Tipperary: A Novel of Ireland

by Frank Delaney

  In each file that he hobby-archived, Mr. Prunty wrote a brief summary of the suit. He usually clipped his précis to the copy of the verdict, which he placed on the top of the case papers—judgments, contracts, all relevant documents. Since the Tipperary case remains one of the biggest events in the history of the firm, his notes run longer on it than on most of the other lawsuits. He wrote several pages, and included asterisked references to the evidence transcripts.

  To anyone interested in the case—and in particular from the point of view of someone reading Charles O’Brien's “History”—Mr. Prunty's summary is thrilling. It's full of depth charges, which he detonates one by one.

  “The likely outcome of April Burke in Chancery,” begins his note,

  lay obscured in doubt and argument. Tipperary Castle had been vacant and the lands fallow since the sudden and intestate death in 1858 of its owner, Terence Hector Burke. Mr. Burke was the seventh successive inheritor of the Tipperary property, which he expanded.

  He died of natural causes at the age of fifty-six. Colloquial evidence that he had been married to a lady of reported ill-repute was mentioned in the Judgment, but only for the purposes of discarding as irrelevant. An earlier claim had been made upon the house and lands in 1880, by a lawyer from Bristol, a David Birmingham, representing clients whom he refused to name. The claim fell, as the solicitor withdrew rather than uncloak his clients' identity.

  A second claim followed from the same firm in 1904, and proceeded to the same conclusion for the same reasons; again, the firm of Birmingham and Bale told the court they required the protection of anonymity, and the learned judge denied it.

  There go the first two detonations. The court heard an allegation that the mysterious and beautiful actress April Burke the First had been “a lady of reported ill-repute.” Mentioned in passing, and legally “only for the purposes of discarding as irrelevant,” that would explain Oscar Wilde's fleeting reference to Sarah Bernhardt: “Even though I do not wish to dwell upon this, she had something of Miss Bernhardt's background, or so it was said.”

  This needs some caution. Many actresses were sometimes—and inaccurately—described in repressed Victoriana as “of ill-repute.” But the divine Sarah had indeed been a whore before she trod the boards. Had, also, April Burke the First?

  Secondly, the applications from Bristol—who initiated those? Charles, on his early morning Somerset walk in June 1904, saw the Gambon woman who lived in the Brook House, Mr. Burke's Mater, as he called her, board a carriage for Bristol, dressed as though for an appointment. In short—who knew what about the Burkes and Tipperary Castle?

  The next segment of Mr. Prunty's document opens up the train of events:

  In January 1905, Terence Theobald Burke, of Alexander Street, Westminster, London, made an application for “the Grant of Possession of Tipperary Castle, Ireland.” The Courts of Chancery in London properly sent it to the Irish courts. Through his daughter, Mr. Burke engaged Mr. Henry Somerville of this firm. As solicitors are not allowed to plead before the High Court, Mr. Somerville instructed his son, the barrister Mr. Stephen Somerville.

  Upon the receipt of the application in the Irish courts, the case opened (in October 1905) and preliminary arguments began; searches were commenced. In March 1906, the case was adjourned owing to the death of the original claimant; and in October 1906, his daughter, Miss April Burke, of the same London address, described as “an assistant in the British Diplomatic Corps and a junior Lady-in-Waiting to the King's daughter, Princess Maud,” was advertised to the court as the natural claimant-in-succession. She furnished in evidence her late father's Last Will and Testament.

  Saturday, March the 17th 1906.

  Dearest Kitty,

  I have to tell you of sadness that I never before knew [wrote April to Mrs. Moore]. Two days ago my beloved papa departed this world; and I am writing this to you, my dear friend, knowing that I have no person to whom I may speak my grief.

