Dublin (87 page)

  "I suppose I may as well," said her father. And he certainly would have gone without Margaret if she had not begged him to let her come. "If there's any danger," he told her firmly, "you'll have to go straight home."

  When they got to Saint Patrick's, they found a crowd gathered outside. They seemed in a cheerful mood, and their neighbour, who went ahead to find out what was happening, soon reported that the fight was now over and the rival groups, both in the cathedral, had agreed to a truce.

  "There's only one problem," he explained. "The Butler men are on one side of a big door and the Fitzgerald men on the other; but the door is locked and no one has the key. And until they've shaken hands neither side intends to move from the place where they are, on account of their mistrust."

  "Do they mean to stay there forever, then?" asked her father.

  "Not at all. They will cut a hole in the door.

  But it's a mighty door, so it will take some time."

  It was just then that Margaret saw the little girl.

  She was standing with her mother, not far off. She might be five years old, Margaret guessed, but she was tiny. She was dressed in a bright patterned dress; her eyes were dark, her olive-coloured features finely drawn and delicate. She was the neatest little person that Margaret had ever seen. One glance at her mother, a small, elegant Mediterranean woman, explained the child's looks at once. She must be Spanish.

  "Oh, Father," she cried, "can I go and play with her?"

  It was unusual but not unexpected to encounter Spanish features in Ireland. The Black Irish, people often called them. Notwithstanding the legend that some of the island's earliest inhabitants had come from the Iberian peninsula, the reason for the Black Irish was very simple. Centuries of trade between Spain and the Irish ports had probably resulted in a few intermarriages, but the greatest sources of the Black Irish were the regular visits of the great Spanish fishing fleets which for generations had come for the rich catch off the island's southern coast, especially off the lands of the O'Sullivans and the O'Driscolls down in West Cork. Ships from these fleets would often put into the creeks to process their catch with salt, paying the O'Sullivan and O'Driscoll lords a levy for the privilege.

  Sometimes a sailor would find a local sweetheart and settle there, or leave a child.

  The mother had no objection to Margaret amusing her tiny daughter. Her name was Joan. For some time Margaret played with the doll-like child who was obviously fascinated by the older, red- haired girl and never took her large, brown eyes off her. Finally, however, her father called Margaret back and told her that it was time to be going. And he had just smiled in a friendly way at the Spanish woman and her daughter, and started to turn away, when a cheer from the crowd announced that the men from the cathedral were coming out, and so they stayed to watch.

  The Fitzgerald men came first, about a score of them. They moved off swiftly towards the city gate. A few moments later, the Butler group emerged. Most of them started to leave in the direction of Saint Stephen's hospital; but a few split away, and one of these came through the crowd towards them.

  He was a handsome, well-set man with thinning brown hair and a broad, English- looking face. As he came out of the throng, the little Spanish girl caught sight of him, cried out, "Papa!" and in an instant had thrown herself into his arms. Margaret smiled. It was a charming scene. So she was surprised when she glanced at her father to see him scowling with fury.

  "We're going," Rivers said suddenly, and taking her by the arm, he almost dragged her away.

  "What has happened?" she asked. "Is it

  Joan's father?"

  "I never guessed she was his child," he muttered.

  "Who is he, Father?"

  "Henry Butler," he said, but the anger in his voice warned her not to ask him any more.

  They had reached the bridge across the river before he broke his silence.

  "Many years ago, Margaret, there was an inheritance-not huge, but large enough-that fell between two cousins of my mother's family. My mother was cheated of her rightful share. With the connivance of Ormond, it all went to the mother of that man you saw back there. His name is Henry Butler. He's from a junior branch of the Butlers, but still a distant kinsman of the earl.

  And he has been living on the fruits of that fine estate which should have been mine. So it hurts me and angers me to see him." He paused. "I never told you this before because I don't like to speak of it."

  A disputed inheritance: Margaret had often heard of such things.

  Disputes between heiresses, in particular, were common enough in Ireland.

  "Does Henry Butler know he has your inheritance?"

  "Most certainly he does," her father replied.

  "I met the man once. As soon as he heard my name, he turned his back and walked away."

  "Joan is sweet," Margaret said. It made her sad that the pretty little child should be the daughter of her father's enemy.

  "She has your money," he answered grimly.

  They did not speak about it anymore, but that night, when her mother supposed she was asleep, Margaret heard her parents talking.

  "It was so long ago," she heard her mother pleading, in a low voice. "Do not think of it."

  "But that is why I am forced to live like this, a miserable agent working for others, instead of a gentleman on my own estate."

  "We manage well enough. Can you not be happy with what you have? A wife and children who love you?"

  "You know I love my family more than anything in the world." His voice descended so that she could not hear it, then rose again. "But how can I provide for them?

  Henry Butler has it all. Where is Margaret's dowry, tell me? The little Spanish girl has it." There was a pause. Then her father's voice again, almost in tears. "Oh the pain of it. The pain."

  After that, Margaret stopped her ears, and lay there shaking for a long time until at last she fell asleep.

  Margaret was eighteen when her father started the quest to find her a husband.

  "We shall look," he told her confidently, "in Fingal. Fingal's the place," he said firmly,

  "for an English girl like you." She knew what he meant. It was not only that Fingal was the area of English farms, where landlords looked out on huge orderly fields of wheat and barley; Fingal was a family network. There were the Fagans and the Conrans and the Cusacks; the Finglas family, the Usshers, the Bealings, the Balls, the Taylors up at Swords. All English gentry families who married amongst each other andwiththe greatest merchant families in Dublin.

