They spoke for some time, and as they did so, she noticed that as well as looking clever, there was a delightful, kindly light in his eye that she warmed to. “He reminds me of Patrick,” she told Fortunatus afterwards.
She had wondered if Fortunatus might be disappointed that Patrick, so much a favourite, had taken a view so opposed to the Patriot cause. But if there was any doubt about the old man’s mental faculties, he quickly dispelled it by his answer.
“No, my dear. The boy’s quite right. The Catholics should demonstrate their loyalty and support the government. Leave the opposition to us.” He gave her a shrewd look. “Remember, Georgiana, my father told us brothers to help each other by sitting on different sides of the fence.”
“You’re a cunning old fox,” she said with approval.
But about his grandson Hercules, he seemed to feel rather differently. Once, walking round to call upon George and Georgiana at Merrion Square, and finding Hercules there, he gave him a cross look and remarked:
“Young Grattan made a damn fine speech the other day.” Then adding with a sniff: “’Fraid yours wasn’t much good, though.” In answer, Hercules had made him a curt bow and withdrawn from the room, but not before his grandfather had remarked, so that he could not fail to hear: “No gift for speaking. None at all.”
The next day, Hercules had warned her: “I think it’s unwise for you to be seen at Grandfather’s house. It could embarrass the family.” A warning of which she had taken not the slightest notice.
It came as a shock to everyone, early in 1777, when Doctor Terence Walsh suddenly had a stroke and died on the spot. “He didn’t suffer,” Georgiana comforted Fortunatus. “I know, and I thank God he lived to see Patrick grow into such a fine young man,” he replied sadly. “But I’d always hoped to go first.” Half Dublin gathered for the funeral at the Catholic chapel, including several Church of Ireland clergymen; and it was certainly gratifying to see in what universal affection the doctor had been held. “I fear, however,” Fortunatus remarked to her afterwards, “that he leaves no great fortune behind.”
In the months that followed, she was glad to see that Patrick never failed to look in once or twice a week upon his uncle, and she would often time her own visits so that she might encounter him there. She hardly liked to admit it even to herself, but she felt more at home in his company nowadays than she did in that of her own son.
Hercules, meanwhile, was starting to make a name for himself. The American war was taking a toll. The government had forbade the Irish to trade with America anymore—to the fury of the Irish merchants. But the war was depressing all business anyway. In Ulster especially, the linen industry was hit, and there were many bankruptcies. The Patriots blamed everything upon the government, and young Grattan spoke so well that he was already their rising star. But the government loyalists struck back, and of all the denouncers of the Patriots, none was more virulent than Hercules Walsh. He might not have Grattan’s genius, but in his blunt way he could make a point. And as far as he was concerned, the Patriots in the Parliament, the complaining tradesmen, and the Ulster Presbyterians who sympathised with America were all the same: traitors. When news came that Ben Franklin and his colleagues had succeeded in bringing France in to fight for America against Britain, his attacks became even more scathing. It was soon after one of his more insulting tirades that Georgiana received a letter from Ulster. It was signed: “Daniel Law.”
I did not reply when you wrote to me before, being uncertain what to say to you. Thanks to your government, the linen trade has been in such a desperate condition that, upon this day, the business of Law of Belfast will exist no more. Yet I read in the journal that, according to your son, I and those like me in Ulster, who still profess the honest and godly faith of our forefathers, are nothing better than traitors, and dogs to be chained up and muzzled.
I write to you now, therefore, being certain at last what I should say to you is, that I have nothing to say to you; and that this correspondence between our families, which you have seen fit to reopen, should henceforth cease, forever.
She put the letter down with a sigh and a sense of failure. There was no use in writing. Whatever she said herself, Hercules would be sure to make another offensive speech again. She wondered if there was something she could do for them if, as seemed likely, they were in financial difficulties, but concluded that any offer would be curtly refused. She locked the letter in her bureau, therefore, with the one from Philadelphia, and she prayed for better times.
Soon afterwards, she was able to do a good turn for someone else, however.
She had been on her way from St. Stephen’s Green towards the Parliament when, halfway along the gentle curve of Grafton Street, she saw young Patrick coming towards her in the company of a pleasant-looking fellow, a little taller than he, and who walked with a slight limp. She greeted Patrick and asked if he was not going to present his friend.
“Ah yes.” His hesitation was only momentary. “This is Mr. John MacGowan. Lady Mountwalsh.”
The taller man bowed politely and said that he was at her service; but she noticed that, at the mention of her name, the smile had died upon his face. Some people might have passed on and put the incident out of mind, but Georgiana could never quite restrain her curiosity. So, as politeness made the two men captive until she let them go, she engaged them in conversation. She soon learned that John MacGowan was a fellow Catholic with Patrick, and that his grocery business had expanded rapidly in the last seven years. “He’s gone into salted provisions,” Patrick informed her, “and though he’s too modest to tell you so himself, there are only two merchants in Dublin who export more salted beef that he does. But I must tell you that, unlike me, he is no friend of the government,” he added with a laugh.
