Rebel Sisters Read online

  ‘Westminster will never agree it,’ argued Claude pompously, as if he were in court.

  Isabella sighed. She knew well that it was their nanny and maids who had encouraged such liberal thoughts. Bridget, with all her songs and stories of Irish rebellions and heroes! She had warned Frederick about it, but it was only a minor foible given that the children adored her and she was a very valued and essential member of their household.

  ‘Well, I for one am proud to be part of the union and a loyal subject of the crown,’ Isabella joined in. ‘Like everyone at this table.’

  Sidney stuck out her lip as if she were about to say something.

  ‘And there will be no more arguments on the matter,’ Isabella added, giving the signal for Nora to come and clear the table.

  Chapter 2

  Nellie

  NELLIE ENJOYED COOKING and learning the daily regimes of the kitchen and household at 8 Temple Villas.

  Father liked to eat beef four times a week, fish once a week and other meats or fowl on the other days. He insisted on a good cheese-board and enjoyed a different pudding every day of the week. A selection of fine clarets, burgundies, ports and bottles of his favourite malt whiskey were always kept in the drinks cabinet. When his old friend the portrait painter John Butler Yeats visited in winter, both men enjoyed hot toddies with plenty of cloves as they discussed affairs of the day and legal matters. Mother preferred a lighter diet – chicken, fish, lean meat and soufflés. She liked blancmanges and custards, and a special peppermint cordial was kept to aid her digestion. Nellie’s sisters, with the exception of Ada, abhorred kidneys. Grace refused to eat semolina or tapioca, while Sidney hated peas. The boys ate mostly everything, though young Cecil seemed to get a rash if he ate strawberries. Her brother Gerald of late had been craving thick slices of gingerbread and fresh ginger biscuits, claiming they aided his study; he was doing his final law exams and often worked till the middle of the night.

  ‘Ginger is good for the brain and for concentration,’ he declared as she cut him big pieces of her homemade cake.

  The ginger clearly worked, as he passed his exams and took up a position with Father and Claude in the family law firm.

  It was only a few weeks later when Nellie noticed that Gerald had not attended breakfast or Sunday lunch, claiming he was not hungry – a rare occurrence in any of her brothers.

  ‘Will I make you a sandwich?’ she offered as he drank a glass of cold water in the kitchen.

  ‘No, I’m not hungry,’ Gerald murmured. ‘I’ve got a thundering headache.’

  ‘It’s probably after all that studying for your exams,’ she consoled him, noticing that her twenty-four-year-old brother was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes.

  ‘I took a knock playing rugger with a few of the fellows yesterday. Maybe I just need to have a bit of a rest,’ Gerald said quietly, disappearing off up the stairs.

  Returning from helping all afternoon at the church fair with Mother and her sisters, Nellie went to change her shoes and put away her jacket. There was no sign of Gerald at teatime, so later she carried him up some tea and two scones. He seemed drowsy and she made him sit up a bit.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he mumbled. ‘I just want to sleep.’

  She looked in on him again before she went to bed, relieved to see that he was in a deep, heavy sleep.

  When Gerald did not appear the next morning, Nellie decided to bring up his breakfast on a tray. Her brother lay curled up on his side in bed and barely looked at her. She pulled open the heavy damask curtains.

  ‘Close them!’ he yelled. ‘The light hurts my eyes.’

  She did what he said but went over to stand beside him. He looked awful, and then she noticed the blotchy rash on his arms – purplish, nearly black, like blackberries.

  She went immediately to her parents’ room. Father was getting dressed for work, fixing his tie and pulling on his waistcoat.

  ‘It’s Gerald! He’s much worse,’ Nellie interrupted.

  She could read the alarm on both their faces once they saw Gerald. Father told her to send Nora or Essie for their neighbour, Dr Mitchell, as quickly as possible. He arrived immediately.

  Nellie waited anxiously in her room as he examined her brother. The doctor took an age, then at last she saw him talking, serious-faced, to her parents on the landing.

