ISABELLA GIFFORD STUDIED herself in the mirror. She turned slowly around. She was still a good-looking woman and despite having so many children had somehow kept her slender figure and fine features. She fingered her expensive white lace collar, a contrast to the rich black satin of her dress; French and exquisitely made, it gave a lift to her skin. Patting her fair hair into position, she dabbed her wrist with her favourite perfume.
From upstairs she could hear bedlam as Bridget, their nanny, organized the children for church. Every Sunday it was the same, and although it was important to keep the Lord’s Day, she had to admit she found it very difficult when the household staff all enjoyed an afternoon off. But Frederick insisted on the staff having the chance to go to church and then later, time to relax. She lifted her hat and pinned it lightly to her head, gathering her lace gloves and purse.
‘Bridget, do make the children hurry up!’ she called impatiently as she stood on the landing of their large home.
The boys came first, five of her six sons appearing in an orderly fashion. They were educated, polite young men and boys, the type of whom a mother could be proud. She sighed as she heard Bridget arguing and pleading with her six daughters and went downstairs to wait. She glanced at the clock and was about to send Cecil back up to get his sisters when the girls began to run down the stairs. Giggling and laughing, their long red hair tumbling down their shoulders, her daughters fastened on their warm coats. They all wore a black armband of mourning.
‘Are we ready to go, my dear?’ enquired Frederick, suddenly appearing from the sanctuary of his book-lined study.
‘Hats,’ she reminded the girls. ‘Where are your hats?’
Kate and Muriel ran back upstairs to fetch them, returning with all the hats. Isabella ignored the grumbling and mutterings of Nellie, Ada, Grace and Sidney as they each pulled at the elastic of their headwear. Satisfied that they were now suitably attired for church, she declared them finally ready.
‘Remember you are respectable young ladies!’ she warned as Sidney, their youngest daughter, swung on the front gate.
Their home, 8 Temple Villas, was situated among the finest enclaves of Dublin’s wealthy and privileged society. As they walked out on to the broad tree-lined avenue of Palmerston Road, with its grand, red-brick Georgian houses and large gardens, Isabella smiled to herself – the large Gifford family was something to be proud of. The girls’ felt hats she had designed herself; she considered them stylish but still serving to keep her daughters’ luxuriant hair somewhat hidden.
At the end of the driveway she and the children turned right and Frederick doffed his hat as he turned left towards Ranelagh and the local Catholic church where he worshipped.
Holy Trinity Church was filling up as Isabella and her sons and daughters filed into their usual pew only five from the front. She tilted her hat at a slight angle, picked up her hymn book and silently checked the children. The Gifford family were certainly striking, not just because of their number but because of their strong family resemblance. She dearly wished that Frederick would come to church with them, but he stubbornly refused and insisted on following the faith in which he was raised.
‘I think an hour or two to pray in my own church on a Sunday is little to ask,’ he said firmly every time she broached the subject.
She glanced around and saw that most of the congregation were respectfully dressed in black today, many already wearing black mourning bands on their sleeves. The organist began to play and she joined in the hymn, Gerald’s strong, almost-tenor voice clear above all the others.
Coming to service always reminded her of her childhood, of her own father, a country rector who had done so much for the people of his Carlow parish. She had loved to hear him read the Bible and sing – he had a wonderful baritone voice, and had often given sermons that even as a child she could follow. His death had been untimely, leaving her mother an impoverished widow trying to raise the nine of them, all of them distraught at their father’s passing. Her uncle, Frederick Burton, the renowned artist, in an act of great kindness had stepped in to fill the void left by his brother and had generously supported the family over the years.
‘Today we remember and dedicate our service to our late queen, Victoria,’ said Reverend Samuel Harris, coughing for a moment before looking around the watchful congregation. ‘Queen Victoria was a monarch who ruled with fairness, strength and great wisdom for many long years. She will be greatly missed by her Church and her people in Great Britain and Ireland, and across all her colonies and dominions. Her visit to Ireland only a few months ago is one that will always be remembered by the people of Dublin, her loyal subjects. We give thanks for her long life and reign.’
The congregation nodded and muttered in agreement.
Isabella bowed her head and tried to control her emotions. The queen had been old, a woman of eighty-one years, but it had always seemed she would reign for ever. The queen had been so much a part of their lives, her life …
Queen Victoria had knighted her uncle, Sir Frederick Burton, for his services as the director of Britain’s National Gallery in London. It was a fitting reward for his life’s work, something her kind uncle so richly deserved. His death last March had upset her deeply and she still mourned him. Now the nation was in mourning for Queen Victoria, a monarch whom no one could or would ever forget.
