Great Historical Novels (9 page)

I can see the contents of the hold of the
Mail
being transferred to wagons; but there seem to be more sacks of grain than of mail. It looks as if I have just crossed the Irish Sea with all of the wheat, oats and barley of the nation. It is not just Irish linen that is channelled through London. Perhaps I should be grateful that British law has not actually forbidden women to read the papers. I wonder whether it is because if she read of the ruthlessness of his trade, a woman might turn against her industrialist husband.

I suppose I should curb my blessed interestedness and get into one of those ominous-looking black carriages. By morning I shall be in London. 

Weave

The sleeping compartment was the size of the water chamber at St Stephen’s Green. It was close to midnight and Rhia couldn’t be bothered with fastenings and button hooks. She doubted that she would sleep.

The carriages clattered and hissed all night, halting at one lantern-lit station after another. Crates and trunks and bulging brown canvas sacks stamped with the insignia of little Queen Victoria were loaded on, before the train lurched off again. The rhythmic activity and increasing nervousness kept Rhia awake. It seemed that in no time at all grey mist hung over fields soft and eerie in the dawn. The silhouettes of stone walls and sinewed trees reminded her of home. This, surely, was a good sign.

She must have dozed, because the light was suddenly strong and stark and the scene from the window unsettling. The soft landscapes of daybreak could have been a dream. Forests and fields had been replaced by slag heaps and flatlands, interspersed occasionally with a dairy farm or a mill. Then the straggling hovels of the city’s fringe-dwellers appeared; wattle and daub with a bleak yard that ran up against the railway. Sometimes a scraggly hen or two; a skinny goat; a mongrel pig. Could this be London?

The flimsy housing became denser, and more portraits of slum life lined the track. A woman in her nightgown and cloth
cap pegged out her laundry for all the world to see; a barrel-chested man washed his hair from a tin pail. Children sat on piles of stones and rubbish, waving as the train passed. They jumped and shouted with excitement when Rhia waved back. She felt a creeping cold. She had never imagined the capital would have poverty worse than Dublin.

The train was creeping so slowly that they must be nearing Euston. Rhia’s spirits lifted in anticipation of seeing Ryan. His liveliness was always infectious; his costly habits reassuring. Whenever her uncle came to Dublin he brought China silk, French lace and Portuguese wine. And he knew how to make her laugh, a restorative now absent in the Mahoney household. If it was possible to resurrect Mahoney Linen, then Ryan would know how.

She now wished that she had taken the time to remove her clothing last night; her ribs were sore from the chafing of her stays. She inspected her hair in the speckled oval of glass beneath the luggage rail. It was still more or less braided and only needed a pin or two. She washed her face in the tiny basin and changed her long, lace-up walking boots for the shorter, buttoned boots that were in her carpet bag. They had a pointed toe and pretty heel and they instantly made her feel better. She was ready.

Thomas’s parcel was beneath the boots, and she sat and eyed the carpet bag, suspecting that Thomas’s gift would only lure her into the homesickness she was taking such care to evade. She would have to open it sooner or later. Rhia rummaged in the bag and drew out the brown paper square tied with string. She put the parcel on her lap and took a deep breath, then immediately wished that she hadn’t; there was a funk in the air; something sulphurous or rotting. When the paper wrapping was peeled away, the folded underside of a
heavily woven piece of cloth was exposed. Rhia unfolded it, holding her breath. She knew what this was. Unfolded, the piece covered her knees; a two-foot square of a high grade chintz. The linen upholstery was impeccably woven and as vivid as a botanical garden against the green alpaca of her travelling costume. The pattern was achingly familiar. It was
her
design, from a long, long time ago; a time when she still believed in fairies and did not mind ghosts. She had spent weeks perfecting it before giving it to Thomas as a gift. He had woven it. She was overcome. The design was of curling boughs laden with golden fruit and birds of jewel colours. It was, she remembered, intended to be the Otherworld, where the magical birds of Rhiannon woke the dead and put the living to sleep.

Thomas had written a note on a square of the stiff paper used for carding yarn:

Anam Cara,

Do not forget who you are.

