‘Oh, my Lord! What a terrible thing! Whatever did you do?’

Mae was thinking back to the awful moment when she’d arrived at the house in the New Town and been told that her new employer,
Miss Ennis, had died of a heart attack the day before. Her niece, a married woman from the south side of Edinburgh, was closing
up the house and preparing to organise the funeral. There was no longer any place for the new maid from Ireland.


‘You could try for a bed at Adelaide House,’ the niece had told Mae distractedly. ‘It’s a women’s hostel off Broughton Street.
Aunt Beatrice used to give them donations, I believe. Then maybe you’ll go back to Cork?’


But Mae had said she would not be returning to Cork. She had her new life to think of, here in Edinburgh. And why she wanted
a new life – well, that was her affair.


‘I was given a bed in a hostel near Broughton Street,’ she told Mrs Beith. ‘Adelaide House. Perhaps you know it? A lady called
Miss Thorburn is in charge.’


‘Och, yes, I know it, and Miss Thorburn as well. A real lady, eh? Goes to ma kirk. But what she’s doing, giving all her life
to thae girls, I canna think! What a collection, eh?’


‘They are not bad girls,’ said Mae. ‘I feel sorry for them.’

‘But you wanted away, all the same.’ Mrs Beith laughed a little. ‘Come, now, I’ll show you the room.’

It was small and neat, with a single bed, a chest of drawers, and hooks to hang clothes; not unlike the room Mae’d had when
in service with Mrs Fitzgerald in the City of Cork. But very different from the room she’d shared with her cousin in her father’s
cottage in Traynore. Sure, you could hardly call that a room at all. More like a loft, with a stair that was only a ladder,
and nowhere for the girls to put their things.


Even so, a little pain made itself felt round Mae’s heart when she thought of it, for when her mother had been alive, that
had been her room and her da’s, and Rosaleen and Mae had slept by the peat fire downstairs. Now Ma was dead and Rosaleen away to America. With Kieran Connor.


‘It’s lovely,’ Mae said, clearing her throat. ‘It is a very fine room indeed.’

‘I told you you’d like it.’ Mrs Beith smiled proudly. ‘And the other thing you’ll like is ma bathroom.’

‘Bathroom?’

‘Aye, and I’m the only one to have such a thing in Number Eight, I can tell you! Well, ma Frank was a plumber, you ken. At
least, he worked for one. I says to him, I says, you get the landlord to put us in a bath and tell him you’ll get it cost.
And that’s what he did.’ Mrs Beith’s smile faded. ‘Now’s he gone, and ma laddie’s away, and there’s only me to use it. Except
for ma lodger.’


‘Your husband would have been glad he made it for you,’ Mae said softly.

‘That’s what I tell maself,’ Mrs Beith heaved a sigh. ‘Would you like to see it? It’s just here.’

When she had admired the tiny bathroom, Mae was taken back to the living-room, where Mrs Beith, wiping a tear from her eye,
asked her to sit down.


‘To tell the truth, Miss O’Donovan, I’ve only had young men as lodgers since Norrie went away. They’re handy, you ken, putting
in nails and things like that.’


‘I can put in nails,’ said Mae.

‘Aye, well, no doubt. Thing is, I’ve had a lot o’ folk around, you ken, wanting ma room, and I’ve told ’em I’d let ’em know.’

‘And will you be letting me know?’

Mrs Beith’s eyes rested on Mae’s face. ‘I’ve never had an Irish girl before,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose you’ll be one for
the cathedral?’


‘I am not always at church.’

‘We’ve the Queen’s Theatre opposite, as well.’

‘Maybe I will go to the theatre.’

‘They put on some good plays, and it’s only ninepence for the gallery.’

‘And how much is the room? Supposing you were to let me have it.’

‘Seven shillin’ a week. I canna afford to take less, even if you’re no’ wanting meals.’

Mae looked down at her folded hands. ‘I understand. When I get a job, I could pay that.’

‘But what sort o’ job would you be looking for? No’ live-in service, eh? Seeing as you’re looking for lodgings?’

‘I have been thinking I’d like something different from service. Maybe work with my needle. The nuns at school taught me to
sew, but Mrs Fitzgerald, the lady I worked for in Cork, taught me to dressmake. She said I was talented.’


‘She must’ve been nice. There’s no’ many ladies teach their maids anything except work.’

‘She is nice.’ Mae hesitated. ‘I felt bad about leaving her.’

With her gaze still fixed on Mae’s face, Mrs Beith said lightly, ‘What a shame you had to, eh?’

But Mae did not rise to the bait; she said nothing, and after a moment, the older woman looked away.

‘I’ve no’ said I’ve decided, you ken, who I want to take.’

‘No, but you are going to be letting me know.’