As Reverend Harris took up the Bible, Isabella reached for her handkerchief and daintily and discreetly dried her eyes. God bless the queen!
‘Father, we prayed for Queen Victoria today at service,’ Sidney announced as the family gathered for Sunday lunch. ‘Everyone was sad.’
‘Her death is tragic,’ Isabella sighed.
‘Isabella dear, how can you call it tragic?’ Frederick chided her as he helped himself to horseradish sauce. ‘She was an old woman who perhaps reigned for far too long.’
‘She was our queen!’ Isabella protested loyally.
‘Victoria was a very fine queen, a good monarch and held the empire together for years,’ he agreed.
‘Many call her the Famine Queen for what she and her government did to Ireland during the Great Famine,’ interjected Nellie from the end of the table. ‘Those who faced starvation will certainly not mourn her.’
‘Nellie, I will not have you speak of the late queen in such a fashion,’ Isabella reprimanded her loudly.
‘Nellie’s observation is valid, for the queen may not have been a perfect ruler, but I fear we will never see her like again,’ Frederick replied. ‘Without Queen Victoria on the throne I’m not sure what will happen throughout the empire.’
‘Father, what do you mean?’ pressed their youngest boy, Cecil.
‘The empire might fall,’ said Frederick, catching their full attention.
‘Never!’ shouted their eldest sons, Claude and Gerald, fervently. ‘The British empire will never fall.’
‘It is a possibility that must be considered.’ Frederick touched his moustache and top lip thoughtfully. ‘Queen Victoria’s is a large family, much like our own. Her children are wisely married to half the crowned heads of Europe. But brothers and sisters and cousins – even royal ones – often do not agree, and may perhaps squabble and fall out, especially without a strong hand like the late queen’s to keep the peace.’
‘They are royalty,’ Isabella reminded him.
‘Families fight and argue. Without the queen to keep the royal families of Europe in line there is a very real worry about what may or may not happen. The nations may fall out.’
‘Edward is our new king,’ Isabella insisted. ‘He will be a good ruler.’
‘I am not so sure.’ Her husband sounded serious.
Isabella flushed. There had been rumours about the Prince of Wales’s drunken and lecherous behaviour over the years, but now that he was king surely things would be different.
Nora, their maid, came in quietly and went to the long mahogany sideboard. She took their plates away, then served the apple sponge pudding before disappearing.
‘This pudding is delicious,’ Frederick said as he spooned it into his mouth. ‘She’s added something to the apple. I must compliment Essie.’
‘I made it and I put in a little nutmeg,’ admitted Nellie. ‘I just used a hint.’
When seventeen-year-old Nellie had told them that she had no intention of doing her final school exams and had pleaded with them to be allowed to stay at home and learn how to cook, Isabella had at first objected to such a role for their daughter. However, Nellie, who had never been academic and certainly did not harbour the same ambitions as her sisters, had soon proved her culinary skills. She was learning to become a fine cook under Essie’s guidance and displayed a great ability for organizing and helping with the day-to-day running of such a large household.
Isabella watched approvingly as her six daughters politely ate only a few spoons of the delicious apple pudding. Everyone knew that it was only manners for a young lady, no matter how hungry, to leave a good portion of pudding behind her.
‘Father, if the British empire falls, does that mean Ireland will be free?’ questioned eleven-year-old Sidney.
‘Don’t be such a ninny!’ retorted Claude, who was sitting across from her. ‘We are part of the empire.’
‘Where do you get such silly ideas?’ added Gerald. ‘We are part of the union, ruled and governed by a British king or queen and the parliament in Westminster.’
‘But someday Ireland will be free again,’ Sidney continued doggedly.
‘Boys, your little sister may have a point,’ interrupted Frederick calmly as one side of the table erupted into a fierce argument. ‘Many people believe that in time Ireland should have Home Rule with a proper parliament of its own here in Dublin.’
‘Westminster will never agree it,’ argued Claude pompously, as if he were in court.
Isabella sighed. She knew well that it was their nanny and maids who had encouraged such liberal thoughts. Bridget, with all her songs and stories of Irish rebellions and heroes! She had warned Frederick about it, but it was only a minor foible given that the children adored her and she was a very valued and essential member of their household.
‘Well, I for one am proud to be part of the union and a loyal subject of the crown,’ Isabella joined in. ‘Like everyone at this table.’
Sidney stuck out her lip as if she were about to say something.
‘And there will be no more arguments on the matter,’ Isabella added, giving the signal for Nora to come and clear the table.