by Anne Doughty
‘When Billy arrives yer man says to him, “What’s wrong with yer shoulder? There’s one up and one down, yer lopsided, man.” That was the start of it. The next thing he does is get Billy to take off his jacket and he lays hands on the shoulders. “Tell me,” he sez, “was there ever someone a long time ago that would grab you by the shoulder and then beat you?”’ Well, Billy has to say yes for his father was a desperit hard man, tho’ I was spared ever meetin’ him for he died of drink in his forties,’ she continued matter-of-factly, ‘an’ yer man said that that was what was wrong with him. The memory was stuck somewhere in his body an’ that’s why the pain came and went. Now that Billy knew what it was, all he had to do was to tell the pain to go away.’
‘And has it?’ asked Sarah quickly.
To her surprise, she saw Mary-Anne stop to think. When she did speak what she said was equally surprising.
‘Ye know, Sarah, in a wee country part of Ireland like us here, there’s an awful lot of old stories and people believe things that are not true at all, but when I go to a woman in labour an’ I lay hans on her to see how’s she’s doin’, I know right away whether she’ll bear a healthy chile or not. I think till now I thought it was jus’ practice and so on and what me mother taught me, but now I can understan’ fine well what yer man says. I’ve done the same m’self though not jus’ in the same way, an’ diden know I was doin’ it.’
‘My grandmother often spoke about healing,’ Sarah replied slowly. ‘She used to pray for people and when they got better she was so pleased. She used to say, “Even if we can’t understand, we can still give thanks.” Maybe that’s all we can do, but I’m so happy for you and Billy. That’s the best news I’ve heard for a long time.’
It was an evening some days later that Mary-Anne came again. She had decided she wanted to make rag rugs like Sarah’s. She needed them at home, but she thought making them to sell was a great idea. It was getting a decent price for them that was the problem.
Afterwards, Sarah couldn’t remember what it was that made Mary-Anne mention Lily, the bonnet maker. Neither could she remember the story Mary-Anne was recounting about Lily, but suddenly in the middle of what Mary-Anne was saying Sarah thought of Sir George Molyneux and the blacksmith to whom he had been so good.
She made up her mind in an instant and waited for Mary-Anne to finish her story.
‘I’m thinking of going to Castle Dillon to see Sir George,’ she said lightly, as she cut off the thread she had just woven into the back of her rug and began to rethread her needle.
‘Ye are, are ye?’ Mary-Anne replied, her eyes opening wide in astonishment. ‘And why wou’d ye be doin’ that, if it’s not a rude question?’ she asked, dropping her work in her lap.
‘I thought I’d ask him to let me off the rent till the spring and I’ll see if I can earn enough to pay him back next summer, if the forge is working again.’
‘An’ how wou’d ye do that?’
Sarah paused and found to her amazement that another idea had shaped in her mind. Scottie had been teaching her to drive the trap. He said she might as well use it while it was still for sale and it would be good for Daisy to get out and about and moving around again.
According to Scottie, she’d done well at the driving, though he might never have guessed how very difficult it had been not to think of John every time she took up the reins. But now, having set the thoughts of John’s accident firmly aside, she was perfectly happy driving. Perhaps it was that which prompted the idea that had come so suddenly upon her.
She thought of all those women sewing napkins, like her sister-in-law, Alice, and all those doing whitework or embroidery. If she could collect their work and sell it in the clothes market in Armagh, she would charge them only a quarter or a third of what the middlemen took and she’d be able to sell her own work and Mary-Anne’s at the same time.
Mary-Anne listened carefully, breathed a deep sigh and said: ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing, if you do something you’ll never fail from want of tryin’. Count me in as one of your clients. When are ye goin’ to see yer man?’
‘Who?’ asked Sarah, preoccupied with the possibilities unrolling in front of her.
Mary-Anne laughed as she gathered up her belongings. ‘You were thinkin’ of visitin’ our local gentry to see if your landlord wou’d let ye off yer rent while ye go inta business.’
