Page 13

Chapter 12

The journey from Dublin to Carlow the next day was a sombre one, the windows of the train offering glimpses of a countryside still marred by the devastating effects of the blight. Many fields lay barren, and dilapidated cottages stood abandoned. Emaciated livestock huddled in sparse numbers, the shape of their ribs visible beneath their hides. The few people Bridget spotted along the way bore the unmistakable marks of hardship and hunger in their gaunt faces and bony bodies; they watched the progress of the passing train with an apathetic mien. Sorrow sat heavily in the pit of her stomach as she wondered how many more years the blight would continue to return to the potato crop. And even after it finally retreated, how many decades might the country have to endure its repercussions?

They disembarked in the late afternoon at Carlow railway station, where they engaged a carriage to transport them the rest of the way to Oakleigh. Polly, Jennie and Mr Varley followed behind in another carriage, which conveyed their luggage and a portion of the charity funds (a precautionary measure they had taken after having learned from bitter experience that it was wisest not to store all their money in one chest).

At least when they began to travel through Oakleigh land, Bridget was heartened to see that the estate looked marginally better tended than it had last year. The surrounding fields, though not entirely spared, showed signs of careful cultivation and recovery. Cattle grazed in grassy pastures, their frames lean but more nourished than the other poor creatures they had passed. As they entered the manor grounds, she noticed clusters of vibrant purple foxgloves blooming at the base of the trees that lined either side of the gravelled avenue, and her spirits lifted further at this evidence of the estate’s resilience in the midst of its tribulation.

The carriage lumbered to the top of the avenue where the red-bricked manor came into view. She doubted the day would ever come when the sight of the house didn’t prompt a swell of joy within her. Even though the building that stood here was a replacement of the original one that had burned down and it possessed a new additional wing on the western side, it still radiated the essence of ‘home’. She cast a covert glance at Jack and Gus as they gaped out the carriage window, taking in the view of the manor for their first time; how she longed for Oakleigh to one day mean just as much to them.

Two freckled lads in mid-adolescence were crossing in front of the house; the taller one carried a bundle of sticks across his shoulders while the shorter pushed a wheelbarrow half filled with cabbages. With a hiccup, Bridget recognised them as Liam óg and Aidan Kirwan, the sons of Ellen and dear departed Liam. At the carriage’s approach, Liam óg set his bundle on the ground and hurried up to the manor’s entrance, pushing open the black-painted double doors and disappearing inside. By the time the family had alighted from the carriage, he had re-emerged in the company of his mother.

Ellen and Bridget rushed towards each other and hugged fervently. A little over a year had passed since Liam had perished and Bridget felt the weight of Ellen’s continuing grief in the tightness of her embrace and the shudder of her breath as she tried to hold back her emotion. When they pulled apart, she saw that Ellen was wearing a black ribbon around her upper arm – needless to say, Ellen and her children couldn’t afford proper mourning clothes like Lucy, so this was the simplest way that she could express her widowhood.

‘You are welcome back,’ she said, her voice mostly steady.

‘We are very glad to be home,’ Bridget replied.

After Ellen greeted Cormac, Emily and Rory, she glanced to the side and let out a gentle exclamation. ‘Ah bless, are these your two boys?’

Bridget smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘Jack, Gus, this is Ellen. She knew your father and me long before either of you were even thought of.’

Jack looked thoughtful. ‘If you knew them back then, you must have all sorts of stories.’

‘Did Da get into lots of trouble?’ Gus asked eagerly. ‘Because Ma says we take after him!’

Although the boys’ accents had softened over the past year, they still held a mild American twang that sounded peculiar here in the heart of Oakleigh. Ellen didn’t blink, though – instead, she gave a chuckle that rasped out of her like she hadn’t laughed in a long time.

‘I’m sure I’ll be able to think of a story or two. Come on inside now.’

