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 which 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.”

“You must repair the damage. You must stop your drinking, then go down and be reconciled with him,” O’Toole had told him. But though Garret had nodded his head, he had not done it. The next year, he was in no better shape, his courage had failed him, and he had not gone at all. By the following spring, he wasn’t fit to go anywhere.

And all this time, Deirdre had wondered: what was to become of her? While Conall was away in Dublin, she was growing into a young woman. Some of the young O’Byrnes and Brennans were already wanting to court her, but she hadn’t the least interest in them. Should she look for work in Wicklow, as a servant, probably? Or in Dublin? She’d see him, she supposed, if she went to Dublin. She spoke to her grandfather to ask his advice.

“You wouldn’t be happy in Dublin,” he told her. “You’d miss the mountains. Every day you’d be standing in the broad streets, looking up at the hills—they seem so close, you know, it’s as if you can touch them. Yet they, and all that you love, would be out of reach.”

“Perhaps,” she ventured, “I shouldn’t be too lonely. Conall would be a friend to me.”

“You should not think of Conall.” He had sighed. “He was your childhood companion, Deirdre. But that was long ago, and people change. You should forget him now.”

But a year later, when Garret, after a terrible three-week drinking bout, was obviously dying, it was her grandfather who had written the letter summoning Conall to come.

He’d arrived half a day too late. She had seen him in the distance, coming up from the Wicklow road, a slim, handsome young man, striding up the mountain track with confident ease; and as soon as she saw him, her heart had missed a beat. She waited until he reached her.

“I’m sorry, Conall. Your father’s gone.”

He’d nodded, as if he’d expected it. Then they had walked into Rathconan together.

It was strange, after so many years, that it should have felt so natural, walking side by side with Conall, as though they had never been parted. Did he feel the same? she wondered.

The wake was a subdued affair. She and her grandfather helped Conall make the arrangements. Everyone at Rathconan came. Even Budge and his wife appeared for a little while, as a courtesy to the dead, and greeted the priest civilly enough. Before leaving, Budge had taken Conall to one side, but Deirdre had been near enough to hear what passed between them.

“Your father died a Catholic, of course,” the landlord said quietly, “but may I ask what Church you belong to yourself nowadays?”

“Well, Sir,” Conall answered politely, “in Dublin, as you well know, I was in the Church of Ireland school, and so I went to that Church; and many of my Dublin friends are Protestant. Here at Rathconan, all these good people, my cousins many of them, are Catholic. And to tell you the truth, I have no very strong feelings in the matter.”

“I see.” There was no church at Rathconan itself, though from time to time Budge and his family would go to the church a few miles away, to show solidarity. His support for the Church of Ireland was absolute, but no one would have called him pious. Judging by the careful look he gave Conall now, it seemed that Budge found this answer acceptable.

Deirdre had been studying Conall ever since he got back. It was already clear to her that the years in Dublin had left their mark. The Conall she had known and loved was still there, she was sure of it. But this young man had a quiet self-assurance about him, a dignified reserve far more like her grandfather than his own father Garret. Yet, as was now apparent, he had learned to combine this confidence with a respectful manner that was clearly pleasing to a man like Budge.

“You mean to return to Dublin shortly?” the landlord asked.

“I am told that I could do well as a cabinetmaker in Dublin, Sir,” Conall replied. “But I miss the mountains of my childhood. I am wondering if I could make a living as a carpenter here.” He gave Budge an inquiring glance. “If I can prove that I am sober and reliable.”

Budge looked at him searchingly for several moments, then gave a brief nod and suggested he come to see him after his father was buried. He left soon afterwards.

“You would stay up here, Conall,” she asked, “after being in Dublin?”

“I think of it,” he answered. “I think of marrying and settling down.”

“Oh.” She fought to control herself. “And who is this lucky girl that you’re thinking of marrying?” she asked lightly.

“Yourself,” he said.

If Budge had entertained misgivings about having another troublesome Smith as a tenant, it had to be said that he had behaved well enough. The day after Conall had moved in, he had come to the cottage in person and informed him:

“I had a front door made some years ago, but it is not satisfactory. Would you make me a new one?” And when the work was done, in best oak, and Conall had fitted it, Budge and his wife had admired it, and he’d exclaimed: “That is beautiful work, Conall, I have to say. Beautiful.” And Conall had been well paid.

Further commissions had followed, from the landlord and from his friends. Some time later, armed with a letter from Budge, Conall had gone down into Wicklow to see a cabinetmaker there, and from this had developed a long relationship. The Wicklow man would send out work to him, and every few weeks would see Conall going down into Wicklow in a cart with a table, or some chairs, or a well-made cabinet. To give the lie to his father’s reputation, the work was always perfectly produced and never late. After a few years, the Wicklow man had wanted to take him into partnership, but though he could certainly have made a better living, Conall and Deirdre had always preferred to stay up at Rathconan in the mountains.

Conall drank a little ale, but always in moderation. He never said or did anything to offend Budge or his like. And as the years went by, the landowner would often at dinner cite Conall as proof that, with a little persuasion and a lot of firm treatment, “your Irishman can frequently be turned into a hardworking and respectable craftsman.”

As for herself, Deirdre had found happiness, peace, her destiny. A few days before she and Conall had married, her grandfather had taken her to one side and asked: “Are you sure, Deirdre, that this is what you want?” She had been so surprised that he would ask such a thing, but she had assured him that it was, so he had said no more. And the early months of her marriage had entirely confirmed her choice.

If years ago Conall had been the little boy she had protected and made whole, in the young man he had become, she had found a prince. In their lovemaking, it seemed to her as if they were made from the same mould; in their life together, they were in tune like two strings upon the same instrument.

Yet there was always something mysterious about Conall. Occasionally, he would still sit alone in a state of abstraction from which she would have to wait for him to return. One day, they had gone over to Glendalough; and as they stood together in the mountain silence by the upper lake, she had suddenly had the strangest experience, as if they were floating together, like mist over the water. And she had thought to herself: I am married not only to a man but to a spirit. They had been married almost a year before he told her the truth about his time at school in Dublin.

“That was a terrible place, Deirdre. There were only a few of us Catholic boys, and we’d been brought there to be converted. As far as the masters were concerned, we were wild animals to be broken. And they treated us as animals, too. Kicked out of bed at dawn, to scrub the floors, before the Protestant boys had to wake. We were like slaves the rest of the day, too, whenever we weren’t in the lessons. And a savage beating if you even thought of arguing about it. As for the teaching . . .” He shook his head in disgust.

“Was it so hard?”

“Hard? Not at all. It was laughable. Those Protestant boys were so far behind us: I knew far more from your grandfather’s hedge school before I arrived than any of them knew by the time they left.”

“Are all the Protestants so ignorant, then?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Trinity College turns out scholars of the highest repute: no question. But the charity schools like mine are sinks of iniquity. That’s why I left as soon as I could and became a carpenter.”

“Did you tell your father?”

“No.” He fell silent for a moment. “What was the point? The poor devil had troubles enough, I dare say.”

He never spoke of the quarrel between his father and himself, and she never asked. But she thought she could guess his sadness and his shame at what his father had become, just as it was obvious that he was determined to prove that he suffered from none of the same weaknesses himself. “I remember him as he was when I was a boy,” he once told her. “I wish,” he added wistfully, “that he could have stayed as he used to be, and lived to see his grandchildren.”

There was no shortage of those. Down the years, Deirdre had given birth to a dozen children, and though many had been lost to sickness or accident, seven had lived to be strong and healthy adults.

She and Conall had never regretted their decision to raise their family up at Rathconan. It was their childhood home; her grandfather, whom they both loved, was there; and above all, they and their children were surrounded by the huge, open spaces of the mountains. And if the Brennans, as her grandfather assured them, were neither more nor less stupid than in generations before, and the O’Byrnes still foolishly believed that Rathconan and all that was in it should rightfully be theirs, Deirdre and Conall had been used to them since they were born and, along with the other local families, they came with the landscape.

If her grandfather had had doubts about Conall as a husband, he had soon buried them. It had been only a few months before a routine had developed that was to last down the years. Once a week, the two men would spend the evening together. A little drink would be taken, of course; but mostly they would recite poetry or read books together—so that Conall laughingly told Deirdre: “The best thing about marrying you is that I can complete my education.” Meanwhile, the old man, somewhat gaunt but with a mind as sharp as ever, had continued to act as schoolmaster to the village, and to tell his stories and recite his poetry at a ceili from time to time. He had lived into his eighties, and continued to teach the school until a week before his death.

His wake had been memorable. People had come from five counties to honour the old man. Yet it had also been the occasion of one small unpleasantness.

It had come from Finn O’Byrne. He had never been a person of any great account. About the same age as Conall, he was considered a fairly good cattleman and he had a brood of children to his credit; but although he would spend time with the Brennans, he and Conall never had a lot to say to each other. Nonetheless, Conall had once made him a good oak chair, with which he had declared himself well satisfied. So Conall had not expected any trouble when he saw the figure of Finn—small, dark, a great untidy mop of shaggy black hair lying in matted coils about his shoulders, and clearly a little the worse for drink—come lurching towards him during the long evening of the wake.

“I suppose that you’ll be the new schoolmaster now,” Finn remarked, “with all your learning.”

There was something vaguely offensive in his manner, though Conall couldn’t see why there should be.

“I don’t think so, Finn,” he replied. “I’ve too much else to do.” In fact, he and O’Toole had discussed the possibility a few times down the years, but he hadn’t felt the desire to take it on, and he had quite enough work on hand anyway.

“He’d have wanted it, Conall, to keep it in the family—with Deirdre being his granddaughter and you spending so much time in his company. All those hours, reading together, every week.” The words were harmless enough, but there could be no doubt from the way he spoke them, the way that he drew out the word “reading” as if there was something wrong with it, that Finn was trying to insult him. “No, Conall, it was only yourself that was good enough to be in his company like that.”

It had not occurred to Conall that his sessions with the old man would have given offence to Finn O’Byrne, yet clearly they had.

“I’m sure you’d have been very welcome to join us,” he said. A lie, of course, but it seemed polite.

“Ha! Finn O’Byrne with the old man and his favourite. The boy apart. The prince, we used to call you in the hedge school. Until you were sent away, of course.” He grinned viciously. “On account of your father. Another great reader, they say.”

It was hard to know which shocked him more—the discovery that this man, of whom he had no high opinion, but towards whom he’d never held any malice, should hate him so much, or the fact that, in all these years, he’d never guessed it. Conall remembered him perfectly well in the hedge school. Finn hadn’t been much of a pupil, but perhaps a bit above the Brennans. And now the passing of old O’Toole, and no doubt a little drink, had suddenly resealed these childhood resentments. He didn’t know how much Finn had been drinking, but this was hardly the time to enter into a quarrel. He must, unwittingly, have looked at him with disgust, however, for O’Byrne burst out bitterly: “Ah, look at his face. He thinks himself so much better than the rest of us.”

“Can you not respect the dead, Finn?” he said as calmly as he could, and made to move away. But this turned out to be another mistake.

“Move away.” Finn made a mock bow. “The great Conall Smith doesn’t talk to any but his own kind.” He spat. “Respect the dead. Respect your father, do you mean?”

This was too much.

“You were a fool then, Finn O’Byrne, and you’re a fool now,” Conall said angrily. “But you’ve no need to prove it, for I knew it already.” Then he did walk away.

