A weak heart, they all said in the Brannigans’ kitchen. Sure, didn’t his mother die of the same thing?
And there he was in Mr and Mrs Brannigan’s bed, a sheet up to his neck, coins on his eyes, in a bedroom where he’d never spent a single night before.
I’d seen it when I was hovering in the kitchen, wondering what to do - the bread knife was lying there, on a chopping block, the remnants of crispy soda bread all around it. I walked over and put my palm across it and looked around the Brannigans’ kitchen. I stared straight ahead as I moved the knife from the board to the table and, in one swift movement, it was in the pocket of my dress, nestled with the handkerchief I’d wiped Daddy’s face with. I sidled out, silent, keeping my head down, slipping away from the wailing and the commotion, out on to the road to walk the short distance to Brabazon House.
Now it loomed in front of me, around the corner of the hill, packed with revellers from the races, eating, drinking and being merry. It was hard to think that they had arranged it so, to pull us from our house on this night, while they celebrated and danced and drank their way into the small hours of the morning. Montgomery would be in the middle of it all, I knew it, talking and laughing and patting his big fat belly. I fingered the knife in my pocket, crouching down in the ditch at the gates, feeling the cold filtering up through my skirts. I just had to figure out how to get in and how to get to Montgomery.
The spirits would help me with the rest.
I closed my eyes and I saw the fear in Daddy’s eyes, the whites looming in the dark, the anger gone, the hope put out, the same as when you blow out the oil lamp, the light extinguished, from bright to dark, in one split second.
My daddy would never celebrate another winter solstice with me.
Neither would Flann Montgomery if I had anything to do with it.
Chapter Six
HENRY
Brabazon House, Co. Meath, Ireland
St. Stephen’s Day, 1894, Grand Ball
Amelia Aherne had changed from her riding skirt and jacket into a bright yellow dress. He thought how the colour suited her; sunny, like her personality, warm, like the hand she had placed on his arm when he’d picked her up, sodden from the ground, after she’d tumbled from her horse. The mare had startled at the noise of the starter’s gun on the first race of the day, tossing Amelia into the air, and down, hard, on to the ground. The horse just missed the white barrier fence then ran around the Dowth racetrack, a large semi-circular course, spread out across two cleared fields in front of Brabazon House.
‘Are you feeling quite alright?’ He’d summoned the courage to approach and interrupt her conversation with a lady he did not recognise. Amelia smiled and blinked a little.
‘No actually, I’m sore all over. But it was an excellent race meet, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, excellent. Did you have any winners?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Donkeys, the whole lot of them.’ They both laughed. The St Stephen’s Day race meet at Dowth and the Grand Ball afterwards was the highlight of the Christmas season. It attracted guests from as far as Dublin and Wicklow, who left their town houses and settled into their villas and country houses nearby for the festive celebrations. Henry found it all exhausting, but it did throw up the opportunity to look and now, speak to, the lovely Amelia Aherne.
‘He does so love a meet,’ said Amelia, looking over at Henry’s father, Seymour, who was dressed in a black tuxedo and had a fat cigar in his hands. ‘Do you think he misses it, racing?’
Seymour had been a renowned horseman in his day, having grown up on the track built on the estate by his grandfather. Henry’s brother Arthur had inherited their father’s desire and skill for speed, something that had completely by-passed Henry.
‘I had money on your brother,’ said Amelia. ‘Second just isn’t good enough.’
‘No, Arthur hates to lose,’ said Henry.
Musicians had set up in the corner of the great room, and were playing soft music to accompany the racegoers as they began to congregate in small groups on the sofas, at the fire, and near the large sideboard where the drinks were being served. Outside carriages were pulling up and dropping the guests off, wearing their winter finery. The scent of soap and cologne filled the air, but Henry couldn’t shake the smell of wet earth in his nose.
