“I like her very well.”
“And how well is that, might I ask?” she enquired.
“I find it hard to say, to tell you the truth. It surprises me that I should find it so, but I do. We agree on many things.”
“She is Catholic.”
“Yes. Her mind, her manners, her person are altogether all that could be desired. My feelings for her are . . .”
“Tender?”
“Oh yes. Tender.” The thought did not altogether seem to please him.
“You are perhaps not in love.”
“Perhaps not.” He paused. “Not quite, I think.”
“Common interests, respect, and tenderness are the best basis for a marriage, Patrick. I do know that. Love often follows.”
“Indeed. Quite so.”
“Has she feelings for you?”
“I think so. She has indicated . . .” He hesitated. “The fact is, I find myself confused by my own feelings. I do not know . . .”
“There is no other?”
“Other? Oh. No.” He shook his head. “No. No other.”
Georgiana sighed. She felt sorry for the girl, but she said no more.
A few days later, they were all due to leave for Dublin. She and George rode in the big carriage, which was followed by a second cart containing two servants and several portmanteaus. Patrick rode beside the carriage with them as far as Wicklow. There he parted from them, as he wished to ride up into the mountains to visit the old monastic site of Glendalough. “I have always heard so much about the beauty of the place,” he told Georgiana, “yet to my shame I have never been there.” He promised to call upon her in Merrion Square the following week.
As they made their way back to Dublin, Georgiana turned to her husband:
“I’ve been thinking. If Patrick can’t make up his mind about the Kelly girl, there may be an even better alternative.” And she told him her idea.
“Good God,” said George.
It was some weeks before she was able to arrange a meeting, since the girl was away. The parliamentary session had started. As promised, the Patriots and their friends were issuing calls for independence, but making little headway. The party she held at Merrion Square, therefore, had a purely social rather than a political character. An elegant company was invited, including even the Leinsters. Her daughter Eliza and her husband came, but Hercules, having been told that Patrick would be there, decided to stay away. And with Eliza came the young lady.
Only a sad accident had put Louisa Fitzgerald back in play. About a year after Hercules had declared that she had too many opinions to become his wife, she had married a neighbouring landowner and they had had a daughter. Then her husband had been killed in a hunting accident, and for some time she had been inconsolable. But now she had recovered sufficiently to go out in society again; and with the use of her husband’s estate, her widow’s portion, and the inheritance from her aunt still to come, she might be regarded as one of the finest catches in Dublin.
“You’re aiming very high,” George had warned her. This was an understatement. It would have been one thing for Hercules, the rich heir of Lord Mountwalsh, to marry Louisa; but for his poor cousin to do so, decent fellow though he undoubtedly was, would cause general astonishment. And much as Georgiana loved Patrick, she wouldn’t have denied that the challenge of the thing was part of its attraction to her. But Louisa was a young widow with a mind of her own. Who knew whom she might choose? “And he is Catholic, to boot,” George had added, “when she is Protestant.”
That, of course, was another huge objection. Yet not insuperable. Georgiana had several aristocratic friends with mixed marriages. As long as they could agree about the children—who were normally brought up Protestant—the rest could all be arranged. She even knew of one man who had married twice, had three Protestant children with the first wife and three Catholics with the second.
The party was a great success. Louisa met Patrick, and Patrick was charming. A few days later, Patrick received an invitation to attend an assembly at Leinster House; and though it might be that the duke and duchess, having met him, had thought to add him to their list, Georgiana thought it more likely that Louisa was behind it. Certainly, Patrick told her afterwards, she had been there, come up to him herself, and invited him to call upon her. “Which I hope you will do,” Georgiana said. “Do you like her?”
“Yes,” he replied, and this time without any hesitation. “I like her very much.”
Still more encouraging, two days later Eliza called round and told her, “Louisa has taken a great fancy to Patrick.”
“His lack of fortune?”
“Could be overlooked.”
“His religion?”
“In itself, not of great concern. Though I’m sure she would not wish her children to suffer the disadvantages that must attend any Catholic, no matter what their birth.”
“Well,” Georgiana remarked, “we shall have to wait and see, now, what Patrick means to do.”
He duly called upon Louisa at her house, not once, but twice, in the next two weeks. Then he announced that he wished to go down to Wexford.
He departed for Mount Walsh in a cart, loaded with books for the library that he had already acquired. “He is going about our business in a most thorough manner,” George said with approval. Patrick spent a week down at the estate, and since his work in the library could hardly have taken up much of his time, Georgiana guessed that he might be spending time with Jane Kelly. Had his encounters with Louisa caused him to turn back to the Catholic girl in Wexford? Was he trying to make up his mind where his heart lay between the two? She heard he had returned, but he did not call round to see her for a while. And she might have become quite impatient for news had it not been for another event which, at that moment, swept aside all other considerations.
“We are beaten in America. Cornwallis has surrendered.” It was Doyle who came round to the door with the news. George and Hercules arrived together from the Parliament an hour later.