He had told Deirdre all about it a few days later, but Finn had never mentioned the incident again, and they assumed he had probably been so drunk he had forgotten about it.

For a few months after that, Conall had helped by taking the hedge school, on an occasional basis, while they looked for someone else. But he had sent for the priest down the valley to come to catechise the children, not wishing to do it himself; and in due course an elderly man from Wicklow was found to take the job on, and he returned to his furniture making. He had no doubt that Budge had been aware of his activities, but the landowner had never said anything.

That had been twenty years ago. Since then, there had been peace at Rathconan, where, whatever else might be passing in the world below, little seemed to change.

There was one change, however. It was gradual, but her grandfather had occasionally remarked on it as he grew older, and in the two decades since his death, Deirdre had noticed it increasingly.

There were more people at Rathconan.

Of course, families had produced children. Apart from her own seven, Budge and his wife had had three girls and two sons; the O’Byrnes, Brennans, and the other local families had all added to the numbers. But as in times past, once the children had grown they had often moved away. The landowner’s three daughters were all married to other landowners; the younger son, Jonah Budge, had married a merchant’s daughter and bought a small estate a few miles away, while the elder son, Arthur, spent most of his time in Dublin. Of her own children, only two were at home, the rest in Wicklow or Dublin.

In the last generation, however, other families, especially the Brennans, had followed a different pattern. Instead of the eldest son taking over the holding, several of the children had decided to remain at Rathconan and split the holding into smaller parts between them. By doing so, they were increasing the population of the hamlet. And there were signs that in a few years’ time, one of the Brennans might subdivide his holding yet again. In times past, such small holdings could not have sustained a family, yet now it seemed they could. And the reason for this change was easy enough to see.

“For the increase in the number of my Brennan cousins,” Conall remarked drily, “we must thank the potato.”

Everyone in Rathconan grew potatoes nowadays. Budge had two large fields. But while they still grew other crops, and raised their sheep and modest herd of cattle on the mountainside, the Brennans had given over the greater part of their subdivided holdings to the potato crop. It was a logical decision. The New World vegetable was so nutritious that, if you desired, you would remain perfectly healthy if you ate nothing else. Not only that, the potato was intensely productive: a family could subsist on the crop from a single small field. There were twice as many Brennans living in Rathconan now than there had been when Deirdre was a child, and they could have subdivided their holdings several times more without going hungry. Moreover, with the population increasing, they could usually sell their produce at good prices. So although their turf-roofed cottages might have looked poor enough, the numerous Brennans and their neighbours were actually living better than they had done before. Even the O’Byrnes were paying their rent.

All over Ireland, the pattern was similar. The towns were growing—Dublin’s population had trebled in three generations—and the country peasants were living more densely upon the land.

Deirdre and Conall had little to complain of materially. Two of their daughters had gone to Wicklow. Both were now married, one to a butcher, the other to a brewer, both quite prosperous men. Her two eldest sons had both gone to Dublin. One was a printer who did well; the other, a tobacconist, seemed to have less success and was living poorly in the Liberties on the west side of the old city. The two youngest children remained at Rathconan: the boy, Peter, was following his father as a carpenter; his sister was working in the Budges’ house.

And then there was Brigid. And that devil Patrick Walsh.

She hadn’t even known that Brigid had run off with him until a month after the event, when she had received a letter from the housekeeper at Mount Walsh which made reference to the fact. The letter didn’t say so, but she had to assume that they’d gone to Dublin.

“What does it mean?” she asked Conall. “Are they married?”

“We’d have heard from Brigid if they were,” he replied.

“We must go and find her. We have to save her before her reputation’s ruined,” she cried.

“It’s a bit late for that,” he murmured, but he made preparations to leave for the capital the same day.

Deirdre had never been to Dublin before, and she marvelled at its size. Arriving soon after noon, they went straight to the house of their son, which lay in a narrow lane off Dame Street, and he was able to tell them where they might find Patrick Walsh. Leaving their son, they wasted no time, but made their way towards College Green and walked across the bridge across the Liffey. To the right, a little way downriver on the northern bank, they could see the first stages of a massive classical building beginning to rise, which they learned would be the great new Custom House. It was evident that, as the capital continued to expand, the big streets and squares on the north bank were becoming almost as grand and fashionable as the area around St. Stephen’s Green. Deirdre gazed in awe at the great aristocratic houses on each side of the wide avenue known as Sackville Mall, which ran northwards for almost five hundred yards up to the handsome façade of the maternity hospital and fashionable Rutland Square beyond. The house of Patrick Walsh was in a lesser but still pleasant street, a short distance to the west of the great mall.

The front door was slightly raised from the street level. The tradesman’s entrance lay down a flight of steps at the basement level. Conall hesitated an instant, then went to the front door.

Seeing their country clothes, the maid who opened it looked a little confused and asked if they were tradespeople; but Conall sent in his name, and a few moments later, she returned and ushered them through the hall into a small parlour. They only had to wait a short while before Patrick Walsh himself appeared. He was smiling.

“You are looking for Brigid, I am sure,” he said before they could even speak. “I have been telling her to write to you for a month.”

“She is here, then?” Conall asked.

“Indeed she is, Mr. Smith, and she will be with us directly.” He seemed quite at ease, and friendly, as if there was nothing wrong at all.

Deirdre gazed at him. A clever face, kindly eyes, a charming manner: a gentleman through and through. And she wasn’t fooled for a second.

“What have you done with her?” she demanded.

“Your daughter hasn’t been kidnapped, Mrs. Smith,” he replied calmly. “She was employed in the house of my cousin, Lord Mountwalsh, as you know.” If this reference to the importance of his family was designed to put her in her place, it did not succeed. “Now she has agreed to come here,” he gazed at Deirdre steadily, “as a housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper? At her age?”

“This is not a large house. Ah,” he looked up blandly, “here she is.”

As Brigid appeared in the doorway, Deirdre almost gasped. The thin stick of a girl she had left at Mount Walsh had vanished, disappeared like a sapling with tightly closed buds that breaks into flower in the spring. Standing straight, in a rather severe dress, with her black hair pulled back neatly, she looked the very pattern of an efficient young housekeeper. But her mother could see at once that she had filled out; she stood like a proud young woman. She also saw that Brigid’s skin had a glow, and her green eyes a sparkle that was entirely new.

“I want to speak to my daughter alone,” she said firmly.

Brigid had a pleasant room on the third floor of the house, below the attic floor where the rest of the servants slept. There was a rug on the floor, a counterpane on the bed, and an easy chair. The girl sat on the bed and motioned her mother to the chair.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write.”

“Never mind that,” her mother cut her short. “You’re not his housekeeper.”

“I am. I swear it.”

“Is that all you are?”

The girl was silent.

“What are you doing, Brigid?” her mother burst out. “Do you not see what this makes you? You must come away at once.” Brigid was starting to shake her head in reply, but Deirdre did not pause. “What have they done to you? Did they mistreat you at that house? Were you so desperate? You only had to tell me.”

“I was lonely at first, Mother. I missed you all so much. But they were very good to me. And later . . .” She laughed. “I think I was bored. Until Patrick came along.”

The laugh. The way she called him Patrick.

“Dear heaven, child. You’re his mistress.” She stared at the girl.

“Do you imagine you’ll find a respectable husband when it’s known what you are? This fine gentleman isn’t going to marry you. He’ll use you, Brigid, and when he’s done with you, what will become of you then? Have you not thought of that?” She shook her head. “It’s my fault. I should have warned you, but I thought you were safe in that house. I never supposed . . .”

“It isn’t your fault at all, Mother.”

“You’re to come back to Rathconan at once.”

“And what would I do there? Marry one of the Brennans?” She paused, then added quietly: “He’s a good man, you know. I won’t find a better.”

“Do you imagine that he loves you?”

“I interest him, I think. He cares for me.”

“He’s making use of you. You’re just a servant.”

“I was a servant in Wexford.”

“You must come away with us now, Brigid.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, but I will not.”

“Your father will order it.”

“He cannot make me go.” She sat there on the bed, calmly defiant.

Deirdre was too shocked and too angry even to weep. She rose.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Brigid,” she declared. But as they went down the stairs, she continued nonetheless: “We’ll stay at your brother’s a few days. I hope you’ll change your mind.”

She did not wish to speak to Patrick, but signalled to her husband that she wished to leave immediately.

They were no sooner outside than she exploded.

“Do you realise what is happening? She’s his mistress.”

“It is what I supposed.” His voice was calm.

“Are you not going to do anything? Would you not save your own daughter?”

“Is she there against her will?”

“She refuses to leave.”

“Then what would you have me do, Deirdre? Am I to shoot him?”

“He is the devil himself.”

“Perhaps.” He did not seem convinced.

“What did he say to you?”

“About Brigid? Not a great deal. She helped him catalogue a library.” He paused while his wife stared at him in disbelief. “He has read your grandfather’s verses, you know. And it seems that his father, old Doctor Walsh, knew my own father when he was young. In fact, it turns out that we are distantly related.”

“Do you mean that he would marry Brigid?”

“I don’t think,” said Conall thoughtfully, “that he’s the marrying sort.”

And so it proved. Though she sent Conall to see his daughter and Patrick once more before they left Dublin, the situation remained unchanged. A year later, Brigid had a child. Again, Conall was sent to see them, and told Deirdre that both mother and baby were well, and that they were living contentedly in Walsh’s house, and that neither the gentleman nor Brigid seemed to have any plans for changing the situation.

The years had passed. There were more children. Nobody seemed to mind, and there was nothing Deirdre could do.

But there was one thing she had not foreseen, and this was the friendship between Walsh and her husband.

The first time Patrick had passed through Rathconan, he had been on his way to visit Glendalough. He’d arrived with Brigid and their infant child, intending to leave Brigid with her parents while he visited the old monastic site. Deirdre did not speak to him if she could help it, but when he casually asked if Conall would like to accompany him, Conall had said he would.

“I suppose,” she had said to Conall tartly, “that you are anxious to spend the day with the man who ruined your daughter.”

She never knew what had passed between the two men at Glendalough that day, but when they returned, it was clear that they had been deep in conversation. Patrick had come again every summer after that, and each time the two men would go off together to visit the twin lakes. It became a yearly ritual. Sometimes, if Brigid was not in a state to travel, Patrick would come alone and, little as she liked it, he would join them for their evening meals, sleeping in the cottage on the night of his arrival, and again at the end of his day out, and before departing in the morning. Always, after Patrick had gone, she would ask her husband what they had talked about during their day together, and he would give her some vague, unsatisfactory answer. But if she said anything harsh about Patrick then, like as not, Conall would quietly defend him. “Ah, but he’s a man of great intelligence,” he might say, or “His heart’s in the right place.” Once he had even remarked, “He’s a good Catholic,” and she had cried: “If he were a good Catholic, he’d have married your daughter instead of using her as a concubine.” But he had only looked thoughtful and remarked: “He is a lover of Ireland, anyway.”

She was glad he only came once a year; but as time went by, she had an increasing sense that her husband was, in some subtle and insidious way, being pulled away from her. It was not only his association with Patrick. One other change had come over their life.

At first she had welcomed it when, one evening, he had remarked to her: “You know, it’s a pity that nobody is singing your grandfather’s verses anymore. Some have been printed, of course, but I’ve many more of them written down. There were the stories he told, as well. Wonderful stories.”

“Perhaps you should do it, Conall,” she had said. “I don’t know who else would do it better.”

