"You do not understand, Mother," he said icily. "I have no interest in what my grandfather thought of me, and never had since I was a child. As for Patrick, I despise him. But anyone who takes property from me," he went on in a deadly tone she had never heard before, "is my enemy. And I destroy my enemies. As for Grandfather, I never wish to hear his name again."

"He left you some prints. You'll keep those, then, I dare say," she retorted in some disgust.

He gave her a blank stare.

"I sold them this morning. Fifty guineas."

Then, banging the door behind him, he walked out.

It was hard for her to feel the same affection for him after that, though, as his mother, she tried.

If Georgiana deplored her son's personal behaviour, there were times in the months that followed when she began to wonder whether some of his political views might even be justified.

The situation in Ireland was becoming increasingly tense. Despite the Patriots' success with the Catholic issue, nothing else had changed. The restrictions on Irish trade were still in place. While Grattan continued his blistering attacks in Parliament, his friend Napper Tandy was busy organising the tradesmen of Dublin: copying the American rebels, they were threatening to start refusing to buy English goods. "Pernicious rabble," Hercules called them. But he had a more serious objection. "It's one thing for Grattan to attack us in Parliament," he declared, "but he and Tandy don't seem to care what other means they use. Next thing we shall have people rioting in the streets."

Just as worrying was the problem of Ireland's defence. "France is now at war with Britain, and the best of our garrison troops have gone to America," George pointed out. "If France should decide to invade us, we're practically defenceless." Parliament had voted to raise a militia, but he wasn't impressed. "It's an empty gesture, since there isn't any money to pay for it." There was talk of raising private volunteers. In Ulster, they were already starting.

Georgiana was looking out of her bedroom window early one Saturday morning when she saw them-a troop of about a hundred men, marching through Merrion Square. They wore an assortment of uniforms; some carried muskets, some only pikes. At their head rode an officer, and just behind him, proudly carrying a Saint George's flag, marched a young man whom she recognised as one of the Doyles. They were more or less in step and looking rather pleased with themselves.

It was only ten minutes later when Hercules arrived.

"Did you see the Volunteers?" he asked. "They came past my house, so I imagined they'd come down here."

To her surprise, despite his feelings about Fortunatus, Hercules had recently moved into his grandfather's house. True, he had stripped out every reminder of the old man's occupancy, and painted and repapered every inch of the place. "It suits me to be on St. Stephen's Green," he had explained, "and Kitty likes it."

"They looked splendid," she said.

"Splendid? They looked like damn trouble," he retorted.

"But they're all good Protestants, ready to defend their country." After all, the Volunteers had been springing up all over the island. Protestant townsmen and country gentry alike had rallied to the cause. Whatever else his views, no Protestant wanted to be invaded by the French.

"And did you notice who was carrying the colours in that little troop? One of the Doyles, who are all thick as thieves with Napper Tandy. Don't you see?" he exclaimed impatiently. "It's Grattan's cursed Patriots-only now they're armed."

Was it so? As it happened, she and George were dining at Leinster House that day. When they were talking with the duke before the meal, she asked him what he thought.

"I fear your son may be right," he replied. "Personally, I doubt whether these Volunteers would be much use against trained French troops. But we can't very well prevent them forming. So I think we should tell them we're with them, and hope to control them as best we can." He looked at George. "I hope I can count on your support, Mountwalsh." The great aristocrat's aquiline features creased into a grin. "After all, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

A couple of months later, Hercules and Kitty had their first child. It was a son. Georgiana was the first one round to see the baby and congratulate the parents. Everything passed off well. She gazed at the baby for a long time.

"We shall call him William," Hercules announced firmly. "After William of Orange."

Only when she was safely home did Georgiana burst out laughing.

"I almost came out with it in front of Hercules," she told her husband, "but thank heavens I didn't. You must see the baby's face." For in their endless minuet, the family genes had apparently decided to show a sense of humour. "He looks exactly like Patrick."

This happy domestic event could not distract Georgiana from the fact that life in Dublin was becoming quite alarming. Napper Tandy and his tradesmen were carrying out their threat and English goods were now being refused at the port. "The English cloth merchants are really feeling the pinch," Doyle told her with glee. Many of the newspapers were supporting the action. The Volunteers were growing in numbers every week. They mostly had proper uniforms and insignia now, and they drilled with real purpose. They might be there, in theory, to fight the French; but there was no doubt that many of them were Napper Tandy's men.