If the government had been determined that the Irish should not trade with the rebellious Americans, now that France had joined the war, they had become obsessed with the idea that Irish merchants like MacGowan might supply the French army and navy with the salted provisions that would be so important to them. New restrictions had therefore been made. And they had not been popular.
“You don’t like the restrictions, I’m sure,” she said with a smile.
“That is true, my lady,” he said with a cautious glance at Patrick.
“It’s all right, John.” Patrick laughed. “You can say anything to Lady Mountwalsh. She hears far worse at my uncle’s.”
“The fact is, Lady Mountwalsh,” the grocer confessed, “that I have had an antipathy for the Protestant rulers of Ireland ever since they threw me out of a window and broke my leg.”
“Oh Mr. MacGowan, I am so sorry.”
“In a way,” he went on calmly, “I suppose I should be grateful. For besides leaving me with a limp, it made me so angry and so determined to succeed that I drove myself to expand the business. Had it not been for their cruelty, I’m sure I shouldn’t be where I am now.”
“I was thinking,” Patrick said with a grin, “that I should take him round to Uncle Fortunatus—now that the Patriots are suddenly taking such an interest in us Catholics.”
It had been the latest turn in the turbulent river of Irish politics, and it had been Grattan’s idea.
If the Patriots still couldn’t get a majority in Parliament, they could still pile on the pressure outside the chamber. They had most of the Protestant tradesmen. They had plenty of the smaller country gentry as well. For although the big landed interests might have concluded that this wasn’t the time to rock the government’s boat, there were plenty of lesser men and farmers who couldn’t give a damn whether they rocked the boat or not. But there remained the largest group of all, four-fifths of the population of Ireland—the Catholics. Respectable fellows like Patrick might be proclaiming their loyalty—in the hope of better treatment in future, of course— but this in no way prevented the Patriots promising to do more for them than the government would. “Free trade for Ireland. Then amend those vicious old Penal Laws, that insult every
Catholic,” he now demanded. Not all the Protestant Patriots were sure about this, but Grattan had persuaded them to go along. “It’ll frighten the government,” he could point out. “It puts pressure on them to satisfy at least some of our demands.” Moral conviction, or cunning calculation? It was hard to say. But it was powerful politics.
“I’ll support the Patriots,” said John MacGowan.
The next day, she questioned Patrick further about his friend.
“I didn’t like to ask him, but how did he come to be thrown out of a window?”
Patrick gave her a brief account of the affair, leaving a few things out.
“I wonder he didn’t prosecute them,” she remarked.
“And have every Protestant merchant in Dublin his enemy for the rest of his life? He was wiser to say nothing. His revenge will be to finish up richer than most of them.”
“But doesn’t Hercules belong to that club? Did he take part in this business?”
“He may have been there,” Patrick conceded. “A lot of people were. But he had no part in throwing John out of the window,” he added to reassure her. “None at all.”
That evening, Georgiana told her husband about her encounter with MacGowan. “I feel guilty about him, George, even if Hercules didn’t do it. I wish we could compensate him. I’m sure his trade must have suffered recently,” she added. “Perhaps you could arrange something?”
“I agree about his physical injury,” he replied. “His trade, as it happens, may not have suffered. The American restrictions are unpopular, but the men in the provisions trade have had such large orders from the British army and navy that they’ve actually done quite well out of this war so far. I know some of the salted-provisions men down in Cork have been making fortunes.” He smiled. “All right. I’ll speak to some of those fellows at the Castle and see what can be done.”
The following month, John MacGowan received a large contract for supplying the British army with salted beef. Some time later, seeing Georgiana in the street, he came up to her and made a bow.
“I am well aware, Lady Mountwalsh, whom I have to thank for that contract.”
“Do you feel any better about us?” she enquired.
“No. But I feel richer,” he replied with a smile.
She didn’t tell Hercules.
“Patrick and his friend MacGowan may receive some satisfaction sooner than they think,” George told her a little while afterwards.
Grattan’s tactics had been working. The London government was becoming increasingly nervous. The war with the American colony was turning into a wider conflict, trade was suffering, troops needed to be raised: the last thing they needed was any more internal disorder. If Grattan was whipping up the Catholics, then it was time to make some concessions.
“They don’t want it to look as if they’re caving in to the Irish Patriots,” George explained. “Since the Penal Laws are similar in all three countries, they mean to make a general bill at Westminster for England and Scotland first, then extend it to Ireland as well.” But some time later, he came home one evening, shaking his head. “The English and Scottish proposals are dropped,” he informed her.
“Have the English parliament men such a hatred for Catholics?” she asked.
“No. It’s the ordinary people of England and Scotland. They’re shouting ‘No popery.’ There has been rioting in the streets.” The Irish legislation was still to go forward, however. “Burke believes he can get a modest Irish measure through the London Parliament, and I dare say we can do the same here in Dublin.”
So it proved. In the summer of 1778, the Catholic Relief Act passed through both parliaments, but with opposition. In Dublin, despite the fact that it had government support, there were still many loyal Protestants who refused to follow their usual lead, including Hercules Walsh. The relief the Act gave was limited but deeply symbolic, for in an age when land was everything, it allowed an Irish Catholic, for all practical purposes, to purchase land of all kinds and bequeath it to his heirs. Fortunatus and Georgiana went with Patrick and the rest of Terence’s family to watch it pass through the Irish House of Commons, where Grattan and the Patriots greeted the final vote with a great cheer.
