Rebel Sisters (4 page)

This was their last summer with Bridget and Nellie would not have Mother blame her for their antics.

‘Mother, I'm sorry,' Grace explained, looking innocent. ‘The strong sea breeze just caught my straw boater and it floated out over the water and then …'

‘The wind took all our hats and blew them away,' added Sidney dramatically. ‘It wasn't our fault, Mother.'

‘I'm sorry, mam,' apologized Bridget, ‘but it was far too dangerous for us to try to retrieve the hats with the rocks and the current and the waves.'

Nellie could see that their mother was not at all convinced by their description of events and suspected they had all simply defied her.

‘Why is it that you girls can never obey or heed me?' she complained angrily.

They all tried to look suitably apologetic as Mother raged on.

‘I am most put out and vexed. I do not know where we will find suitable sun hats at this stage of the holiday. In this weather it is paramount that a lady protects her good complexion.'

‘Yes, mam,' Bridget nodded meekly.

Nellie was relieved finally to escape upstairs to her bedroom, wondering why Mother, even though they were on holiday, still managed to annoy them so with her stupid etiquette and manners, her rules and regulations.

As the weeks went on, Father gradually persuaded Mother to go for walks or come down to the beach or take a jaunt in the pony and trap to Rathnew or Delgany with him.

Their annual picnic to Sugar Loaf Mountain was one of the summer's special outings. Along with a number of friends' families, the Giffords rented a large wagonette to drive them all up to have a picnic on the grassy lower slopes of the mountain.

I wish Gerald was here with us, thought Nellie as they joined the Garveys, the Duggans, the Hancocks, the Heustons with their twin boys, and the Goodbodys. All the young people raced to climb to the top of the mountain; later they would be rewarded with sandwiches, cheese and pickles, hardboiled eggs and cups of homemade lemonade, buns and sweet cake from the picnic hampers as they played games and chased each other.

‘Isabella, I'm so glad that you came today,' said pretty Mrs Heuston, squeezing Mother's hand as she joined the coterie of women sitting on cushions and rugs in the sunshine. Mother's friends and neighbours in Greystones were full of kindness and understanding of her grief, fussing over her as they talked about Gerald and remembered him with great fondness.

As the days of summer ended, Nellie dreaded having to say goodbye to Bridget, the nanny who had helped to raise them all, loving each and every one of them in turn.

On their last evening Mother and Father had gone out to dinner and a summer music concert down at the seafront, so Essie and Nora decided to organize a farewell party for Bridget in the kitchen. Nellie had secretly made her a large chocolate sponge cake and there were coconut macaroons and cherry Bakewells and large jugs of lemonade for everyone, and they also had to sing or dance or do a recitation. Kate, Ada and Muriel performed ‘Three Little Maids' from
The Mikado
; Gabriel and Ernest did a funny sailor's dance. She, Grace and Muriel sang ‘Gypsy Rover', one of Bridget's favourite songs, and everyone joined in, singing verse after verse. Sidney read a beautiful poem she had written about Bridget which had them all in tears.

‘My work is done, for you are all growing up to be fine gentlemen and young ladies to be proud of … too old to have a nanny!' Bridget said, blowing her nose noisily. ‘Hopefully you will all remember your old nanny and come to visit Mr Byrne and me in our little home in Wexford, where you will always find a warm welcome.'

Nellie and her sisters and brothers felt immensely sad, wishing that Bridget never had to leave them. Nellie had brought her violin along and Bridget asked her to play a few tunes to get everyone tapping their feet and dancing. When Mother and Father returned from the concert they heard the singing and music, so they joined them in the kitchen and the whole family said a fond farewell to Bridget.

‘MY DEAR, IT
is good to see that you have colour back in your cheeks,' said Frederick encouragingly on their return to Dublin.

Isabella finally sat down to tackle the vast correspondence they had received following their son's death, the letters often making her weep as she drafted a reply. Then she turned to their social engagements. Frederick always relied on her to organize their calendar of social affairs and entertaining. She made notes in her diary of the usual Law Society dinners and balls, and of dinner and lunch invitations from friends for the next few months; but she was still in mourning and not sure she could face them yet, so she sent out polite notes of apology and regret.