‘Aye.’ For some moments, Mrs Beith sat, seemingly lost in thought. Suddenly, she clapped her hand to the table. ‘Och, what’s
the point in waiting? Miss O’Donovan, I’m letting you know now. I’d like you to have ma room. I think we’d get on. What do
you say?’


Mae gave a quiet sigh. ‘I say, thank you. I am very pleased that you would like to take me for your lodger. You will not regret
it, I promise you.’


‘I ken that. Now, when would you like to move in? Everything’s ready. Clean sheets on the bed and everything aired.’

‘I could come any time. I need not give notice at the hostel. Should I perhaps sign something?’

‘Och, no! If things dinna suit, there’ll be a week’s notice either way. Shall we say, next Monday? Start o’ the week? I’ll
have your rent book ready for you then.’ Mrs Beith jumped to her feet. ‘Now, what about a cup o’ tea? The kettle’s on the
boil.’


Returning down the stair, Mae met the little girls again.

‘Let me find you a penny,’ she told them, looking in her purse. ‘Well, two ha’pennies. Can you buy some sweeties?’

‘Oh, yes, yes!’ They danced around her. ‘Are you the new lodger, then? Are you, are you?’

‘I am. I am moving in very soon.’

‘Mammie, Mammie!’ they called through their open door. ‘The lady’s the new lodger. She is, she is! You said she wouldnae be,
but she is!’


Their mother appeared in the doorway, trying to laugh. ‘I never said any such thing!’ she cried. ‘What are you lassies talking
about? How would I know who was going to be Mrs Beith’s new lodger?’


‘You said the lady was Irish, Mammie, you said she’d never do,’ the little girl called Jannie said earnestly. ‘Is that no’
right, Susie? Is that no’ what Mammie said?’


‘Heavens, what nonsense bairns say, eh? You canna believe a word of it.’ The young woman put out a strong hand to shake Mae’s.
‘I’m sure I hope you’ll be very happy, lodging here. Ma name’s Rona Walker, and these are ma wee lassies. Is it true you’re
Irish? I wasnae even sure.’


‘Yes, I’m from County Cork. My name is Mae O’Donovan.’ Mae gave Rona her sweetest smile. ‘I am very glad to meet you. I hope
to see you again soon.’


‘Well, if there’s anything I can do when you move in, you just let me know, eh?’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’

Outside in the street, Mae’s smile vanished. Was this what it meant to be Irish? At least young Mrs Walker had had the grace
to feel embarrassed over what she’d said. But how sure she must have been, that Mrs Beith would not take Mae because of who
she was. Well, she’d been wrong, hadn’t she? Mrs Beith had picked Mae from all her applicants. Quite a feather in Mae’s cap,
that was.


But she was still a little troubled, as she made her way back to Adelaide House. She felt very much alone.

Noises and cooking smells. That was Adelaide house. The noises were all different – shrieks, giggles, clatterings, bangings,
even babies crying – but the cooking smells were always the same. Beef stew and acrid cabbage. Yet, the residents did have
other things to eat. How did everything end up smelling of stew and cabbage, wondered Mae, letting herself into the hostel.


Once, it had been a pair of elegant terraced houses, probably lived in by the quality; later it had become flats. Now, as
Miss Thorburn’s hostel, it had returned to two houses, with accommodation in the first for girls alone, and in the second
for mothers with babies. Naturally, the original woodwork was not what it had been, and partitions now marred the proportions
of the fine old rooms, but who was complaining?


The hostel was a place to put your head when you’d nowhere else, and Mae was as grateful as any. As someone from outside Edinburgh,
she wouldn’t have been allowed a bed at all if it hadn’t been for Miss Thorburn’s kind heart, especially as she wasn’t ‘expecting’,
and hadn’t been thrown out by her family, or battered by a husband. All she’d wanted was a place to stay while she found a
room somewhere, and Miss Thorburn had given it to her. Mae just wished she could have done something in return, something
to help, but Miss Thorburn’s only helper, apart from the residents themselves, was voluntary, and Mae couldn’t afford to be
that.


Both Miss Thorburn and Miss Dow, her assistant, were in their office, when Mae found them to give them her news. It was a
tiny room, created from a butler’s pantry of long ago, with space only for a desk, a filing cabinet and a couple of chairs.


‘Here’s Mae!’ cried Miss Dow, who was a fairish, placid woman in her forties and an ideal foil to the slim dark looks and
fizzing energy of Miss Thorburn. ‘Any luck, dear?’


‘Ah, Mae, I can see by your face that you’re leaving us,’ said Miss Thorburn, smiling. ‘Did you try the newsagent’s as I suggested?’

‘I did so, Miss Thorburn, and there was a card there for lodgings in Victoria Row. I went along and the lady said I could
have the room. I am to move in next Monday.’


‘Well, you’re a quick worker and no mistake!’ cried Miss Dow. ‘But, Victoria Row, that’s not bad, eh? Nice and central.’

