Rosie nodded, but made no comment. She stole a glance at Celine when the maid came in to serve tea, but Celine made no eye contact with her.
‘I don’t know if you have heard, but Valentine has joined the army, much against his parents’ wishes I am told.’ She paused and looked at Rosie who kept her expression as bland as she could manage. ‘He has entered the Irish Guards,’ continued Lady Marianne. ‘I can just imagine how handsome he looks in that splendid scarlet uniform.’
Rosie sipped her tea. She sensed Lady Marianne was waiting for a comment. ‘Has he shipped out yet?’ she asked.
‘Not from what Victoria tells me. He is at training somewhere in England. I’m sure he will visit us before he leaves for France. I can send you a note if you like. I’m sure you would like to wish him well.’
‘Of course.’
Rosie tried her best to stem the blush that was spreading over her cheeks. She knew that Lady Marianne was testing her to see if she still had feelings for Valentine, and was determined to betray nothing. She had tried not to think of him at all over the last few months and hoped she was indeed over him. But the blush just reaffirmed that he would never be truly out of her thoughts or her heart.
The buzz of the doorbell brought her relief. Lady Marianne smiled at her and stood up. ‘That will be the dear Butler sisters,’ she said. ‘I invited them to come and visit you. They have pestered me with questions about you ever since the . . . ever since last year. And I know you admired them so.’
After some bustling in the hallway, Celine ushered in Geraldine and Nora Butler. They both rushed towards Rosie at once.
‘Rosie!’ declared Geraldine, the elder of the two. ‘How wonderful to see you at last. We have been so worried about you.’
Rosie looked from one to the other and smiled. She was pleased to see them. They had been so kind to her the night of the ball, and she had never forgotten it. She took their hands by turn. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ she said, ‘I never expected to see you again.’
Nora removed her hat and sat down. ‘Neither did we. We thought Victoria might lead us to you, but she said she has only seen you once. I was surprised at that, but I understand she is spending all of her time at the clinic.’
Geraldine chuckled. ‘Yes, seeing to the digestive plumbing of our fine Dublin ladies. I visited Dr Cullen with Mama recently and saw her there.’ She paused. ‘She is as lovely as ever, but something about her has changed. I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘She has found a new passion, I think,’ said Lady Marianne after tea was served to her guests. She waved her hand. ‘But enough of Victoria,’ she continued. ‘I have invited you here to discuss an idea I have for helping Rose. Dear Mr Kearney came up with the general idea, actually, and together we have refined it into what I believe is a most appealing plan.’
Rosie felt herself grow pale. She must keep her wits about her. She must not let herself get dragged into another of Lady Marianne’s ‘ideas’. She took a mild satisfaction that her hostess was no longer addressing her as ‘Rosalind’. Now she breathed deeply, braced her back and shoulders and, remembering her latest resolve, put on her most charming smile.
‘How exciting, Lady Marianne! Please tell me what you have in mind.’
CHAPTER 22
Meanwhile, diligent as Victoria was about her job at Dr Cullen’s clinic, fault lines of dissatisfaction were beginning to appear. At first they were insignificant and could be dismissed as the result of fatigue and the stress of mastering new skills. But as time went on she came to realize that they were growing, threatening to erupt into an open rebellion. She yearned for more challenging work beyond the repetitive and routine complaints of the Dublin matrons who frequented the clinic. Each morning’s walk to the clinic became increasingly exhausting.
When war was declared she hoped it might offer a reprieve. Nursing injured soldiers would surely renew her sense of purpose. Returning wounded soon began to appear, not at the clinic, but at the small, private hospital where Dr Cullen’s seriously ill patients were sent for treatment. Victoria pressed for a transfer from the clinic to the hospital and it was granted. She was delighted, hoping she might now be able to make a difference.
