In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  There was silence in the room as Attwood considered Wicker’s comment. For all his bravado, Attwood, too, was growing more and more concerned for his safety. Every day brought more reports of violent confrontations between landlord and tenant. Wicker had a point, but Attwood was too proud a man to admit that he, too, was afraid. He studied Rowe, confident that the little toady, with his hands nervously clenched in front of him like a chastised school boy, would agree with whatever he said. In Wicker’s eyes, Attwood saw naked fear. No gentleman that. A true gentleman never reveals his emotions. For a moment, Attwood longed to have Somerville back. He’d always been too liberal for Attwood’s taste, but at least he was a gentleman, unlike these two low-borns.

  Attwood stood up, signaling the meeting was over. “For the time being, we’ll hold off on appointing another member to the Board.”

  “What about putting the men back to work?” Wicker had meant the question to sound like a simple query, but it came out like a plea.

  “No,” Attwood said emphatically. “Not until someone hangs.”

  The elderly butler knocked on the door and entered. “Lord Attwood, a Father Rafferty is here to see you and your guests.”

  “How did he know we were here?,” Wicker asked, suddenly alarmed.

  “There’s nothing we do that the villagers don’t know about,” Rowe said.

  “Exactly my point,” Wicker said. “There are spies everywhere. They know too much about us, I tell you.

  Attwood waved a dismissive hand at the hysterical Wicker. “Get a grip, man. Very well,” he said to the butler. “Show the priest in.”

  On his way to the Attwood estates, Father Rafferty had been rehearsing over and over again in his mind what Michael had told him to say. When the devious Ranahan had first told him about his plan, he’d indignantly refused to be part of so dishonest a scheme. He would not use fear as a tool of intimidation. He would not lie, nor by prevarication let others believe what was not true. But then the more he thought about it, the more it occurred to him that it just might be worth the sin if it would get the men back to work.

  He was shown into the library. Attwood behind a huge antique desk, Wicker and Rowe in large, high-backed chairs. None of the men rose, which didn’t surprise the old priest. What could you expect from a pack of black protestants?

  “What can I do for you?” Attwood asked brusquely.

  “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I’ll get right to the point. I’ve come to ask, nay beg, you to reconsider opening the Works.”

  “Why we were just talking about—“

  “I believe I’ve made our position clear the last time we spoke,” Attwood said, cutting off Rowe and giving him a sharp look. There was no reason for this priest to know what they had been discussing. “Not until the murderer is found. And I suspect some of the men in this village—or for that matter, all of them—know who that person is.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is, let the constabulary do their work and let the men do theirs.” Father Rafferty studied their cold, heartless expressions and knew he wasn’t getting through to them. Then he remembered what young Ranahan had coached him to say. “Gentlemen,” he whispered gravely, “my priestly concern is with the souls of these men, destitute and out of work. And because of that great concern”—he paused for effect—“I also have a great fear.”

  “Which is?” asked Wicker, who knew something about fear.

  The old priest took a deep breath. How can I tell such a bold lie? May God forgive me. “I fear that some desperate soul may rise up and smite those who are tryin’ to destroy them.”

  He saw the three men exchange nervous glances and knew he’d gotten their attention.

  “Is that a threat?” Attwood asked gruffly.

  “Oh, no, no, your Lordship. Not at all. What I’m sayin’ is that murder is a heinous, grievous sin in the eyes of God.” He drew himself up, stern and righteous and indignant. “And any man who would dare take the life of another”—he paused here again to let them consider who that “another” might be—“will be cast down into the everlasting fires of hell for all eternity.” He was gratified to see that he had their total and undivided attention. “So you see,” he said in a very reasonable tone, “I wouldn’t want that to happen to anyone in my parish.”

  Attwood cleared his throat. “If you would please wait outside while we discuss this?”

  “Certainly.”

  A moment later, Attwood came out. “The Works will open tomorrow.” Without another word, he turned and went back into the library.

  Thanks be to God, Father Rafferty muttered, almost dancing down the great corridor. Then he remembered his lie. And may God forgive me—and Michael Ranahan.

  It had been a month since Lord Somerville’s funeral. In that time Emily had been busy first with the funeral arrangements, and then with the endless onslaught of guests who meant well, but who took up an inordinate amount of her time. Once the last of the guests had departed, her next priority was to assume total control of all the particulars involved in running Somerville Manor. In the past year, she’d learned a great deal about the running of the house, but now, it was her intention to know everything there was to know about running the estate and all that that entailed.

  Just discovering where the voluminous number of necessary records, documents, and receipts were kept had become a daunting task. She still hadn’t collected everything, but, what she’s seen so far alarmed her. The accounts were in arrears and there was practically no income. She would get to the bottom of it all in due time, but right now, she needed a respite from the bills, the accounts, and the pervasive sadness in the house.

  Almost everything she came across—from handwritten notes to the sight of the rose garden—reminded her of her father and how much she missed him. She also missed Michael and she felt terrible about the way she’d treated him—or more precisely, ignored him. She’d meant to invite him to the funeral service, but with one thing and another she hadn’t done it. The morning of the funeral, when she caught a glimpse of him standing halfway down the hill, she was touched that he’d come. Then, later, she’d considered inviting him to the house for supper, but in the end she didn’t because she thought it might have made him uncomfortable. Instead, she invited Mr. Goodbody and spent most of the evening pumping him for news about Michael.

