Maud Gonne the Heiress turns Activist: A New Extract for Patrons

In this patron-only extract from A Life Before, Maud Gonne seeks an appropiate response from the landlord to the eviction scene she witnessed on the way to his house. Sign up on Kickstarter to be notified about the launch of this book in July 2024, and our accompanying #StatueforMaudGonne campaign. As Maud Gonne and Dash emerged from their carriage, a liveried footman came forward, bowing so low she feared he might touch his toes with his forehead. With a nod, she relinquished her bags, then climbed the steps and entered the hallway, alone. Some say the exterior of Rochford Hall is too plain. Austere in the extreme it's been called, though for myself I've always been impressed by its simple solidity, but as soon as you pass through the big oak door, you're greeted by an entrance hall no soul could call modest. Soaring high, adorned with Doric and Ionic columns, the great hall boasts a great staircase of Kilkenny marble that sweeps up, up and upwards to the great gallery, the heart of the house for its music-loving residents with a great organ at its centre, the sight of which set your flesh bursting into crotchets and quavers. Here was where M. Hollmann would later perform As Maud Gonne manoeuvred her statuesque frame through the crowd, with a “How d’you do?” here and a “Delighted I’m sure,” there, she purposefully scanned the room for her host. Somewhere in a distant room, the musicians could be heard, tuning their instruments, and the crowd was getting itself all giddy with anticipation. "M. Joseph Hollmann, fancy." "The King of Holland’s personal violinist, no less, playing for us!" "Here in Graigenaspiddogue, if you can believe it!!" Maud Gonne’s keen eye landed on the lady who must be Mrs. Rochford, welcoming a group of guests with the well-oiled charm of one who’d played hostess at a soirée before. She made her way over. “Mrs. Rochford, thank you so much for your kind invitation. I am Maud Gonne." Mrs. Rochford turned from the small circle before her. “Miss Gonne, how delightful to see you." Her smile was steady, despite the interruption. She gave Maud a surreptitious once-over, from the crown of her statuesque height to the tips of her elegant travelling slippers. "Such a pity your dear father couldn’t be here. I'm told the Colonel has very refined musical tastes.” “I’m so sorry, Mrs Rochford, but might I have a word, if you please. I need to speak with you about a pressing matter.” Her hostess hesitated. “I know it is a poor time to raise it but I fear it cannot wait.” “My dear girl, of course. Whatever is the matter?” “There has been an eviction, Mrs Rochford.” “An eviction?” “Yes. And I believe it to be a Rochford tenant.” Mrs Rochford expression didn't waver, beyond a small flare of the nostrils. She cast a quick glance around to see if any of the assembled had heard this blunt proclamation? “I’m afraid I know nothing of evictions, my dear. And I really—”. “Then I must speak to your husband. Where might I find him?” With a grip as firm as a devil's handshake, Mrs. Rochford guided Maud Gonne away from the group to a quiet nook in one corner of the room. “Miss Gonne, we are so pleased to have you with us for our entertainment this evening. This is not the time to trouble my--” “But, Mrs Rochford, a family has been put out into the cold. How are they to survive?” Mrs. Rochford lifted a delicate hand, and in a heartbeat, her head housekeeper was at her side. "Mrs. Locke, could you show Miss Gonne to her room? I believe she needs to change before joining us for dinner." She turned away, her radiant smile back in place, to rejoin her guests. * * * Dinner was much later than planned. The clinking of empty glasses and muted coughs echoed through the grand hall, as the servants replaced the candles, adjusted the table settings, and pouring more wine. Every eye was on the double doors, willing them to swing open, and none more than poor Mrs Rochford. Still, their host failed to appear and dinner was denied them. Maud Gonne declined the many wine refills offered. Never one for drink, she wanted to stay steady so she might avail of an opportunity to discuss the evicted tenant with Mr Rochford. If he ever arrived, that was. Finally he did, and revealed himself to be a tall red-faced man apparently already drunk. Nobody cared, their stomachs felt like their throats has been disconnected, and surely now they'd be fed. Shortly afterwards came the blessed call, "Dinner is served.” Maud Gonne manoeuvred herself to the top of the line, so she might place herself near her host, but in the dining room, each place at the long dining table, that stretched the full length of the room, had a name card inscribed in Celtic calligraphy, with a sprig of rosemary placed beside it for luck, and she was guided to her seat by the footman.The room was very elegant, with Waterford crystal chandeliers, and winter flowers spilling over in great vases, set off by pine greens and cones, and wood paneling that gleamed under the glow of the gas lights. Maud Gonne had given her hostess a seating challenge by arriving unaccompanied, and was seated at the end of the table, ten seatings south of her host and too far away to speak to him with ease. To her left, she had a Captain Swift, in dress uniform with a neatly trimmed moustache, who immediately began to regale tales of his travels, and to find himself greatly amused by his own jokes. To her right, a Mr Graham, far less self-assured as the Captain, fingers fidgeting with the stem of his wine glass, as he listened over-politely and too intently to the conversation, his gaze constantly darting back toward her. The meal was excellent, with every care taken. A delicate consommé, a tender sole poached in wine and herbs, a grand roast of venison, a beef pie, then plum pudding and lemon cake layered high with fruits and creams, topped with spun sugar. Alas, with their taste buds numbed by too many glasses of wine on empty bellies, and anticipation dulled by the long wait, the fine flavors, intricate seasonings, and subtle pairings the cooks had labored over went unnoticed by most. Conversation was loud and laughter raucous. Silently, Maud Gonne lamented the wasted effort of the chefs and the unappreciated feast and the hopelessness of her quest. The drink had Mr Rochford good and proper and over the delayed dinner, he dominated the table, complaining in an overbearing voice about the Land League as the ruination of the country. His wife, sitting opposite, tried