Rebel Sisters Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  With the threat of the First World War looming, tension simmers under the surface of Ireland.

  Bright, beautiful and intelligent, the Gifford sisters Grace, Muriel and Nellie kick against the conventions of their privileged, wealthy Anglo-Irish background and their mother Isabella’s expectations.

  As war erupts across Europe, the spirited sisters soon find themselves caught up in Ireland’s struggle for freedom.

  Muriel falls deeply in love with writer Thomas MacDonagh, artist Grace meets the enigmatic Joe Plunkett – both men leaders of the Rising – while Nellie joins the Citizen Army and takes up arms to fight alongside Countess Markievicz in the rebellion.

  On Easter Monday 1916 the Rising begins, and the world of the Gifford sisters and everyone they hold dear is torn apart in a fight that is destined for tragedy.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1901 – 1902

  Chapter 1: Isabella

  Chapter 2: Nellie

  Chapter 3: Isabella

  Chapter 4: Isabella

  Chapter 5: Nellie

  Chapter 6: Isabella

  1904 – 1909

  Chapter 7: Nellie

  Chapter 8: Nellie

  Chapter 9: Grace

  Chapter 10: Grace

  Chapter 11: Nellie

  Chapter 12: Muriel

  Chapter 13: Grace

  Chapter 14: Grace

  Chapter 15: Muriel

  Chapter 16: Grace

  Chapter 17: Grace

  Chapter 18: Grace

  Chapter 19: Muriel

  Chapter 20: Muriel

  Chapter 21: Muriel

  Chapter 22: Muriel

  1910 – 1912

  Chapter 23: Muriel

  Chapter 24: Muriel

  Chapter 25: Muriel

  Chapter 26: Muriel

  Chapter 27: Muriel

  Chapter 28: Muriel

  Chapter 29: Muriel

  Chapter 30: Muriel

  Chapter 31: Muriel

  Chapter 32: Isabella

  1913 – 1915

  Chapter 33: Nellie

  Chapter 34: Nellie

  Chapter 35: Nellie

  Chapter 36: Nellie

  Chapter 37: Nellie

  Chapter 38: Muriel

  Chapter 39: Grace

  Chapter 40: Isabella

  Chapter 41: Muriel

  Chapter 42: Isabella

  Chapter 43: Muriel

  Chapter 44: Nellie

  Chapter 45: Grace

  Chapter 46: Muriel

  Chapter 47: Nellie

  Chapter 48: Isabella

  Chapter 49: Nellie

  Chapter 50: Muriel

  Chapter 51: Grace

  Chapter 52: Grace

  Chapter 53: Grace

  Chapter 54: Grace

  Chapter 55: Isabella

  Chapter 56: Grace

  1916

  Chapter 57: Nellie

  Chapter 58: Grace

  Chapter 59: Nellie

  Chapter 60: Grace

  Chapter 61: Muriel

  Chapter 62: Nellie

  Chapter 63: Grace

  Chapter 64: Nellie

  Chapter 65: Isabella

  Chapter 66: Muriel

  Chapter 67: Nellie

  Chapter 68: Grace

  Chapter 69: Muriel

  Chapter 70: Nellie

  Chapter 71: Grace

  Chapter 72: Nellie

  Chapter 73: Grace

  Chapter 74: Nellie

  Chapter 75: Nellie

  Chapter 76: Isabella

  Chapter 77: Muriel

  Chapter 78: Nellie

  Chapter 79: Nellie

  Chapter 80: Nellie

  Chapter 81: Nellie

  Chapter 82: Nellie

  Chapter 83: Muriel

  Chapter 84: Nellie

  Chapter 85: Grace

  Chapter 86: Grace

  Chapter 87: Grace

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  Copyright

  Rebel Sisters

  Marita Conlon-McKenna

  For my wonderful daughter Fiona,

  who encouraged and helped me

  every step of the way with this book.

  We are ready to fight for the Ireland we love

  Be the chances great or small:

  We are willing to die for the flag above

  Be the chances nothing at all.

