The Blacksmith's Wife

by Anne Doughty

  Sarah listened attentively and asked a polite question or two, but had to admit to herself that Mrs Carey’s command of genealogy was totally beyond her, however interesting the stories she told about individual members. She did, however, find out a lot about the Molyneux family, especially the very talented ones, like Samuel, who became Secretary to the Prince of Wales, thereafter George II.

  ‘Now, Mrs Hamilton,’ said Mrs Carey, pausing for breath, ‘I think perhaps you and I might have luncheon here today rather than share the servants’ hall. I do make a point of dining there as normal, just to keep an eye on things,’ she added firmly, ‘but perhaps today …’

  ‘That would be very nice indeed, Mrs Carey,’ Sarah replied gratefully. ‘I was hoping you might tell me a little more about County Clare. Sadly, I’ve never travelled in Ireland. Beyond Lisnagarvey and Armagh, my knowledge is purely from the atlas and library books, when I get time to read them.’

  ‘Do you like reading then? But you must be very busy with the children with no husband to help you,’ Mrs Carey added, as she stood up and rang the bell for one of the maids.

  Sarah wondered if Bridget Carey was a gossip or whether she was just lonely. As she herself knew only too well, being surrounded by people did nothing to stop you feeling lonely. Sometimes, indeed, it made matters worse. Clearly, long ago, young Bridget had been taught to defer to ‘the family, and the staff who were her superiors’, but now she herself had status and had put distance between herself and the servants, while presumably knowing her place with the family. Either way, it didn’t give her much scope for companionship, never mind friendship.

  It was a long and instructive morning and Sarah was grateful for a much more substantial lunch than she would have had at home. She was, however, relieved when Mrs Carey herself decided it was time to deliver her to the library. She made it clear it was a task she’d entrust to no one else.

  As the library door shut behind her, after a suitable thank you had been said, Sarah felt herself relax. She moved over to one of the windows where a cluster of high-backed chairs surrounded a leather-covered desk piled high with books. She sat there, her back to the room, looking out over the gardens until the effort of the morning settled in her mind.

  Given the number of people sitting or standing around the large light-filled room – its walls lined with bookcases, some already full, some with boxes stacked in front of them – she decided it would be some time before she was called upon. Indeed she decided she would not be surprised at all if Sir George cherished his freedom and settled himself on the peaceful shores of his lake having given them all the option of waiting if they chose to do so.

  In any event, she was right. Hours passed and no one moved from the room other than briefly. She had to confess to feeling tired, though it was seldom she had such a wonderful opportunity to read – and such an amazing collection of books to choose from. Some of the volumes in front of her were in Latin, of which she had only a smattering; a large number were medical works clearly the complete output of one the many talented Molyneuxs before Sir George inherited the title. But alongside these leather-bound volumes were some recent publications, slim volumes by a man called John O’Donovan. These she began to read with interest.

  O’Donovan was interested in the meaning of Irish names. He was concerned that with the disappearance of Irish speakers the correct pronunciation of the names – the key, of course, to their meaning – would be lost. She was deep in the origins of names she’d heard of or which occurred locally, when she became aware of a tall gentleman in dark clothes standing beside her chair, waiting patiently till she paused.

  ‘Mrs Hamilton, I presume,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Why, yes. How did you know my name?’ she said, looking up at him.

  ‘May I?’ he asked politely, his hand on the back of the empty chair beside her.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said promptly, ‘provided you tell me how you knew my name.’

  He smiled as he sat down.

  ‘Well,’ he began tentatively, ‘given a commitment to plain speaking and telling the truth, I am indeed obliged to tell you,’ he replied.

  She was sure she detected a distinct twinkle in his eye though he was trying to maintain a straight face.

  ‘I encountered Sir George down by the lake, where I had asked if I might walk, and he told me if I wished to speak to him, I must wait in the library. I said I was quite willing to await his pleasure. As soon as I spoke those words, he suddenly said: “I think one of your persuasion is already waiting there. Sensible woman in a blue dress, said her name was Sarah Hamilton.”’

  Sarah had to laugh. She could just imagine Sir George in his rather abrupt way saying just what he’d said, but before she had begun any reply to the gentleman, he had already begun to speak.

  ‘As I have been honest with you, will you now be honest with me? Are you of “my persuasion” as Sir George calls it?’

  ‘Fair exchange is no robbery,’ she said easily. ‘Yes, I would say we are both members of the Society of Friends, to give us our Sunday name, but I must confess immediately that however much I respect my Quaker upbringing, I am, and have been for a long time, out of unity.

  ‘As many a good and thoughtful Member has been,’ he said soberly. ‘Might I be so bold as to ask why you are out of unity when in your dress and manner you are so clearly one of “our persuasion”?’

  Sarah looked at him more closely. Older than herself, his face was tanned from wind and sun; a sense of sadness surrounded him despite his ready smile, a gentleness overlain by a strong personality; his voice was pleasant and carried a distinct tone of formal education.