Sarah laughed as she walked to the front door with her friend, gave her a hug and looked up at the red glow in the clear dusk sky.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t they say there is no time like the present?’
‘Let me know how you get on,’ Mary-Anne called back at her.
She turned out through the gates and made her way down the hill to where Billy had just lit the lamp. It gleamed through the kitchen window as he peered out awaiting her return to tell her that the pain still hadn’t come back and he was feeling grand.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Castle Dillon house was only a mile or two away from the forge on Drumilly Hill. It lay off the road that leads southwards under the new railway line being constructed from Belfast to Armagh.
Beyond the gap awaiting the building of the railway bridge, the road curved round the slopes of Cannon Hill, a local landmark, where an earlier Molyneux had built a monument in 1782 ‘to commemorate the glorious revolution which took place in favour of the constitution of the kingdom … of Ireland’.
Neither Sarah, nor any of her neighbours, had ever seen the house. Though they were very familiar with the pillared gates and gate lodge – impressive structures in themselves – the house lay hidden beyond the end of a long, upward sloping carriage drive and stood out of sight of the road, just beyond the horizon, overlooking a small lake known only to the more daring of local poachers.
Often enough on their evening walks, Sarah and John had passed that gate lodge. Occasionally, they’d see a coach waiting for the lodge-keeper to come out and swing back the heavy, ornate gates of which John spoke so highly. Whenever he saw James Ervine appear, John would move to greet the older man and give him a hand to open the heavy gates, then helping him to close them as well after the departing coach had passed by. Sarah had watched them regularly and smiled, leaving them to their accustomed pattern.
They appeared to exchange a great deal of information in the short time the coach kept both her, and them, waiting, no hardship at all on a lovely summer evening. As they walked on, John would relay the latest news from Castle Dillon, whether any of the family were there at the moment, how the building work was going – for the old house was being completely replaced – though he said the stable block from an earlier period was considered handsome and so was only being refurbished.
Thinking of the stable block, which had its own forge and blacksmith, she remembered there was another entrance to the house somewhere near Hockley Lodge, but as they usually turned for home before that point, the light fading and the air beginning to cool, she’d never seen the entrance itself, nor the different perspective it might have given into the extensive demesne.
Now, as she dressed and prepared to make the short journey, she felt she might just as well be going into terra incognita – the name printed in her old school atlas where it was known that land existed, but, for the moment, known only to a few brave travellers.
Not surprisingly, Scottie was anxious about her first solo outing, but as he had a horse in the shoeing shed, an open-fronted wooden shelter built as a lean-to against the gable wall of the forge, all he could do was raise a hand in salute as he finished fitting the back foot of a good-looking roan filly.
As Daisy stepped out, clearly glad to be on the road again, Sarah herself thought how wonderful it was to be trotting along a dry road. It was such a lovely, warm and pleasant October day, leaves blowing along the side of the road, the hay fields, yellowed after the harvest, now streaked with the vivid green of fresh grass. She was sorry to arrive so quickly at the familiar gates though she was already looking forw
ard to seeing this new building, so much talked about, but till now a completely unknown part of her life.
The gates were shut, no coach in sight, but at the sound of the trap and Daisy stopping alongside, James Ervine hurried out and greeted her.
‘Ach, how are ye, Mrs Hamilton? We were heart-sorry to hear about John,’ he went on, shaking his head sadly. ‘Are ye keepin’ well? I sometimes have word of ye from Billy Halligan. Are ye fer the house?’
‘Yes, I am, but I was going to ask your advice,’ she said, smiling down at him, having collected herself as quickly as she could after his mention of John. Sometimes, she thought, the kindness and the sympathetic comments of people who had known John would never get easier for her to bear. ‘Is the other entrance the back one?’ she went on. ‘Had I not better go in with the tradespeople and gardeners, seeing I’m not visiting in a coach?’ she asked steadily.
‘Is it Sir George ye want to see?’ he asked cautiously.