So in the evenings, he had begun to study the old man’s work again, and after a while he had called in their neighbours and performed for them—just as the old man had used to do. And they all said it was wonderful. Word had spread. A month later, he had been asked to a place a few miles away. Then to a second, and a third. And before a year had passed, he was making a journey somewhere every month or so; sometimes he was away for several days.

She had hardly known whether to be pleased or not. She was proud of him, of course, and glad to think that her grandfather was honoured again. She was glad, too, for her husband. She knew that if a man has a gift, he must use it, and that his lonely wanderings had always been necessary to him. But he had never wandered so much before, and she couldn’t help wondering if it might not have something to do with herself. Could it be that he needed to be away from her now, after all these years? Was it an excuse to avoid her? Once or twice she gently challenged him, and he looked distressed, and even offered not to go anymore. And this offer was enough at least, somewhat, to assure her. Certainly, whenever he was at home, there was nothing in his manner or in their marriage that was lacking in affection. So she’d decided to put a good face on it, and to be glad that, when her neighbours referred to her wandering husband, they seemed to do so with a new respect.

It was an incident just a few years ago that had really disturbed her.

Though the newly independent Parliament had kept itself busy enough, there hadn’t been any great excitement in Ireland for some years, when, in 1789, news of the French Revolution had burst like a thunderclap across Europe. If the American Revolution that she remembered from her girlhood had been exciting, this French Revolution seemed to be cataclysmic. Back in 1776, Irishmen had watched the new world breaking away from the old; but with the revolution in France, it seemed that, in an orgy of violence and bloodshed, the old world was trying to remake itself entirely. In this huge experiment, which Deirdre found sometimes inspiring but sometimes terrifying, men spoke of a new age of reason, an end to the social classes, of religious toleration—even the rule of atheism.

And it was while those astonishing events were unfolding in France that Patrick had come, by himself this time, for his annual visit. As usual, the two men had gone to Glendalough; on their return, they had settled down for their evening meal. Under Walsh’s influence, Conall had drunk rather more than usual when the talk turned to France. They had discussed the latest developments in the continuing revolution and what it might mean for Europe as a whole. It was clear that the other monarchies of Europe could not tolerate this overturning of the entire social order in their midst. Then, dropping his voice somewhat, Patrick had remarked:

“You know my views on what this may mean for Ireland.”

And Conall, quietly but with a passion she had never heard in his voice before, gazed at him intensely and answered:

“I shall be ready, I can promise you, when the time is ripe.”

When she had asked him what he meant by that phrase, the following day, he had shaken his head and said it meant nothing. She resented this, since it was obviously untrue; but he had still refused to discuss the matter, except to say, “There are things it’s better you shouldn’t know.” This patronising answer had infuriated her still more, and it had created a small but definite strangeness between her and her husband.

A few weeks later, he had gone down into Dublin, to see their sons, he said; but she had the uncomfortable feeling that there was some other reason, and that it had something to do with Walsh. And she cursed the day that had brought such a devil into their lives.

Then the nightmare had begun. The nightmare in which she was still living now.

She gazed down the valley.

At first, in the distance, it seemed that the figure coming up the winding mountain track was changing shape. One moment she thought she could make out a single horseman; the next, it looked like a deer with two great antlers. Only gradually did she realise that it was not a single man but two. Patrick came first: it was him right enough. But behind him rode a taller man she did not think she had seen before.

And somehow she knew, infallibly, that whatever they had come for, it would take her husband away from her. Armed only with her instincts, she wanted to run back to Conall, hide him from them, take him away—an idea as useless as it was absurd. For at this moment, she realised that he had come out and was beside her.

“Why are they here?” Her voice betrayed her. It sounded high-pitched, nervous.

He put his arm around her.

“I could not say it before, Deirdre,” he answered quietly, “but now it’s time that you should know.” He held her closer. “Because I am going to need your help.”

Patrick was always glad to be at Rathconan. He loved the sensation of being up in the mountains. But he wasted no time. As soon as he had entered Conall’s house, he introduced John MacGowan. Then, seeing Deirdre was still with them, he glanced at Conall enquiringly—in answer to which Conall said quietly:

“It is time that she should know.”

Patrick gave him a brief, thoughtful stare, then nodded. Although he knew very well that Deirdre didn’t like him, he bore her no ill will in return.

“You know, perhaps, Deirdre, that for many years I was a member of what is called the Catholic Committee.”

She shrugged.

“I never really knew what it was,” she replied.

“It was nothing very defined, I grant you. We were just a group—a large group—who felt themselves responsible for the Catholics of Ireland. We hoped for Catholic freedom, but we were prepared to be patient. For me, I suppose, it was the continuation of what my Catholic family has stood for in the last three hundred years. When Grattan got his independent Irish Parliament, it was intended that this would lead to a gradual improvement in our Catholic position. So it seemed to all of us at the time. But we had reckoned without the Ascendancy men, and the Castle.”

Grattan’s triumph in making the Irish Parliament independent had not been all he had hoped. Despite the fine words, it had never been quite clear who was to decide foreign policy and, still more important, matters of trade. Endless arguments had followed, with London trying to exert its influence in the usual old ways of patronage and bribery, while the Patriots tried to reform the system and to prise Ireland loose. They had not been entirely successful. And when it came to the Catholic issue, they had failed entirely.

For in the Irish Parliament, the core of Protestant settlers were determined to deny the Catholics any power, and few of the moderate Protestants wanted to do battle on the issue. The Patriots had been isolated. While in Dublin Castle, an inner group of three powerful officials known as the Troika—fine administrators, but all three of them ruthlessly anti-Catholic—had managed all government business for years. Viceroys might come and go, Parliaments might meet, but the Troika had kept the well-oiled stagecoach of government bowling securely along the Ascendancy road.

“Nonetheless, I had continued to hope that our quiet diplomacy would bring about change one day,” Patrick explained. “Then came the French Revolution. People became excited. And some Catholics, especially amongst the city tradesmen in Dublin, started to call for radical measures, public campaigns—”

“We remembered what the Covenanters in Scotland had done long ago,” John MacGowan cut in. “So why not a Catholic Covenant?” He grinned. “Patrick here was horrified. He wouldn’t have anything to do with us.”

“But just as important, it has to be said,” Patrick continued, “was the effect the French Revolution had on the Protestants. I learned all about this from one of my Doyle kinsmen. He’d been in the old Volunteers, and he had a radical turn of mind. When the new group we call the United Irishmen started, he joined it. ‘Patrick,’ he used to lecture me, ‘Ireland must be a separate republic like France, with freedom of religion, votes for all.’ He loved to debate these things. And frankly, that’s all the United Irishmen were down here in those days: a debating club. But through the Volunteers, he’d become friends with a family named Law, who were Belfast Presbyterians. And they invited him up there to visit the Belfast United Irishmen. He told me he’d never seen anything like it. They had a huge rally on Bastille Day, and they set up a proper organization. They really meant business—for the Ulster Presbyterians dislike English rule even more than we do.”

“Speak for yourself,” MacGowan muttered with a smile.

“And it’s a Protestant who has chivvied us all along. You have heard, perhaps, Deirdre, of Wolfe Tone. He’s a man of remarkable charm. It’s Tone who persuaded the Ulster Presbyterians that they should campaign jointly with the Catholics—if only because there are so many of us. And he began to persuade many of the Catholic Committee, too.”

“But not you,” John MacGowan reminded him.

“Certainly not. I thought they were dangerous fellows. It was not until that terrible Parliament of ’92—which I’m sure you recall— that I came round.” He sighed. “And I owe my conversion to my cousin Hercules.”

All Ireland remembered that Parliament. Perhaps foolishly, he had allowed himself to hope that something might be done. In England, the Whigs were pressing for the relaxing of the old Penal Laws: Burke was even persuading Pitt’s Tory government of the case. In Dublin, the Duke of Leinster and his friends were arguing the same thing. There was already an understanding that Catholics would be allowed back into the legal profession. So when the moderates on the Catholic Committee had presented a modest petition to the Irish Parliament, Patrick had expected at least that it would get a reasonable hearing.

The day before the debate, he had chanced to see his cousin Hercules coming along Dame Street from the direction of the Castle. He was walking with a sturdy figure whom he recognised as Budge’s elder son Arthur. It was always unpleasant approaching a man who disliked him so much, but it seemed to him that the importance of the matter was so great that he must speak a word to his cousin; and so, approaching them and making a most courteous bow, he expressed the hope that Hercules would give consideration to the Catholic proposal, explaining: “For it seems to me that, if nothing else, this will deny to the more radical elements the excuse they seek to agitate further.” Hercules had stared at him but said nothing, so that it was impossible to know what he was thinking. Then, with what might have been a nod, he glanced at Arthur Budge and the two men moved on. The next day, Patrick had gone early to the Parliament to hear the debate.

If he had not been there himself, he might not have believed it. If anything, the advice of the London Whigs and the aristocratic Leinsters seemed only to have infuriated the members. They were like a pack of hounds baying for blood. They threw out the proposals by an astonishing vote of 205 to 27, and they freely insulted the Catholics as well. It was as if nothing had changed since the Battle of the Boyne. But for Patrick, the speech that rankled most hurtfully had come from Hercules.

“No matter what tricks, what cheap persuasions the Catholics may attempt, they are never to be trusted. Ireland is a Protestant land, and so it shall remain—immutable, inviolate, triumphant— not for this century only, nor for the next, but for a thousand years!”

The speech had been greeted by cheers. Afterwards, as he had been leaving, he had caught sight of his cousin standing in one of the colonnaded hallways. A tall figure had just come up to him and was shaking him warmly by the hand. It was FitzGibbon, the most powerful member of the Troika.

“It was that vote and the insulting words of my cousin Hercules that made me realise that John MacGowan and his friends were right,” he told Deirdre. “The Ascendancy will give the Catholics nothing, ever.”

But if he hoped that he was making some impression, it was clear that Deirdre, who could not possibly have any love for the Protestants, still regarded him as something even worse.

“So you say. But the Catholics were given the vote the next year,” she pointed out sourly. “Both my daughters’ husbands have it.” If she suspected that he was a devil trying to lead her into a trap, she had caught him out in a lie.

And indeed, in 1793 the government in London, now at war with a French Republic, and fearful of trouble in Ireland as well, had begged the unwilling Irish Parliament to do something to keep the Catholics happy. The resulting legislation, however, had been less than it seemed.

“But it was a travesty,” John MacGowan burst out in reply. “Every man with enough property to yield forty shillings may vote. I may vote myself. And what good does that do me? None at all— since no Catholic may sit in our Parliament. I may vote, but only for a Protestant. And since the majority of constituencies are still controlled by a handful of Protestants anyway, nothing will change at all. They gave me the right to join a guild as a full member also— as long as the existing Protestant members invite me in. The thing was designed to make us think we had something, and to give us nothing. It was a mockery, a swindle.”

“And now,” Patrick added, “the Troika have gone to work on King George. The word from London is that he has now privately vowed never to let any Catholic into Parliament.”

It had to be said that King George III of England, as usual, had meant for the best. But just as he had conceived it his duty to hang on to the American colony, he had now been persuaded, by cunning FitzGibbon, that his coronation oath, which obliged him to uphold the Protestant faith, also meant that he must deny political representation to the Catholics. Once he believed he had given his word, nothing would ever persuade honest King George to change his mind. It was one of the Troika’s cleverer moves.

“And if that is what the king vows in private, his government in public has shown itself just as determined. When once a viceroy came here—Lord Fitzwilliam, a decent man as it happens—who wanted to meddle with the Troika, he was recalled at once.”

