To Catch a Dream

by Mary Wood

  ‘No, no, I am just out riding, trying to clear my head a little. Has it been a profitable trip for you, Seamus? I see you have packed your wagon for travelling?’

  ‘It has kept me going, sir, thanks to you and the other landowners. And yes, I’m starting out on my journey before dark. Leeds first, then south to Liverpool.’

  ‘Well, we will miss you. Mmm, something smells good. Your last supper, so to speak?’

  ‘Aye, gamekeeper gave me a brace, so I have them in me stew. Not quite an Irish dish like me grandmother makes, but it will sustain me on me journey and for the fight tomorrow night.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve entered the bare-knuckle contest in Leeds, then? I might come along and cheer you on. If not, have a good fight. Remember to keep your head guarded, and I hope you win the prize money.’

  ‘Thank you. I am of the mind to have a good try. The purse is a good one and will see me through the winter. If not, there are a good few to have a go at on me route home, so there are.’

  ‘And which way do you go? I could maybe pave the way for you. There is a hunt meeting next week, when men from many counties come together. I could have a word and get you some places to stay where you will be made welcome.’

  ‘That’s kindness itself, so it is, but I’ve not been for having any difficulties in the last two years since I’ve travelled back and forth. I go on from Leeds to Sheffield, then on to Manchester and follow the ship canal to Liverpool. In truth, I’ve built meself a fair reputation for me honesty, hard work and leaving a clean camp.’

  For a moment Andrew envied Seamus. His life appeared carefree, with only the worry of his next meal to bother him – and even that didn’t seem to pose him any problems. ‘Very good, but I will be in the company of many a landowner on your journey’s route, so will put in a good word just the same, or you can mention my name if you have any problems. Goodbye, Seamus. I look forward to seeing you in the spring if I don’t make it to the fight tomorrow.’

  He turned his mount and set off at a pace. The smile in him deepened as he tried to picture himself leading a gypsy life. He knew it would never happen, but the prospect had its good points. Feeling much lifted by his two latest encounters, he felt ready – ready to take on whatever Edgar had to say, and in a much better mood to do so.

  The table glistened with the silver settings gracing it. Andrew held his mother’s chair until she had sat down, and he noticed that Jeremy held Agatha’s and helped to seat her, instead of her husband doing so, as one would expect. Agatha looked up into Jeremy’s face, a seductive smile hovering around her lips. Good God, she isn’t going to flirt with him, is she? He had to admit that his sister was a good-looking woman. Like himself, she had sleek dark hair and charcoal-coloured eyes. Just this side of thirty-four, she held her age well and still had a youthful-looking, curvy figure. When it suited her she could charm a snake from a basket, but her real nature tended to the surly, with little time for anyone she thought of as a fool. Andrew suspected her husband came into this category.

  Although he’d already greeted Jeremy, Andrew thought it prudent to engage him in conversation again to cause a distraction. ‘So, how’s things in the city, Jeremy? Are you still enjoying your life and work there?’

  ‘Not as much as I first thought I would. I’m thinking of taking a commission in the Army. I’ve always had a leaning towards it and have several friends from my Oxford days who are officers and having a jolly good time of it.’

  ‘Really, how interesting. Does your family have a military background?’

  ‘No, I’ll be the first, and it isn’t going down too well.’

  ‘I can imagine . . .’

  A meaningful cough interrupted them. The first course of pigeon in port sat steaming in front of them. Andrew looked towards Edgar, who had cleared his throat in such a way as to draw their attention, and waited for him to speak. To his surprise, Edgar bowed over his plate and said grace. The custom had long left this house, and it made him feel like a child again as he lowered his head. The last ‘Amen’ said, Edgar went on to ask, ‘I hope none of you minds us having a discussion of some importance whilst we eat?’ He turned to Granger and addressed him: ‘I would like it very much if you and your staff left the room between courses. If you would be so kind as to pass me the bell, I will ring when we need you, thank you.’

  Andrew’s indignation at this only half-matched that of Granger’s, who looked towards him for confirmation. Edgar had shown bad manners by assuming Andrew’s place as head of the household without even having the decency to ask. To save further embarrassment, Andrew nodded at Granger to indicate that it was all right for him to take orders from this supposed guest. As he did so, he caught Agatha’s eye. She had an amused look on her face and was evidently enjoying seeing him usurped.

  Not even bothering to apologize, Edgar continued speaking the moment the room had been cleared of staff. ‘Now, I want us to discuss something of great importance. I have asked my dear Rosalind for her hand in marriage and she has humbled me by accepting.’

  The sharp intake of breath from both Agatha and Jeremy told Andrew neither of them had had the benefit of the forewarning that he himself had. This annoyed him further. Just who did this man think he was? He wasn’t as yet coming across as fair-minded, and Mother had not even bothered to inform Agatha! But then, to be fair, maybe she had expected Andrew to do so, instead of escaping into the countryside and avoiding contact until he had to.

  ‘Yes, I know you are surprised,’ Edgar continued. ‘But I had hoped it wouldn’t come as unexpected. You must have all seen how close Rosalind and I have become?’

  Jeremy nodded, his body shifting from one position to another whilst his eyes remained on his food. Agatha looked like thunder and about to explode. He’d have to do something to save the situation.

  ‘Of course we have. We have spoken of it between us. May I be the first to congratulate you both and to wish you much happiness together?’

  ‘Thank you, Andrew.’

  ‘Yes . . . Er, yes, of course it is very good news. My congratulations join those of Andrew.’ Jeremy flashed a grateful look at him. Agatha remained silent.

  ‘Well, whatever you all think, there is no argument about it. It is what it is, and you have to accept it. If you could do so graciously.’ Edgar looked at Agatha and waited a moment.

  ‘Well! It is just such a surprise. Mother, how could you let us hear it like this? Would it not have been better to have told us in private and given us a chance to get used to the idea?’

  ‘Agatha, please do not blame your mother for that. It is down to me. I thought to give you the news and then tell you how it will affect you all. And I also thought that to do so all at the same time would be the best way of handling it. I have to say that my dear Rosalind felt differently about this approach, but I persuaded her.’

  Andrew had a moment of feeling sorry for Agatha, who looked as though she’d had the wind punched out of her. Her eyes found his. He tried to convey to her to take it on the chin by giving a little shrug and an expression that he hoped reassured her everything would be all right. It seemed to work, as she turned her attention back to Edgar and, with admirable composure, wished them both well, apologizing for her outburst.

  ‘Good, thank you all. Now, I have to outline to you how your positions will alter. Rosalind and I have discussed all of this at length and have come to a complete agreement . . .’

  All in all, the arrangement proposed hadn’t been a bad package, Andrew thought as he waited for Edgar to join him in his study. It seemed that, apart from Mother making him her sole heir, which of course was a better position than he had been in, Edgar intended taking steps – if they were both in agreement – to adopt him and Agatha formally. This would make Andrew second in line to everything.

  Edgar would secure Agatha’s future by giving her a guaranteed inheritance of several properties he owned in London, and an undisclosed sum of money would be put in trust for her. Jeremy hadn’t flinched at
this, but then the wealth of the remains of the estate would not be jeopardized by losing this small parcel of the London holdings.

  On reflection, Agatha might even do better than himself, as two deaths had to take place for him to really benefit – Edgar’s and Jeremy’s – whereas Agatha came into her inheritance on the death of Edgar, which was a much more likely, though not probable, occurrence of the nearer future. Not that he wished any of them such a fate, especially Jeremy, but his sister’s elevated prospects rankled Andrew somewhat, he had to admit. As did the fact that Edgar had summoned him to this meeting in his own home, giving orders that they were not to be disturbed. Andrew’s mind wouldn’t give him the reason for this, unless Edgar wanted to find out whether or not everything had met with his approval.

  Edgar’s first words on entering the study dispelled this idea. Andrew was learning that Edgar thought anything he decided was acceptable, as his comment now testified: ‘Now then, my boy, I think that went very well, don’t you?’