  ‘It’s some kind of brain infection, meningococcal, very vigorous and in the fluid around Gerald’s brain, judging by that rash. I have only seen it a few times, but I’m afraid his condition is grave.’

  ‘Should we move him to the hospital?’ demanded Mother. ‘Get the proper treatment there?’

  ‘Unfortunately I think your son is far too ill to move,’ said James Mitchell calmly. ‘He needs total rest, peace and quiet in a darkened room. The next few hours, the next day or two, will be very critical.’

  ‘Critical?’ repeated Father.

  ‘Frederick, his condition is grave – very grave. I will organize for a nurse to come and attend Gerald. But you must send for me at once if there is any change.’

  Nellie sat with her brother in the darkened room as Mother went to dress. Father refused to go to the office.

  ‘I have my briefcase, so I can read files and case notes here at home,’ he insisted.

  Nellie listened to her brother’s laboured breathing. His eyes were firmly shut and his face had a strange pallor.

  ‘Gerald is strong, always has been,’ Father assured her, watching him. ‘Boys often have falls and knocks, but they get over them and so will he, just you wait and see.’

  Nellie didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’ll be in my study,’ he said, shutting the door gently and going downstairs.

  Mother came and sat with Gerald awhile. She read aloud from her father’s Bible, but Nellie wasn’t sure if her brother could hear her.

  The nurse arrived two hours later. She checked his pulse and temperature and made them go outside while she examined his skin. The rash had worsened.

  Mother rested for a while in the afternoon and Muriel, who had returned from school, sat with Nellie and sang their brother some of his favourite songs softly.

  ‘He loves to sing,’ Nellie explained to the nurse. ‘He has a fine tenor voice.’

  Muriel sat patiently beside Gerald for hours, asking the nurse how she could help. She sponged his face and moistened his lips so they would not dry out, talking quietly to him all the time.

  Claude arrived after work to see his brother and they all took turns sitting by his bedside. He was no better but certainly no worse. Dr Mitchell called to visit him after dinner, conferring quietly with the nurse about his condition. She would stay through the night and another nurse would take over in the morning.

  The doctor came again after breakfast. He was most concerned about Gerald’s breathing and the fact that he could not be roused.

  ‘The brain at times shuts down to protect itself,’ he explained, ‘but often this can worsen so the patient slips deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.’

  ‘But he will recover,’ Mother said firmly.

  ‘I cannot say or promise that,’ Dr Mitchell replied quietly. ‘Gerald’s position is most unstable.’

  The new nurse was older and she gently sponged her patient down. ‘You poor, poor boy,’ she said kindly, turning down his sheet and combing his hair.

  By the time Muriel, Grace, Cecil and Sidney had returned from school, Gerald was much worse. They all sat in the kitchen as Essie made endless cups of tea. Nora took up a tray for Mother and Father, who sat with him, pale-faced and exhausted, Mother holding his hand in hers.

  Then the nurse urged them all to come upstairs quietly to say goodbye to their brother. Nellie was shocked, unable to take in the fact that Gerald was going to die. They crowded into the room, each taking a turn to kiss his cheek. Sidney and the twins, Grace and Cecil, were so upset that Nellie had to take them outside. Twenty minutes later it was all over.

  Nellie sat on her bed looking out
on the dark road and the shadowed plane trees in the moonlight, wondering why this had happened. Her brother had never done a bad thing in his life, never hurt anyone. But now Gerald was dead, her strong, healthy brother taken cruelly from them.

  Chapter 3

  Isabella

  ISABELLA SAT BY her son’s bed. He looked as if he was asleep, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. Her boy – Gerald would always be her boy. He was handsome in his own way, strong and muscular, always happy to have a ball in his hand, football, rugby, tennis or cricket. A lock of hair fell across his brow; unconsciously, she pushed it off his face. Frederick had said the undertakers would arrive soon. Until then Gerald was hers.

  He would take no wife, have no child, but stay as he was now on the brink of his life and manhood, his hard work, his years of study no more use to him. It was unfair, unjust and inhuman, what the Lord had done, taking her son. She sat listening to the clock on the landing tick as his hand seemed to grow colder and colder.