She turned and led the family towards the front doors, while her sons carried on around the corner of the house with their loads of sticks and cabbages. As she stepped across the threshold into the entrance hall, Bridget was pleased to register the myriad signs that the manor was being fully utilised by the tenants in their time of need: one corner of the hall appeared to have been designated as a storage area for blankets and spare clothing, and another was occupied by sacks and baskets of food supplies. Through the open door that had once led to the drawing room in the house’s previous incarnation, she could glimpse a row of straw mattresses laid out on the floor. Footsteps sounded on the ceiling above, and voices drifted towards them from deeper within the house. Gone was the awful pall of the fever that had blanketed the place on their last visit – now there was a sense of optimism and bustling activity. The people were finding a way to cope with their ordeal and Oakleigh was playing its part to help them.

As Ellen led them forwards, she said, ‘John and Mr Enright will be sorry to have missed your arrival, but they’re away for a few days in Wicklow—there’s an auction for farming equipment on an estate that’s been broken up on account of the blight. They’d intended to be back in time, but you’re quite a bit earlier than expected.’

‘Yes, we’ll explain the reason for that,’ Cormac said gravely.

A door opened at the back of the entrance hall and a woman emerged through it at a brisk trot. She looked like she was in her early thirties and strands of her knotty brown hair fell around her face as she marched across the entrance hall, calling out to Ellen, ‘Mrs Kavanagh said everything’s ready for supper.’

Then she stopped short at the sight of the family, her gaze flitting over them all and anchoring upon Cormac like a lodestone. Her mouth dropped open.

Ellen gestured towards Bridget and Cormac. ‘Cathy, you remember Lady Courcey and Mr McGovern, don’t you?’

From the woman’s throat spurted a rasping sound that was possibly supposed to be a laugh. ‘I’m not likely to forget the fella who saved my life, now am I?’

‘Oh, I remember the night that happened,’ Emily murmured to Rory.

Bridget did too, and she recognised the gleam in the woman’s eyes for it was an expression she had beheld several times before, most often in the eyes of Tess O’Leary, but also in those of Thomasina Brennan, Alice Caulfield and the farmer’s wife Maisie McKinty – women who had taken a shine to Cormac and, on occasion, stepped beyond the boundaries of propriety in their desire for him. Bridget had grown accustomed to it, and yet it was difficult not to feel a sense of possessiveness as Cathy’s glowing face focused upon Cormac’s self-conscious one with palpable adoration. Still, her reaction was understandable – Cormac had rescued her the night the abominable fire had destroyed the manor.

Now, although she was a grown woman, she stuttered like a bashful girl as she asked Ellen, ‘W-will I tell Mrs Kavanagh to delay supper?’

‘Please don’t do so on our account,’ Bridget interjected. ‘We have no wish to impinge upon the plans you’ve already made.’

‘Then will you share the meal with us?’ Ellen asked. At Bridget’s hesitation, she added, ‘There should be a sufficient amount to go around. The situation is not so dire as it was when you were last here. We’ve been careful with the money you provided and have made it stretch far enough that the estate is beginning to recover. Some tenants even hope to be able to return to their homes soon to tend their own plots again.’

‘That is such positive news,’ Bridget said. ‘In that case, we would be very pleased to eat with you.’

Despite what Ellen had said, their presence would surely put a strain on the evening’s rations – they would amount to nine extra mouths once Polly, Jennie and Mr Varley joined them – but at least the fresh funds they had brought would remedy that circumstance in the immediate future.

‘I’ll go back down to the kitchens to let Mrs Kavanagh know,’ Cathy said, throwing Cormac a warm smile.

‘Perhaps we could tell her ourselves,’ Bridget said, linking her arm through Cormac’s. ‘We should dearly love to see her—it has been too long.’

They hadn’t met the cook when they were at Oakleigh last summer because she had chosen to endure the worst of the blight with her sister and brother-in-law who were tenants on the Rathglaney Estate over the county border into Wexford. But she had since returned to resume the post she had held for so many years before Bridget’s mother had driven all her staff away with her tyrannical mismanagement of the estate.