In the summer, Hercules made a brief visit to London. He returned looking sombre. He had met a number of political men, including Lord North, the Prime Minister.

"I never saw a man so miserable in office," he reported. "He longs to retire and only stays because the king begs him. The American business weighs him down; half the Members of Parliament seem ready to cave in to the colonists, and it's only the king who remains firm. As for Ireland, he despairs of us. He confessed to me privately that he wonders if it mightn't be better to dispense with our Parliament and rule the island direct from Westminster. I can't say I blame him." He shrugged. "There's no one in London with any backbone."

Not long afterwards, he came round to see his parents, this time in a furious temper. He was holding a paper in his hand.

"Have you seen this?" he cried. It was a pamphlet. The author was recommending that, like rebellious America, Ireland should break away from Britain entirely. "He even has the impertinence to call it natural justice. And do you know who this author is? None other than a Patriot Member of Parliament, that damned Charles Sheridan." He gave them both a bleak look. "My family still treats the Sheridans as friends," he grumbled, "when I could have told you those people were no good."

But for Georgiana, the event that forced her to concede that Hercules might have a point came in the autumn.

As soon as the new parliamentary session began, the Patriots were in full cry again. Once and for all, Grattan was demanding, give Ireland her own free trade and end the English controls. Meanwhile, the Volunteers held several small parades at which Patriot speeches were made. But the word on the street was that this was only a prelude.

"Wait for King Billie's Birthday," they said.

Of all the days in the Protestant calendar, none was more popular with the Dublin tradesmen than the anniversary of William of Orange's birth. Each November it was celebrated with dinners and loyal speeches. So when it was announced that the Volunteers would hold a parade in front of King Billie's statue on College Green, it was clearly going to be a large affair.

As it happened, George had gone down on business to the Wexford estate, and so Georgiana, who was curious to see the parade, asked Hercules to accompany her.

"You mustn't go near it," he told her. "You should stay indoors. Firstly, I don't trust the Volunteers. And even if they behave, I don't want you seen there."

"I could watch them perfectly safely, and without anyone misunderstanding, if I went with you," she pointed out.

"Certainly not. I forbid you to go."

Perhaps, if Hercules hadn't said that, she might have stayed away. He probably meant to protect her, but it wasn't for her son to give her orders. So Georgiana said nothing but prepared to go. All the same, as it would be foolish for a lady to go into such a huge crowd entirely unescorted, she wondered whom she should ask to take her. And then she realised that she knew the perfect person.

She was already eagerly waiting long before Doyle arrived. The merchant was in high good humour.

"We've a perfect day for it," he declared. "And I have made arrangements."

They walked around Merrion Square, past the huge facade of Leinster House, and turned left at the corner, proceeding westwards with the grey wall of the Trinity College precincts on their right. The street was full of people going in the same direction, and soon there was such a press that she was doubly glad she had Doyle to escort her. As they passed Kildare Street and came towards the main college buildings, she had to keep close behind the merchant as he firmly made his way through the throng. When they finally came out in front of the College, it seemed to her that she would see nothing of the parade at all, for there was a cordon round the edge of the Green, and the crowd was now so thick that she could only see the upper part of the huge parliament building looming over their heads. Doyle kept going, however, and suddenly turned in at a doorway.

"A friend of mine," he explained with a grin. And moments later they were climbing the stairs of a narrow merchant's house, past the parlour floor and the first floor of bedchambers. They came to an upper landing, where they were warmly welcomed by a prosperous tailor and his family and ushered into a simple bedchamber, where a table of refreshments had already been set up. She was immediately given hot chocolate and taken to one of the windows, from which the family, with all their servants, were preparing to watch the proceedings.

It was a remarkable sight. The broad space of College Green had been cleared. Though there was a subdued hubbub from the crowd around its edges, it was as though the Green itself was holding its breath, waiting for the time when it must echo. In the centre, upon a high stone plinth, King Billie sat upon his horse, looking like a Roman general about to lead a triumph. Behind, the learned, classical facade of Trinity College watched impassively, indicating no doubt that it knew all about this sort of thing, while the splendid, upstart new parliament building, brash as the Colosseum, clearly hoped it was going to see some games. As for the private houses, every rectangular window seemed to have been turned into a theatre box for ladies and gentlemen, and some of the servants had even sneaked up onto the roofs.

