reaching out for my forehead. I shrunk back at her touch, her skin like ice.
“You have a fever again, young man.” She poured water from the pitcher on her tray into the basin beside my bed and moistened a cloth, wrung it out, and placed it across my scalp. “Lie back,” she instructed.
I did as she asked, then said, “Gray.”
“What?”
“Your eyes—today, they are gray.” And they were, too, a dark gray, reminding me of the thick storm clouds that had filled the harbor’s sky only two days before. “Yesterday, they were hazel. And, the day before that, they were blue. What color will they be tomorrow?”
She looked down upon me with these eyes and tucked her curly blond hair behind her ear. Most days, she wore it up, but today it was down, hanging just below her shoulders.
* * *
? ? ?
I HAVE OFTEN REFLECTED on the beauty of Ellen Crone. At the age of seven, I had no such thoughts; but as an adult, I cannot deny her allure. Her skin glowed, flawless as a fresh coat of snow, not a single blemish or line, not even around her eyes or mouth. When she smiled, the whiteness of her teeth astounded. We often joked about her age—she along with the rest of us. She joined our household in October of 1847, only weeks prior to my birth—right after Miss Coghlan took leave due to health issues, explaining the arthritis in her hands had made the act of caring for a child unbearable. Miss Coghlan had been with the family through the births of both Thornley and Matilda and had been expected to stay another year or so, long enough for Ma to find a replacement. Her early leave-taking came at a difficult time; Pa spent most of his hours at the castle, due to the start of the famine, and Ma was in no condition to interview replacements, being only weeks away from my birth. Ellen appeared as if sent by God—through word of mouth alone, she had heard about potential employment and arrived on our doorstep with nothing more than a small bag in her possession. She claimed to be fifteen at the time, an orphan who had spent the past five years in a household looking after the children of her providers—a boy and a girl, aged five and six—only to lose the entire family to cholera the month before. The mother of the house had been a midwife, and Ellen explained she had aided her with dozens of deliveries; she would be willing to offer her services in exchange for lodging and a small stipend for a short period of time, at least until after my birth, while Ma had time to recuperate. Ma and Pa had no other alternatives available to them and they welcomed Ellen Crone into our home, where she immediately became indispensable.
My birth in November of 1847 was a difficult one. I was born breech, the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, at the hands of my father’s cousin, a prominent Dublin doctor, who believed I was stillborn since I did not utter a sound. Uncle Edward Alexander Stoker declared that no heartbeat was found beneath my blue skin. But Ellen insisted I was alive, snatched me from him, and went to work breathing for me, her lips on mine for nearly three minutes, before I finally coughed and joined the world of the living. Ma and Pa were amazed, and Uncle Edward claimed this was nothing short of a miracle. Ma later told me she was sure I was dead in the womb because I rarely kicked; as a mother of two, she had real experience to draw upon and she felt certain. For that reason, she hadn’t allowed Pa to settle upon a name. It wasn’t until I was breathing and proven alive that she agreed to the name Abraham, my father’s namesake, and took me into her arms for the first time.
In later years, Ma told me Nanna Ellen had looked worn and haggard that night—appearing as if she, too, had given birth and that it had taken every ounce of her strength. The moment I was tucked safely at Ma’s side, Ellen had retired to her room and did not emerge for nearly two days, much to