Three Times Lucky in Love

By Kathryn Mary Stanley

Brigit, an Irish colleen, was orphaned at birth. This was a difficult and mysterious way to start life. But thanks to the kindness of her adoptive parents Brigit learnt that love conquers all. The family risked their lives sailing on the high seas to begin a new life in New Zealand. It was 1815. Life was hard for the settlers. Brigit learnt to become a teacher, wife, and mother. Life dealt her cruel blows. Brigit was widowed. Grief is married to joy as Brigit was brave. Walking on in life, Brigit was lucky. She was blessed with more children. The husbands in Brigit’s life adored her. They made her heart sing the secret of real happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398468047

Kathryn Mary Stanley

Kathryn Stanley is a freelance writer who started as a cadet reporter on an Auckland newspaper. Lured by travelling with friends, Kathryn worked on a London magazine and then spent years in Auckland in the print media. Happily married to Ron, a farmer in Coastal Taranaki, Kathryn enjoyed establishing a community newspaper many years ago. Ron and Kathryn have holidayed in many overseas places but mainly with family in Ireland.

Book preview

Three Times Lucky in Love

Kathryn Mary Stanley

Austin Macauley Publishers

Three Times Lucky in Love

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

About the Author

Kathryn Stanley is a freelance writer who started as a cadet reporter on an Auckland newspaper. Lured by travelling with friends, Kathryn worked on a London magazine and then spent years in Auckland in the print media.

Happily married to Ron, a farmer in Coastal Taranaki, Kathryn enjoyed establishing a community newspaper many years ago. Ron and Kathryn have holidayed in many overseas places but mainly with family in Ireland.

Dedication

Ron, my husband and travelling friend to Ireland and our relations there.

Copyright Information ©

Kathryn Mary Stanley 2022

The right of Kathryn Mary Stanley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The story, experiences, and words are the author’s alone.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398468030 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398468047 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Austin Macauley Publishers.

Ireland is always cold at Christmas, so snuggle in and I’ll keep you warm. This was the loving message Rosie, the church cat, gave to her two kittens. They shivered and tried not to think when their next feed would arrive. Rosie curled up with her two marmalade kittens in her warm embrace.

It was Christmas Eve 1820. The parish priest might be clearing the snow out from the front door of his home. Father O’Brien might be late with our feed tonight, so you two will have to beg for a bit of ham. Wash your little selves properly and someone in the village might take pity on you. Rosie knew how it felt to be hungry. Purring away one kitten told her fluffy brother to follow after her. I know the way to the kitchen door at the local pub. Mrs O’Malley won’t turn us away. There’s always a scrap or two off the table.

So it was that the two little kittens left Rosie sheltering under the church pew. A heavenly peace settled over the church. It was an old stone building and the cold crept into your bones. There was no sound from the organist. The atmosphere was chilling. For once Rosie missed the chirping of birds that lived up in the rafters. The dawn chorus tomorrow will lift my soul, Rosie mused. Their tinkling singing will wish me a happy Christmas. I might be forgiven for not catching a mouse this week.

Hurry up, you rascal. The older kitten was a bit bossy. Speeding ahead she was stopped in her tracks. It was the sight of a bundle on the church steps. It must be someone’s baby! The kitten Rascal claimed he knew everything.

But why would anyone want to give away a baby? Rascal would have to talk seriously to Rosie. How was a little kitten to understand the mysteries of life? Rascal had sniffed the baby’s face and he knew the waif was alive. The baby smiled when she saw Rascal pawing at her old shawl.

Mrs O’Malley would know what to do. The little kitten scampered to the back of the pub. It was a dark room, lined with wooden tables. Lace curtains hang from the grubby windows. A large log smouldered in the fireplace. Mewing loudly, she waited impatiently for the kitchen door to open.

You’re a noisy little kitten. Mrs O’Malley, the cook, pushed the door wide open. I suppose you must be starving. Here’s a treat from Father Christmas. As Rascal ate the bits of ham and milky porridge, she listened to Mrs O’Malley ramble on. Dressed in her best cotton apron over a floral-patterned dress, Mrs O’Malley had tied her hair back in a neat bun. Blessed with tight, auburn curls and a stout figure, she had plenty to say on the tip of her tongue. The regulars, mainly the men, were frightened of Mrs O’Malley. They were respectful when they talked to her. No cursing or swearing was allowed at this pub. This orphaned baby is the talk of the village, Mrs O’Malley said. Always keen on a bit of gossip, Mrs O’Malley thought the news would spice up the village.