to change the subject a number of times, but he would not be diverted. He spoke abruptly, and whenever he left a pause, Maud Gonne had a mind to speak up, but each time, her heart beat too fast, faster than a lamb in a dog kennel, and her head got tangled up about what to say and how to say it. The situation was so awkward. When he bellowed from one end of the table to the other about how he’d forbidden anyone on his estate from joining the League, then fell into an inebriated silence, she took her chance. “I had hoped to speak to you of this matter, Mr. Rochford,” she piped up. The table around them grew quiet, ears perking up. With cheeks flushed and eyes glossy with alcohol, Mr Rochford turned to see who’d challenge him. Not recognising Maud Gonne, he leaned to his neighbour, and inquired about her identity. “Then speak, Miss Gonne," he said, once informed. “Speak to me of this matter.” He broke into a crude grin and a blush crept up Maud’s neck, but she met his gaze. She had thought when coming here that he might not know. Now, she thought only of how she might make him care. “Mr. Rochford, on my way here I saw a poor woman cast out, like refuse, onto the roadside and the cottage she lived in destroyed.” His ogling grin grew wider. Maud was straying far from the delicate dance of dinner party manners, she knew, and she didn’t dare cast a glance at Mrs. Rochford, whose fury she could feel without looking, along with the discomfort of the kindly guests and the glee of those who were revelling in the drama. “Your bailiffs did this, Sir. I thought perhaps you were ignorant of what is happening in your name.” “It is you who are displaying ignorance, my child.” He waved to the footman to pour more wine. “Duncan was always a bad tenant. I warned him myself, one time, that his wife would wind up lying in a ditch.” “Whatever the circumstances, she is now in dire need of aid." "Aid?" Mr. Rochford let out a bellowing laugh. “The Colonel's daughter thinks we ought to aid rent-dodging tenants who plot our downfall?" He raised his glass, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "She is very ill. Without assistance, I believe she must die." From her side, Captain Swift chimed in, "If she did die, Miss Gonne, it sounds like she would have only her husband to blame, but I doubt she'll come to any serious harm." “Yessss,” Mr. Rochford slurred. "Listen to my learned friend there. You've been duped, dear girl. Played… Played like a fiddle. You stick to violins, M. Hollman’s etc.” His speech, muddled and thick, made little sense. “Your soft heart does you credit, Miss Gonne,” Captain Swift said. “But these things are best left to the land agents.” Maud ignored him and kept her eyes locked on Mr. Rochford. "You intend to offer her no assistance?” Mr. Rochford was staring sluggishly at the candlelight and seemed to have fallen asleep with his eyes open. Discomfort threatened to choke the room. Mrs Rochford piped up brightly, "Has anyone had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Hollmann’s playing before?" The guests around her took their cue, voices rising in collective relief. “No, but I hear he plays like an angel,” one gushed, fanning herself vigorously. “Like he’s plucking the very strings of Heaven,” said another. “We are all so honoured to be here, dear Mrs Rochford.” After that, Maud Gonne endured a bitter evening. M. Hollmann’s playing was as exquisite as promised, artistry of almost unnerving precision, with each note flawlessly placed. His audience sat, awed and spellbound, in the grand reception hall, as the notes cascaded down from the grand gallery, like a shimmering waterfall of sound, but for Maud Gonne, the haunting music only grated against her nerves. She got through the performance, and managed to endure the small talk that followed at the post-recital supper, and finally, was able to flee to her guest room. The footman had earlier suggested taking Dash to the kennels, but Maud had insisted on having him in her room. Blessed decision. Little had she known then how much she would need him. She tossed and turned all night, drifting off only to wake up minutes later, her mind buzzing, while Dash snored softly beside her. Never had she spent a night so tormented, not even when she’d taken up with that Italian and was summoned home by Tommy to answer for her actions. Something was awry in Ireland, something that allowed that abomination of a man, Mr. Rochford, to be so openly cruel. She could sense it, but trying to put it into words was like trying to catch smoke. The next morning, as the sun rose, its light framed the curtains on that unfamiliar window, she understood. Lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the thought came to her. How the British Empire treated the Irish people: that was what was wrong. The people had so little, while the likes of Mr. Rochford had everything greed could desire, and more. Maud Gonne had always kept close to her heart the memory of how, when she and Kathleen were children, how good the good people of Howth had been to them. How they'd loved their time there, living their free Irish life, compared to their stays with Mama's and Tommy's relatives in London. Playing with the children from the mud cabins, so like the one Mr. Rochford had torn down. The children of Howth were a wonder to Maud and Kathleen, and the feeling was mutual. Lying in bed, she recalled a rainy day that she’d often remembered before, when the two of them ran into the cabin of a playmate to shelter, and the woman of the house took them in. She took off their soaked socks and laid them by the fire to dry, and though her own children were barefoot, it was for them that she kept her pity. "The creatures, God help them, they have lost their mother." These were the good people who were being mistreated by the Empire. And, another wave of realisation broke in her, the Empire was being held in place by the army. She'd known that but now she knew the full of it. The soldiers marching through city and countryside in their dress uniforms, their bayonets gleaming and bugles blaring, their drums echoing across the fields: their job was flaunt imperial might. Tommy’s soldiers. The realization was like a cold wind whistling through cracks in her mind. Tommy stood at the head of that whole machine and the social scene she helped him to organise was another limb of that same beast, marching in step with the military's might. There she was, right beside Tommy, the two of them working, day after day, to prop it all up.