The Rebel

by May McGoldrick

  One thing he had not confided in her, though, was his feelings for her sister.

  Henry sat himself on the low stone wall surrounding the crowded graves of peasants, tanners, and quarrymen. Here lay the history of this village, he thought, enclosed by a square of rough gray stone. Our time here is so short. We’re born to toil—and toil we do. We suffer and then we die. But somewhere between the years of blood and tears, we hope for moments of love.

  He looked back across the stony brook at the village and at his rectory. Last summer, the flowers were blooming in his little garden and the fields around Ballyclough green and alive when Henry saw, for the first time, that light in Clara’s eyes. No longer a child, she had somehow, without his noticing, grown into a beautiful young woman. There had been other things, as well, that Henry had become aware of then. Her quiet dignity. Her determination to keep peace between the members of her tumultuous family. He also noticed the way that she tried to hide her inclination to hang on every word he said and on his every movement.

  It had been easy to fall in love with Clara. It had been even easier to allow himself to dream of someday asking for her hand in marriage. And dream he did. For though he was well born, he was still a country clergyman and she a knighted magistrate’s daughter. Whatever her parents might have wanted for her, though, when he set out to court her privately, she’d been more than willing to receive his attentions.

  The rosebuds were full and ready to open when Henry Adams held his heart in his outstretched hands and approached Clara with his offer of marriage. He’d wanted her consent first before broaching the subject with Sir Thomas. His greatest mistake had been in taking that consent for granted.

  Anger at the memory drove him to his feet, and Henry walked across the road and into a field that had lain fallow this year. Upon these lands, he knew, cattle and sheep and goats had once grazed freely, their hides supplying the tanners of Ballyclough with the materials of their trade. Now, fertile farms surrounded him, the profits of the tenants’ labors going into the pockets of the great landowners. The planted lands of the English were a far cry superior to the marshy patches of bog land that the Irish were allowed beyond the next line of hills. And it was the same worship of Mammon that was ruining this country that made Clara refuse him.

  Frustrated beyond words, Henry stopped in the middle of the field. He was just not good enough. It simply came down to that. There was no way she could consent to a marriage that didn’t improve her family’s name—or wealth—or position—or whatever. Clara had been bred to reject him that day. She’d been raised to take that fertile ground…and he could offer her only a life in the marshes.

  Though he’d been hurt, he had never mentioned any of this to Jane—not out of pride, but because he knew this would be another blow to her. In a family that thrived because of the privilege and superiority that went with being English, Jane had always fought against it, and he knew she believed she’d had some positive influence on her younger sister. How disappointed Jane would be to learn Clara’s true feeling. How many sleepless nights had it taken him to come to grips with it!

  Henry Adams shook his head. Well, that was behind him now.

  He turned his back on the green fields and started toward the decrepit ruins of the tanners cottages crowding the stream at the lower end of the village. He knew where to go.

  Darby O’Connell, with a stubbornness inherited from his father, had remained in Ballyclough, determined to eke out an existence in the tanning trade that his grandfather and his grandfather’s grandfather had practiced before him. But his hard life became harder when his wife delivered a dead baby two weeks ago.

  She had not once gotten back onto her feet after that—not once stopped losing blood. For nearly a week, now, the woman had been delirious with fever, and yesterday Darby went for the priest in Mallow. While the husband was on the road, Henry had looked in on her. A woman from a nearby cottage was doing what she could to keep the dying woman comfortable. During Henry’s visit, the three little O’Connells had simply looked up at him with blank expressions from the dirt floor beside their mother’s pallet. He could see at a glance that the poor woman’s time was at hand, and he knew that Darby would lose his mind when his wife passed away. He didn’t want to think what would happen to the children.

  The tanner’s cottage came into view, and Henry thought for a moment how different this thatched hut was from the grand buildings of Woodfield House.

  No, he needed to clear his mind of the words and promises Clara had spoken to him today. She was far too acquiescent to ever withstand the social and family pressures that would surely pour over her if he were fool enough to broach the subject of marriage with Sir Thomas.

  Sir Nicholas Spencer had arrived to take his prize, and there was no competing with him. Title and money spoke loudly…and Henry had neither. She had been the wise one and he the fool six months ago. Well, he was wiser, now, and it was best for all to keep it that way.

  Darby’s youngest, barefoot and only just covered by his rags, was sitting against the stone wall of the cottage when Henry came across the stream. As the parson watched, the child dropped a dirty piece of uncooked potato that he’d been clutching in a filthy hand into the mud. The young boy’s face was stained with tears and dirt, and as he got on all fours and crawled after his lost possession, a small dog darted up and gobbled down the bit of food, running off again as quickly as he came. The child immediately began to wail, but stopped suddenly as he noticed Henry’s approach.

  The teary eyes and dirt-smeared face turned to the parson with recognition, and the boy raised his thin arms into the air to be picked up. Henry leaned down and lifted the child without a moment’s hesitation and headed toward the cottage door.

  As the boy nestled a tired head against his shoulder, Henry knew that he could waste no more time in snug parlors, courting young women who had never wanted for anything in their lives.

