The Rebels of Ireland (84 page)

More surprising had been his interest in trade. Though Ireland's trade and commerce were notoriously subject to sudden fluctuations, the decades since their marriage had seen a large growth. It had been normal enough for the younger sons of the gentry to be set up in Dublin, especially as commission merchants, where, with little risk, taking a small percentage on import and export shipments, a man might hope in twenty or thirty years to amass enough fortune to buy a modest estate and revert to the free-living, free-spending life of an Irish gentleman. Yet Lord Mountwalsh had not been too proud to do the exact reverse. He had a financial interest in two merchant houses, one exporting cloth to Britain in return for sugar, the other sending meat to sugar planters in America—best
beefsteak for the planters themselves, inferior “French beef” for their slaves. Not only had he financed these houses, but she discovered that he had discreetly involved himself in their day-to-day operations. He had set up a Huguenot family manufacturer of silk-and-wool tabernet cloth; he had brought over some English glass-makers whose skill matched those of the Waterford glassmen; and more important by far, he owned a third share in a thriving bank that was looked upon with respect even by the mighty La Touche house in Dublin.

What pleased her most of all, he had gone back into her father's trade, as a passive partner in a large Dublin linen factory. And with Ireland's linen exports leaping ahead recently to a massive thirty-five million yards of linen a year, the profits had been huge.

All in all, her kindly husband had left three times the fortune he had received, and as she scanned his cautious, canny, and sometimes brilliant career, her father's soul within her swelled with admiration and pride. Let brutal Hercules ever, in his whole life, exhibit a fraction of such intelligence and talent as his father had shown.

The death of her husband had changed her life in one other way. She had not realised how much he had protected her. Though she had always taken a lively interest in what was passing in the world, he had always been by her side. The doings of the Troika, the radical ideas of Patrick and his friends, and the brutal outbursts of Hercules might have been exciting or disturbing, but in her husband's unflappable presence, and with his secure political position, she had always felt safe. Now, however, events seemed to impinge upon her more directly; she felt a new and disquieting sense of unease. And events themselves were taking an ugly turn.

She heard with horror, from Doyle, of the imprisonment and flogging of her Law kinsmen in Ulster. She was careful never to ask Patrick too much about his political activities—she guessed, yet did not want to know. But he did indicate to her that he fully expected the French to come again. What would that mean for them all? she wondered.

During the summer, she had not been sorry to retreat to Wexford. She had lived there quietly. Patrick had visited for a few days. He was proud of his library, and he had suggested some additions. She had enjoyed his company and been sorry when he left. Young William and his brother had also come down briefly. She had not been lonely, however. She had become better friends with many of her neighbours. A short distance from the house, she had set up a small walled garden for fruit and herbs. She had found peace.

Returning to Dublin in the early autumn, she had not been happy. The usual social round was beginning—nothing ever interfered with that. But the parties were less enjoyable when one was alone without a husband, and the political tension in the air had robbed the gracious Dublin squares of their usual charm. Early in November, she had quietly left the capital and gone back to Mount Walsh for the winter.

And yet, in that colder season, even the gentle Wexford countryside seemed to have changed, as though the troubles of Ireland, like chill winds, were exposing under the green fields and groves another landscape that was bleak and harsh.

To her surprise, it was life in Wexford that gave her a greater understanding of the political storms she had witnessed in the capital. Even during the summer, she had noticed one thing. It had been a trivial matter: there had been a position for a new maid in the house. As usual, the housekeeper had selected two or three girls for Georgiana to choose from, but had also remarked that she could have chosen any of fifty girls she'd seen; and when Georgiana expressed surprise, the housekeeper told her: “At least fifty, my lady, and at half the wages we offer. There are so many young people nowadays that employers may have them for almost nothing.”

Georgiana had been watching Dublin grow in size and splendour all her life, and had seen the army of craftsmen, tradesmen, and servants that the great city had drawn in; but she had not fully realised the extent to which this supply of labour was serviced by a huge swelling of numbers in villages and hamlets all over the island.
In the last five decades, the population of Ireland had doubled to five million souls.

“Are they in hardship?” she asked.

“They are angry, my lady, because of the high price of food, but they are not starving. But in my opinion,” the housekeeper's voice took on a warning note, “it's a bad thing when the simple people are discontented and have nothing to do.”

By November, it was the mood among the local farmers that was most noticeable. The Troika's military activity was costing money. New taxes were being raised. She knew very well from the accounts at Mount Walsh that the new levies on salt and malt were hitting the landowners and farmers. In Wexford in particular, the malt levies had driven down the value of the region's precious barley crop. Everyone was grumbling. “If one of the Troika caught fire,” a neighbouring landowner remarked to her, “I don't know a single local farmer who'd oblige him with a bucket of water.”

Thinking of her dear Patrick, she was curious about the attitude of the local Catholics, and here it was Kelly who enlightened her.

It had rather surprised her that, after Patrick had apparently courted his sister and then dropped her, Kelly and Patrick should have remained on such friendly terms, but Kelly's sister had long ago been married, and the Wexford man had only good words for Patrick. During her visits, she had found him one of her most congenial neighbours. He was also perfectly frank with her.

“We Catholics have lost all hope in the Dublin Parliament now,” he told her. “It's become impossible to hold the middle ground anymore. And the consequences of that could be serious.”

“Yet the Catholic Church isn't stirring up trouble, is it?”

