Edith E-Book

Martina Devlin

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 427

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Martina Devlin, an award-winning columnist for the Irish Independent and podcaster for Dublin City of Literature #CityofBooks, has delivered a new novel based on the life of Edith Somerville of 'Somerville and Ross' fame – authors of The Irish R.M. In this work, set during the turbulent period of Irish Independence 1921–22, Somerville finds herself at a crossroads. Her position as a member of the Ascendancy is perilous as she struggles to keep her family home, Drishane House in West Cork, while others are burned out. After years in a successful writing partnership with Violet Martin, Edith continues to write after her partner's death, comforted in the belief they continue to connect through automatic writing and séances. Against a backdrop of Civil War politics and lawlessness erupting across the country via IRA flying columns, people across Ireland are forced to consider where their loyalties lie. In Edith, Devlin limns a vivid historical context in this story of proto-feminist Edith Somerville courageously trying to keep home and heart in one piece. The story of Somerville and Ross is unique in the history of Irish women writers. Academic Shawn R. Mooney described these best-selling authors as 'undeniably New Women: single, educated and economically independent writers whose lives and literary collaboration were unique manifestations of late-nineteenth century feminist strivings toward political and sexual equality'. Devlin depicts Edith in the round, suffering from loss, striving for safety, and keeping hold of hope in this captivating narrative set in the early years of a nascent state — a triumph of ventriloquism rooted in a society on the cusp of change.

Leseprobe

Edith

To Dr Carlo Gébler and Dr Paul Delaney of Trinity College Dublin.With thanks.

MARTINA DEVLIN

THE LILLIPUT PRESS DUBLIN

First published 2022 by

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

62–63 Sitric Road, Arbour Hill Dublin 7, Ireland

www.lilliputpress.ie

Copyright © 2022 Martina Devlin

The map of Castletownshend is based on a version from Somerville & Ross:The World of the Irish R.M. (Penguin, 1987) by Gifford Lewis.

This version © Niall McCormack.

Paperback ISBN 9781843518303

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.

A CIP record for this title is available from The British Library.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

The Lilliput Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaíon.

Set in 12.75pt on 16pt Perpetua by iota (www.iota-books.ie)

‘Only connect.’ – Howards End, E.M. Forster

Dramatis Personae

Edith Somerville (1858–1949) from Castletownshend in County Cork was one half of the bestselling Somerville and Ross writing partnership. In their day they were critically and commercially acclaimed, producing novels, short stories, travel books and journalism.Their three collections of Irish R.M. stories (beginning with Some Experiences of an Irish R.M. in 1899) became the duo’s most popular work. Edith was also a trained artist and illustrated their books.

Violet Martin (1862–1915) from Connemara in County Galway, who wrote under the pen name Martin Ross, was the other half of Somerville and Ross. She and Edith were second cousins, and closely attuned to one another. After Martin’s death, Edith continued to give her co-author status on new work, believing they were in regular contact through automatic writing and seances.

Ethel Smyth (1858–1944) was an English composer, a member of the women’s suffrage movement who was jailed for her activities, and the first woman to be made a dame for services to music. She and Edith were friends for a time following Martin’s death.

Flurry Knox, a roguish horse-lover memorably described as a ‘half-sir’, is a key character in Somerville and Ross’s Irish R.M. short stories.

Time

1921–22

A guerrilla war known at the time as the Anglo-Irish War, and later the War of Independence, has been fought for two-and-half years between the Irish Republican Army or IRA and the British administration in Ireland. A truce is called in July 1922. Now, leaders on both sides are engaged in negotiations. But the ceasefire hasn’t yet delivered peace. Parts of the country are lawless, with IRA flying columns treating it as an opportunity to re-arm and prepare for the resumption of warfare. A deal will soon be struck which delivers independence for most of Ireland – but, controversially, accepts partition. The north-east is reconfigured as Northern Ireland, while the remainder becomes the Irish Free State. And all around Ireland, people are forced to consider where their loyalty lies.

one

Edith Somerville proceeds along Skibbereen’s North Street, past the town hall with its broken clock face, her mind buzzing with errands. Family silver left in the Bank of Ireland safety deposit box. A birthday gift chosen for a godchild, despite the shops being light on stock because of the Troubles. Letters and packages posted, although no guarantee when they’ll arrive with IRA interruptions to the postal service. She’s earned herself some luncheon in the West Cork Hotel before setting off homewards. In high good humour amid the late September sunshine, she makes her way towards the riverfront.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Somerville,’ comes a voice from behind her. Apologetic. But undeniably an interruption.

Shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, apron smeared, the butcher has darted out.

‘What is it, Mattie?’

His Adam’s apple works. ‘C-c-could you … could you spare me a minute, your honour-ma’am? Inside in the shop?’

‘Spit it out now, like a good fellow.’

He approaches, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘The Drishane account. Four months, it is, since ’twas settled.’

‘Gracious me, Mattie, you shouldn’t leave it so long. Have your boy drop in the bill the next time he’s doing a delivery.’

‘Won’t you oblige me and step inside where we can talk in private, ma’am? It won’t take up much of your time.’

She glances at the yellow premises with its black and white sign over the doorway.

Dwyer

Father & Son

MasterVictuallers

In the window, trays of interleafed chops and sausage spirals are arranged, flies congregating around their moist pinkness. Sawdust leads from his boots back to the door, like a fairy-tale trail of crumbs through the forest. A stray mongrel materializes to sniff at it.

As abruptly as a hunter refusing an easy jump, her serenity is ruffled. Perhaps it’s his persistence. Or it might be a flash of foreboding. ‘It’s not convenient today, Mattie. Now do as I say and send in your bill.’