  No, he thought as he ducked his head and stepped into the dark cottage, this was where he belonged.

  CHAPTER 9

  Alexandra gaped for a long moment at the dozens upon dozens of paintings stored along the walls and taking up a large area at one end of the attic space. With cloths draped over them, they lined the walls like battalions of soldiers. She was simply stunned by the sight.

  The young serving lass had not thought twice about taking Lady Spencer up past the servant’s quarters to the large space beneath the roof where Miss Jane often painted and stored her sketches and other work. Lady Spencer was a guest, and when she said that Lady Purefoy had encouraged her to see the older daughter’s work, the girl had merely curtsied and led the way.

  The last set of stairs, narrow and steep, took them to a large, sparsely furnished open space with sloping roof timbers just overhead. It was the studio of a serious artist—that Alexandra could see. And a busy one, she thought, eying the covered rows of canvases.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon about the smell, m’lady,” the servant offered, never coming further than the top step. “I’m told ‘tis the paints. But I know Miss Jane likes spending time here.”

  “I can understand why,” Alexandra murmured as she let her gaze travel to the two large shuttered windows on either end of the space. At this end, a battered stool sat by an empty easel and two work tables; while buckets, rolls of canvas, bags of pigment, and casks of oil were stacked and spread everywhere. “You may leave me. I shan’t touch anything that I shouldn’t be touching.”

  The servant returned Alexandra’s smile, but didn’t retreat. “M’lady, no guest I know of has ever asked to come and see Miss Jane’s things.”

  She liked the protectiveness she saw in the girl. “Maybe that’s because none of them know what a talented artist she is. I paint a little, as well, and I’m thrilled to look at some of her work.”

  Alexandra’s comment seemed to satisfy her. With a small curtsy, she turned back down the stairs, and a moment later the guest heard the door close at the bottom. Left alone
in the room, she felt a prickle of excitement creep along her skin. She hadn’t even seen any of Jane’s work yet, and still she felt like a child about to open a treasure chest.

  She walked down the middle of the attic space, careful not to hit her head on the rough-hewn beams. Moving past the tables and the easel, Alexandra opened the shutters at one end and let the sunshine pour in. The view of the verdant countryside from this far above was breathtaking and the light surprisingly plentiful. Alexandra instantly understood Jane’s preference for working here. The single chair and a simple cot she hadn’t seen were tucked back in the shadow beneath the eaves. Jane clearly used this end of the attic space for work and the other end for storage.

  She walked about for a few moments, admiring the young woman’s organization and leafing through a sketchbook that had been left on one of the worktables. These drawings appeared to be done in haste and were mostly rough sketches of a group of children playing. Her gaze fell on an array of brushes filling a large bucket, and her fingers itched to touch the carefully cleaned bristles. A board, obviously used as a palette for mixing colors, leaned against the bucket. Like a dog trained to pick up a particular scent, Alexandra turned, her eyes fixing on a group of canvases leaning against a beam near the cot.

  In general, women were taught to sketch, leaving the work of painting—particularly of painting in oils—in the more “capable” hands of men. Alexandra knew that she and Penelope Cawardine in London were rare exceptions. Of course, she thought, moving toward the group of canvases, it didn’t hurt Mrs. Cawardine to have Sir Joshua Reynolds himself as a friend and mentor.

  But Alexandra found it entirely pleasant to think of Jane Purefoy, here amid the rustic greenery of Ireland, rebelling against such backward notions.

  Pulling off the cloth covering them, she looked quickly at the first two paintings. They were landscape scenes and well executed with a unique style that would have made even the great Gainsborough take note. Alexandra’s thoughts of style and structure, of the use of light and color, dissipated into thin air, though, when she uncovered the third landscape. As the older woman gazed at the work, Jane’s intention began to dawn on her.

  She went back and closely studied each picture again. They were all done from the same perspective, looking down from an elevation into a rural valley. From the brush strokes alone, there was no doubt in Alexandra’s mind that they were painted by the same artist and depicted the same location. But the three paintings did not reflect the same scene.

  She brought the canvases out into the window’s light and stood them next to each other, against the easel and stool. As she studied them more closely, she found herself fascinated by the deft touches that accentuated the passage of seasons in the paintings. The young woman’s talent was obvious. Through her use of light, Jane drew the eye to a different object or person in each painting, but she had also created an entirely new perspective on the same scene with only a few adroit brush strokes.

  Alexandra crouched before the first one that she looked at—the painting most recently done—and studied the summer pastoral scene. Cattle grazed in pastureland enclosed by ditch and low hedges. Picturesque ruins of something—perhaps an abandoned abbey that had once stood in the dell—could be partly seen through the tall summer grass.

  She looked at the next, a painting that depicted the valley in spring contained a few men working along the edge of the field. She looked back at the summer painting and then back again. The men were digging the ditches to enclose the pastureland. A man on horseback, his back to the painter, was pointing at something and directing the laborers.

