Great Historical Novels (2 page)

‘I did no such thing! I would not.’ Rhia lowered her voice. ‘I told him what happened the winter Michael Kelly was arrested.’

Connor Mahoney was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘You told him that you helped those tenants; that you made a Protestant landlord look like a blackguard?’

Rhia held his gaze. She had only done what anyone with an ounce of compassion would have. The weavers were being evicted because their rent was not paid. It was the middle of winter. They might have starved. They would certainly have frozen. She had taken them to Mamo’s cottage. Not long after, Michael Kelly’s boys torched a shipment belonging to the same
landlord, a tea merchant. He, the landlord, came after Michael, who broke his nose. Michael was transported.

Her father was glaring at her. She had not answered him. ‘Yes, I told him,’ she said quietly.

‘Foolish girl. O’Donahue is a business associate of the man Michael Kelly assaulted.’

‘All the more reason not to marry him.’

‘You are a devil in petticoats!’ He slammed the flat of his hand on the table.

‘And you are a damned tyrant! I should have married Thomas Kelly, at least he loves me.’

He had once.

‘You will not breed with a weaver!’ He strode to the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. Without looking at her he said, ‘We shall discuss this further when your mother returns. I will dine at my club.’

He left the room.

She stood shaking with anger, her fingernails digging into her palms. ‘I am not a child!’ Rhia called after him, but the second she heard the front door close she collapsed onto the Chesterfield, feeling every bit a child. He was right, she should be married by now. William O’Donahue was from Belfast; he had not encountered her reputation before they met, and now she had turned him against her.

Hannah knocked before she entered. She had no doubt heard everything, even if she hadn’t had her ear to the door. She scurried about more than was necessary, poking at the fire and lighting the lamps. ‘Will you have supper in here, miss?

‘I’m a devil in petticoats, Hannah.’

The maid chuckled. ‘Well I never heard that one before. He’s only in a mood.’

‘He’s been in a mood for months. This time last year we
would never have closed the front room for an entire day. And now I’ve turned away the only man in Dublin who might have married me.’

‘I’ll tell Tilly to make dumplings,’ Hannah said, and hurried away as though nothing could be more pressing.

Rhia crossed the room and picked up her paintbrush. The motif was a spray of orange and yellow calendula. If she could make it right, everything else might straighten out too. When her father got home they would make amends. They never slept on a quarrel.

At the sound of Hannah’s voice, Rhia’s eyes flickered open. She was on the Chesterfield and Hannah was leaning over her, reeking of tooth powder and glycerine. ‘There’s a fire!’ she puffed breathlessly. The candlestick in her plump hand tipped dangerously. Its flame cast skittish shadows around the walls and was the only fire in sight, as far as Rhia could see.

She swung her feet to the floor in a tangle of skirts, catching Hannah below the knees. The maid clutched the arm of the Chesterfield to steady herself; Rhia stumbled around in the dark. There was something she had to remember. What? Shouldn’t there be smoke? She found the door to the hallway.

‘Quick, Hannah, wake the others, we must get everyone out of the house!’

‘It’s not in the house,’ puffed Hannah, following her. ‘It’s at Merchant’s Quay. The night-soil men saw it.’

The storehouse.

Rhia ran up the dark hallway towards the stairs, though she couldn’t think why. Boots? She collided with the banister in the dark, hitting her head and cursing. She could do without boots.

Hannah was behind her when she turned, her nightgown as voluminous as sailcloth. ‘I’ve got Tom hitching up, and his
brother’s taken the steed to fetch your mam. Don’t forget your cloak! And where’s your blessed boots? Merciful heavens, and Mr Mahoney’s not home yet …’

Rhia stopped. This was what she needed to remember. ‘What is the time, Hannah?’

Hannah didn’t know. She had found the boots and followed Rhia back down the hallway chattering anxiously. She mustn’t worry – her da would still be at his club, he wasn’t exactly going to be at the quay after the soil collection, was he? And would she please put on these blessed boots? It was the first of November, after all.

Rhia stood at the front door, fumbling with the clasp of her old red cloak. There was no time to button boots. Of course he would still be at the club. He would be playing another game of cribbage, or talking about the new looms; or he’d decided to have another brandy or two because his daughter wasn’t to be married to a tea merchant after all.