Like Dr Cullen’s other patients, the returning soldiers were all from well-to-do families. Although they were officers, their privilege had not protected them from the same ravages of battle – amputated limbs, head wounds, infection, gangrene, and shell-shock – as enlisted soldiers. She did her best to make them comfortable. Often she sat with them, holding their hands and listening to their stories, or writing letters for those who were unable to do so for themselves. She thought of Valentine, and hoped some nurse would be kind to him if he were ever in need. But even as she nursed these men she thought of the thousands of other less fortunate young men who would be returning to Ireland and left to the mercy of the state to languish in miserable, overcrowded hospitals. Maybe those boys needed her more. She tried to push away the nagging thoughts.
She wished she could share her feelings with someone and, as always, Rosie came to her mind. Her earlier anger with her friend was long forgotten. She had even thought of going back to find her at Foley Court, but the memory of the place made her shiver.
‘It’s just that I’d like to see her,’ she said one evening to Lady Marianne. ‘I went to see her once at her sister’s lodgings. The conditions there were shocking, and Rosie looked so defeated. I am really afraid her despair may throw her into a life of . . .’ She could not finish her thought.
Lady Marianne smiled. ‘Rose has too much backbone and spirit to ever stoop to that, Victoria. I have been amazed at her resilience.’ She put her hand on Victoria’s arm. ‘Don’t worry about her. She will make her way. I doubt that pursuing this friendship with her is in either of your best interests. She needs to find her own path. I have put a plan in place for her and she has agreed to go along with it.’
Victoria was filled with sudden alarm. ‘But, Aunt, you cannot possibly interfere in Rosie’s life again after what happened last year. How could you?’
Lady Marianne laughed. ‘Don’t worry, dear, I was merely the broker in this matter. I have left Rose and her future to the good offices of the Butler sisters.’
‘To what end?’
‘Ah, I will give you the details in good time. But I am optimistic Rose will find her place at last.’ She turned away, indicating the subject closed, and sat down. ‘Now, about you, my dear. You too must look to your future. Perhaps you will find a suitor amongst those nice military officers you are nursing.’
Victoria shrugged. ‘I doubt it, Aunt.’
She could have told her aunt about the brutish behaviour some of the men had exhibited towards her, assuming she was just a working-class nurse. They were polite enough when they were sick, but once they were on the mend their true natures had come through – the major who had outright propositioned her, the captain from Wicklow who pinched her bottom every time she passed him, the two lieutenants who discussed her physical attributes even though she was within earshot. But even had they behaved like perfect gentlemen, she knew she would have had no interest in them. Brendan Lynch, even though she tried to put him out of her mind during the long days, was the one who came back to haunt her dreams every night. She did not know if she would ever see him again but while his image and memory was still so vivid she knew no other man could take his place.
CHAPTER 23
One freezing night in November 1914, Rosie climbed the dark stairs in the large home of a Dublin district justice to attend a meeting of the Gaelic League. Geraldine Butler had pestered her several times since their meeting at Lady Marianne’s home to attend one, sending her notes and threatening to come to Foley Court and escort her to a meeting herself.
‘Do come,’ Geraldine had said. ‘I know the position of secretary we have offered you does not pay much, but you will meet some fine people, and learn all about what is going on in Dublin and across Ireland. It is very exciting, Rosie. And
my hope is that such introductions will lead to an even better opportunity for you, one where you can employ all your talents.’
‘She’s right, Rosie,’ Nora had said, and proceeded to give her the background on the Gaelic League, an organization of people with nationalist leanings, while Lady Marianne had nodded her approval.
When Lady Marianne had first broached the details of her ‘plan’ to Rosie she had been disappointed. Despite her scepticism, deep down she had harboured hope that the lady had conjured a miracle which would lift her out of her present situation and launch her on the road to success. A low-paying position with the Gaelic League, an organization she had never even heard of, fell far short of a miracle.
‘But I don’t even know how to use a typewriter,’ she told Lady Marianne, flustered. Then recovering herself she went on, ‘I truly appreciate all of your efforts on my behalf, but I hardly think . . .’
