Across a Summer Sea (18 page)
In answer to her knock the door was opened by a young woman with a tangle of dark hair and large brown eyes. A plaid shawl was draped around her shoulders and she eyed Mary with some hostility.
‘I’m looking for a Mr Richard O’Neill?’ Mary enquired.
‘And who are ye?’ the girl asked suspiciously, taking in Mary’s fashionable outfit and then looking down to her own bare and grubby feet.
‘Mrs Mary McGann. I’ve come from Dublin about the position.’ Mary wasn’t impressed by the girl’s sullen manner.
‘Have ye so? Then it’s Himself ye’ll be looking for.’
‘I’ve already told you that. Does he employ you?’
‘Bridie, who’s at the door?’ a thin, quarrelsome voice enquired from within.
‘A woman from Dublin to see Himself, Da,’ the girl shouted back.
‘I’ll thank you to direct me,’ Mary said coldly. She hadn’t come all this way to be kept on the doorstep of a cabin by a barefoot slip of a girl.
‘Go up to the door yonder and ring the bell, but ye’ll have a bit of a wait, mind. Mrs O’Shea packed her bags and left three weeks ago. He’ll answer the door himself, if he’s a mind to,’ she added offhandedly.
Mary didn’t even thank her as she turned away. If that was the calibre of the servants he employed she had little to worry about.
She picked her way across the yard between half-frozen puddles and piles of dung. What a mess! she thought to herself. What kind of a man was he to allow such filth outside his front door? Shooing a small flock of foraging hens from under her feet she climbed the broken steps up to the massive oak door set in its arched stone lintel and pulled hard on the rusted iron rod that set a loud bell ringing in the hall beyond. She looked upwards. There was a stone plaque high above the doorway with a coat-of-arms above, which stated that the house was built by Sir Jasper Herbert, Knight, and his wife Dame Mary Finglass in the year 1626. Underneath the plaque were the words ‘By God of Might I hold my Right’.
So it was very old, but some of her nervousness had dissipated, owing to her initial evaluation of the way this decidedly ungracious Mr O’Neill appeared to live.
Eventually she heard the sound of footsteps and the door was opened.
‘Mr O’Neill? Mr Richard O’Neill?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Who are you?’
He wasn’t what she had expected. He was quite young, in his thirties she surmised, and handsome in a dark and rather saturnine way. He was tall, six foot she judged, and well made - not fat nor heavy but muscular. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy and sprinkled with grey and his eyes were the most piercing shade of blue she had ever seen. He wore cord trousers and waistcoat over a plain white collarless shirt.
‘I’m Mrs Mary McGann. I’ve come from Dublin in answer to your advertisement for a housekeeper,’ she replied primly.
To her surprise he smiled and his whole face changed. ‘Have you indeed. Then come inside, Mrs McGann.’
She followed him into the dim high-ceilinged hall. The floor was flagged but she noticed that there were numerous expensive-looking rugs on the floor - in need of a clean and chewed at the edges, but still expensive. She caught a glimpse of large, heavy-framed portraits on the walls and a huge sweeping stone staircase that rose on the right-hand side. The only daylight came from a small barred window by the door.
‘Please do go in. You will have to excuse the mess. I’ve been without a housekeeper for a while.’
‘So the young girl at the gatehouse informed me,’ she replied, entering a large rectangular room, which had a stone fireplace, a low stone vaulted ceiling and a mullioned window that looked out over the boundary wall. It was comfortably furnished but everything looked worn and dusty and neglected.
‘Please, do sit down. You must be tired.’
She sat gingerly on the edge of a large, deeply buttoned green leather chesterfield.
‘Mrs McGann? I assume you are a widow? You are very young, if I may presume to say so.’
Mary decided that honesty was the best policy. ‘No, Mr O’Neill. I am not a widow. My husband and I did not get on. We decided it would be the best policy to . . . separate. He lives in Liverpool.’
He raised an eyebrow and looked slightly bemused. She was a very attractive young woman. Not expensively dressed but fashionable. He was curious. ‘Indeed? Have you any children?’
‘I have three. Two daughters and one son. They are with relatives in Dublin.’
‘Are they young?’ he asked, thinking they couldn’t be very old. She was only in her mid-twenties, he guessed.
‘Lizzie is the youngest, she’s six. They are no trouble.’
‘And have you any experience?’
She was determined not to appear timid. ‘I have the experience of running my own home, which I did exceedingly well, if I do say so myself, and on a limited . . . er . . . budget.’
‘You have no experience of large households?’
‘Oh, indeed yes. I have lived in households of twelve people and more,’ she replied, thinking of her time with Nellie and Bella and the others.
His mouth lifted at the corners. ‘That’s not quite what I meant.’
She was a little disconcerted and decided that the best form of defence was attack.
‘How many servants do you employ, Mr O’Neill?’
He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Only three, Mrs McGann, but this is a big house.’
‘I can see that and, if you will excuse me, from the little I’ve seen it’s in desperate need of a good housekeeper.’ She wondered if she’d gone too far as she saw his brows rush together in a frown but she pressed on. ‘I work hard, Mr O’Neill. I’ve worked hard all my life and I’ve never had much in the way of material things. I don’t expect to be paid a fortune. A fair wage and accommodation for myself and my children. I am quiet, thrifty, honest and a good Catholic. There will be no - how should I put this? - unseemly behaviour. I will be fair if strict with the staff you already have. As I have said, I work hard and I expect others to do the same.’