His voice is somewhat louder and a shade less humble. ‘We’ve handed it in at the kitchen door over and over, Miss Somerville. Mrs O’Shea says she’s passed it on to Mr Somerville and what more can she do? Two weeks ago, I took the bull by the horns and went up meself. Waited about for a word with Mr Somerville. He wrote me out a cheque there and then, so he did, and I lodged it the self-same day. But the bank wouldn’t honour it. Said the cheque was …’

A mumble.

Colour floods Edith’s face.That word she couldn’t quite catch sounded like worthless. Lately, Cameron has become evasive.When the post does manage to get through, she has noticed a shiftiness in her brother. Any- thing resembling a bill is jammed, unopened, in his pocket.

A rag-and-bone cart jangles by, churning up mud. A customer exits the shop and dawdles past, not troubling to hide her curiosity. One of the Finnegan girls, if she’s not mistaken. How much has the chit overheard?

Edith hooks Mattie Dwyer with her gaze.‘There must be some mis- understanding. Never mind, I’ll settle the account on the spot. If I may, I’ll take you up on that offer of a few moments in private on your premises.

’ ‘I wouldn’t put you to the trouble if the bill hadn’t shot up so high, ma’am. It’s an honour to have the Somerville account, like me father before me.’

She makes a chopping gesture. Stop discussing our business in public, says her gloved hand.

Almost bowing, he stands back, and she precedes him into the shop. Flitches of bacon dangle by their fat outer sides from hooks on the ceiling.

‘Keep an eye on things, Pat,’ he tells a youth in a striped apron behind the counter. ‘Mrs Nagle’s cook will be in shortly to place her order. She’ll want three pounds of rashers and half a dozen rings of black pudding, at least. Make a start, parcel them up.’

Dwyer parts a curtain and ushers Edith into a nondescript room overlooking the back yard. Beneath the window is a table. Dwyer dusts off one of two chairs beside it and holds it back, inviting her to sit. He does not presume to occupy the remaining one. Edith stares through a grimy net curtain at the butcher boy’s delivery bicycle. If Cameron was caught short, why didn’t he borrow from her? She’s lent him cash before. Granted, he owes her a sizeable sum already. But she’d advance him every last farthing rather than discover he’d handed over a duff cheque with a Somerville’s signature on it.

Behind her, at a sideboard covered in brown paper and balls of string, overspill from the shop, Dwyer rustles his accounts book. She hears him breathing through his mouth. And no wonder with those blocked nasal passages. An even more alarming possibility occurs to her. There may be overdue bills with other tradesmen. At the fishmonger’s and grocer’s.

Dwyer clears his throat. ‘Here it is. Colonel Somerville, Drishane House, Castletownshend.’ He hands the account to Edith.

Her eyes skim over the figures and snag on the total. An intake of breath, rapidly suppressed. How on earth did Cameron allow it to mount to such a level? A tower of pork chops as tall as the Fastnet lighthouse wobbles before her eyes. Sausages laid in a line, reaching all the way into Cork city. Who is eating all this meat? It’s an age since they had a dinner party.The only house guest they entertained was her friend Ethel Smyth a year ago, and she insisted on paying a share of the household expenses.

Edith thought when the Great War ended, money worries would ease. But it’s quite the reverse – things keep getting tighter. Hospitality stuttering to a halt is one among many economies they’ve had to practise. Not least because Ireland’s been in a state of ferment for close on two years. Nobody wants to risk driving after dark for the sake of some duck à l’orange and a couple of glasses of Merlot. Rents are difficult to prise out of the tenants. Drishane’s paddocks have never held so few horses – horse-coping has been a lucrative sideline for her but it’s no longer generating much income. The estate’s farm produce is unsaleable, with craters in the roads and blown-up bridges preventing goods from going to market. The IRA is bent on making roads impassable for the forces of law and order, but getting about is a nuisance for everyone else, too. As for the book business, once her cash cow – sales are modest. Her latest hasn’t set the literary world on fire.

If times turn any harder they’ll be reduced to vegetarianism, like that crank George Bernard Shaw. How her cousin Charlotte puts up with his peculiar eating habits, she’ll never understand.An amusing man. But unsound.

All at once, Edith recalls giving Cameron her share of the butcher’s bill.Whatever he spent her cash on, it certainly wasn’t to pay the butcher. No wonder he refused to take a run into Skib this morning when she sug- gested it at breakfast. He must have known the bill wouldn’t disappear into thin air.

Mattie Dwyer clears his throat. ‘I trust everything is in order, your honour-ma’am?’

‘Perfectly in order, Mattie. But it’s somewhat steeper than I antici- pated.’ She knows to the last shilling how much her purse contains.‘I find I don’t have enough cash on me at present and I’ve left my chequebook in Drishane. Let me make some inroads into it, at least.’ She produces three banknotes and an assortment of crowns, half-crowns and florins from her bag. ‘Count this up, please, and deduct it from the total. I’ll make arrangements to pay the remainder in due course.’

Except she does not know when that will be. Meanwhile, they must trust to the butcher’s good nature to continue meeting their orders. An ugly word occurs to her. The Somervilles must rely on his charity.

‘And may I check what’s on order with you for the weekend, Mattie?’ ‘A mutton joint, ma’am, and some liver and kidney.’

‘Cancel them.’

‘Ah, now, there’s no need for that, Miss Somerville. I wouldn’t see you go without, above in Drishane. That wouldn’t be right at all. I dare say you’ll let me have what’s owing as soon as you find it convenient.’

‘There is no question of us going hungry, Mattie.The cook has fallen into wasteful habits, ordering meat we don’t need with just my brother and me echoing about in the house.’

