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an about-turn and shouted to an as yet invisible figure, ‘Mr Beecham! Mr Beecham! The peasants – those people from Maamtrasna are here.’

      Bridget, meanwhile, could scarce contain her glee at the routing of Mrs Bottomley by Ellen – something she wouldn’t have deemed possible had she not witnessed it with her own eyes. What a story she would have for them back in Partry next time she was home.

      She hurried to conceal her merriment as Beecham strode into the kitchen.

      ‘Well now, and what do we have here?’ the agent asked. ‘Ah, a delegation of the tenantry! What have you to say, O’Malley?’ Beecham ignored Ellen and directed the question at Michael.

      ‘His Lordship requested my attendance,’ Michael said quietly.

      ‘Yes, O’Malley, precisely – your attendance. Albeit a day of religion in the papist Church, it is not a day of family worship here,’ Beecham said, looking askance at Ellen. ‘Can you not conduct your own business, like a man, without bringing your wife to plead for you?’

      ‘I plead for nothing, Mr Beecham,’ Michael said staring down Pakenham’s middleman. ‘And we have other business in Castlebar.’

      ‘Pah, what business in Castlebar for the likes of you two?’ snorted Beecham. ‘Business my foot! I know the business you’re about: going to “buy the Christmas” – is that what you peasants call it? I knew it! I’ve told His Lordship time and again, the rent is set too low for you scheming beggars. His Lordship is far too generous, while you filthy idlers spend your time lazing about your lazy beds and begetting children.’

      Ellen could feel Michael clench his fists as Beecham continued: ‘Well, my Christmas beauties, listen now, and listen well – the rent is to be raised one-twentieth for every child in a house above two children. This will put a halt to your lechery, and overpopulating His Lordship’s land. It’s time there was an end to the incessant subdividing when these offspring grow up, leaving the land never developed – only with potatoes, potatoes, and more damned potatoes.’

      Ellen and Michael listened aghast as the agent outlined the scheme he had hatched with Pakenham.

      ‘Furthermore,’ Beecham went on, ‘any arrears in rent – any arrears at all, so-called Famine or not – will result in immediate eviction from both dwelling-place and land. There will be no abatements of rent, despite rumours to the contrary being put about by O’Connell and his agitators. Is that quite clear?’

      ‘It is clear that these new rents are unjust and an affront to God for the families he has blessed with children,’ Michael began, anger clouding his face. ‘It is clear that the potato crop has already failed many people. An increase in rents, facing into a year of shortage, can only drive more of the people to hunger and to the roadside. Is that what His Lordship wants?’

      ‘Yes, that is exactly what His Lordship wants!’ barked Pakenham. The landlord had entered the room unnoticed. Now he strode across the room to join Beecham, displeasure written all over his face.

      ‘What is all this noise? I won’t have the tenantry raising their voices in my household. Oh, it’s you, O’Malley!’ Pakenham said, feigning surprise. ‘And the pretty red-crested mountain thrush, too.’ He paused and looked quizzically at Beecham. ‘Is there to be a céilí here at the Lodge?’ he asked mockingly. Then he rounded on Michael and Ellen: ‘Does the law of the Lord not provide for each man to do what he wills with that which is his? And does the Lord not command the servant to increase the profit of his master or be banished forever from his master’s sight? Is this not writ in the Holy Books – even of your own papish Church?’

      He spoke like a preacher, Ellen thought, laying out their sins before them.

      ‘It is! It is! It is!’ the landlord answered his own question, clapping the fist of one hand into the open palm of the other.

      Then he turned on Bridget, who had obviously been as unsettled as they were by his surprise entrance. Ellen was aware of a slight flush on the girl’s cheeks, and the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands.

      ‘Don’t fidget, girl! Make yourself useful for once,’ Pakenham said gruffly. ‘Go bring my port for when I’ve finished here.’

      At this, Ellen noticed that the slight flush on Bridget’s face had darkened, becoming a ridge of deep scarlet along each of the girl’s cheekbones. She felt sorry for the young servant; Pakenham had obviously set out to demean her in front of them.

      ‘Your Lordship,’ said Michael, ‘we Máilleachs pay our just dues on time, as we have done since my father’s day.’

      Ellen could see that he was measuring out the words, holding himself back.

      ‘We have used the land well, reclaiming even the marshy land by the lakeshore – to Your Lordship’s profit.’

      Michael stopped there and Ellen breathed a sigh of relief. He had said it well.

      ‘Show me the book, Beecham!’ Pakenham thrust an imperious hand out towards his agent.

      Beecham passed over the well-worn rent book, and Pakenham ran his finger down the quill-crafted entries.

      ‘Let me see … Yes, O’Malley, Michael. Wife and three children. Maamtrasna. That’s you, isn’t it?’ Pakenham never looked up, never waited for an answer. ‘Yes, well everything appears to be in order here, O’Malley.’

      The landlord closed the book, ambled to the window, looked out, and then returned across the room to stand directly in front of Ellen and Michael.

      ‘You know, O’Malley,’ he said conversationally, ‘I’ll wager my garden of roses that the marshland which you speak of is not the only land on my property reclaimed by you. What say you to that?’

      Pakenham pushed his face closer to Michael’s.

      Michael, unflinching, stared the landlord straight in the eye. How could Pakenham have known about the lazy beds on top of the mountain? He had his spies about, to be sure, those that would sell out their fellow Irishmen for a shilling. But Michael was certain Pakenham couldn’t have known, was only baiting him. He said nothing.

      ‘You see, Beecham? He doesn’t answer – I was right! I know these peasant dogs and the way they think. Declare a portion of improved land, pay the extra rent for a quiet life and then rob me blind. Thinking, “Sure, Pakenham will never know, and him beyond in London enjoying hisself,”’ Pakenham mimicked the local accent. ‘And you – silent woman’ – he turned on Ellen – ‘You sing, but you can’t speak – is that it?’ he taunted. ‘Speak up, woman! What should I do about fraudsters and tricksters who use my land without fair payment?’

      Like Michael, Ellen never flinched from the landlord’s onslaught. She waited a beat before replying, ‘It’s little I know about fraudsters, Your Lordship.’

      Was this it? Was this all the songbird was going to sing? Pakenham was angry. She had a nerve, this peasant wench. Well-spoken, too, not like the rest of them. He looked at her intently. She seemed very sure of herself, not attempting to appease him, like many of them did, with their clumsy curtseying.

      She was a one, this beauty, with her fine head of hair, fine face, fine … Good Lord, the woman was pregnant!

      ‘See here, Beecham – our singing bird will shortly be taking to the nest and we shall have another new tenant! Mark that down in your book, Beecham – mark it down, man. Aye! – this is rum indeed,’ Pakenham laughed, enjoying himself. ‘Were it not for your visit here, Mrs O’Malley, we would never have known of this happy event … and a twentieth on the rent to boot!’

      Ellen felt Michael start to move on Pakenham. She reached out, caught his arm, squeezed it.

      ‘A child is a gift from God – as we all are,’ she measured out, with not a tinge of irony. ‘Now that we have fulfilled our duties, my husband and I must be on our way, and not take up any more of Your Lordship’s time.’

      She

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