Mrs O’Malley’s sister, Greta Smith, rushed into the pub. Can I have a word with you? she asked, her face flushed with vim and vigour. The women were thrilled to have excitement in their lives. Mulling over every detail about the baby, Greta was relieved that this would brighten up village life. It might increase the numbers in the pub. This was something new to yarn about and where better than the local pub. Greta was told she could talk the hind leg off a horse and she enjoyed mystery.

She must be a gypsy brat, the local farrier mumbled this idea. Putting his pint of beer on the table, he sat down heavily and made the chair creak. The furrows on his weathered face made the farrier looked worried about the baby. My wife would give the baby a good home, he added. It would be the icing on the cake to have a wee baby.

She must come from another village. Greta as she cleaned the tables had plenty to talk about. Born with a curious streak in her kind heart but she was a nosey parker. She had to be first with gossip floating around the village. Greta was short but she was tall enough to reach across the bar and listen to folk talking. Every delicious snip of information about someone’s life cheered her up. These details were the fabric of village life and Greta relished every morsel of interest.

Greta had more to disclose on the identity of this little baby. She whispered to Mrs O’Malley her sister, It has something to do with the lord of the manor. Mary O’Keefe was working there as a parlour maid but a few months ago she gave up work. It was hard for Mary to disguise that she was expecting a baby. Worse still, Mary was unwed. I’d heard she had gone to board with her cousin a few miles from here. No one has seen Mary for a long while. Later, I was told by the wife of our undertaker that Mary had died a few days ago in childbirth. So this little mite could be Mary’s child. Greta smoothed down her crumpled white apron and she looked around to see how the men in the pub had reacted to this news. There was almost a hushed silence. The farrier drew on his pipe and blew smoke into the air. Ned, the gardener from the Lord’s manor was really shocked. In fact Ned was speechless. Burying his head in his grimy hands Ned turned to his cousin, George. Ned spluttered,

What would the lord’s wife say? This was a calamity which startled everyone. What would you do with an orphaned baby on Christmas Eve? The clock ticked quietly on the wall above the bar. It was almost closing time but no one was in a hurry to drink up and go home. Even the normally squeaky mice that lived by the pub’s front door laid their heads and cried.

It was all too much for Rascal. The news about the baby’s father made Rascal’s fur stand up. The kitten knew she had to collect the facts for her mother cat Rosie. When you slept under a pew in the church, it was important to know what the neighbours were doing. Rosie hated noisy parties. So she had moved her kittens away from the local pub. Now with a baby on the steps of the church Rosie might have to tell her kittens about the birds and the bees. It’s a bit soon but I’m sure they’ll understand.

Mauve and Edwin Oscan had lived in the village for many years. Ed loved vegetable gardening and he had tended to the estate of Lord Withered from sunset to sunrise. The pay did not amount to much but he and Mauve lived rent-free in a cottage near the stables and horses. Mauve took in washing and mending from the manor.

Their life was complete. They loved each other but they were childless. Peeling the potatoes for their evening rabbit stew, Mauve confided in her close friend, Anna. Life would be wonderful if we had a child to care for. Mauve sighed. Looking around the cottage Anna admired the fresh floral curtains hanging from the front window. Everywhere in the cottage Mauve had made scatter cushions for the sofa and a large woollen mat in front of the fire hearth. It created a feeling of warmth and contentment. Sipping on her cup of tea, Anna told Mauve about the orphan baby at church. Adding a teaspoon of sugar, Anna stirred her hot drink and she urged Mauve to be bold and talk to the priest.

When Ed had finished digging and weeding for the day, he trudged home only to see a joyful Mauve at the front door. Oh, Ed, my prayers are answered. Something remarkable has happened in our church. So Mauve told the tale to her husband as she tenderly held his hand. This might be our only chance of having a family. And she pleaded with him to visit the priest. So before bedtime, Ed pulled on his best clean shirt, tightened his braces and wore his only good pair of trousers. Mauve wrapped a warm, red and soft green shawl around her shoulders.