Outside, Tom the groom had hitched the two-seater and the horses were shifting and snorting restlessly, their breath trailing mist in the air. Tom was bleary-eyed, his pale hair in a tangle beneath his cap. He reeked of poteen. He nodded when Rhia climbed up beside him and slapped the reins before she was seated. The horses lurched forwards and she clutched the hammercloth to stop from toppling backwards. She searched her mind for a prayer.

The chaise almost tipped as they clattered through St Auden’s Gate and past St Patrick’s. Rhia glanced at the cathedral. Would the saint give a damn about an irresolute Catholic?

Save our storehouse and I’ll stop the cursing.

Was it enough?

And I’ll attend church.

They’d reached an unsafe speed. Rhia looked sideways at
Tom, tilted forwards, enjoying himself: the groom was a lunatic at the reins even when he’d not been at the drink. She should take them from him, but she wasn’t sure that she’d do any better. The mare was on edge; her ears pricked back.

‘Slow down, Tom! She’ll bolt if she gets any faster.’

Tom nodded. ‘Aye, we’ll not stop before Kilkenny if Epona bolts. But I reckon Mr Mahoney’s at the storehouse.’

‘He’s not. He’s at his club.’

‘He’s not. It’s gone two.’

Rhia’s heart pitched. The club closed at one. ‘Well then he’s gone to the quay to supervise the firefighters.’ This seemed reasonable.

The sky above the waterfront was lit up as if all the saints of Dublin were swinging their blessed lanterns above Merchant’s Quay. As they rounded the corner of the last alley, Rhia braced herself to see the entire waterfront ablaze. But only the Mahoney storehouse was burning. This was somehow more devastating.

Rhia leapt clear of the chaise before the wheels stopped. Connor Mahoney would be close to the front of the crowd, perhaps with the
gardaí
. She pushed her way through the press of spectators, their faces glowing eerily in the blaze. A wall of flames rose from the stone foundations where only yesterday had stood a wall of brick. The air was poisonous with fumes, the heat staggering. The quay was lit like a carnival, with people still arriving to watch along the opposite shore.

She could not see him.

She darted between fists of spectators, trying to see beyond the line of
gardaí
keeping the crowd back. She searched the faces of the men by the waterside. He must be on the other side, closer to the storehouse, but she would have to get around the
gardaí
. She moved along the edges of the crowd, as close to the
furnace as she could get without being overcome by the heat. She might have got a little closer but someone grabbed her wrist, twisting it like a rope. The rough, unwashed wool of a
garda
’s tunic was suddenly in her face.

‘Tuilli!’
She spat before she could remember her wager with the saint. Perhaps cursing in Irish didn’t count?

‘Who are you calling bastard, you wee tinker?’ The
garda’
s expression was as dirty as his face. Rhia held his gaze and tried yanking her arm away, but his fingers pressed into the flesh of her wrist.

‘Loose your hand or I’ll bite it!’ she snapped.

His hand was like a slipknot, fastening tighter when she twisted. He was strong. A ghost of a smile twitched at his lips. ‘You don’t want to be getting too close to a burning building, now. It could all come down faster than your legs can carry you away.’

‘
Please!
It’s my family’s storehouse. I’m looking for my father!’

‘You’re never the Mahoney lass?’ The raised eyebrows and swift appraising glance said it all. Her hair would be like a bird’s nest – it always was after sleep – and her favourite cloak was old. Her feet, she suddenly realised, were bare. The dark looks of the Black Irish came from her mother’s side, and Black Irish were as good as tinkers to many Catholics. People thought them of dark nature, as well, which was occasionally useful.

‘There’s a bold-hearted
garda
gone in after your da. An hour ago.’

An hour
. The words crushed the breath from Rhia’s chest like a lead corset. The
garda
’s grip held her upright.

‘You mean …’ She would not say it.

He nodded grimly. He expected the worst.

