The ivy-covered cottage sat just a little way from the village – its gray stone decaying with time. The house was small – no more than two tiny bedrooms, tucked away upstairs, and one kitchen and living area below.
It was clear the Connollys had never been wealthy – working-class Irish – Frank a painter and Claire a shop girl at the local grocers. And it was lucky when Frank could get work. He would paint anything that he could earn a sum to support his family – houses, fences, signs – he could not afford to be picky.
However, to anyone who ever entered the Connolly cottage, Frank's talent had been wasted on those minor endeavors. Their home was filled with beautiful artwork – images of dank green, muddy brown, and dark blue bogs – fields of emerald – sturdy villages of old stone lovingly captured under a purple moonlit sky. These were works of art, far beyond the skill of any average handyman painter.
Despite its humble exterior, Claire Connolly kept an immaculately clean house. She maintained the old wooden floors, sweeping them every day and scrubbing at least once every other week. She was meticulous.
But the place she shined most was in the kitchen. Working at the grocers gave Claire access to all sorts of spices at reasonable prices – either that or she would take what had not sold before it soured and use it. She wasted nothing, knowing that they could have had it far worse in Ireland. At the very least, here in York, they could make a living for Catherine without fear. Claire was an excellent cook – always willing to experiment in the kitchen and usually finding whatever she made a success with her small family.
Theirs – the Connolly's – was a small life. A simple one. A happy one and a humble one. They had learned that less could be more so long as love surrounded them.
And their life had been cut too short. Snatched away from Catie in a car wreck.
Claire's employer had permitted the Connollys to use the shop's one delivery car for a large run to a local estate. Frank had insisted he help Claire at her work that day – it was a massive order – one he did not want his wife to handle alone. The grocer did not mind Frank's help, nor did the Connollys mind the extra money. Even little Catherine wanted to help out that day, carrying a small carton of eggs into the car.
Frank never saw the other car – never saw the great, deep puddle of standing water. It was too late when he lost control of the vehicle.
Too late and too soon.
A husband and wife gone – and a daughter left traumatized and grief stricken.
A tragedy that no child should ever have to endure.
But, endure she did.
And now Catherine, Catie as she had come be known, walked slowly up the stone steps to the front door of the grey stone cottage that occupied a place in her heart.
She remembered that great wooden door – dark gray, though she once thought it may have been blue – just old now – decaying and worn.
Her little hand rested on the door's frame as if trying to absorb the warmth she once had felt every time she opened it.
Behind that door lay her memories – of laughter, of love, of home.
Mama and Father.
…
Catie walked through the door into her cottage, for that is what it was now – hers. She glanced around, noticing the dust that had accumulated on their wooden kitchen table, the end table next to Father's favorite chair.
The floor looked dirty; no one had swept it in several months. No one had been inside the cottage for several months. It had sat empty and undisturbed.
Mama would not be happy. It's too dirty.
Catie looked at one of the paintings on the wall – her Father's favorite. It was one he had completed when the Connollys first moved from Ireland. The work captured rich greens and deep browns – emerald fields as fine cut as the stone. The painting was one of a simple barn – brown wood, slightly shabby – in a field.
It reminded him of home – he always told Catie. And home, Catherine, he would say, is always with you. Even if we're here in England.
She continued to stare at the painting, then turned around. Catie walked towards a rocker in the corner of the living area – her Mama's. More dust coated the yarn that rested in the wicker basket next to the chair. Crochet needles still remained tucked neatly inside the ball of yarn.
Mama.
Catie ran her hand lovingly along the chair and sat down.
Mama. That one word repeated in her head.
Isobel and Dickie kept a close eye on Catie. They did not speak, allowing her the time she needed to look through the house.
In truth, the couple did not know what to say.
Isobel walked over to the painting Catie had been staring at on the wall. She ran her hand over the oil on canvas. "It's beautiful," she whispered.
Dickie noticed and walked over to his wife, placing his hands on her shoulders. He took in the work. "Yes," he breathed, "it is."
The couple continued to look around the living area and kitchen as Catie sat in her Mama's rocker.
As Isobel approached Catie, a frame sitting on the fire place caught her eye. Isobel walked over to the gray, somewhat sooty hearth and picked up the picture.
If the nurse had to guess, this image she now held in her hand had to be Frank and Claire Connolly. Catie was the spitting image of her father. Her mother – a true beauty. Isobel thought this photo had to be from their wedding. She knew she would bring this back home for Catie.
A voice snapped Isobel from her thoughts.
"It's dirty," Catie whispered.
"We can get it cleaned," Dickie offered, looking at Catie thoughtfully. "Are these your father's paintings on the wall?" He turned his attention back to some more works that captured his attention. "They're rather well done."
