Dark Rosaleen (4 page)

She told no one of her nightmares nor the guilt that drenched her. There was no one she could talk to. Who was there to listen? All within her father's house appeared to accept the inevitability of the tragedy that was unfolding, as if nothing could be changed by interfering. Yet she did interfere. It was unexpected, unprepared, and it came at the most unlikely time and place.

Christmas was ten days away and Sir William's house was full of holly, tinsel and festive bustle. The kitchen was busy with new sounds and smells. There were never-ending visits at the tradesmen's doors and the cook had been allowed to employ two extra girls to help. The under-gardener was digging out the root vegetables and the head gardener brought up the orchard's fruit, stored since the autumn in the darkest, coldest corner of the cellar. Having washed and polished them, he displayed them in pyramids on the sideboards in the dining room. The tree in the hall stood ten feet tall, so tall the silver angel's wand grazed the ceiling. Messengers delivered party invitations embossed in gold leaf and the Mayor of Cork, a butcher himself, sent Sir William his largest turkey with a note pinned to its breast, reminding the cook that it weighed twenty-five pounds gutted and would need at least twelve hours turning.

Christmas in England had always been the season of indulgences, of endless nights partying, of crowded, glamorous balls, of dancing and parading in the arms of admiring young suitors. Christmas here was so crudely out of place. It was as if the clock had stopped and the house was in limbo and nothing happening inside its walls bore any relevance to what was happening beyond its front door. Never had a Christmas seemed so unnecessary, even vulgar. Perhaps it was this feeling that unsettled her that particular evening and gave her the spirit to do what she did.

Every week on a Friday, her father held a dinner in the long, narrow, beech-panelled dining room. It was his favourite room. From the window of his house in Montenotte, he could see the lights of lower Cork, Blackrock Castle and below it the ships busy in the harbour. It gave the impression of contented, orderly prosperity and it pleased him. He invited his senior staff to wine and dine, to end the week's work and plan the next. At the lower end of the table sat his own locally recruited agents who were organising the distribution of the British Government's relief supplies. Next to them were the civil servants from Whitehall who kept a tally of the cost of it. At the top table, either side of Sir William, sat the Protestant clergymen who did their best to dictate who should get aid and who should not, men of the cloth notorious for their hatred of the Catholic peasantry. The Reverend Doctor Greville Martineau, of Huguenot stock, was their senior and most uncompromising leader.

Dr Martineau blamed the Irish Catholic poor for their own wretchedness. As he considered their poverty and starvation were self-inflicted, he saw no Christian reason to help. Nor did he believe that what he was witnessing was simply an agricultural accident. For him it was a visitation of God, divine intervention, and therefore irreversible. He preached that the peasant's decline from starvation to death was of God's making, severe and complete and it had a single purpose: to cleanse the land of its papist evil and reduce its population of wrongdoers. He would quote passages of the Bible to endorse all he said and it comforted those who listened.

Kate was obliged to attend her father's Friday dinners to provide attraction and light conversation. For those few hours she was expected to distract these men from the labours of their working week and entertain them by being frivolous, witty and amusing until the cigars and brandies were brought to the table. That was the signal for her to rise, for her hand to be kissed a dozen times by as many lips and for her to depart the company so that government business and merry chit-chat could commence.

That evening was the last of the weekly dinners before Christmas and was more convivial than usual, aided by Sir William's many helpings of Yuletide Amontillado. He was in good humour, pleased with the team of helpers and advisers he had so quickly put together. They had an immense task ahead, supervising the import of grain, establishing the depots to store it, making them secure and sending it out to where it was most needed. Whenever he felt harassed by bureaucratic bungling he would console himself that such things were inevitable because nothing on this scale had ever been attempted before. There simply was not the means to cope with the rapid spread of the distress and if food was not reaching the starving quickly enough it was simply because Ireland's roads were not fit for wagons to travel on.

He had written his first progress report to Sir Charles Trevelyan, stating that he expected the worst would be over by the summer. He did not believe it himself, nor did any of his staff, but that was what Sir Charles wanted to hear.

Midway through dinner, as they were feasting on roast leg of lamb, ham hock and every variety of winter vegetable and before Moran the butler arrived with the decanter of port and the cigar box, the conversation unexpectedly and to the dismay of many turned too soon to the famine. It had never been Kate's intention to speak her thoughts so publicly and certainly never in the company of these men. Had it not been for Dr Martineau, she might never have done so.

She was listening to the youngest and newest of her father's relief agents, the slim and fair-haired Captain John Shelley. He had taken voluntary leave of his regiment purposely to help in the relief effort and had sailed from Liverpool on the same ship as Kate and her father.

To the older men who would prefer not to hear he said, ‘Is it not possible to persuade the landlords to postpone payment of the gale until people can harvest next year's potato crop? They might then be able to buy a little food to tide them over.'

Primed with claret, his listeners jeered and thumped the table.

‘Without rents,' they shouted, ‘where is the landlord's income? If the tenants fall another year in arrears how could they ever expect to catch up on their debt? Why should landowners, and especially the Church, forfeit even a penny of their income for what is after all a natural, even a divine, catastrophe?'