What did it mean? Throughout the midwinter season there was scarcely another subject spoken of in Dublin. Was the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown the end of the whole business? Would the government raise fresh troops, or was the entire colony to be lost? From the moment he heard the news, George was certain. “They haven’t the will to go on. America’s lost.” Hercules in particular was plunged in gloom. “If the American rebels have won, then the Irish rebels will follow close behind,” he decided. Certainly, in Ulster news came that the Volunteers were holding triumphant rallies and issuing demands for independence.
Patrick did not appear at the house until January, when he announced that he was going to London on business. “Also to see some book dealers on your behalf,” he told George. When Georgiana asked him if he had seen either Jane Kelly or Louisa, he answered that he had seen them both, but he was entirely evasive beyond that point. “Whatever he is up to, he doesn’t wish you to know,” her husband laughed—which, seeing that she had been so instrumental in promoting both causes, she thought very unfair. All her daughter Eliza could tell her, which she had from Louisa, was that Patrick seemed to be torn in his loyalties. It must surely, Georgiana thought, be over the question of religion.
He remained away for weeks. Was he avoiding them all by staying in London? Perhaps. Meanwhile, the Ulster Volunteers held a huge rally up in the town of Dungannon. “They’ve issued a manifesto calling for independence, and sworn not to vote for any parliamentary candidate who won’t support it,” George told her. “It’s the Covenant all over again.”
Then, late in March, came the news from London.
“Lord North and his government have resigned. The English Parliament is giving up America. King George is threatening to abdicate.” And then, soon afterwards, an ashen-faced Hercules came round.
“The king will stay; but there’s to be a new government in London. The damned Whigs are in. Your cursed friend Richard Sheridan is given ministerial office. And do you know wha
t he has declared in the English Commons? That the rule of the English over the Irish Parliament is a ‘tyrannous usurpation.’ Those were his very words.” He shook his head. “The world has gone mad.”
Mad or not, it was clear at once to everyone that a great change was in the air. With the Whigs in power in England, and the Ulster Volunteers sending out representatives with their manifesto all over Ireland, the Patriots had never been given such a glorious opportunity before. To the disgust but not the surprise of Hercules, Grattan immediately introduced a motion into the Dublin Parliament demanding independence for the Irish Parliament under the crown. “We will share a king with the English,” the Patriots declared, “but with the dignity of a separate nation.” On the day of the great debate, Georgiana went to watch from the gallery. Grattan was sick that day, as it happened, but he rose from his bed to attend. No one, not even his enemies, could deny, Georgiana thought, that he cut a simple and noble figure as he overcame his sickness to give one of the finest speeches of his life. Members who would have voted with Hercules before, seeing that the wind was suddenly blowing the other way, voted with the Patriots now. To cheers, the motion was carried. The Irish Parliament, by a clear majority, declared its independence from England. And there was little chance that the Whigs in London, having always supported the Patriot cause before, could do anything but ratify it now. Grattan had triumphed; Ireland had triumphed. But in all fairness, it had to be admitted that Hercules was not entirely wrong when he declared:
“It’s the damned Americans we have to thank for this.”
Patrick returned to Dublin a week after the debate, and this time he did not fail to call to see Georgiana.
“You missed all the fun,” she remarked.
“I conducted some excellent business,” he informed her. “I have also shipped over a prodigious quantity of books for your library.”
“And have you come to a decision concerning the women in your life?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied calmly, “I think so.” But he did not say more, and so she managed, with great difficulty, not to enquire further.
Two days later, he called upon Louisa. But what had transpired between them, not even Eliza could discover. Early in May, accompanied by two cartloads of books, he went out for Mount Walsh.
The English Parliament did not vote upon the Irish question until the middle of the month, and George and Georgiana remained in Dublin until news came that, as anticipated, the Whigs had given the Patriots what they wanted. Then they set out for Wexford themselves.
“By the time we get there, I’ve no doubt Patrick will have catalogued and installed all the new books,” George remarked with satisfaction.
“And perhaps he’ll also be able to tell me what he has decided about Louisa and Jane Kelly,” Georgiana added. “What do you think he has done?”
“I think he has been tempted by Louisa and her fortune, but that his conscience has led him back to the Catholic girl,” said her husband.
When they arrived at Mount Walsh, however, and asked if Patrick was there, they were told that he had left the day before. That was all they were told.
“I could scream with vexation,” Georgiana confessed with a laugh as soon as they were alone in their bedroom.
But she noticed that her husband was looking thoughtful.
“Something’s up,” he told her. “Didn’t you notice that all the servants are looking awkward?” A few moments later, he left her, returning ten minutes later. “The books are in the library, all beautifully catalogued. Everything’s in perfect order. But I’m telling you, there’s something going on.”
“Leave it to me,” she said with a smile, and went down to see the cook.
It did not take long. Only as long as it took the dear woman to lead Georgiana into the pantry, where they could be alone, and to burst out her incoherent tale. “Oh, my lady,” she began, “such goings-on.” The butler was only waiting until his lordship came down to acquaint him of the situation.
“Situation?”
“Of Mr. Patrick. And after him and Miss Kelly always seeming so respectable together . . . to run off like that.”
