Free Miss Emily by Nuala O'Connor Page A

brood of children there isn’t the room. And I feel terrible about leaving Uncle Michael alone anyway. He’s turned inside out since Auntie Mary died.”
    â€œAnd must you obey this Father Sullivan?”
    She looks up at me with moon eyes. “Yes, miss. Him and Cousin Maggie, who started this whole palaver, as you know.”
    â€œBut you will come and live here, Ada. You may occupy Margaret O’Brien’s old quarters.”
    â€œMrs. Dickinson won’t agree to that, surely? No doubt she likes having her house back to herself and the family.”
    â€œDon’t worry about her, or Father.”
    Ada snaps a few more sticks and pushes them into the blaze. “I wasn’t looking for that, miss, you know. It never occurred to me.”
    â€œI know, my Emerald Ada. I will speak to my parents, and all will be well.”
    â€œYou’re awful good to me, Miss Emily,” she says.
    â€œThink nothing of it.”
    Ada grins, rubs her hands briskly and looks around to see what work to tackle next.

Miss Ada Walks Out with a Man

    M ISS E MILY HELPED ME ARRANGE THINGS IN MY BEDROOM AS IF I were a valued guest, furnishing me with enough candles for a year and a brass bedside holder with its own snuffer cap. I didn’t like to tell her that Uncle Michael had gifted me an oil lamp of Auntie Mary’s; the candles would do if I ran out of oil. She heaped rugs and coverlets on my bed.
    â€œAgainst the drafts. The windows can be whistly in this room. I don’t want cold to bother you.” She looked around, satisfied with her help. “Ada, I hope you will be more than comfortable here.”
    â€œI will, miss, I feel settled already.”
    Miss Emily pulls people toward her; that’s the type she is—she blankets them in her friendship. She and Miss Susan let me hold Martha, the new baby. The gorgeous feel of the little one seemed to fill me up and open me out. I was surprised to find Miss Susan visiting so soon after the confinement, but it seems the pair of them would do anything for each other. Mr. Austin and his wife may be more burdensome to wait on than the other Dickinsons, but they are certainly fond of Miss Emily and always go out of their way for her. And they produce gorgeous children; Little Ned is a star of a child, and Miss Martha is as placid a babe as any mother could hope for. I held her and allowed my mind to conjure thoughts of babies of my own.

    I am seated on a stool that Miss Vinnie gave me from her room for my bedroom—“For lacing your boots,” she said. The family have been nothing but kind since I moved here, and the Homestead’s bright, familiar rooms seem to welcome me as an old friend. Uncle Michael was upset when I left Kelley Square, and I was, too, but we both knew I had to leave; we couldn’t go against Father Sullivan, whatever about Maggie. I miss Uncle’s daily company, but there is a privacy in this house that I enjoy. For the first time ever, I am on my own; I do not have the crutch of family to hold me up. And I like the powerful feeling that gives me—it brings a rare contentment.
    Boots laced, I go down the front stairs and dip out through the conservatory; I see Daniel Byrne ambling up from the orchard. He stops for a moment, then comes along toward me. I pull my shawl tight around my neck against the cold.
    â€œHello, Ada,” he says, smiling.
    â€œDaniel. There you are.” He stands before me and shuffles his feet. “Were you down boxing the fox?” I tease. “Should I search your pockets for Dickinson apples?”
    â€œSure there isn’t an apple left below,” he says, grinning. I get a picture of him in my mind, up a tree as a boy, filling his rolled-up shirt with stolen apples and sneaking away somewhere to crunch on them until his stomach groans. Daniel holds up a ragged rug. “I’m going to drape this around the pump, to stop it