Arthur, I fear we may never see the old days again. Our class teeters on the edge of oblivion in France.Take heed of our fate and do what you can to ensure that all that is fine and good in the nobility of England is spared from the fate of France.
Your friend, Marcel de Pignerolle
Arthur folded the letter and set in down on his desk. He turned and looked out of his window, across the roof tiles of Dublin, glistening in the desultory rain that had closed in over the city since the start of December. It was more than two weeks since he had last seen clear blue sky. Nearly three years had passed since he had taken up the post of an aide at Dublin Castle. He was still a mere lieutenant with little prospect of promotion in the army and little hope for advancement outside of it. The wild social life amongst the young officers of the castle now held little attraction for him. He had had enough of being drunk, of seeking out mischief and getting into trouble. The courtesans of the better clubs now all seemed the same: painted faces with painted-on passion, whose conversation seldom extended beyond platitudes and politely presented reminders of the pecuniary nature of their relations with Arthur. Even his companions now seemed to bore him. Dancing Jack was well on the road to nuptial incarceration, while Buck Whaley and the others drank and duelled and shagged, and placed puerile bets on the outcomes of any of the first three pursuits.
Arthur was honest enough to admit that there was much pleasure to be had from such a life, provided one had sufficient income that the costs need never impinge upon the enjoyment of it. But in his case, there was never enough income. Debt would inevitably overwhelm him – unless he was more responsible in his financial affairs, or he concentrated on improving his prospects. Neither option appealed to Arthur. Something must be done about the situation, and soon.
His thoughts flicked back to events in France. From the letter and the reports he had read, it seemed that the old regime of France was crashing down and no force seemed able to prevent it.The people had seized control and had set about dismantling all the best and finest qualities that had endured for centuries. And what would follow in its wake, Arthur wondered bitterly. A social order founded on the basest qualities that defined mankind. How could it be otherwise now that power was in the hands of lawyers, doctors, merchants and other common demagogues?
What was even worse, even more frightening, was the comfort that people in Ireland seemed to be drawing from the anarchy in France. On the occasions when Arthur had sat in the gallery at the Irish parliament and listened to the debates he had been horrified by the radical views expressed by some of the members. Men, like Henry Grattan, who had supported measures to remove restrictions on Catholics, were now openly espousing the democratic aspirations of the French radicals. What was happening in France was not democracy, but mob rule, and it was causing great alarm amongst those who wished to maintain order in Britain and Ireland. Grattan was a fool, Arthur decided. Ireland was like a tinderbox, thanks to the simmering tensions between the classes, and he dreaded the consequences. Every time that Grattan gave one of his inflammatory public speeches Arthur was reminded of Lord Gordon. This was no time to provoke the authorities and stir up the baser emotions of the people. Reform, if it was to come, must wait for less troubled times when cooler heads could debate the issues in a responsible manner. Otherwise there would be insurrection, and the blood of the innocent would be on the hands of Grattan and his followers when the government was obliged to use force to prevent anarchy.
Arthur decided to join William at the family's house in Merrion Street for Christmas. The meal was an understandably mute affair and after the final course had been eaten, and the dishes removed by silent servants, the two brothers settled into some chairs beside the wavering glow of a fire and opened a bottle of brandy.
William eased himself back and looked into the amber glow of his glass. 'As I mentioned to you before, I have decided to follow Richard to the English parliament.There's more scope for a man of my promise there. Indeed, any man with ambitions to serve the state at the highest level should make for England.You might bear that in mind, when the time comes.There's little hope of achieving anything of note in Ireland. But it does adequate service as a training ground for men with an eye to the future.To which end, I think you should stand as the member for Trim when I quit the seat.'
'Me?' Arthur looked amused. 'Me, a member of parliament?'
'Why not? The family has held the seat for years. No point in abandoning it yet. Besides, in the current fevered climate the electors might just be tempted to elect some damn radical. It's not a demanding role, Arthur. Even you can cope with the less-than-onerous duties of being a member of parliament.You just have to turn up to vote for those who speak in favour of the Crown and the lord-lieutenant. Be vocal in your support of them, and suitably rude to those that oppose the King's men, and you'll do fine. Keep it up for a few years and you'll be rewarded with some sinecure or other for your troubles. May not be much but it will help to keep the debt collectors at bay. Speaking of which, as I said before, you might want to move in here, since I'm leaving for London. Now then, do you think you are up to the job?'
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.'