Celtic Mist Ch 11

Chapter 11: Reap as You Sew

The troubling reappearance of Declan Quickfist Muldowney (or was it O'Toole?) caused Aoife a long, restless night in her bed at the inn. Capitulating to her wakeful state, she rose and leant upon the sill of the room's small window, staring for some time at the dark prospect of Enniscorthy town. At length she sighed and began her methodical transformation into Michael.

The morning light was breaking and a church bell tolling when she arrived at the Militia garrison, steeling herself for yet another frisking as she approached the Redcoats on sentry duty. As ever, she remained outwardly pliant --- arms extended and legs spread --- even whilst her heart beat in agitation under the large male hands that roved over her body. Up and down her limbs and torso they went...ever so close to the secrets under her garments.

Following the search, she was directed inside. But when she ventured into the hall with the officers' quarters, an orderly stopped her short. Apparently not everyone had been apprised of the new boot black. An appeal to the sentries at the gate and the showing of her sutler's token eased the man's suspicions, and she presently was able to commence her task.

The work was similar to her prior experiences save for the vexing hindrance of not all the boots being marked with their owner's name. There were six officers, but names in only three pairs of boots. Perhaps that practice depended upon the officer's specific training. Whatever the explanation, 'twould not be as easy here to amass the roster of officers' names.

Again Michael set up her crate in the courtyard behind the building, but now instead of idly noting her surroundings, her new commission from the United Irishmen prompted her to observe everything closely and commit details to memory so that she might report them to Captain Fleetwood. In their initial conversation, he had indicated the extent of his knowledge about the garrison. Eager to add to the intelligence, she studied the arrangement of the camp upon the grounds, the size of the garrison building and drilling field, the strengths and weaknesses of the perimeter --- gates, sentries, nearby trees.

There were sixteen regulation type tents between the building and the drilling field, in four rows of four. From her previous experiences, she knew that each could house five soldiers...if they were all full, then the company had eighty soldiers. No heavy artillery was immediately apparent, but there was an outbuilding near the stable where she suspected the ordnance was stored...she must find a means to see inside it.

When completed with her work at the garrison, Michael wandered about the streets of Enniscorthy in search of sustenance. 'Twas a larger town than the previous three she had stayed in, split into east and west by the S-shaped curve of the River Slaney. There was a castle looming over the city from the elevated ground west of the river --- although not as large as Kilmaedan Castle, the blunt contour of its walls and towers made her shiver at the resemblance.

Was Declan making Enniscorthy his home as well? What was he employed at when not at Fleetwood's farm playing a United Irishman? Her eyes narrowed --- might he work at the castle here? What if she encountered him upon the streets? She glanced round and pulled her cap lower.

Once her belly was at last appeased with vittles, Michael contemplated the next problem: her finances. The money from selling her hair was dwindling --- 'twas costly to stay at inns and eat in taverns. She had been selecting the most modest rooms available at the inns and searching for cheaper means by which to feed herself --- carts on the street and markets. If she had a more frugal situation for bed and board, then the coins earned by the shoe and boot polishing would suffice to maintain her. With her turn at the garrison done in the early morning, there was plenty of time remaining for additional employment.

Accordingly, she began to cast her eyes about at the shops as she walked. Although the town was not awash in splendorous homes, she saw not the extensive misery of the Dublin neighborhoods --- to her relief. 'Twas a modest, prosperous appearing town. As in all the villages and towns she had known, there were Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods, distinguishable by the owners' names upon the shop signs.

First, Michael searched in Catholic neighborhoods, here and there finding a random task needing a lad's help, but no opportunities for long term employment. She took on whatever was offered, then continued her quest. She knew not how long she would be in Enniscorthy: her investigations at Gorey, Camolin, and Ferns had lasted between five days and two weeks.

Should her commission to aid the United Irishmen delay her own mission of vengeance? The driving forces behind each endeavor were in truth similar: Blaylock was simply a demonic example of the larger villainy imposed upon Ireland.

What should be her priority: family or country?

Unable to ease the distress of her dilemma, she returned her attention to the more immediate concern of employment. If she later had to leave a job after only a short stint, she would address the issue at that time.