After a while, a roll of drums and the sound of fifes announced that the Volunteers were coming.

They certainly made a fine display. The cavalry came first. There were more than a hundred of them. Red coats, drawn swords, flashing helmets sporting plumes; well mounted, too: as they clattered onto the parade ground, the crowd sent up a cheer. Then came the infantry: tricorn hats, blue coats or green coats with white cross-straps, white leggings. The men carried muskets; the officers, who also wore sashes, marched with drawn swords. Each company had its own emblem and colours; they marched in perfect formation, their drums beating a sharp tattoo as they swung round the Green to form a great hollow square on three sides of the statue. But even more striking to Georgiana was the fact that, behind the infantry, came an artillery train of half a dozen field cannon. She didn't know the Volunteers had cannon. Whatever their intentions, they clearly meant business. "I've three of my sons down there," she heard Doyle announce with satisfaction.

To the delight of the crowd, the troops performed some simple drill in perfect unison; next, the officers and colour sergeants came forward to salute King Billie's statue and troop the colours respectfully before him. Then, upon the order, the three sides of the square alternating with one another, the troops fired volley after volley into the air so that the serried ranks almost disappeared in smoke as College Green echoed and reechoed with the din.

The smoke cleared. The Volunteers stood still as statues themselves. And then the astonishing thing occurred.

The first banner appeared in the central company, behind the statue. Raised between two poles, it was made of green cloth, carefully inscribed with Roman letters, in Latin.

PARATI PRO PATRIA MORI.

Ready to die for our country. Well enough: a noble sentiment. The crowd applauded. But now the company on the left was unfurling another banner: white cloth, red letters, as well-produced as the first, but this time in English.

FREE TRADE.

The crowd roared. Georgiana gasped in surprise and glanced at Doyle. He was nodding in approval. And now, on the right, she saw a third banner. Red cloth, white letters, slightly broader than the other two.

FREE TRADE OR REVOLUTION.

She couldn't believe it. The crowd was roaring even more loudly than before. Revolution? The good Protestants of Dublin? What were they thinking of? She stared at the officers in their sashes. Were they going to permit such a thing? Not only permit it, apparently, but approve. For they ordered the firing of another volley, while the three great banners were held high.

They were shouting more commands. The troops were wheeling. Led by the cavalry, they made a full circuit round the Green, flags and banners unfurled and waving above their heads. As they passed in front of the Parliament, Georgiana could see that many of its members, including her son, had come out in front of the building to watch them go by. There was no possibility that the message of the banners would be missed. Behind the troops, the ominous cannon trundled by.

As the Volunteers moved away down Dame Street towards the Castle, the crowd continued to applaud. They seemed cheerful, and there was no disorder. But Georgiana was left trying to understand: what did this all mean? Had she just witnessed the first step in a revolution?

Out of courtesy to their host, they remained some time in the house to talk, after the troops had departed. Listening to the conversation, it was clear to Georgiana that the tailor and Doyle both took it for granted that everyone they knew was a Patriot. As for the banner threatening revolution, they seemed to treat it easily. "That'll wake up the government, I should think," the good tailor remarked.

College Green was relatively quiet when they came out. The Volunteers had ended their parade and small groups were drifting back. Georgiana and Doyle were just about to retrace their steps past the Trinity College precincts when he caught sight of one of his sons coming from Dame Street. It was the youngest, a man of about thirty now, looking rather handsome in his sergeant's uniform. He was accompanied by two other Volunteers, though the uniforms they wore looked slightly different from his own. Doyle waved and motioned him to come over.

Bowing politely to Georgiana, Sergeant Doyle asked her amiably if she had enjoyed their display-to which she made a noncommittal reply-and informed his father that he and his brothers intended to meet shortly at the family house. "I'm bringing these two good fellows from Ulster with me," he also announced. "They came down from Belfast to take a look at us. So I hope we impressed them."