  Frederick came in and stood beside her. He touched her shoulder.

  ‘Nicholls will be here in an hour,’ he sighed, drawing up a chair beside her.

  ‘Then we have an hour with him,’ she said as Frederick’s large hand clutched hers, his eyes red and raw.

  The funeral took place on Thursday in their crowded local church. Reverend Harris’s sermon reflected on the shortness of life and the need to become closer to God. Friends, family, neighbours and some of Gerald’s old friends from High School and fellow law students from university attended the service. Afterwards he was taken to be buried in Mount Jerome Cemetery.

  Standing beside his grave, Isabella was overcome with a strange sense of light-headedness and had to clutch on to Frederick’s arm for fear of fainting as the earth, the open grave and grass spun giddily about her. Sidney, white-faced and sobbing, was being comforted by Bridget, while Grace, Cecil and Muriel huddled miserably together. Her other sons were trying to stand tall and maintain their composure; only Liebert, away at sea, was missing. Kate’s and Nellie’s and Ada’s lips moved in prayer.

  Afterwards they walked slowly back to the horse-drawn carriages with their black plumes as the gravediggers flung the dark-brown earth in on her boy in his wooden coffin.

  Essie and Nora served their guests tea and cordial, offering a small sherry to those who sought one, as Isabella forced herself to stand in the drawing room receiving sympathy and expressions of sorrow for her troubles. Frederick was red-faced, standing near the fireplace, a malt whiskey in his glass.

  ‘He passed his law finals with honours and had just taken his place working with Claude and me in the family firm,’ he was explaining loudly. ‘His was a fine legal mind. Gerald was a great man for detail. His loss is … enormous to all of us.’

  The two Lane boys, Ambrose and Eustace, came over to Isabella. They and Gerald had been great friends; both of them had regularly visited and stayed in the house. Tears welled in Ambrose’s eyes and she was tempted to pass him her embroidered handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said over and over again. ‘Gerald will be so missed.’

  Her eldest daughter, Kate, made Isabella sit down, bringing her sweetened tea.

  It was raining outside, rivulets of water running down the windowpane, and she dared not think of her son in his resting place.

  A few of the neighbours clustered around, fussing over her like a crowd of bees. She knew they meant well, but she was too fatigued, too drained to say much. Frederick was deep in conversation with John Yeats, who was doing his best to comfort him. He had lost his own wife the previous year. His son Jack had accompanied him and was discussing illustration work with Gabriel and Ada.

  Eventually Isabella could tolerate it no more. She made her excuses and went upstairs to her bedroom, stepping out of the confines of her black satin dress. Nora had put a warming pan on her side of the bed and the heat and softness enveloped her. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she lay on the pillow. Grief … She had felt grief before, for her father, her uncle, friends; but nothing had prepared her for this – this pain that seemed to rip through her. The loss of a son – this was true loss.

  Hours later, Frederick stood before her. He too was exhausted and, opening her arms, Isabella held her husband tightly as he gave in to grief, his body racked with heavy sobs for what was gone from them.

  Chapter 4

  Isabella

  IN THE WEEKS following Gerald’s death Isabella found herself enveloped in a strange inertia, unable to think clearly or raise any enthusiasm about anything that was happening around her. She knew the children were equally upset about the loss of their brother, but she had not the heart or energy to contemplate any discussion of the matter. She could not put thoughts of Gerald from her mind and felt a deep anger at the way he had been so suddenly taken from them. Everyone kept reminding her that she and Frederick were fortunate to have been blessed with such a large family. She found no consolation in this fact, for it was her boy Gerald whom she missed, for whom she grieved constantly and who filled her mind.

  Every summer they went to Greystones in Wicklow for two months’ holiday at the seaside, the days filled with picnics, swimming, walks, tennis parties and musical nights. This year she did not know how she would endure such things and suggested to Frederick that they remain at home instead.