‘Whatever you say, ma’am.’ He licks the pencil stub and enters the sum paid in his ledger.

It represents three-quarters of what’s due.And now she is stony broke.

—

Edith waits while the stable boy from the West Cork Hotel fetches her dogcart. Does she have a coin in her pocket to tip him? Her right leg throbs. She uses a walking stick at home but won’t carry one into Skibbereen, in case the townspeople say she’s ageing. Which is nonsense. She’s a youthful sixty-three – plenty of vim and vigour in her yet.

The boy, one of the Connors clan judging by those curls, has harnessed Tara and leads her back. The chestnut horse huffs out a breath in recognition, and she strokes the mare’s forehead along the white flash. Quick to spook, Tara is wearing blinkers for this trip to town.

‘Any packages, Miss Somerville?’

‘Just myself, if you’ll lend me your arm.’ She allows him to hand her up the steps, although once she’d have sprung into the dogcart under her own steam.‘Are you a Connors?’

He tucks the tartan blanket over her knees, attentive as a lady’s maid. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Roddy’s boy?’

‘No, ma’am. He’s me uncle. Philip was me da.’

She remembers Philip, he died in prison. Caught fever a year into his sentence. He was jailed for something political. A hothead, they tried him out in the Drishane stables, but he wouldn’t take orders.

Edith fumbles in a pocket and her gloved fingers close over a disc. A stray button? Too slender and even. Feels like a sixpence. She slides it into the boy’s palm.‘Thank you, young man.’

He tugs his cap brim.‘That’s a grand animal you have, Miss Somerville.’ ‘Tara’s from a good bloodline.’

‘I hear tell you’ve a stable full of fine beasts above in Drishane.’

She frowns.What business is it of his? Without answering, she clicks her tongue at Tara, who springs forward.The tub-shaped vehicle clatters over the cobblestones and onto the street. By the bridge near the hotel, she meets a neighbour’s son, and pulls on Tara’s reins.

‘Need a lift, Harry?’

Lieutenant Harry Beasley removes his uniform cap. ‘No, thank you, Miss Somerville. I’ve just arrived here. Haven’t had a chance to sample Skib’s delights yet.’

‘How are things across the water?’

‘I’ve been stationed in France. But from what I saw travelling through England last week, there are problems. Nothing that can’t be sorted, of course. But shortages, definitely. Too few jobs, too many mouths.’

‘Oh dear. Still, I’m sure your mama is delighted to have you home from your regiment. I expect the fatted calf was prepared.’

‘She didn’t know I was coming. Telegram wasn’t delivered.’

‘Ah, that’s because the telegraph wires have been cut by the flying columns. It’s to delay reinforcements when they engage the soldiers.’

He runs a palm over his sleek head.‘Things seem edgy in Skib.’ ‘Times are tense.’

‘The place has taken a bit of a battering. I see the courthouse is burned out, and the town hall looks pretty shot up. Mother hadn’t told me.’

‘I suppose she didn’t want to worry you. But Ireland’s had a rough time of it.’

‘Self-inflicted woes.’

‘Skibbereen has received a fair amount of attention from the Crown forces, Harry.’

‘What can people expect if they turn rebel? Anyhow, there’s a lot of bored uniforms confined to barracks now.’

‘Thank heavens for the ceasefire. Hopefully the two sides will knuckle down to peace talks soon. Once a deal is struck, the country will settle itself.’

‘The savages are running wild, truce or no truce. They need to be culled. Mother goes to bed every night expecting to wake to a house in flames.’

‘You know, the Black and Tans and Auxiliaries are just as bad as the Republicans. The people are being terrorized.’

‘I say, Miss Somerville!’

‘It’s true. Ask your mama. Some think the Tans’ behaviour might persuade America to join the fight.’

‘Impossible. America would never side with Ireland against Britain. We were allies in the war. Great Britain needs to take a firmer hand. Swamp the country with troops and crush resistance.That’s the only language rebels understand.’

‘Hmm. Well, I must be pushing along. Oh, Harry, if you happen to know anyone in the market for a horse, I have a couple of beauties I’m willing to part with. Hunters both. Stallions.’

‘I thought Mother said the hunt had been stopped.’

‘The IRA has forbidden it. Some nonsense about putting an end to the gentry’s days of riding roughshod over the Irish people’s land. Any damage was always paid for.’

‘I’m surprised at our sort, taking orders from those fellows.’

‘They left out poisoned bait for packs where the chase went ahead. Have you ever seen an animal die from a dose of strychnine? Agony for the poor hound. Anyhow, enjoy your leave, Harry.’

The Angelus bell begins tolling for noon. She waves, and guides Tara towards Main Street, with its honeysuckle- and fuchsia-coloured shop fronts. Chicken wire is pinned over windows facing the street. As they clop along, Edith remembers what Mike Hurley told her. The Sinn Féiners are doing American lecture tours. They have friends in high places there. No point in saying that to a young man in khaki, home on furlough.

A wagon delivering laundry to Mrs Nagle’s boarding house holds up the traffic. By rights, the driver ought to use the service entrance. Edith prepares to wait it out. A couple of idlers lean against a hardware shop, and she notices them taking an interest in Tara, whispering together.

‘Move that nag of yours. We’ve a train to catch.’ A head emerges from a yellow motor car in front. She didn’t know they came in such a colour. The head belongs to a chauffeur, judging by the peaked cap.

‘Sure what’s stopping you? You could sail an ocean liner down this road,’ shouts the laundryman.