At the time, she had not even been able to finish her sentence. Doubts were already creeping in. Was she a fool to reject the offer? But as she listened to Nora’s impassioned description of the merits of the Gaelic League her scepticism returned. These were rich people playing pretend revolutionaries, she thought. They know nothing of the real world of the Irish poor. They are the same people who mocked me at the Metropole Ball. I want nothing to do with them. She had thanked Lady Marianne and left.
When she returned to Foley Court that afternoon, despair, as always, overcame her. Had she let her pride prevail over common sense? And as the days went by with no more likelihood of a secure job than before, Rosie realized she had made a mistake by refusing Lady Marianne’s offer and with it a new chance to help Bridie and Kate. She could hardly go back begging to her now. She was saved the embarrassment of having to do so thanks to Geraldine’s persistence. She decided to attend one meeting.
Now, climbing the stairs, she was unsure of what she would find. Noises drifted down from the rooms above – melodic strains of Irish music, the hubbub of voices raised in conversation and argument, the tap of feet dancing on wooden floors. She had dressed as carefully as she could, choosing the least worn of her dresses and a wool cape, darned on the inside so no one could see the stitches. Setting her chin firmly, she entered the main room at the top of the stairs. A young, pale bespectacled man sat at a table taking attendance.
‘Roisin Killeen,’ she said. ‘Miss Geraldine Butler invited me. Is she here?’
The young man’s face lit up. ‘You are very welcome,’ he said.
Rosie recognized his upper class, Anglo-Irish accent, so reminiscent of the young men she had danced with at the Metropole. She clenched her fists to her sides.
‘Geraldine is busy at the moment,’ he went on, ‘rehearsing a vignette which will be presented later. Please go on in. There is tea and refreshments, or sherry if you prefer.’ He smiled up at her. ‘I would suggest the sherry to warm you up. You look positively frozen.’
Rosie murmured her thanks and turned away from the table. She forced herself to move through the crowd towards the refreshments. She was not used to crowds, particularly where she knew no one. All around her people were engaged in animated conversation. Young women, about her age, appeared confident and engaged, holding their own in arguments with equally intense young men. The young men appeared to be students and reminded her of the boys she had seen milling about Trinity College. The older men, all of them well-dressed and well-spoken, were gentry, although she allowed that some of them could well be teachers, solicitors or journalists. She had met many men like these over the years at Ennismore or at Dublin soirées she had attended with Lady Marianne. But the women were nothing like the girls she had encountered in the past – girls who loved to talk only about fashion, and travel, and their chances of making a good match. Although these women appeared to be from the gentry, they were like a different species.
She picked up a small glass of sherry and sipped it. She stood back in the shadows and listened to the snatches of conversation that drifted her way. There was talk of a recent ‘Buy Irish’ campaign which had taken place over Christmas at the Rotunda in Dublin where only Irish manufactured goods were sold. There was talk of language classes, debating societies and upcoming concerts. One young woman handed out pamphlets promoting a Ceili – a festival of Irish dance – to take place at a nearby church hall. Rosie took one and read it with interest. Sponsored by the Gaelic League, it was to be open to everyone and admission was free.
Nora had explained that the Gaelic League was the largest of the many ‘Celtic’ societies formed to support a Gaelic reawakening. Such societies were dedicated to the revival of the Irish language and culture, including poetry, plays, dancing and sports. By doing so, she had said, they hoped to re-instil in the native Irish a new pride in their culture and heritage.
‘It’s been beaten out of them over the centuries of English rule,’ Nora had said, ‘and we believe it’s time to restore it.’
Rosie had never heard of such a movement. At Ennismore it would have been unthinkable that the Bell family or their neighbours would have encouraged the revival of Irish culture. From her own experience, Rosie knew the rural gentry viewed the native Irish as peasants – servants to cook for them and clean their houses, labourers to look after their estates and their livestock, tenants to till their fields and grow their crops. Once more her scepticism rose – did these Gaelic Leaguers really want to champion the native Irish culture or were they just engaged in some cruel pantomime for their own amusement?