  Verse from ‘Easter 1916’ by Constance Markievicz,

  published in the Worker’s Republic on Easter Saturday, 22 April 1916

  Prologue

  Friday, 28 April 1916

  NELLIE GIFFORD LOOKED out over Dublin, a city at war. She could see clouds of thick smoke rising high in the fiery red sky from the buildings still burning across the other side of the river. Many of the shops and buildings on Sackville Street, Dublin’s main thoroughfare, were in flames following the heavy bombardment and gun battles of the last few days.

  Perched high on the roof of the College of Surgeons, she looked over St Stephen’s Green, the city park with its leafy trees clothed in their spring blossom and its well-tended flowerbeds. Now the park was barricaded and empty, the trenches and shelters they had dug clearly visible.

  Countess Markievicz said the rebellion had brought the city to its knees. There was pandemonium, with no trams or trains, no bread, milk or food, and many of Dublin’s shops and businesses were closed as the mighty British army tried to regain control.

  They still held the General Post Office and the Metropole Hotel on Sackville Street, although despatches said that James Connolly, Tom Clarke and their men were now under severe attack from a heavily armed British gunboat anchored on the River Liffey. There were rebel garrisons in Boland’s Mill and the Four Courts. Eamonn Ceannt and his men controlled the huge South Dublin Union with its workhouses and hospitals, while Thomas MacDonagh was the commandant in charge of Jacob’s Biscuit Factory.

  She heard a barrage of shots … A nearby sniper? Another army attack? Who could tell? On alert, Nellie crouched down on the narrow parapet of the roof, scanning the nearby buildings. In the Shelbourne Hotel at the other side of the park, a machine gun and rifles were directly trained on them.

  Four days ago, on Easter Monday, Nellie had proudly taken her place marching with the Citizen Army and the Irish Volunteers through Dublin’s streets, ready to rise up against British rule and join the fight for Irish freedom and independence. Their orders were to take ‘the Green’ and surrounding area. It was hard to believe that they were occupying one of the finest parts of Dublin.

  They had set up a garrison there and dug in, fighting hard to hold their position under heavy attack. On Tuesday Commandant Mallin had given the order to evacuate the open expanse of the park. They had been forced to flee here, to the College of Surgeons, where they were now under constant bombardment from enemy snipers and heavy machine-gun fire.

  Food and supplies had run out in their garrison two days ago. Nellie had searched the building and kitchens, and she and the other women had eked out rations as far as they could, making soups and porridges, but now there was absolutely nothing left to eat and she did not see how they would survive much longer.

  Down below in the distance she could see an overturned milk float and the bloody, rigid corpse of a horse that someone had shot, still lying on the road. A dead dog, caught in the crossfire, lay sprawled in front of the building, blood and flies everywhere. The shooting was getting nearer and heavier as the city was flood
ed with new regiments sent from England to suppress the Rising.

  Nellie took a deep breath, trying to compose and steady herself, refusing to give in to the fear and trepidation she felt as she thought of her family … her sisters …

  A rebel, like the rest of the men and women in her garrison, she was determined to fight and hold firm and steadfast against the attacks of the approaching British army for as long as she possibly could …

  1901 – 1902

  Chapter 1

  Isabella

  ISABELLA GIFFORD STUDIED herself in the mirror. She turned slowly around. She was still a good-looking woman and despite having so many children had somehow kept her slender figure and fine features. She fingered her expensive white lace collar, a contrast to the rich black satin of her dress; French and exquisitely made, it gave a lift to her skin. Patting her fair hair into position, she dabbed her wrist with her favourite perfume.

  From upstairs she could hear bedlam as Bridget, their nanny, organized the children for church. Every Sunday it was the same, and although it was important to keep the Lord’s Day, she had to admit she found it very difficult when the household staff all enjoyed an afternoon off. But Frederick insisted on the staff having the chance to go to church and then later, time to relax. She lifted her hat and pinned it lightly to her head, gathering her lace gloves and purse.