From habit, Edith casts an eye over the dray horse between the shafts of his delivery cart. It looks half-starved – she can’t abide people mistreating animals. Urchins scamper over, pointing and jostling at the chugging motor car. Its passenger door flings open and a man steps out. He paces up and down the footpath, watch in hand. An American, by the looks of him. No Irish or Englishman would wear a coat woven from such violently checked cloth.

Enough is enough. She swings Tara around the blunt-nosed motor car, past the delivery cart, keeping a sharp eye out for pedestrians – the townspeople are demons for stepping onto the road without looking first.

Beyond Skibbereen and heading east, she has five miles of obstacle-strewn country lanes hedged by flaming furze to negotiate. But with a horse which knows the way home, there is time to consider Cameron’s behaviour. Her indignation against him simmers. He’s always had an irresponsible streak, but instead of fading over time it has intensified. Perhaps it’s more apparent since he retired from the army two years ago and is living full-time with her in Drishane. That squirmer with Dwyer is due directly to her brother.

Remembering a pit in the middle of the road near the O’Mahony farm, its danger camouflaged by branches, she climbs down to lead Tara past. Cameron is in a financial pickle, she realizes – the signs were there all along but she’s been slow to detect them. And the disruption to the postal service has allowed bills to mount. Timmy the Post works like a Trojan to scramble through, but he’s only human. She climbs into the cart again and Tara whizzes along, eager for the paddocks.

Ahead, a man is standing by the side of the narrow road. He’s in his late twenties, wearing knee-high riding boots and a hacking jacket. There’s something familiar about him. She squints at his face but he’s bending over, adjusting a bootstrap. Just as they are parallel, a flash of autumn sunlight blinds her.The dogcart bowls past without her catching a clear sight.Yet the prickle of perspiration against her hairline and in her armpits identifies him. Her body has recognized this man.

No, it’s not possible.

It can’t be who she thinks it is.

She drives on in a daze.

Martin speaks. ‘I saw him, too.’

Edith knows the voice is inside her head. That Violet Martin, otherwise known as Martin Ross – friend, cousin, literary collaborator – isn’t here with her in the dogcart. She’s dead and buried – gone almost six years now. Even so, their conversations help her to tease out dilemmas.

‘Perhaps it was a figment of my imagination,’ suggests Edith.

‘And perhaps not. Anyway where’s the harm?’

The bend for home appears ahead, followed by her first sight of the sea, a hat ribbon on the horizon. Edith continues her conversation with Martin, who isn’t there, except in her heart.

‘Something will have to be done about Cameron, Martin.’ ‘Cameron’s always hidden from unpleasantness.’

‘He simply can’t leave bills unpaid. Above all, he can’t do it here, where we live.Tongues will wag.They may be flapping already.The family has to live up to its good name.’

‘Cameron’s Cameron. He’ll never change.’

‘He must.’

‘You know what you have to do, Edith.’

‘He can’t be left in charge. I thought he could. But I was wrong.’

Edith waits for a denial, a defence of Cameron.

A sigh, whisper faint. It’s corroboration.

When Martin doesn’t speak, Edith does. ‘I’m going to have to do something about him.’

She needs to know how bad things are. A thought occurs to her. One so dreadful that her vision blurs. Has the staff been paid? Or is a backlog building up for Mike Hurley, Philomena Minihane, Mrs O’Shea and Jeremiah O’Mahony? And for the others they use occasionally from the village? She shakes her head to dislodge the appalling possibility. Even Cameron wouldn’t be so irresponsible.

Would he?

two

Edith is unpinning her hat as the luncheon gong sounds. It conjures up her brother on the staircase – punctuality was drummed into them from childhood.

Cameron’s expression brightens. Only two years separate them and they’ve always been friends.‘Hello, Peg, I thought you were intending to lunch in the West Cork.’ He hurries downstairs. ‘Good of you to come back. Never much cared to eat alone.’

Edith knows Cameron misses the companionship of military life as much as its certainties. But she’s in no mood to be sympathetic. She tosses her hat on the hall stand and pats her hair. ‘I did mean to eat out but there was a change of plan.’

‘The Murphys will be inconsolable. They depend on the celebrated authoress making an appearance now and again in their dining room – raises the tone of the place.That hotel must be a goldmine for them. It’s always heaving whenever I stick my head in. Shall we sit up? The gong’s gone.’

‘I’ll come through directly after I wash my hands. Mustn’t keep Philomena waiting – the servants have enough to put up with, I suspect.’

‘Oh dear. You’re using Mama’s precise tone of voice when she had a bone to pick with someone. Me, usually.’

That pulls her up short. If he thinks she’s attacking him it will prove counterproductive. This situation requires diplomacy.

Just then, Philomena stomps by carrying a tray. Their housemaid always walks as though she’s wearing Wellington boots.

‘Shan’t be a jiffy, Chimp.’ Deliberately, Edith uses her pet name for him. ‘By the way, I collected our post in Skib. Couple of letters for you. Left them on the table there.’

Edith washes off the grime from her morning’s business in the downstairs cloakroom and joins her brother in the dining room. It’s excessive, just the two of them eating here in lofty splendour, but neither likes to break with tradition. As soon as Edith is seated, Philomena serves steaming soup from a tureen. Her stomach gurgles at the smell.

‘You must be hungry after gadding to Skibbereen and back in a morning,’ says Cameron. ‘Any news from the bright lights?’

Philomena tracks between Edith and Cameron with a basket, offering thinly-sliced toast triangles. Surprised, Edith glances up at her small face crowded with features. It’s a face she knows as intimately as her own.

‘Mrs O’Shea wasn’t able to bake rolls this morning, Miss Edith. The range is acting up again.’

‘We really must have that looked at.Thank you, Philomena, that will be all.’

