Tears sprang to her eyes, and would not die down again. She fought not to sob such that others would hear, but every time she looked about, another familiar face met her eyes. Thomas O’Rourke, and Sarah Flaherty, and all the Kinsellas; their eldest daughter was carrying a babe in her arms, and Eliza wondered if it was the girl’s own—had she finally married Will Cleary?—or if it belonged to some relation of hers.
She had no family to miss; her mother was dead, her father in prison, and of her three siblings who survived childhood, Mary and Bridget had gone to America, and Robert had gone to sea. Coming back now, though, she realized she missed something else very profoundly indeed. Whitechapel was her London, from the buildings to the people who lived there, whether they were kin or not. Even the ones she didn’t much like seemed dear to her now, because they were like her. They were not the Kitterings, frantically courting respectability, terrified that someone might discover their human flaws, trying to convince even themselves that they had none; the people here drank and laughed and had fights the whole neighborhood could hear. I don’t remember the last time I screamed my lungs out at anyone, she thought—and then a hysterical giggle rose in her throat, that she could miss something like that.
She choked it down. Father Tooley was among the priests; of them all, he would recognize her if she drew his eye. Instead Eliza lost herself in the comforting patterns of the Mass, kneeling and rising with the rest of the faithful, her voice in the responses only part of a much greater whole. Mrs. Darragh had always made sure she went to Sunday Mass, after Eliza’s mother died in the last cholera. The other woman had stopped going, though, after Owen was taken.
I will pray for him, Eliza thought, while Father Kearney read the offertory verse, beginning the liturgy of the Eucharist. And for myself—strayed lamb that I am.
Upon her knees as he recited the intercession, Eliza bent her thoughts to Owen, lost somewhere among the faeries. The Latin phrases washed over her, their sense known even if their specific meaning was not; she knew when the commemoration for the dead came, and her gut clenched. He isn’t dead. I’m sure of it. I couldn’t call his ghost. But she hadn’t tried in two years.
It was blasphemous to think of such things, especially on Easter morning. Eliza forced the thought from her head. Hands clasped before her like a pious old woman’s, she joined the river of people flowing slowly toward the altar, where the priests had ranged themselves for the Eucharist. Within the depths of her bonnet, no one could see her face as long as she kept her head bowed. But it also meant she could see little of where she was going, and so by the time she realized which direction the eddying movements of the crowd had taken her, it was too late to shift without attracting attention.
She came to the front of her line, and lifted her head to receive the wafer from Father Tooley.
He recognized her immediately, of course. She saw it in the lift of his eyebrows—a brief crack in his well-practiced solemnity. But he would never disrupt Mass just because one errant parishioner had shown up without warning. He murmured “Corpus Christi” and placed the wafer on her tongue; Eliza moved on to receive the wine; and no one who was not watching his face at precisely that moment would have noticed anything out of the ordinary. But now Father Tooley knew she was there.
Eliza returned to her pew and knelt, trying to put such worldly concerns out of her mind. Lord, protect and watch over Your son Owen Darragh, who was betrayed by one he trusted. Guard him against those unholy spirits that envy us our immortal souls. May he return to the family that loves him and the Church that shelters him—and may he do it soon. Help me to save him; ’tis only with Your aid that I have any hope. Amen.
It brought a measure of peace—but only a measure. After the De profundis, her thoughts turned quickly to leaving before anyone else could recognize her. She would have liked to confess her sins, but this was neither the first nor the last Mass the priests would conduct today; Easter brought Catholics popping up like snowdrops after winter, and St. Anne’s could not hold them all at once. Confession could wait until later.
But when she turned to go, a hand caught her sleeve. It was Brian McManus, the altar boy she’d spotted before. “If you please, ma’am,” he said, “Father Tooley wants to see you.”
Brian obviously didn’t recognize her. To a boy like him, anyone over the age of twenty was old, and her disguise was as good as gray hair for making her into a crone. But if she refused, he’d remember that, and oh, she should never have come here in the first place.
She had little choice now. Eliza nodded, and let Brian lead her to the sacristy.
Father Tooley waited there alone. Once the door had closed behind her, Eliza lifted her head; there was little point in hiding now. “Eliza O’Malley,” the priest said, and she could not tell what he meant by it: Disapproval? Concern? Resignation?
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said in a rush, hands bunching up the wool of her old skirt. “I should have confessed before taking communion—not that I’ve committed any mortal sins, I don’t think, but it’s been months, and—”
He stopped her confused apology by coming forward and taking her shoulders in his hands. They were big hands, with big knuckles; those and his broken, florid nose attested to a turbulent past before he joined the priesthood. It made him ideal for this parish, where tending to his flock occasionally meant wading into a drunken brawl and separating his parishioners by force. The warmth of his palms was as much a comfort as communion had been—a reminder that, while her father might be in prison, she still had a Father watching over her.
Which he had been doing, even in her absence. “I wanted to warn you,” he said. Quietly, as if he didn’t want his words carrying beyond the sacristy door. “Fergus Boyle’s been spreading trouble.”
Bloody Fergus. She stopped herself from saying it out loud. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s been lads from Special Irish Branch up and down Whitechapel, asking questions. Some of them about you. They think someone here is helping the Fenians, and maybe ’tis you. Maggie Darragh’s kept her mouth shut, but I’m not sure Boyle’s done the same. I’ve heard some rumors you’d gone to the West End, looking for some kind of work there. If he knew anything about that, then ’tis a good bet Scotland Yard knows it now, too.”
This time the curse did escape her. Father Tooley didn’t blink; he’d heard worse before. I should have known it was Boyle that sent the bobbies after me. “He doesn’t know much,” Eliza said, trying to remember what she’d let slip while gathering what she needed to apply for the position in Cromwell Road. Not much, surely, or Sergeant Quinn wouldn’t have been going from house to house through all of South Kensington. “Just that I—”
The priest stopped her with a finger on her lips. “We aren’t in the confessional,” he reminded her. “Don’t tell me anything you wouldn’t want known, if the police asked. But Eliza… if you have anything to confess, come back late tonight. I’ll wait up for you.”
She shook her head, and when he took his hand away, said, “Not like that. I’m no Fenian, Father, and that’s the truth of it. I was at Charing Cross, yes, but not because I went there to blow anything up.”
“The peelers think there’s more trouble planned for the Underground; I got that much from the fellow they sent to question me. If you know anything about it—”