  On Thursday, a messenger came to me in my office at Whitehall, bearing a note from our maid, Mary. Her note begged me to come home, as Papa had “become stricken.” I went to Alexander Street at once and found Dr. Fleask there. Papa sat in his chair, as he always does, but he could not speak; nor did he acknowledge me. Dr. Fleask gave it as his opinion that Papa had suffered an apoplexy. “Nature's stroke of ill-fortune,” as the doctor said.

  We carried Father to the day-bed in the library and laid him there. His pallor frightened me; and with the purple around his mouth, which was sagging at one corner, I became afraid. At the same time, I saw his face as it must have been when he was a little boy, all tender and clear in the complexion.

  Dr. Fleask tested Papa again and again with the question “Tell me your name, sir,” and when Papa made no reply, Dr. Fleask said, “Tell me who is this young lady?” but again Papa did not respond. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the eyelids drooped and fluttered.

  There was nothing to be done at that moment, and Dr. Fleask departed. I sat there all afternoon, watching Papa. Each time he breathed differently, I started—in fear and in hope. Mary made some beef tea, and I attempted to get some between his lips; but he had not the capacity to draw it in. I talked to him all the time, and I told him of his own dearness to me. On his face came no sign, ever, that he heard me.

  Now the night came in, and we brought as many lamps and candles into the room as Mary could find in the house. But they merely lit his passing—because at a few minutes before six o'clock, his poor body gave a great surge, as though he would rise from the bed. Mary shrieked, and I held Papa's hand tighter. He made a second surge, and then he sank back. His eyes opened for a moment, but they lacked direction; they closed again as he subsided.

  I felt his hand grow cooler, and a breath whistled from him, and a tear formed at his eye and rolled down his cheek, and I knew that I had lost him.

  My dearest Kitty, I ever reserved my warmth for Papa, and now I regret that I did not tell him how I loved him. This morning, the cobbler's boy came with Papa's repaired boot and I all but fell down with grief in the hallway.

  On Tuesday we shall have the funeral; and I must prepare to comport myself in the way that he taught me. There will be Tennyson to read, and Shakespeare, and the Revd. Donne.

  After that, I must take over the legal matters regarding Tipperary. I do not know what sort of face I must turn to the world. As you alone know, I am driven by fear; I fear everyone. We have talked before, you and I, about the brisk face that I show—but it is the only face I know. I tremble inside all the time, and Papa knew this—he kept me “up,” as he called it. Must my fears now take me over? My dearest Kitty, please forgive my distraught tones.

  Your bereft but still affectionate friend,

  April.

  Mr. Prunty's files have been meticulously constructed. He put everything in linear order by date. Thus, his summary observes, “In October 1906, Mr. Stephen Somerville, K.C., made a successful application to the court for an interim “caretaking” order, so that the property might be protected from possible marauders, and so that a farm plan might be drawn up to prevent the fences and pastures from falling further into the weeds of disrepair.”

  In other words, when April Burke got her hands fully on the case— that is, seven months after her father's death—she approached it with her customary vim. Once her father's funeral was over, she began the necessary rearrangements of her life that would optimize her attention to the lawsuit. She kept the house in London open—but now she turned her face west, to Ireland and, as if anticipating a life to come, began to insert herself into Anglo-Irish society.

  Thursday, the 26th of July 1906.

  My dear Robbie,

  Yes, please come to Bantry—the Atlantic is so wonderful just now. A squall yesterday which drove marine oddments up onto the sands. I walked for an hour this morning, and was the best beachcomber; I found scallop shells, jellyfish, gray, wrinkled driftwood, and a wonderful seppe shell—or “cutting-fish,” as they call it he
re.

  Shall I expect you by Sunday, the 5th? If so, you shall renew your acquaintance with an interesting person! You recall that my lovely friend Mr. O’Brien had developed a perfect passion for the young woman who attended poor dear Oscar? Well, she is to be a house-guest of Doty Bandon's at Castle Bernard; she is coming over for her great lawsuit—she's seeking what she claims as her “birthright,” Tipperary Castle. Nobody here believes her; they think her a charlatan, and she has behaved dreadfully to my Mr. O’Brien. I am firmly among those who hope that she loses!