“So if nothing can be done,” Deirdre remarked, “why is it you’re here?”

Patrick looked at her seriously. His voice became quieter.

“A little over a year ago, Wolfe Tone was arrested for agitating. He was thrown out of the country. He went to America—to Philadelphia. The home of Benjamin Franklin.” He paused a moment. “There he made many friends: men of importance who had taken part in the American War. He also came to know the representative of the French government. Most people suppose that he is still in America. But he is not. Like Benjamin Franklin, he has gone to France—Revolutionary France—to see whether they will now help Ireland as they helped the Americans before.”

“And will they?”

“We have no idea. But if they do, we must be prepared. If such a thing is done, it must be done quickly and effectively. The larger and better organised the rising, the less the bloodshed need be. The United Irishmen have already shown what it means to act together in brotherhood. I believe all Ireland will rise. We shall have an Irish republic. There will be freedom of religion, as there is in America and France.”

“And what in God’s name has this to do with Conall?” she demanded.

For the first time, Conall spoke.

“I am to organise this area, Deirdre. From here all the way down to the border of Wexford. In fact,” he continued gently, “I started many months ago.”

“You devil!” She turned furiously upon Patrick. “Can you leave none of us alone? Do you wish to destroy us all?”

But Conall was shaking his head.

“You do not understand, Deirdre. It was not Patrick who asked me to do anything.” He smiled, perhaps a little sadly. “It was I who asked him.”

She stared at him.

“Your travels . . . ? With my grandfather’s verses? They were all for this?”

“No, Deirdre, I’d have done that anyway. But it was a useful excuse to move around the region, as well.”

Deirdre made a gesture of despair.

“John MacGowan is one of our captains in Dublin,” Patrick explained. “And as your two sons there will answer to him, I thought it good that you should meet.”

“Our sons too . . . ?” Deirdre looked horrified.

“They both wished it,” Conall said quietly.

“How many men have you now?” MacGowan asked.

“Around Rathconan, a dozen. In the whole area, a hundred that I can rely on.”

“Who at Rathconan?” Deirdre demanded angrily.

Conall mentioned some of the Brennans and other local families. “Finn O’Byrne is especially eager,” he remarked.

“Finn O’Byrne?” Deirdre gave a look of disgust. “He’s the biggest fool of them all. And he hates you, besides.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Conall smiled. “He will fight for us because he believes that if we win, Rathconan will be his.”

“But why, Conall?” she cried suddenly. “When you’ve spent all your life avoiding trouble—why would you do such a thing?”

Patrick thought this was uncalled for. So, by the look of it, did MacGowan. Conall seemed to read their thoughts.

“No,” he said quietly, “she is right.” He paused a moment. “It is true that, seeing the foolishness of my father, I have always taken care not to make the same mistakes. I have never drunk more than a little; I have kept my thoughts to myself. I have made furniture, as well as I know how, for men I despise, and taken their payments politely.” And now a certain edge came into his voice. “In Dublin, I was treated like a dog at school by Protestant boys who had neither my intelligence nor my education; as a man I have seen my fellow countrymen held in subjection by these same bigots and fools. And I have hated them all. But hatred is useless, and revolt is a crime, because, unless it has the means to succeed, it is stupid. So I said to myself: ‘Wait. Wait a lifetime if necessary. But wait until the time is ripe.’ And for many years I thought that I should never live to see that time. But now I think it may have come. And if every carving and every piece of furniture that I have ever made should need to be destroyed, as we burn their houses down, I should say: ‘Light the fire and burn them all,’ and say it gladly.”

“Oh, Conall.” His wife shook her head. “I hope to God you may be right. For if you’re not, we shall all be destroyed.”

“Then you will help us?”

“I am your wife, Conall.” She sighed. “Just one condition I make.”

“Which is?”

“Never ask me if I believe.”

After leaving Rathconan, Patrick took MacGowan to Glendalough, which the Dublin man had never seen before. They also took note of the hamlets they passed. Patrick was pleased with the day. Though Conall and his men up in the mountains could only be marginal to any action, he was proud that he had an organization in place up there. “Besides,” MacGowan pointed out, “you never know whom you may need.” At the end of the day, they made their way down to Wicklow town, arriving there at nightfall.

The next morning, they inspected the place. Conall had warned them that his two sons-in-law there had no interest in the cause, but Patrick already had a merchant in the town who had volunteered, and he gladly took them round.

Like most Irish towns of the time, it had a barracks with quite a full garrison: Protestant officers, Catholic men. They seemed well-disciplined and quite smartly turned out. “We’ve tried to persuade some of the troops to join us—secretly, of course,” the merchant informed them. “But no luck so far.” Nonetheless, he informed them, he had twenty good men in the town. By midmorning they had parted from him and started back towards Dublin.

They were both rather cheerful. Patrick certainly felt that they were making good progress in Wicklow. A month ago, he had been down in Wexford where his old friend Kelly had told him: “The gentry here are absolutely split into two parties, but many of us, including myself, are with you.” In other parts of the island, however, that lay outside his own remit, especially in Munster and Connacht, little progress had been made. “We shall all have to work hard so that Ireland is ready,” he remarked to MacGowan, “if the French do agree to come.”

Yet whatever the uncertainties both men, for their different reasons, could express confidence. MacGowan’s reasons were practical.

“The Ulster men are formidable,” he observed. “They are the backbone at present. But if a proper military force arrives from France—I mean ten thousand men or so—then I believe the effect upon our Catholic population would be incalculable. Up to now, any protest has been crushed, and they have no hope. But once they see the French—we’ll have a hundred thousand men the next day. Even the whole English army would find it difficult to move about the island with every man’s hand turned against them. We’d harass them and wear them down, just as the Americans did.”

Patrick’s reasons were vaguer, yet perhaps even more strongly felt. It was not so much the Catholic generality in whom he placed his trust, important though they were. It was the involvement of his own, Old English class that moved him.

If the great ducal house of Leinster had been the patron of the Catholic cause in Parliament, it was no less a person than the old duke’s handsome younger son, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, who had now emerged as leader of the cause in Dublin. He had been profoundly affected by the ideals of the French Revolution. “All men are equal,” he would remind his friends, “the duke and the street sweeper, the Protestant and the Catholic. And all social systems which deny such an obvious truth will sooner or later be swept away.” And he practised what he preached. He’d stop in the middle of a Dublin street and talk to some modest labourer with just the same, simple honesty with which he’d have spoken to a noble lord. He cut his hair unfashionably short; and in his manner of dressing, you might have taken him for a modest Paris tradesman rather than an Irish aristocrat. Seeing Patrick’s unusual household with Brigid the peasant girl, he had taken him for a member of his own class who shared the same egalitarian outlook. “It’s up to us, Patrick, to take the lead,” he had once confided in him. “I feel better, having you by my side.” And even if some of Lord Edward’s ideas seemed a little too radical to Patrick, he warmed to the aristocrat’s noble idealism.

Two weeks ago, Patrick had chanced to meet him at his cousin Eliza’s house. Taking him to one side, Lord Edward had confided: “Patrick, I’m going to make my own approach to the French, to back up Tone. Between our two efforts, I’m sure we shall persuade them. But I beg you, not a word to anyone yet.” If this confidence—and the fact that he had a slight family connection with the great aristocratic dynasty—gave Patrick a certain snobbish delight, the idea that they were fighting side by side for the cause of the Irish people was imbued, in Patrick’s mind, with an almost mystical quality.

Not that his religion was intense. Brought up by a physician father of liberal outlook, and coming of age when the French ideas of rational enlightenment were all the rage, it wasn’t surprising that Patrick’s religion was kindly rather than devout. If Wolfe Tone and the Ulster Presbyterians, who were now so important to him, privately thought of their Catholic allies as medieval obscurantists, Patrick would not entirely have disagreed. “I believe that the world must have been created by an eternal, all-encompassing being that we call God. And Christianity expresses the divine nature. But I don’t believe much more than that,” he once confessed to Georgiana. “So I suppose I’m what people nowadays call a Deist.”

“So are most of the clever men I know,” she replied with a smile, “Catholic or Protestant.”

This in no way prevented him from going to Mass or making his confession—and certainly not from fighting for justice for his fellow Catholics in Ireland. Yet if he had no interest in visiting the holy well of St. Marnock, as his grandfather had still done, when he thought of himself and Lord Edward fighting for the ancient Catholic cause, he felt that he was fulfilling a sacred trust, and he experienced a sense of rightness, as if this was what his ancestors, and no doubt the deity Himself, had destined him to do.

They were ten miles from Dublin when they met Hercules, in the company of Arthur Budge, riding towards them.

It was many years since Hercules had spoken to his cousin. Even when Patrick had come up to him before the parliamentary debate of ’92, he had not said a word in reply. But now, seeing him coming from Wicklow, together with that cursed Catholic merchant John MacGowan, he did not hesitate.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded roughly.

“I’m after taking Mr. MacGowan to see Glendalough,” Patrick answered with a bland smile. “Did you never go there, Hercules? It’s a lovely spot. St. Kevin’s hermitage may still be seen.”

Hercules looked at the two men with disgust.

They were all the same, these Catholics, he considered. Insinuating and deceitful. Jesuits to a man. He would never forget that John MacGowan had pretended to be a Protestant so that he could sneak into the Aldermen of Skinners Alley. Once a liar, always a liar, as far as Hercules was concerned. As for Patrick, his loathing for his Catholic cousin had only grown down the years. If as a young man he had been jealous of the love his own mother felt for Patrick—her preference for his cousin, he’d sometimes suspected—by the time his grandfather had left Patrick the legacy, it had become clear to him that his cousin was only preferred because he practised the Catholic arts of manipulation. Dishonesty: that was all it was. As for Patrick’s attempt to persuade him to change his convictions before that parliamentary debate, it had been contemptible. Did the devious Catholic really imagine he would be swayed by these hypocritical appeals to his better nature—from a man who, himself, had been living in sin with his concubine for years? No, Patrick was nothing.

But what was he doing here? This tale about Glendalough was obviously a lie, intended to taunt him. But what did it conceal?

If Hercules was suspicious of the two Catholics, it was not surprising. The fear of the suppressed Catholic majority was so endemic in governing circles that almost anything a Catholic did might be seen as evidence of a conspiracy of some sort. When tensions between Protestant and Catholic textile workers had flared up in Ulster, and the Catholics had formed groups they called Defenders, to protect themselves against Protestant mobs, the government had seen it as a conspiracy. As a result, the Defenders had spread, and turned into just the sort of disruptive secret society that the government feared. Before that, down in County Wexford, some rural disturbances against the high tithes and other exactions made by the clergy had soon been denounced as another Catholic assault on decency and order. The charge was absurd, but despite the fact that his own family estate was in the same county, and he should have known better, Hercules had chosen to believe it.

In the last three years, however, the usual fear had turned to alarm. The Catholic Defenders seemed to be spreading and merging with the United Irishmen. Wolfe Tone and his friends were clearly up to something—but what? The Castle men weren’t sure. Would revolutionary France try to foment trouble in Ireland? Quite likely. But nobody could find any clear evidence. FitzGibbon and the Troika did not intend to wait meekly for something to emerge. They took action. In every barracks, military men were drilled. A series of raids on suspect United Irishmen served to frighten many of their friends. Landowners were told to be vigilant. New justices of the peace were appointed and given extra powers of search and arrest.