Arthur looked like an animated school-boy, flitting from one guest to another. Henry knew by his movements and the grin on his face that he was already quite drunk. Amelia stood out in the room as though there were a halo around her. No matter where Henry moved, he always knew where she was, his eyes following her, staring at her back, or glancing at her face. He longed to stand by her all evening, to talk to her, to listen to her stories. But it was rude to ignore the other guests and reluctantly he bowed out of the conversation and moved off to mingle as he was obliged.
‘Henry,’ called Seymour as Henry made his way towards the drinks cabinet. His father was deep in conversation with Flann Montgomery.
‘I was just saying to Montgomery here that you had some concerns about the Thomases.’ He nodded to Montgomery, who looked at Henry.
‘No need to have any concern,’ said Montgomery. ‘We have the full weight of the law behind us. We have proof. And we must make a stand.’ He looked at Henry squarely.
Henry felt his pulse quicken. It always did when he felt he was stepping up to a debate.
‘That may be,’ said Henry. ‘But for my taste, evicting a family at Christmas time is a poor show. I’m concerned it will reflect badly on us - on the Trust.’
Seymour looked to Montgomery, waiting for an answer. More and more he had been turning to Henry for his opinion on business matters, trusting his more modern judgment on certain matters.
‘Eviction is a tasteless business, Master Brabazon,’ said Montgomery. ‘Nobody wishes to evict a family. But, this is about keeping the peace. If word got around, there would be three hundred people outside that house, protesting and maudlin’ and causing ructions altogether.’
‘Isn’t there another way? Couldn’t we have come to a more peaceful arrangement?’ asked Henry, looking at a tiny cauliflower boil nestled on the side of Montgomery’s face.
‘We have tried everything, Sir. Given many a chance to right the wrongs. But they haven’t taken those chances; they’ve only themselves to blame. He’s a shockin’ stubborn man is Oliver Thomas.’
‘Indeed,’ said Henry. Montgomery was hardly the most surrendering of men himself. ‘Well, Mr Montgomery, it is my opinion that this will come back to bite us. I really hope that you can manage this situation.’
‘Mounted troops have been drafted in,’ said Montgomery. ‘Everything is being done by the book. Best to do it tonight, no fuss, in one sweep. You’ll see.’
‘I suppose I will,’ said Henry, his eyes still focused on the boil, past which Miss Amelia, with her hair piled high on her head, had just come into view.
* * *
Charity Eustace sat beside Henry for the entire length of supper that night and for each and every minute when she wasn’t lifting her fork, knife or spoon to her mouth, she sat and picked at her nails. Henry watched the tiny flakes of skin fall from her hands on to the red tablecloth, creating their own snow storm at the dinner table. His stomach turned each time he caught sight of her hands. He imagined her lying in bed beside him and running her picked-at nails across his stomach and up to his face.
Seymour sat at the head of the table, raising his glass to several toasts throughout the meal, telling jokes, guffawing and leaning forward to shout down the table at guests who were too far away to join in the fun.
Henry started to drink his wine faster, hoping the liquid would seep into his blood and help him get through the evening. He thought how he would like to be at Oxford, the fire lit, a stack of books to read, the distant rumble of dorm-room arguments over cards the only disturbance.
‘What are your plans after Oxford?’ asked Charity.
‘I suppose I shall come back here to t
he estate,’ he said.
‘You won’t be travelling?’ she asked. Henry thought it sounded more like an order than a question, but he answered, that no, it was unlikely.
‘So many young men travel, it’s such a waste,’ she said. ‘What could be so interesting about climbing on a filthy ship to cross the sea to visit countries that are stinking poor and riddled with disease? Lord knows what one could bring back.’
‘The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page,’ said Henry, looking straight ahead and then turning to find Charity staring at him, her face contorted in confusion.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Nonsense. I really don’t understand the need to undertake such journeys. I often think those who wish to travel are running away from something.’
