‘I’m not being ungrateful. Don’t you realize what you did to me? You stole me from my own family and brought me into your world and when I’d served my purpose you tossed me aside like an old dress,’ she said, turning back to face Victoria. ‘And now I belong nowhere. The servants despise me and so does your family, and your new friends will too.’
‘But it wasn’t like that, surely it wasn’t,’ protested Victoria, rising from her chair. ‘We were happy together. We were friends.’
‘We were never really friends. All that palaver about growing up together and finding husbands and living beside one another for the rest of our lives – it was all lies.’
Victoria sighed. ‘Oh, Rosie, we were children,’ she whispered, ‘we delighted in fantasy. And we were friends. But things couldn’t go on the same way forever. You must see that. We’re from two different worlds and there’s nothing either of us can do to change it.’
‘I know,’ Rosie said. ‘But it tortures me, so it does.’ She began to sob, rubbing her fists against her eyes in the way she had done as a child.
Victoria drew closer and took Rosie’s hand. ‘Don’t cry. I’m sorry I asked you. I see now how humiliating it would have been for you. How could I have been so uncaring? Please forgive me.’
In the end it was Bridie who accepted the post as Victoria’s maid.
‘And to think this one here thought she was too good for it,’ said Bridie to her mother.
‘I didn’t,’ said Rosie.
‘You did so,’ said Bridie. ‘I’d say you were hoping that Miss Victoria would ask you to go with her as her companion.’
‘I wasn’t,’ lied Rosie blushing. In truth that was exactly what she had hoped. As it was, she was condemned to remain at Ennismore scrubbing floors in Bridie’s place.
‘Ah, come on, Rosie, sure everybody knows you thought you deserved better than the rest of us.’
Tears burned at Rosie’s eyes. ‘Ma, tell her to stop.’
Ma got up from her stool beside the fire and came over to put her arm around Rosie. ‘Ah, now, leave her alone, Bridie. Sure you’re after getting what you always wanted – to be a lady’s maid in the Big House.’
Bridie smiled. ‘Aye, indeed I am,’ she said, ‘and I’ve no intention of going back on me hands and knees after this. I’ll be seeing the world, so I will. Paris and Rome and all them foreign places. Who knows what class of people I’ll be meeting.’
Rosie had never seen Bridie so happy. She swallowed hard on the resentment that rose up in her. It was pleased for her sister she should be, not begrudging her good fortune. She excused herself, climbed up the ladder to her attic bedroom and got into bed without lighting the lamp. She could hear Bridie and her ma chattering downstairs. She looked out the small window. Not even the moon kept her company, hidden as it was behind a scrim of clouds. She was alone.
Throughout the autumn of 1910 an unforgiving rain poured down upon the land as if attempting to wash away the sins of history that still lingered there. The servants said it was the worst flooding they had ever endured. Anthony Walshe told stories of the ferocious storms that had visited Ireland long before any of them were born. ‘Sure this weather’s no calamity at all compared with them times,’ he announced, waving his small arms about to emphasize his point.
But for Rosie, it was a calamity. The damp fog pressed in around her like a prison from which there could be no escape. After Bridie left to accompany Victoria on her travels, it was agreed that she would stay on in Bridie’s place as a house-maid. What else was she to do? She didn’t have enough money saved to take her farther than the next town and besides her family needed her wages even more than before. A fox had killed several of Ma’s best laying hens. Her ma had kept hens for as long as Rosie could remember. She often traded eggs in the village shops for goods the family needed. But now, with few eggs to trade, they needed money instead, and there wasn’t enough of it.
The mood around the servants’ dinner table turned sombre. Everyone missed Sadie Canavan’s chatter. Lady Louisa had refused to go with Victoria as her chaperone unless she had her own maid. Lady Ennis had reluctantly agreed. And with Bridie gone as well there was not much craic at all. Anthony Walshe was unable to cheer them up with his usual banter and Brendan Lynch brooded more than usual, while Immelda Fox was even more sullen since her return from the Season. She spoke to no one except Brendan, and Rosie thought the two of them made a quare pair. The youngest maid, Thelma, a big, doughy country girl, blushed every time Sean, the younger footman, looked at her. Only Mrs O’Leary and young Sean showed much sign of life.