It was exactly this process that had caused the two men to undertake their present journey. Hercules was going to Wexford. None of the family had been down to Mount Walsh since the previous year, since his parents had decided to spend this summer in Fingal. And though his easygoing father had assured him that the Wexford countryside was quiet, Hercules had decided to go to see for himself. As for Arthur Budge, his journey was more official. His father had been urging him for some time to return to Rathconan and run the estate, and now he had also asked the government to appoint Arthur as local magistrate in his place. It was as a justice of the peace, therefore, with stern injunctions to watch out for trouble, that Arthur Budge was now on his way to spend a month at Rathconan. As they were on terms of friendly acquaintance in Dublin, Arthur had invited Hercules to accompany him and spend the night at Rathconan upon his way.

Having parted from Patrick and MacGowan, Hercules turned to his companion.

“I hate those men,” he remarked. “If they had their way, Ireland would be plunged into chaos.”

“You fear chaos,” Budge replied grimly. “But don’t forget, I fear something worse.”

“What is worse than chaos?”

“Catholic rule. Remember, a century ago, when King James brought Catholicism back to Ireland, it only took months for the papists to start taking over everything. It can happen again, and it could be worse. If the Catholics come into power, they’ll throw every Protestant settler off his land. We Budges will be lucky if we escape naked with our lives.”

“And what about their allies, the Protestant Patriots, and the Ulster Presbyterians?”

“They will lead the Catholics to victory, then they will be overwhelmed by them. It is inevitable.” He grunted. “You think you are fighting for order. But I know I’m fighting for my life.”

“Don’t worry,” said Hercules quietly. “We’ll destroy them.”

Patrick was glad to get back to his family. The household of Patrick Walsh and Brigid Smith was unusual, but it seemed to suit them both. The pretence that she was his housekeeper had been quietly dropped as time went on, but in its place had been substituted something else.

She had taken to the stage. The old Smock Alley Theatre had closed now, but the Crow Street Theatre, well-placed off Dame Street just halfway between the Castle and Trinity College, was a large and lively place which catered to an audience of all classes. Brigid’s slim figure, her dark hair and green eyes, had created quite a stir when she first appeared there; her voice, when she had learned to project it, had a pleasing resonance; and she had shown an unexpected talent for comedy. She was a popular performer, and her appearances were all the more attended because they were occasional—for she always put the needs of her children first. There were four children now: two boys and two girls, the eldest thirteen, the youngest three.

With this change in role had come a change in status. Dublin society was genial. Even in the greatest aristocratic houses, the atmosphere was far more easygoing than in the proud mansions of London. In the public assemblies at such places as the Rotunda Gardens by the lying-in hospital, the fashionable world mixed freely with merchants and tradesmen. If she wanted to go about in her own right, as a beautiful and talented actress she would find a friendly welcome in many places; and if she happened to be a gentleman’s mistress—well, such things were to be expected in people connected with the stage. More problematic, however, was her connection to Patrick. The difficulty for the respectable residents of Dublin’s Georgian terraces and squares was well summed up by Georgiana: “People feel that they can’t invite her as his mistress, and she can’t go as his wife.” In the convention of the time, it would have been easier if she were safely married to someone else.

As it happened, this hardly mattered, because Brigid had little interest in visiting people whom, for the most part, she secretly despised. Georgiana herself would visit her from time to time, and she liked her. She had her own friends whom she saw as she pleased. And if Patrick was asked to dine in this house or that, she was glad that he should go without her.

At first it had suited Patrick very well to have her as his mistress. If he had withdrawn politely from the courtship of two women, either of whom would have been a good marriage, it was not only because he had become obsessed with the green-eyed servant girl. Something within him had also rebelled against the bonds of matrimony. Perhaps it was only the normal selfishness of the bachelor; but perhaps, also, he was drawn to something beyond—a need for larger spaces, wilder shores—that the love of this strange girl from the mountains could satisfy in a way that the companionship of the others never could. His love affair with Brigid had been passionate, and still was. He had seen her transformed from a lonely girl to a confident beauty with a public face. Their children were handsome, and she had brought them up wonderfully.

“Do you not think, after all these years, that for the sake of the children you should marry Brigid?” Georgiana had occasionally taxed him. Yet to his surprise, when he had finally made the offer to Brigid, she had laughed at him and refused.

“People in Dublin tolerate me,” she answered. “But they always remember who you are. To your friends, I’m still the servant girl whose father’s a carpenter up at Rathconan. They’ll never accept me as your wife. I’m better off as I am. Besides,” she smiled, “as things are, Patrick, I’m always free to leave you and take the children back to the mountains if I want.” And because of the streak of stubborn pride in her, he knew she meant it, every word.

So now, after his children had finished climbing over him affectionately, he gave her an account of his journey with MacGowan, and told her privately what had passed between himself and her parents.

Though Brigid had always been aware, in a general way, of his activities for the United Irishmen, there had been no need to tell her all the details. With the way things were progressing now, however, he felt that he ought to warn her that the business could become more dangerous. “At some point,” he explained, “it’s likely that we shall be issuing arms.” She listened to him carefully, and when he had finished, she only asked him one question.

“Do you truly believe in what you are doing, Patrick?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I do.”

“Don’t forget to give me a gun when it starts,” she said. That was all.

Georgiana’s party took place early the following week. It had been arranged at short notice after she and her husband had come into Dublin earlier than expected. Like his father before him, Lord Mountwalsh had made it plain that, in his genial way, he intended to have an active old age, and some legal business had drawn him back into the city. Since he liked to entertain people at the house on Merrion Square, she had made it her business to discover quickly who else was back in town, so that she could find some congenial company for him.

As the morning of the party arrived, she felt pleased with the company she had invited. There would be her daughter Eliza Fitzgerald and her husband, a couple of political men, both of moderate opinions, an amusing lawyer, a clergyman from Christ Church, and one of the Talbots of Malahide—all with their wives. Patrick was invited, alone; also a charming old gentleman who resided on St. Stephen’s Green, named Doctor Emmet, and a few other old friends. Twenty people would sit down to dine in all.

She had asked old Doctor Emmet for a particular reason. While Hercules was down in Wexford, his wife and two sons had remained up at the old estate in Fingal. His elder son William, however, had wanted to come into Dublin with his grandparents. As he was about to go to Trinity College for the first time that autumn, Georgiana had thought to ask Doctor Emmet to bring his own youngest son with him to the dinner, since the boy had already been up at Trinity for several years. Her husband, who knew a number of the professors at Trinity, had already reported, “They say he’s a quiet, studious boy, with a talent for mathematics—well-liked, but as he lives at home with the old doctor, he doesn’t get involved in any of the wilder parties.” Young Emmet would be a nice, quiet young man for her grandson to know, she thought.

Of all her grandchildren, she loved young William the best. She didn’t want to admit it, but all the family knew. And so she was especially glad that it was he who carried her own dear husband’s name. As a baby he had strongly resembled Patrick; but as so often happened with children, his face had changed as he grew up, and now, at fifteen, he was starting to look just like old Fortunatus. So strongly did he bring back the memory of the dear old man she had been so close to that, more than once, catching sight of the boy that summer, she had caught her breath and then, to hide her sudden emotion, been forced to turn away. But in particular, it was the boy’s generous nature that she loved. Once, when still a young boy, he had encountered some youths hurling stones at a stray puppy in a Dublin street, and without a thought for himself, he’d bravely driven them off, rescued the animal, and taken it home. The dog had been devoted to him ever since. The previous summer, when his younger brother had been sick for several weeks, William, who loved to be active, had sat with him every day by the hour, reading to him, playing cards, and keeping him amused. The doctors said the young fellow’s recovery was largely due to his elder brother.

The only moment of doubt she had experienced about the party, however, had been on William’s account.

“Can I invite old Doctor Emmet?” she had consulted her husband. “He’s the most harmless of men, but he was always a Patriot. And what about Patrick? What would Hercules say about his son meeting people he hates at our house?”

But Lord Mountwalsh had been firm.

“Our house has always been a place where people of any persuasion are welcome, as long as they express their views with courtesy,” he pointed out, “and we shall not change for Hercules. Besides, young William is going to encounter people of every kind of opinion at Trinity. As for Patrick, Hercules may not like him, but of course William should meet his cousin once in a while.”

On the morning of the party, however, he complained that he had slept badly and felt unwell, and Georgiana had asked him if he wanted to cancel it.

“Not at all, my dear,” he had announced stoutly. “I shall take a cure. I shall go to Mr. Joyce’s Turkish Baths.”

If the English town of Bath had become fashionable for setting up a spa on the site of an old Roman baths, Dublin now had a Roman bathhouse of its own—except that, in the modern fashion, it was called a Turkish baths. The colourful entrepreneur who had set it up had been a Turk, wonderfully named Doctor Borumborad, whose thick beard and oriental robes had caused quite a stir in Dublin—until he had finally abandoned the disguise and revealed himself as a Mr. Patrick Joyce from Kilkenny. His baths had continued to flourish, however. They contained the usual steamy rooms and a magnificent plunging bath. Having been persuaded by a friend to try it once, Lord Mountwalsh had become quite a patron of the establishment, and the management were always delighted, naturally, to receive a visit from him. By early afternoon, they had returned him to her looking rosy-cheeked and contented.

“And now, my dear,” he announced cheerfully, “I shall enjoy our party.”

And he certainly did. As the guests arrived that evening, it pleased her so much to see how delighted he was to greet them. Patrick he greeted with particular affection. And it was clear that he was also rather proud to show off his young grandson, whom he insisted on keeping by his side as the guests arrived, and then as he made his way round them all again as they assembled in the parlour before the dinner.

Doctor Emmet, grey-haired but sprightly, had duly obliged and brought his youngest son with him, and once young William had finally been disengaged from his grandfather, she brought the two boys together.

It was interesting to observe the two of them together. Her grandson was actually the larger of the two, for Robert Emmet turned out to be a small, somewhat swarthy fellow, with a mop of black hair and small eyes that seemed to look out on life with a quiet but sharp intensity. Standing beside him, her grandson, with his friendly, open countenance, reminded her of a broad-faced gun dog beside a dark terrier. Robert Emmet seemed to be talking to her grandson pleasantly enough, however.

Elsewhere in the room, her guests were all conversing happily. She had observed Patrick greet her daughter Eliza and Fitzgerald warmly, and talk to several of the other guests. Now he was deep in conversation with Doctor Emmet.

Patrick liked old Emmet. Not that he was so old: he must be a little short of seventy, Patrick guessed. But he was in semiretirement now, spending a good portion of his time at a small but pleasant estate he owned just south of the city. For years he’d been the governor of the hospital set up by Dean Swift’s kindly legacy, and he had known Patrick’s father well, and he was always happy to supply Patrick with anecdotes of his father’s younger days. It was well-known that the good doctor supported the Patriot and Catholic causes. “Though I dare say,” he remarked to Patrick, “that we had better not speak too loudly of that in the present climate.” He gave Patrick a meaningful look. “Dangerous times, Walsh. Dangerous times.”

“Ah,” said Patrick noncommittally. If old Doctor Emmet had been a supporter of these causes, his support, Patrick felt sure, had never gone beyond a florid speech or courteous argument. He couldn’t imagine the good doctor in the streets with a musket. Also, he was not entirely confident of the older man’s discretion.

“You’ve brought your young son with you,” he remarked, to change the subject.

“Robert. You’ve never met him?”