  ‘Bridget, do make the children hurry up!’ she called impatiently as she stood on the landing of their large home.

  The boys came first, five of her six sons appearing in an orderly fashion. They were educated, polite young men and boys, the type of whom a mother could be proud. She sighed as she heard Bridget arguing and pleading with her six daughters and went downstairs to wait. She glanced at the clock and was about to send Cecil back up to get his sisters when the girls began to run down the stairs. Giggling and laughing, their long red hair tumbling down their shoulders, her daughters fastened on their warm coats. They all wore a black armband of mourning.

  ‘Are we ready to go, my dear?’ enquired Frederick, suddenly appearing from the sanctuary of his book-lined study.

  ‘Hats,’ she reminded the girls. ‘Where are your hats?’

  Kate and Muriel ran back upstairs to fetch them, returning with all the hats. Isabella ignored the grumbling and mutterings of Nellie, Ada, Grace and Sidney as they each pulled at the elastic of their headwear. Satisfied that they were now suitably attired for church, she declared them finally ready.

  ‘Remember you are respectable young ladies!’ she warned as Sidney, their youngest daughter, swung on the front gate.

  Their home, 8 Temple Villas, was situated among the finest enclaves of Dublin’s wealthy and privileged society. As they walked out on to the broad tree-lined avenue of Palmerston Road, with its grand, red-brick Georgian houses and large gardens, Isabella smiled to herself – the large Gifford family was something to be proud of. The girls’ felt hats she had designed herself; she considered them stylish but still serving to keep her daughters’ luxuriant hair somewhat hidden.

  At the end of the driveway she and the children turned right and Frederick doffed his hat as he turned left towards Ranelagh and the local Catholic church where he worshipped.

  Holy Trinity Church was filling up as Isabella and her sons and daughters filed into their usual pew only five from the front. She tilted her hat at a slight angle, picked up her hymn book and silently checked the children. The Gifford family were certainly striking, not just because of their number but because of their strong family resemblance. She dearly wished that Frederick would come to church with them, but he stubbornly refused and insisted on following the faith in which he was raised.

  ‘I think an hour or two to pray in my own church on a Sunday is little to ask,’ he said firmly every time she broached the subject.

  She glanced around and saw that most of the congregation were respectfully dressed in black today, many already wearing black mourning bands on their sleeves. The organist began to play and she joined in the hymn, Gerald’s strong, almost-tenor voice clear above all the others.

  Coming to service always reminded her of her childhood, of her own father, a country rector who had done so much for the people of his Carlow parish. She had loved to hear him read the Bible and sing – he had a wonderful baritone voice, and had often given sermons that even as a child she could follow. His death had been untimely, leaving her mother an impoverished widow trying to raise the nine of them, all of them distraught at their father’s passing. Her uncle, Frederick Burton, the renowned artist, in an act of great kindness had stepped in to fill the void left by his brother and had generously supported the family over the years.

  ‘Today we remember and dedicate our service to our late queen, Victoria,’ said Reverend Samuel Harris, coughing for a moment before looking around the watchful congregation. ‘Queen Victoria was a monarch who ruled with fairness, strength and great wisdom for many long years. She will be greatly missed by her Church and her people in Great Britain and Ireland, and across all her colonies and dominions. Her visit to Ireland only a few months ago is one that will always be remembered by the people of Dublin, her loyal subjects. We give thanks for her long life and reign.’

  The congregation nodded and muttered in agreement.

  Isabella bowed her head and tried to control her emotions. The queen had been old, a woman of eighty-one years, but it had always seemed she would reign for ever. The queen had been so much a part of their lives, her life …

  Queen Victoria had knighted her uncle, Sir Frederick Burton, for his services as the director of Britain’s National Gallery in London. It was a fitting reward for his life’s work, something her kind uncle so richly deserved. His death last March had upset her deeply and she still mourned him. Now the nation was in mourning for Queen Victoria, a monarch whom no one could or would ever forget.

