Delaney. Part XVIII

In front of the Friary that morning a commotion is underway. An ambulance cart is just pulling away from the grounds with Doctor Forsythe at the back next to the body of Mary Eunice. The brothers and children are all out on the lawn looking on with fascination and horror.

“Brother, Doyle. Get these boys in to breakfast!” The Father is barking. “This is no kind of entertainment for the lads to be gawking at.”

The boys ignore the clapping of Doyle who is attempting to get their attention just as an ennobled carriage comes up the drive. The mass of curious boys gathers around, and if any were not gawking at the bloodied skull of Sister Mary Eunice, all of them gawk now without exception. The vehicle is a wonder. Some have seen it in town or parked at the Drogheda Care Home, but none have seen this half-breed wonder up close. It is the body of a powder blue vehicle. A 1993 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme convertible. The windows are tinted, and the white top is up, so that onlookers cannot see the passengers. This creature from the prior age requires three horses to pull, though it is just the body; the engine removed, and the brilliantly clean body lifted from its chassis and placed upon a modified carriage frame.

A finely dressed carriage driver in a three-piece suit matching the powder blue of the car steps down from a seat behind the horses and walks over to the door of the vehicle.

The first thing to emerge is Mr. Cosgrove’s cane, followed by the man himself. He extends a hand to assist his wife who, even in her mid-40s draws the eye of all the boys in the yard and not a few of the brothers.

“Father Fitzpatrick,” Mr. Cosgrove annunciates. “Very good to see you.”

No one can guess at what has brought these two fine people to the Friary. Perhaps they mean to become patrons of the Friary, though neither of them has darkened the doorstep of the Catholic church so far as any of the boys or the Brothers can recall.

“And you as well, sir.” Father Fitzpatrick responds. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“We are here to speak to you about adopting one of your boys.”

At this the boys straighten. A few rake their fingers through uncombed hair. Frank rushes to the front door of the Friary and opens it widely. In something of an awkward gesture, he swooshes a hand to the open door and bows.

“Madame,” he says, “and good sir. Please.”

The couple look to Father Fitzpatrick who unsuccessfully conceals an eye roll but lifts his hand to the open door encouraging them to enter.

“What a gentlemanly young man.” Mrs. Cosgrove says as she enters. When they have passed through Frank looks out to the other boys beaming and mouths, “gentlemanly,” pointing to himself with an air of pride or ridicule. No one can tell.

The boys rush in and before the brothers can cut them off to direct them toward the great room. Several are fawning over the Cosgroves.

“May I take your hat sir?”

“Would you like some tea, Madam?”

“Brother Doyle!” Father Fitzpatrick says briskly, and this is all that is needed for Doyle and the other brothers to pry the boys away and shoo them off to the great hall for breakfast.

At the breakfast table, Frank is boasting about how the couple have come to adopt him.

“Did you hear what the Missus said? ‘Gentlemanly young man.’ Now what fine lady would not want a gentlemanly young man for a son? When I become a Cosgrove, I will hire all you boys to come and do my bidding. Everyone but Jack-ass over there.” And he nods at Jack who has resumed his place on the bottom of the social pecking order ever since Delaney was elevated by the status-boosting power of being raised in a brothel, or so they thought.

“Now that Eric’s dead, and De-maniac is screwing things up in their gardens, they see that they need someone better to take charge.” Boasts Frank.

In Father Fitzpatrick’s office, the Cosgroves have taken a seat opposite the Father’s modest desk.

“It is somewhat providential that you should visit us this morning,” the Father is saying. “I was intending to pay you a visit later today.”

“Oh?” says Mr. Cosgrove, eyebrows arched in curiosity.

“You saw the hospital wagon leaving?” He asks.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Cosgrove, “who was the poor woman lying in the back.”

“That was Sister Mary Eunice from the convent in Dunleer, Madam. She was found this morning in the small cemetery out front, collapsed on the graves of Brother O’Brien and Eric. She was barely alive; in fact, I doubt she’ll live through the day.”

“Oh Father,” interrupts Mrs. Cosgrove. “How gruesome. Let me add that we were heartbroken to hear of the deaths of O’Brien and dear Eric. What a special boy he was to us and to Mr. Byrne. Though we were grateful the sickness did not visit others. We are so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Madam. And we’re grateful for you taking Delaney in to keep the boy safe over these past few days. But the very reason I was hoping to visit today is in regard to the nun who was in the ambulance cart. Sister Mary Eunice. She had come to the Friary in the middle of the night. She was asking about Delaney and in some kind of a panic. I told her that Delaney was staying with you last night and she sped off before enlightening me as to her purpose. Did she, by chance, show up last night?”

“How perfectly, odd.” Mr. Cosgrove says. Looking to his wife. “Did Reilly mention anything about a late-night visitor?”

“No dear,” she replies. “And I’m such a terribly light sleeper I’m certain I would have heard anything myself. So far as I know we were undisturbed last night.”

“Well, never mind,” Father says. “I didn’t really suspect she would charge in to wake you in the middle of the night, but she was in such a frantic state. I have no idea why she would want to get in touch with the boy at that hour.”

“Actually,” says Mr. Cosgrove, straightening in his chair, “the boy is the very reason we’ve come to see you today. We would like to adopt Delaney. Take him in our home as our son.”

****

“Reilly,” Mrs. Cosgrove says when they arrive back at Townley Hall. “Did we receive any visitors last night?”

“No ma’am.” He replies.

“No disturbance out on the grounds so far as you know?”

“No ma’am. All was quiet here last night.”

“Very good.” She says. “Would you mind asking Byrne to bring the boy to the house?”

