The Rebels of Ireland (26 page)

In the few encounters she'd had with O'Byrne so far, however—on the island long ago, up at Rathconan, or even here in her own house—the two of them had found themselves together, and events had seemed to unfold with a momentum of their own. Whatever was destined to be, she could tell herself, had happened. The thing was—almost—outside her control.

But now she had taken the step herself. She had summoned him. There could be no escaping that fact. And she was having second thoughts.

Was it fear of discovery? She wasn't sure, but she suspected that Orlando might have guessed. The day she had kissed O'Byrne, the Irishman had only been gone a few minutes when Orlando had appeared, looking strange. He was in Dublin for the day, he told her, and had come round to see if Walter was back. Then, with a slight frown he had asked: “Was that O'Byrne I saw, coming away from the house?” And like a fool, just for a moment, she had hesitated. Then, quickly recovering, she had replied with a laugh that was just a little nervous: “Yes. He was coming to ask about Maurice.” She had seen the look of suspicion that had crossed her brother's face, the concern in his eyes; and he had seemed about to say something when, thank God, she had been called to the kitchen and been able to avoid any further conversation. Two weeks later, when the whole family had gathered up at the house in Fingal and gone to Mass together at Malahide, he had said nothing; but she wasn't sure that meant his suspicion had gone away.

Even so, it wasn't really fear of her brother that held her back. It was her affection for her kindly husband.

Last night had been everything that Walter Smith loved. As well as his wife and son, his daughters and their husbands and children had all been together at the house. They had eaten and drunk, spent a happy evening together, and played foolish family games. Walter had been wreathed in smiles. Several times he had given his irritating chuckle, and in the midst of so much happiness, Anne had hardly minded. And watching him, she had thought: this is a good man who loves me, and who, for his goodness, I love also. That morning, when he had parted from her with great affection, she had watched him out of sight and then turned indoors, thinking: no, I can't do this to him. Her married lot was not so terrible. She must draw back, stop this business with O'Byrne before it was too late.

She had wondered whether to send O'Byrne another message,
telling him not to come after all. But that wouldn't do. He might be on his way already. And anyway, if she couldn't go through with it, she should at least tell him so to his face. That, she decided, was the only thing to do.

She was sitting in the parlour in the early afternoon when she heard someone arriving. She rose, and found that her heart was beating wildly. She started towards the door. But it wasn't O'Byrne.

It was Lawrence. Her elder brother came into the parlour and sat down, indicating that he wished to speak with her alone. For a few minutes, he chatted quietly about the family, and remarked that she might feel lonely while Walter was away. He said all this very kindly; then he paused. Clearly, he had something else on his mind. She waited.

“I wondered, Anne…” his voice was soft, “if there might be anything you feel you'd like to tell me?”

“I'm not sure I understand, Lawrence.” She kept her face expressionless.

“Is there,” he gave her a gently questioning look, “anything that you wish to confess?”

“I have a confessor, Lawrence.”

“I am a priest, Anne. I could hear your confession if you wish.”

“But I don't wish, Lawrence.”

She saw a shadow of annoyance pass across his face. Just for a moment, the old Lawrence of her childhood seemed to have reappeared—strict, censorious. No one but a sister would have seen it. Then the Jesuit smoothed his face again and resumed.

“As you wish, Anne, of course. But let me, as your brother who loves you, say just this. Years ago, I urged you to marry Walter rather than his brother. You may recall.”

“You told me: ‘Head over heart, the better part.' I remember very well.”

“Well, now I say something different. I beg you, Anne, to consider
the heart: your husband's heart. You cannot be so cruel as to break it.” He had spoken earnestly and with feeling. Now he paused, and his look became severe. “Whatever the devil has tempted you to do, stop now. Draw back. You are on the path towards eternal hellfire, and if you go down that path, it is hellfire you will deserve. I beg you, therefore, draw back before it is too late.”

She stared at him in silence. She guessed at once that Orlando must be the source of his information. The fact that some of what he said was true didn't make it any better, nor even that she had already come to that very decision. It was Lawrence's playing the elder brother which annoyed her.

“Of what are you accusing me, Lawrence? Speak plainly,” she said, dangerously.

“I have not accused—”

“I am glad to hear it,” she cut in icily. “It almost sounded as if you were accusing me of betraying my husband.” There was a cold contempt in her voice. Lawrence was stung.

“Are you prepared to swear,” he demanded with some anger, “that you have committed no impropriety with Brian O'Byrne?”

“O'Byrne has kindly offered to have Maurice to stay with him,” she answered firmly. “That is all. As for your suggestion, it is an outrage and an impertinence.”

“I hope I can believe you.”

