being on your own.’ Although a part of me wished to remain ignorant, I sensed an opportunity to coax Orla into revealing whatever she and her husband had been withholding from us.
‘No. I have not.’ She dropped her gaze once again and pursed her lips.
‘There is something I was going to tell you the other day.’
‘Oh?’ She looked up, her expression suddenly wary.
‘I went up to the house.’
‘Yes. William told me.’
‘But I did not tell him what I had seen and heard.’
Orla’s face drained of colour. I had no wish to upset my dear friend, but I realised that I had to press home my advantage. I sensed that she would be candid if I were to impress my own experience upon her.
I said, ‘I think he already knew what I had seen and heard. Am I right?’
She nodded non-committally, a quick, jerky movement, like that of a bird.
‘Perhaps you had better tell me the whole story?’
Orla moistened her lips. ‘Very well. I shall tell you.’ She got up and drew the heavy curtains across the picture window. Then in one motion she drained her glass, took a deep breath and, as if preparing for a recital, lifted her chin a fraction and began.
‘It was the winter of 1846. A harsh winter. William has already told you of the famine. Well, his namesake, Sir William, had, unusually, chosen to winter in Ireland. There were parties at the house, such grand affairs by all account. And the common folk were dying in great numbers - women, children, and their menfolk. You can imagine the strength of resentment against Sir William and his enforcers, the estate managers who were no more than bullies and brigands themselves. And yet the evictions went on as the workers failed to pay up. They had little produce, and consequently no money. It is said that when the thaw came in early February the number of exposed bodies, those who had simply fallen by the roadside and died of starvation and exposure, numbered in the hundreds, and that just in the local area.
‘Sir William, however had found himself in an unusual situation that winter. He had formed an attachment to a tenant whose husband had absconded earlier in the year. They had been a young couple, childless, and she was very pretty. Her name was…’ At this point Orla hesitated and looked away, as if casting about for someone else to relieve her of her burden.
I frowned, slightly vexed at her reluctance. ‘Go on, Orla. What was her name?’
Orla moistened her lips. ‘Her name was Jennifer. Jennifer O’Brien.’
My pulse quickened a little at this revelation. I nodded.
‘Sir William paid her much attention, it is said. He made sure that she was warm and well supplied with food.’
‘Uncharacteristically generous,’ I murmured.
‘Just so,’ Orla nodded. ‘But there was her wider family to contend with. They lived on the Moycullen estate; her two brothers, her father who was old and infirm, and her mother. They were starving, like most folk, living in squalor. Jennifer would share what she was given with her family and lived in fear of Sir William finding out.’
‘And where was Jennifer O’Brien living at that time?’
Orla swallowed hard and I detected a slight tremor in her hands as she prepared to reveal what I had already guessed.
‘The cottage. Your cottage. They lived there, Jenny, from the time it was built. You see, Jennifer O’Brien’s husband had been a good workman, a carpenter. He had excelled himself at Kilmareich House, proved himself very useful - and cheap - for Sir William. It was Malachi O’Brien’s hands which had refurbished the main staircase and banisters. His hands which had made the elegant dining room table and chairs. Oh, he had been a useful asset to Sir William, that much is for sure.’
‘What happened?’
‘No one knows for certain. There is a rumour that he was enticed into some drinking game with Sir William’s cronies and missed his footing on the cliff, but that seems unlikely. They would
‘No. I have not.’ She dropped her gaze once again and pursed her lips.
‘There is something I was going to tell you the other day.’
‘Oh?’ She looked up, her expression suddenly wary.
‘I went up to the house.’
‘Yes. William told me.’
‘But I did not tell him what I had seen and heard.’
Orla’s face drained of colour. I had no wish to upset my dear friend, but I realised that I had to press home my advantage. I sensed that she would be candid if I were to impress my own experience upon her.
I said, ‘I think he already knew what I had seen and heard. Am I right?’
She nodded non-committally, a quick, jerky movement, like that of a bird.
‘Perhaps you had better tell me the whole story?’
Orla moistened her lips. ‘Very well. I shall tell you.’ She got up and drew the heavy curtains across the picture window. Then in one motion she drained her glass, took a deep breath and, as if preparing for a recital, lifted her chin a fraction and began.
‘It was the winter of 1846. A harsh winter. William has already told you of the famine. Well, his namesake, Sir William, had, unusually, chosen to winter in Ireland. There were parties at the house, such grand affairs by all account. And the common folk were dying in great numbers - women, children, and their menfolk. You can imagine the strength of resentment against Sir William and his enforcers, the estate managers who were no more than bullies and brigands themselves. And yet the evictions went on as the workers failed to pay up. They had little produce, and consequently no money. It is said that when the thaw came in early February the number of exposed bodies, those who had simply fallen by the roadside and died of starvation and exposure, numbered in the hundreds, and that just in the local area.
‘Sir William, however had found himself in an unusual situation that winter. He had formed an attachment to a tenant whose husband had absconded earlier in the year. They had been a young couple, childless, and she was very pretty. Her name was…’ At this point Orla hesitated and looked away, as if casting about for someone else to relieve her of her burden.
I frowned, slightly vexed at her reluctance. ‘Go on, Orla. What was her name?’
Orla moistened her lips. ‘Her name was Jennifer. Jennifer O’Brien.’
My pulse quickened a little at this revelation. I nodded.
‘Sir William paid her much attention, it is said. He made sure that she was warm and well supplied with food.’
‘Uncharacteristically generous,’ I murmured.
‘Just so,’ Orla nodded. ‘But there was her wider family to contend with. They lived on the Moycullen estate; her two brothers, her father who was old and infirm, and her mother. They were starving, like most folk, living in squalor. Jennifer would share what she was given with her family and lived in fear of Sir William finding out.’
‘And where was Jennifer O’Brien living at that time?’
Orla swallowed hard and I detected a slight tremor in her hands as she prepared to reveal what I had already guessed.
‘The cottage. Your cottage. They lived there, Jenny, from the time it was built. You see, Jennifer O’Brien’s husband had been a good workman, a carpenter. He had excelled himself at Kilmareich House, proved himself very useful - and cheap - for Sir William. It was Malachi O’Brien’s hands which had refurbished the main staircase and banisters. His hands which had made the elegant dining room table and chairs. Oh, he had been a useful asset to Sir William, that much is for sure.’
‘What happened?’
‘No one knows for certain. There is a rumour that he was enticed into some drinking game with Sir William’s cronies and missed his footing on the cliff, but that seems unlikely. They would
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