None are so blind as those who will not see. The same could be said of the many inhabitants of the locality who, by laying floral and other tributes at the blackened remains of the cabin in recent days, seem to express a na?ve conviction that what happened there was the apotheosis of a local saint rather than the unlawful killing of a child.
What none can dispute is that the watch that was set a fortnight ago wound up the clockwork of death, most likely by blocking a covert means of feeding, and contributed to the destruction of the little girl it was designed to study. The committee’s last act before dissolving itself was to declare the death to have been an act of God proceeding from natural causes. But neither the Creator nor Nature should be blamed for what human hands have wrought.
Dear Matron,
You may have heard by now of the tragic conclusion to my recent employment. I must confess myself so shaken—my whole system so broken down—that I will not be returning to the hospital for the foreseeable future. I have accepted an invitation to stay with my remaining connections in the north.
Yours truly,
Elizabeth Wright
ANNA MARY O’DONNELL
7 APRIL 1848–20 AUGUST 1859
GONE HOME
Epilogue
Sixty degrees below the equator, in the mild sunshine of late October, Mrs. Eliza Raitt spelled her name for the chaplain. She adjusted the gloves she always wore over her scarred hands.
He moved on to the next line in his log. “Wilkie Burns. Occupation?”
“Until recently, manager of a printing concern,” she told him.
“Very good. Does he mean to found a press in New South Wales, put out a paper for the miners, perhaps?”
She gave a ladylike shrug. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“A widow and a widower,” the chaplain murmured as he wrote. He glanced east, over the waves. “To shake off the dust of sorrow in pastures new,” he quoted sententiously.
Eliza nodded with a half smile.
“British subjects, Church of England—”
“Mr. Burns and his daughter are Roman Catholics,” Eliza corrected him. “We’ll go through another ceremony in that church once we land.”
She’d thought the chaplain might balk at that, but he nodded benignly. She watched over the man’s shoulder as he noted down the name of the vessel, the day’s date, the precise latitude and longitude. (She remembered dropping her memorandum book in the waves a month ago.) What could be keeping the other two?
“And Nan Burns,” asked the chaplain, “is she still troubled by stomachaches and melancholy?”
“The sea air is doing her some good already,” she assured him.
“Motherless no more! Such a delightful story, the way you and the little girl happened to strike up an acquaintance in the ship’s library in the easy way that custom allows at sea, and all that’s followed…”
Eliza smiled, modestly silent.
Here they came down the deck now, the bearded Irishman with close-cropped red hair hand in hand with the little girl. Nan was clutching a set of glass rosary beads and a bouquet of paper flowers she must have made herself, the paint still wet.
Eliza thought she might weep. No tears, she told herself, not today.
The chaplain raised his voice. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, Miss Nan.”
Shy, the child pressed her face against Eliza’s dress.
Eliza held her tight and knew she’d give Nan the skin off her body if she had to, the bones out of her legs.
“Are you amusing yourself well enough on this great clipper?” the chaplain asked the child. He pointed over their heads. “Eleven thousand yards of sail, fancy that! And two hundred and fifty souls aboard.”
Nan nodded.
“Perhaps you’re looking forward to your future home, though. What appeals to you most about Australia?”
Eliza murmured in the small ear, “Can you tell him?”
“The new stars,” said Nan.
That pleased the chaplain.
Wilkie took Eliza’s free hand in his warm grip. So eager, but not more than she was. Hungry for the future.
“I was saying to your bride, Mr. Burns, it has real charm, your little family’s shipboard romance. You might even think of working it up for the press!”
The groom shook his head with a grin.
“On the whole,” said Eliza, “we’d rather our days be unwritten.”
And Wilkie, looking down to meet the child’s eyes, then back at Eliza, asked, “Shall we begin?”
Author’s Note
The Wonder is an invented story. However, it was inspired by almost fifty cases of so-called Fasting Girls—hailed for surviving without food for long periods—in the British Isles, Western Europe, and North America between the sixteenth and the twentieth centuries. These girls and women varied widely in age and background. Some of them (whether Protestant or Catholic) claimed a religious motive, but many didn’t. There were male cases, too, though far fewer. Some of the fasters were put under surveillance for weeks on end; some started eating again, voluntarily or after being coerced, imprisoned, hospitalized, or force-fed; some died; others lived for decades, still claiming not to need food.
Thanks for crucial suggestions go to my agents Kathleen Anderson and Caroline Davidson and my editors Iris Tupholme at HarperCollins Canada, Judy Clain at Little, Brown, and Paul Baggaley at Picador. Tana Wollen and Cormac Kinsella kindly helped me keep my Hiberno-and British Englishes straight, and Tracy Roe’s copyediting was as ever, and in both senses, priceless. Dr. Lisa Godson at National College of Art and Design in Dublin shared her knowledge of nineteenth-century Catholic devotional objects. My friends Sinéad McBrearty and Katherine O’Donnell lent some of my characters their family names, and another is named for the generous Maggie Ryan as a fund-raiser for the Kaleidoscope Trust.
About the Author
Born in Dublin in 1969, Emma Donoghue is an Irish emigrant twice over: she spent eight years in Cambridge, England, completing a PhD in eighteenth-century literature, before moving to London, Ontario. She also migrates between genres, writing for screen, stage, and radio, as well as writing historical and contemporary novels and short stories. Her international bestseller Room was a New York Times Best Book of 2010 and a finalist for the Man Booker, Commonwealth, and Orange Prizes. Her film adaptation won Best First Screenplay at the Independent Spirit Awards and an Oscar nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay.