Page 4 of The Irish Gypsy
“If the people of Ireland have no food andconditions get worse, mobs will descend like locusts on estateslike these and pick them clean. They will eat your prize cattle andstrip your house bare.”
“We’d call out the militia before things gotto that state.”
“They’ve almost reached that state. Thosechildren were here to steal yesterday, so my suggestion is let themwork for wages. Give the boy work in the stables with the horsesand let the girl work in the kitchens.”
“The thieving little buggers will steal meblind, and I’ll have them off the place tomorrow!” he shouted.
“Goddamn it to hell, you old hypocrite, yousaid you’d carry out one of my suggestions! Talking to you is likebanging my head against the wall.” He arose swiftly. “Goodnight.”
“By Christ, my word is as good as my bond!Don’t you ever insinuate otherwise!”
“Then it’s settled,” Patrick saidquietly.
Kitty sat with a candle, poring over adog-eared copy ofEtiquette for Ladies and Gentlemen,theladies’ indispensable assistant. There were instructions on dress,behavior in the street, visiting, behavior at dinner, how to makeintroductions, how to make entertaining and amusing conversation. Awhole section was devoted to the preliminaries for marriage, loveletters, and “popping” the question. Kitty’s attention was riveted,although she must have read them over a hundred times. Her eyesavidly scanned the words:
Cleanliness, absolute purity of person, isthe first requisite in the appearance of a lady. Not only shouldthe hands and face be kept clean, but the whole skin should besubjected to frequent ablutions. Better wear coarse clothes with aclean skin, than silk stockings drawn over dirty feet.
Kitty closed the book slowly. Two words atleast had penetrated her brain and set her imagination on fire—silkstockings!
Chapter 2
The next two years were devastating forIreland. There was famine in the land, babies died at theirmother’s breasts, women begged in the streets and men bandedtogether to steal, murder and finally starve. It seemed the wholepopulation became destitute and homeless.
Safe in Lancashire, Jonathan O’Reilly knewonly that his Irish estate was a money eater. He had had it up forsale for over a year but there had been no takers. He had orderedthe servants to pack everything inside Castle Hill and ship it tohis London house in Cadogen Square. Long gone were the milky herdsof Charolaise. The few remaining horses had to be guarded night andday. Let it not be said that old O’Reilly didn’t have a shrewd headon his shoulders, for while Patrick was busy at the mills, Jonathanmade a quick trip to London and disposed of his Irish troublesswiftly. Upon his return he could not forgo the pleasure ofbragging of his perspicacity to his son.
“You’ve done what?” demanded Patrick, thunderin his face.
“Signed a contract with the government tobillet the militia at Castle Hill; and I’ve sold them the horsestoo,” he added with satisfaction.
“Christ, don’t you have a conscience, Father?How can you do this to your own people?” Patrick askedincredulously.
“My first loyalties are to England. I wasborn in Lancashire, not across the water, even though the name isO’Reilly.”
“All the people who work for us in Lancashireare Irish. If word gets out, you’ll be getting a late-night visitfrom the Molly Maguires. Do you want the mills razed?”
“That would be cutting off their noses tospite their face. Without the mills to employ ’em, they’ll starveto death.”
Patrick was appalled. “Your life won’t beworth tuppence! You’d better move up to the London house and let mehandle things here. The first dark night, they’ll slip a knifebetween your ribs, or a mob could corner you and put the clogs toyou.”
The old man licked lips suddenly gone dry.Patrick proceeded, “There’s only one way out. Instead of abandoningour people in Ireland, ship them over here to work in the mills. Ifyou get them out fast enough, they won’t know what you’ve done withCastle Hill.”
Jonathan nodded his agreement. “I’ll gotomorrow.”
The door was flung open and a young woman ofabout eighteen swept in. She was very mature for her age, with afull bust and the same sensuous mouth as her older brother,Patrick.
“I’m not having the wedding in thisgodforsaken place, and that’s absolutely my final word in thematter,” she stormed.
“What bloody maggot have you got in yourbrain now?” the old man thundered. “Patrick, do something with yoursister before she gives me apoplexy!”
Patrick smiled; he was very indulgent withhis two sisters and in return both adored him. Julia was eighteenand her engagement was imminent, while Barbara, only twelve, stillwas in the schoolroom.
Patrick asked, “How would you like to bemarried from the London house? I’ve just been telling Father heshould move up there for his health. It would be much moreconvenient for your fiancé’s people, too.”
“Oh, Patrick, you’re such a darling,” criedJulia.
“Why in hell should we do what’s convenientfor them toffee-nosed buggers?” her father stormed. “I’ll neverunderstand you, Julia, if I live to be a thousand. You could havehad Walker’s Tannery or Whitlam Brewery, but oh, no, nothing butaristocracy for you. Viscount bloody Linton. What good is he?Neither use nor ornament!”
“Listen to him!” she almost screamed. “Allthat matters to him is money!”