Captain Shelley said, ‘But surely more can be done to alleviate the effects of the famine. People are dying from hunger, yet there is food in the markets. I've seen it. The Church is doing so little when there is so much it could do. Let us provide at least some ration of Exchequer money to see them through the winter.'

In the babble of protest, Dr Martineau held up his hand, clearly angry that someone so young, so English and knowing so little of the situation had dared question both Church and government policy.

‘We will excuse your young nonsense, Captain,' he said. ‘You still have much to learn about our country and its people. But you must believe that all that can be done is being done. Do more and we will destroy what little spirit remains in these people to cope for themselves. Remember that God rewards the industrious and never forget that these Catholics are the architects of their misery. They are getting no less punishment than they deserve and far more charity than they have a right to. If food is scarce it must be made to last a longer time. It is the only criteria by which consumption can be controlled. I recommend, young man, that you take the time to read a few chapters of that great economist Malthus and his dictum that if the land cannot support the people then the people must perish. So leave well alone and let matters take their course. As Malthus so wisely observed, life and death must balance. A problem such as this is best solved nature's way.'

The diners were pleased with that. They nodded and murmured their assent and raised their glasses to toast the Reverend's wise words. The shy Captain Shelley, seeming to regret his impetuosity, bowed his head and said nothing more.

Kate then heard herself speak, her words echoing as if she was at the end of a very long and narrow corridor, words almost stifled by the rage inside her.

‘And by natural means we must assume, Dr Martineau, that you are advocating death by starvation, death by disease. Entire families evicted from their homes and left to freeze to death in the ditches.'

Sir William choked on his wine. ‘Kathryn, you will please remember who you are and whose company you are in.'

But Martineau held up his hand once more and spoke to the wall above Sir William's head as if he was addressing a congregation.

‘No! Sir William. Forgive me but we are among the young and impressionable and it would be entirely wrong and even dangerous for Miss Kathryn to be encouraged by Captain's Shelley's false illusions. We have a duty to enlighten them both.'

He turned his chair to Kate so that her father might not see the menace in his eyes. Already he knew of her riding excursions alone into the countryside and what she was witnessing on the roads and in the villages. His Church was a network of spies and informants, ministers and vergers and all those who could be relied on to listen and watch for any suspicion of treason to God or government and report it directly to him. He lowered his voice as if he wanted only her to hear.

‘The greater evil we have to contend with, young lady, is not the physical evil of the famine but the moral evil of the selfish, perverse and turbulent nature of the Irish themselves. We are not God but the servants of God. We cannot divine a solution. Only He, in his mercy, can do that. But the law is man-made and the law demands that rents are paid and the landlords quite properly, within that law, must use whatever force is necessary to evict those who will not or cannot pay.'

He leant nearer. She could smell eau de cologne and saw he had dabbed face powder on his cheeks to hide the mass of blue veins. A gold crucifix swung like a pendulum across his purple vest. It was hypnotic. His nearness suffocated her. She asked him in almost a whisper, ‘Even if it means they must live in holes in the ground and eat rats?'

Martineau smiled. His voice now was soft and comforting, almost seductive. ‘Kathryn, it is possible to hear this tale of sorrow too often. Nothing changes in Ireland, nor will it in our lifetime. It is the old habitual mass of want, the fixed tide of distress that never ebbs. The Catholic peasant is always hungry, whether the potato fails or not, and the rogues are famous for offering a multitude of reasons why. What is important, my dear, is that they should not be deprived of knowing that they are suffering from an application of God's providence and I trust their priests are making that very clear to them.'

Then, so abruptly it startled her, he turned and, raising his voice, addressed the table guests again.

‘We must not exaggerate the number of evictions. There are mischief-makers enough who will have you believe what they want you to believe and they will happily add a dozen noughts to any number you care to mention. The Irish knave is the best practised liar in Christendom. Rest assured, gentlemen, and I have it on good authority, that there are no more and no less evictions than is normal at this time of the year.'

‘You lie,' Kate said loudly.

Sir William rose from his chair. ‘Kathryn, your behaviour is abominable. You will leave us now, at once.'

She did not move. ‘It's a lie, Father, and you know it is. I saw the report on your desk this morning. I know what it says. Tell them what it says.'

‘Go, Kathryn. I order you to leave this instant.'

‘I saw it, Father,' she shouted. ‘From your own men in Moyarta and Carrigholt. They said that so many tenants are being evicted it is a disaster. They said that over a hundred homes have been tumbled this week alone – this week, Father, the week before Christmas! Dozens of families have been thrown onto the road to live like wild animals without food and shelter, while we sit pigging ourselves. And here in our pantry we have the largest turkey in Ireland.'

Sir William rose unsteadily to his feet, kicking his chair aside. But Kate had already run to the door, pushing past Moran and his silver tray before her tears began. She slammed it shut on a shocked and silent room of men who knew well enough the truth of what she had said. And, with one young exception, were committed to keeping it a secret.