Commitment, thought Henry. Somebody had obviously taken a round the world trip simply to avoid having anything to do with this woman. Charity Eustace’s family owned a land mass half the size of Leinster. It spread from Carlow in the south, up through the midlands and tipped their border at Meath.
His father thought that she would make a suitable match for marriage, despite Henry’s protestations.
‘I understand your concerns for the future,’ Henry had told his father earlier, standing in front of the large mahogany desk in the study. ‘But Charity Eustace is out of the question.’
Seymour’s bald head was bent over a pile of parchment, documents that looked as though they were written in the previous century.
‘Did I mention her?’ said his father, looking up and holding out his hands, pleading innocence.
He had aged, his father. His jowls had grown droopy, sagging over his stiff white collar, his sideburns covering the descent a little. He looked tired, a puffiness under his eyes and he squinted at Henry, as though his eyesight was failing, as though he wasn’t sure if it was indeed his son who was standing before him.
‘You didn’t have to,’ said Henry.
‘You could learn to love her,’ said Seymour.
Henry shook his head and didn’t respond. He couldn’t find the words. He was tired of this pressure, of this subject that flared every time his father got him alone.
‘Consider her,’ said his father. ‘At the ball, tonight - I want you to make an effort. Talk to her, look for her good attributes. I am sure she has many. I never took you for a shallow fellow, Henry. I thought you were beyond that.’
The jibe was meant to hurt. A tactic often used by his father, when his direct requests were failing. And so, as Henry expected, he had been placed side by side with Charity at dinner and the evening stretched ahead into one long event that had to be endured.
‘I’ve been thinking about India,’ said Henry winding Charity up. ‘It’s a fascinating place. Such wonderful culture.’
He looked at her face, which was again gnarled into a puss. This is how he might pass the evening, he decided. Teasing and drinking. And watching Miss Aherne, who had been placed at the opposite end of the table, near to his father.
After supper, the table was cleared away and the floor opened up for dancing. The band started up loudly, Arthur standing in front of them waving sheets of music in the air.
‘Come away,’ hissed Henry and he grabbed Arthur by the elbow, leading him off to a nearby sofa. ‘Grab a hold of yourself,’ he said, sternly. He ordered a glass of water from one of the waiting staff and waited till Arthur sat and knocked it back. ‘You’ve a long night ahead, pace yourself,’ he warned.
‘Ra, ra, ra,’ said Arthur, lying right back against the sofa and shaking his head from side to side. ‘Aren’t you just the fine fellow, know-it-all Henry, never put a foot wrong, do-goody.’
Henry walloped Arthur on his arm, as discreetly as he could.
‘Buck up, Arthur, or you’ll have Father to answer to,’ he said.
Henry grabbed another glass of water as a tray sailed by his head and forced his brother to drink it. ‘You’ll be sorry if you miss the evening,’ he said, trying another tactic. Arthur looked at him through bloodshot eyes and said, ‘Do you miss Mummy?’
Henry was silent, taken aback by Arthur’s words, whose eyes were now starting to brim with tears.
‘Of course, I do,’ he said, and he put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gently squeezed it. ‘We all do. But she wouldn’t be too happy to see you drunk as a skunk at the St Stephen’s Day Grand Ball, now would she?’
‘No,’ said Arthur, looking off into the distance, dazed.
It was a topic that often came up when his brother was drunk. They had laid their holly wreath at her grave on Christmas morning, their tradition every year since she had died. But there was no conversation, no memories shared, just an acknowledgment that another year had passed without her in their lives.
Arthur stood up and pushed his brother in the stomach.
‘Time to dance, brother!’ he cried. Henry watched him stride across the room, wobbling a bit to each side and make straight for the lady in lilac who had been speaking with Miss Aherne earlier.
The lady smiled and accepted his hand and they took to the floor to waltz. He spun her around and around, making her laugh and Henry thought that even through Arthur’s drink-addled mind, he would still charm the pants off any attractive lady. It was a gift, Henry felt, that he had simply not been blessed with.