Making sure that Ed polished both their boots, Mauve led the way down their garden path towards the stone house where the priest lived in solitary comfort. The snow crunched under their boots and it made slippery progress.

Are there Mauve and Ed? Do come inside out of the cold. Father O’Reilly was not a young man but he still kept up with all his flock. For as long as he had known Mauve, Father O’Reilly knew she would make a good mother. It came as no surprise that Mauve and Ed wanted to adopt the orphaned baby. Come, sit next to the fire and we’ll have a chat. Father sat his visitors down in the kitchen. An hour passed and Father managed to pick up all the information he required. It was an easy decision to make for the baby would have the best of care with Mauve and Ed. They would love the baby and treat her as their own. Would you be having a cup of tea and lemon cake? Father O’Brien’s housekeeper was enjoying her day off with her cousin. So the jovial cleric boiled up the water and made three steaming mugs of tea. Ed had not eaten since lunchtime. The lemon cake went down a treat. While he was eating the cake and sipping his tea, Ed thought he could almost hear his favourite Irish music. But it must be my imagination. It’s because I am so happy. Ed’s mind was in a whirl. Still he could bring those fragments of music to his mind. He smiled broadly. It’s spirit which makes the Irish such a musical nation. They dance and sing for joy and for those moments when your heart is overwhelmed with good luck.

Would you know Sister Marie at our convent? Father O’Brien spoke to Mauve.

Yes, I have met Sister Marie before. Mauve knew who she was.

Rising to his feet quickly, Father O’Brien reached for the tea caddy on the mantelpiece. There’s some money to buy some clothes for the baby, he said kindly to Mauve. I’ll walk with you and Ed to the Convent and we can collect the baby there.

Word travels quickly in a small community. By the time Ed and Mauve and the baby arrived home, they found a bassinet, sheets and blankets had been put in the kitchen.

Who would these gifts be from? wondered Mauve. Before long there was a timid knock at the door. Standing and shivering on Mauve’s doorstep was Mrs Larkin who helped in the kitchen at the manor.

Father O’Brien said you would want me to help and do some chores and cooking, she announced with a broad smile. I’ve had children and grandchildren to look after so I’m a dab hand.

"I won’t boss you around but I think you need me as unpaid granny. So Mrs Larkin became Granny Larkin and she was the kindly soul who taught Mauve the art of motherhood.

These are the best nappies for the little girl, Granny Larkin was unpacking her basket. Cook at the manor gave me her granddaughter’s warm leggings for winter. Look at these feeders and bibs – I think they’ll last a long time." So Mrs Larkin settled herself into the household. Mauve made up the spare room for Granny Larkin, who valued her privacy at times when she needed a rest.

And I’m going to teach you to make good soda bread for us three. I’ll have this bairn in a good routine in no time, said Granny Larkin as she heated up a bottle of milk on the stove. After her feed we need to give her a bath. Mauve please make sure the bath water is not too warm.

Mauve did as Granny Larkin bid her and she was constantly grateful for this rather and good-hearted woman. Under Granny Larkin’s guidance, Mauve learnt about everything from baby illnesses to making stewed apple and plum sauce that the baby would eat. Granny Larkin was the salt of the earth.

She’ll be on solids in no time at all, so we should be thinking of good vegetables to tempt her.

When Granny Larkin put her feet up in front of the hearth, she would do some knitting on a colourful cardigan.

I’m making this cardigan large enough for next year. Do you like the blue and red stripes? Granny Larkin was active for her 50 years. She never sat still for long. There was always a chore. Like cooking the evening meal, that Granny would happily tackle this work. Once a week Granny would change the sheets and these were returned sparkling white to the beds. I take a pride in my work and I like to make life easier for Mauve.

Hence it was no surprise when Ed and Mauve called their baby, Brigit. This was Granny Larkin’s middle name. Tears welled in Granny Larkin’s eyes when she was told the chosen name.

Oh, that is so wonderful. I have really taken Brigit to my heart. I hope I can see her grow up and find happiness as an adult.

So Granny Larkin became part of Brigit’s family in her journey through life.