When she assured him it was, he became very thoughtful. ‘Aye, ye might think it the best in the end. If ye go by the front ye’ll get his lordship the butler. He’d ask the King of England what his business was and then send him round the back if he saw fit. He’s better avoided. If you go in the back, you’ll probably see the housekeeper or Sir George’s man of business. Have you an appointment to see Sir George?’
‘No, but I’m prepared to wait. What I want to ask him won’t take long. But it’s himself I need to see.’
‘Aye,’ he replied slowly. ‘In that case, definitely the back. Once the butler says he’s not at home, you’ve no hope at all. Whoever you see, don’t let them tell ye he’s not there, fer I let him in lass night, tho’ I hear he’s in bad form the day. If somethin’s not right he gets powerful upset at times, for all he’s a good-hearted man. But I’d say ye had a better chance of seein’ him if you go in the back an’ they’ll see to the mare over at the stables, if yer happy to walk up the last bit up thru’ the gardens.’
‘I’m always happy to walk in a garden,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘I’d love a garden myself, but with horses around I don’t stand much chance.’
‘Aye,’ he said, laughing aloud, as he came and stroked Daisy’s nose. ‘She might like a few wee flowers for a change from hay, wouldn’t ye girl? Good luck, now, ye know yer way, don’t you?’
She assured him that she did, manoeuvred Daisy in the wide space in front of the gates, waved to him as he watched her go and drove the short distance to where the road divided, the narrower part winding round the south-west border of the estate.
The entrance wasn’t far beyond the stretch they’d known so well, but this time the chestnuts, fat sticky buds and fresh sprouting leaves when they’d last walked, were dropping tattered leaves of pink and gold. ‘First to come and first to go,’ John always said, adding that ‘the first hints of autumn come in the chestnuts as early as August, if you bother to look for them’.
These gates, handsome but much smaller and less dramatic than those tended by James Ervine, stood open. A long, sweeping drive led past the stable block a tall building with its windowless back turned to the road. Above the slated roof, rooks circled and called, rising and falling, black silhouettes against the blue sky. As she drove towards it she caught the first glimpse of the back of the house, the newly quarried stone gleaming in the bright light.
‘Good day, ma’am, wou’d ye like to leave her here?’
The man who stood before her she did not know, but the pattern of grime on his face, the bare arms and the leather apron tied at the front told her all she needed to know. He was a blacksmith, whether the one who had appeared in Lily’s story or not, he was a robust figure, thoughtful enough to wipe his hand on the backside of his trousers before offering to help her down from the driving seat.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said, looking round her. ‘I’ve heard about your handsome stables, but that building is even bigger than I’d imagined.’
‘But have ye seen the house?’ he asked, grinning broadly.
‘No, and I confess I’m curious,’ she said honestly. ‘I just got a glimpse coming in.’
‘I’ll walk roun’ with ye and show ye where to go.’
The driveway was newly gravelled and still untrodden and bumpy in parts, but they were soon at the foot of some stone steps. To her right, three more sets of wide stone steps, with grassed terraces lying between them, rose up to provide a platform for the house itself, the biggest building Sarah had ever seen.
After one long scan of its severe but elegant width she turned her back on it, for to her left, almost beside them, adjoining the driveway with only a grassy slope and no fence whatever between, lay Castle Dillon lake. Only a few yards from where she stood, it gleamed in the light, flat calm, the air full of birdsong, the trees all around its shore bright with autumn colour, the lake which had been made into a bird sanctuary by an earlier Molyneux lay still and peaceful.
‘It is quite lovely,’ she said, unaware that he was watching her face and taking pleasure in her pleasure.
So absorbed was she in watching a fleet of swans move across the water, she did not notice a small, energetic figure hurrying down the steps from the back of the house. But her escort had seen him.
‘Mornin’, Sir George,’ he said, saluting politely. ‘All’s well with the grey, sir, but he’ll need a day or two’s rest.’
‘Well that’s one less problem, Ross,’ he said wearily. ‘You’ve not introduced our visitor,’ he added more sharply.