"Yes," Catie answered wistfully. "Those are Father's. He spent a lot of time on his art." She stood up and walked to a large wooden chest tucked into another corner of the room. She opened it slowly as the dust wafted into the air. She smiled to herself, pleased having found the chest open. Father never locked it. "He kept his paints and some of his other stuff…sketches, I think that's the word, in here" she explained to Dickie.
Dickie crossed to the room to join Catie. He bent down examining the contents of the box now open before him. The paints, he thought, would probably be dried out by now. He saw a stack of paper with artistic renderings on them. "May I?" he asked Catie before he picked them up to thumb through them.
Catie nodded her head, pleased that someone finally seemed to appreciate her father's talent.
As Dickie marveled at Frank Connolly's art, his wife continued to be lost in the young couple's picture. Catie looks so like them, she marveled. It's not fair that they're gone. I wonder what they were like. If they would have approved of me? Had they known that their time was limited, would they have arranged for someone…or have some plan…for Catie?
Isobel was lost in her own thoughts until a small hand reached for the one at her side.
"That's Mama and Father," Catie whispered. "Mama is pretty. I like that picture."
Isobel looked down at Catie. The child's eyes seemed far away at the moment, reaching up for the frame that Isobel held in her other hand. "I miss them. They were supposed to be home. I knew they wouldn't be, but I still want them to be." A few tears escaped Catie's eyes.
Isobel returned the photo to its rightful owner. "I know, my dear. I understand." Isobel crossed over to the couch, preparing to sit down. "Is it alright if I sit here?" She asked Catie.
"Yes," Catie answered, still staring at her parents' image.
Isobel motioned for Catie to join her on the couch. Catie walked slowly over, scuffing her shoes on the old wooden floor.
"Let me tell you a secret," Isobel said as she wrapped her arm around Catie's shoulder. "Every time I walk into Crawley House, I hope that I will see my Matthew. That he'll be there in his study, waiting for me to return from my shift at the hospital," Isobel said solemnly. Her eyes stared ahead, not looking at Catie in an attempt to hold back her own tears.
"You do?"
"All the time." Isobel cut her eyes down to the little girl. "That hope, that love does not disappear, Catie. We carry it within us. The ones we love never truly leave us," the nurse affirmed.
"You won't leave me?" Catie asked, looking squarely into her nurse's eyes.
Dickie watched the two on the couch, walking over to join them. "Of course not," he replied. "We're here to stay, Catie, my girl. There's nothing in this world that could chase us away."
"My Mama and Father are here?" Catie asked pointing to her heart.
"Always," Isobel reiterated.
Catie stood up, looking up the stairs. "I want to go to my room now," she said. "You can come to. Be careful on the steps," she told Isobel. "They like to squeak. Don't fall," she commanded her nurse, pointing her finger and giving Isobel a rather serious expression.
"I'll try not to," Isobel chuckled.
Dickie and Isobel followed Catie up the stairs to a tiny bedroom to the left of the landing. The door had been left open.
Catie walked inside, glancing around her room. A white quilt lay on the bed, and an old brown dresser sat in the corner. A teddy bear rested on the pillow with an embroidered, pink pillowcase – one Catie's mother had sewn for her.
He's still here. Catie rushed over to her light brown stuffed bear with a blue bow. My teddy bear – right where I left him. Mama said I could not bring him to her work that…that…that…day.
And the memory came flooding back. Catie grasped her teddy bear as tightly as she could. The seams may have burst if she held the bear any tighter. Tears flowed freely as she shut her eyes, hoping to make the pain vanish.
Dickie and Isobel went to her side.
Dickie knelt to the ground. He wrapped his long arms around her, and Catie cried into his shoulder.
"Mama…Mama…" Catie choked, "she told me to leave my bear here." Catie continued to sob, burying her face into Dickie's jacket.
"Shh…shh…" Dickie attempted to soothe her, pulling her to look at him. He moved his hand to brush a few strands of brown hair that had fallen across her face. "There, there, let me see you love," he whispered.
He tried to take her mind away from the accident – to pull her from the shadows of that nightmare.
Isobel placed her hand on Catie's shoulder. "Is this your room, dear?"
Catie shook her head, rubbing her eyes. "Uh huh," she murmured.
"Will you show it to me?" Isobel asked sweetly. "What's your teddy bear's name?"
"Yes," Catie peeped, "there's not a whole lot to show." Catie knew her room here was no comparison to the one she now occupied at Crawley House. "But…my bear's name is Elliot," Catie confided in Isobel and Dickie as if the bear's name was a secret that only those she trusted most could know.
"Well, Catie," Dickie replied, "Elliot's a very handsome bear. Very dapper in his bow tie." Dickie ruffled Catie's hair.
The young brunette smiled as her tears began to dry.
"My room is small. But it is mine," Catie said. She walked towards the dresser, opening the bottom drawer. "Here are my drawings." She gave them to Isobel. "My clothes are in the other drawers. Can we bring them back?"