‘Mother, why don't you invite your friends to tea?' Kate pleaded.

‘I will consider it in a few weeks,' she promised, though she had no inclination at present to host her regular afternoons at home.

One morning Isabella realized that months had passed and their garden was now filled with bright spring daffodils and purple lilac blossom.

Claude had announced his engagement to Ethel Parks, a rather serious young woman whose family lived nearby on Temple Road. Claude was devoted to her and their temperaments seemed well suited. While Ethel seemed quiet and rather solitary, Isabella suspected that she was possessed of a much stronger character than appeared and was well cut out to be the wife of a talented young barrister, with all the demands the role would bring.

‘Ethel and I plan to marry at the end of the summer,' Claude told her happily, ‘and we hope to rent a home near both families.'

‘We are very pleased for you,' Isabella smiled, hugging her son but saddened by the fact that Gerald would not be there to see his older brother wed.

Isabella and Frederick had been invited to an important ball at Dublin Castle which Lord and Lady Aberdeen, the lord lieutenant and his wife, were hosting. It was an invitation that Frederick insisted they accept. As she dressed in her expensive black satin gown Isabella caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked like a small black crow. She ran her hands over the smooth waist and bodice. It was a beautiful dress, exquisitely made, her dress of mourning. Isabella had worn it first for her dear uncle Frederick's funeral service and to the special exhibition of his art and paintings in Dublin's National Gallery. A few months later she had worn it for the queen's death, and then for Gerald.

Her breath caught in her throat as she thought of the great sadness and grief she had endured. She could barely draw breath, for it felt as though the black fabric was constricting her lungs and suffocating her. Suddenly she could bear it no more and began frantically trying to undo the dress. She called for Nora.

Her maid immediately ran upstairs as Isabella beckoned urgently for her to undo all her buttons and help her out of the dress.

‘Are you all right, mam?' asked Nora anxiously.

‘Yes, but Nora, please pass me out the blue satin gown to wear instead,' she ordered, trying to slow her erratic breathing and calm down.

As Nora helped to fasten up the pearl buttons of the blue satin, Isabella felt that at last she could breathe again.

The maid went to return the black dress to the large mahogany wardrobe.

‘No, don't hang it up,' Isabella told her firmly. ‘I will not wear the black again.'

‘Shall I have it cleaned, mam?' she offered, studying the material and bodice.

‘No.' Isabella shook her head vehemently. ‘I will never wear that dress again. Do you want to take it, Nora? You can have it. Get it altered, or Essie can have it. Or sell it if you like. But I promise you that I will never wear that black gown again.'

Puzzled by the behaviour of her mistress, Nora left the room with the expensive black satin dress folded over her arm.

The carriage had arrived and, fixing her pearl hairpins, Isabella went to join Frederick, who was waiting patiently for her downstairs.

‘You look beautiful, Isabella dear,' he said, smiling gallantly, making no mention of the fact that she was not attired in mourning. She slipped on her velvet evening cloak and they stepped out into the night air together.

NELLIE GAVE A
final check to the drawing room before Mother's guests arrived for afternoon tea. Nora had lit the fire and, with great care, Nellie had dusted each little china figurine and carved teak or ivory ornament in her mother's collection. The silver shone, the glass sparkled and everything was ready for Mother's regular ‘At Home', which was held twice a month. Mother enjoyed hosting these occasions and, in turn, visited her friends and neighbours at their homes.

The drawing room was Mother's sanctuary and no one was permitted to use it unless invited.

Nellie slipped down to the kitchen to check that all was ready, then at three o'clock precisely the doorbell rang. Nora ran to open it, taking Mrs Fox's coat as she left her card on the silver salver on the hall table before being shown into the drawing room.