  ‘My dear, a few weeks at the sea with fresh air and sunshine, away from this house, are exactly what we all need,’ he insisted, refusing to consider changing their holiday arrangements.

  Isabella stood on the granite steps of their imposing, red-brick Georgian residence, supervising operations while Bridget, Nora, Essie and her daughters Kate, Nellie and Ada followed her orders as they carried the trunks of clothes and items needed for their annual trip to Greystones out to the waiting carriage. She had written a list and ticked off items as they were placed down on the gravelled driveway ready to be loaded.

  It seemed such upheaval and turmoil arranging for their large family and staff to transfer to another home for the summer weeks. Normally Isabella relished the change from day-to-day routines and responsibilities, but this year was different. Perhaps once she saw the familiar curve of the Sugar Loaf Mountain and Greystones harbour with the sea beyond she would somehow feel more at ease. As usual, Frederick would travel to Dublin some days during July, but for the month of August he too was on holiday as the courts and his law firm closed. He was a diligent man and well deserved a break from the busy world of contracts and legalities.

  ‘Grace, there is an easel already in the house,’ Isabella warned, noting her daughter’s attempt to bring her usual boxes of art paraphernalia with her. ‘Your sketchbooks and a few small canvases should suffice. So please put the rest back.’

  Grace looked as if she was about to argue.

  ‘Do what your mother says, Miss Grace,’ nodded Bridget, who always seemed to be better able to manage the children than she ever could herself. Unfortunately, their long-serving nanny had recently given her notice, announcing that she intended to marry. Bridget planned to return to her native county, where she and her husband hoped to run a simple boarding house.

  Muriel, as ever, was organized, looking serene and lovely as she placed her belongings beside the carriages. She always reminded Isabella of a beautiful swan gliding along while everyone else flapped and splashed around her like ducks.

  It mystified her that, having given birth to twelve children, they could all be so different. When she had held each of her newborn children she had thought them so alike, cherubic mirror images of each other, but as the months and years followed they changed, slipping away from her. And now dear Gerald was gone, lost to them for ever.

  ‘Mam, do you want the good linen tablecloths and napkins?’ interrupted Nora.

  Isabella forced herself to think.

  ‘Yes, Nora, please pack them,’ she ordered and the maid disappeared quickly back into the house to fetch them as they climbed into their waiting carriage
s.

  The train was busy, packed with holidaymakers and residents returning from the city to Bray and Greystones and Wicklow. As it made its way through Blackrock, Kingstown, Dalkey and Killiney they enjoyed sweeping views of Dublin Bay, the sea and the coastline. They stopped in the seaside resort of Bray with its wide promenade overlooking the beach, an array of hotels, tea-rooms and cafés all along the seafront. Sidney and Cecil gave whoops of excitement as the train shuddered and began to move once more, clinging to the curving railway track along by the cliffs to enter the dark of the railway tunnel.

  Isabella tried not to think of the speed and precarious position of the train, and instead began to gather up her bag, gloves and the tickets for their arrival as Greystones, with its fishing harbour, North Beach and South Beach, came into view.

  ‘We’re here!’ shouted Muriel and Grace as the train stopped. Isabella took control as they alighted from the train and the porters ferried their luggage from the station to three waiting carriages. As the horse clip-clopped along Marine Road towards the imposing white-gabled house overlooking the sea, she had to admit she could already feel her heart begin to lighten.

  Chapter 5

  Nellie

  NELLIE WATCHED AS Mother sat reading a book under a large garden parasol. Since they had arrived in Greystones she would often sit for hours reading a novel, or dozing, saying that she was not in the humour for going to the beach or joining in their usual excursions and summer concerts.

  ‘Your poor mother needs to rest,’ Bridget reminded them gently. ‘She has suffered a terrible loss.’

  Father had taken her brothers, Claude, Gabriel, Ernest and Cecil, fishing earlier this morning, carrying their fishing lines and a big box of wriggling, smelly worm bait.

  ‘You are on holiday too,’ Father had reminded Nellie, telling her that for the next few weeks she was not expected to help in the kitchen or with the house.