Cormac nodded his agreement to Bridget’s suggestion. ‘And I’ll go from there out to the courtyard to find a stable hand who can help me and the coachman take care of the horses and carriage.’

They knew that Oakleigh’s stables were in use again for John Corbett had written to Bewley Hall several months ago to happily inform them that the manor had been able to purchase a number of horses to work on the land. It was a significant sign of recovery, considering that he’d had to sell all the previous animals in a desperate attempt to gather money to feed the famished tenants.

‘I want to see the kitchens as well!’ Gus declared, his eyes as round as the dinner plates he no doubt expected to discover there.

Thus, after depositing their hats and gloves in a pile on one of the spare blankets in the corner – for there was neither hatstand nor butler to take them – they all traipsed over to the door at the back of the entrance hall and down the kitchen stairs. When they entered the main kitchen space below, they were greeted by the familiar sight of Mrs Kavanagh bustling about her domain, which was dominated by an enormous cast-iron stove. She didn’t have a team of maids working for her as she once did, but there were a couple of girls – daughters of tenants, perhaps – hurrying to and fro as they laid out dishes on the big table in the centre of the room. Liam óg was also there, stacking his bundle of sticks next to the stove, while Aidan was carrying an armful of cabbages in through the back door, his wheelbarrow visible on the cobbles outside.

Mrs Kavanagh turned when the family entered, her big bosom joggling as she clapped her floury palms together with delight.

‘Well now, look who it is!’ she said, beaming.

Old age had settled upon her and deep lines etched her face, but her cheeks bloomed from the heat of the stove, lending her a residual touch of youth. She strode forwards, wiping her hands on her apron, and affectionately cupped both Bridget’s and Cormac’s cheeks. It made Bridget feel very young again to be petted like a child, although she had to admit that she quite enjoyed it; she hadn’t received the warm attention of a mother figure in such a long time. Part of her worried that Mrs Kavanagh might remark upon her scar but the cook didn’t even seem to notice it as she shifted her welcoming gaze to Emily.

‘You’re not much taller since I saw you last but I can tell you’ve grown in other ways,’ she said with a wink down at the walnut ring that adorned Emily’s left hand.

Emily coloured. ‘It’s so nice to see you again, Mrs Kavanagh. This is my husband, Rory Carey.’

Mrs Kavanagh gave Rory a piercing stare. ‘Hmm, I’ll need time to take the measure of you, although I’m sure you wouldn’t have made it to the top of the aisle without the thorough approval of this lad.’ She patted Cormac’s arm.

Rory looked baffled that anyone would have the temerity to call Cormac a ‘lad’. He mumbled something completely unintelligible but it didn’t matter because Mrs Kavanagh had already moved on to Jack and Gus.

‘The image of your da,’ she said to Jack, chucking him under his chin. ‘And the image of your ma,’ she said to Gus, ruffling his chestnut curls. ‘What a beautiful family you all make.’

Gus gazed up at her with an expression bordering on awe. ‘Da says you make the best tarts in the whole wide world,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘Is that really true?’

She chuckled wistfully. ‘There hasn’t been any occasion for baking tarts of late. This is much plainer fare,’ she added, gesturing to the table, where the assembled dishes consisted of pitchers of water and plates of sliced brown bread along with pots of stew that emanated the faintly sweet smell of turnip.

‘I haven’t yet found a food I don’t like,’ Gus said in total seriousness.

With that statement left hanging innocently in the air like a challenge, the final preparations took place ahead of supper. It turned out that Liam óg and Aidan had followed in their father’s footsteps and taken on stable hand duties at the manor, so they accompanied Cormac and Rory out to the front of the manor where the second carriage was expected to have arrived by now. The luggage needed to be unloaded and the horses rested, fed and watered before the coachmen could make their journey back to the railway station.