“Do you call me a liar now?” She was white with fury. “Leave my house, Lawrence. And do not come back until you have learned some manners.” She stood up and pointed to the door. “Go at once,” she commanded. She was shaking with rage. Equally furiously, her brother rose and turned to leave.

“You use me very ill, sister,” he said as he left the room.

After he had gone, she remained standing, enraged and defiant. Was she the same girl who had been in love all those years ago, for him to be giving her lectures like this. And accusing her, too, of something she had not even yet done. And then to call her a liar.

In that case, she thought in her fury, I might just as well do it.

And she was still in the same mood when, late that afternoon, Brian O'Byrne arrived.

It had been shortly after the Smith family's visit in September that Orlando had confided to his wife his fears about Anne and O'Byrne. He had shaken his head and confessed: “I can't believe that my own sister would do such a thing.” Mary too had been shocked, but perhaps less than her husband.

Whether or not her sister-in-law was having an affair with Brian O'Byrne, the business had one other effect upon Mary. It brought to the forefront of her mind another idea which, over the years, had come to her from time to time. And one evening, early in October, as they sat by the fire together, she looked across at her husband and said quietly:

“You should have an heir, Orlando. It's quite clear that I shall never have a child.”

“I have you, Mary. That is enough good fortune for any man,” he said with quiet affection.

“You're good to say it. But I should like you to have an heir.” The room was silent apart from the faint hiss of the fire. “You could have a child with another woman, you know. I'd bring it up as my own. He'd be a Walsh and you could leave him the estate. I shouldn't mind.” She sighed. “I dare say we should have done it long ago.”

He gazed at her.

“You are a remarkable woman,” he said. She shook her head. Then, in his kindness, misunderstanding and supposing she needed reassurance, he declared: “If you imagine that I could ever consider another woman, Mary, you are quite mistaken. There is not a woman in all the wide world for me but you.”

“I was speaking of a child, Orlando.”

“We must bow to the will of God, Mary,” he replied. “If we did not do that, our life would have no meaning.” He came over to her and took her hand in his. Then, overcome with the thought that she
had offered such a sacrifice for his sake, he kissed her hand with great emotion.

The next Sunday they went to Mass at Malahide together, and it seemed to her that Orlando went through his devotions with a special intensity. That afternoon, he walked out alone to Portmarnock.

And so, while she was touched by her husband's kindness, he had not helped her at all.

Anne and O'Byrne were very discreet. O'Byrne had a merchant friend who had a house in which he'd lodged before. Conveniently, it lay near the western market where there was usually a throng of people. Passing through the market and making a few small purchases, Anne could slip in there without attracting any notice. If the highly respectable wife of Walter Smith the merchant was gone for a few hours in the afternoon, and remarked on her return that after the market, she had gone to visit a poor woman, or stopped to pray in a church, no one gave the matter another thought. From October 1637 until the following spring, O'Byrne made numerous visits to Dublin, usually for two or three days at a time, and each time, Anne and he met to make love in the afternoons, without exciting any suspicion at all. Once O'Byrne encountered Orlando in the street, asked after his family, and said, with perfect truth, that he had not had time to go round to the Smiths' house. Twice he saw Walter, who greeted him and invited him to visit them. On each occasion, he made an excuse but did not fail to add: “I'm still waiting for you to send young Mwirish to me. Send him for a week, a month, a year—whatever you like.”

For O'Byrne, it was an exciting adventure. It pleased him especially because, after some initial shyness, Anne had become an eager and adventurous lover. For Anne, after waiting so long, it was the one passionate affair of her life.

The affair had its limitations. It could only take place in secret, behind closed doors. The lovers could never stroll out in each other's
company, or even spend the night together. But Anne did not greatly care. “The only other place I want to be with you is up in the mountains above Rathconan,” she declared. “I wish we could arrange that.” But unless there was some valid excuse to go into the mountains, she couldn't see how this could come to pass. The opportunity came unexpectedly, however, in the spring.

At the end of March, after repeated begging from Maurice, Walter finally agreed that his son might go to stay with O'Byrne for a month. Her husband had been somewhat preoccupied with his business of late. Sometimes he had seemed a little depressed, although he assured her that there was no cause for concern. He had also put on weight. When she had remarked upon this, he replied with a sad smile that it was to be expected at his age. “My father was the same,” he said. She had not thought this was a sufficient reason, but forbore to say so. He had also been keeping his son hard at work, so she was pleasantly surprised when he let Maurice go.

She and O'Byrne discussed whether she might accompany Maurice to Rathconan for a few days, but decided it would invite suspicion. “I don't want Lawrence knocking on my door again,” she declared. So O'Byrne came to collect Maurice and took him up to Rathconan alone. “I shan't come down to Dublin while he's with me,” he told her.