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impropriety. There are no Gentlemen concerned. I can hardly think that the cause is known to anyone but themselves.’
    In the afternoon she wrote again: ‘No better. She talks wildly under the fever and cann t eat. In her wildness she tells me Miss Butler flew away from a convent and it is her intention to save her from Popery. She says if we knew Miss Butler we would love her as much as she does. All together it is a most extraordinary affair.’
    Eleanor appeared to accept her imprisonment at Borris. She sent letters daily to Sarah. To the convent plans she listened gravely and made no response: she knew she would never go. Eleanor placed a high value upon her own ingenuity and was certain she could outwit her parents and her sluggish, provincial sister and brother-in-law. Money for passage to Chambrai and the dowry to be bestowed on Holy Sepulchre Convent upon Eleanor’s arrival had arrived at Borris. Eleanor discovered it had been hidden among her sister’s camisoles and planned to relieve her family of the sum when the time came. Suspecting that her letters did not arrive at her beloved’s bedside, she arranged for a basket of apples and cherries from the Borris orchard to be delivered to Sarah, at the bottom of which lay a wisp of paper:
    â€˜M y dear, I will be there today a week. Be well, and fix a place near you for me to hide. Make only small preparations so you will not be watched too closely. For escape we shall and this time we shall succeed.’
    Eleanor left Borris on foot. She carried a small carpet bag, well furnished with her convent dowry and some light changes of linen. She wore handsome breeches, a warm shirt, and a cape, all removed secretly from her brother-in-law’s clothes press. Her heavy boots were her own, saved from her first flight. She added a man’s cap, borrowed from a servant. She felt fine, comfortable and safe as she walked the twelve miles through hill country to the river town of Inistiogue. There she stopped for food, wine, and lodging. To her delight, she was greeted as ‘Sir’ by the innkeeper.
    Early next morning she went on to Woodstock, along the roads made dangerous by the skulking presence of the Whiteboys and the notorious Freyney. She reassured herself by thinking that the Whiteboys’ targets were usually priests and tithe collectors. So determined was her gait, so confident her masculine appearance that she was not stopped. When she came to the hanging beechwood inside the entrance to Woodstock she sighed with relief: the pounds she carried in her bag would have enriched Freyney and the Whiteboys for some time.
    In the dusk of early evening, Eleanor entered the house unobserved through a hall window left open for her by Sarah’s maid. She found Sarah much recovered. They embraced, lingering in each other’s arms, relishing the absence of the chill of separation. To their besotted eyes there was no sight in the world more welcome than the presence of the other.
    Eleanor is weary from her two days’ march. She falls asleep almost at once. Sarah lies beside her, watching her face, listening to her soft breathing. She finds herself breathing in unison with her, as though they were walking in stride. Then she dares to touch Eleanor’s arm, her damp curls, her beloved face. So it happens that frightened and long-deprived persons, in one free moment, discover the privileges of the body and the rewards of inconceivable love. In one tender motion towards the other, they rejoice in their discovery.
    For two days Eleanor remained in Sarah’s bedroom, eating bread and cheese and cake smuggled to her when Sarah returned from meals, escaping into the clothes closet at the first sound of someone approaching in the hall. Their days and nights were spent enjoying the luxury of their union.
    But the house was not large enough and the inhabitants too many to make concealment possible for very long. Sir William suspected something