"Of course, we can," Isobel affirmed, thumbing through a lifetime of childhood works of art, noticing the progression of the young girl's emerging talent.
After seeing Catie's bedroom, Lord and Lady Merton followed the little girl into her parents' room.
"This is Mama and Father's room," Catie mentioned as she walked into the slightly larger, though humble, bedroom.
Isobel and Dickie looked around, finding a picture that held a place of special regard on the nightstand. It was one of Catie as a baby. Clearly, the heart of the Connolly family was that one special little girl.
Catie sat on her parents' bed, remembering when she used to snuggle up with her Mama whenever the thunder frightened her. She had many things on her mind – not all she even knew how to voice.
There was one she could.
"What's going to happen with my cottage? With my home?" Catie looked back and forth at Isobel and Dickie. "I can't stay here by myself." Her voice quaked.
"Of course, you can't," Isobel placed a hand on Catie's cheek. "Your home is with Dickie and I. But this is still your cottage. Understand the difference?"
"I think so…" Catie replied softly. "I'll go home with you then." Catie smiled at Isobel. "What do I do with my cottage then?" She asked again, desperate for any advice.
"What do you want to do with it?" Dickie questioned.
"Well…can it help someone?" Catie wondered aloud. "Some other family like mine who need a place to stay. Ref…ref…" she struggled to find the word.
"Refugees?" Isobel supplied.
"That's it! Maybe it could help them. Families who need a home – like my Mama and Father when they left Ireland. Or local people with kids who need somewhere to stay. This cottage took care of me and my Mama and Father. It could take care of someone else." Catie smoothed the blanket on the bed with her hands as her feet swung nervously back and forth.
She did not know what Isobel and Dickie would say, or if this idea was even possible to achieve. Her feet continued to move back and forth, awaiting her nurse's response.
Isobel was taken aback at the little girl's desire. Despite everything, she has nothing but love in her, nothing but kindness. A beautiful heart.
"I think that's a lovely idea." Isobel's eyes gleamed. "I'm so proud of you." She spoke with conviction.
"It's doable too," Dickie added.
"Really?" Catie exclaimed, looking up at Dickie.
"Quite," Dickie affirmed. "The cottage could be rented at a reduced rate for working families, Irish refugees, those with children…or even free until they could get on their feet. Provide them a place to stay and then an incentive to work." Dickie's head began making a list of who to contact and how to make the little girl's idea a reality. He grinned at Catie. "I think you would make your Mama and Father proud," Dickie added, echoing Isobel's earlier sentiment.
"I like that idea," Catie said to Dickie. "But they have to have kids like me," she added. "My house needs a family."
"And it will have one," Isobel agreed. "Dickie, do you think Tom would be able to help? He still has connections in Ireland. Maybe he knows of a family who needs help or how we could get this house filled." Isobel's mind immediately went to the estate agent of Downton – the young Irish chauffeur who changed his life through love.
"He just may." Dickie winked at her. "I think I should talk with a lawyer of my own as well. If we do charge a nominal fee whenever the family can afford it, then, perhaps, that money could be set aside for Catie's education."
School! Catie's head reeled. They want me to go to school! Get an education – that was Mama and Father's dream for me. And money to go. Can this be real?
"School?" Catie mentioned quietly.
"Of course, dear," Isobel said. "You have to go to school to learn. To be whatever you want to be. You can go anywhere with a proper education," she stated as she placed her hand on Catie's shoulder.
"I want to go," Catie announced. "And I want this plan to work out. I want this house to help people."
"Good," Isobel answered. "I'm glad. Overjoyed really. It's such a wonderful idea." Isobel glanced around Claire and Frank Connolly's bedroom.
Finally, Isobel had a clue as to who they were – and – she saw it, not through their modest cottage, but inside of their beautiful little girl whose heart remained pure, despite the tragedy.
The family walked down the stairs, and Isobel noticed the dust on the railing. I'll have to clean this before anything else happens, she chuckled to herself. Perhaps Catie can help me, and she'll tell me more stories of her parents.
Lord and Lady Merton and Catie knew that the day was growing shorter. It was now time for them to leave the Connolly home and return to their hotel.
But, one more journey was needed this day,
One more memory Catie needed to face.
Isobel reached for Dickie's hand giving it a squeeze – her face solemn as Catie went out the front door ahead of them.
The Connolly grave sat quietly in the corner of the parish churchyard. No visitors had been since the day they had been put to rest.
Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter. It took me a while, I know. Trying to strike the right tone for a story can sometimes be difficult. Also, finding time to write too! Been extremely busy this week. Let me know what you thought of this chapter. As always, leave me a review or pm me if you wish. And, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for all the reviews that have been left, follows, and favorites. They keep me going!