Next, she chanced the Protestant neighborhoods and here discovered a similar situation. Of course, in the absence of regular work, she might make the rounds every day about town performing such varied tasks, earning a farthing where she could...so she reasoned as she walked along a curved street south of the central Abbey Square.

All at once Michael beheld something in the window that made her laugh at Fate's capriciousness: a sign that read 'Seamstress wanted'. 'Twas a shop with a display of pretty garments in the windows and a gold lettered sign above proclaiming: 'Penelope Sutton, Fine Dressmaker'.

Michael's thoughts flew: could she manage to be both a lad and a lass in one town? In a town where Declan might reside? There was but one way to discover the answer.

She hastened back to the inn, doffed the lad's clothes, and freed her breasts. The smudges of soot were washed off her face, and her eyebrows re-darkened. In a trice she donned her shift and black postulant's gown. Loosening the queue of her hair, she braided two short plaits that ended a couple of inches below her shoulders and pinned them up. Over this went the plain, white linen mop cap.

In the mirror she assessed the result. Scarce a hint of her hair showed beneath the cap, and the eyebrows successfully suggested a brown-haired lass...with odd pale blue eyes. Whether to wear the spectacles was the question --- without them she feared she was too recognizable as Aoife, with them she feared she might spark a thought of Michael. She cleaned the smeared lenses and pocketed them just in case.

Aoife rehearsed her story as she hurried back to Penelope Sutton's shop.

A bell jingled as she opened the door.

Inside was a wondrous collection of bolts of fabric and rolls of trims arrayed upon racks in the middle and shelves along the sides of the room. A few finished gowns and undergarments were hanging from hooks on the walls. In the center of the room, a pair of elegant brocade-upholstered chairs flanked a small table upon which were strewn drawings of gowns. A circular dais was in the corner before a tall, standing looking glass.

From an open doorway to a back room a woman emerged --- about forty years of age, plump, with a crisp, white apron over a handsome gown. Golden hair was visible under her white cap. "How may I assist you?" Although courteous, Aoife suspected the woman's businesslike manner was informed by her own modest attire: clearly this apparent servant girl was not here to commission a gown.

"I've come about the seamstress position, mum."

The woman's eyes glinted with interest as she looked Aoife up and down. "Have you any experience?"

"I made most of me family's garments and sold clothes that I made at the market besides. In the convent I taught needlework and helped make an embroidered silk chasuble for the priest...'tis a holy vestment," she added, unsure if a Protestant would ken what that was.

"Convent? Well 'tis no matter to me if you are a Catholic, so long as you're clever with a needle. What is your name?"

"Catherine McDonnell," Aoife said, in memory of sweet Hugh, her fiancé for all of four days. "But everyone calls me Kitty."

"How old are you, Kitty?"

"Eighteen, mum."

"I'm Mrs. Sutton; I own the shop." She regarded Aoife's garb with a keen eye. "Is your gown an example of your handiwork?"

"No, 'tis my uniform from the convent."

"Good. If it were, I would conclude you had neither skill in fitting nor a sense of fashion."

"Aye, mum."

"Why did you leave the convent, then?"

Aoife hesitated. "I joined when I lost me family. I wasn't suited to the calling, and I left when I learnt I had distant relations in County Wexford."

Thankfully, Mrs. Sutton was satisfied with her reply. "Come into the workroom and let's see what you can do." She turned and waved for Aoife to follow.

The workroom at the rear of the shop was a spacious, pleasant room warmed by sunlight coming through two windows overlooking a small courtyard. A wide, counter-high table was in the center, and shelves, racks, cabinets, and another standing mirror were round the periphery. Pieces of a bodice cut from dark blue silk were arranged upon one end of the table; at the other were several small rectangles of white linen.

Pointing at the latter, Mrs. Sutton said, "This is to be the cuff of a nightgown. Show me how you would sew it." From a rack on the wall the woman retrieved a spool of fine lace and set it upon the table. "Insert a strip of lace into it."

"At the far end, or towards the sleeve?"

Mrs. Sutton smiled. "Far end."