Alone now, Edith assesses Cameron. He doesn’t come across like a man on his uppers. Look at him, ladling butter on his toast without a care in the world.‘Any news in your letters?’

‘Weekend shooting party over Ballycotton way’s been cancelled. English guns won’t travel on account of the Troubles.’

‘How disappointing.’

‘Can’t be helped.’

‘How are we fixed as regards bills, Cam? Keeping our heads above water?’

A wave of his hand. An attempt at bravado.‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Leave them to me to sort out.’

‘But are you taking care of them?’

He blinks.‘Don’t quite follow you.’

‘Or are you crumpling them up? Throwing them in the wastepaper bin?’

He wets his lips, about to speak. Reconsiders. Lifts his soup spoon and manages a few mouthfuls of oxtail.

She presses the starched linen napkin against her mouth. ‘The bills aren’t going to be abracadabra-ed away in a puff of smoke, Cam. We need to work out how to meet them. I was accosted by the butcher on the street in Skibbereen, in full view of every corner boy. He mentioned an account of four months’ standing.’

‘I don’t remember any bill from Dwyer.’

‘He’s been sending it in, week after week.’

‘No, I expect it went astray. Can’t rely on the post these days.’

‘His boy hands it in at the kitchen door.You know that perfectly well.’

His colour heightens. ‘Stop hectoring me, Edith.You don’t have the right.’

She concentrates on her soup, trying to work out how best to proceed. Cameron may be risking cash he can ill afford on the Stock Exchange. The men in her family have always had a taste for financial speculation.

A tap, the door opens, and Philomena backs in with a platter. At once, Edith’s expression turns neutral, as does Cameron’s.

‘Thank you, Philomena. Leave it on the sideboard and I’ll serve us.’

‘Sure, whatever you like, Miss Edith. If that suits you it suits me. I’ve plenty to be gettin’ on with. There’s lovely fresh peas from the kitchen garden to go with Mrs O’Shea’s fish pie.’

A soft thud and the door closes again. Edith rises and scoops a helping of fish pie onto a plate, adds some vegetables and places his luncheon on the tablecloth in front of Cameron. In the process, she rests her hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Chimp. Let’s put our heads together. Any ideas? How about your army pension, could you funnel a little more of that into the estate?’

He stares at the plate. ‘That’s a drop in the ocean when it comes to Drishane.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You seem to imagine I’m in receipt of a massive pension from His Majesty’s grateful government. Quite the contrary. Modest is the best description. And it doesn’t stretch far enough.’

Nonplussed, Edith fetches her own plate and sits down. A brooding atmosphere seeps out through the dark-green wallpaper. If only Cameron had married an heiress. He never even made a serious try at bagging one. Either of the Payne-Townshend girls would have been perfect for him. Not only related to the Somervilles, so the right sort, but rich as Croesus. It seems positively sinful those fortunes left the family. Her second brother, Aylmer, could afford to help, having had the good sense to court a wealthy widow. But it’s possible he feels tapped once too often. In any case, he and Emmie live in England and are distant – both geographically and mentally – from Drishane’s expenses. There are three other boys, and a sister, Hildegarde, but none of them is flush. And they have their own families to consider.

Only she and Cameron never married. There was no requirement for Edith to do so, unless she could pull off a suitable match, which she didn’t manage. A few offers were made but none deemed fitting by Papa and Mama. She shed tears at the time, but it’s water under the bridge now. However, Cameron has neglected his duty. He neither bagged an heiress to buttress their house, nor provided an heir to inherit it.

‘Plenty of chaps in the next generation. One of them can take the place on,’ he always says, at any mention of a successor.

But why would their nephews want to be saddled with it? Especially if they didn’t grow up in the house, learning to love its idiosyncrasies? His logic is self-serving. Very well. If her brother lacks the gumption to behave like a responsible Master of Drishane, he’ll have to hand over the reins to her. He can be governor in name. But she’ll be the one who makes sure the family seat is passed on intact to the next generation.

‘This isn’t good enough, Cam. Somervilles have always paid their way.You’re letting the side down.’

‘And I suppose you’re the resident expert?’

‘At least I care about doing the right thing. All you seem to care about are your own selfish pleasures.’

‘Pleasures? Stuck here in the middle of nowhere with all sorts of blackguard behaviour happening under our noses? Believe me, if it was pleasure I was after, I wouldn’t look to Castletownshend. I’m fed up with Ireland and her endless quarrels.’

Silence settles. Cutlery scrapes on bone china. Edith realizes the conversation has taken an unfortunate turn. If they start talking politics an almighty row will brew up. Covertly, she watches her brother at the head of the table. He has extravagant tastes. But even Cameron must realize the well has run dry. Granted, retrenchment is challenging. Papa struggled with it too. But Cameron only has himself to consider, whereas Papa had the burden of settling five sons into careers and making arrangements for two daughters. Not that she required much arranging, she aimed to be self-financing from the outset. Earned her first money at the age of sixteen, designing greeting cards.

‘Chimp, frugalities are needed. Let’s just face up to it and introduce them.’

‘I really don’t see how I can frugalize any further.’

‘In that case, there’s no help for it – we’ll have to sell something.’

‘Land?’

‘Certainly not! There’s been enough of that already. You’d have to let it go for half nothing and then it’s gone for good. No, I was thinking of the houses in the Mall.’

‘Your retirement nest egg.’

She shrugs, as if it’s irrelevant. For years, Edith has been using her literary earnings to buy up properties in the village, amassing a modest portfolio. She rents the houses to suburbans who clamour to stay in Castletownshend during the sailing season, and sometimes she persuades a member of their extended family to take out a lease.

Cameron strokes his moustache.‘It might be the answer, Peg. If you don’t mind letting one or two of them go.’