She should pray. Mamo would not counsel prayers to saints.
St Patrick had chased the true religion from Ireland and stolen the sovereignty of women. That’s what Mamo said. She would say that fire, being elemental, was the business of the creatures of the Otherworld. Connor Mahoney said Mamo was without religion. To Rhia the stories were just as credible as the immaculate conception and an immortal carpenter. She stared into the fire for the second time that evening, though this time looking for a different kind of grace. For a heartbeat the flames sculpted a heat-white sylph, twisted like a crone. Had she called it from the crucible?

Cailleach
. Death.

It was only a fire trick; air warped by heat. Rhia had outgrown dragons and enchantresses and vaporous creatures, and all but the most persistent ghosts. She closed her eyes; opened them. Just flames.

She looked around for a means of escape. There was none, so she bit the
garda
’s hand. He tasted as bad as he looked. He bellowed and drew back his other hand, but seemed to think better of hitting her. She might be Connor Mahoney’s daughter after all. He twisted her wrist a little tighter instead, making her wince.

‘Why has your mam not come?’ The
garda
was watching her closely. Did he really think her a tinker, and if he did, then why not let her go? She just might be Connor Mahoney’s daughter.

‘She’s not in town.’ The rents were due and more weavers were in trouble. Brigit Mahoney’s swift, charitable hands at the loom might not save them, but, in spite of her husband’s disapproval, she wouldn’t stand by and watch another eviction. The mechanised loom might be the pride of Belfast, but it was enemy to the Greystones pieceworkers.

Rhia suddenly remembered Tom. He could explain who she
was to her captor. She scanned the crowd hopefully, but her heart sank when she saw him. Tom had joined a nearby group of spectators who were passing around a flask. The fire had drawn a sizeable crowd from the rookeries as well as from the opposite shore. It was an amusement.

‘Cheaper than the penny gaff,’ said the
garda
, following her gaze.

The stink of charred cloth filled the air. Rhia remembered Mamo telling her that they’d used linen rags as tinder, because it burnt well. The smoke was in her eyes and lungs. She felt hollowed out. Along with the great timbers of the storehouse, she was dragon’s prey. It suddenly struck her that the assurance society’s men were not here. She elbowed the
garda
, who narrowed his eyes. ‘Where are the firefighters?’ she demanded.

‘They went home.’

‘
Why
?’

‘Building’s not insured.’

‘The building is insured!’

He shrugged. His look said that biting him again was not advisable.

It was impossible; Connor Mahoney was unerringly conscientious;
fastidious
, even. He would not forget to keep up the assurance payments. Rhia shook her head, disbelieving.

Eventually, the
garda
eased his vice a little so his dirty nails did not bite into her flesh. Again Rhia tried to snatch her arm away; his grip tightened in response. She did not try again. The fire lessened but continued to burn through the night.

She watched and waited as though her father’s life depended on her not taking her eyes from the flames. This time she was certain she saw Cailleach. The hag’s hair was a mantle of blazing flax, and her fiery gown trailed the ruin like the tail of the
dragon. She was terrible and beautiful; her face as white as ash, her lips as red as embers.

Was she here to take Connor Mahoney?

‘
Bring him out or
…’ What? What bargaining power could she possibly have with Death? Threaten to marry a Catholic? She almost had.

The
garda
was looking at her. Had she spoken aloud? The figure vanished into the flames, leaving Rhia blinking away hot tears.

The heat diminished and the flames settled. Darkness lifted just as suddenly, or so it seemed, and the smoking ruin was exposed. The storehouse, yesterday unyielding and constant on the waterfront, was a carcass. Bricks, timbers and thousands of pounds’ worth of new linen all reduced to a fine white dust, waiting to be carried away by the smallest breeze.

Brigit Mahoney arrived as dawn exposed the ashen rubble. Most of the crowd had drifted away. Only vagabonds, a few sailors and the
gardaí
remained. Brigit embraced Rhia, but could not speak. Her face, normally so carefully composed, was creased with fear. She was almost in her fiftieth year but her features might have been carved from well-preserved wood. She seemed smaller today, her shoulders rigid.

Brigit was looking at Rhia’s feet and Rhia followed her gaze. They looked like marble in the half-light. She had barely noticed the aching chill of them until now.

‘I didn’t feel the cold,’ she mumbled.

‘Then perhaps they are frozen. My calfskin slippers are in the carriage. There is a flask of tea.’