Rosie tried not to think about Valentine. It hurt too much. She had not seen him in months, and the word was he had gone to visit cousins in England, dispatched, she supposed, by his disappointed father. She had not even seen him to say goodbye. It hardly mattered anyway. Ever since her argument with Victoria, Rosie was determined to stamp out all the remaining fantasies in her head as fiercely as if stamping out flames.
She put her head down and concentrated on her work. Every month she was able to put a little more money aside. Soon, she told herself, she would have enough to get her to Dublin. She tried not to think about how leaving would mean abandoning her family. ‘Let my brothers do their part,’ she told herself, ‘instead of talking about going to America. Why should it be left to me?’ And, more importantly, she tried not to think about how leaving would mean abandoning her secret hope for a future with Valentine.
Bridie had written often throughout the months – colourful postcards with foreign stamps that Ma proudly displayed on the kitchen dresser.
‘She’s enjoying herself, so she is,’ said Ma. ‘And she says Miss Victoria is treating her very well. That girleen is a pure angel.’
Rosie often wondered why Victoria had chosen Bridie as her maid. It was obvious to everybody that Bridie had no skills in that area – a point Sadie Canavan was quick to make. Mrs O’Leary said that it stemmed from Miss Victoria’s kindness – she knew Bridie had been ill and wanted to give her a holiday. Maybe the cook was right. Regardless, she supposed she should be grateful since Bridie’s absence had given her the opportunity to continue working and save more money. She confessed to no one that some nights she lay in bed imagining what it would be like to be in Bridie’s place, seeing all those exotic places she’d written home about. Well, she had no one to blame but herself. It was her own pride that had prevented her.
Eventually a letter arrived from Bridie that shocked the Killeen household. She had met a man in Dublin, she wrote, and she was staying there to get married. She would not be coming home.
CHAPTER 8
One day in early November of 1911, Lady Ennis swept into the servants’ hall – a most unusual occurrence – just as the staff were about to begin their breakfast. They jumped to their feet, chairs scraping on the stone floor. She glanced around the room with a faint look of distaste and began to fan herself vigorously. She addressed her remarks to Mr Burke who appeared most distressed at her ladyship’s sudden encroachment upon his realm.
‘I have news of great importance,’ her ladyship began, ‘which is why I have made this unprecedented visit to your quarters so that you should all hear it directly from me. Next month Ennismore will be entertaining two most important guests and it is essential that every aspect of our hospitality be perfect.’
‘Lord have mercy on us,’ cried Mrs O’Leary, ‘is it the King himself?’
Mr Burke turned pale at the cook’s impertinence. ‘Lady Ennis, please forgive . . .’
But Lady Ennis merely fluttered her fan at him and gave him an icy smile.
‘No, not the King, Burke, but royalty nonetheless. American royalty. Mr Jules Hoffman, the American industrialist and a leader of New York Society, and his daughter, Miss Sofia Hoffman, are to be joining us for a month. I wish to show them the best that English hospitality has to offer. Nothing must be left to chance. Even the smallest detail must be attended to. I shall expect all of you to rise to t
he occasion. And Mrs Murphy,’ she said turning to the housekeeper, ‘you may bring on whatever extra staff you deem fit. No expense must be spared. That is all, good day.’
Mr Burke almost tripped running to escort her ladyship out of the room and up the well-trod wooden staircase to the main floor. When she had gone only the faint scent of gardenias lingered. The staff looked at each other.
‘Well, that’s us told then,’ said Mrs O’Leary. ‘English hospitality, my arse! ’Twill be good Irish cooking they’ll get from me.’
Thelma gave her a bovine stare. ‘I’ve never met an American, Mrs O. Are they like the rest of us, at all?’
‘Sure, they all have horns on them,’ put in Anthony, ‘and they carry pitchforks, and they eat young girleens like you for their dinner.’
Thelma let out a squeal.
‘Ah, stop codding the girl, Anthony,’ said Mrs O’Leary.
‘I’m sure they are very decent people,’ said Mrs Murphy. ‘We must do everything we can to make their stay as pleasant and comfortable as possible. So enough of this silly talk and let’s get down to business.’