He leaned back in his chair and stared at her. He liked her honesty but would she suit? Well, all the others hadn’t, although they were more qualified for the role. He shrugged. He had nothing to lose.
‘Very well, Mrs McGann, I’m prepared to give you a trial. Shall we say a month?’
Mary was so startled that at first she couldn’t reply. Then she shook herself. He was actually saying he would employ her! She’d got the job! She relaxed a little, a smile crossing her face. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure you won’t regret it.’
‘I hope I won’t. Now, shall I show you the rest of the house and we can discuss your salary?’
‘Thank you and could I please see the . . . er . . . accommodation? ’
‘Of course. It’s at the back of the house, on the ground floor.’ He rose.
As she followed suit, she decided to satisfy her curiosity about something.
‘May I ask you a question, sir?’
‘Please do.’
‘Why did you advertise the job in a small newsagent’s shop in Dublin?’
‘I wanted no one from these parts.’
‘But surely if you had advertised in a Dublin paper you would have been certain to have found someone more . . . experienced than myself?’
‘Maybe I didn’t want someone more “experienced” than yourself. You
are
discreet, Mrs McGann? It’s absolutely essential.’
are
discreet, Mrs McGann? It’s absolutely essential.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I think that is all I need to know and all you need to know. Please follow me.’
She was still puzzled as she followed him out of the room but she pushed her doubt to the back of her mind. She’d got the job and she was determined to make the best of it. At least she would be away from Davy, and that had to be better for herself and the children.
Chapter Twelve
M
ARY HAD NEVER SEEN so big a house in her entire life. It had taken half an hour to inspect the rooms. All those on the ground floor had stone vaulted ceilings, rather like a church, she thought, except they were much lower. There were five of them. The kitchen itself was almost as big as her whole house in Newsham Street had been and you could have prepared enough food for an army there. It was presided over by Mrs Moran, the cook, a small rotund woman of unfathomable age whose grey hair was snatched back into a bun and covered with a small white cap. Mary had liked her on sight.
ARY HAD NEVER SEEN so big a house in her entire life. It had taken half an hour to inspect the rooms. All those on the ground floor had stone vaulted ceilings, rather like a church, she thought, except they were much lower. There were five of them. The kitchen itself was almost as big as her whole house in Newsham Street had been and you could have prepared enough food for an army there. It was presided over by Mrs Moran, the cook, a small rotund woman of unfathomable age whose grey hair was snatched back into a bun and covered with a small white cap. Mary had liked her on sight.
‘When you’ve finished doing the tour of inspection, come back here and have a cup of tea. You must be in need of it,’ were her parting words as Richard O’Neill ushered Mary out.
The accommodation provided consisted of three rooms: a small sitting room and two bedrooms. All were adequately furnished but she made a mental note to scrub everything out and air the beds before she brought the children here.
‘Of course, most of the rooms are not in use, nor will be,’ her employer informed her as they moved from a formal dining room into yet another ‘reception’ room, with two large windows that overlooked fields.
‘I presume that’s why there are only three servants,’ she replied.
‘You presume correctly.’
‘The house is very old and it does look like a castle,’ she commented.
‘Most of it was built by the Herberts, although parts of it are older. Dating from the fifteen hundreds, I believe. It is half fortification, half dwelling house. It’s been improved over the years, made more of a house than a castle. Now, if you’ll follow me I’ll show you the upper floors.’
The staircase was totally devoid of any covering and their footsteps echoed loudly around the hall and first landing. She peered upwards at the high, dark, timbered ceiling and shivered. It was cold and smelled damp and musty. The house must be almost impossible to keep warm, she thought.
Here there were six large rooms all with huge stone fireplaces and deeply recessed wide windows. Three were bedrooms, one a dining room and the other two reception rooms. From the upper hall a doorway led into an enormous hall with a high timber ceiling, a fireplace you could stand upright in and two very large windows.
‘The older part of the house,’ he commented.
The stairs to the upper floors were carved out of the thick stone outer wall and up there there were more bedrooms.
‘Are they never used?’ Mary asked, thinking of the terrible overcrowded slums of Dublin and Liverpool.
‘No. Never. My own room is on the third floor. The rooms up there are inclined to be smaller, more manageable to heat.’
‘And are there rooms above them?’ She wondered just how many rooms there were in all.
‘A few. Storerooms mainly. The battlements are up there and they are in parts dangerous, so there is no need for you ever to venture further than the third storey. Also there is some structural damage, inflicted during the seventeenth century.’
‘By Cromwell, so I was told.’
He smiled wryly. ‘There is no love wasted on that particular statesman in this country, Mrs McGann. Nor is there a castle or country house that doesn’t bear the scars of his campaigns in Ireland, as I’m sure you will learn.’
It was a very interesting house, she thought as she followed him back down the staircase, but a very neglected one. Yet he must have money.
When they were once more in the hall he turned to her. ‘So, do you think you will be able to manage it all?’
‘Yes, although it will take some hard work to get it into a decent state. Apart from Mrs Moran, who do you employ?’
‘Seamus, known to all as Sonny. He lives in the gatehouse. He’s a general handyman.’
‘I met someone who I think is his daughter.’
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