Only a fool wants war, but once a war starts then it cannot be fought half-heartedly. It cannot even be fought with regret, but must be waged with a savage joy in defeating the enemy… - Bernard Cornwell
September 26, 1919
Murphy's Pub
Sybil leaned over the counter and said in a stage whisper, "Your new barmaid is a bit crazy, Colum. "I hope you have her on a short leash."
"Hey!" sputtered Tom. "That's my sister!"
"Exactly," said Sybil, leaning back on her stool. "All the Bransons are a bit mad," she continued in a solemn tone. "At least that's what I've heard." She gave up her attempt at a straight face and smiled with fondness at her sister-in-law. "And Maire's the top of the crazy heap."
"Well," said Tom. "There is that."
"I can hear you!" Maire came over, laughing. "And I'm not the Branson who married a posh, stuck-up English aristocrat, now am I?"
"Well," her brother said, getting into the spirit. He gave an exaggerated look around the pub. "You never know, darlin'. There are a lot of nice-looking English soldiers round here these days. You might fancy one of them!"
Maire turned pale, and then red-faced. Tom had gone too far, as usual.
"Hear me, you!" His sister stabbed a finger at him. "You will never see me within a mile of an English soldier," she hissed, "except to deliver its beer! Ever!" And she stalked away, head held high, long hair swinging. As she reached the far end of the room, she spun round again. "Never!" She delivered a round of Guinness to a table of British soldiers, her smile bright and insincere.
Tom was bent over, laughing. It had always been way too easy to send Maire off the ledge. From the time she'd been a tiny curly haired toddler, all her siblings had made it a game to see who could get the little vein in her temple to pop out. Even Bernadette had participated in that one…it was just so much fun. But to be fair, the English soldier comment might have crossed the line, given her overwhelming affection for the species. He tried, without much success, to rein in his mirth. She'd pay him back; no doubt of that. Matter of time.
Sybil was shaking her head at him. "How do you lot do that and get away with it?" She really had never seen anything like it. She and her sisters could never have talked to each other like that. Mary didn't tease; she jabbed, and it was nearly always mean and meant to wound. Her usual target was Edith, and she was never happy until her middle sister was in tears. Neither of them ever teased Sybil, because they both loved her and needed her to referee their battles. So, no good-natured banter in the Crawley household. How different Tom's family was from hers! And thank God she had found them before her own siblings had driven her insane!
"You're right," Tom gave her a contrite look that she didn't trust for a minute. "I shouldn't have done that. You're the only Brit Maire can tolerate, and look how hard you had to work to win her over. It's lucky she doesn't have to deal with any more of you!"
"Well," Sybil gave him a deceptively innocent look. "I'm not too sure about that. I had some news today that might change the balance a bit. She paused for dramatic effect, leaned over and kissed him, and whispered in his ear, "Edith's coming next week, and it sounds as if she plans on staying for a while. She'll be in the second bedroom."
Tom choked on his beer, and Sybil patted him on the back. He pulled himself together and mustered a weak smile. He loved his sister-in-law, really he did. He just didn't love the idea of having her right next door to their bedroom…for a while.
September 28, 1919
Building Site, Dublin
Daniel Ryan stood in the doorway of the half-finished house and watched his brother-in-law handle the plane. To tell the truth, he'd never have thought Patrick had what it took to work construction. He'd really never seen the boy labor so hard before…or much at all, to be honest. He'd always seemed such a happy go lucky kid who tended to take the "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" mantra a little too seriously. Daniel had been hesitant to give him a job on his crew after his injuries had healed, worried that he'd have to fire his wife's baby brother when he proved unsuitable, but Patrick was proving him wrong.
All his in-laws had surprised him, now that he thought about it. When he'd married Bernadette five years ago, Daniel had already been thirty years old. Even before he had become one in reality, he'd always felt more like a father than a brother to his wife's siblings. He loved them all with everything he had, but Jaysus, sometimes they could drive a man to drink!
They were all so different. Bern was the ideal wife, sweet and reserved and devoted to her husband and their two children. She wanted to be exactly the kind of mother her own Mam was, and Daniel thought she was well on her way. He knew that she was often frustrated with her younger brothers and sisters; no republican, she didn't much care who ran Ireland as long as her husband and children were safe, and this damn war was interfering with her peace of mind on that score.
