Boycott Page 5

  ‘Oh stop it, Charles. You know I’m right. He turned Mother into a trembling shadow. I could almost see relief in her face when he went to his grave.’

  ‘That is outrageous!’ Charles rose and took several steps towards Arthur, levelling his cane at his brother’s face. ‘Withdraw that remark and apologise immediately, sir.’

  Arthur didn’t move. He met Charles’s gaze and then a smile slowly crept into the corners of his mouth. ‘Charles, do you really think you can bully me?’

  Charles slammed the cane down hard. ‘I won’t have Father spoken of in–’

  ‘Oh Father, Father, Father!’ Arthur was abruptly on his feet, towering down over Charles. ‘The great William Boycott, Patron of the Living,’ he said with a mocking sneer. ‘Patron of the intolerant, the despotic, the supercilious, more’s the truth.’

  Startled at the sudden vehemence in Arthur’s voice, Charles took an involuntary step backwards, but didn’t respond. He stood there open-mouthed, too shocked to speak.

  ‘The people of the Burgh St Peter’s feared and despised him in equal measure. So did our mother. And Emily and Frances and William. And so did I. That’s why I left to join the army at so young an age. I didn’t wish to be infected by his pathetic dogmatism. And at least Mother found some peace in her declining years.’

  ‘What are you saying? That you were pleased at his death?’

  ‘Yes, damn it!’ He almost expected Charles to lunge at him in rage, well aware of the ferocity of his brother’s temper. But he remained silent and instead presented his back to Arthur.

  ‘I will never forgive you for that hateful statement.’

  ‘You fool, Charles. You imbecile. You refuse to see the truth of what is happening in your own home. And if you continue along that road you will surely end up as Father did, despised by those closest to him.’

  Charles turned then, his expression one of puzzlement and suspicion rather than rage. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Annie, of course.’

  ‘Annie? What has she said to you?’

  Arthur laughed without humour. ‘She’s said nothing. She’s too loyal or self-less to speak. But any fool could see how utterly lonely she is. Not only have you isolated yourself from the world here on Achill but you’ve even succeeded in isolating yourself from the woman who loves you and whose love you purport to requite.’

  ‘That’s preposterous.’

  ‘Is it, Charles? I can see it in her eyes every time we speak. She deserves better.’

  ‘I refuse to discuss matters of such a private nature with you. To be perfectly frank, our marriage is none of your damn business!’ Charles made to leave the room.

  ‘Charles, wait.’

  He paused and Arthur heaved a sigh and forced himself, if only for diplomacy’s sake, to become penitent.

  ‘Charles, forgive me. I apologise for the statements I made regarding Father. They were said in the heat of the moment and I withdraw them.’

  His brother regarded him as though weighing the sincerity of his words.

  ‘I know how much you admired him,’ Arthur continued, ‘I’ve had enough enemies on the battlefield and I have no wish to make one of my brother.’

  After some seconds his brother’s features softened. ‘Very well. But I’ll thank you to not intrude on my private life.’

  ‘Very well, Charles, but I must say one last thing. If you truly love Annie, I suggest you tell her so. Before it’s too late.’

  An awkward silence lingered over their meal that evening, even with Arthur mustering his best efforts to engage Annie in bright chatter about the months and years of mothering that lay ahead. Her husband, clearly distracted, barely uttered two sentences.

  Annie had heard almost their entire exchange, stepping across the hall to the safety of their bedroom a moment before Charles opened the door. Her improper eavesdropping had yielded some reward, although she was already quite familiar with their father’s legacy. What had surprised her was the vehemence with which Arthur had derided the man, and his accurate observation of her dissatisfaction with her marriage, which she had done her best to conceal for appearances’ sake.

  Later, as she lay in the darkness of their bedroom, she prayed that Arthur’s prompting might produce some change in Charles, however small. The man who now slept soundly by her side had at least been made aware of her feelings, though in all likelihood his stubbornness would result in denial that any problem existed. She felt a moment of despair well up in her heart and then a brief stab of pain in her abdomen. She clutched at the point of pain just below her naval and moaned softly in discomfort.