“I haven’t.” He had not seen the boy before; but he knew his elder brother, Tom Emmet the barrister. And he also knew that Tom Emmet was a good friend of Wolfe Tone, and undoubtedly knew about his mission to France. But did the old doctor know of this? He guessed that he probably did not. So he listened quietly while the doctor pronounced upon Robert’s mathematical abilities, and the importance of mathematics in general, until dinner was announced.

The dinner was a noble affair. The day before, a cart had arrived from the Fingal estate with every kind of produce from the estate. Vegetables, cheeses, a great side of beef, smoked ham, and fruits, fresh and potted, from which the chef had constructed several desserts, including a fruit jelly of such sumptuous architecture that all the company declared they had never seen anything like it. The meal was served by ten footmen; the dinner service from China, upon which the family’s arms and baronial coronet were handsomely featured, added a touch of magnificence to the friendly occasion. The Mountwalshes certainly did things very well, and there was no reason why they shouldn’t.

Lord and Lady Mountwalsh liked to sit opposite each other at the centre of the big table, and there being more women than men in the party, Patrick and young William found themselves sitting together at one of the ends. Patrick had no objection to this. Thanks to Hercules’s antipathy towards him, he had scarcely ever had the chance to talk to William, and he was delighted to find him such a pleasant and open young fellow. He seemed to be intelligent, and his likeness to old Fortunatus was striking. He was careful to steer their conversation away from political subjects which might give offence to the boy’s father, and he was sorry that, for the same reason, he couldn’t invite the boy to visit him at home and meet Brigid and their children. They had just embarked together on the fruit jelly when, taking him by surprise, young William initiated the subject himself.

“Why is it that you and my father are not friends?” he suddenly asked.

Patrick hesitated. He wanted to be honest with the boy, but he had to be careful.

“Your father is a fine man,” he began. It was, he considered, a necessary lie. “And I have a high regard for him.” Another lie. “But I come from the Catholic side of the family, and I support a political cause which he strongly believes is not only wrong but dangerous. He has every reason to dislike me, therefore, and rather than come to blows, he avoids me.”

“Are such differences enough to break apart the bonds of kinship?”

“They always have been. Yes.”

“You don’t seem so bad to me.”

“You don’t know me.” Patrick smiled. “If a cousin offends you, it may be better to cut him off. Your father’s probably right to do what he does.”

It was at this moment that Hercules Walsh appeared in the doorway of the dining room.

From where he was sitting, Patrick could see Georgiana’s face display a sudden look of apprehension. From the doorway, Hercules did not notice it. Lord Mountwalsh, however, with half a century of genial politics behind him, remained unfazed. You had to admire him. Collecting himself at once, he positively beamed at his son.

“My dear boy. Did you just arrive? Welcome back. Join us. Bring him a chair,” he called to a footman. “I am most delighted to see you,” the old man splendidly lied.

“I went to my house and learned that my son was here,” Hercules replied evenly.

“He is. Indeed he is. Come here, William,” he cried, “and greet your father.”

But it was too late. Hercules’s gaze had already started to travel down the table. His eyes rested, just long enough to register disgust, upon old Doctor Emmet; then, ignoring the clergyman and one of the moderate politicians, they reached young William and Patrick and stopped, fixing them both in a terrible, adamantine stare.

“William, get up,” he said coldly. “You are leaving.”

The table froze.

“You are in my house, Hercules.” His father’s voice broke the silence in a growl. Hercules continued to stare at his son, ignoring Lord Mountwalsh entirely. He beckoned to William.

“I said,” his father repeated, somewhat more loudly, “you are in my house, Sir.”

“And I do not care,” Hercules did not deign to look at his father, but continued to gaze at Patrick, “for the company I find here.” Then, as young William, blushing with embarrassment and confusion, began to rise, Hercules suddenly turned to glare accusingly at his father. “Nor do I care for the manner in which you entrap my son into such company when you believe my back is turned.”

“Hercules,” his mother cried out, “that is quite unfair.”

“I consider it,” Hercules’s voice rose, as he enunciated the word with venomous fury, “dishonest!”

Patrick saw Georgiana wince, but Lord Mountwalsh was not disposed to be so put upon. His face was puce.

“Do you come here, Sir, to insult your father and your mother in their own house—and in front of their guests? Leave us, Sir, at once.” He rose to his feet. “Leave us, Sir,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “and pray do not come here again!”

Making a contemptuous bow to the company, Hercules turned and stalked out of the door, followed, miserably, by his son.

After that the dinner continued, but not quite so well.

A quarter of an hour after midnight, while still pacing up and down furiously in his dressing room, Lord Mountwalsh suffered a sudden apoplexy and dropped dead on the spot.

When he went to Trinity College that autumn, young William Walsh made one request. “I don’t want to live at home like the Emmet boy. I want to live in college like my father did.” This was granted, and William was glad.

On the day of his departure, his father called him into his dressing room for a private word.

The death of old George had meant a change of status for Hercules. He was Lord Mountwalsh now. He would no longer occupy a seat in the Irish House of Commons, where the fact that he had to submit to election—albeit by three family friends and a dozen docile freeholders—had always offended his sense of propriety. Now he would sit in the Irish House of Lords by the ultimate sanction of hereditary right. From the day of his father’s funeral, servants and tradesmen had addressed him respectfully as “your lordship” or “my lord.” Even better, perhaps, he had received a letter from a fellow aristocrat, which charmingly began, “my dear lord.” When he walked, his brutal stride had, in some indefinable way, become stately; when he talked, he had the comfort of knowing that his opinions were right—not on account of mere, vulgar reason, but because they proceeded from himself. If he was not a man to practise the soft speech of aristocratic courtesy, it could nonetheless be said that, in the space of only a few short weeks, the ermine mantle of pomposity had descended upon him and fitted, very snugly, around his shoulders.

He looked at his eldest son kindly.

“So William, you are off to Trinity.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I had happy years there myself, and I’m sure that you will, too.” He smiled. “Before you go, William, there are one or two things I want to say to you, as a father.” He motioned to a couch against the wall. “Sit down beside me, my boy.”

William had never had a heart-to-heart with his father before, as Hercules had never been inclined towards intimacy. With a sense that he was about to discover something important, he listened attentively.

“You are going to be a young man soon,” his father said. “Indeed, I think you are a man already. And I know you have a good heart.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“One day, I expect you’ll go into Parliament, as I did. And eventually, of course, you’ll succeed me.” He rested his hand on William’s shoulder for a moment. “These are the privileges of our position, William. But they come with responsibilities. And you and I have to be ready to accept those, too. I’m sure you’re ready, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Very well. There is no one that I trust more than my own son, and I hope you know that you can always trust me.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“From now on, you and I shall work as a team.” He paused. “There are some things that, for the time being, I cannot tell even you, William. But the latest information, I can promise you, is alarming. There is a body of men, many of them here in Dublin, which plans a course of action that would destroy this island. These men talk of freedom, and some of them may believe that is their object, but if they were ever allowed to succeed, the consequences would be entirely different. I speak of invasion by our enemies, of blood in the streets, and the death not of fighting men, William, but of thousands of innocents. Women and children. It has happened here before. It can happen again. Is that what we want?”

“No, Father.” So far, William was a little disappointed, for he had heard such things before.

“Fortunately,” his father continued, “our information is better than they think. All over Ireland, good men are keeping watch: gentlemen, honest tradesmen, even the poorer sort—men with good hearts. We know much of what is being done, and how, often as not I dare say, simple people are being led astray. And we also know, William, that there is a group of men connected with the university who are eager to entrap any young men they can. They mean to recruit amongst the undergraduates. They will approach with a friendly face, but in the end, their object is to make use of the unfortunate young men and finally to destroy them.”

“I’ll be careful, Father.”

“You, of course, would never be taken in by them. But others might. So I want you to be more than careful, William. I want you to be vigilant. If you see anything that you think suspicious—and you never know what may be of significance—I want you to say nothing. But you should quietly tell me. I shall know how to make the right enquiries. Just by doing that, you may perform a great service for your country.” He paused, looked at William earnestly, then put his hand again on his shoulder. “It might seem to you that this is not an honourable action. The person concerned might even be a friend. But we owe a higher duty, you and I. And I can promise you, the best service you could do for any friend is to save him from a course of action he would later bitterly regret.”

“I see.” He waited. “Is there more, Father?”

“No, William, I think that is all.” He nodded and then, probably remembering what his father had once said to him, added: “God bless you, my boy.”

Ten minutes later, his younger brother found William sitting on his bed, staring moodily out of the window.

“What is it, William?”

“Father wanted to talk to me.” William continued to stare out of the window.

“Oh. What did he say?”

“He said that while I’m at Trinity, I am to spy on my friends.”

“Oh, William. You would never do such a thing.”

“I’m to be a government informer. It’s my duty, he says.” William was silent for a moment. “That was all he had to say to me, you know. Nothing else.” He turned to his brother. Tears were welling up in his eyes. “That’s all there is, I think. That is the love of my father.”

During the months that followed, William enjoyed the life of the college and attended to his studies. These occupied a good deal of his time because, although the young men at Trinity knew how to amuse themselves, the courses at Dublin were often said to be more demanding than those of Oxford and Cambridge.

As for the situation of Trinity, it was unrivalled.

For by now, after St. Petersburg, Dublin was the most splendid Roman capital in northern Europe. The great courtyards and buildings of Trinity itself were magnificent; step out of the main gate onto College Green, and the grandeur of the Parliament building greeted you immediately opposite. Past that, Dame Street led past the theatre towards the Castle and the Royal Exchange, another fine, classical structure. Stroll a few yards to the banks of the Liffey, and there, just across the stream, stretched the imposing façade of the completed Custom House. Look upstream, and your eye would rest upon the rotunda and dome of the Four Courts. And all around, on both sides of the water, the wide streets and squares of Georgian Dublin spread, in their gracious assemblage, beside the harbour and under the timeless gaze of the Wicklow Mountains.

Professors and politicians, government officials and lawyers, clergymen, merchants, actors, fashionable gentlemen and ladies, they all converged on the area round College Green, and the Trinity College men were in the centre of it all. There was no better place to attend university in the world.

From time to time he would catch sight of his father coming from the Parliament. Two or three times, his grandmother Georgiana came to see him. She would walk round the college with him. If they encountered any of his professors or acquaintances, she would ask him to introduce them; and it was obvious that her reputation preceded her, for even those of his fellows who usually avoided him seemed to smile when they saw the rich and kindly old Lady Mountwalsh.

Unfortunately, there were quite a lot of people who avoided him.

Not all the undergraduates had clear political opinions—about half of them, he guessed. He wasn’t sure he had himself. But the two most fashionable camps were those who supported the French Revolution and its ideals, and those who opposed it. These were the great questions argued over at the Historical Society, as the university’s debating club was known, where arguments were passionate and, this being Ireland, eloquence was prized. It had become the fashion for those who most passionately espoused the revolutionary cause to follow the example of Lord Edward Fitzgerald and crop their hair short. “Croppies,” their conservative opponents contemptuously called them. With most of the students, however, their affiliation was not so obvious.

But as the weeks went by, he began to realise that there was an easy way of telling where someone’s sympathies lay: if they were revolutionaries, they avoided him. In the end, he decided to ask Robert Emmet about it.