Michael was just the opposite. He tended to think with his heart rather than his head, and had let his passion pull him to the IRA and a life frought with danger. But it was his choice, and Daniel couldn't fault him his love for Ireland and the desire to see her free from English rule. He could, and did, fault him for going off the handle and letting his temper get the best of him at times, but since that trouble back in June he had setted down some. Maybe he was finally growing up.
Michael and Maire should have been twins, he mused, at least in temperament and hard-headedness. Both of them tended to act before they thought of the consequences, and he was surprised that Maire hadn't gotten into serious trouble yet, like the kind that had almost gotten Patrick killed. She had tried to rein in her passionate hatred of all things English a bit, for Sybil's sake, and since Tom and Sybil's wedding there had been relative peace in the house. He didn't hold out much hope that it would last.
And then there was Kathleen, the baby, who had just turned nineteen. Generous and giving, on the surface she seemed the sweetest and most docile of them all, but there was a streak of mischief running through that little minx that only came out when she really got to know someone and trust them. Bernadette watched her like a hawk at the bakery where they worked, so she'd be all right.
Tom he knew least of all of them. The second oldest Branson had been off working in service in England when his older sister married Daniel. He hadn't even met Tom until last June when the lad had shocked them all by bringing Sybil home like a pedigreed kitten he had found and wanted to keep. And keep her he had.
Daniel smiled at the thought of Sybil. He had warmed to her much more quickly than Bernadette had, but then he was a man, with red blood and all, and Sybil had been such a delightful surprise. No airs at all; she had pitched right in, learning to cook and clean…well, clean, at least…the cooking was still a work in progress. And she was a worker. She had defied her family to become a nurse, and then topped that feat off by running away with their chauffeur to Ireland. He shook his head. She fit right in with this bunch of lunatics.
"Dan, come here!" Daniel's workman's heart lifted at the eagerness in his young apprentice's voice, and he crossed to have a look at Patrick's project. It was a bookcase, which when finished would be built into the wall…and it was simply beautiful. Patrick had planed the wood to a smooth sheen and then carved an intricate vine motif into the cornice. Why, the lad was an artist! Who knew?
"Pat," he said in surprise, "that's awfully good! You have a real talent for woodworking, m' lad!" He ran his hand over the smooth surface. "Where did you see this design?"
"In my head," Patrick answered with a happy grin. He knew he was just learning and shouldn't get too full of himself, but he felt warmed by the sincere look of appreciation on Daniel's face…and the piece was good. Truthfully, the wood had just seemed to sing to him, to tell him what it wanted to be, and it had come alive under his fingers. Those fingers itched now to get back to his task, and he chuckled to himself. He couldn't remember when he had felt so happy; who would ever have guessed it would come from working?!
September 30, 1919
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England
"No, Anna, not that one! I'm not going to any balls!" The maid removed the offending garment from the trunk, and hung it up in the wardrobe with all the other rejected gowns. Anna had accompanied the family in June when they'd gone to Dublin for Sybil's wedding, but she wasn't going this time. No, Lady Edith was traveling alone, against the advice of her family. And judging from the size of the trunk, she wasn't coming back any time soon.
She had come home from an evening out about a month ago and announced that she was going to visit Sybil, and it was not necessary for anyone—including a maid—to accompany her. Of course, Lady Grantham had been against it, and Lord Grantham had tried to forbid her, but Edith was adamant…and she didn't need anyone's permission. She was a grown woman, she told them, and if Sybil could do it, so could she.
But at least Sybil had been with Mr. Branson, thought Anna. Edith would have no one, and there was a war going on in Ireland. On the other hand, Edith wasn't running away to marry anyone, so maybe that's why her family had given in so easily. They never seemed to worry much about Lady Edith…not like Lady Mary, who never went anywhere without at least a lady's maid. Funny thing about that. Lady Mary was much more confident than her sister; no one would have the nerve to give her trouble. Yet here was Lady Edith, the timid one, haring off to another country all by herself! Anna shook her head; aristocrats were a funny lot.
Edith too was wondering about this decision, made in the stifling grip of boredom on a hot night in August. Perhaps this was a mistake, perhaps she had truly gone mad this time. The only thing that kept her from changing her mind and hiding out in her bedroom was that she would be doing just that, if she stayed here—hiding out. And she was tired of being invisible.
