Dublin (94 page)

  They had been there two days when Doyle was called back into Dublin on business, and she had decided to ride in with the groom the following day at her leisure.

  It was a mistake. She should have gone in the morning.

  The oppressive atmosphere and the darkening sky in the south should have told her. But she had been slow getting out of the house, finishing little chores that really could have been done some other time. By early afternoon, when they finally left, it was obvious that a storm was coming.

  "We can still be in Dublin before it reaches us," she said. As they passed Carrickmines and heard the distant rumble of thunder over the Wicklow Mountains, she remarked ruefully to the groom that they might get a bit wet; and a little later, as the sky grew black and the first gusts of wind suddenly came through the trees, she laughed. "We'll be drowned." But when the storm finally swept down from the hills and broke over them, it was beyond anything she could have imagined.

  There was a huge bang and a flash of lightning. Her horse reared and almost threw her; and the heavens opened.

  Moments later the rain was falling so hard that they could scarcely see the road in front of them. They edged forward, looking for shelter. At first they saw nothing, but after a short distance, round a curve in the road, they became aware of a squat, grey mass just ahead to their left. They pressed towards it.

  It had been an uneventful day so far. Walsh was now away. Margaret had only one of her daughters and her youngest son, Richard, in the house with her. The boy was making a new chair in the barn; he was good with his hands. Her daughter was busy with the servants in the kitchen. Margaret had just been glancing out at the storm through one of the greenish windowpanes-she was rather proud of the glass windows that had recently been installed in the house's big hall- when she was called to the door. Finding two bedraggled figures seeking shelter, she naturally took them inside at once.

  "Dear Lord," she cried, "we'd better get you some dry clothes."

  So she was quite astonished when one of the two pulled off the scarf she'd put over her head and remarked cheerfully, "Why, it's the woman with the wonderful hair."

  It was the cursed Doyle woman. For just a moment, she wondered whether, for some obscure reason, the alderman's wife had come there deliberately to annoy her; but a huge crash of thunder from outside made her admit the absurdity of the idea.

  Seven years had passed since they had met at Maynooth. Occasionally her husband had mentioned seeing the woman in Dublin, and once or twice she had caught sight of her herself, on her rare visits into the city-though she had always turned aside to avoid her. And now here the creature was in her own house, her soft brown eyes lighting up with pleasure and her pretty face, as far as Margaret could see, looking even younger than her thirty-seven years.

  "The woman with the red hair," she cried again, though there were one or two streaks of grey in it now.

  "You'd best come to the fire," said Margaret. With luck, she thought, the storm would soon pass and the unwelcome visitor would be gone.

  But the storm did not pass. It seemed on the contrary that, having crossed over the Wicklow Mountains, the storm had come to a halt beside the great curve of Dublin Bay and that it meant to release all its noise, and livid flashes, and its great deluge of water upon Dalkey, Carrickmines, and environs.

  While the groom was taken to the kitchen, Margaret sent her daughter to fetch the alderman's wife some dry clothes, while Joan Doyle cheerfully removed her wet ones by the fire, and gladly accepted the proffered glass of wine. Then, having put on one of Margaret's robes, remarking that she might be there for some time, she sat on a big oak bench, comfortably tucked her feet under her, and settled down, as she put it, to have a good talk.

  Perhaps it was just her cheerfulness that Margaret found irritating. The harvest was ruined, William Walsh was away taking risks with his reputation; yet while the thunder crashed outside, this rich little Dublin woman chatted away as though there was nothing wrong in the world. She talked of events in the city and her life there, suddenly remarking, for no reason Margaret could see, "But you're so lucky to live down here." She ran on about the delights of Dalkey. She described a visit she'd paid to Fingal. But it was when, as an aside, she expressed her sorrow about the Talbot murder at the turn of the previous year that Margaret lost patience and almost before she realised what she was saying, sourly remarked, "One less Talbot never did any harm."