Reilly searches the property and finds Mr. Byrne and Delaney who have arrived from the tool shed to the portion of drive where they planted the Blackthorn hedge the day before. Mr. Byrne is telling Delaney how much water the new plants need in order to take. The two are bent over one section of the plantings.

“Prob’ly a deer,” he’s saying. “The animal appears to ‘ave cut itself on account of the blood. See ‘ere?” And Delaney looks closely at the thorns of the trampled plant and then a trail of brown, dried blood.

Byrne then walks over to a section of matted down grass.

“Must’ve fallen down ‘ere in the tall grasses. See how they’s pushed down?”

Delaney follows him to the area of flattened grass. She bends down and finds a bloodied rock and picks it up.

“Ahh,” says Byrne authoritatively. “Deer fell down upon the rock. Her cut leg dripping blood upon it.”

Byrne can see that the Cosgroves have taken to the child. Suspects it will go well with him to be appreciated by Delaney as some sort of all-knowing muse. But the man is a gardener, not a tracker, and he is out of his depth in reading the signs of the struggle that occurred last night.

“Byrne!” Reilly shouts. “Bring the boy to the house. The Cosgroves are asking after him.”

“We’re nearly finished.” He calls back. “Just a few more plants ‘ere to water.”

“Now, Byrne. They want him now.”

Byrne shakes his head muttering, “bloody conceited butler” under his breath.

“Up we go, boy.” He says and lifts Delaney to the front of the saddle, mounting the horse just behind her. Digging his heals into the animal’s flank the horse bursts into a gallop toward the house.

For Delaney the act of being summoned has never been positively associated in her years at the convent nor her weeks at the Friary. To be summoned is always a bad thing, so she stands nervously with hat in hand at the entrance to the ornate parlor where Mr. and Mrs. Cosgrove are seated.

“Come in boy,” Mr. Cosgrove urges, waving his can and pointing to a chair opposite them.

Delaney walks over tentatively looking down at her dirty knees from her morning of gardening. She wonders if they may be upset about her spoiling the new clothes they’ve given her.

“Delaney,” Mrs. Cosgrove says. “Sit down please.” And she lowers herself gently into a chair. “Do you like it here?”

“Yes mum.” She says with sincerity though she is guarding her heart waiting for some shoe to drop. Something like, “Well if you like it here why do you treat us so poorly by ruining the good clothes we’ve given you?” Or, “You’re such a slight child. I’m afraid you’re just not big enough to meet the needs of Mr. Byrne. We’ll need another child.” But instead she says,

“How would you like to stay here with us?”

Her heart lifts a little. “You mean, stay on? As Mr. Byrne’s helper?”

“Well, not exactly.” She replies. And now Delaney guesses they have seen what a poor excuse for a boy she is. She’s not strong enough to carry water or haul compost or dig post holes. They mean for her to take on some menial chore. Something in the kitchen perhaps. Still, the woman did say “stay here with us.” Even as a kitchen helper, requiring her to rise before dawn to come all the way from the Friary. That, she would gladly accept.

“Not to help Mr. Byrne,” Mr. Cosgrove says. “We’d like you to say on as our boy?”

“Your boy?” Delaney responds. “Your servant boy, here in the house?” Her hope now rising.

“No, Delaney,” the Missus says. “You misunderstand. We want to adopt you.”

Delaney is dumbfounded. Never in her wildest imaginings would such a fine family take in a brothel-born orphan. It takes her brain a moment to process the woman’s words.

“You mean, live here. With you?”

The Cosgroves smile at the unassuming, self-deprecation of the child.

“Yes,” Mr. Cosgrove says. “We want you to be our son.”

Euphoria fills her. Then it dawns on her. To visit daily as a servant means she could keep up the ruse of being a boy. But to be adopted. To grow up in this home. Such a secret of her real identity could never be kept for more than a few months. Her heart sinks and Delaney tries to work out how she might keep this arrangement going without living permanently in the home. She’d gladly stay on as helper-boy. But something in her heart is begging at the chance of adoption. She’s seen it happen with the older girls at the convent, but they were adopted as farm hands to poor, childless families who needed the help. To be adopted into such a grand household. It is more than she can bear. In a moment of folly or honesty she decides to come clean.

Any eloquence failing her she simply says, “But … I’m … I’m a girl.”

The Cosgroves both furrow their brows in unison, as if attached at the hip.

“I was sent to the Brothers by the Sisters at Dunleer.” She says.

“We know.” Says Mr. Cosgrove. “Raised in the brothel there. We were already told this by the Father.”

“Yes, but you see, I was born at the brothel, but the Sisters took me in as a baby. A baby girl.”

“Delaney, you’re not making sense.” Mrs. Cosgrove says. “Why would the Sisters dress you up as a boy and send you to the Friary.

Her eyes fall to the floor. “Because of this.” And with trepidation, the girl slowly pulls up her sleeve revealing her right forearm. Three neat rows of druidic runes stand out in sharp contrast to her fair skin.

“I was born with these marks. Some people in Dunleer found out about them. Druids. Thought I was meant to be with them. The Sisters, they didn’t know how else to hide me. So, they sent me to the Brothers.”

The faces of the Cosgroves are difficult to read. Disappointment? Repulsion? It is clear that Mrs. Cosgrove is near in tears. She pulls a delicate handkerchief from her sleeve lifting it to her mouth and stifling an anguished cry.

“A girl. Oh Delaney.” She says finally. “You are a gift to us. You see, years ago …” The woman cannot finish the sentence.

“We had a child.” Mr. Cosgrove inserts, and now even he is tearing up. “A girl. We lost her when she was about your age. Lost her to diphtheria. I think Mrs. Cosgrove means to tell you that whatever the reason, we are very glad to adopt you. As a daughter.”