‘Sarah Hamilton,’ she said steadily. ‘Mr Ross was kind enough to walk round with me from the stables. I was hoping, Sir George, I might have a word with you. I’m prepared to wait. You must have a great deal to attend to at the moment.’
‘That’s the first sensible thing I’ve had said to me today,’ he said shortly. ‘Ross, I’m going for a walk by the lake. Will you please take Mrs Hamilton to the housekeeper and see she has some luncheon. There are various others waiting in the library, if you do actually want to wait,’ he said crisply, giving her a single glance as he turned on his step and marched off.
Sarah smiled. It might indeed seem desirable to have a title and position in the community and no doubt a great deal of money, but like everyone else he had his vexations. James Ervine had said Sir George was ‘in bad form’ this morning. She had the feeling that beyond the waiting clients, his many public duties and his concern for one of the six greys that pulled the coach when he and Lady Molyneux went to the cathedral in Armagh rather than to nearby Grange parish church, he had some other and more pressing concern.
Robert Ross, who told her he lived with his wife and family at Mullinasilla, only a mile or so as the heron flies from the lake itself, seemed to be in no hurry to deliver her to the housekeeper. He conducted her round the side of the building so that she could view the equally severe frontage of the house and gaze across the existing gardens to the demesne, rolling acres of low green hills extending beyond formal gardens and gravelled walks decorated with statues and small fountains.
The last of the scaffolding had only just gone, he had said, as they began to climb up the sets of stone steps that led, via the broad terraces, from the lake shore to the back entrance. They arrived at a forbidding tall double door beyond the final flight of stone steps and a terrace of local stone.
‘What a lovely view to look out upon,’ she said, rather wistfully, as they stopped on the doorstep to gaze back down on the lake now spread out below them.
Earlier, before Sir George had appeared, they’d met workmen carrying away loads of stones and debris from the building work. Some had been engaged in sweeping the stone steps themselves. Now, as they stood taking in this new perspective on the lake, gardeners with handcarts and wheelbarrows were arriving from both front and back to begin planting the flowerbeds already laid out and dug over on each of the terraces.
‘I hear there’s t’ be a rose garden an’ shrubs,’ Robert said soberly, ‘but I’m no good at anythin’ like tha
t. Me wife sez I wouldn’t know a daisy from a dandelion,’ he added, laughing.
‘No, but you’d know a handsome foot scraper if you saw one,’ she came back at him, as she looked up from the pair of wrought-iron specimens she’d been studying, one on each side of the entrance.
‘Ah now, ye’ve said the right thing there,’ he replied, beaming. ‘Shure I made that pair m’self to a drawin’ Sir George hisself giv’ me. I mind he sez to me: “Ross, I want no fancy work, but I want them a good size. There’ll be people in an’ out all the time thru that door wi’ boots full o’ mud from the new path roun th’ lake. It’ll be more than m’ life’s worth if the housekeeper gets mud in HER house.”’
A short time later, Sarah was able to judge the said lady for herself. Middle-aged and comfortable, if not exactly plump, she had iron-grey hair done up in a tight bun and sharp eyes that took in every detail of Sarah’s best dress with its soft pale blue fabric and spotless white collar, before holding out a cold hand and inviting her to come in to her sitting room where there was a fire.
She dismissed Robert with a glance the moment Sarah had thanked him for being so helpful and looking after both her and Daisy.
‘Daisy?’ she repeated, a slight lilt in her voice betrayed the hint of a softer accent beneath her careful pronunciation.
Kerry perhaps, or somewhere on the west coast, Sarah thought to herself, as she obediently sat herself down in the comfortable chair by a bright fire in a sitting room at least three times as big as her own biggest room.
Bridget Carey was not as formidable as she might seem, even if she appeared so to Sir George. Having checked out Sarah’s status, discovered she had no groom but was herself driving her late husband’s trap, she thawed considerably and spoke about her home in County Clare and her long relationship with ‘The family’ – by which she meant the various Molyneux families in Dublin, Kerry and Meath and their elaborate connections with the landed gentry in England.