Considering the spotless white linen, Aoife glanced about and located a pitcher and washbasin in the corner. After washing her hands, she found a pin pillow and scissors on the table and white thread on a rack on the wall.

Under Mrs. Sutton's watchful gaze, she cut a piece of lace, then pinned and basted it to one white rectangle. She laid a matching rectangle over it, face to face, and likewise pinned and basted them together, leaving one edge unstitched to attach it to the sleeve. Over the basting line, she sewed a row of closely spaced small stitches. There was an iron and padded board by the window; after pressing the seams and corners, she turned the cuff right side out and ironed it again.

Mrs. Sutton uncrossed her arms and took the finished cuff that Aoife presented her. Her eyebrows lifted and her lips pursed as she inspected it. At last she nodded and spoke. "You're hired. 'Tis five shillings a week."

"Thank ye, mum." Aoife paused, sticking the needle back into the pin pillow. "Umm...is there a chance for bed and board? I've nowhere to live."

"Well...I've only a room in the attic at present, but 'tis yours if it suits you. 'Twill be three shillings a week with bed and board."

Aoife readily agreed to the offer. That day she retrieved her belongings from the inn and took possession of a simply furnished garret with sloped ceilings and a dormer window overlooking an alley. There was a chair, a washstand, and an iron framed bed with a cheery striped counterpane. From what Mrs. Sutton said whilst showing her up the narrow stairs, it had been the servants' room in the past. Now the maid and cook shared a room on the second floor where the family's rooms were located.

Aoife "Kitty" soon learnt that Mrs. Sutton was a widow, and that the family consisted of a daughter Susanna, aged twenty, and a son Samuel, aged eighteen. Whilst Susanna worked in the shop with her mother, Samuel was an apprentice to a nearby bookkeeper.

Mrs. Sutton's foremost concern was to dress Kitty in something that "wouldn't frighten away the custom." Accordingly, Kitty's first assignment was to make adjustments to what had been the former assistant's uniform: a lilac-colored cotton gown.

Trying it on over her shift, Aoife determined that the previous owner had been a taller and more buxom lass. She took in the waist, altered the bodice shaping, and raised the hem. Assessing the result in the tall mirror, she had to admit that, although not in the least bit lavish, the frock far more pleasing than her dour, black wool gown, and certainly displayed the wares --- both the shop's and her own.

The elbow-length sleeves and scooped neckline had clever pleated details showing the skill of the dressmaker. The latter, however --- as no gown she had previously worn --- was so low as to scarce cover the pink crests of her breasts, causing Aoife's cheeks to redden in embarrassment. Perhaps this was for the benefit of the husbands and male companions of the ladies who patronized the shop?

Mrs. Sutton appeared in the mirror behind her and handed her a delicate white cambric neckerchief, which Aoife in relief placed round her neck and tucked into the bodice to cover the swelling tops of her breasts.

"There's a cap and apron on the table. Have you no stays?"

"No, mum."

"Or a pair of shoes in better repair? We shall have to remedy that." Standing behind her, Mrs. Sutton placed her hands lightly upon Aoife's shoulders and looked in the mirror with her. "We must dress ourselves in a manner that does credit to our skills but does not show our clients to disadvantage by comparison."

Aoife glanced at Mrs. Sutton and her similarly golden-haired daughter Susanna, who was arranging pattern pieces on the table --- both were smartly dressed but were not so showy as to draw undue attention. She nodded. "Aye mum."

Mrs. Sutton returned to her work whilst Aoife donned the white chintz cap. It covered her pinned up hair in the back, and once she cinched the ties at her nape, the finely pleated headpiece formed a pert frame round her face. Careful upkeep of her hair color would be necessary for the front was visible. She tied a white apron round her waist and pinned the square top to her bodice. What a strange sensation to be a lass again after a month of posing as a homeless lad!

* * * * *

Over the next couple of days, Aoife rapidly crafted a routine, rising at five in the dark and transforming into Michael --- smudged face, smeared spectacles, and all. She descended the narrow, twisting stairs from the attic to a street level door at the rear of the house, exiting onto the small courtyard she had seen through the workroom windows. The courtyard connected to the street by a short alley. The stairs were evidently intended for servants in this middle-class abode, for there was a more elegant set in the front hallway.