  As Reverend Harris took up the Bible, Isabella reached for her handkerchief and daintily and discreetly dried her eyes. God bless the queen!

  ‘Father, we prayed for Queen Victoria today at service,’ Sidney announced as the family gathered for Sunday lunch. ‘Everyone was sad.’

  ‘Her death is tragic,’ Isabella sighed.

  ‘Isabella dear, how can you call it tragic?’ Frederick chided her as he helped himself to horseradish sauce. ‘She was an old woman who perhaps reigned for far too long.’

  ‘She was our queen!’ Isabella protested loyally.

  ‘Victoria was a very fine queen, a good monarch and held the empire together for years,’ he agreed.

  ‘Many call her the Famine Queen for what she and her government did to Ireland during the Great Famine,’ interjected Nellie from the end of the table. ‘Those who faced starvation will certainly not mourn her.’

  ‘Nellie, I will not have you speak of the late queen in such a fashion,’ Isabella reprimanded her loudly.

  ‘Nellie’s observation is valid, for the queen may not have been a perfect ruler, but I fear we will never see her like again,’ Frederick replied. ‘Without Queen Victoria on the throne I’m not sure what will happen throughout the empire.’

  ‘Father, what do you mean?’ pressed their youngest boy, Cecil.

  ‘The empire might fall,’ said Frederick, catching their full attention.

  ‘Never!’ shouted their eldest sons, Claude and Gerald, fervently. ‘The British empire will never fall.’

  ‘It is a possibility that must be considered.’ Frederick touched his moustache and top lip thoughtfully. ‘Queen Victoria’s is a large family, much like our own. Her children are wisely married to half the crowned heads of Europe. But brothers and sisters and cousins – even royal ones – often do not agree, and may perhaps squabble and fall out, especially without a strong hand like the late queen’s to keep the peace.’

  ‘They are royalty,’ Isabella reminded him.

  ‘Families fight and argue. Without the queen to keep the royal families of Europe in line there is a very real worry about what may or may not hap
pen. The nations may fall out.’

  ‘Edward is our new king,’ Isabella insisted. ‘He will be a good ruler.’

  ‘I am not so sure.’ Her husband sounded serious.

  Isabella flushed. There had been rumours about the Prince of Wales’s drunken and lecherous behaviour over the years, but now that he was king surely things would be different.

  Nora, their maid, came in quietly and went to the long mahogany sideboard. She took their plates away, then served the apple sponge pudding before disappearing.

  ‘This pudding is delicious,’ Frederick said as he spooned it into his mouth. ‘She’s added something to the apple. I must compliment Essie.’

  ‘I made it and I put in a little nutmeg,’ admitted Nellie. ‘I just used a hint.’

  When seventeen-year-old Nellie had told them that she had no intention of doing her final school exams and had pleaded with them to be allowed to stay at home and learn how to cook, Isabella had at first objected to such a role for their daughter. However, Nellie, who had never been academic and certainly did not harbour the same ambitions as her sisters, had soon proved her culinary skills. She was learning to become a fine cook under Essie’s guidance and displayed a great ability for organizing and helping with the day-to-day running of such a large household.

  Isabella watched approvingly as her six daughters politely ate only a few spoons of the delicious apple pudding. Everyone knew that it was only manners for a young lady, no matter how hungry, to leave a good portion of pudding behind her.

  ‘Father, if the British empire falls, does that mean Ireland will be free?’ questioned eleven-year-old Sidney.

  ‘Don’t be such a ninny!’ retorted Claude, who was sitting across from her. ‘We are part of the empire.’

  ‘Where do you get such silly ideas?’ added Gerald. ‘We are part of the union, ruled and governed by a British king or queen and the parliament in Westminster.’

  ‘But someday Ireland will be free again,’ Sidney continued doggedly.

  ‘Boys, your little sister may have a point,’ interrupted Frederick calmly as one side of the table erupted into a fierce argument. ‘Many people believe that in time Ireland should have Home Rule with a proper parliament of its own here in Dublin.’