Thomas Kelly

He liked to be mysterious. How could she forget something that she didn’t know? Rhia replaced the chintz in her carpet bag. She felt fortunate to have such a friend, troublesome though he was. But she wouldn’t have married Thomas, in spite of what she’d said to her father, because when they were lying naked on the prickly forest floor she hadn’t wanted him to touch her. She had, regrettably, told him so, and Thomas hadn’t spoken to her for the whole, long summer. It wasn’t just because she was the daughter of a clothier and he was a weaver; they were, like Rhiannon and Pwyll, from different worlds in other ways besides. They both knew that she would never be
happy to have a simple life, and Thomas made no secret of the fact that he thought her spoilt.

She thought of William O’Donahue. Had she wanted
him
to touch her? She thought not. She had been taken by his manners and sophistication; with the allure of his profession. How fickle she was. With Thomas she was her true self; as bad-tempered or whimsical or inquisitive as she felt. William had clearly not cared for her blessed interestedness. She shivered to think that she might have married a man who would have wanted only a fixed smile in an expensive bonnet.

The locomotive steamed through the northern reaches of London, the slums had become red brick terraces; row upon row, mile after mile. Rhia felt her stomach somersault, and it wasn’t the pigeon pie. What was the house of a Quaker like? Would the furnishings be austere and uncomfortable? There would almost certainly be no modern conveniences such as pumped water or gaslight. She expected that Antonia Blake would disapprove of her fondness for fine cloth and her aversion to church services.

The dirty stains of industry on the sky reminded her of ruined linen and of how much her life had changed already. The oily smell of the fog only worsened as the heart of the city approached, and she wondered how anyone could feel healthful in such a place. She heard again Mamo’s whisper in her ear. She must find something to be grateful for, and quickly.

The train slowed and the sky disappeared completely. Above the densely crowded platform a large, proud sign read: L
ONDON
E
USTON.

Tartan

Rhia stepped into the fracas on the platform and was practically knocked sideways by a liveried footman. The man was laden with hat boxes and parcels, and was so anxious to keep up with a madam in a striding fur pelisse that he didn’t even stop. The next thing Rhia knew there was a hand beneath her elbow. She swung around defensively, but it was only Ryan’s smiling face that greeted her. He had easily approached without her noticing. She was so relieved to see him that she threw her arms around his neck, making him laugh.

‘Rhia dearest, welcome to London!’ He gestured towards the disappearing footman and the general mayhem. ‘I assure you that the city is not all such an abomination, nor as ugly as its northern approach.’ He propelled her swiftly across the platform, dodging urchins and passengers alike with an alacrity that didn’t seem feasible, given the conditions.

‘It isn’t at all what I imagined,’ was all Rhia could manage. She didn’t have time even to look at Ryan properly until they reached the relative calm of the reception hall. She thought he looked uncharacteristically haggard, but still the picture of a successful bachelor. He wore long polished boots, a mustard yellow cravat and a rakish frock coat. Aside from his stylish clothing and the fact that he oiled his russet hair, Ryan Mahoney looked much like his brother, with an Irishman’s pale, freckled complexion and wiry build. In nature, though,
he was passionate and frivolous, quite the opposite of her father.

‘We’ll escape this unholy commotion just as soon as your luggage is in the porter’s office,’ Ryan assured her. ‘My carriage is waiting in the avenue.’ She nodded and her gaze was drawn upward to the vaulted grandeur. Fields had become flatlands and slag heaps for this. Should she be more in awe of the human achievement or the resilience of the natural world? She felt small suddenly, and more than a little overwhelmed. She needed to wash the salt from her hair and the soot from her skin; to move without her stays creaking and to sleep somewhere motionless, then everything would be all right. She had barely slept for days.

‘Not every station is as grand as Euston,’ Ryan was saying, watching her. ‘It is the new darling of the London and North-Western Railway and not a farthing has been spared.’

Perhaps he thought that she was made speechless with awe at the industries of men?

He chuckled. ‘If you think it is crowded now, you should see the platforms in August, prior to the beginning of the shooting season in Scotland. I always think it a wonder their prey doesn’t hear the racket from the highlands and flee for the season!’