  Castle Bernard is very merry. The Bandons seem to make grandeur intimate—how I wish that Oscar had known them. So as you see, dear chum, lots of ding-dong gossip awaits—hurry-hurry!

  Con molto amore,

  Mollie.

  Saturday, the 4th of August 1906.

  My dear Kitty,

  In haste. Shall we meet at Limerick? If you designate a hotel, we can have tea. (Do they have tea in Limerick?) I should like you to meet my Mr. Somervilles, father and son; they are my protectors among the law!

  Speedily,

  April.

  SUNDAY, THE 16TH OF SEPTEMBER 1906.

  Charles came home on Friday evening. He says that he means to stay some time. When Bernard asked about ailing patients, Charles said they are all “in a good way.” At times I have thought how safe to be ill, were Charles the attendant healer. He cares so much.

  Although he has not said so, I know that he has come to be with Euclid. This morning, he helped Euclid into the ponytrap. It took a long time. Euclid glowed after their drive. They went to Golden and saw Athassel again, which Charles enjoys.

  Onward from the autumn of 1904 I have little to say of Ireland's events in general. Naturally I observed them as they occurred. Our island moved smoothly through the reign of King Edward the Seventh, and grew increasingly passionate about self-government; the talk of Home Rule replaced and surpassed in heat the debate on land reform.

  In fact, the whole country burned with a nationalistic flame. Enthusiasts for the revival of the Irish language held many and vigorous meetings, and when I look back now I can see that the whole country was talking itself into a ferment that would one day boil into revolution.

  As a “nation” (which we now increasingly called ourselves), we revisited our glorious past of myth and wonder; we reminded ourselves of our ancient poets and our many Gods and our brilliant artistic virtues. It often became heady, and Euclid became quite a specialist in ancient Irish paganism. He demonstrated how our mythical past had indeed been a matter of fact, and told us that we must observe what had happened— because in the workings of the past lay the clues to the future. And he told us, with Father's encouragement and to Mother's delight, that we would soon again become brilliant.

  On the third of October 1904, as I have reported, I saw April and her driver turn their faces to the Limerick road. That she had been in my home, under our roof, between our walls, still dazed me with delight; now she departed and I believed that she would return. She did, and in circumstances that in time brought great turmoil.

  It began with a letter from London, in spring 1906, to my mother. April wrote to tell that her father had died; it seemed that a stroke felled him, but she had the comfort of being present at his death, and she wrote movingly of how she missed him. Immediately, I wrote to her conveying my sincerest condolences; I had had little time to acquaint myself with her beloved father, but in that period I came to like him as much as a fellow might in so brief an acquaintance. In truth, I missed the dear man from the proceedings of my mind, as I had much looked forward to seeing him again, perhaps on the grounds of the castle that he might one day walk as of right or, as I have said, touring with me through the ruins of Athassel, burial place of de Burgo earls.

  I had remained within reach of Ardobreen in the weeks after April's departure; in case she needed my attentions again, I wished to travel no farther than a day's ride from Limerick. During that time, I attempted in vain to gain the opinions of my parents as to whether she might prove a suitable and lovable daughter-in-law. Mother said she needed “greater knowledge of the girl” before she could essay such an opinion, and my father said she reminded him of how Mother looked at that age.

  Euclid told me that I must be “firmer” with April, and when I replied that Father seemed to show no such firmness with Mother, Euclid said in his darker tone, “Different field, different beast.” I still do not know what he meant.

  That summer passed in short journeys to outlying counties, and one long journey to Donegal—a matter of some weeks. A priest in Bundoran, who had been Mr. Egan's patient and was much given to working in the garden, had written to me complaining of the itch. I stayed with him many days until it vanished (my treatment was a mixture of sulfur powder and pig's lard). Riding through Ireland in August had been exceptionally pleasant, and I saw many harvests, drank many ales in celebration; home again, I resumed my shorter journeys.