“No, it isn't. Because the Church fears the radicals. It fears anything that looks like a revolution. As far as Rome is concerned, the French revolutionaries are atheists who murdered a Catholic king—not to mention the massacres of priests, monks, nuns, and loyal Catholics—and who want to destroy the natural order. The Church would rather deal with Protestant King George. All the priests I
know in this region preach patience and obedience. But that doesn't mean their flocks are listening to them.” He grinned. “Half of them would rather hear a good ballad about a daring highwayman than a sermon. And if it comes to a rising, they will need little persuading.”

Kelly provided a further insight in January.

One evening, Hercules had unexpectedly arrived at Mount Walsh and announced that he wanted to spend a few days there. She wasn't pleased to see him, but did her best to be pleasant and avoid any discussion of politics. But the next morning, unaware of Hercules's arrival, Kelly had come by. He was ushered into the library, where he found both Georgiana and her son.

Many people hated or feared Hercules, but though he could not possibly have liked her son, Kelly had seemed to be mildly curious about him and had engaged him easily in conversation. His lordship had been prepared to speak, had soon started upon his favourite subject of maintaining order; he had also, just as easily, made it clear that if he said anything to offend their guest, he couldn't care less. Indeed, it was not long before he had made an insulting remark concerning Catholic priests. Georgiana wouldn't have blamed Kelly if he'd struck her son, but the Wexford man preferred to say nothing and to listen patiently. “The problem with you Irish papists,” Hercules went on, “is not so much your priests as the army of hedge school masters. They're the ones that cause the trouble.”

At this, far from being angry, Kelly smiled and remarked to her: “He's absolutely right, you know.”

“I'm glad you agree,” Hercules continued. “They encourage the natives to have too high an opinion of themselves by teaching them in their native tongue.”

But now Kelly laughed.

“There, your lordship will forgive me, you're entirely incorrect. It's true that, when I was a boy, the hedge schools made extensive use of Irish. But in the last generation there's been a change. The parents haven't wanted their children taught in Irish, because they think it a disadvantage to them. They want them taught in English.
And do you know the result? Those of the native Irish that can read—and there are many—have been reading the revolutionary tracts from America and the radical English broadsheets out of Belfast and Dublin.” He smiled at Hercules blithely. “If the revolution comes, my lord, and sweeps you away—God forbid—it will be French troops and the English language that bring it about. Of that I can assure you.”

This did not please Hercules at all, and with a curt nod, he left Kelly and Georgiana in the library. Kelly did not stay long, but promised to return another day. After he'd gone, Hercules remarked: “That man needs watching.” But that evening, he also said something else which, when she thought of Patrick, filled her with fear for him.

“This revolution won't happen. We are better informed than these damned people imagine.”

Mercifully, Hercules had departed by the time Kelly called again. She had a pleasant talk with him, and was glad to have the chance to apologise for her son's manners. Before the Wexford man left, she asked him:

“If the French come, what do you think will happen to us here at Mount Walsh?”

In reply, he gave her a careful look.

“You are well-liked around here,” he told her. “I don't think you'd be harmed. But you might be better in Dublin.”

“I see.” She felt herself go a little pale. “Do you think I should leave soon?”

“Truthfully,” he told her, “I have no idea.”

As she went into her garden after he had gone, and saw the snowdrops growing, she decided there was no hurry. February came and there were crocuses: purple, orange, and gold.

A March day and the afternoon was wearing thin, a wet wind slapping the windowpanes, while Brigid sat within.

Rat-a-tat at the door. Nobody heard.

She knew there were soldiers in the Dublin streets. Martial law had been declared a little while ago, whatever that meant. A curfew at night, supposedly, though the theatre was still playing and the inns were doing business. But today, she had heard, more patrols were out.

Rat-a-tat. She glanced through the window, saw a scatter of raindrops dashing against the grey stone steps, but no soldiers. Then, close by the door, she saw the corner of a hat.

She opened the door herself and the tall figure came in hurriedly. He was wearing a heavy cape; his large tricorn hat hid his face. Only when he entered the parlour did he remove the hat to reveal his fine, aristocratic features.

Lord Edward Fitzgerald stood before her.

“Is Patrick here?”

“I expect him shortly.”

“Thank God. Nobody saw me come here. I took care.” He took off his cape, but he did not want to sit down. He began to pace the room. “They came for me at a meeting. Some of us got out by a back way. But they'll be looking for me. I'll need to hide.”

“Cannot your family…?”

“No.” He shook his head. “If the Troika mean to arrest me, even the duke can't help me. They'd tear down Leinster House if they had to.” He continued to pace. “I'd better not stay for long. Do you think they'll come for Patrick?”

Brigid considered.

“Probably not,” she said. Patrick was a useful man in the cause, and a friend of Fitzgerald, but he was not one of the council. There would surely be many others they'd want before they got to him. Besides, she had other information. She smiled. “I've spies in the Castle, you see.”

She did not go about much; but all the same, as an actress, it was natural that she should have admirers. And, as an actress, she knew how to deal with them. She had never been unfaithful to Patrick, but
she had skilfully developed romantic friendships with a number of men. She didn't flirt with them. She never gave them hope. But she allowed them to entertain the unstated thought that, if it hadn't been for Patrick, they might have had a chance. And there were several men who were glad to enjoy her company on that basis. They were men she liked, and whose friendship she valued, and if she made use of them from time to time, they wouldn't have minded. They also served another useful purpose: if Patrick knew that he could trust her, he could never for a moment forget that she was desirable.