Although the visit of an American heiress was a novelty to the servants of Ennismore, such an event had become familiar in great houses in England and Ireland. Like the Bell family, most of the gentry across Britain in the early twentieth century were finding themselves in unprecedented financial difficulties. Traditionally, the aristocrats viewed themselves as benign benefactors to those who lived on their vast estates, and the crops, livestock and tenant rents were considered sufficient revenue to cover estate expenses.
For their personal expenses such as holidays abroad, household refurbishments, gambling debts, keeping a mistress and the costs of ‘keeping up with society’, they turned to willing bankers who had not had the temerity to push too robustly for repayment of loans. Lord Ennis, like his peers, had inherited such attitudes from his predecessors, and while he was more prudent than his wife in financial affairs, nonetheless had not dwelled upon such matters.
However, as competition for grain and livestock from America slowly eroded incomes from their estates and as inheritance taxes began to rise, financial ruin loomed for many cash-poor landowners. Thus it had become more and more common for the landed aristocracy to turn their eyes west to the New World of America and its abundance of wealthy heiresses willing to swap their fortune for a title.
Lord and Lady Ennis, therefore, became acutely aware that their older son, Thomas, must make a good and profitable marriage if Ennismore and the Ennis Estate were to survive intact. Thus Lady Ennis finally came to terms with the possibility, distasteful as it was to her, that she may have to accept an American daughter-in-law.
One such heiress was Miss Sofia Hoffman. The Bells’ neighbours, the Marquess and Marchioness of Sligo, had sent word that the Hoffmans would be visiting them at their Westport estate in late autumn, and Lady Ennis had seized her opportunity.
They arrived in early December. An astute observer may well have drawn a comparison of this event with the prior arrival of royalty to Ennismore more than ten years before. Instead of carriages and coachmen in top hats, this royalty arrived in a fine motor car which glistened as brightly as the horses that had pulled Queen Victoria’s carriage. The persistent rain had suddenly stopped and a shaft of sunlight emerged as if in greeting. On this occasion, instead of peering from a basement window, Rosie lined up on the front steps with the other servants. And one might conclude that when the American ‘Queen’ emerged, Rosie’s reaction would have been very different than before.
Miss Sofia Hoffman would not have disappointed. She was taller than any woman yet seen at Ennismore. Her thick, black hair, olive skin and large dark eyes gave her the look of an exotic foreigner – a look she owed to her Italian mother and Jewish father. She wore a dress of red wool which followed the natural lines of her slim figure and fell scandalously short of her ankles. Her father, Mr Jules Hoffman, cut less of a dashing figure. He was shorter than his daughter by six inches, swarthy, full-bellied and mustachioed, but he carried himself with the confidence of a pugilist – inelegant but powerful.
Lady Ennis summoned all of her considerable breeding in welcoming her guests, bending stiffly to allow Mr Hoffman to plant a kiss on her cheek and extending her hand in formal greeting to his daughter. Lord Ennis, by contrast, welcomed them with loud enthusiasm – a practised mix of the country squire and politician. The servants bowed and curtsied, each of them storing their impressions of the visitors for discussion later below stairs.
That evening the family and visitors gathered in the library. It was an austere and formal room filled with leather and brocaded chairs in autumn hues of dark red and muted amber. A threadbare oriental rug covered the wooden floor and faded red velvet drapes held back by gold-fringed ties flanked the tall windows. Hunting and fishing trophies adorned the walls – a grinning fox head and a silver filigreed trout among them. A fire blazed in the grate, the flames softening the dim shadows of the dwindling afternoon light.
Miss Sofia Hoffman, just returned from a walk in the gardens, took all of this in at a glance before flopping down unceremoniously on a leather sofa. She bent over and unlaced her boots, slipping them off and pushing them to one side. She held her feet out and wiggled her toes with a sigh of pleasure.
‘That’s better,’ she said, smiling around at the assembled company whose eyes were fixed upon her. ‘Burke, may I have a glass of sherry?’
Mr Burke turned in her direction. ‘At once, ma’am.’