  Immediately he was alert and sat up. He reached out and touched her arm.

  ‘Annie, dear. Are you ill? Is it the child?’

  Annie was shocked at his alertness. She sought his face in the blackness of the room but could discern only a vague outline.

  ‘No. I’m fine, Charles. This baby isn’t ready to see the world just yet. It’s just a small pain. I believe they are to be expected.’

  ‘Very well. Goodnight then,’ he whispered hesitantly and she felt the weight of his body press into the mattress once more.

  The cold stillness of the night descended again. She sensed his wakefulness and wondered what thoughts he entertained. Was he contemplating the baby’s arrival and speculating on its future? Or was his head, as usual, filled with columns of profit and loss? Or, given the argument that had passed earlier, was he reflecting on his father and his life under the man’s fierce hand?

  ‘Annie?’

  His whisper, so soft she wondered for a moment if she’d imagined it, caused her to turn her head towards him.

  ‘Yes, Charles?’

  She felt a brief swell of hope in her breast, of expectation.

  ‘I…’

  Somewhere off in the folds of the mountain a wind swirled and growled, its sound lonely and desolate in the far-off darkness. Some seconds passed before he spoke again.

  ‘I…nothing really…I merely wanted you to rouse me should you experience any further pain.’

  ‘Of course, Charles.’

  There were many forms of pain, she wanted to tell him, but she said no more to him that night.

  Unused as he was to idleness, Arthur decided to avail of the following day’s bright spring sunshine to escape the confines of the house, and at breakfast asked Charles if he would be good enough to guide him part of the way towards Saddle Head. His request was met with a frown.

  ‘I really have rather a lot to do today, Arthur. Perhaps another time.’

  ‘Such a shame not to take advantage of the weather, Arthur,’ Annie sympathised.

  Arthur gave her a confident smile and surreptitiously winked, then turned to his brother. ‘Charles, I have some knowledge of the terrain but I wish you merely to guide me to the gap overlooking Lough Nakeeroge. I can find my way from there. That won’t inconvenience you at all, will it?’

  Arthur’s forthright tone left his brother in no doubt that he wasn’t about to take no for an answer. He muttered an irritated ‘very well’, rose from the table and stomped out.

  Arthur grinned at Annie. ‘Since we were children I’ve found that sometimes with Charles it’s simply a matter of letting him know who’s in charge, standing up to him. Remember that, Annie dear.’

  Annie, somewhat surprised at the brief interchange, returned his smile.

  ‘I will, Arthur.’

  He kissed his sister-in-law on the cheek and hurried out to the horse pen before Charles’s impatience got the better of him. He followed his brother on a path to the north-east around the lower slopes of Croaghaun Mountain, leaving Charles to his business after several miles (much to his brother’s relief, he sensed) and continuing alone towards Saddle Head, where he luxuriated in the glory of the uninhabited landscape, gazing in awe back at the towering sea cliffs that plunged towards the indefatigable Atlantic waves. Much as he treasured the experience, he could not help but feel that it would be so much
finer shared with another.

  He felt a degree of pity for Charles because, although he might look upon such a scene, he would never truly see it or feel it stirring his soul as others might. Indeed, his brother seemed to regard the world through narrow eyes that never really saw anything but the fulfilment of his own purpose and ambition. His inability to perceive nature’s beauty paled by comparison to his lack of appreciation for the plight of those who filled his life, and not only Annie, but the unfortunate peasants who had to endure his antipathy. Thanks to their father, Charles believed that the will of God had pre-determined his place in the world, a belief that sadly deprived him of the ability to ever imagine that world through others’ eyes and granted him the luxury of an existence almost empty of compassion.