Outrage flares at the easy way he accepts her sacrifice. Before she can help herself, Edith exclaims, ‘It most certainly is not the answer! It’s a stopgap. I won’t get one-quarter of the true value, with the state of the country. Cameron, you must go through the household accounts with me and put everything on an honest footing. This may be your house but it’s my home and I work bally hard to help keep it going. Shutting me out is unjust!’

Crimson patches his cheeks. ‘I loathe this blasted old heap! I’m only living here because you nagged me into it. Told me it’s my duty as the eldest son. I’d gladly hand it over to Aylmer, or Boyle, or any of the boys who’d take it off my hands. But none of them will touch it. They’ve more sense. The tin it costs to keep the house running beggars belief. And you could sink your life savings into the estate without making a jot of difference.’

‘Do stop exaggerating, Cam. The house is sound. It simply needs some maintenance. As for running costs, the servants have taken a cut in wages, as well you know.’

‘We still have to feed them and keep everything up to scratch. This place is a swamp – gobbles up every last pound in a man’s possession, gives an almighty belch and stands ready for more. But you’ve always been blind to its faults, Peg. Grandpapa made a pet of you and filled you full of stories about the importance of the Somervilles holding tight to Drishane. Trying to do right by it made Papa miserable.’

‘At least he didn’t sell off fields for ready cash. You don’t even drive a good bargain.’

‘The land is mine to dispose of as I see fit.’

‘It was given to you to hold in trust – not peddle, to supplement your income.’

‘For two pins I’d put the entire estate, house included, on the market tomorrow. Sell it all, lock, stock and barrel.’

‘You can’t mean that, Cam!’

‘Try me.’ A curious note spikes his voice. It almost sounds like relief.

‘Do you really want to go down in family lore as the Somerville who let it all slip through your fingers?’

‘The blasted family myth! Just because you’ve bought into it doesn’t mean I have to. Anyway, who made you the voice of my conscience? You look to yours and I’ll look to mine.’

Edith mangles her fingers. The conversation isn’t going the way she expected. She presumed Cameron would be touchy enough, proud enough, to wince at the thought of having ‘The Somerville Who Lost Drishane’ as his legacy.

‘Chimp, don’t let’s fall out. We’re on the same side, remember? Together, we can handle this.’

‘The best way to handle this is to sell up and find a nice serviced apartment in Kensington or Westminster.’

‘You’d hate it.’

‘You might. I wouldn’t.’

‘I know the estate is going through a bit of a drought. And you’re bound to be worried, as the head of the family. Why don’t we think about ways to economize? Hold our nerve, stand our ground?’

‘Cutting corners won’t do the needful, I’m afraid. That horse has long since bolted.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You might as well know the truth. We’re in a bad way. I’m in a bad way. We could lose Drishane.’

Lose Drishane.

The room blurs. She hears a rushing sound like applause in her head.

The next thing she knows, Cameron is holding a glass of water to her lips. ‘Here, drink something. I think you may have passed out, old girl.’

Trembling, she manages a few sips. When the mist clears, she sees her cutlery has been knocked to the floor. Cameron picks it up.

‘I’m all right. I just had a bit of a turn. Really, I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine.’

Her mind begins to recalibrate. She knew they were in a tight spot but not how bleak their prospects were. She hasn’t taken such a knock since her hunting days. With an effort of will, she sits up straight. ‘Cam, what I need from you now is to know exactly where we stand.’

Cameron retreats to the sideboard, pours himself a brandy, and tosses it off in a single swallow. ‘Will you have one?’

‘No thank you.’ She dips her napkin in her water tumbler and presses it against her right temple. ‘Why don’t we strike while the iron is hot? Spend the afternoon going through the household accounts?’

He lifts the decanter again. ‘Come on, Peg, what’s the use? We’re survivors of a bygone age, you and me. Let’s just chuck it over. You could live with me in London – we could share the expenses there just as well as here. And we’d have some capital from the sale.’

‘I could never leave Drishane.’

‘Why not? It’s a draughty old house with rats under the floorboards and walls dripping with damp. It’s in the middle of nowhere. And the natives don’t really want us here – you know they don’t. However much they pile on the flattery.’

She raises a hand, palm outwards. ‘I won’t listen to another word. We’ve been in Ireland nearly as long as the potato. We belong here. Now, let’s order coffee and get down to brass tacks about finances.’

‘Not right now, Peg. Fact of the matter is, I promised to take a run down to the castle this afternoon. Give the place the once-over for the Townshends. You can’t rely on caretakers. Sooner or later they take liberties. Believe I’ll stretch my legs in that direction now.’

‘Chimp, we can’t carry on like this. You’re behaving as if it’s ill-bred to discuss money. Please stay and thrash it out with me.’

‘Sorry, old thing, can’t oblige. We’ll do it later.’ ‘When later?’

‘Soon. Although, I give you fair warning, you won’t like what you hear.’ He sets down his empty brandy balloon, jams his hands in his pockets and saunters towards the door.

Edith knows this invented engagement on behalf of their cousins from the castle is a deferral tactic. Her brother is behaving like a twelve-year-old whose pocket money has been withheld for smashing a pane of greenhouse glass.

Her face sinks into her hands. And to think she imagined that scene with Mattie Dwyer was the worst the day could throw at her. By and by, she rallies and rings the bell for Philomena.

‘Was that the colonel I saw going out without his coffee, Miss Edith? It’s not like him.’

‘We’re skipping coffee today, Philomena. You may clear the table now.’

Edith leaves her to it. In need of fresh air, she throws on a battered old hat and jacket – her Skibbereen clothes are too good for the bluebell woods – and stands on the back step, whistling. An answering commotion, and her fox terrier bolts up. Tongue panting, he wags his tail, spraying water in all directions.

