Page 45 of The Missing Sister

‘Sure, but I’m not waiting any longer to be your wife,’ she’d told him. ‘We’ll fight for it together, so.’

Finn was also a committed member of the Third West Cork Brigade, alongside his best friend, Charlie Hurley. Only recently, the brigade had ambushed the Royal Irish Constabulary at Ahawadda and killed three policemen, then taken their rifles and ammunition. It was a valuable hoard as both were in short supply; while the British had an empire’s worth of men and guns behind them, the volunteers were fighting with the few weapons that were either stolen or smuggled into the country from across the sea. Other men had already fallen around him, but Finn had managed to escape unharmed, which had earned him the nickname ‘Finn o’ the Nine Lives’. Nuala swallowed hard. He’d been lucky so far, but having been called on to tend to injured volunteers, Nuala knew all too well how luck could run out... Just like it had for Tom Hales and Pat Harte last night.

‘And here I am, heading up to the Big House to serve the British,’ she sighed as she climbed back onto the bicycle and moved off again. As she cycled along the high stone wall that marked the boundary of the house and parklands, then turned up the long, winding drive, she wondered what it would be like to live in a place that could probably sleep a hundred souls. The many windows of the house seemed to glint down at her, large columns flanking the front entrance, the building itself symmetrical and square in the way the British seemed to like everything.

Turning left as she approached the house, Nuala made her way around to the back to use the kitchen entrance. In the courtyard, five enormous, shiny horses poked their heads out of their stable doors.

If only we could get hold of a couple of those beauties, ’twould surely speed up the volunteers’ journeys between their safehouses...

Stepping off her bike, she tidied her wind-strewn dark hair, straightened her dress, then walked to ring the bell at the kitchen door. She could hear the baying of the hunting dogs from their kennels.

‘Hello there, Nuala, ’tis a grand day we’re having for the weather, isn’t it?’ Lucy, one of the kitchen maids whom she knew from her school days, ushered her inside.

‘I’d say any day it doesn’t rain is a good day,’ she replied.

‘True,’ Lucy agreed as she led her through the vast kitchen. ‘Sit yerself down for five minutes.’ She gestured to a stool by the huge hearth, a healthy fire burning within it and a pot of something that smelt delicious over it. ‘Maureen, the parlour maid, is fetching Mrs Houghton, the housekeeper, to take you upstairs.’

‘What’s happened to the usual nurse?’

‘Ah now, ’tis a good piece of gossip that’s not to leave this kitchen.’ Lucy pulled up a stool close to Nuala’s and sat down. ‘Laura only went and ran off with our stable lad!’

‘And what would be wrong with that?’

‘The thing that’s wrong, Nuala, is that he’s a local, and she’s Britishanda Protestant! Her ladyship had her brought over here especially to care for Philip. I’d be guessing they’ve caught a boat back to England by now. Her ladyship asked Mrs Houghton if she knew of anyone with nursing experience. Mrs Houghton asked us maids and I suggested you.’

‘’Tis thoughtful of you, Lucy, but I’m not properly qualified,’ Nuala protested. ‘I only did a year up at the North Infirmary in Cork, before I was needed to come back and help at the farm.’

‘Her ladyship isn’t to know that, is she? Besides, he’s not sick, like, he just needs help washing and dressing himself and some company. Laura spent most of her time drinking tea and reading to him, so Maureen says. But then, she’s a bit of a witch.’ Lucy lowered her voice. ‘Maureen’s only the parlour maid, but she’s all airs and graces on her. Nobody likes her. I...’

Lucy immediately shut up as a woman, who Nuala surmised was the unpopular Maureen, entered the kitchen. Dressed in her black maid’s dress with its starched white apron, her pale face and long nose set off against her black hair, which was severely pinned back under her cap, Nuala guessed she was probably in her mid-twenties.

‘Miss Murphy?’ the woman asked her.

‘Yes, I’m Nuala Murphy.’

‘Please come with me.’

As Nuala walked across the kitchen to follow Maureen, she turned back to Lucy and rolled her eyes.

‘So where did you train as a nurse?’ Maureen asked as she led her across a vast hallway to the bottom of a flight of stairs so wide and big and grand that Nuala imagined they could lead to heaven.

‘The North Infirmary in Cork.’

‘And your family? Where are they from?’

‘We live up at Cross Farm, between Clogagh and Timoleague. And you?’ Nuala asked politely.

‘I was born in Dublin, but my parents moved down here when they inherited a farm from my father’s older brother. I’ve moved back to take care of my mother, who is ailing. Ah, Mrs Houghton, here is the girl who will fill the temporary nursing position.’

Nuala could hear the emphasis on the word ‘temporary’, as a tall woman in a long black dress without an apron, and a large bunch of keys hanging from her waist, appeared from one of the other rooms off the hall.

‘Thank you, Maureen. Hello, Miss Murphy, I’ll take you up to Philip’s rooms,’ the woman said in a pronounced British accent.

‘May I ask what is wrong with the lad?’ asked Nuala as she followed Mrs Houghton up the stairs.

‘He was caught by an exploding mine while fighting in the Great War. He had his left leg shattered and they had to amputate to the knee. He’s in a wheelchair and it’s very unlikely he will ever leave it.’

Nuala hardly heard the housekeeper; she was staring at the huge paintings of people from the past that hung all the way up the stairs.