  Her plan for today was to spend the morning with the accounts, and then go to the barn and help Mr. Goodbody and Michael with the midday feeding. She heard a knock at the door and was about to go downstairs and answer it, but she saw Nora was already there.

  The old housekeeper opened the door to Fergus Kincaid, the gombeen man, looking like a fop in an ill-fitting green silk suit with yellow stripes and gold-buckled shoes.

  “Be so kind as to inform the mistress of the house that one Fergus Kincaid is here and wishes to speak with her,” he announced in what he imagined to be a cultured tone.

  Nora looked him up and down, unimpressed. “Since when does the likes of you knock at the front door? Go round to the back—”

  “I think not,” Kincaid said. He stepped aside and for the first time she saw the bailiff standing behind him at the foot of the stairs.

  “I think you’d best get the mistress of the house,” the bailiff said gravely.

  Making no attempt to hide his curiosity, Kincaid took in everything in the great room as though he were doing a mental inventory. And, in fact, he was. The bailiff stood near the door, looking decidedly uncomfortable, with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Emily, still in shock, read the notice a second time. “I don’t understand…”

  Kincaid snatched the notice from her hand. “It’s quite clear…” he studied the note and then, remembering he didn’t know how to read, thrust it into the bailiff’s hand. “Tell her what it says, man.”

  The bailiff handed the notice back to Kincaid. “I believe Miss Somerville understands the import of the notice.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Kincaid s
aid. “I am now the owner of the Somerville Estates including all goods and chattels.”

  “A combination of back taxes and outstanding loans, I’m afraid,” an embarrassed bailiff explained to a stunned Emily. “According to this notice, the property has been in arrears for over two years.”

  “And I have given a considerable number of loans to your father,” Kincaid said smugly. “Which have not been paid in accordance with lawful and signed agreements. And as the notice points out, he used the estates as collateral.”

  “Which means, you own Somerville Manor?” she said more to herself than to him.

  “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  After Emily got over her initial shock, she sprang into action. She immediately sent off a letter to the family solicitor in London to find out what could be done to overturn this travesty of justice. A week later, she received the bad news. There was nothing to be done. The property was indeed in default of properly executed loans. The fact that she had not received a timely notice of default, the solicitor went on to explain, may have been due to the circumstances surrounding Lord Somerville’s untimely death. Perhaps he received the notice, but died before he could respond to it. He also offered another, more nefarious, possibility—that Kincaid, himself, may have bribed someone to see to it that the notices did not go out. In any event, the solicitor concluded, there was nothing to be done. The property was now in the hands of Fergus Kincaid.

  With a heavy heart, Emily set about packing her belongings. There wasn’t much to pack. Almost everything in the house belonged to gombeen man now.

  She was in the dining room, packing a few figurines that her mother had given her. Suddenly, the door swung open and Kincaid strode in with Nora close behind. This time he was dressed in a garish purple silk suit with broad white stripes.

  “I tried to stop him,” Nora said, puffing from the exertion of chasing Kincaid down the hall, “but he wouldn’t mind.”

  “This is my house,” Kincaid said imperiously, “and I will come and go as I please.”

  “Thank you, Nora. That will be all.”

  Nora, holding back tears, fled from the room.

  “I only have a few more things to pack, Mr. Kincaid. I’ll be out of the house by the end of the week if that is agreeable to you.”

  Kincaid picked up one of the figurines and examined it with a practiced eye. “There’s no hurry, madam.” According to the decree, technically he owned everything in the house, but these figurines wouldn’t fetch more than a couple of pounds. They certainly weren’t worth incurring the wrath of this lovely young woman.

  Emily had her back to him and didn’t see him approach. Suddenly, his arms were around her waist. “Why don’t you stay here and be my mistress?” he whispered in her ear.

  She pulled away. “Are you mad?”

  Kincaid wouldn’t take no for an answer. He pinned her arms and tried to kiss her. He was much stronger, and she was easily overpowered. Slowly, the oily face came closer and closer. She could smell his foul breath and his rheumy eyes glistened with lust. Suddenly, and inexplicably, he was yanked away from her, as if by some unseen force. But it was no unseen force. It was Michael.

  Michael had been shocked when he’d heard that Kincaid was now the master of the estates. He’d wanted to go to Emily and tell her how very sorry he was, but his stubbornness got in the way. Why should I go to see her, he told himself, when she has made no effort to see me? It had been over a month since the night he’d tried to staunch the flow of blood from Lord Somerville’s fatal wound and in that time she had not spoken to him. In the beginning he made excuses—she was in mourning, there was so much to do… But eventually, he’d come to the conclusion that she’d made no effort to see him because he didn’t mean anything to her. Of course you don’t mean anythin’ to her, you eejit, his inner voice mocked. “Shut your gub,” Michael had shouted out loud, startling an old man he was serving soup to.

  After several sleepless nights, he decided to swallow his pride and go see her.