‘Were you paddling in the horses’ water trough again, Dooley?’

She marches along, Dooley trotting at her heels. As she walks, she swipes at clumps of thistles and dandelions with her ivory-handled walking stick. It belonged to her grandfather, Master of Drishane when she was growing up. The Big Master, he was called. Cameron is right. From the outset, she was Grandpapa’s pet. He used to hold her hand taking prayers every morning – staff, family and guests alike assembled for the ritual. It was then she began to feel she occupied a privileged position within the family. Edith could never hope to inherit, despite being the firstborn – too many brothers ahead of her in the pecking order – but she felt herself charged with the role of guardian. A sense of responsibility for Drishane House and the Somerville position in Castletownshend was bred into her.

Cameron, however, is willing to sell the family seat for a song – see it turned into a rest home for Roman Catholic priests, she shouldn’t wonder. Four full-time staff out of a job, never mind the occasional workers. As for Edith, she’d be forced to make her home among dull English people – worthy, granted, but lacking any joy in life’s quirks.

Even the servants in Ireland have more poetry in them than her own sort in England. Only yesterday, Nora Treacy, who helps Mrs O’Shea with the rough work, told her she’d never marry. Edith took it with a pinch of salt since Nora was all of nineteen. Still, she was impressed by the scullery maid’s reasoning. ‘I had this off my Granny, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Two things every woman should keep from a man: a corner in her pocket and a corner in her heart. If you have to love, let you not do it extravagantly. But to my mind, if you’re not going to do it with a heart and a half, you’d best not do it at all. So I’m planning to stay single. Same as yourself, ma’am.’

Edith finds such conversations invigorating. It’s their subtlety, unexpectedness, and the confidential nature of these exchanges. And, yes, the meeting of equals. Drishane’s servants always retain something of their independence despite the economic relationship.

A swipe at a clump of nettles. Mrs O’Shea swears by nettle soup. Says there’s nothing to beat it for taste. So far, they haven’t had to stoop to adding it to the Drishane menu but anything is possible. For decades, it’s been a struggle to balance the books, but robbing Peter to pay Paul or sending out an SOS to their brothers in England won’t be sufficient this time, judging by Cameron’s gloomy prognosis.

How disappointed Papa would be in Cameron. She feels a burst of compassion for her brother. Drishane is his birthright. But he didn’t ask for it – it was just landed on him. And he’s out of his depth.

‘We have to find a new income stream, Dooley,’ she tells the foxhound.

He yips, acknowledging that she’s addressing him but too distracted by a variety of scents near a tree root to spare her his full attention. Sometimes, that’s exactly how her brothers treat her.

A breeze whips against her legs. A blackbird opens its bill, a songburst in yellow. ‘All shall be well,’ said Martin, in their last automatic-writing session. And maybe it will. Meantime, bills take no account of cash flow. There was a time when writing a shilling shocker with Martin was all it took to rustle up the readies. Those were the days. An Enthusiast, her latest, is racking up only modest sales. Does she even have another novel in her? ‘Would Longman’s bother to publish it?’ she asks Dooley. Low in his throat, he growls. Perhaps he’s picked up the scent of a woodland animal. He’s a demon for chasing hedgehogs, never learns how much damage they can do.

Generally, exercise eases her mind. But today, the outdoors can’t soothe her. Uphill she labours, ignoring the ache which causes one leg to drag on the slope. If Martin was with her, she’d say something to make Edith giggle, forgetting the pain. Martin is always with you, she reminds herself. Even so, there are days when her presence is not as vivid as Edith would like.

She whistles for Dooley, who has skulked off into the undergrowth. A series of yaps, a bustle of paws, and he reappears to rub himself against her calf, intelligence sparkling in his black eyes. She stoops to pat his smooth coat, white but for an autumn leaf patch over one eye. ‘I wouldn’t want to go to heaven if there were no dogs in it,’ she tells him, and he nuzzles her palm. Fortunately, Martin is reassuring on that score. Every pet dog she’s ever owned will be waiting to greet her when she presents herself at the Pearly Gates.

Edith straightens, pain jolting through her right knee. The nip of sciatica is a legacy from a lifetime spent riding side-saddle. Even when ladies began to ride astride, she always declined to change her habits. It felt improper. To rest her leg, she sits on a tree stump, the remnants of a diseased elm. A gardener took a saw to it on Papa’s orders. Papa hated losing trees. ‘Our job is to plant them not cut them down,’ he used to say. Grandpapa was the same. But Cameron has no money for tree-planting, and nor does she, for that matter.

Overhead, a flock of pale-bellied wild geese in wedge formation forges steadily ahead, arriving in Ireland to hibernate for the winter. The wind increases in intensity, causing the boughs above her to creak. She slides off the tree base and prepares to press on.

And then it happens. She hears a snatch of song.

In seventeen hundred and forty-four

The fifth of December – I think ’twas no more

At five in the morning by most of the clocks,

We rode for Kilruddery to try for a fox.

She closes her eyes, sensing his presence as the singer draws closer. There’s his horsey smell and the tang of fresh sweat. No Paris colognes for him. So, it was Flurry Knox there on the side of the road!

‘What’s wrong with you, gerrill? You look off colour.’

She allows herself a smile. Girl, indeed.

A sideways glance is slid at the slim figure with muscular legs next to her, in case staring might scare him away. He’s holding his bowler hat in one hand and a riding crop in the other, tucked under his armpit. His hair is slick against the outline of his head, and his eyes make you think he’s up to no good. Just as she first sketched him all those years ago. If his likeness were used for a pack of cards, he’d be the Jack of Spades.