Meanwhile, Bridget, Emily, Jack and Gus helped Cathy and the other two girls carry the supper dishes upstairs to the dining hall in the tenants’ wing. This room contained a long table that spanned almost the full length of the space, with benches lining either side of it. Tenants milled around, laying out wooden bowls, spoons and cups on its surface. Bridget recognised many of them from her and Cormac’s last visit; although they still bore a thin, pinched appearance, their frames had filled out over the past months so that their skin no longer clung so tightly to their bones. Moreover, they seemed to be in good spirits as they talked among themselves, which was a stark contrast to the deathly silence that had pervaded the manor the previous summer.

A figure detached himself from the others and approached the family with a veritable spring in his step.

‘Welcome home, my lady,’ he said to Bridget, offering her a smile and a neat bow.

‘My goodness, Denis!’ she said, surprised and pleased to see him.

Once a young footman at Oakleigh, he was now a man of forty or so, and yet he still retained a certain boyishness in his features as he grinned at her in a manner that was utterly guileless.

‘I’m glad to find you in decent health,’ she said. ‘Where have you been? You weren’t here when we came a year ago.’

His expression dimmed. ‘I was desperate enough to enter a workhouse. The hunger was bad, but the shame and misery were worse. I can tell you, I was never so happy to leave a place. Now I look on every new day as a blessing.’ He raised his chin resolutely. ‘And better times are ahead of us all, I’m sure of it.’

She marvelled that he had managed to preserve such a wholesome outlook – it appeared that neither age nor the workhouse had hardened him.

By the time they had brought the rest of the dishes up to the hall (which took several trips as the fare was plain but plentiful), Cormac and the others had rejoined them, along with Polly, Jennie and Mr Varley. The family took a bench near one end of the table, while Ellen and her children, including her youngest, Bridie, sat around the corner of the table next to them. The rest of the tenants took their seats too and every man, woman and child bowed their heads to mumble a few words of grace before they began to ladle the turnip stew from the pots into their bowls. Bridget noticed that Ellen’s lips had not moved during the prayers but she made no comment as they both reached for pitchers to pour cups of water for their families. When everyone’s cups had been filled, Cormac raised his own and looked around at them.

‘To Liam,’ he said.

They lifted their cups and echoed him. A little further down the table, Denis overheard and made the same gesture.

‘To Da,’ whispered Bridie, her freckled face lowered as she huddled at the end of her family’s bench. Jack, who was seated just around the corner from her, cast a solicitous glance in her direction but didn’t say anything.

After that, they tucked into the meal and at the same time embarked on a more detailed discussion of the estate’s affairs. Ellen imparted how Oakleigh’s stewards, Laurence Enright and John Corbett, had overseen the planting of alternative crops to the failing potato and ensured that the produce would not be exported, unlike the continuing policy on so many other estates where the landlords’ greed for profit trumped the tenants’ need for food. They had also implemented a temporary suspension on collecting rents. In turn, Bridget and Cormac shared news of the charity events they had organised in London and Dublin and the riot that had severely diminished the funds they had intended to bring.

‘We hope what we’ve brought will still make a significant impact though,’ said Bridget. ‘Here, and further afield as well.’

Cormac nodded. ‘We’d like to distribute it to other struggling communities who are also in need of it. It occurred to me that it might be especially worthwhile to send some to Ballingarry in Tipperary, where the Young Irelanders’ rebellion took place. The locals may be experiencing a dearth of resources in its aftermath.’

Ellen winced. ‘I’ve no doubt they are. Even though few of them supported it, they’re likely feeling the brunt of the authorities’ ill will anyway.’

As they spoke, Bridget noticed that Bridie had already devoured her portion of stew and brown bread and was looking forlornly down at her empty bowl. A twinge of guilt stabbed Bridget’s stomach; there was nothing left in any of the pots. She was about to rise and bring her own bowl over to the girl when, without any fuss at all, Jack passed his slices of bread to Bridie, placing them gently into her bowl. Bridie stared at him in bewilderment but he had already returned his attention to his father, who was talking about taking a cart with provisions to Tipperary within the next week. After a moment or two, she gobbled the bread up, her expression one of baffled delight. Bridget’s heart squeezed with a deep, fierce love for her son.