  Alexandra moved on to study the third canvas, a winter landscape. An impenetrable mist spread through the lower reaches of the valley, its thick fingers of fog spreading claw-like across a blackened field. The overall effect of the scene was a disturbing one, and Alexandra shivered involuntarily as she stood back for a better look.

  The painting contained numerous details that were cleverly hidden in the edges of the mist with mere touches of the artist’s brush. The ruins that appeared so picturesque in the summer scene now pushed through the vapor—ghostly and ominous. Alexandra peered intently at the broken stone walls. What were they? She found herself wanting to reach out and brush away the mist with her fingers, as if to discover the secret beneath it. Mist or smoke? She thought for a moment that the stones might even be charred ruins of a building…of more than one building.

  She looked over at the other two canvases that were still standing against eaves.

  Excited, Alexandra crossed over and turned one around. A shocked gasp escaped her lips when her gaze fell on the painting. Leaning it against the worktable, she backed up and sat heavily on the wooden chair.

  A great fire consumed the valley. Violently alive with a shocking splatter of color, there were faces and upraised hands, all helpless against the raging inferno. Fear and anger silently screamed out at the viewer. With the subtle touch of oil to canvas, the anguished faces of lost souls became part of the flames that reached upward into the black, midnight sky.

  Alexandra felt hot tears well up, a painful knot threatening to choke her. The painting showed an entire village being put to the torch. She stared at the images of people running out into the night and others caught in the raging holocaust. Depicted in the distance, groups of men looking more devilish than human could be seen torching the fields and hunting down the innocents.

  It was a nightmarish view of evil incarnate, and Alexandra Spencer believed no one had done it more effectively since the passing of the Flemish genius, Hieronymus Bosch.

  She looked back again at other paintings. And now she was able to see through the mist. Now she understood that the ruins were the untended gravestones of a terrible tragedy.

  The sadness of it all lay heavily on Alexandra’s heart. She glanced in the direction of the last canvas still sitting in the shadows. Forcing herself to her feet, she trudged to the painting and turned it to the light.

  A cluster of huts. Not quite a village. Neat, well-tended cottages with thatched roofs and kitchen gardens and two old peasant women talking by a well. Children running happily along a sparkling brook. Men and women just beginning the harvest of the fields surrounding the cottages, with older children binding sheaves of golden grain. The painting bespoke the joy of hard won prosperity, of family, of the pride of heritage.

  The sense of serenity that this canvas instilled in Alexandra was fleeting. As soon as she placed this one beside the others, she was struck full force with the power of the sequence. In taking in these scenes, she felt rather than simply viewed the destruction of a farming community and its people.

  She pressed her fist to her lips to quiet a sob. She’d never been affected by any work of art more than these paintings at this moment. She’d never even glimpsed the ugly reality of what was happening to the people of this land until this instant. It was the kind of work that Hogarth had done in his series of satiric depictions of London…but this young woman had taken the work into the ethereal realms of high art.

  Jane Purefoy’s ability to capture the essence of a people’s suffering was a marvelous gift. And her work told of someone who’d experienced this suffering—more than simply the perceptions of an artist who had witnessed a persecution firsthand. But how could she have?

  The sound of the door opening at the bottom of the stairs jerked Alexandra out of her chair. As Lady Purefoy called up to her, she quickly replaced the canvases against the eaves and threw a cloth over them. Wiping her hand over her face to compose herself, she turned to see the woman’s head appear at the top of the narrow steps.

  “Lady Spencer, what on earth are you doing up here?”

  Alexandra turned casually to the other woman. “Enjoying myself.”

  “Here?” She glanced disdainfully around the attic space, but didn’t climb the last couple of steps. One might have thought it was a pit of vipers. “I wouldn’t even house the servants here. And what is that horrid odor?”


  “It is the scent of greatness, Lady Purefoy. Don’t you recognize it?”

  The mistress of Woodfield House looked sharply at her guest.

  “But I couldn’t agree with you more heartily about this area. This is a far too wonderful a room to be used only for sleeping quarters. For an artist, this attic offers a splendid retreat. And I simply love the way Jane has organized the space. Is it not absolutely grand?”

  “Well, I shall defer to your judgment, of course…” She cast a doubtful look around.

  “And your daughter’s paintings!” Alexandra made a sweeping motion over the rows of canvases lining the walls. “There is amazing talent exhibited here! Though I have only seen a few things, her work rivals the greats of our time.”

  “Jane?” Lady Purefoy replied skeptically.

  “Indeed! Who schooled her in the fine arts? I am most curious to know what kind of professional training she received. I cannot tell you how impressed I am by all of this.”

  “Professional?” The woman looked at her guest in bewilderment. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean. Jane’s education was no different than Clara’s.”

  “Even more impressive. Pray show me where in Woodfield House you have hung her masterpieces. They are surely of a quality that they might adorn any gallery in England.”

  “Well…I…We…I do not believe we have gotten around to hanging any of Jane’s paintings.” She stopped, obviously at a loss. “But if you would join me downstairs in the parlor, I can show you some of Clara’s needlework that I had framed this past summer. She is quite competent in her own right, I want you to know. I myself find it the most soothing to look upon her work.”