The Rebels of Ireland (66 page)

But not just yet. She had another mission to accomplish this evening.

Sometimes Georgiana worried about her son. He'd been named after a friend of her husband's, who'd been the boy's godfather. Yet his name seemed to have decided his character. He had done everything that was expected of him, but he did it with a blunt, mechanical precision, like a general wiping out an inferior army, that was almost frightening. He played to win, and he took himself seriously. Too seriously. Perhaps it was her own Presbyterian ancestors coming out in him, she didn't know. But something had to be done.

The solution she'd come up with was simple enough. He needed a woman to take him out of himself. She didn't care whether it was a mistress or a wife, but if the latter, she'd have to be very carefully chosen. And just recently, she thought she'd found the very thing.

There was no greater family in all Ireland than the ancient house of Fitzgerald. Practically rulers of Ireland until the Tudors broke them, the mighty Fitzgerald Earls of Kildare were Irish princes in all
but name. Two decades ago, in Dublin, it had been the Earl of Kildare who had led the development of the city into the Liffey marshland below St. Stephen's Green by laying out Kildare Street, and building beside it a splendid mansion, like a Palladian country house, which, since he had recently been given the even grander title of Duke of Leinster, was now called Leinster House.

The Leinster family was huge and extended. But a marriage into any part of it, for the Walsh family, was a final seal on their rise from the gentry into the aristocracy; and when their daughter Eliza had married one of the Fitzgeralds who was quite a close relation of the duke's, George and Georgiana had congratulated themselves and gone to the huge assemblies at Leinster House, as members of the family now, with joy in their hearts.

Young Fitzgerald had a sister. Not only was she therefore one of the Leinsters, but Georgiana happened to know that she was due to receive a large legacy from one of her aunts. She was doubly eligible, therefore. But this was only important, as far as Georgiana was concerned, to satisfy her son and her husband's family. Young Hercules had a fortune already. What mattered to her was the girl's character. She was clever, kindly, and full of humour. If anyone could turn her son into a relaxed and happy man, it might be this girl. True, that would be two of her children marrying a brother and sister, but that would not cause any more remark, in that day and age, than would the marriage of first cousins.

With the visit of Hercules, the gathering tonight provided the perfect opportunity to talk to Eliza about it. This was Georgiana's programme for the evening.

This, and one other thing. Everyone would be wanting to speak to the guest of honour when he arrived. But she had a particular reason for wishing to do so. For there was something she wanted to ask him. It concerned her family.

Fortunatus was glad, having spent a very agreeable quarter of an hour with the various members of his family, to see Hercules standing alone. He wanted a private conversation with the young man.

The fact was that, excited though he was to see his grandson back from London, he did not really know him very well. It wasn't so surprising. When Hercules was a small child, his grandfather had always seen him with other children; then he had often been away on the estate down in Wexford. Nor had his grandparents seen much of him while he was at university in Dublin. But undergraduates are taken up with their own lives—Fortunatus knew that. And then the young man had been anxious to complete his education in London as soon as possible. Could it be, Fortunatus wondered, that Hercules was just a little too impatient?

“We were sorry not to see more of you, my dear boy,” he began affably, “when you were up at Trinity. You made good friends and got into some scrapes there, I'm sure. Had to turn your cloak inside out a few times, eh? So tell me, how many windows did you break?”

So many of the young gentlemen at Trinity College were scions of important families that when they got up to drunken high jinks, as they often did, the authorities seldom did much about it. Since the sons of peers had to wear gold braid on their academic gowns, they would often discreetly turn them inside out before any window breaking began.

“If windows were broken, I don't remember anyone counting,” Hercules quietly replied. In fact, although he had watched others do so from time to time, he had broken none himself.

“Ah, capital,” said old Fortunatus approvingly. “That's the spirit. And London—you are enjoying that? Making friends? Going to plays and so forth?”

“Quite.”

“What news of our friends the Sheridans?”

It had been one of the things with which his family had burdened Hercules on his going to London, this friendship with the
talented Sheridan family. After a few years in Dublin, where Tom Sheridan had run the Smock Alley Theatre with brilliance, it had burned down and nearly ruined him. Taking a leaf out of old Doctor Sheridan's book, Tom had then gone to London, set himself up as an educationalist, and even persuaded King George to grant him a handsome pension to produce a pronouncing dictionary of spoken English, on which he was still working. His wife, meanwhile, had written a popular novel to bring in some extra money.

“The great Doctor Johnson says that Sheridan's dictionary will be a wretched thing,” Hercules coolly related.

“Of course he does. He's making a dictionary of his own, and he's jealous,” said Fortunatus loyally. “And Tom's son? Young Richard. About your age, isn't he?”

“Younger, I believe. They say he's already written a play.” Something in Hercules's tone suggested that he did not really desire to have such theatrical and literary folk as family friends.

“His grandfather, Doctor Sheridan, was a man of great note, you know,” Fortunatus observed gently. “Ancient family. Used to own most of County Cavan.” He decided to change the subject. “Do you drink much?” he enquired.

“In moderation, Grandfather.”

