From ancient times Athenry
had been the radial centre of many trails. A traveller could take almost any
road and follow it to a significant terminus. From the moment that Caroline
settled into the stuffy interior of the
“You'll be back,” Aunt Rose had said,
hiding the wish in curtness.
“You'll be back,”
“Please God, you'll be back,” Martin Drynan said as he handed her into the coach. “Please God
you will, for Conn's sake. He'll never love another
woman the way he loves you; maybe no other man will love you as he does. I know
the way he's made. He's like myself.”
Hemmed in, alone, with the cloaked and
muffled fellow-travellers, Caroline fingered the purse Martin Drynan had thrust into her hand at parting. It was more
than money; it was a symbol of that unquestioning generosity which surrounded
her Aunt Rose. Aunt Rose who had married the man who
loved only one woman, had a freedom few women knew. If she had no child, she had
everything else a woman of her time could have. Was
Her mind settled for comfort on the
last image of Athenry; the 15th Century market cross
with its engravings of a crucifixion on one face and a virgin and child on the
other. In the bustle about the stage coach, it had stood serene for centuries,
a symbol of pain and hope.
As the coach rocked and swayed along
the road to Mullingar, she focussed her thoughts on
the city with its wide streets and fine buildings, its
hurrying crowds of strangers. She had sent a message to Gwen. Would it have
arrived in time? If no one met her, would she be able to find her way to
So passed the long dull day. At
“Confound these roads!” a passenger
exclaimed. “Every time I travel by the Mail I wish most profoundly that the
The coach door was flung open, cutting
short the question. They caught a glimpse of a figure swathed in a long, dark
cloak, hat drawn low, collar raised to hide his face; only the glint of his
eyes could be seen. In his gloved hand they glimpsed a pistol.
“Get out all of you,” he commanded
gruffly.
“I thought the days of highwaymen were
past,” someone muttered.
“Not quite ..... not
yet,” came the gruff reply.
The highwayman had at least two
companions. As he stood guard, pistol in hand, they made a rapid search of the
coach and made the passengers turn out their pockets. Money and valuables,
reluctantly displayed, were either ignored or restored almost at once. The
travellers, relieved of nothing but their anxiety, were ordered back into the
coach. All except the one female. A 'runaway' the
protesting coachman was assured. A hand clasped firmly over Caroline's mouth
stifled her protest. Two pairs of hands restrained her.
“Fetch her baggage!” the gruff voice
commanded, “we have a carriage here.”
In spite of her struggles she was
bundled into a waiting vehicle; the door was slammed shut. The carriage
appeared to be empty. She could see nothing in the dark interior. There was a
murmur of voices, but she could not make out what her captors were saying. It
seemed to satisfy the coachman for presently she heard the crack of a whip, the
sound of hooves and the rumble of wheels as the Mail moved off. Almost
immediately the carriage started and soon was travelling at a smart pace. She
appeared to have a mounted escort; there was the sound of many hooves. It was
not going to be easy to escape. It was easy enough to sit still for the
carriage was well sprung and sumptuously upholstered. The gentle swaying motion
was restful after the cramped discomfort of the Mail .....
soporific, in fact. There was a delicate, pervasive
scent of some rare perfume; she could forget her dilemma and sleep and dream of
exotic gardens.
Presently she became aware that she
was not the sole occupant. There was a faint rustle, a muted cough, what
sounded like a suppressed giggle.
“Well Caroline, do you find this mode
of travel agreeable? I shan't believe you preferred the Mail Coach.”
The husky, low-pitched voice was
familiar. A soft hand was laid on hers. There was a whisper of silk, a touch of
fur. It must be .....
“Oh Gwen!” she exclaimed, “Gwen!”
Then she was in her sister's embrace,
a strong, soft embrace of affection, extravagant with perfume and fur and the
touch of small, delicate hands. They clung together, laughing, till Caroline
felt the tears start.
“But why, Gwen, why?” she gasped.
“For fun, Caroline. You like adventures, don't you? And
to make sure you didn't lose your way, of course. You weren't frightened?”
“At first, yes; but nobody hurt me; in
fact they were quite gentle. Who are they?”
“Actors darling. I persuaded them to play the part.
They’re very dear friends. We plotted the kidnap last night, after your letter
arrived. You see we're all staying at Morry's country
home ..... Lord Moreton's, I
mean. He is a great patron of the arts ..... likes to give the players a holiday in the country now and
then.”
“And you?”
“Hostess, my dear. Morry has
neither sister nor mother nor maiden aunt. I fulfil their roles to the best of
my ability.”
“The role of wife, Gwen, would not
that be better?”