‘And close to your cathedral, as well as the Queen’s – you’ve a bit of everything there,’ said Miss Thorburn. ‘I think you’ve
done well, Mae.’


‘Always provided the theatre doesn’t burn down again!’ Miss Dow laughed. ‘Och, I’m only joking, dear. It’s many years since
the last time. But there were four fires on that site, so I’ve been told, and one of ‘em melted the lead on the tenements’
roofs.’


‘Don’t frighten the girl, Harriet.’ Miss Thorburn stood up. ‘As you say, it’s a long time since the last theatre fire. Eighteen
eighty-four, if I’m quoting correctly.’ She put her hand on Mae’s shoulder. ‘I think you’ll be very comfortable in the Row,
my dear. They’re good, solid houses and the tenants are respectable people. I’m sure you’ll settle in well. The only thing
is, we’ll be sorry to lose you here.’


‘I am grateful that you let me stay, Miss Thorburn,’ Mae said earnestly. ‘Sure, I was at my wits’ end, when I found out what
had happened to Miss Ennis. I had no idea where to go.’


‘Poor Miss Ennis – she was a true friend to us. It was a tragedy she died as she did. But we’re glad you stayed, Mae. See
how good you’ve been with the girls! And they like you, you know. I think they’ll miss you.’


Mae flushed a little. ‘I cannot believe I’ve helped ’em much.’

‘You listened to them, you gave them sympathy. They don’t get much of that.’ Miss Thorburn turned back to her desk. ‘But how
about the rent for this place? Will you be able to manage it?’


‘Well, I have some savings and then I’ll be finding a job as soon as I can.’

‘I wish I could have offered you one here, but, as usual, there’s not enough cash in the kitty.’

‘Time the council gave us something,’ put in Miss Dow. ‘Why should you run this whole place yourself, Anita? I know the council’s
got the workhouses to see to, and the orphaned bairns to help, but our girls come pretty low on their list, if you ask me.’


‘I suppose it was my own idea to open the hostel.’ Miss Thorburn turned back to her desk. ‘And I do appreciate the council’s
problems. But, oh Lord – shouldn’t we be able to do more?’


There was a silence, as Mae remained quiet, awkwardly aware that she should perhaps have left the two women to their discussions,
until Miss Thorburn cried, ‘Oh, poor Mae, I’m sorry to be involving you in our difficulties. You go along now and have your
tea. Be prepared to tell the girls all about your lodgings, they’ll be longing to hear.’


‘And envying you,’ Miss Dow added dryly.

‘I’m afraid so,’ sighed Miss Thorburn.

Would she really be missed? As Mae took off her coat and washed her hands in the downstairs cloakroom, she felt happier to
think that it might be true. Irish or not, it seemed she had made friends here, and that gave her confidence.


Even so, the future itself was far from certain. All she could cling to was her determination to make her way in Edinburgh,
and not run scuttling home to take up the same life as before, while Rosaleen sailed to New York as Mrs Kieran Connor. Ah,
now, why go remembering that? Because she never got it out of her mind, that was why.


‘Mae!’ voices called to her, as she neared the dining room, from where she could already hear an immense clashing of dishes
and cutlery, as those girls whose turn it was, set out the meal. ‘Mae, hen, how’d you get on?’


Soon she was surrounded by young women of various looks and manner, some in maternity clothes, others still painfully thin,
but all marked with an anxiety they could not conceal; an anxiety recognised by Mae because, to a lesser degree, she shared
it. Only those uncertain of their future looked like these girls; only those who were in some way afraid.


In the dormitory, Mae had a corner bed nearest the door, next to a girl called Sandy Corrie. She was eighteen, with thick
ginger hair unevenly cut, and a bar of freckles across her turned-up nose. Nervy and at times difficult, she considered herself
alone in the world, having parted from her family in the Old Town, while the father of her baby due in a week or two, had
parted from her.


‘As though I care!’ Sandy had cried, tossing her head, when she told Mae. ‘I dinna need him.’

Mae had wondered if Sandy might not make it up with her family, but her reply was evasive.

‘Surely, when the baby comes, your mother will want to see her grandchild?’

‘It’s being adopted. Did you no’ ken that? Miss Thorburn’s arranged everything. Going to a lovely family, she said.’ As Mae
gave a sympathetic sigh, Sandy shrugged. ‘Och, it’s for the best, eh? What sort o’ life could I give a bairn?’


Lying sleepless in the dormitory, thinking about her new lodgings and wondering how she would get on, Mae became aware of
Sandy tossing and sighing close to her. It was not unusual. Many of the young women were too uncomfortable or too anxious
to sleep well, and there was always someone moving restlessly and groaning, or, if asleep, crying out in dreams. Still, Sandy
was near her time and Mae, worried for her, leaned across to whisper, ‘Are you all right, Sandy? Can I get you anything?’