The two in question seemed quiet, pleasant-looking men, of about the same age as young Doyle.

"We were impressed," the taller of them said with a smile.

"Very impressed," the other echoed in the same northern accent. "Good drill."

"And the banner?" she couldn't help joining the conversation. "Free trade or revolution? Are you planning to fight the British, like the Americans?"

The two Ulstermen looked at each other.

"Our ancestors took the Covenant," the taller replied. "When a principle is at stake, it may be necessary to take up arms."

"But not if it can be avoided," chimed the other.

"No. Not if it can be avoided." The tall man gave Georgiana a frank smile. His blue eyes looked kindly. Had she seen him before?"

"I don't know your names," remarked Doyle.

"Andrew Law," the taller replied. "And this is my brother Alex."

"I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. This is Lady Mountwalsh."

The change in the two men was extraordinary. They glanced at each other, then became completely silent. It was as if they had turned to ice.

Georgiana gazed at them. That was why the taller had looked vaguely familiar. Indeed, as she searched their faces, she could see other likenesses-not striking, but clear enough-to her own dear father.

"You are the sons of Daniel Law?"

Andrew Law inclined his head just enough to acknowledge the fact, but did not reply.

She understood, of course. Yet for some reason-she did not know exactly why herself-she felt a great urge to speak with them, to know them better.

"I am sorry that our two families are not closer," she said quietly. She did her best to sound friendly, and also, she hoped, dignified.

But if she was making a peace offering, it was in no way accepted. The two men stood there in silence, as if they were praying that God would remove her presence from them. The two Doyles looked on in some surprise. The eyes of Andrew and Alex Law remained grave. There was no hatred in them; they were too good for that. But it was clear that, like two elders of the Presbyterian congregation, they regarded her as a person not to be touched: an adulteress; even a fallen woman. She had never been treated like this before. She found it strangely disconcerting.

"Well," said young Doyle, "I suppose we must be going." And the two Laws, bowing politely to his father, turned away.

Doyle did not allude to the incident as they made their way back to Merrion Square, and so Georgiana was left alone with her thoughts. She felt strangely disconcerted, as if her world had been turned upside down. And as they came into the great empty space of Merrion Square, which she normally loved, her heart was heavy. Whether it was the parade, or the rejection by her cousins, or-she hardly knew what-she was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of desolation and of loss.

Nor could she shake off this depression. If the events of that day had triggered the debilitating process, in the weeks that followed the sense of sadness clung to her, like some insidious water weed that wraps itself round a swimmer, dragging him down.

Within a month of the parade, Lord North and his government had decided that it was wiser to give the Irish what they wanted, and the restrictions on Irish trade had all been lifted. Grattan and the Patriots were triumphant. "But it will also quieten them down-and the Volunteers, too," her husband remarked to Georgiana. Early in the spring, the discrimination against the Presbyterians was also removed. She hoped that would please the Law family in Ulster. Certainly, as the first months of 1780 passed without incident, it seemed that her husband's assessment might be right; and as the weather began to grow warmer, she knew she should feel more cheerful. But she didn't, and in the middle of April, George suggested: "Why not go down to Wexford? The change of scene might do you good."

It was a pity really, she thought, how little, up until now, they had lived in the big Palladian house they had built: a month or two each summer, that was all. Often as not, they would use the more humble family house in Fingal. Perhaps it was indicative of her husband's genial nature that, having done all that was required to raise his family in the eyes of the world, he had been quite content, instead of living in Wexford as a great lord, entertaining on a grand scale, to continue as the kindly country gentleman he really was. For her part, she was perfectly happy to live this way.

If some of the new Irish mansions were being set, like the greatest English houses, in huge landscaped parks, Mount Walsh had not yet attained such rural splendour. The house, big and impressive enough, to be sure, was fronted by open grass, with a ha-ha against the encroaching deer. But beyond that, and to each side, the woods and coppices followed straight and simple lines. The Wexford landscape around was very pleasant, though, with the open fields and modest hillocks, typical of the region, that had felt so familiar to the English yeomen farmers who had settled there.

And as the summer began, and she woke each morning to the glorious sounds of the dawn chorus, and walked out into the fields where the cows were grazing, or visited the dairy and watched the dairymaids at the milk churns, Georgiana began to experience, if not a lightening of the spirit, at least a sense of peace.