“Perhaps. But please let us talk about your
affairs. Lucy has told me some things; but her letters are so peppered with
social anecdotes, questions on fashion, exclamations .....
you know Lucy's way ..... I never get a complete
story. One thing she has made clear: the handsome Captain Arthur Nicholas Marsmain, soon to be colonel of Huzzars,
heir to the barony of Ballinmore is gone mad with
love for my young sister. It's true Caroline, I cannot see you, but I feel you
blush.”
As they travelled on, Caroline told
her story, leaving out only those episodes that were too personal and precious
to herself. Gwendaline
encouraged her to tell it lightly. They laughed a great deal over the duel
between the aunts. Then Caroline grew grave.
“Poor Aunt Millicent!” she said. “Why
didn't you come for her burial, Gwen?”
“I should have, but I did not get the
news in time. I had to chaperone Dosia on a trip to
Waterford with her betrothed; at least, I was supposed to chaperone; in fact it
was I who needed chaperoning; you don't know how lecherous an old man can be
with a dull marriage ahead of him and a light woman like me available.”
“But you're not light Gwen.”
“Perhaps light-seeming. My flirtatious
manner, darling!”
The
“Do you always find life amusing,
Gwen?” she asked.
“I don't FIND it so; I treat it so;
otherwise it might break my heart. But please go on, Caroline.”
The encounter with Arabella
delighted her. She knew Arabella very well,
especially by repute; but there were things she would never tell Caroline.
“Who is Arabella?”
Caroline asked.
“I can never be quite sure. Everyone
has a different story. It seems she was brought up in a house of pleasure at Ringsend. She used to dance and sing to entertain the gentlemen ..... sailors mostly
..... when she was quite a child. They brought her
baubles and sweetmeats. She was quite an attraction, and madam valued her
highly, and took very great care of her ..... as though she were her own child. She had ambitions for her,
some of which were realised when Arabella took the
stage in
“Whose child was she?”
“She was the child of some woman in
the west. She was brought to madam as a baby by a travelling merchant
..... at least that is one story. It is said
the traveller handed over a fat purse for her keep. Madam was his friend, he
visited her establishment every time he was in Dublin .....
kept an eye, presumably.”
“But who .....?”
“You will admit she is quite
remarkably handsome ..... tall and stately ..... quite distinguished ..... and very
overbearing, like some grand, impoverished queen who cannot forget her ancestry
..... not that I think she knows her true ancestry. If
you overlook her foreign colouring, is there anyone she reminds you of?”
“Aunt Rose.”
“Yes, Aunt Rose. I believe she is the
child Aunt Rose bore to the dashing Spanish sailor .....
the master of the ship that used to put into the creek
below Dunalla. You have seen the smuggler's caves;
they used to be full of Spanish wine, great barrels of it.”
“The smuggled wine that the Ferret
made his fortune from?”
“Yes. There was a sound reason why he
never betrayed our father.”
“And the Spanish captain betrayed Aunt
Rose!”
“That we shall never know. Maybe he meant to marry her. His ship
was lost in
“Poor Aunt Rose!”
“Not so poor Aunt Rose. She had romance ..... wild moonlit nights
of climbing out of Dunalla ..... wild
nights in the arms of her dusky lover; there are few ladies of rank in
There was a short silence; then Gwendaline asked:
“Do you really love Nick Marsmain, Caroline? He is completely infatuated
..... cannot wait to wed.”
“I do not want to be rushed.”
“What if his ardour cools?”
“Gwen, do you really want to see me
marry in haste?”
“No, Carrie; I want you to myself a
while. There is so much to show you, so much to see; you have so much to learn,
though, maybe, you would be better not learning it. The hazards of fashionable
drawing rooms can be as grave as any. It will not be easy to play the role of
my lady. The future Lady Ballinmore will have to do
as her lord says, accept his judgement. You met Nick's mother
..... a model of formality, wouldn't you say?”
“She looked ill ..... and tired. And her eyes ..... she seemed to see ghosts.”
“I know, Carrie. I'd hate to think you
ever looked like that.”
“But Nick is not so formal as his
father ..... quite happy-go-lucky.”
“Young noblemen usually do as they
please. Nick, especially, has always done so. But the family code must be
observed. Wives have a place to fill. In a way, they have a lot of freedom, but
they must observe the formalities, keep up the facade of propriety. It often
means putting manners before morality. A well-bred lady knows how to tell a
bare-faced lie without a blush, or to cut an old friend dead without being
impolite.”
“Is it possible that I shall learn to
do these things?”
“Too possible, my sweet sister. You may find there is ease in
dissembling. You can have great liberty so long as you are not found out.”
“Fergal!” she gasped, suddenly
remembering.
“You must not breathe his name ..... nor remember him. He belongs to another place
..... another time. He may make what he wants
to of his life. So must you. To me, Fergal is a mirage, not a brother; why I
hardly ever saw him.”
Gwendaline had said all she was going to say
about Fergal. Her next question was about Lucy. What a relief!