Lady Ennis could not hide her astonishment at the forward behaviour of this girl. Well-bred ladies waited to be asked if they wished for refreshment.
As the butler handed Sofia her drink, Thomas and Valentine Bell looked at each other and grinned. They had just arrived back from riding and were still in their riding clothes. They had not bothered to take time to change into their formal wear, so anxious were they to meet the guests, particularly Miss Sofia.
Sofia patted the sofa. ‘You must be the Bell boys.’ She laughed, her wide mouth more open than was proper and displaying a set of perfect, white teeth. ‘Come and sit beside me.’
She grinned at her father who stood beside Lord Ennis at the fireplace, sipping his brandy. ‘Bell boys, Papa, get it? Isn’t that droll?’
Jules shook his head at his daughter and sighed. ‘Don’t be disrespectful, dear,’ he said.
He turned to Lord Ennis. ‘She’s got such spirit, Edward. She was brought up in Chicago where manners are, shall we say, less formal than in New York. I have difficulty reining her in to suit New York society, and my dear late wife is no longer with us to temper her manners. I am hoping some of your English decorum will rub off on her.’
‘Don’t count on it, Papa,’ laughed Sofia.
‘Reminds me of my thoroughbreds,’ said Lord Ennis. ‘Their spirit is what sets them apart from mere nags. They just need to be handled in the right way – I recall thinking the same thing about Victoria when she was a child. I arranged for a young farm girl to take lessons with her and it settled her down nicely.’
Lady Ennis, who sat upright in her winged chair, cleared her throat, looked pointedly at her husband, and tapped her foot. She could barely disguise her horror as she regarded Sofia and her sons talking animatedly with one another. She glanced at her sister. Louisa was regarding their guest as if inspecting an alien specimen under glass.
Victoria, on the other hand, smiled in delight. She was fascinated by this girl not much older than herself who had swept into Ennismore like a fresh wind, cutting through the mustiness that had permeated the old house for centuries. Her voice was louder, her laugh heartier and her movements freer than that of any other woman who had set foot in this house before her. She paid no attention to the withering looks from Lady Ennis and Lady Louisa or Lord Ennis’s arched eyebrow – in fact she seemed unaware of the wordless signals of disapproval that were universal among the gentry.
Jules Hoffman and Lord Ennis, unaware of Lady Enn
is’s growing distress, entered into a spirited discussion about the growing labour unrest both in Ireland and in America.
‘There’s a fellow called Larkin stirring up the workers in Dublin,’ said Lord Ennis, signalling Burke for another drink. ‘He’s threatening to bring the city to a standstill with his blasted strikes. He’s nothing but a rabble-rouser. And now his confounded sister, Delia, has organized a union for the female workers! As if we didn’t have enough problems with this Home Rule nonsense. Now we have to deal with this.’
Jules Hoffman looked up at Lord Ennis, who was a good foot taller than he. ‘Our labour problems at home go back far longer than yours, Edward,’ he declared in a loud voice somewhat at odds with his height. ‘We’ve seen our share of national strikes, while you English have been passing your time leisurely playing cricket. You have little experience dealing with the problems of the real world.’
Jules, ignoring the deepening crimson hue of his host’s face, continued. ‘And I wouldn’t discount the female unions, if I were you. I am in the textile business, as you know, and we employ predominantly female workers. We were brought to our knees by the Shirtwaist Strike in New York in 1909 when nearly twenty thousand women walked out. Took us months to settle, but settle we had to. We cannot stand in the way of progress.’
Valentine had left Thomas alone with Sofia and joined the men at the fireplace.
‘But it resulted in better working conditions for the women, and better wages,’ Valentine said, paying no attention to his father’s warning glare. ‘But it didn’t go far enough. I mean, look at the Triangle Shirtwaist fire that happened in your city just this year – over one hundred women and girls died in conditions that were abominable.’
Jules shook his head. ‘Terrible tragedy, I agree. Unfortunately, not all of the factory owners took the lessons from the 1909 strike. Perhaps they will now.’ He looked back up at Lord Ennis. ‘Smart lad you have here, Edward. Unlike your generation, he seems up on what’s going on in the world. And aware of the need to treat labour fairly.’
The Girls of Ennismore Page 8