She shook herself out of her thoughts before they could spiral down into depression. "Anna," she said, pasting a bright smile on her face, "what I really need for you to do is teach me how to do my own hair. Something very simple."
It would have to be simple. There would be no hairdresser in Dublin; she was staying with Sybil and Tom. They had insisted that she move into one of their extra bedrooms for her visit—no, no, Sybil had exclaimed, she would not be putting them out, they were delighted to have her. Edith snorted. Of course they would be delighted to have her underfoot…what newlyweds wouldn't want an old maiden aunt hanging about while they explored their new life together?
But what her sister and brother-in-law didn't know was that she wouldn't be underfoot forever; she would be moving out as soon as she found a flat of her own. And a job. She hadn't told anyone, and she wasn't going to. Not yet. It was her secret, and hers alone, because she wasn't sure she had the courage to do it…but Edith Crawley was thinking of staying in Ireland.
October 3, 1919
Dublin Docks
"It's going to be big, Michael!" Maire's voice was low, urgent.
"Okay, Maire, tell me again." Michael hated it when his sister sought him out at the docks. It was no place for a woman at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. Maybe there would be no best of times for Ireland, ever again.
He shook himself to dispel the feelings of gloom and foreboding. Maire had been valuable to the cause, he'd admit, bringing him information overheard at the pub by British soldiers in their cups. Besides, there was no stopping his wayward sister when her mind was set. He just hoped she was being careful. This was war, and soldiers were no kinder to a beautiful woman than they were to any other republican when they felt threatened. He worried, all the time.
"Remember what happened in Fermoy?" Maire was almost shaking with excitement. "The looting and burning? They're talking of trying it here next, in Dublin!" She went on to give her brother the details she had heard this time at the pub.
Michael watched his sister go, wondering how they'd gotten to this place. He had been so proud back in June, when he'd taken the oath and joined the Irish Volunteers, soon to become the Irish Republican Army. When Sinn Féin had won a landslide victory way back in the winter, they had put in a new republican government, Dáil Éireann, and declared Ireland to be independent from Britain. Everything had been new and glorious, and he had been so proud to be an Irishman.
But of course it hadn't been that easy. England was not about to just pack up and go away. The British Army was using the Royal Irish Constabulary as their military arm in Ireland, and the republicans retaliated by attacking RIC barracks and stealing weapons. Since most of the RIC were Irishmen themselves, they found themselves reviled and condemned in their own country. They were ambushed in small groups or in pairs, on patrol or going to church, and they fought back viciously. Republicans were imprisoned by the dozens, often for little or no reason.
The war was escalating, and innocent citizens were often caught up in the violence, as Patrick had been back in June. Most of the time, no one seemed to be winning. The glory had long since faded, but the determination was as fierce as ever. The Irish Republican Army would fight, for as long as it took. There was a savage joy in battle, in the compulsion to fight until the enemy was driven out or they destroyed themselves in the trying.
Michael remembered Tom telling him that war was a vicious cycle, that the bloodshed just went round and round like a snake eating its own tail. But he had to believe that his oath meant something. He had to believe that it was worth dying for. He just didn't believe that it was worth his sister getting hurt. He could never accept that. He was going to have to tell her to stop; it was getting too dangerous.
As Michael turned back into the docks, a man in the uniform of the British Army stepped out of the shadows across from where he and Maire had met. As Lieutenant Robert Martin walked away towards his barracks, he reflected on what he had seen. His instincts were good, and they were telling him that something was going on here. Martin didn't recognize the man she had been talking to…but it was hard to forget the pretty barmaid from Murphy's Pub.
A/N: In December 1918, Sinn Fein won a landslide vote in the General Election and declared an Irish Republic. The first republican parliament, the Dáil Éireann, met on January 21, 1919 and adopted a Declaration Of Independence. The same day, Irish Volunteers (soon to be IRA) killed two Royal Irish Constables in Tipperary, beginning the guerrilla war known as the Irish War Of Independence.
On September 7, 1919, the British government began a policy of reprisals for IRA attacks by looting and burning buildings in Fermoy, County Cork. There is no historical record of any plan to do the same in Dublin, as reported by Maire Branson, but she has been known to get fired up and exaggerate.
Pronunciation Guide:
Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn
Maire - my + ra
Sinn Féin - shin + fane