Geraldine and Lady Marianne had also mentioned that the mission of such societies as the Gaelic League was expanding to include a political element. The plethora of Irish Nationalist newspapers, such as The Irish Volunteer and Irish Freedom which were filled with anti-English propaganda, were stirring up the populace.
‘The Irish are growing impatient waiting for Home Rule to be implemented,’ Geraldine had explained. ‘They are beginning to organize and arm themselves. The talk of a rebellion is growing louder.’
An older woman clapped her hands and invited everyone into a large adjoining room, where a small stage had been erected, and wooden chairs set out for the audience. A curtain concealed the stage. A tall young man with broad shoulders and a rich, mellow voice faced the audience and began to recite a poem in Irish that Rosie recognized straight away. It was called ‘Dark Rosaleen’, or ‘Roisin Dubh’ in Irish, and while it appeared to be a love poem to a young girl, it was in fact a poem about Ireland and her troubles. Rosie’s da had recited the same poem to her many times in childhood. She wiped away a sudden tear as she listened.
The curtain was then drawn back and four young women, Geraldine included, appeared. They were dressed in black and red cloaks, each emblazoned with a rose, and performed a simple choreography behind the poet as he read.
‘They’re portraying the Four Provinces of Ireland,’ whispered a young man next to Rosie. ‘How clever of them.’
She applauded as loudly as the rest of the audience when the players and poet took their bows. She rose to go and find Geraldine. But instead of returning to the first room she found herself being carried with the crowd towards another, smaller side room. A knot of young men of a rougher hew than those she had encountered earlier sat drinking ale and laughing. Some were wearing ordinary street clothes, while others appeared to be in a uniform of some sort. A tall man in a long overcoat stood up and called for order. He had his back to her but she thought she knew him. She manoeuvred around the crowd to get a better look. When she saw his face, she knew him immediately. Cathal O’Malley, the man she had met on O’Connell Bridge the evening she had quarrelled with Victoria, began to speak in his clear, Mayo accent. The men quieted down and gave him their full attention. She grew flustered as she recalled their encounter. What would she say to him? She looked around for an exit and was about to make for the back staircase when Geraldine appeared.
‘Rosie! How wonderful, you have come.’
Geraldine’s voice broke the spell.
&nbs
p; Rosie took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve been looking for you. You were wonderful on stage.’
Geraldine shrugged. ‘It was just a little tableau. But it was such fun.’
She reached for Rosie’s hand. ‘Come on downstairs with me, I want to introduce you to some friends. And besides, we’re interrupting Mr O’Malley’s speech.’
He must have heard his name because he turned around abruptly. His eyes caught Rosie’s and held them. She stared back, unable to look away, just as had happened the first time they had met. A wide grin creased his face as he bowed towards her. Had Geraldine not pulled her away, Rosie could not say how long she would have remained standing there.
Geraldine Butler arranged Rosie’s employment as secretary for the Gaelic League in short order. She was settled at a table in a corner cubbyhole within the larger offices of the Sword of Light, the official newspaper of the Gaelic League. Known to all as the Sword, its offices occupied the ground floor of a terraced three-story house on Moore Street, off Henry Street in the north section of the city. Outside, Moore Street bustled with wagons, bicycles and pedestrians. Tradespeople, their carts laden with fruits, vegetables and flowers, hawked their wares with ribald cheer. The noise filtered into the League offices through the constantly swinging front door and merged in a merry cacophony with the clack of typewriter keys, screech of ringing telephones and din of strident voices.
Through the glass partition that separated her cubbyhole from the main office, Rosie watched with fascination as a stream of people came through the door each day, bringing a cold blast of air with them. Journalists, writers, poets and illustrators mixed with well-dressed female members of the Gaelic League. Tradespeople and prostitutes alike warmed themselves with a cup of tea, while young lads in cloth caps hovered in the hope of some paid errand. It seemed to her that the whole of Dublin came and went through the door.
The Girls of Ennismore Page 20