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flatly refused to receive a daughter-in-law who was no better than one of her own maids. The fact that the Ryans were wealthy farmers made no difference. The Ryans were bog Irish. Eventually, they supposed, some means would be found of paying the wretched girl off, when Philip came to his senses.
    His father died eighteen months later of undiagnosed cancer of the lung. He didn’t disinherit his son, as some of their more extreme friends advised, nor did he tell Philip’s mother that he had met his son and daughter-in-law in London. A pretty little wisp of a girl who was certainly not pregnant, she obviously adored Philip. She had a delicacy and charm about her that the old man recognized. He’d seen women in his boyhood with shawls over their heads and bare feet, with the same air of ancient breeding. He wished them happiness, but he didn’t ask them to come home.
    When he died, his widow moved to a property in Meath and Philip brought his young Irish wife back to Ireland to live at Riverstown. Mrs Gerard, the old housekeeper, had given notice. She was not, she told Mrs Arbuthnot, prepared to work for the likes of her .
    They drove through the gates and up the avenue of ancient lime trees. It was a bright autumn day in 1938 and as they rounded the bend and came in sight of the river, Philip took her hand and said, ‘Look, darling, isn’t that wonderful? Just look at the leaf colour all along the bank there …’ She saw the excitement in his face and smiled to please him. Surely the great blaze of reds and golden yellows was a marvellous sight, but they did nothing to ease the apprehension in her heart. At home they took such things without comment. There was little time to stand admiring the view of this or that season when there was a big farm to run and a house and family to be looked after. ‘Oh, God love us, the dirty old east wind is coming up,’ her mother would say as the trees turned colour.
    â€˜It’s lovely, Phil,’ she said softly. ‘Like a picture painting.’
    He squeezed her hand and said, ‘A painting, sweetheart. Not picture painting.’ He didn’t see the faint blush of embarrassment because she turned her head away. All he saw as he glanced at her was his little wife, shy as a fieldmouse, clinging to his hand. Of course she was nervous, he thought, seeing the big white-painted façade of his home come into the open. It was a big place, though the Ryans’ farm was substantial enough. She’d nothing to worry about, especially since that old bitch Mrs Gerard had walked off in a huff. Eileen wouldn’t have found her easy to cope with. He’d set the staff straight if there was any nonsense …
    The gardener was waiting for them at the front door. He opened the car door for Philip, who handed his wife out.
    â€˜This is Doyle,’ he said, introducing her.
    â€˜Mrs Arbuthnot.’
    Doyle had his cap off and noticed that the new missus half put out her hand to shake his, not knowing what to do.
    â€˜Welcome, sir; welcome, mam.’
    Philip guided her by the arm into the front entrance and the hall, where a frightening array of girls in uniforms with white aprons and the cook, whom Eileen had known since she was a child, came up one by one and greeted them. She could feel her cheeks burning as girls she’d been to the convent school with in Naas said, ‘Welcome, mam’ and some had slyness in their smiles.
    The cook said, ‘Mrs Gerard’s gone, sir. Will ye be getting someone else?’
    â€˜That’s up to my wife,’ Philip said firmly. ‘But I think we’d like tea in the library. And early dinner, please, Mary. Mrs Arbuthnot’s tired. We had a long journey.’
    â€˜Was the crossing rough, sir?’ Eileen stood there while he chatted to Mary, who was a distant cousin on the Ryan side. Of course he was at ease; he could joke with his servants and turn away, dismissing them