  As he stood there a tall ship appeared in the distance beyond Achill Head, bound no doubt for America. Despite the famine’s end some years beforehand, the exodus of Ireland’s sons and daughters had continued on a massive scale, now escaping not famine, but the insidious grip of poverty. And he was reminded again that his own brother played an eager part in maintaining that hold. He sighed, growing weary of his own thoughts, and drew his horse about. It was time to leave this place, leave Achill. Poor Annie, he thought as he carefully picked a path across the uneven ground. He felt a tinge of guilt at abandoning her to her life here, to a life with his brother. He could only hope that Charles might mellow with maturity, but it was a vain hope, he suspected.

  An hour later he came upon Charles again near the village of Dooagh, as he needlessly reminded an unfortunate tenant that he faced eviction if his rent was not paid on time. At a second cottage he informed the woman of the house that two of her chickens were to be confiscated as the birds had encroached on his fields and pecked at his seedlings. The woman’s shrill pleas for leniency were waved away.

  Clearly their argument the previous evening had had little effect. As they trotted away, Arthur’s reticence finally prompted Charles to speak.

  ‘You still believe I’m harsh with my charges, brother.’

  Arthur could find no response that would not betray his continued disquiet.

  ‘Look, Arthur, maintaining order out here demands the strictest observance of the rules. I’ve no wish to burden these people unnecessarily but if I let one tenant off lightly I’ll have to let another. So I treat all of them with equality and they respect that. You know, I’ve only evicted a handful of tenants. Others have evicted many more. That’s because my tenants know precisely what is expected of them. I can’t say fairer than that.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but besides the stick, haven’t you heard of the carrot?’

  ‘Liberal nonsense. If you wish a peasant to do your bidding there is only one motivation they…what the blazes?’

  Arthur turned in the direction of his brother’s gaze and saw a rider approach at a gallop from the west of the island.

  ‘I believe that’s Cromwell! My finest animal. And by God that’s the stable hand riding her into the ground. I’ll have his skin!’

  They watched as the rider veered off the road below and moved towards them.

  ‘He’s coming this way, Charles.’

  A few seconds later the breathless youth pulled the animal to a lengthy skid, almost colliding with Charles’s horse, causing it to recoil.

  ‘What are you doing on that damned horse, you ignorant whelp?’

  ‘I’m sorry sir, but the doctor ordered me te take the animal and find ye.’

  ‘The doctor?’ Arthur asked with alarm.

  ‘What’s going on, boy?’

  ‘We couldn’t find ye, sir. Been looking for hours,’ the youth blurted out, trembling from fear and exhaustion.

  ‘Calm down, lad,’ Arthur said, ‘what is it?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Boycott, sir. There’s something wrong I think.’

  Charles’ jaw dropped open and he snapped his head about towards his brother, eyes wide with alarm. He may not have been as demonstrable about his love as his wife might have wished, but in that moment Arthur saw how very real it was. His brother took flight with such abruptness and energy that he sideswiped the stable boy’s animal and sent it tottering on its side into a ditch. Arthur hesitated enough to see that the youth was unharmed, then took off in pursuit, praying to God that Annie and the child had been the benefactors of His mercy.

  Annie’s memory of the past hours was of her small bedroom awash with blood, and of dread, pain and the sound of her own screams. She lay there now, exhaustion trying to pull her towards sleep. But she so dearly wanted, needed, to see her husband, for in this moment she knew she would see the truth of his nature. But he was nowhere to be found.

  Barely had he and Arthur departed that morning when, seated at the dining room table, she had been engulfed by a wave of agonising cramps. There followed a warm rush of fluid between her legs and, to her horror, the sight of blood seeping through her dress. Her screams went unheard by Deirdre, who had gone to pump a bucket of water, and Annie had tried to stumble her way towards the bedroom, collapsing on the floor in the doorway, pain coursing through her body, tears and snot streaming down her face, panic overwhelming her. She was certain she would die in that spot. Then Deirdre was there, screaming herself, and Annie had a vague memory of seeing the metal bucket drop from the maid’s grip, sending a wave of icy water splashing against her.