Brigit’s baby years passed very quickly. A bright and alert toddler, Brigit, easily made friends. On Brigit’s first birthday she was allowed to ask two special mates to a birthday tea. And what a treat that was. Mauve set the kitchen table with plates of jelly and ice cream. Granny Larkin had cooked a chocolate cake and it was decorated in one candle.

We love you so much, Brigit. Mauve and Ed were so proud of their daughter.

Every year following, Brigit was given a birthday cake and she was showered with loving messages. Mauve always put flowers on the birthday table. Pansies, daffodils, roses and sweet peas, all make a floral tribute to the little girl. As the years passed, orchids from the manor’s glass houses signified that Brigit was growing up. The Lord of the manor had seen Brigit playing in the garden many times. It pierced his heart and gave his conscience a severe jolt. Here was his own daughter living in the cottage close to the manor. A proud and secretive man, the lord of the manor was not going to climb down from his ivory tower. Remembering Brigit’s mother, as though he had seen her yesterday, Milord was too snobbish to acknowledge his own daughter. The English class system was part of his rigid outlook. So Milord was not about to accept a parlour maid’s daughter into his life.

Every birthday Mauve made something different for a birthday cake. By the time Brigit’s 15th birthday had come around, everyone in the village called Brigit ‘their special girl’. Blessed with a kind heart, Brigit had a ready smile and she made time for everyone.

You are such a beauty, Brigit. Mauve was proud of her adopted daughter. To look at Brigit she was a real Irish colleen with creamy complexion and pretty dark hair. There was something to admire in the way Brigit held her slim, young figure. As she walked through the village, the local lads would give Brigit a second look. She’s a stunner, was a comment from the butcher’s son, Jacob. I could walk out with her any day.

But Brigit kept to herself as she was not in a hurry to find a boyfriend. Some of her school friends had rushed into relationships and already one was a young married with a child.

Motherhood was not an option for Brigit had a song in her heart – slowly, gently, fall in love. Make it last forever.

Brigit clung on to the belief that one day she would meet a man who would love and respect her. This thought was like a glowing jewel in her heart. It comforted her to know that Mauve wanted the best for her step-daughter. Never cheapen yourself, Brigit. Be patient and wait for the right man to sweep you off your feet.

The local storekeeper, Mr Bertram, offered Brigit a permanent job serving behind the counter. I’m like a duck to water – I love working in the store, was how Brigit described her work. Every day Brigit had to tidy the stock and neaten the rolls of fabric and cottons. One day Brigid was started when a customer with a very starchy English voice spoke to her by name. Turning quickly, Brigit came face to face with this customer. It was the lady of the manor and she was dressed to impress Brigit with her elevated position in life. Brigit, do you have calico? Can you deliver it to the manor? Ask your mother to escort you as she knows the way. The lady of the manor did not want to risk Brigit arriving on her own and meeting up with her husband, the lord. I know that Brigit is my illegitimate daughter but she will never be accepted into our family. Staring at Brigit was like the lady looking into a mirror and seeing the reflection of her husband. It was a cruel twist of fate that the lord and lady could never have their own children. So the lady had to ignore her husband’s sexual adventures with their staff. A heavy drinker, the lord would disappear at night and return to the marital bed in the morning in time for breakfast. Swaggering like a schoolboy, the lord would drop hints to his wife how he had spent the last few hours. Most of the time the lord wanted to talk about his viral strength. It’s amazing there are no more bastards trying to inherit our title, the lady mulled this over. So it was bitterness and anger which tarred the lady’s personality. Joy and happiness rarely lit up her face. The lord’s lustful activities had killed her love in their bed together. In the last few years, the lord’s behaviour was more and more out of control. In fact, Mrs Brownlee, the long-suffering manor’s housekeeper, reported it was becoming harder to attract staff because of the lord’s bad reputation. The lord has earned everyone’s hatred as they know what he is doing, Mrs Brownlee added. We all wish the lord would keep his pants buttoned up once and for all. A heart attack for the lord would be the best answer to his nightly wanderings. The manor staff would be pleased to see him go soon. Brigit, accompanied by her mother, did pay a visit to the manor. It was a fine, sunny day and the two women had accepted an offer of the horse and trap from the manor. So together they sat in the back of the trap as the Head Stableman guided the horse up the long drive to the house. This was the first time that Brigit had glimpsed the