* * *
It was after 1 a.m. when it happened. A few of the guests had left, their carriages summoned, the music finished. Henry had managed to wrangle a seat beside Miss Aherne and she was sitting propped up on the sofa, waving her fan at her face. She had been sipping wine and had moved on to a sweet champagne. He thought she got more beautiful the more she drank, her cheeks flushed, her laugh growing louder, her smile seeming to wrap all the way around her face.
She was asking him about Oxford and wanted him to describe some of the characters he studied with and he was enjoying rattling off tales of mischief and madness, feeling free to tell her some of the saucier stories that he wouldn’t have attempted earlier. He was enjoying the effect the drink was having on him, too; he had finally settled into the evening, now that it was drawing to a close.
He heard the commotion in the distance at first, a shout and cry from the hall. He stopped talking to Miss Aherne and listened and as he went to stand, the doors of the great room burst open and in marched a young girl, dressed in a gingham dress, her face red. Her hair flew loose and there was something about her that seemed familiar to him but he couldn’t think why.
She stopped and looked about the room, searching the faces of the guests. Behind her was Mrs Johansson and the butler, both making for her to try and grab her and haul her back.
‘Montgomery!’ roared the girl and a hush fell, only the faint clink of a glass to be heard. The crowds parted and there stood the agent, a round glass of port in his hand. As the girl stepped forward, making her way to Montgomery, Seymour appeared and held out his arms.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said, looking angrily at his housekeeper and butler over the girl’s shoulders. ‘How did she get in here?’
‘You bastard!’ cried the girl and an audible intake of breath filled the room. The butler reached the girl’s arm but she lifted it with such force that he almost fell back.
‘Get off me,’ she cried, not looking behind her. ‘You murdering bastard!’ she said again, now almost reaching Montgomery himself.
Seymour stepped in front of her.
‘You can’t barge in here like this, young lady,’ he said. A murmur worked its way around the edges of the room. What was going on? Who was this? How did she get in?
‘Please, we can talk about this outside,’ he said and Seymour placed his hands on her arms to lead her away. The girl pushed him roughly out of her way and he too staggered back. She had managed to get in front of Montgomery who was holding his glass up to his face, as if in protection.
‘I hope you’re happy now,’ she screamed. ‘You’ve got what you wanted.’
Montgomery took a ste
p back and shook his head.
‘Miss Thomas, this is most unexpected and most inappropriate. You must leave,’ he said.
‘You’re nothing but a coward,’ she said, her voice now dropping low, her eyes almost closing.
Henry had reached the girl and he moved in with the butler. They each grabbed an arm and managed to hoist her and drag her away from Montgomery, but not before she raised her legs and kicked out at him, narrowly missing his stomach.
‘You murdering bastard!’ she cried again. ‘You won’t get away with this.’
Henry and the butler dragged the girl from the room and Mrs Johansson closed the doors behind them.
The murmuring grew louder and broke into a babble, Montgomery swatting his brow and pulling at his collar.
‘Who was she?’ demanded Seymour, livid that the ball had been interrupted in such a manner.
‘The Thomas girl,’ said Montgomery in a quiet voice. ‘The eviction was tonight.’
Seymour clapped his hands and cried out to his guests, ‘Never a dull moment, is there? Carry on! The night’s not over yet. More wine! Whiskey. This calls for a whiskey!’
Outside the great room, the girl had been bundled out the front door and had now broken down crying. The fight had left her and she stood, racked with sobs.
‘You can’t just barge your way in like that,’ said Mrs Johansson, her arms folded. ‘You had no right to do that. You should be ashamed of yourself. You should be arrested.’
The girl stopped crying and removed her hands from her face.
‘They killed my daddy,’ she said. ‘My daddy’s dead. He killed him. This is his doing.’
Henry ordered his carriage to be readied and said he would take the girl back home himself.
December Girl Page 5