On the second floor, Michael's descent took her near the room shared by Mary and Alice --- the cook and maid. Here, she was briefly visible to anyone who might be in the second-floor hall, but at this hour no one was awake to glimpse the unknown lad creeping down the stairs.

Michael toiled at the garrison till seven and returned to the Sutton's shop shortly thereafter, before it was full light outside. With Mary and Alice now awake, she could not chance the stairs. Instead, inspired by the example of a stray orange cat, she had discovered a quick ascent to her dormer window on the roof by means of shutters, a drainpipe, and a brick ledge --- scaled after a quick survey of the small windows in the other buildings on the alley confirmed herself unobserved.

In the garret, she swiftly metamorphized into Kitty, taking care to wash her dirty face, re-darken her eyebrows, and pull on clean white thread stockings. Mrs. Sutton had provided her with a corset, and Aoife glumly donned the evil contraption every morning. Fortunately, as her gown already fit her waist, minimal cinching was needed to achieve the proper look her mistress required.

During the day, Kitty plied her needle in the workroom at the rear of the shop.

Mrs. Sutton tended to the clients in the front room or worked alongside Kitty and her daughter Susanna at the table --- the mother and daughter having the lion's share of the conversation which was mostly about family members, customers, and gossip about the town.

When the political situation in Ireland was discussed, Aoife was puzzled by Mrs. Sutton's indifference to the passions of loyalist versus rebel --- the woman wanted only to profit by her dressmaking, and presently the loyalist families were best situated to indulge in her services.

Occasionally they asked Kitty about herself. In anticipation of this eventuality, Aoife was prepared with the same history that accompanied the Catholic lad Michael McArdle.

In truth, 'twas becoming taxing to keep her stories sorted. And the stakes were yet higher, for any slip might draw attention --- the Redcoats' or Declan's --- and prompt closer examination, not to mention the possibility of rape, imprisonment, or execution. Every time she changed her garments and hair style, Aoife reminded herself of who she was now:

Michael McArdle to the United Irishmen --- the Catholic lad from Ulster whose family was slain in the dragooning, now come to Wexford in search of distant relations.

Michael Goodwin at the Redcoat's garrison --- the Protestant lad from Ulster whose brothers were killed by the Defenders, now come to Wexford in search of distant relations.

Or, Kitty McDonnell in Mrs. Sutton's shop --- the Catholic lass from Ulster who had been in the convent after her family was slain in the dragooning, now come to Wexford in search of distant relations.

At least all versions were from Ulster to account for her accent, and all were in County Wexford for the same purported reason.

In the evenings she took her supper in the kitchen with the cook Mary and the maid Alice --- enjoying the distraction of Mary's humorous tales before retiring to her garret room. Here, she read the newspapers that the family had discarded, knitted, or played with a stray orange cat that oft appeared outside her dormer window. With her strenuous days, 'twas not long ere exhaustion would overtake her.

On the fourth day of her work at the garrison, Michael was pondering how to have a look inside the building wherein she had deduced the ordnance was stored. She had casually approached it early yesterday morning --- judging the absence of stealth the best tactic --- when a soldier called out, "Where are you going, lad?"

She held up her wooden crate. "A board's come off me crate --- I'm looking for a hammer."

"Look in the barn. The groom has some tools."

"Ta." Damn! That ploy unsuccessful, she now pondered alternative means to see inside the building.

With the boots done, Michael was squatting by the well washing out her rags in the courtyard. Soon she became aware of soldiers gathering nearby and orders being barked by officers. The sounds of hooves and wagon wheels were now audible --- within a few minutes a large, covered wagon drawn by four horses appeared round the corner of the garrison and pulled into the courtyard. Michael stood and backed out of the way, concealing her avid curiosity.

The driver --- in a Militia uniform --- dismounted and opened the rear doors of the conveyance as six soldiers slid a heavy oak ramp up to the wagon bed. Inside, Michael could make out only a stout wooden beam sloping up from the floor into the dark interior.