The following evening, Fortunatus held a party at his house. Many of the Patriots came, including Grattan; George and Georgiana, though not Hercules; Terence’s family were all there and, a kindly thought, Terence’s old parish priest had been invited. Patrick had brought John MacGowan with him.
Georgiana had never seen the old man so excited. His face was flushed, his eyes were shining brightly, and he drank not a few bumpers of claret. He made a short, enthusiastic speech, to which Grattan made an elegant reply. And again and again, he would come over to wherever Patrick was standing and, putting his hand fondly on his shoulder, declare: “This is the beginning, my boy. This is what my dear father would have wanted.” It was, he told them all as they left, one of the happiest nights of his life.
Looking back on it, Georgiana realised, she shouldn’t have been surprised that, after such excitement, the old man had suffered an apoplexy late that night. By dawn, the whole family had been summoned to his bedside.
It was clear to them all, without the doctor saying anything, that Fortunatus was dying. His face was grey. There were little beads of sweat upon his brow, and he was breathing with difficulty. But he evidently knew who everyone was, and though he could not speak much, he indicated that he wished to say goodbye to them, each in turn. To George and Georgiana he whispered a few words of thanks; to Hercules he said nothing but managed a sort of handshake; he patted Kitty’s arm; he spoke a word or two to Eliza and Fitzgerald and allowed her to kiss him. It was the same with Terence’s family, though it was clear that he was getting very tired. He insisted nonetheless that Patrick should draw close again and, taking his hand, whispered: “So proud. So proud.”
The doctor was moving to his side now, but Fortunatus was trying to say that there was a person to whom he wanted to communicate something more. He was looking at Georgiana.
As she came to his side, he took her hand and gave it a faint but affectionate squeeze. He clearly wanted to say something, and was summoning the strength to do so. Finally, he seemed to be ready.
“One disappointment.” His voice was faint. She leant forward to hear him better. “One regret.”
She tensed, almost drew back. She realised, of course, that he must be disappointed in Hercules—in her son’s blunt and brutal nature, so unlike Patrick’s fineness. But this was not the moment to say it, and she wished that he would not.
He was gathering his strength again. He wanted to whisper something. She could not very well refuse. She leant down.
“I wish,” he whispered so that no one should hear, “that I could have been George.” And with a final effort, he managed to kiss her hand.
A flood of relief came over her so that she almost laughed. With great affection, she stooped again and kissed his cheek.
The doctor was gently but firmly pushing her to one side now. He was feeling the old man’s pulse. Georgiana moved back to George’s side. They all waited. Fortunatus suddenly started to sit up. His eyes opened very wide. Then he fell back, and they knew that it was over.
“What did he say to you?” George asked as they left the room.
“Nothing really,” she said.
“He was very fond of you.”
“Yes.”
Then, halfway down the stairs, she quite unexpectedly burst into tears.
It was several days later when the will of Fortunatus was read. The bulk of the estate, which was respectable though not large, passed to George, together with a letter recommending that, while he wished the old Fingal estate to remain in the senior male line, his son might, if he had no need of the money, distribute the excess to various members of the wider family. This, with Georgiana’s entire agreement, George did at once. There were also some thoughtful personal remembrances for various people, including a ring for Georgiana and som
e handsome prints for Hercules.
But there was one other bequest: some property, worth about a fifth of the total, that was left free and clear to his nephew Patrick. No one had known of this, least of all Patrick himself. But as everyone knew of his affection for the young man, who had certainly received little enough from his own father, it certainly did not occur to anyone to complain about it.
Except Hercules.
Georgiana had seen her son irritated, cold, contemptuous, even brutal before; but she had never seen him like this, and she was glad that he had come to his father’s house where only she was in the room to see it. He was beside himself with rage.
“How dare he leave those properties to Patrick?” he shouted. “They should have come to me.”
“But you have no need of them, Hercules,” she said gently. “The estate will come to you, and the fortune you’re to inherit is huge.”
“Can you not see the principle of it?” he cried. “That is Walsh property. Ours.”
“It was his own to leave. And your cousin Patrick is a Walsh, anyway.”
“Of the cursed Catholic branch, may they rot in hell!” he bellowed. “If that damned papist takes it, then he’s a thief.”
This was too much.
“You are jealous, Hercules, because of your grandfather’s affection for Patrick. You would do better to hide it.”
But to her shocked surprise, he turned upon her now with a look of terrible coldness.
“You do not understand, Mother,” he said icily. “I have no interest in what my grandfather thought of me, and never had since I was a child. As for Patrick, I despise him. But anyone who takes property from me,” he went on in a deadly tone she had never heard before, “is my enemy. And I destroy my enemies. As for Grandfather, I never wish to hear his name again.”
“He left you some prints. You’ll keep those, then, I dare say,” she retorted in some disgust.
He gave her a blank stare.
“I sold them this morning. Fifty guineas.”
Then, banging the door behind him, he walked out.