  It was quite unforgivable really. It would have been cruel even if she hadn't known that Joan's Butler family were close to the Talbots.

  And however much the Doyle woman might have taunted her in the past, it was worse than bad manners to insult her like this when she was a guest in her own house. The words were scarcely out of her mouth before she felt ashamed. The insult found its mark. She saw the Doyle woman give a little gasp and flush. And she hardly knew where the conversation might have gone next if her fifteen-year-old son, Richard, had not just then come into the house from the barn.

  "This is your son?" The Dublin woman turned and smiled; and Margaret secretly gave a sigh of relief.

  There was no denying it, her youngest child was a very handsome boy. Slim, with red hair, not quite as dark as hers, a few freckles, an easy temper. If, like most boys of his age, he was sometimes moody, with strangers like the alderman's wife he was always engaging. Margaret could see that he had charmed the Dublin woman in no time. Thank God, she thought ruefully, that he has his father's good manners. He was soon answering all their guest's questions about himself and describing his simple country life with such artless enthusiasm that Joan Doyle was quite delighted; and if she had not forgotten Margaret's insult, she chose to believe as if she had, so that Margaret was only too glad to let the two of them talk. Only once did she interrupt. The Doyle woman had been asking Richard about his brothers and sisters when she enquired, "And your father, where is he?"

  "He's up in Fingal," Margaret answered sharply, before her son could speak. He glanced at her with a hint of annoyance as though to say: do you think I'm so stupid that I'll blurt out the wrong thing?

  The Doyle woman saw it, but all she said was,

  "My husband has a very high regard for your father."

  By late afternoon the storm had not abated. The thunder had rolled out into the bay, but the rain was still pounding down with the same monotonous hiss. "You won't be going anywhere this evening," Margaret heard herself say. When she went into the kitchen to supervise the preparation of the evening meal, Joan Doyle accompanied her; but she waited and didn't get in the way until, seeing there were some peas to be shelled, she quietly made herself useful. Whatever her feelings about the woman might be, Margaret couldn't really complain of her.

  It was early evening when they began to eat. Normally it would still have been bright outside, but so black were the storm clouds that Margaret had to light candles on the big oak table. As well as a fish stew, beef, and sweetmeats-her guest was, after all, the wife of a Dublin alderman-Margaret provided a flagon of their best red wine. I'll need it myself, she had thought, to get through this evening. Yet during the meal, at which, in the Irish manner, the whole household ate together, the Dublin woman was so easy with everybody, laughing and joking with her children and the groom, the men from the farm and the women who worked in the house, that Margaret had grudgingly to acknowledge that she was, after all, a wife and mother not so unlike herself. And perhaps it was the wine she was drinking-for when she had wine, it usually softened her mood-but Margaret even found herself laughing at Joan Doyle's jokes and telling a few herself. The whole party stayed at the table late, and after they were done and the table cleared, the two of them still sat and drank a little more.

  When it was finally time to retire to sleep, Joan Doyle remarked that she'd be well enough there on the broad bench in the hall. "Just give me a blanket," she suggested.

  For a moment, Margaret hesitated. While the groom had gone to the kitchen, it was normal enough in an old-fashioned house like this for a guest to sleep in the big hall. But upstairs in the one formal bedchamber, Margaret and her husband had a large and handsome canopied bed. It was the most valuable item in the house and Margaret was proud of it.

  "Not at all," she said. "You'll come upstairs and sleep in the bed."

  It was a well-appointed chamber. Last year, William had received a fine tapestry hanging in lieu of payment for some work he had done, and this graced one of the walls. As Margaret put the candle on a table, the great oak bed gleamed softly and Joan Doyle re caret marked what a fine bed it was. As she always did, Margaret let down her hair and brushed it, while the Dublin woman sat on the bed and watched her.