Despite the embarrassing incident at his grandparents’ house, Emmet had been very kind, sought him out when he first arrived, and shown him around. Every week or two he’d have William round to his rooms, and he’d introduced him to a few pleasant fellows. When they were alone, he’d always talk to William in a very easy way, and even share personal confidences. “I’m still foolishly shy sometimes,” he might confess; or, smiling ruefully at his hands: “Why do I bite my fingernails?” William noticed, however, that he always kept these confidences to trivial things. If ever William introduced any subject that might lead to a philosophical or political discussion, Emmet would deflect him with some light remark and turn the conversation to another topic. Nonetheless, towards the end of November, he did manage to pin him down on this question, when he asked him bluntly: “Emmet, why do so many people avoid me?”

“Well,” Emmet had responded after a pause, “why do you think it is?”

“I suppose they think that, because Lord Mountwalsh is my father, I must share his political views.”

“And do you share your father’s views?”

“I don’t know,” William answered honestly.

Emmet regarded him curiously.

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to know what they really think? They think you’re a spy. Anything they say to you will go back to your father, and from him, straight to the Castle and the Troika.”

William blushed and looked down.

“I see.” He sighed. “And do you think that of me? Do you imagine I would do anything so low?”

“I don’t know. You can’t blame us,” he added.

“No.” He nodded sadly. He couldn’t. “I’d rather die than be a spy,” he burst out miserably. “What shall I do?”

“Nothing,” his friend sensibly replied. “If you try to prove you aren’t a spy, that will only make people more suspicious. You’ll just have to be patient.”

And so William went about his business as quietly as he could; and then the Christmas season came, and he spent some time at home. He still didn’t know what he thought about the great political questions, and he wasn’t intending to think about them over Christmas when, two days before the day itself, his father came hurrying back to the house.

“It’s beginning,” he cried. “I knew it would. The French have arrived. In Cork. The French fleet’s been seen in Bantry Bay.”

History furnishes many tantalizing moments—turning points when, had it not been for some chance condition, the course of future events might have changed entirely. The arrival, on 22 December 1796, of the French fleet in sight of Bantry Bay, at the south-western tip of Ireland, is one of them.

God knows, the idea that the French might invade Ireland was nothing new. During the course of the eighteenth century, as the British Empire had found itself sometimes the ally but more often the enemy of France, the fear that the French might try to stir up trouble by sending troops to Ireland had come and gone many times. But now it had actually happened.

And the results of Wolfe Tone’s efforts in France had been remarkable. So well had he impressed the Directory who governed the new, revolutionary republic that they had sent not a token contingent but a fleet of forty-three ships, carrying fifteen thousand troops. Equally important, the ships also carried arms—for fortyfive thousand men. And perhaps most important of all, they were under the command of a general, named Hoche, who was the rival of the republic’s rising star, Napoleon Bonaparte. If he could take Ireland, Hoche might eclipse the upstart Bonaparte entirely.

But the fates, that winter, with or without reason, had decided to deny the French general his chance of immortality. As the fleet made its way into the northern seas, it encountered veils of mist which soon enveloped it; the mist grew ever thicker, until half the fleet lost its way. Those who continued towards Ireland were met with gales, and by the time they came within sight of Bantry Bay, it was impossible to land. Day after day, Wolfe Tone gazed through the spray at the distant Irish hills, rolling and dipping tantalizingly upon the horizon. He even persuaded the captain of his vessel to make a run towards land, but the others would not follow him, and at last, on the fifth day, the fleet sailed away. Had the weather been better, and had so large a force landed, they might have been successful. But as it was, the forces of nature had preserved the Protestant Ascendancy that Christmas season, and the men in Dublin Castle were not slow to claim that they saw in this the hand of God.

The French invasion had failed. Yet when the news of Bantry Bay reached Rathconan, Conall was not downhearted. Quite the reverse: he felt a sense of elation.

“I never thought they’d come,” he confessed to Deirdre. And late in January, when he paid a visit to Patrick in Dublin, he learned that he was not alone.

“They have come once. They will surely come again,” Patrick told him. “The effect upon people is remarkable. Now that they see there is hope, men in every county are coming forward. By summer, we shall have an army of men right across Ireland, ready to rise. The only difficulty,” he added, “is how to arm them.”

Though the legislation of ’93 had taken away the absolute ban, Catholics had been forbidden to own arms for a century; muskets and pistols were hard to come by.

“We’ll do our best,” Conall had promised him. And on his return to Rathconan, he had received help from a rather unexpected quarter.

For when he had mentioned this problem to Finn O’Byrne, the shaggy-haired little fellow had nodded eagerly, and a few days later had appeared at the door of Conall’s cottage proudly bearing a bundle wrapped in a blanket.

It was a remarkable collection: an old ploughshare, two scythes, an axe head, even an old metal breastplate.

“What do you want to do with them, Finn?” Conall asked.

“Find a good blacksmith. Melt them. Make them into pikes. You’re a carpenter. You could make the shafts.”

“That’s true.”

“There’ll be more,” Finn promised. And hardly a week went by without the fellow turning up with some piece of scrap metal he’d scavenged from the area. It was extraordinary what he could find. Sometimes these items could be used, sometimes not; but every month, when Conall made his run down to Wicklow, he would take the scrap metal with his furniture and deliver it to a blacksmith in the town. By the summer, there were thirty pikes secreted in half a dozen hiding places around Rathconan.

But if the threat from France had brought a new hope to the United Irishmen and their friends, it also had two other effects.

Wolfe Tone and his friends might be happy to cooperate with the Catholics for the sake of a new and tolerant state, but there were still many Ulster Presbyterians of the old school who were outraged by such a collusion with papists—who, after all, were still agents of the Antichrist. To combat this growth of papist influence, they had recently begun to form their own secret associations, which, in memory of good King Billie, they called Orange lodges. With the growing threat of invasion, these lodges were spreading even beyond the enclaves of Ulster.

Of more concern to Conall, however, was the other development. For this was local. Though their British troops and Irish militia drilled in the garrison towns like Wicklow and Wexford, the Troika wanted something more. And so a third force had been set up.

“They call them Yeomanry,” Conall remarked. “I call them bandits.”

The purpose of the Yeomanry was to act as a local presence, something between a police force and a vigilante group. Their character and discipline depended on the local gentlemen who recruited and led them. They were manned, almost entirely, by Protestants. Budge’s younger son Jonah commanded the force that covered the area between Rathconan and Wicklow. As Rathconan was frequently visited by Arthur Budge now, and his old father, though walking a little stiffly nowadays, still kept a sharp eye on the place, there was little reason for Jonah Budge and his Yeomen to trouble the quiet of the hamlet much. But it meant that there were more eyes that might be watching, and Conall was always afraid that he might be stopped and searched on his way down to Wicklow.

The spring passed without incident. The work continued quietly through the summer. In August that year, he went to Dublin to see his children for two days. He visited both his sons and stayed with Patrick and Brigid. The night before he returned, John MacGowan came round and the three men talked together for some hours. The mood was cautious, but Patrick was optimistic.

“Lord Edward estimates that by the end of the year we shall have half a million men in Ireland who have taken the oath,” he told them. Since taking an oath to support the United Irishmen was now a criminal offence, this was a remarkable figure. But even if the figure was high, it suggested an entirely new level of commitment to the cause. “When the French come next time, so many will rise that no English force will be able to do anything at all.”

MacGowan was less sanguine.

“The English are equally determined to crush us before that happens,” he said. Certainly, a British army under a brutal commander named Lake was scouring Ulster in search of troublemakers, Presbyterian or Catholic. “They are terrifying Ulster,” he continued. “In one family I know, the Laws, two have been arrested, and one of those, a respectable man, was flogged. Some of the Belfast men are having second thoughts. And it will be our turn next.”

“All that will change when the French come and the rising begins,” Patrick assured him.

“When will that be?” asked Conall.

“We shall hear from Wolfe Tone. Have no fear. In the meantime, prepare.”

A part of MacGowan’s prediction, at least, appeared to be correct, for when Conall reached home the following day, he found that Jonah Budge and two dozen of his Yeomanry had arrived shortly before him. Jonah Budge was still mounted, watching while his men went from house to house. His father was standing beside him, looking cross. Jonah was a tall, square-faced man, a younger version of his father, though with the years, old Budge himself had mellowed somewhat.

“Where have you been?” Jonah asked Conall curtly.

“To Dublin, to see my children,” Conall answered calmly.

“They’ve searched your cottage already, Conall,” old Budge remarked, with an irritable look at his son.

“Did you find anything of interest?” Conall asked innocently, but Jonah Budge ignored him.

They found nothing in any of the other cottages, either. The weapons had been well hidden.

“I told them there was nothing here,” old Budge remarked to Conall after Jonah and his men had gone. It was clear that he resented the idea that his son thought anything could have gone on under his nose.

“I’m glad you did,” Conall answered, with perfect truth.

“Ah, Conall,” the landowner remarked with something approaching intimacy, “quite apart from anything else, I know you wouldn’t be such a fool.”

When Conall related the conversation to Deirdre afterwards, however, she declined to be amused.

“We must thank God they found nothing, Conall,” she said. “But it isn’t only the Budges you have to fear. Haven’t I said it to you before? It’s Finn O’Byrne you should watch.”

“You’ve a terrible prejudice against the man,” he replied. “I’ve no great liking for him myself, but he’s in as deep as any of us.”

And indeed, as the summer ended and autumn set in, Finn remained assiduous in bringing him items that he thought could be useful, and Conall continued to make his journeys down to Wicklow unmolested.

Even in the cloistered precincts of Trinity College, the new military aspect of affairs had permeated. The college had its own Yeomanry now. Students—and they were numerous—who desired to show their loyal convictions could now put on uniforms and parade up and down to their great satisfaction. On the other side, having now been outlawed, the United Irishmen could not form such an open faction, but it was quite the fashionable thing among the “Croppies” and their friends to take the secret and illegal oath: it was dangerous, romantic, and exciting. There were also students who enjoyed looking mysterious and let their friends suppose they were engaged in all kinds of revolutionary activity even if, in fact, they were not.

The position of Robert Emmet remained uncertain. Some believed he had taken the oath, some did not. As for William Walsh, he said nothing and he joined nothing. He listened to everyone, but he expressed no opinion that could be held against him.

It was in the second week of November that he received a visit at Trinity College from his father. Such a thing had never happened before. But having inspected his room, examined his books, and apparently approved of what he found, Lord Mountwalsh smiled quite amiably before addressing his son.

“I had a talk with Lord Clare this morning, William. We spoke about you.”

FitzGibbon, the feared leader of the Troika, had also become Lord Clare. As well as governing Ireland, he was also the Vice Chancellor of Trinity College, which meant that, albeit from a lofty height, he kept his eagle eye upon, it must be supposed, even the least among the students. But why, William wondered, should FitzGibbon be interested in him?

“He spoke to me,” his father continued, “as a friend—which was good of him. He was concerned about you. You are seen frequently with young Robert Emmet.”

“Emmet has been kind to me, Father, but I cannot claim him as a particular friend.”

“Quite so. His father, as you know, has abominable views but is relatively harmless. His older brother, Tom Emmet, is another matter. He is known to be a close associate of the leaders of the United Irishmen. He is dangerous,William. Do you know him?”

“No, Father.” He didn’t.

“I did not think so. Nor does Lord Clare suppose any such association, by the way. But you do know young Robert. It is feared that he might go the way of his brother. A natural fear, I’m sure you’ll agree. Has he spoken of political matters to you?”

“He does not confide such things to me, Father. But he is rather quiet and studious.”