Twenty minutes later Mother was busy entertaining her guests. Glancing at the clock in the kitchen, Nellie prepared the special blend of tea her mother preferred for these gatherings, sending Nora to serve it as the ladies chatted. Then a few minutes later Nellie joined them in the drawing room, offering small fresh scones with cream and jam and delicate slices of freshly made cake to each of the guests. She usually baked two cakes on the morning of an At Home, icing one and leaving the other plain. Mother disapproved of guests being offered or eating too much, which she felt was impolite.

‘How are you, Nellie?' enquired Mother's friends as she served them.

‘Did I tell you Alice is getting married next month to a chap from Sussex?' asked Beatrice Woods, whose daughter Alice had been in school with her.

‘Please convey my good wishes to her.'

‘Jerome's regiment is being sent to India, so they will move to live there in two months' time.'

Nellie could see Mrs Woods was upset.

‘Jerome is a fine young man, but India is so far away,' she continued, trying to control her emotions. ‘Alice is our only daughter and we will miss her so. Your mother and father are fortunate to have Claude and his wife married and living so near to them.'

Nellie was filled with great sympathy for her and offered to fetch her more tea.

As she moved around the drawing room, Nellie picked up snippets of conversation. She was returning with the pot of tea when she heard Henrietta Lewis talking loudly.

‘Isn't it wonderful for you and Frederick to have Nellie so devoted to helping you here at home? Mark my words, when all the others are gone away and married, Nellie will be the one looking after you both in your old age and running the house and kitchen.'

Nellie held her breath outside the door.

‘Yes, I expect so,' responded Mother lightly. ‘Nellie was never one for school and has no interest in studying, and in fact has become an excellent cook.'

Nellie swallowed hard as she pushed open the drawing-room door and refilled the tea cups, trying not to meet her mother's eyes and to remain composed as she received compliments about her scones.

‘Nellie dear, that walnut cake is delicious. Did you make it yourself?' asked Mrs Fox.

‘Yes, it's a new American recipe I followed.'

Back in the kitchen she sat down. She could feel her heart pumping wildly as her mind raced. Was this what she wanted for her future? Baking and cooking, running the household for her parents and family?

Essie and Nora at least got paid their wages, but she only got the same allowance from her parents that her sisters received, despite all her hard work.

Her mind was in turmoil at the thought of living at home in Temple Villas while everyone else went and got on with their lives. This had never been her intention, but now Nellie realized she was caught in a trap of her own making that might prove very difficult to escape from as she did not possess the academic or artistic attributes that so many of her siblings had.

‘Why are you so glum?' teased her older sister Kate a few days later.

‘I heard one of Mother's friends talking the other day and she was saying how wonderful it was for Mother and Father that I would be the one here looking after them when they are old and everyone else is married and settled,' Nellie confided, unable to hide her upset.

‘But I presumed – we all presumed – that you enjoy housekeeping and cookery and running things so well at home.'

‘I do,' she admitted. ‘I far prefer cooking and helping Essie manage the household than school, but that doesn't mean I want to do it for ever. Everyone just presumes …'

‘Good old Nellie will cook a delicious dinner,' said Kate. ‘Deal with ordering the provisions from Findlaters. Get the fish in Hanlon's fishmongers. Attend to the household budget, and of course be perfectly happy even if Mother harps on at her.'

‘Yes,' she agreed, a lump in her throat. ‘And I don't know what to do.'

Nellie wished that she was more like her sisters, all of whom seemed to know what they wanted. Kate, one of the first Irish women to gain a place in university, was set on the world of academia; Grace, like Ada, cared only about art and painting; Muriel talked about nursing; and even little Sidney was obsessed with writing. Nellie was the only one with absolutely no clear idea of what she wanted from life or the future.

‘It is a problem that has to be solved,' Kate decreed wisely. ‘We must try to find exactly the right opportunity for you.'

A week later Kate came bounding excitedly into the bedroom and passed Nellie part of the newspaper.

‘Read it,' she urged.

Nellie glanced at the printed page – details of a concert and a ballet and piano recital.

‘The other side,' her sister prompted impatiently.