  It was a long time since she’d encountered someone like him; probably the last time was when the Lisnagarvey Meeting had a visiting speaker from England.

  ‘There were three reasons,’ she said thoughtfully, judging the question to be a fair one. ‘To begin with my very dear childhood friend became engaged to someone she had known all her life. They were well-suited, the families were happy for them, but her fiancé was not a Friend. She was visited and warned. Then, my dear brother who was brought up by old friends of my parents after they died ran into financial difficulties with the business he was running on their behalf. It was no fault of his that a number of orders were cancelled leaving him in debt. He too was warned.’

  She paused, saddened at the remembrance of something that had been heartbreaking at the time.

  ‘And the third thing,’ he said gently, when she looked so sad and it seemed as if she would say no more.

  To his surprise, she smiled. ‘I was wrong,’ she said, ‘I should have said four, not three. So, thirdly, I have always loved colour, pattern and decoration, but my sewing hardly qualified for a warning. Then, fourthly, I too married out of unity, but by then I was no longer attending Meeting so my behaviour did not qualify for a visitation,’ she said, looking decidedly unrepentant.

  ‘I admire your frankness,’ he said coolly. ‘I wonder how many of “our persuasion” have reservations about certain restrictions. I once experienced something similar to your brother. The world of business is full of pitfalls. I can see no shame in failing to see what is being carefully withheld from view.’

  He paused, as some movement took place by the door of the library. They both watched and saw that a small balding man was surveying the assembled company, clearly waiting till everyone, like themselves, was paying total attention.

  ‘Sir George has been unavoidably detained. Nevertheless, he will be receiving clients in his study in due course. One of the house servants will be in attendance when he is ready to begin.’

  So saying, he looked around the room and its occupants as if someone had omitted to do the dusting, turned on his heel and strode off, leaving a distinct trace of hauteur behind him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was only moments after the dignified withdrawal of the person James Ervine had described as ‘My Lord, the butler,’ that a much less pretentio
us young man appeared at the table where Sarah and the Quaker stranger sat side by side about to continue their conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to interrupt you, sir, but the messenger from The Retreat was most pressing,’ the young man said carefully, choosing his words and pronouncing them carefully as if he had learnt them by heart. ‘He said I was to give you this immediately.’

  He handed over a white envelope and stood discreetly back as Sarah’s companion tore it open and nodded sharply.

  ‘Has the messenger gone?’

  ‘No, sir, he was aware you had no transport. He’s waiting in front of the stables.’

  ‘Tell him, if you’d be so good, that I will be only a few moments. I’m most grateful. Thank you,’ he said, as the young man hurried off.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve had bad news,’ said Sarah quietly. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘And so am I,’ he replied, ‘both for the bad news and for the end of our conversation. Let me at least tell you my name, in the hope our paths will cross again.’

  He held out his hand and shook hers.

  ‘Jonathan Hancock from Yorkshire, manufacturer and enquirer into matters Irish for our Annual Meeting. I shall be here again, but I don’t know when. I hope meantime Sir George will treat you well, whatever your business; mine will have to wait,’ he said as he stood up. ‘Would you offer him my apologies? I shall write to him, of course, but I’d be grateful if you would speak a word.’

  ‘Yes, of course I will,’ she said firmly, ‘I hope your news may soon be better,’ she said smiling sadly. She saw a look of great distress pass over his face as he turned briskly away.

  Before Sarah had time to collect herself, she saw the young man who had brought the message coming towards her. He stopped, bowed and said: ‘Sir George will see you now, madam.’

  She wasn’t sure whether she felt like laughing or crying. She had so enjoyed talking to Jonathan Hancock, the first person she’d met outside the known figures of her small community. She would have asked him about his enquiries into ‘matters Irish’, asked him which places he was visiting and what his particular concerns were in a world so much larger than her own.

  But now, as she stood up, it was clear that the young man who had addressed her as madam was to escort her to Sir George. The last time she’d been called madam was by the visiting bank manager in Armagh – the one who had explained matters financial to her as if she were totally stupid.

  She collected herself as best she could, followed the young man across a wide high-ceilinged gallery partly hung with portraits, then down a handsome staircase. She studiously ignored the rich colour of carpets that seemed to glow in the strong sunlight that fell through tall windows and reflected from white walls and the high ceiling. She tried to remember exactly what it was she had planned to say to Sir George when she’d sat at her own kitchen table, her jotter open in front of her, the columns of figures totalled in pencil, so she could change them as she thought of other possibilities.

  ‘Madam,’ said the young man, as he opened a door and held it so she could enter a room somewhat smaller than the library, whose elegant proportions were somewhat offset by the disorder of overflowing boxes of papers and binders spread around a piled-up desk and stacked on another equally beautiful carpet.

  ‘James, come here. A chair for Mrs Hamilton.’