  This opening brooked no dissent. ‘Yes, thank you. You have thought everything out very fairly, and with a generosity I am very grateful for. Thank you, Edgar. Please, take a seat. I have had brandy brought in for us both.’ He motioned Edgar to the only comfortable chair, next to the fireplace. After serving him his drink, he stood leaning with one arm on the hearth.

  ‘Thank you, Andrew. I am glad you are pleased. Now, there is another matter I want to discuss with you. I think you have made the acquaintance of my niece, Dvina Portland?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Oh God, what was coming? Dvina was a horsey type, with a strong, manly figure that inclined to the plump. Her face missed being attractive because her nose not only crooked a little to one side, but stuck out to the extent that it seemed the only feature one saw.

  ‘My brother-in-law is anxious to make a good match for her . . . No. Hear me out. Dvina is a wonderful girl: resilient and good fun. What she misses in the looks department she more than makes up for in her demeanour. She will make a good wife, skilled in running a home much larger than yours. She is educated and has an intelligent and engaging turn of conversation.’

  ‘Are you trying to say that my offering for her is part of the deal?’ Andrew could hardly keep the anger and disgust out of his tone.

  ‘Not altogether, but I know you need both funds and a wife – not to mention an heir. This arrangement could give you all of them. My brother-in-law is offering a very substantial dowry – one that, if you take her hand, I will double. She is also his sole heir. And, as he owns Tacker’s Mine, your nearest rival, and a huge estate to the north of it, you will be sitting in a very pretty position by agreeing to this match.’

  ‘Oh, so I am to be sold to the highest bidder, am I?’

  ‘That’s childish, and you know it. This is the way we plan things. How else do you think we hold our positions in society? Love may come later, but if it doesn’t, there can be a side-attraction, if done discreetly. Or you may have to wait, like your mother and me, for true love to have its way.’

  Andrew took several deep breaths. The silence in the room suffocated him. Like a cornered animal, he backed away and sat down heavily on the only other chair in the room, a straight-backed one that he used for the purpose of sitting at his desk to work.

  ‘Look, you don’t have to agree now, but please say you will meet Dvina and give some thought to the proposal. I have invited you all to stay over at Hensal Grange for an official engagement party in three weeks’ time. Dvina will be there. Dance with her. Talk to her, and then see what you think. But remember, your immediate future depends on the mine. That needs capital. I understand from your mother that she has very little left, and you have even less . . .’

  The truth of his last statement hit hard.

  But, Christ – Dvina Portland . . . ?

  3

  Bridie

  County Cavan, 1875

  A journey into the unknown

  ‘Mammy, will you try to eat this?’

  ‘What is it, wee one? Sure I’m not for having an appetite for anything.’

  ‘’Tis a gruel Mrs Finney made. She said it will be good for you.’

  The skin on her mother’s face resembled the fine, yellowed leaves of autumn. Her dark eyes, sunken and empty, looked back at Bridie. Her baby-bird-like fingers stretched out towards her. ‘I’ll try, so I will, but first a sip.’

  As she crossed the room to the pitcher of cold water, Bridie thought with despair how rapidly her mammy’s illness had ravaged her body. The pains she’d suffered these two years since had worsened, until nothing soothed them. The weight had dropped from her bones, and a lump had appeared on her neck. This last had seemed to hail the beginning of the end, for since then she had hardly lifted her head from her pillow. Even Mrs Finney had not been able to come up with any potions to soothe her.

  Thinking of Mrs Finney, Bridie looked out of the window to where she could see the gypsy camp just up the lane. Smoke curled up towards the sky. Children played. Women worked in groups, no doubt making the lovely lace table-centres they sold in the town.

  Further to the south, the men worked in the fields. Seamus wasn’t amongst them. His grandmother, for the second year running, had come without him, and another of the grandsons had taken his place. Bridie knew her father still had contact with Seamus. She had heard his name in his conversations, but he never answered her questions as to his whereabouts.

  She looked away, above and beyond the men. The low autumn sun glistened on one of Cavan’s many lakes to her left, while to her right and on the horizon she could see Armagh against a backdrop of the mountains of Mourne in County Down and, below them, the forest she had explored with Seamus.

