The Whitest Flower. Brendan Graham
reply to them.
For one brief moment he wondered whether it had been unwise to extend himself so far on the gardens. But the view from his window dismissed all such thoughts from his mind. The croquet lawns; the new sunken gardens with stone-hewn circular seating to accommodate his guests during summer-evening recitals; the bower; the sun-dials set in imported Italian marble; and – his pride and joy – the finest rose gardens in the West of Ireland.
Reluctantly he tore himself away from the window and gave his attention to the second letter. A demand from Crockford’s was a serious worry. His losses had mounted in recent years, forcing him to retreat to Tourmakeady for long periods. But he had no wish to become a permanent exile from London, as some of Crockford’s members were forced to, being so thoroughly ruined by their gambling debts.
He liked to gamble. It was a passion with him. He loved it as much for the style, the wit surrounding the tables, and the flamboyant characters who frequented Crockford’s, as for the vicarious thrill of watching a thousand-pound wager ride or fall on the turn of a nine or an eight of spades. Then one day, instead of watching others he was watching himself bet one thousand pounds against the table at blackjack.
Now, his note to the club had risen to seven thousand pounds. If he were not to pay it soon, his name would appear in the scandal sheets. He might even, God forbid, be caricatured in the Illustrated London News or Punch – delineated with the simian features so beloved of London cartoonists when they depicted the inhabitants of John Bull’s Other Island. His body would be grotesque, distorted, largely made up of two hideously exaggerated riding boots, one sinking into a bog-hole, the other atop a heap of pig manure, squeezing the life out of some hapless tenant whose neck lay between the landlord’s heel and the excrement of swine.
If that were to happen – and it could – he would be the laughing stock of London. Eventually the news would travel back here, and those wretched people, those bog-savages who through indolence and idleness were the architects of all his misfortunes would laugh at him in their shifty-eyed way. The very thought of it!
Where was Beecham? It was time that miserable excuse for an agent offered some solution as to how his rents might be increased and the growing list of arrears collected.
Crockford’s could not be put off any longer.
The drawing-room call-bell rang in the pantry. God, he’s impatient today, Bridget thought, getting slightly flustered as she resettled the starched white bonnet on her raven locks.
Bridget had come to the Lodge six months previously from her home near Partry, the other side of the Mask from Tourmakeady. At twenty-two years of age she was the eldest of eight children, and so had a responsibility to help support the family. Her bright, perky disposition and ready smile endeared her to all with whom she had dealings. Mrs Bottomley had found Bridget to be an able and willing learner, brisk and businesslike in her doings. ‘You’ll do well in service,’ she told the girl.
The one aspect of ‘service’ which Bridget Lynch did not take to so readily was the service Mrs Bottomley kept intimating she should provide to help soothe Sir Richard after his rages. Despite her Catholic upbringing, Bridget was as healthy as any young girl her age, and had no lack of admirers amongst the young men of Partry. Indeed, she had on occasion slipped her mother’s guard for an hour or two to keep a tryst in one of the many sheltered coves by the lake shore. Meeting with a lusty young fellow whom she had taken a shine to was one thing, but being a landlord’s ‘tallywoman’ was another matter entirely. It was a tricky situation for a young girl to be in. Pakenham was notorious for wenching, and Bridget had once heard him remark that it was a damn shame the right of primae noctis had been done away with. This entitled the landlord, in return for granting permission to his tenants to wed, to enjoy the privilege of ‘first night’ with the new bride.
Bridget thought it must have caused terrible upset, with young husbands, seeing their brides of not yet a day being carried off to the landlord’s bed. Any baby born within the first nine months would then have to be scrutinized for fear it was a ‘landlord’s bastard’.
Pakenham’s bell rang again, Bridget crossed herself, wondering how much longer she could walk the line between humouring him and angering him. If she angered him, he would cast her out on the roadside. And if she gave in to his advances … she would still go the way of the road, like previous servant girls. A mixture of loss of interest tinged with port-induced remorse on Pakenham’s part would send her packing. So she was coquettish with him, stringing him along.
Once in a while she would allow him to plant his eager lips on her neck, before dancing away from him. He would pursue her for a while, until, out of breath, he would collapse on the chaise-longue. Then she would mop his brow and cosset him awhile.
‘Wait until the next time, you little biddy – you can’t escape forever, you know!’ he would say between bouts of wheezing.
Bridget knew she couldn’t escape forever. But as she entered the drawing room she resolved that today would not be the day.
‘M’Lord, you called?’
‘Ah, Bridget – tea for myself and Beecham, here,’ Pakenham said brusquely.
She left, surprised and relieved to find the agent present, but not at all pleased to see him. Pakenham she could handle – so far – but Beecham was dangerous and cunning – a right slieveen. He was always eyeing her when Pakenham’s back was turned. It was just like him to slip into the house unnoticed.
‘Well, Beecham,’ Pakenham resumed the conversation Bridget’s entrance had interrupted. ‘It seems we have a situation here, if the papers are to be believed. A worrying situation for a landlord whose land will offer up no produce but blighted potatoes, giving yet a further excuse to his tenants to withhold their lawful rents. What are we to do, Beecham?’
Beecham moved to within a few feet of where Pakenham stood looking out at the rose gardens. He clasped his hands in front of him, and paused to check that he had Pakenham’s attention.
‘It would seem that the blight is uneven in its distribution, and there is no certainty that it will be as melancholy on the potatoes as some reports suggest. Of course, the experts differ, as always.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Pakenham cut in, ‘but what of our own tenantry?’
‘Well, Sir Dick – I mean, Sir Richard … my apology, Your Lordship,’ Beecham said slyly.
Pakenham let that go, maintaining his silence.
‘It appears the Catholic Church has done us some favour: the bishops have instructed their flocks to make an early harvest of the potatoes. Most of the peasantry obeyed, and even broke the holy Sabbath to do so. The greater portion of the crop has thus been saved. However—’
‘What now?’ Pakenham was losing patience. God, Beecham could be so longwinded.
‘If Your Lordship will permit …?’ Beecham gave an impertinent half-bow.
Pakenham nodded him on.
‘I would suggest that, when we summon the tenantry for renewal of their tenure, we make it clear to them that there will be no abatement of rents. Furthermore, we stipulate that arrears of rent will be dealt with by summary eviction, while at the same time impressing on them the need for good husbandry in the coming year.’
Observing that Pakenham was about to interrupt again, the agent pressed on: ‘You will remember, sir, the spectacle of the tenantry at Maamtrasna, hooleying and drinking when they should have been tending to their fields. We must outlaw all such folderriderry.’
At the mention of Maamtrasna, Pakenham’s hand involuntarily reached for the still-tender spot at the back of his head where the peasant’s stone had hit him.
‘Indeed we must, Beecham. Call them in and tell them what’s what. Damned lucky they’ll be if I don’t clear the lot of them!’
‘Well, sir,’ offered Beecham, ‘this blight might present you with an opportunity to commence the consolidation of your land into