  "You've wonderful hair," she said. As Margaret got into one side of the bed, Joan Doyle undressed, and Margaret again noted with admiration that she had still kept her figure only a little plumper than it must have been when she was a young woman. Then she got into bed beside Margaret and laid her head down. It was strange, Margaret thought, to have this pretty woman lying so close. "You've excellent pillows," Joan said, and closed her eyes. The sound of the falling rain came softly from the window, as Margaret closed her eyes, too.

  The huge bang of the thunderclap in the middle of the night was so sudden and so loud that they both sat bolt upright together. Then Joan Doyle laughed.

  "I wasn't asleep. were you?"

  "Not really."

  "It was the wine. I drank too much wine. Will you listen to that storm?" The rain was falling in torrents now, in a steady roar. There was a blinding flash from outside; a crash of thunder seemed to shake the room.

  "I shan't be able to sleep now," sighed Joan Doyle.

  They started to talk again. Perhaps it was the strange intimacy of the darkness, as the rain poured down and the thunder continued to crackle and rumble round the sky, but the conversation became quite personal. Joan spoke about her children and her hopes for them. She also described how she had been trying to help young Tidy and Cecily. "I tell you," she declared, "I had to give that girl such a talking-to." And so evident were her kindness and her good intentions, that Margaret wondered: was it possible that she had misjudged her in the past? Their quiet conversation continued almost another hour, and the Dublin woman became quite confidential. It seemed she was worried about her husband. She hated all the politics of the city, she told Margaret. "I don't so much mind that the Fitzgeralds want to rule all our lives," she said, "but why do they have to be so brutal?" The Talbot they had killed the previous year had been a good man of whom she was fond, she explained. Whether this was a gentle reproach for her earlier remark, Margaret wasn't sure, but Joan went on. "Stay out of it all, I'm always begging my husband. You can't imagine the hateful, ridiculous rumours. And they're spread by busybodies who don't know the harm they cause, or spies of the English king. Do you know the royal councillors suspect any man who visits Munster for any reason? All because Lord Desmond is suspected at present on account of some foolish business he had with the French. Can you believe it? My husband had to vouch for an innocent man only the other day."

  She paused and then patted Margaret's arm. "You're better off not to be involved in such things out here," she said.

  And it was then, perhaps because she decided that she could trust this Doyle woman after all, perhaps also she thought that, if need be, the alderman might provide her own husband with a similar protection, and perhaps even because that last remark suggested that Doyle's wife supposed she wasn't worldly enough to know about such things, that Margaret now confided, "Oh, but we are involved."

  And she told her about William Walsh's visit to Munster. "Only you must promise not to tell a soul," she begged her, "as William would be furious if he knew I'd told you."

  "He's very wise," Joan assured her. "I shan't even tell my own husband. What a foolish world it is," she sighed, "that we should have to keep these secrets." She was silent for a while after that. "I think," she murmured, "that I could go to sleep now."

  The sun was up when they awoke. The storm had passed; the day was clear. Joan Doyle was smiling contentedly when, thanking Margaret warmly and embracing her, she took her leave. As she rode out of the yard she turned to Margaret one last time.

  "I'm sorry you don't like the

  Talbots," she said with a smile.

  It was ten more days before William Walsh returned from Munster. Margaret was glad to see that he was looking pleased with himself.

  The business had gone well. He had met the Earl of Desmond at the monastery without incident.

  "Unless I was followed," he remarked, "I shouldn't think anyone knows I saw him at all."

  She told him of Joan Doyle's visit, leaving out any mention of their conversation about Munster, and he was amused. "Doyle's wife is a good woman," he said, "and Doyle himself is more powerful than ever.

  I'm glad that you should be friendly with her."

  He remained for several days at the house before going into Dublin one morning.

  He returned late that evening. As soon as he entered the house, she knew something was wrong. He ate his meal with her alone, looking thoughtful but saying little. But at the end of the meal, he asked her quietly, "You didn't tell anyone I was down in Munster, did you?"