  And now, as he walked up the road toward the Manor house, he told himself, “It’s just a condolence call. After all, it’s the Christian thing to do. I’ll tell her I’m sorry for her loss, and the loss of her fortune, and that’ll be that. And I’ll be on my way.

  Suddenly, he saw Nora running toward him, yelling something about Kincaid and Miss Emily.

  When he barged into the dining room, he saw that Kincaid had Emily backed over the dining room table, about to kiss her. He lunged for the man, grabbed the back of his collar, and flung him across the room. In a rage, he threw himself on the gombeen man and would have gladly strangled the life out of him, but hands were around his neck. Her hands, pulling him away and shouting, “No, Michael, that’s enough. That’s enough…”

  Michael climbed off the terror-stricken man. “This is my house,” Kincaid rasped, clutching his throat. “You can’t—”

  Michael started toward him again and the gombeen man scurried under the dining room table, cringing like a whipped dog. “Kincaid, this is not your house until she’s gone from here.” He grabbed the shaking man by the back of his silk coat, dragged him to the French doors, put his brogue to Kincaid’s backside and sent him sprawling.

  Tripping over the fieldstones and ripping the knees out of his new trousers, Kincaid scrambled to his feet. “I’ll not forget this, Ranahan,” he said, pointing a trembling, bejeweled finger at Michael.

  When Michael made a move towards him, the gombeen man darted off the terrace with such alacrity that Michael had to smile.

  He went back inside and Emily was standing rigidly by the table. “Thank you for…”

  “It’s nothin’.”

  Emily carefully wrapped a figurine in paper. “Fortunately, I don’t have much to pack. Almost everything here belongs to him.”

  Not knowing what to say, Michael said nothing.

  Then Emily began to weep and Michael went to her. And suddenly, she was in his arms. Her hair, smelling of scented flowers, brushed his cheek and the feel of her soft body made his knees weak

  “It’s all gone,” she mumbled into his chest. “It’s all gone...”

  Michael held her tight, saying nothing. His heart broke for her, but he never wanted this moment to end.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  In the past, mealtimes in the Ranahan cottage had always offered a pleasant respite from the harsh day-to-day toils of the outside world. Away from the watchful eyes of landlords and overseers, they could be themselves— laughing, joking, and doing all the things that free men and women took for granted. It was a time for Granda to tell his tall tales, for Mam to talk of deaths and births in the valley, and for Michael and Dermot to learn more about what it was to be a Ranahan in Ballyross. But in the past few years, as the great hunger increased its stranglehold, deprivation, and dread of what the future held, had driven them more and more into their own private, silent worlds.

  Tonight, supper at the Ranahan cottage was a quiet affair and hardly a word was spoken. Mam, stealing glances at her husband and sons, knew why. She’d lived with her husband long enough to know that he always retreated into himself when he was frightened. And God knows he had every reason to be frightened now with no food in the larder and wondering what was to become of all of them now that Somerville estates were in the hands of Fergus Kincaid.

  Her youngest son’s silence was more puzzling. Dermot had never been much of a talker, preferring to rage inwardly. But lately, he barely spoke at all. And when he did speak it was only to quarrel with someone in the family. She’d noticed it started right after Lord Somerville’s murder. With a mother’s intuition she suspected that Dermot was somehow involved in that terrible tragedy, but she dared not ask him about it. Once, when she’d broached the subject with Michael, he’d cut her off saying that he didn’t know anything about it. She suspected he was lying, but she decided not to pursue it further.

  She watched Michael pick at his food. At least she knew the reason for his sil
ence. He was thinking about her. Just the thought of Emily made Mam’s stomach tighten. She was a lovely girl to be sure, but she was far above Michael’s station and Mam didn’t want to see her son’s heartbroken over something that could never be. She knew her husband had tried to warn him off her, but it did no good. Whenever her name was mentioned, he looked like a love-starved calf. For the life of her, Mam couldn’t understand his unreasonable longing for this girl. In many ways, Michael had always been the most responsible one in the family. Didn’t he have more common sense than all of us put together? So how could he possibly think he could win the love of this cultured woman of class?

  “When does Miss Emily leave?” Mam heard herself ask Michael.

  “Tomorrow. On the afternoon train.”

  Da stared at the rough-hewn table top. “The gombeen man,” he said, the despondency dulling his eyes. “Our new landlord. God help us all.”

  Michael jumped up from the table and rushed out the door.

  Mam watched her broken hearted son go and thought that her own heart would break.

  The lives of tenant farmers and their wives were lonely. The men worked long hours in the fields, often alone, while the women, isolated in their cottages, tended the animals, mended the clothes, and did the other countless tasks required of them. Market day was a pleasant respite from this loneliness and the women—and the men, though they would never admit it—looked forward to it.

  In addition to the opportunity to buy any manner of goods from a pig to a cauliflower, market days offered an opportunity to just talk and share a bit of gossip. The men would congregate around the cow pens, hotly recounting the latest outrages of the landlords and, in between harangues, argue over the true value of a cow or horse that was for sale, while the women, clustered around the vegetable stands, discussed deaths, births, and the merits of white eggs over brown.