‘Advancing years, Flurry. That’s what has me out of sorts. And a few other troubles besides.’

‘Come on out of that, gerrill. You’re a long way off from the finishing line – there’s decades in you yet. Take a stroll with me. You’ll feel the better of it. And sure, if you tell me your problems, who knows but I might be able to help? Two heads are better than one.’

Edith falls into step beside him. He replaces the bowler, defying gravity with its tilt at the back of his head, and whistles a jaunty tune. Hunting the Hare, if she’s not mistaken. She’s cheered just having him beside her. It’s impossible to be in Flurry Knox’s company without feeling optimistic.

‘So what’s eating at you, Edith?’

‘I hardly know where to begin. But it’s serious. Maybe too serious for me to fix.’

He makes no reply. All the same, she knows he’s listening. He has an intent air – the one that transfixes him when the hounds are straining at the leash, immediately before a blast from the horn.

‘Mind you, you’ve helped enormously with my finances over the years, Flurry. You patched the roof, built a glasshouse, paved the avenue and paid my taxes.’

‘Steady, now. Don’t be accusing me of doing an honest day’s work or my reputation might never recover. How did I manage such impressive toil?’

‘The Irish R.M. stories. The public lapped them up. There now, I’ll give you a fat head.’

His grin stretches from ear to ear, dislodging his bowler. He catches it gliding off and tucks it under his arm. ‘The public has excellent taste, Edith, if I say so myself.’

They reach the viewing point at the crest of the hill, the beat of the sea below them and the bay spread out as if for their particular pleasure. There’s Horse Island, and Reen Point – America is the next parish over. In the harbour, four fishing vessels bob on the choppy water. Edith sighs with contentment. She can’t imagine Flurry anywhere but here. He belongs to the barony of West Carbery. Both of them do. When she has looked her fill, she surveys her companion. In the quarter-century since she and Martin talked Florence McCarthy Knox into life, he isn’t a day older or a hair greyer. Martin is lying in St Barrahane’s churchyard and Edith’s hunting days are long behind her, but Flurry remains capable of springing onto a flighty mount at a moment’s notice and charging off in the thick of a foxhound pack.

He could be her son now. Is she sorry she never married and produced a flesh-and-blood son rather than this literary version? She is not. He’s more her son than Martin’s, of that she’s certain. Flurry shares her appreciation for horseflesh. His fondness for the hounds is another characteristic she embedded in him. She can’t lay claim to his financial shiftiness – she prefers paying her bills, on the whole, as did Martin. That unsteadiness blended with charm was borrowed from several of her brothers.

Her eyes linger on Flurry’s profile. What is there of Martin in him? His sense of humour, perhaps. Martin had a serious veneer but burst into hoults of laughter at the least provocation.

‘What’s bothering you, Edith? You know you can tell me anything. I’m unshockable.’

‘Money worries, Flurry.’

‘To the seventeen divils I pitch them.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘I wouldn’t let them weigh on me, indeed and I wouldn’t. Money comes and money goes. That’s just the way of it.’

‘Aren’t you the airy-fairy one, you and your Flurryisms. It’s easy to be flippant about money when you’ve no need of it.’

‘Here’s what you do. Find a decent colt, buy it for a song and sell it for a king’s ransom. That’ll take care of any cash shortages. Never fails for me.’

‘It’s not that simple any more. The horse-coping business is in a poor way, between the Troubles and the public’s taste for motor cars.’

He flashes a scandalized look. ‘The day an Irishman of any class or creed loses interest in horseflesh is the day the world stops turning.’ He scratches his leg with the riding crop. ‘You could always write another Irish R.M. book. Them’s the boys that were your crock of gold.’

‘Out of the question. I haven’t the heart for it with Martin gone. It took the two of us to catch the froth on those frolics and shape it into stories.’ She bites her lip. ‘The truth is I can’t manage it on my own.’

‘Sure where’s the good in your automatic-writing sessions with herself, the two of you colloguing together, if you can’t turn a profit from them? Rustle up a few hunting stories?’

Edith suspects a twist to his words. ‘I won’t be mocked, Flurry Knox.’ His smile is sly, and she knows she was right to doubt him.

‘I have it, Edith. Why not take some of the stories the two of you wrote together, back in the day, and give them a new lease of life? Use them as scaffolding for a play, maybe? They say there’s a fortune to be made on the stage.’

‘Adapt the Irish R.M. for theatre?’ She’s surprised. What does Flurry Knox know about the world of greasepaint and footlights?

‘Yes, for the stage. Why not?’ Grinning, Flurry slaps his hat back on his head.

Edith is seized by a burst of enthusiasm to match Flurry’s. It seems not just possible but probable. ‘Once, Martin said we should grind West Carbery’s bones to make our bread. Back when we were starting out. I can do it again, I know I can! How would you like to strut across the London stage, Florence McCarthy Knox? Are you ready for applause from a metro- politan audience?’

‘Sure I don’t mind at all if it gets you out of a hole, gerrill.’

three

A noise wakens Edith. She realizes it’s Dooley, who is standing on the bed and growling. At first, she thinks it’s just this old house disturbing him – like her, Drishane beds down for the night with snaps and groans. But then she hears a smack against gravel. Footsteps outside. A snarl rumbles from Dooley. ‘Hush, boy,’ she whispers.

Throwing back the covers, she shuffles barefoot to the window, the foxhound bristling at her ankles. Cautious, she parts the edge of a curtain. The lace of frost on windowpanes blurs the outside world. She squints past it to where moonlight floods the courtyard. Her eyes patrol the perimeters. No moving shadows.