“Perhaps. There was concern that he might try to lead you astray. I explained that there is no possibility that he could succeed. Your mind and character, I know, are far too strong.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“And Lord Clare accepts that such is the case. But I was able to give him a further assurance. I explained that you and I had long ago agreed that, should you see or hear anything that made you suspect the loyalty of anyone here, you would confide it to me. Is there anything you can tell me now, about Emmet in particular?”

“No, Father, there is nothing.”

“You surprise me. However, I have assured Lord Clare that you will increase your vigilance. I should hope that we may be able to contribute something. Meanwhile, I do not think that you need curtail your association with young Emmet. Indeed, quite the reverse. It is entirely possible that, in an unguarded moment of friendship, he may let something fall that would be of interest, even of real importance to our country, William. I shall ask you, therefore, to be assiduous in your observations. I know how good your heart is, so I am sure you understand?”

“Yes, Father. Is that all?”

“Your studies progress well, I trust?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Well done. I shall hope to hear something concerning Emmet. Goodbye, my boy.”

“Goodbye, Father.”

There were a few days of November left when Patrick Walsh received an unexpected visitor. It was his kinsman, young William. The boy seemed to be in a somewhat emotional state and asked to speak to Patrick alone.

“Do you know what my father has asked me to do?” he burst out.

“I have no idea,” Patrick replied kindly.

“He has told me to spy on my friends at Trinity. In case they are traitors—as he would call them. Isn’t that despicable?”

“It’s not a pleasant task, I grant you.”

“My father is a villain.”

“I do not agree,” replied Patrick. “Your father and I dislike each other, but he believes that he is right, and he believes it deeply. Any man, William, will do such things for a cause he truly believes in. You should not blame him.” Though I wonder, he thought to himself, if the roles were reversed, whether Hercules would have spoken so generously of me.

“Well, I won’t make a friend of Emmet just so that I can betray him to my father and FitzGibbon. I’m not a Judas.”

As Patrick received this valuable information, his face was a mask. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“You know, at Trinity, I’ve heard every argument for and against the United Irishmen.”

“I imagine you have.”

“And I like the arguments of the United Irishmen better.” William looked down. “In fact, I should like to take the oath. But not in Trinity. I don’t want them to know.”

“Why do you come to me?”

“Because I’m sure you must be one of them.”

“I see. And even if that were true, how would I know you weren’t a spy?”

The look of horror and mortification on William’s face was so complete that Patrick almost laughed. The best actor in the world— which this innocent boy was not—could not have dissembled like that. He gazed at the young fellow who looked so like old Fortunatus, and felt a wave of affection.

“Your honesty and your courage do you credit,” he said kindly. “But you are too young for such things, William. Come to me again, if you like, in a few years. Your friends at Trinity are young, too, and scarcely know what they are doing. The best course you can follow is to attend to your studies and wait. Your time will come. But I am flattered that you have confided in me.”

“You will not give me the oath?”

“I won’t. Leave it alone.”

When young William had departed, crestfallen, Patrick sat back, closed his eyes, and smiled.

By the time the boy was of age, he thought, God willing, there would already be a new Ireland. And young William Walsh would be a natural leader, one of the finest. He felt a little surge of family pride.

It is not an easy thing for a woman to hate her only son. But Georgiana did, and there was nothing she could do about it. She blamed him for the death of his father—the scene that Hercules had made in their house had undoubtedly caused his apoplexy. And it was no use anyone saying that if it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else: her kindly husband had not been upset like that in years, and given his easy, tranquil life, he might have been good for another ten years or more. At the funeral, Hercules had looked suitably grave, but she didn’t believe he really felt much grief; and when in a moment of anger a day or two later she had cried, “You killed him,” he had curtly told her not to be absurd. Nor was the fact that the whole of fashionable Dublin agreed with her any comfort.

But it was no use dwelling on her feelings, and for the sake of the family dignity, she tried to hide them. No one seeing her and Hercules in public together would have guessed at the cold and bitter hatred in her heart.

For comfort, she had her daughter Eliza living nearby, Patrick, whom she saw quite frequently, and her grandchildren. And of these, of course, the favourite was young William. Perhaps her greatest joy was one of her visits to him at Trinity. But though the young fellow knew she was very fond of him, she took care not to burden him with the full weight of her affection. “I can’t bother the boy all the time,” she remarked to Eliza.

The death of her husband had occasioned one surprise. In frank admission of the source of the family’s wealth, and also of her own good sense, he had not only left Georgiana with a handsome widow’s portion and the right to reside as long as she wished in both the Dublin house and the Wexford estate, but he had also directed that she be shown all the accounts. These were a revelation.

For in his quiet, genial way, the first Lord Mountwalsh had shown himself to be a businessman of genius. Taking the large Law fortune at his disposal, he had used it carefully but with remarkable shrewdness.

Like others of his class, he had attended first to the land, and the last two decades had been kind to him. With rising population and a strong overseas demand, prices for Irish agricultural produce had risen sharply, and the great barley producers of Wexford had done particularly well. Reinvesting his income and speculating cleverly in land leases, he had greatly increased the family’s land holdings in the county. Georgiana discovered that they owned thousands of acres more than she had realised.

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 rain-drops 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.

It was an admirer from the Castle who had been good enough to caution her, a year ago, that Patrick was suspected of conspiracy. She had immediately turned her dark-eyed gaze upon him.

“Why?”

“His cousin, the new Lord Mountwalsh, says so.”

“I suppose you know that Hercules hates him. He has since they were boys, the malicious devil.” She smiled. “I’d never let him do such a thing.” Then she’d laughed. “In any case, I can assure you, Patrick wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Some time later, her friend had remarked: “By the way, about Patrick: I passed on what you said to FitzGibbon himself.”

“What did he say?”

“He just nodded and said, ‘I know.’”

The men at the Castle no doubt assumed that Patrick was sympathetic to the United Irishmen, but so were all kinds of people. He’d always been careful. It was unlikely that they had evidence for anything more. Indeed, she had thought wryly, the known malice of Hercules had probably made Patrick less of a suspect than he might have been otherwise.

All the same, she was relieved when the next sound at the door turned out to be Patrick.

He was glad, but not surprised, to find Lord Edward there. The news was already out that a number of the United Irish leaders had been captured together. He also agreed at once that Fitzgerald should not stay there long.

“I’d trust our servants not to give you away. But sooner or later, even if no one gives me away, there’s a chance this house will be searched, and there’s nowhere to hide you.”

The two men considered, and discarded, several deserted places inside and outside the city. “There’s no use looking for a ship, either,” Patrick said, “because all the ports will be watched.” It was Brigid who finally came up with the solution.

“The safest place isn’t out of the way at all. It’s right in the middle of Dublin, not a mile from the Castle itself.” She smiled. “If you don’t mind the surroundings, you should go to the Liberties.”

The Liberties: the teeming, stinking warrens that once had been the Church’s feudal enclaves and were now home to Dublin’s poorest. You might be an honest Catholic weaver, a Protestant labourer, a whore or a common thief; you might love your neighbour, or plan to kill him; but whoever you were in the Liberties, there was one thing you had in common with everyone else there: a loathing and distrust of the authorities. Even the military patrols preferred to stay out of the Liberties.

Lord Edward asked only one question.

“How?”

“Leave it to me,” promised Brigid. “But be ready before dusk.” Then she went out, and did not return for more than an hour.

No one disturbed the two men as they sat together. There was much to discuss. Depending on how many the Troika had arrested, the leadership of the United Irishmen would clearly be a smaller group. “I shall rely upon you, Patrick,” Lord Edward said, “to be my link with the world.” An immediate question was that of arms. “There are so many caches in the city that I don’t think they will all be discovered,” Fitzgerald declared, “but I want you to keep this list in your safekeeping. Hide it well, for it has them all. If anything happens to you,” he continued, “Brigid will have to pass the information on.”

Above all, they both agreed, after today, it would be critical to keep up everybody’s spirits, so that they would be eager and ready to fight when the time came.

But when would that be? Patrick wanted to know. Had Fitzgerald any news from Wolfe Tone in Paris?

“Nothing definite. But both Talleyrand, who is in charge of all their external affairs, and General Bonaparte are well inclined towards us. Tone hopes for an expedition before the summer.”

“I see.” To Patrick this seemed promising.

Lord Edward looked at him thoughtfully.

“No, Patrick. You do not see. In fact, it was that very matter we were to discuss at the meeting of the council today. My view, you see, is different. If the Troika continues to close in upon us, I believe that another course of action may be necessary.” He paused. “We should rise very soon, with or without the French.”

“By ourselves? Without a trained army?”

“Taking Ireland as a whole, I think we could arm a quarter of a million men.”

“I had never considered such a thing,” Patrick confessed. “The risks . . .”

“Have faith, Patrick,” the aristocrat said.

When Brigid returned, she was feeling pleased. She was carrying a bundle under her arm. She had seen her brother, the tobacconist, and he had promised that by nightfall, he would have a room ready where Lord Edward could lodge, at least for the present. She noticed that Patrick, in particular, was looking concerned, and he asked her nervously if there were patrols in the streets.

“Everywhere,” she answered cheerfully. “But don’t worry. I know what to do.” And she began to unwrap the bundle.

It was as well, she thought, that she belonged to the theatre. It took her half an hour to complete her work, but when she had finished, she was proud of the results. In place of the tall, dark-haired, and youthful-looking aristocrat was a stooped, grey-haired figure in a dirty shirt and a shabby old greatcoat. His boots were scuffed, and he had to lean upon her shoulder in order to walk. As for herself, she was clearly a lady of the night who had once seen better days. “You’re my father,” she instructed him, “and I’m taking you home. Tomorrow,” she added, “we’ll get your own clothes to you, but you must never wear them out of doors.”

“Which way shall we go?” he enquired.

“By the one way that a fugitive would never choose,” she answered. “We’ll walk straight past the gates of Dublin Castle.”

As dusk was about to fall, they set out upon their way, crossing the Liffey to College Green, thence along Dame Street and past the Castle where the sentries regarded them with pity but no interest. They had gone a little farther on when a patrol appeared, and the officer advanced to question them. But Brigid told him sharply that she wanted her father home in the Liberties before dark, and let off such a string of obscenities that the fellow backed away rather than hear any more.

Normally, neither Brigid nor Lord Edward would have cared to walk unguarded about the city at such an hour. For when darkness descended upon Dublin, the city would show its night-time face: like a huge stage set, its houses would turn into black masses, punctuated by candlelight, streets would become canyons, alleys cave-mouths, dark or lamplit—and humans appear like flitting shades. Dangerous shades: from Christ Church to Dame Street, or even the fashionable quiet of St. Stephen’s Green, the figure slumped in an alley or by a tree might be a sleeping drunk or pauper, or it could rise up suddenly to rob you, with a knife at your throat. It was the same in every other great city—London, Paris, or Edinburgh was no different.

But as two poor folk themselves, Brigid and her companion seemed ready to merge with the tattered shadows as they continued westward and passed, unmolested, into the Liberties.

Turning down a small street, then into a stinking alley, Brigid led Lord Edward to a doorway where another shadow, this time her brother, awaited them. Taking them up a rickety stairs, he unlocked the door of a room, which, by the pale light of his lamp, was revealed to contain one wooden chair and some bedding on the bare floor. And here Lord Edward Fitzgerald, son of a duke, descendant of the greatest feudal dynasty and of half the native princes of ancient Ireland, and accustomed to life in the huge palace of Leinster House, prepared to spend a cold March night.