‘Thanks, it’s just ma heartburn.’ Sandy sat up, staring at Mae in the faint light that came from the landing beyond the open
door. ‘And you ken what – you’ll laugh, eh? But I’m scared. I’m scared of having the babby.’


‘Sandy, why should I laugh? Sure it’s natural to feel afraid. But then the baby comes and everything’s all right.’

‘What if it’s no’ all right, though? What if I dinna get through? No’ everybody does, you ken.’

‘You’re young and strong, it will be all right for you,’ Mae said firmly, making a great play of confidence and at the same
time asking herself how she had the nerve, when she’d had no experience of childbirth. ‘Mrs Mennie will look after you.’


‘Mrs Mennie? I dinna want Mrs Mennie! Calls herself a midwife, and then she just lets you get on with it, everybody says so.
No, I want Dr Rick. He’s that kind, eh? And handsome!’


Mae smiled and nodded. All the girls thought the hostel doctor, Dr Rick Hurst, another prince for Cinderella, and he was certainly
a pleasant young man.


‘Let’s hope you will not be needing him, Sandy. Is he not only called out for emergencies?’

‘Mebbe I’ll be an emergency, then. Och, I wish it was over and I could get ma figure back! You’re so slim, Mae, I wish I was
you.’


‘Better not talk any more, we are going to wake the others.’

‘But I’ve got this terrible heartburn, you ken. Let’s go down to the kitchen and make cocoa, eh?’

‘I say, let’s just try to sleep.’

‘No, come on. I’ll never sleep, the way I feel. Come on, let’s away, then we’ll feel better.’

‘You are just like my cousin, Rosaleen,’ sighed Mae, pushing back her bedclothes. ‘She could always get round me.’

The kitchen of the hostel was not an attractive place by night. There were always scuttlings in the shadows cast by the gaslight
– mice, or black beetles – and with the stove damped down, it was usually cold. There was, however, a gas cooker where they
could boil a kettle, and when they sat at the table, wrapped in their coats and drinking the cocoa Mae had made, it was true,
they did feel better.


‘Tell us about Rosaleen,’ said Sandy, taking out a peppermint tablet. ‘Is she as pretty as her name?’

‘Yes, she is very pretty.’

‘I’m sure no prettier than you, Mae.’

‘She has a way with her. She charms people.’

‘Men, you mean?’

‘Everyone.’

‘And she stayed with you and your folks?’

‘Yes, she was an orphan. First, her da was drowned. He was my da’s brother. They were both fishermen. Then her mother died,
so my mother took her in, though she didn’t live that much longer herself. Rosaleen and me looked after Da.’


‘And you lived in a wee house by the sea?’ Sandy sighed. ‘Bet it was nice, eh? I’ve aye loved the sea.’

‘The sea can be cruel, Sandy. We are never forgetting that.’

‘But gives your folks a living.’

‘It’s true, we make a living. And Da says things are better than they were. But everyone I know in Traynore is poor, except
the quality.’ Mae shrugged. ‘And things may be changing for them, ’tis said.’


‘Aye, well, most folk I know are poor. And you’d have had the fresh air and the sky and all o’ that. Never see the sky from
a tenement, you ken.’ Sandy chewed on her peppermint. ‘Mae, why’d you come away?’


After a long moment, Mae answered. ‘I was working in Cork and I suppose I felt like a change. Da was managing all right, and
Rosaleen was wed—’


‘Rosaleen was wed?’ Sandy’s eyes gleamed. ‘Who’d she marry, then?’

‘A boy from the village. Kieran Connor. His da kept one o’ the pubs.’ Mae cleared her throat. ‘He was always a wild one, but
now he’s gone to New York to be a policeman. His uncle’s there and done well. Kieran will do the same. With Rosaleen.’


‘Is he good-looking, this Kieran?’

‘People think so.’

‘Do you think so?’

Mae lowered her eyes. ‘Rosaleen and himself – they made a handsome pair.’

Sandy was silent for some moments, then she said softly, ‘I think I know why you came away, Mae.’

‘What are you meaning?’

‘Och, you should hear the way you say his name! Take ma advice, hen, never say his name.’

Mae leaped up, her face burning, and put the cocoa mugs into the sink. ‘Reading my heart,’ she whispered, turning back. ‘You’re
a devil, Sandy, so you are!’


‘Aye.’ Sandy smiled. ‘Some folks do say.’

She rose with an effort and put her hand on Mae’s arm. ‘But dinna be mad at me. I’ll no’ let on. Who to, anyway? Nobody knows
the laddie here. And it’s no disgrace to be sweet on somebody, eh?’


‘I used to think he was sweet on me,’ Mae murmured. ‘But when my cousin came back from Dublin, I knew I was mistaken.’

‘You’ll so