  The marriage network spread outwards also, to the Dillons in Meath, the Bellews, the Sarsfields, and the Plunketts-some of the best of the English in Ireland. At the apex of the Fingal families were three, whose lands lay along the coast.

  The family of St. Lawrence held the headland of Howth; just to the north, by the next inlet, were the Irish branch of the great aristocratic family of Talbot, and nearby the Barnewalls. These were the people her father meant when he referred to Fingal.

  She knew a good many of them-not well, but enough to talk to. Sometimes her father would take her with him if he rode over to some fine estate on business.

  Occasionally the family would be invited to an entertainment in one of the houses; or one of her brothers might come by in the company of a friend who belonged to a Fingal family. Two years ago she had chanced to strike up a friendship with a younger daughter of the St. Lawrence family. For about a year they had been almost inseparable. Margaret would go across and stay with her friend for days at a time. They would walk along the strand above the Liffey estuary to where the Tolka stream came down at Clontarf; or on sunny days they would spend hours up on the headland gazing southwards across the bay and down the coast to where the volcanic hills rose magically through the haze.

  It was a happy friendship. The St. Lawrence family were always kind to her. But then they found a husband for her friend, who left Fingal; and there was no reason for Margaret to go to Howth after that.

  "Margaret's hair," her father said, "is her greatest asset." And no one disagreed.

  Some might have said that her face was a little plain, but thanks to her hair, she had only to enter any gathering for all heads to turn. Rich, dark red-if she did not put it up it fell like a gleaming curtain down her back. She hoped that she also had other attractions: good skin, a handsome figure, a lively personality. But she wasn't a fool.

  "They will notice you for your hair, Margaret," her mother told her. "The rest is up to you."

  The opportunity for all Fingal to see her came the summer when she was eighteen.

  It was a day in mid-June when her father came into the house one afternoon looking pleased with himself and announced,

  "Did you hear that one of the Talbot boys has just returned from England? Edward Talbot. He's been there three years, you know. He visited the royal court. A fine young gentleman by all accounts. There's to be a great entertainment out at Malahide," he continued, "to welcome him back.

  All Fingal will be going." He paused, so that they should think this was the end of the information. "We're going, too, of course," he added with a straight face that only gradually broke into a triumphant grin.

  How had her father managed to procure an invitation to such a grand event? Margaret didn't know. But the next week was spent helping her mother make her a fine new gown and in all the other preparations necessary for such an occasion. As it happened, both her brothers were away at the time, and the day before her mother fell and sprained her ankle and so decided to remain at home, but Margaret and her father set off upon the afternoon in question in high spirits. Margaret's gown, of green-and-black silk brocade, was a triumph. "It sets off your hair perfectly," her mother assured her. And though he did not say much, she could see that her father was excited. When he said admiringly, "You'll be the best-looking young lady there, Margaret," she was quite as pleased that she had made him happy as she was by the thought of any good looks she might possess.

  The castle of Malahide lay on the far side of the ancient Plain of Bird Flocks, on land that adjoined the rolling fields upon which, centuries before, Harold the Norseman had gazed out from his farmstead.

  On the northern edge of the estate, where a small river flowed to the sea past some fine oyster beds, stood the busy little village of Malahide. Down its eastern flank lay the open sea. The estates of the gentry in Fingal were not large-most ran to hundreds rather than thousands of acres-but the Malahide land was good and the estate was valuable. The castle was set in pleasant parkland sprinkled with fine old oaks and ash trees which gave the place a stately air.

  For a long time it had been only a bleak defensive tower; but two decades ago, the Talbots had added several features, including a great hall, so that it had become a more impressive and domestic building. In front of the main entrance stretched an expanse of open grass. To one side was a walled garden. As they approached, the light on the stone gave the castle a pleasing look of softness in the afternoon sun.

  A large company had already gathered. It was warm and they had set up trestle tables outside heaped with sweetmeats and other delicacies. Servants in livery were serving wine. As she looked around, Margaret could see numerous faces she recognised-aldermen and royal officials from Dublin, gentry from various parts of the region. "The flower of Fingal," her father murmured, before adding, as if they had all come there for her benefit, "take your pick."

  If she had felt a little daunted by such a crowd of important people, she was glad to see several young people she knew, including her former friend the St. Lawrence girl; so that in no time she found herself engaged in easy conversation. She was conscious also that she had attracted some attention. When she moved, several male heads turned. Her mother had been right: the combination of the green silk with her red hair was working well. A distinguished old gentleman even came over to compliment her-one of the notable Plunkett family, her friend told her.

  The banquet in the castle hall was a splendid affair. The hall was packed. Her father was seated some distance away from her, but she had cheerful young people for company. Three fish courses were served. There was roast beef turning on a spit, venison, pork, and even swan. She knew only a little of wines, but she could tell that the French wines being served were of the best. She had never been to such a sumptuous affair before, but she took care to remember her father's advice, "Taste everything that is offered, but take only a tiny portion of each.

  That is the way to enjoy a great feast." There were so many guests that there was not room for dancing, but there were pipers and a harpist playing. When the sweet courses were being served, Edward Talbot, in whose honour all this was done, stood up and made a charming speech of welcome. He was in his early twenties, with an oval face and finely drawn features.

  Margaret thought he looked pleasant and intelligent. His hair was brown with a trace of ginger in it and was already thinning; but she decided that the fine, domed forehead it revealed would make him, if anything, more attractive as he grew older.