The Ladies by Doris Grumbach

Chippery family had moved to Tipperary to try their fortunes with sheep. A thin steady rain fell. By the time they reached the place, Sarah’s cape was sodden. The rain had run down her neck to soak the worsted shirt Mary-Caryll had removed without permission from a houseman’s trunk. Her long skirt, one of Mary-Caryll’s own, was in danger of falling down, so wet was it, so insufficient the cord belt Mary-Caryll had devised. The labourer held the door open for her. She gave him a gold piece and thanked him for his services, and he went on his way to his home near Thomastown.
    Eleanor was not there. Sarah huddled in a corner and lit the candle Mary-Caryll had wisely sent with her. She took out the loaded pistol obtained by the provident maid from Sir William’s study and placed it beside her. She took off her wet cap, another Mary-Caryll borrowing that covered her hair, but she was too cold, too weary to remove her wet cape. She lay back against the truss of old, acrid hay, hoping it would absorb some of the moisture. Was Eleanor waylaid? Had she fallen as she rode? Had she been prevented from leaving the castle? Where was she? Would she come at all? Sarah’s fears and doubts multiplied. She clung to her little dog though his frail, furless body offered small protection. The sounds overhead, and beyond the barn door, were strange to her. They rang with menace: retainers of Sir William? A band of curious and hungry foxes? Owls? Robbers?
    Where was Eleanor? Tired by waiting, huddled with Frisk against the cold, Sarah dozed and did not hear hoof-beats approaching. But she started up at the sound of the barn door pushed aside. The candle went out. In the small light of the quarter moon she thought she saw the outline of a man. She screamed, stood up, and grabbed the pistol.
    â€˜Don’t be frightened, my love. It is I, Eleanor. For the love of God, don’t shoot me.’
    Sarah fell to her knees before Eleanor, sobbing. Eleanor knelt down and took her in her arms. They clung to each other, Sarah shaking from fright, relief, and chill, Eleanor attempting to calm and warm her.
    â€˜We’ll stay the night here and wait for morning to see if the road is clear,’ Eleanor told Sarah. She relit the candle and went to find her horse. He munched happily on the hay she provided and then she tethered him in a dry corner of the barn. She latched the barn door and lay down beside Sarah. They put their arms about each other, ignoring the wet discomforts of their clothes, seeking to dry themselves in the heat of their creature love. Sarah shook with chill, Eleanor’s nerves quivered, but to Sarah she appeared to be a tower of calm, a secure, comforting, and warm presence, a gallant rescuer from all peril, a goddess of love and safety. For hours they could not sleep. The rough men’s clothes rubbed their backs and arms against the hay mattress. Like orphaned strays, like fairytale children, they lay together and slept at last in the first light of dawn, two runaway women of quality in an abandoned barn, escaped from the protection of great houses and powerful men into a singular enterprise.
    While they slept well into the morning, Lord Butler’s searchers passed the Chippery barn on their way to Waterford to find the missing Lady Eleanor. At noon a chaise rolled past the barn in the same direction, bearing messengers of the distressed Lady Betty in search of the missing niece whose dog and clothes were gone, and whose bed had not been slept in.
    Lord Butler arrived at Woodstock in the early afternoon to inquire if Lady Eleanor was there.
    â€˜She is not,’ said a disturbed Sir William, who had consoled himself with a number of black-cherry whiskeys. His perturbation was great, for he feared that the escaped Sarah would not remember the promise of discretion in her letter to him.
    â€˜And what is more, our Sarah is gone off.’
    Lord Butler was not concerned. ‘Lord Kilbriggin has