Rhia felt a little like prey herself. After what seemed an interminable wait, her trunk was located and they stepped into the street. It was a commotion. Carriages, omnibuses and carts jammed the thoroughfare and the footpath was crowded with every manner of basketseller and barrow. A little girl with a tangle of hair and a basket of chestnuts tugged at Rhia’s cloak as Ryan towed her towards his vehicle. Everywhere she looked were billowing chimney stacks and blackened stone. She had expected classicism; elegance. She at least had the heart to smile at her own naivety.

Her portmanteau was strapped to the back of Ryan’s sleek burgundy landau, and a tartan rug tucked over her knees. They set off. She could feel Ryan’s eyes on her. She tried to hide her disappointment. ‘I … look forward to seeing more of the city,’ she said without conviction.

‘And you shall, within moments!’ The landau lurched into the stream of vehicles and didn’t slow until they had almost collided with a milk cart. Rhia glanced at Ryan. His lips were pressed into a thin line and he was frowning as though he was miles away. His face looked thinner, she thought; his jaw sharper. He needed a shave. He caught her eye and smiled instantly.

‘I can hardly believe that you are finally visiting the capital. There is so much I want to show you. We’ll walk by the Serpentine and shop at Piccadilly and go to the Royal Opera. You’ll have a smashing time. I’ll wager you are in need of it. Now, tell me of my brother’s health and how your mother is managing. And of your intent to secure a position, which I find most admirable.’

Before Rhia could remind him that this had been his idea not hers, Ryan was talking again. He seemed harried. ‘As I said in my letter, I regret that I could not accommodate you myself, but I was spending so much time at China Wharf that there was no point in the upkeep of a second household. I have sufficient room for desk, bed and storage, and usually dine at my club, all of which suits my bachelor ways estimably!’

Ryan manoeuvred the landau, more swiftly than seemed necessary or safe, past another wagon laden with crates and barrels. It was a mystery how the narrow roads could withstand so many vehicles. Bloomsbury, he was saying, was a citadel of garrets, accommodating more hungry writers, thespians and
artistes
than even the halls of Trinity College. He
pointed out the sleek homes of merchants and the premises of a gentleman he knew. He enquired after Connor and Brigit again, as though he’d forgotten that he already had.

Rhia told him their news, occasionally distracted as her eyes skimmed across the rooftops of London. Industry marched on the inner city like a militia of chimneys. Shadowy tenements housed pitiable shops in their front rooms, some with a rickety table out front displaying trinkets and bric-a-brac, from stacks of yellowing catalogues to tins of scavenged boot buttons. This was not at all the city she had imagined. She caught Ryan’s eye and wondered if her disappointment showed.

‘London is a fickle mistress,’ he remarked wryly. ‘One moment you are seduced by her and the next rejected.’ It seemed a melodramatic statement and Rhia wondered if he was mocking her. She nodded absently as her eyes followed a chariot drawn by a pair of sleek bays. It looked to be driven by an oversized hat; its plumage so excessive that it could have been the nest of a sea bird.

She barely had time to take in the cut of the walking dresses and short cloaks that swirled along Hatton Garden before Ryan said they were on Cheapside. Every second shop now seemed to be a tailor or milliner or corset-maker, as if the economy of the city revolved around cloth and clothing. She had, so far, provided a vivid account of the Merchant’s Quay fire and described the physical and worldly well-being of her parents. ‘My mother,’ she concluded, ‘intends to earn a living from wool. The Kellys have a broadcloth loom.’

Ryan looked thoughtful. ‘Then I must assign a clipper of merino to Dublin as soon as possible.’

‘But merino wool is awfully expensive …’ Rhia was secretly relieved. She had hoped he would offer to help.

‘Prices have been falling. The sheep thrive in the warm
climates, but not only in the southern Continent. Merino is now the primary export from Australia, you know. It is being blended with silk and cashmere. The fleece is more expensive to purchase, but the yarn can be sold for thrice as much as English wool.’

‘Then you don’t think it wise to try and revive Mahoney Linen?’

Ryan sighed heavily. ‘I was never as sentimental about the family legacy as your father. I’m relieved that he was its heir. Had Connor and I been less … disposed to disagreement, I might have stayed in Dublin and been a partner, but that was not to be. As you know, your father is as devoted to tradition as I am to progress. It is 1840, a new decade! The linen industry – the whole cloth trade – has progressed rapidly. Mahoney has been disadvantaged in choosing not to mechanise.’