  One Saturday in October 1906, I arrived home from Templemore and a patient with the gout (which is cured by drinking a boiling of ragwort, and eating a porridge of oatmeal, each three times a day) to find a letter from London awaiting me. Mother sat with me as I opened it; I have it here, as I have all April's letters to me.

  Dear Mr. O’Brien—

  Or “surely” (as you say in Ireland) surely must I not call you “Charles”? For all the goodness you have shown me I may assume your friendship, may I not? Your letter regarding Papa's death moved me, and showed me how dear you feel in your friendship to me. Therefore I begin again, this time with “Dear Charles.”

  I have written to your mother my thanks for her condolences too, and I have asked her—as I ask you—to extend my gratitude to your father for his sound advice regarding the law and Tipperary Castle. Acting upon your father's words last year, I engaged Mr. Somerville's practice in Limerick, and as the newspapers have reported, they agreed to act for my father in the matter of this estate.

  When Papa died, I became his sole legatee, and as an early step I petitioned the Courts that the property be placed under some good care. The petition was granted on condition that a Caretaker be appointed, and to this end I took the liberty of suggesting your name. I know nobody else in Tipperary and I understand too that you harbor deep feelings for the place, and that is how I know that it will be in excellent hands under your watchful eyes.

  Mr. Somerville has told me that he will shortly write to you (and, as he said, be pleased to address a son of Mr. Bernard O’Brien) with greater details than I can furnish now. As you may judge from this letter, the suit has already been entered upon with the most serious intent.

  May I include you in my expressions of thanks for all you have done and are about to do?

  Yours with gratitude,

  April Burke.

  Mother asked me whether she too might see the letter; she read it without comment, other than the question “Do they mean to pay you for this caretaking?” In my delight I protested that I should not expect or accept payment.

  The law truly does move slowly. Next September—of 1907, almost three years after April's first visit—a sealed packet arrived, heavy with brown wax, postmarked “Limerick” and addressed to me at Ardobreen. It contained a detailed “Letter of Appointment” and some keys bearing ancient labels. Court papers indicated that permission had been given to appoint a “Responsible Overseer” to the property and a Court Order made to that effect. (This resulted in Euclid for many days addressing me, and referring to me, as “R.O.”)

  I had not waited for the official authority. In the intervening months, I had ridden over to the castle many times, most particularly in the winter months. At no time did I take any steps to exceed the curiosity of a passing stranger or to anticipate my coming powers.

  Each successive visit persuaded me further of the castle's thrall. My father believed my mother a truly beautiful woman because, he said, “Every time you look, her face is different—that's the sign of true beauty.” I had
observed the same with April—and now I saw it in this place that I hoped would become her (and my) home.

  Whether in morning light, or through drifts of noontide rain, or early evening fog, which floats a foot above the ground like a gray magic carpet, this estate gave off enchantment. I liked nothing better than to sit on Della, in the exact place where April and I had first dismounted, and look on the walls, the battlements, and the wonderful vista down to the bridge and the lake.

  SUNDAY, THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER 1907.

  Today we rode with Charles as he opened Tipperary Castle. I have had few days in my life when my feelings changed so. At first, I felt angry at his being used. My son was born to take care of people, not ruined estates. Then, when we all sat on the old terrace, I felt the peace of the place. Charles has spoken much of this. I knew today what he meant. At last, when we entered the house, I was marvelously overwhelmed. Never have I known such magnificence.

  But that is not the point. I have known other Great Houses, including Aunt Hutchinson's and, in London, Mrs. Wilkerson's. And, of course, the Countess of Athlone's London house in Mayfair. But I have never seen a house with such feeling in it. The ornateness that we can still see did not bring that. Nor did the beauty of the cut stone. Nor even the colors employed.