“Probably just as well,” Fortunatus conceded. “You'll have noticed that half the gentlemen in Dublin suffer from the gout, which is no joke when you have it.”

“In London, too.”

“No doubt. My brother and I have always been spared, but I can't promise that the family is proof against it. Best to take a little care. Not,” he added reasonably, “that a bottle or two of claret in the evening ever did harm to any man. You're drunk sometimes, though, I suppose?” He gave his grandson a slightly anxious look.

“It has been known.”

“In politics,” Fortunatus declared with a lifetime of experience, “a man who is never drunk will never be trusted.”

“I shall bear that in mind.”

“You know that in a few years, my seat in Parliament will be vacant. I shan't stand again, you may depend upon it.”

Until recently, elections to the Irish House of Commons had been held only when the monarch died. It had suited the Members of Parliament well enough, since once in, they could stay in their seats without the trouble and expense of an election until they, or the monarch died; and it suited the government because, once they had persuaded or bribed a member to support them, there'd probably be no need to worry about that member's vote again for twenty or thirty years. But even in the grand old political stasis of eighteenth-century Dublin, things were changing. Elections were now to be held every eight years. In five years, assuming he lived so long, old Fortunatus's seat would be open to an election again.

“You'll take the seat then, I hope, my boy. It's a good thing for the family to be represented in both houses.” He glanced at Hercules to make sure he was in agreement. “Good. You'll find,” he went on, “that Parliament is very like a club. We may have different opinions, but party doesn't affect civility and friendship. We're all very congenial fellows. Otherwise,” he gave his unsmiling grandson another quick glance, “it wouldn't do at all, you know.” And then, quite firmly: “Not at all.”

What was his grandson thinking? The young fellow seemed agreeable enough; so why did he feel a faint sense of disquiet? Did this determined-looking twenty-two-year-old understand the tradition to which he was heir? Surely he must. His mind returned to young Patrick. Yes, the Catholic question. That was important.

“There is talk, you know,” Fortunatus continued, “of new legislation in the next session, to give the Catholics some property rights. Longer leases, at any rate. A sign of the times, Hercules. I shouldn't be surprised in a few years—not in my time, perhaps, but certainly yours—to see the Catholics of Ireland with almost the same rights as Protestants. There's a growing feeling in the Commons, and in the Castle, too, that we're all better off with Catholic support.”

This was not wishful thinking on the old man's part. The long
peace of the Ascendancy had by no means taken away the old fear of Catholicism, but it had taken away its edge. There was a real sense of embarrassment in many quarters that decent gentlemen like Doctor Terence Walsh, or the solid Catholic merchants of the ports, should be treated so shabbily. Old Fortunatus smiled. “One day your cousin Patrick will take his place beside you, not just as your equal in the family, as of course he is, but in the public arena as well. That would have pleased my dear father greatly.”

Hercules inclined his head politely.

“Well, you've listened to me long enough, I dare say,” the old man concluded. “But I'm glad to see you friends with your cousin. Nothing can be more important than family, my boy.” Then he left his grandson to enjoy himself.

A few minutes later, however, he was glad to see that Hercules and Patrick were speaking together.

Their conversation might not have been quite what he would have hoped. All Hercules wanted was a piece of information.

“Do you know a man named John MacGowan?”

“I may do. Why?”

“This one's recently joined a club I belong to. The Aldermen of Skinners' Alley. You may have heard of them.”

“I see.”

You had to hand it to Hercules—he never wasted any time. Within hours of arriving from London, he'd been out in Dublin and learned that there was to be a meeting of the Aldermen, a dining club dedicated to the memory of William of Orange, the very next day. Patrick knew of the club, of course: an unusual body, since all classes of society cheerfully mixed together at its meetings—so long as you were Protestant, of course.

“I thought the MacGowans were Catholic,” said Hercules.

“I'm sure they would be, mostly.”

“This one says he's Protestant.”

Did young Patrick hesitate?

“There are so many of them,” he replied after a moment. “It's quite possible that some of them could have turned Protestant.”

“This one's a grocer. Do you know a John MacGowan who's a grocer?”

Patrick frowned.

“I believe I do. But there's a whole tribe of MacGowan grocers, you know, all cousins. If one of them says he's Protestant…” He shrugged. “I wouldn't try to stop him, if that's what you mean.”

“Hmph,” said Hercules, and turned away.

And he was still looking irritated a few moments later when his mother came up to him.

“Did you enjoy your talk with your grandfather?” she asked.

“He thinks I should help the Catholics. Give them the same rights that we have.”

“And will you do so?”

Hercules shrugged.

“Why give up an advantage?”

To this, Georgiana didn't reply.

“Come and talk to your sister Eliza,” she said instead.

The honoured guest arrived at the appointed hour precisely. Fortunatus ushered him into the big parlour where all the family were waiting. As he entered, everyone fell silent. Georgiana was standing beside Hercules. As the visitor came in, she observed him closely.

He was a curious figure. An elderly man in a brown, homespun coat. He wore stockings and buckled shoes, but no wig. Long wisps of white hair hung down from his large, bald pate. On his nose sat a pair of half-spectacles, over which he looked benignly at the company. What a dear old man, she thought.