Thank God for her husband. He could not be there all the time, but he spent many weeks with her. His behaviour was perfect. If she felt moody, he would know when to leave her alone; but quietly, reassuringly, he was always there. With his broad face and kindly manner, George might not be deeply ambitious; but he was nobody's fool, and she respected him. And when, walking alone with her down a country track, he would put his strong arm round her waist, she felt comforted, and thankful to have such a fine and understanding husband.

All the same, when he was not there, she might have been lonely. Several of the servants in the house had been with them in Dublin before; but to the people working on the estate, and to the tenant farmers, she and George were still newcomers, and seldom seen at that. She found them friendly and polite enough, in a watchful manner- for they knew well enough whose money had paid for the estate-but there were only a few with whom she was on terms of any intimacy. She was quite glad, therefore, to find that there was one person in the house who seemed to be far more lonely than she was.

Brigid was her name. She was only sixteen, a thin, pale, dark-haired creature. Like many country girls, she had been sent to work as a servant with a local farmer near her home, some thirty miles up the coast. It was a good way for a girl in a large family to earn her keep and learn to be a good housekeeper until such time, God willing, as she found a husband. But the farmer had not treated her well, and she had only been there a year when the local priest, hearing of the opening through a friend in the area, had spoken to her parents and arranged for the girl and her mother to visit the housekeeper at Mount Walsh, who had engaged her, pending Lady Mountwalsh's approval. To work in such a fine establishment was considered an opportunity, and on being assured that it was a kindly household, the mother had left the girl there.

But she wasn't happy. Not that she was mistreated: far from it. But Mount Walsh was too far from her home for her to make visits to her family more than once or twice a year. And though she did her work well enough, she hardly spoke a word. "She's pale as a ghost and thin as a rake," the housekeeper told Georgiana, "and I can't get her to eat more than a mouthful at mealtimes."

So Georgiana had taken the girl under her wing, used her as an occasional lady's maid, taught her how to brush and dress her hair, and persuaded her to talk a little as she did so. She learned that Brigid's father was a craftsman, and that she could read and write. Under such kindly treatment, the girl seemed to become a little more cheerful, and even put on an ounce or two of weight. But the unforeseen benefit of her kindness was that, because of her concern for the girl's welfare, Georgiana had a small project to occupy her attention, and it left her feeling less lonely and more cheerful herself.

She was already feeling better by the month of July, when Hercules and Kitty came down, accompanied by little William. She was glad to have them there. If Hercules sometimes inspected the estate as though he'd be glad when his parents were out of it and the place was his, if he pointed out that he, personally, would make better use of the house for political entertaining than they seemed willing to do, she knew that he meant no harm. It was just his nature. If he warned her that several of the local gentry and farmers to whom she had taken a liking were damned Patriots-and that he had proof of it-she did not let it disturb her.

Much of the time, he was quite pleasant. Kitty, meanwhile, came into her own. Her conversation might be limited, but she was entirely at home in the country; she knew exactly how everything should be done; and everyone there, from the farmhands to the scullery maid, soon treated her with a friendly respect, as though they had known her all their lives. She'll probably run the place, Georgiana thought without any rancour, far better than I. And watching her walk arm in arm with Hercules, clearly happy, she had to admit that perhaps Hercules had made the right choice for a wife.

But the great joy came from baby William.

He was a darling little boy; and as she was his grandmother, no one seemed to mind how much time she spent with him. Indeed, if Hercules and Kitty were otherwise engaged, they were glad that she was there to sit and play with him by the hour. Sometimes she summoned Brigid to help her, and the girl proved to be rather good with him. He was such a merry child. And he still resembled Patrick, although she was careful not to say so.

Once the cook, who had worked for Fortunatus many years ago, remarked quite innocently to Hercules: "Doesn't the baby look just like Master Patrick did when he was that age?"

"Not at all," said Hercules coldly.

"Ah, but you'd have been too young to remember," she added kindly.

"He doesn't look like him at all," Hercules thundered, and gave the cook such a terrible look that she never mentioned the subject again. It was as well, Georgiana thought, that Hercules was not the master of the house, or the poor woman would surely have been sent packing.