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There’s no need to embellish what’s happening here. The truth is harsh enough. But the truth is not reaching England. What I write is being rewritten, my reports are being reworked so completely it is impossible for the government to know the extent of this tragedy. It is being hidden and I do not know why. On Monday a priest came to me. He had been called to give comfort to an old woman whose cottage was to be tumbled. She was dying inside. He appealed to the gang to wait until he could administer the last rites. But they ignored him and he had to drag her out even as they set the place on fire. She died in his arms, watching her home reduced to rubble. As she closed her eyes, the last she heard of this life was their bawling laughter. I reported it to the Commission but they refused to list a complaint against the landlord.’
    ‘What will you do?’ she asked. ‘Return to England?’
    ‘No! I cannot go back. Not yet. I think maybe there are other things I can do here, Kate, other ways to help. I am not a godly man, nor am I a sentimentalist but I cannot do nothing now that I know so much.’
    He let go her hand and stood. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. We have known each other for such a short time but we were allies and with your help I thought for a while that I might have the will to fight them and turn them our way. But they are too many and too strong and their minds are set against the very people they have been sent here to help.’
    He paused. ‘I do believe we English know more about the furthest corners of our Empire than we do about Ireland? I’m sorry. I cannot expect you to understand.’
    But she understood. How she longed now to burn her skirts and do what only men could do. How she had begun to despise her pretty lace and perfumed shackles and all the niceties of her privileged life.
    She stood. ‘When will you leave?’
    ‘I am obliged to serve this month out but on the first day of February I will deliver my notice. Tomorrow I must ride south beyond Kinsale to a place called Skibbereen. The hunger is especially bad there and until now we have sent them nothing. I am taking eight wagons of corn and if the snow stops, we might be there in time to save them.’
    ‘Let me come with you!’ she pleaded, already knowing his answer.
    ‘Kate. Do you really want to help?’
    ‘Of course. Do you think it suits me to sit by a drawing-room fire, tinkering with embroidery and sipping tea from bone china?’
    ‘Then let us be real allies, you and me. You cannot come to Skibbereen but you can be more help to me by staying. I can expect to see the worst down south and I shall report what I see. But I know for certain that it will never be read by your father. It will never reach his desk. So let me send you a copy by another route. I will tell you everything I see. Make sure it is known in England. I don’t know how you can do it but let them know a little of this horror.’
    So the pact was made. As he left he went to take her hand but instead she took his and pressed it to her cheek and then kissed the palm of it. She had never done such a thing to anyone before but in this cold and captive country she had finally found someone warm and open and she was grateful. He smiled, leant forward and put his lips gently to her forehead.
    ‘Goodbye, Kate. You are like a sister to me. Be my conspirator too. It will be worthwhile if we can find a way. You will be my secret agent.’
    From the window she watched him go down the steps to his carriage. He looked up at her to wave his goodbye, his dark cloak already turning white, his face speckled with flakes. She wanted to run to the door to stop him, to make him stay longer, to speak more to him. It was as if she never expected to see him again.

    The winds that came from Russia blew colder by the day and more of the hungry began to freeze to death. A month before, Sir William had reported to Sir Charles Trevelyan that thousands were affected by the famine. Now, had he the