“He has eloped with Miss Kelly?”
“Oh, my lady, if only he had. If it isn’t the girl Brigid he’s gone off with, and not a word to anyone. Him such a gentleman and she . . . whatever she may be. And always so quiet and thin as a rake . . . or not so thin now, God help her.”
“He has taken Brigid? Where?”
“He’s after taking her to Dublin to live in his house. It might be to the ends of the earth, for all the good it will do the one or the other of them. But it’s to Dublin they went, sure enough.”
“You knew nothing before?”
“Never a word. Under our noses, and not one of us knew it. With the two of them up there in the library hour after hour.”
“He has behaved disgracefully,” Georgiana cried. Though in her heart she was thinking: and like a fool.
“She must have bewitched him,” said the cook stoutly. “I should have been on the watch for it.” She shook her head. “I should have known she’d be sly the day that I first looked into her face.”
“For what reason?”
“Why, did your ladyship never notice the strange green eyes that she has?”
It was true. The dark-haired girl had eyes that were green. But she had never thought much about it.
CROPPIES
1796
DEIRDRE GAZED DOWN from Rathconan towards the sea. She had been standing there half an hour and the damp spring breeze had left tiny droplets of moisture on her brow, but she didn’t move.
She was sure he was coming.
How did she know? There had been rumours, of course, whispers that had quickly penetrated even the high valleys around Rathconan, and which might have suggested that he would come before long. But that wasn’t how she knew. It was a sense of things she couldn’t explain, an instinct she had learned to trust that told her, as it had done many times before, that he was drawing near.
Patrick Walsh: the man she hated more than the devil himself.
She had good reason. In the first place, he had stolen her daughter. Then he had used her shamefully. And now? She was afraid of something even worse. He was going to steal her husband, too. He would take Conall away and—her instinct told her this also—she would never see him again.
There had never been anyone else for her besides Conall. It seemed to her that their lives were set together eternally, like a pair of rocks upon the high mountainside which had been together since the beginning of time and would remain, in life or death, until the end. As a little girl, he had been her life; when he had been sent away, it had been as if her life had ended. And for ten years, she had lived in a sort of wilderness.
During that time, her existence at Rathconan had been as uneventful as it was quiet. If you went down to the coast, there was a good turnpike road with a stagecoach running between Dublin and Wicklow town, so that you could be in the capital in hours. But once you travelled up the steep passes into the mountains towards Rathconan and Glendalough, you entered a timeless zone, a world away, where nothing ever seemed to change. Her grandfather had continued to teach the hedge school, ageing so slowly it was imperceptible. If he never spoke of Conall, she supposed it was so as not to hurt her. Nor did anyone else at Rathconan speak of him—or not to her, anyway. Budge had made it plain that he did not wish Conall to return home, and since his father Garret seemed intent upon sinking ever further into drunken despondency, not everyone in Rathconan thought the landlord was wrong.
But once a year, each spring, a change would come over Garret Smith. He would stop drinking. His speech, which had become careless, would become precise again. He would take pains to make himself presentable. And then he would walk down to the Wicklow road, where he would board the stagecoach to Dublin to see Conall. Sometimes her grandfather would accompany him the first few miles of the way, unless Budge had a cart going down that way, in wh
ich case he would offer Garret a ride. The landlord seemed to have no objection to these yearly trips. He had long ago gained his point; and besides, he had married a young lady from Kildare and had other things to think about.
Each time Garret returned, she would ask after Conall, and he would give her news of him and how he had grown. After three years, she learned that he was leaving the school to be apprenticed to a carpenter. This surprised her, but Garret seemed to be happy about it. He’d be remaining in Dublin. “It’s better for him there,” his father told her.
“Does he speak of me?” she once dared to ask.
“He does, Deirdre. He remembers you well,” Garret replied. But it was hard to tell what this meant. In due course, she heard that the carpenter was so impressed with Conall’s abilities that he had sent him to complete his apprenticeship with his brother, who was a cabinetmaker. “I think he’ll do very well,” Garret told her.
It was on his next visit that something had happened. He had been looking sickly all that year. Some days his face had been flushed, but at other times when Deirdre had encountered him, his skin had been a ghastly grey and his hands had shaken. This time, before going into Dublin, his preparations had been less effective. He had only curtailed his drinking a day or two before he left; he had shaved, cutting himself several times, and put on clean clothes. But as the carter took him down towards the Wicklow road, her grandfather had shaken his head and remarked that he didn’t think Garret would get through it this time.
He’d returned five days later in a woodman’s cart, his clothes dusty and covered with shavings, and having staggered into his cottage without a word to anyone, had not appeared until the following day. When she asked after Conall, he gave her a haggard look and answered, “He was well, Deirdre, but I was not,” and he would not say more. But to her grandfather some time later he confessed: “I behaved badly in Dublin. I humiliated my son before all his friends. Then I quarrelled with him.” He had shaken his head silently, but tears had formed in his eyes. “Perhaps that oaf Budge was right to send my son away.”