  ‘The midwife, Deirdre,’ she moaned as the girl tried to haul her towards the bed. ‘Send the boy…don’t leave me…’

  The hours that followed were an anarchic mix of pain and nausea, drifting in and out of consciousness, faces whirling about her, voices, sheets soaked red. She had a distinct memory of being suddenly possessed of an irrational certainty that the infant would emerge a misshapen, deformed creature. Then at some point she was pushing, wrenching against the will of her body. Deirdre’s ugly face, God forgive her for slighting the girl, was almost pressed to hers, crying out to her. And then it was over, a relief so indescribable, followed at once by a terrible fear for her child, her flesh and blood.

  There was a man then, but not her husband, not Charles. A tall, refined man with a greying moustache. There were flashes of metal and cold, probing things, and she felt a terrible violation as she swayed between oblivion and the light and life of the room, all the time crying for an answer, desperate to know if her child had lived or died.

  ‘This is your daughter, Charles. This is Mary.’

  Annie smiled and pulled the swaddling cloth free of the newborn’s head, revealing a puffy red scrunched-up face, a few strands of black hair matted to its skull. He stood by the bed and stared down at the infant, his face an unfamiliar mix of fear and anticipation.

  ‘The doctor says she seems healthy. She surprised us all, coming early…’

  Her husband leaned forward and swallowed mother and daughter in a gentle embrace and Annie felt moisture as his cheek pressed against hers. He then fell to his knees at the bedside and clasped at her hand. ‘My God, Annie, I almost lost you, they say. I can never forgive myself for leaving you alone in the house with just the maid.’

  For the first time she could recall, her husband’s voice was trembling.

  ‘You had no way of knowing, Charles, Mary came almost three weeks early. Here. Take your daughter.’

  He pulled back. ‘I don’t know how…’

  ‘Just hold her like this, support her head.’

  Annie pressed the infant into his arms and the child made a sucking movement with its lips. He laughed almost inaudibly and Annie could see the joy in his face, a face rarely lightened by any of life’s events. He touched the baby’s cheek with his finger.

  ‘A daughter. And you named her?’ He looked up at Annie now.

  ‘I hope you aren’t upset, Charles. These past days I’ve dreamt of my mother again and again. No other name but my mother’s seemed fitting. But if you wish to…’

  He was shaking his head. ‘My grandmother was Mary. It’s a fine name, dear. Mary. Mary Boycott.’
>
  He handed the child back, his pride evident.

  ‘Charles. I must tell you. Something went wrong during the birth. The doctor said there was something amiss inside, some rare condition. We were lucky to survive. But he says I can’t have another child. I’m so sorry, Charles. I can never give you a son.’

  ‘We have a healthy daughter and I have a healthy wife. That is my only concern.’

  Arthur was permitted a brief visit and was typically effusive about the infant and in his expressions of joy.

  ‘We’ll leave you to rest,’ Charles whispered as they turned to depart. ‘Besides, I really should see the doctor and midwife as I owe them for both your lives.’

  ‘Actually Charles, one of your tenants, the Ruanes, also had a baby born to them this morning and the midwife was occupied there. She and the doctor only arrived after the birth to help with…with other things that needed to be done.’

  ‘So how on earth…?’

  Annie reached for the bell cord above her bed and a few moments later Deirdre stepped into the room. ‘Deirdre, could you return Mary to her basket, like a good girl?’

  Deirdre whisked across and did as requested.

  ‘Charles, it is this girl here, Deirdre Feeney, that you must thank. She brought your daughter into the world. Had it not been for her we would both surely have perished. Deirdre delivered her younger sister’s baby last year and attended many other births.’

  Charles’ mouth hung open as he stared at the maid, who stood stock-still, a look of terror on her face. After a time, he nodded firmly. ‘Well, thank heavens she was here.’

  Annie glanced at Arthur, who met her eyes with a smile. ‘Charles,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe you’ll want to thank Deirdre for what she did. And reward her accordingly,’ Annie said with authority.

  He shifted from one foot to the other, inhaled sharply and set his shoulders back. It seemed to take an age before he could bring himself to meet Deirdre’s eyes.