  There they had listened to their voices echoing under the Cromwell Bridge and had dodged the keeper of the estate of Cabra Castle as they’d gone in search of the ancient Holy Well. After making a wish by throwing stones into its murky waters, they would find a vantage point from which to gaze at Sarah’s Bridge. Seamus had told her the bridge, built in 1801, was in memory of a lady who had married into the Pratt family, landowners and residents of the castle. He would make up stories about Sarah, saying how beautiful she was and pondering on why she had died. And he would tell her of the bad things the landowners did to their tenants, pricing them out, so that they could regain the farms.

  Shifting her attention, she trickled water into the tumbler. Her thoughts wandered to how things had changed since she’d last seen Seamus, in the autumn of two years ago. Her pappy now lived in fear. He disappeared a lot more, but not to take the drink; he came back sober. He jumped at the slightest noise and often went out at night just to look up the road, as if he was for thinking someone would creep up on him.

  ‘Bridie . . . will . . . you bring me – me drink.’

  ‘Sorry, Mammy. Here it is.’ As she held the water to her mammy’s blue-tinged lips, a dread settled in her. ‘Drink, Mammy. Try to take a sip.’

  ‘Bridie . . . sit down . . . a wee while . . .’

  The gentle tapping indicated she should sit on the side of the bed. As she did so, her mammy let out a small moan. Bridie jumped up, saying, ‘’Tis causing you pain to have the bed disturbed. I’ll kneel next to you, so I will. There, I can reach to feed you.’

  ‘Bridie, I have . . . something to say.’

  ‘Hush, Mammy.’

  ‘Listen, child. I haven’t . . . long. This sickness is taking me . . .’

  ‘No, Mammy, you will be getting better.’

  ‘My precious one, ’tis as I cannot recover. Your pappy . . . he – he has to go. Go with him. He has . . . money . . . but . . .’

  ‘Money? Pappy? He can’t have. He . . .’

  ‘He does. Tell him you know. Tell him, then he . . . he will have to see you right.’

  ‘Oh, Mammy, stop talking. Save your strength. Don’t worry. Pappy loves me, so he does. He will look after me. But I don’t want you to die, Mammy. I . . .’ Tears clogged her throat. Her heart weighed heavy with the
realization that, no matter what she did or how much she pleaded, her mammy couldn’t stay with her.

  ‘Bridie, hold my hand.’

  Bridie’s heart sank. It seemed that with every passing second her mammy slipped further away, but still she tried to tell her things. ‘Bridie . . . go with him, but . . . don’t trust . . . don’t trust—’

  The effort had beaten her. Bridie watched the beautiful eyes take on an unseeing glaze. Through her tears she could only whisper, ‘Mammy, no. Mammy, don’t be leaving me.’ But her pleas went unheard. A sigh expelled her mammy’s last breath, and the face she loved fell into a waxy mask, smoothing away all the lines of pain.

  The cold wind sweeping off the coast had a tinge of the coming harsh winter that the signs had promised, as it lashed the waves of the Irish Sea against the side of the ferry. Bridie clutched the rail to balance herself against the swell. The boat rolled and creaked from side to side. As the tears cooled on her cheeks, she brushed them away and tucked a stray, damp ringlet behind her ear. Why had Mammy to die? And what did Pappy do that was so bad they had to leave so soon after she drew her last breath?

  The wind held no answers. It only further chilled the fear in her.

  Knowing that Father O’Brian had given her mother the last blessing of her body and soul, and his assurance that he would see to everything, held no comfort. It only deepened the mystery. Why would a priest be helping her pappy, if he had done something he had to run away from?

  Bridie looked ahead, her knuckles white with the effort of steadying herself. England stood on the distant horizon, teasing her into a new life. A life she had no understanding of and didn’t want.

  A screeching whine caught her attention. The door of the cabin she shared with her father opened and Michael O’Hara staggered out. A shudder that wasn’t caused by the cold rippled through Bridie.