The Butterfly Cabinet by Bernie McGill Page A

other side Mr. Walsh, an avid ornithologist, spent the evening discussing the coastal birds of Ireland. They seemed to occupy the poor man’s head like characters in a novel. Happily, I was not required to speak so I nodded my head, raised an eyebrow occasionally (at “fulmar” or “kestrel” or “white-tailed sea eagle”) and introduced forkfuls of food to my mouth. Edward’s aunt Ormond sat to Edward’s right, chewing on the celery, looking to all the world like a young horse getting used to the bit, though young she most certainly was not, even then, almost twelve years ago now. Beyond Lord Ormond sat Lady Bucknell, and beside her Mr. Shiels, Lord Bucknell’s accomplished huntsman, who was being complimented on his skill at the hunt.
    “I do not favor the lifting of the hounds,” Lord Ormond said to me. “It may speed the hunt but I would rather take my ease and let them find the scent themselves.”
    “When the hounds threw up at Beardiville,” said Lady Bucknell, “Mr. Shiels made a cast and had them off again in no time.”
    “The hunting is always good there,” Lord Ormond told me. “They never meet before eleven until after the overnight drag is gone. It means the foxes run faster and the hunt has more speed.”
    “It is not for the fainthearted, Mrs. Ormond,” added Mr. Shiels, “but it is an excellent hunt. The farmers on the estate refrain from culling and keep wire out of the fences.”
    “In exchange for lowered rents!” boomed Lord Ormond from beside me.
    “I believe some landlords proffer the same inducement come election time,” said Lady Bucknell sweetly, “though it is a different class of fox being hunted then.” And the table resounded with laughter.
    I remember that Mr. Macky—a farmer originally, whom Edward told me had made his money buying up land in the fifties, and whose house was filled with furniture from bankrupt landowners—Mr. Macky liked to pick the wax from his ear in a sort of corkscrew action, examine it briefly and flick it under the table.
    “This used to be a country of landowners and peasants,” muttered Edward’s father at my side, “now it is run by shopkeepers and publicans.” I was hoping they would keep up their banter and that I would not be required to contribute. It was clear from that first meal that politics in Ireland were never far from the dinner table.
    “What do you say, Harriet?” demanded Lord Ormond. “What do you make of your newly adopted country?”
    I looked down the table at Edward, who gave me an encouraging smile. “They say that Ireland, and the north in particular, has many similarities with Scotland,” I replied.
    “Indeed!” shouted Lord Ormond. “A strong tradition of dissenters, a fierce sense of independence, an aversion to being branded subsidiary to London.”
    “Bravo!” said Lady Bucknell. “There is, however, no sea between Scotland and England, and a sea is a powerful entity. It would take a long time to walk from Edinburgh to London, but the journey is practicable. The fact of being able to put your feet on the earth between the two places makes for a strong link, geographically, economically, intellectually. Ireland is a different country entirely and of all the things that make it different—thathave always made it different—there is none greater than this: it is not, nor has it ever been, joined to England.”
    “Good God!” shouted Lord Ormond. “You sound like a Home Ruler, Lady Bucknell. Next you’ll be telling us to vote for the Irish Parliamentary Party.”
    There was good-natured laughter around the table before Lady Bucknell sighed and said: “Ireland has been contrary always. The south and the west are busy plotting their independence from the crown while the north expends all its energy in asserting its allegiance, whether the crown wants it or not. The feeling everywhere is changing, however, and not just in Ireland, where nothing is ever the same as anywhere else in the