  Sir George’s tone was peremptory and James was so hasty in his response that he caught the hem of her dress as he placed the chair behind her. She wondered how she could release it discreetly before some slight movement she might make would create a tear in the soft fabric. All thought of what she was going to say to Sir George now went out of her head, yet again.

  ‘How many more are there up there, James?’

  ‘No more, Sir George. Mr Hancock was called away by a messenger from The Retreat.’

  ‘So Mrs Hamilton is the last. Well, thanks be for that,’ he said, not troubling to disguise a sigh of relief.

  He waved his hand and James beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘Jonathan Hancock asked me to apologise for him,’ Sarah said steadily. ‘The message appeared to be urgent and was clearly bad news. He said he would write to you.’

  ‘Was he the man I met down by the lake that I thought was of your persuasion?’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ she replied, nodding.

  ‘Was which?’

  ‘Both, in fact,’ she said, his irritability making her smile. ‘Both the man you met and the man you thought was of “my persuasion”.’

  She could see now why James was so upset by his shortness of manner and why he had a reputation of sometimes being ‘in bad form’, but she could not dislike the man. To be honest, he was behaving just like a fractious child, but having spent most of her day in his almost completed home she had begun to have a great deal of sympathy for him.

  ‘Well that’s one less thing to do as well. Now what can I do for you?’ he said, his irritability somewhat concealed beneath a habitual courtesy.

  ‘I have a bill for half-yearly rent which I can pay, but if I pay it I may not be able to carry on through the winter.’

  ‘And your property is …’

  ‘Drumilly Hill, house and forge with garden.’

  ‘And you lost your husband earlier this year,’ he said, his voice softening marginally.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you are still there and the forge is not working?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still there,’ she said quickly. ‘The forge is working, but somewhat reduced in capacity. One apprentice got the opportunity to go to Canada and now the journeyman is ill so only the younger apprentice is at work.’

  ‘But why don’t you just give it up and find something smaller, or go back to your family?’

  ‘I have no family apart from a brother who has difficulties of his own,’ she began, surprised that he didn’t just say yes or no. ‘If I had given up the forge last April, I would have taken away the livelihood of three men: one supporting a family of four, the others two elderly women. I would have lost my home as well and then I’d have no base from which to work to find a way of earning a living myself.’

  ‘And you have some prospect of that?’ he asked, his curiosity glinting through his sober question.

  When she outlined her plans for collecting and selling needlework from women working at home, he began to fire a string of questions at her: how would she do this? Where would she sell her products? What commission would she take? – and so on.

  Sarah answered all his questions but progressively she began to wonder why he should really want to know. What possible interest could he have in her simple project to make herself independent from the variable earnings of the forge? It could hardly be relevant to her ability to pay him the arrears of rent in due course.

  ‘You would, of course, have to learn to keep accounts,’ he said, looking at her very directly.

  To her own surprise, she laughed.

  ‘If I hadn’t been able to keep accounts, I would never have managed the last six months,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘The income from the forge is strongly seasonal, so it’s important to make savings in the spring and summer to balance the continued outgoings in the quieter part of the year. Funerals are costly and the loss of a key worker is a major financial blow,’ she continued, managing to keep her voice steady. ‘Overheads continue, wages have to be paid …’

  ‘And then there was the blight. Was that a factor?’

  She was slightly startled by this unexpected question, but she now stopped speculating on what he was trying to find out and simply explained that the two apprentices had made a special effort with the late crop and opened some extra planting. The potato garden had indeed been smitten, as almost all the crops in the area had been, but the loss of about a quarter had been entirely offset by the extra crop. She had not had to write in any overall loss.

  ‘So you can feed your surviving apprentice and yourself over the w
inter and, assuming your journeyman recovers, the forge will remain viable?’

  ‘Yes, on the predictions I’ve made that is a real possibility,’ she agreed.

  She felt suddenly weary and was glad that it now looked as if he was about to say yea or nay. To her surprise, he stood up, went to the mantelpiece and pulled on a tasselled rope.

  ‘You are looking tired, Mrs Hamilton, and I still have some questions to ask you. I hope you will take tea with me.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir George; a cup of tea would be very welcome.’

  He walked over to the window and stood staring out. After a few moments, when she was sure he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, she moved carefully and released the hem of her dress from the foot of the chair, sat back more comfortably and wondered what he would ask her next.

  She still had no idea why he was questioning her at all. Of course, he had a perfect right to do so, given she was asking him in effect to lend her money, his rent money, to tide her over the worst months of the year and help her get on her feet again, financially speaking. But the sum was so small when one thought of the enormous sum invested in this very beautiful new house, she could not make sense of it at all.

  Sure time will reveal all, be patient a little longer and it will come to you.

  As clearly as if she had been standing behind her chair, Sarah heard the voice of her dear grandmother and saw the light in her eyes, a small smile playing round her lips. What would her grandmother make of this enormous house and this hard-pressed man who had just invited her to take tea?

  Sir George turned abruptly, came back to his desk, searched through the tottering piles of paper and finally found the item he wanted.