The Whitest Flower. Brendan Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 larger, more manageable, holdings.’

      Pakenham turned and looked the agent squarely in the eye.

      ‘You know, Beecham, it’s a damnable pity that you can be such a disagreeable fellow at times…’

      The crooked smile on Beecham’s face froze as he waited, not sure what was to follow.

      ‘You have a good understanding of affairs and a damned good nose for an opportunity to improve your employer’s lot.’

      Beecham gave as near a full smile as his features would allow. ‘My Lord, you are too kind, I—’

      ‘However,’ his employer interrupted, ‘if you don’t desist from baiting me, and leering at my personal wench, then I shall have your balls for breakfast – after I have keelhauled you from one end of the Mask to t’other. Do you have me, sir?’ Pakenham snarled, pushing his face towards Beecham’s, relishing the sight of the agent squirming away from him.

      Before Beecham could reply, if indeed he had a reply to the prospect of being keel-hauled and castrated, Bridget Lynch re-entered the room.

      ‘Bridget,’ Pakenham greeted her jovially, ‘Mr Beecham will be without tea today. Methinks the Mask air disagrees with him, and he must leave.’

      Bridget made to put down the tray so as to see Beecham to the door.

      ‘Oh, Bridget’ – Pakenham was enjoying this – ‘Mr Beecham is not so poorly that he is in need of your assist.’ He turned to the agent then, and in honeyed tones enquired: ‘Pray, Beecham, do you require Bridget’s assist, or will you escort yourself out? In any event, Bridget must serve my tea before it turns tepid. You know how I abhor tepidity in anything.’

      Bridget had a sense that she was caught in the middle of this rather one-sided exchange. Her unease was not assuaged one whit when Beecham, without speaking, pushed past her and stormed out of the room.

      Chuckling at Beecham’s ignominious exit, the landlord turned to Bridget. ‘If that bounder causes you any concern, you must inform me at once.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. But Mr Beecham never bothered me none,’ she lied. ‘He’s always been proper and gentlemanly towards me, sir.’ Even as she spoke she was vividly recalling how, only a week previously, Beecham had come up behind her and rumbustled her into the storage pantry, pushing himself against her so that she was ‘caught between the ram and the hams’, as she put it to one of the kitchen maids later. Though she had managed to joke about it, she was sure Beecham would have undone her had it not been for Mrs Bottomley’s footsteps sounding in the corridor outside.

      Sir Richard was mightily pleased with himself. He had exposed Beecham in front of the girl, and taught the little upstart a lesson. The girl’s obvious alarm when she walked in on their conversation, and the way her cheeks had flushed when she had lied to him, excited him further. Did she think he didn’t know? Pah! Mrs Bottomley missed nothing. Who did she think she was, this Irish peasant girl holding him, Sir Richard Pakenham, on the leash of a promise? Teasing him, and probably Beecham too, with those long black eyelashes and sideways looks? It was time she learned who was master around here.

      And there she stood before him – waiting, flushed and unsure, her dark eyes set on him. The blood coursed in him from all the excitement of the hour. Gone were thoughts of the blight, tenants, the rents. All he saw before him was all he desired just then.

      ‘Bridget, now that Mr Beecham has so ungraciously left us, we are one tea too many … Would you do me the honour of joining me?’ His manner was so uncommonly courteous that all her womanly instincts were alerted. As she walked towards him, balancing the tray with the silver tea service and fine bone-china settings, she prayed she would not reveal her uncertainty to him. But before Bridget Lynch could control it, the tremor in her soul reached her hands and the cups rattled ever so slightly on their saucers. Though she immediately clenched her hands against the silver tray to silence the rattle, she wasn’t quick enough. Pakenham had heard it.

      He cocked one eyebrow as her eyes darted to him. Heart thumping now, she was only two steps from where he stood. He reached forward. ‘Allow me, Bridget,’ he said, all helpfulness.

      His eyes never left hers. She wanted to dash it all – tray, china, silver, tea, milk – at him and run. But how could she run out of a position which put food into the mouths of her younger siblings through the winter months while her father worked in Lancashire? After all, nothing had happened … yet.

      Sir Richard Pakenham saw the turmoil in Bridget’s face, but he felt no pity for her predicament, only exultation. This servant girl had dared to challenge him. But now, as she released the tray into his hands, he knew, as she did, that this would be his day.

       6

      It was the time of Samhain – the start of the Celtic new year. Patrick and the twins were beside themselves with excitement. Tonight, Halloween, the spirits of the dead would come back to the valley. There would be a bonfire, merriment, singing and dancing.

      Ellen, СКАЧАТЬ