Young bloods - Scarrow Simon (библиотека электронных книг txt) 📗

Arthur thought for a moment. It seemed an interesting enough prospect – something that might provide a welcome change from the growing ennui of the life as one of the officers of the lord-lieutenant's court at Dublin Castle.Who knew, politics might even be interesting. He looked up at his brother and smiled. 'Very well, I'll do it.'

'Good.' William raised his glass. 'To the next member of parliament for Trim.'

Chapter 54

Events moved rather faster than Arthur had expected. William announced his resignation from parliament early in the new year of 1790 and an election was called for the end of April. Arthur requested and received leave to stand for the seat and set off for Trim. The season's rain had turned the surface of the roads into mud so profusely that in many places it was hard to tell where the road ended and the surrounding bogs began. It took three days to travel the thirty-five miles to Trim and Arthur arrived tired and anxious for a hot bath and a good night's sleep.Through the mud-spattered window of the coach the market town looked bleak and unwelcoming in the icy rain. Dark clouds crowded the sky as far as the faint grey line of the foothills on the horizon. Arthur had not visited the town since he was a boy and was surprised how poorly the grim little place accorded with the memory from childhood. The coach drew up outside the large inn that overlooked the town's market square and, pulling his cloak tightly about his neck, Arthur climbed down from the coach and hurried inside, leaving the baggage to the two youngsters who had scrambled from the coach yard to help the driver.

The innkeeper shut the door behind the new arrival and inclined his head in greeting. 'You'll be wanting a room, sir?'

'Yes.Your best, if you please.'

'Ah, well. Now that would be a problem, sir.' The innkeeper smiled faintly.'You see the best room is already let.To a gentleman from Dublin.'

'Oh?'Arthur wondered if he might know the man.'And he is?'

'The other gentleman? A Mr Connor O'Farrell, sir.'

'O'Farrell?' The name was familiar, but Arthur struggled to place it. 'Never mind. Perhaps I can have the room when Mr O'Farrell leaves.'

The innkeeper shook his head. 'I don't think so, sir. The gentleman has rented the room for some weeks. But I'm sure I can find another room that will satisfy you.'

Arthur was not in any mood to argue. Besides, he could talk to this man, O'Farrell, later on and appeal to his good nature over a drink. 'Oh… very well.'

The innkeeper led him up some ancient stairs that creaked underfoot like the timbers of a ship in a rough sea. At the top of the stairs was a large gallery off which a dozen or so doors opened.The innkeeper led Arthur to one at the end of the gallery and into a large, comfortably furnished room with a window overlooking the market square. The window was flanked by a small writing table on one side, and an old chest on the other. As Arthur glanced round, the innkeeper looked at him hopefully.

'This will do, for now.'

The innkeeper smiled and his shoulders slumped a little as the tension eased. 'Very good, sir. I'll have your bags brought up immediately.'

'Good. And I'll have a bath.'

'A bath, sir?'

Arthur stared at him. 'You do have a bath, don't you?'

'Oh, yes, sir. I'll look for it straight away, and have my boys boil some water up.'

'Warm water will do. I'm not a bloody lobster.'

'Yes, sir.'The innkeeper was flustered. 'I mean, no, sir. I'll see to it straight away.'

He ducked out of the room and closed the door quietly as Arthur crossed the room and sat down on the cushions of the narrow window-seat. The panes of glass, and the rain, running in streaks down the outside, distorted the view of the market square and made the buildings on the far side look as if they had been sculpted from melted wax. A handful of townspeople scurried across the muddy square, hunched down into their coats with hats and scarves pulled tightly over their heads.

As darkness closed in on Trim, the streets glistened in the lights that gleamed in the town's windows and Arthur drew the thick curtains before he dressed for dinner. Despite the heat from a small fire glowing in the grate in the corner of the room, the air was cold and clammy, and Arthur hurriedly pulled his clothes on. At least the bathwater had been well heated and he had been able to recline in the tub with water up to his chin, and relax in its warm embrace. Not that there would be much opportunity for such moments in the months to come, he reflected as he wound the stock around his neck and neatly tucked the ends into the collar of his shirt. William had impressed upon him the need to meet as many people as possible, arrange public meetings and ensure that the electorate were well fed and watered, though not so well watered as to be incapable of casting their ballot when the time came.

Arthur left his room and descended the creaking stairs into the hall. The innkeeper had given him directions to the small dining room reserved for his better customers, at the opposite end of the building from the raucous chaos of the public bar, and Arthur was pleasantly surprised to find a well-lit, panelled room with eight small tables arranged either side of a large fireplace. A man was sitting at one of the tables, carving a slice from a shank of lamb. He was young, though some years older than Arthur, with dark curly hair and bright blue eyes. A frock coat did little to hide the powerful physique beneath. He glanced up as Arthur entered the room and smiled.

'Lieutenant Wesley. How are you, sir?'

'Well enough, sir. But you have me at a disadvantage.'

'My apologies. Connor O'Farrell, from Dublin. I recognise you from the castle.'

'Indeed? I'm afraid I cannot claim the same familiarity.'

'Never mind.' O'Farrell smiled. 'Will you join me at my table? I fear we are the only two men of any social distinction staying at the inn and it would be a shame to dine alone.'

'Thank you.' Arthur returned his smile, pulled out the chair opposite O'Farrell and sat himself down. A small door opened at the side of the room and the innkeeper bustled out and hurried across to the table. He glanced at the two guests anxiously before he turned to address Arthur.

'Would you care for some lamb as well, sir?'

'What else is there?'

'Beef brisket, or boiled pork.'

'Boiled pork?' Arthur winced. 'Then I'll have the lamb. And what of your wines?'

'Only Madeira left, sir.' The innkeeper shrugged his heavy shoulders in apology. 'Unless you'd like an ale?'

'No. The Madeira will do well enough.'

'Very well, sir.' The innkeeper turned back towards the side door. 'Won't be long.'

Once they were alone again,Arthur looked closely at O'Farrell and the latter laughed lightly.

'You're trying to place me.'

'Yes.'

'I'm a lawyer. I share some offices with a member of parliament. Henry Grattan. I take it you know of him.'

'I know of his reputation,' Arthur replied, 'although I can't say I approve of it.'

'Oh?' O'Farrell slipped a small piece of lamb into his mouth and chewed as he looked to Arthur, evidently expecting some kind of elaboration.

'Yes, well, you know. Grattan's somewhat of a radical. I expect you understand that, given that you share premises.'

O'Farrell nodded and swallowed. He sipped some water from a glass before he spoke. 'Grattan's a radical all right. That hasn't won him many friends in Dublin. At least not up at the castle.'

'Can you wonder? What with all the froth he spouts about reform and the inspiration we should draw from public affairs in France. The man appears to be quite blind to the dangerous waters our French neighbours are swimming in.'

'Ah, but you can hardly blame the man for using the French example to excite support for reform here in Ireland. It's long overdue, after all.'