Read Online 3 Great Historical Novels by Fay Weldon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fay Weldon
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towards the waves breaking across the beach. Epona was pawing the sand at the gate. ‘She’ll miss you,’ he said, jerking his head at the mare.
‘You’ll be careful, won’t you Thomas?’
He didn’t answer. He led a small group of Catholics who met secretly to plan insurgencies, just as his father had done. He and his men wrought their own brand of justice on the English Protestant landlords who behaved unjustly towards their tenants. Their actions were often violent and always unlawful, and Rhia didn’t ever ask about them. She heard things, of course, and that was bad enough. Lately, she’d also heard that Thomas had a sweetheart; the sister of one of his men.
‘I hear you’re courting Fiona Duffy.’
He ignored this. ‘What of your painting? Have you more ideas?’
Rhia smiled. ‘Only a hundred. But I’ve not picked up my brush for weeks.’
They had climbed trees and bathed naked and searched for fairy rings. Thomas had watched her first experiments with pigments, sitting on the forest floor in the autumn or amongstthe long headland grasses in the summer. He had admired the silken skin of a wet shell with her, and the scribble of veins in a dry leaf. He’d made the easel and paintbox for her sixteenth birthday. That was when he’d asked Rhia to marry him. Connor Mahoney did not allow him in the cottage for the rest of the summer.
They were silent until the fire spat loudly, making Rhia jump and interrupting the awkwardness of the moment. Thomas went to the cheese cupboard and returned with a package wrapped in brown paper. He gave it to her. ‘Don’t open it now. Not till you’re on your way. I’ll not say goodbye, as you’ve said you’re coming home. You know the hearth’s always lit here.’
‘I know.’ She took Thomas’s hands until he pulled away and returned to his loom. He didn’t look up again. He kept his head bent low – lower than normal – over the shafts.
Epona walked up the headland as though she was hitched to a cart, and seemed to slow even more as they neared the cottage. Perhaps she had sensed that something was amiss. Rhia turned to take a last look at the beach; at the gulls circling above the red and yellow and blue fishing boats. She turned back and saw her father. He was sitting in his wicker chair looking out across the bay as he’d done every day for a week, unheeding of the weather. The weight of his failure was patent in the stoop of his shoulders.
They had pretended, thus far, that the quarrel had never happened. It was easier. She’d had little time to dwell on it once the decision had been taken to leave Dublin, and Connor had not returned to St Stephen’s Green to witness the empty echoing rooms and the tears of Tilly and Hannah. He had been released from the infirmary only last week. Rhia and Brigithad done everything themselves. There was enough from the auction of the Dublin house and contents to settle accounts, but not much more.
Rhia could delay the moment no longer. She jumped down and kissed Epona on the nose. She gave her a withered apple from her pocket and a light tap on the rump. The mare knew how to find her own way to the yard, but she went reluctantly, her head hung like Thomas’s had been. Rhia turned away quickly.
Her father looked up at her with his head tilted and attempted a smile. ‘I wish you wouldn’t go, Rhia.’
‘It’s not for ever.’
‘To think of you seeking a position. And with no husband to provide for you. It’s shameful.’
Rhia resisted the temptation to argue. ‘It is fashionable,’ she said as if she were only off to the opera. ‘Women of every class work in London. I’ve read about it.’
He shook his head. ‘Who will marry you now?’ It was as if she had not spoken. He would never understand because he did not want to. The restraints of class and the roles of men and women were traditional and non-negotiable; like weaving. Linen should be hand-woven and that was that. It was dangerous
‘You’ll be careful, won’t you Thomas?’
He didn’t answer. He led a small group of Catholics who met secretly to plan insurgencies, just as his father had done. He and his men wrought their own brand of justice on the English Protestant landlords who behaved unjustly towards their tenants. Their actions were often violent and always unlawful, and Rhia didn’t ever ask about them. She heard things, of course, and that was bad enough. Lately, she’d also heard that Thomas had a sweetheart; the sister of one of his men.
‘I hear you’re courting Fiona Duffy.’
He ignored this. ‘What of your painting? Have you more ideas?’
Rhia smiled. ‘Only a hundred. But I’ve not picked up my brush for weeks.’
They had climbed trees and bathed naked and searched for fairy rings. Thomas had watched her first experiments with pigments, sitting on the forest floor in the autumn or amongstthe long headland grasses in the summer. He had admired the silken skin of a wet shell with her, and the scribble of veins in a dry leaf. He’d made the easel and paintbox for her sixteenth birthday. That was when he’d asked Rhia to marry him. Connor Mahoney did not allow him in the cottage for the rest of the summer.
They were silent until the fire spat loudly, making Rhia jump and interrupting the awkwardness of the moment. Thomas went to the cheese cupboard and returned with a package wrapped in brown paper. He gave it to her. ‘Don’t open it now. Not till you’re on your way. I’ll not say goodbye, as you’ve said you’re coming home. You know the hearth’s always lit here.’
‘I know.’ She took Thomas’s hands until he pulled away and returned to his loom. He didn’t look up again. He kept his head bent low – lower than normal – over the shafts.
Epona walked up the headland as though she was hitched to a cart, and seemed to slow even more as they neared the cottage. Perhaps she had sensed that something was amiss. Rhia turned to take a last look at the beach; at the gulls circling above the red and yellow and blue fishing boats. She turned back and saw her father. He was sitting in his wicker chair looking out across the bay as he’d done every day for a week, unheeding of the weather. The weight of his failure was patent in the stoop of his shoulders.
They had pretended, thus far, that the quarrel had never happened. It was easier. She’d had little time to dwell on it once the decision had been taken to leave Dublin, and Connor had not returned to St Stephen’s Green to witness the empty echoing rooms and the tears of Tilly and Hannah. He had been released from the infirmary only last week. Rhia and Brigithad done everything themselves. There was enough from the auction of the Dublin house and contents to settle accounts, but not much more.
Rhia could delay the moment no longer. She jumped down and kissed Epona on the nose. She gave her a withered apple from her pocket and a light tap on the rump. The mare knew how to find her own way to the yard, but she went reluctantly, her head hung like Thomas’s had been. Rhia turned away quickly.
Her father looked up at her with his head tilted and attempted a smile. ‘I wish you wouldn’t go, Rhia.’
‘It’s not for ever.’
‘To think of you seeking a position. And with no husband to provide for you. It’s shameful.’
Rhia resisted the temptation to argue. ‘It is fashionable,’ she said as if she were only off to the opera. ‘Women of every class work in London. I’ve read about it.’
He shook his head. ‘Who will marry you now?’ It was as if she had not spoken. He would never understand because he did not want to. The restraints of class and the roles of men and women were traditional and non-negotiable; like weaving. Linen should be hand-woven and that was that. It was dangerous
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