THE LETTER CAME a few days after they had met at the exhibition. Muriel was excited when she read MacDonagh’s invitation to join him for afternoon tea.
‘You are very welcome to bring your sister or a friend along,’ he had added politely. With little persuasion, John agreed to go with her.
That Saturday Muriel changed her dress three times. She couldn’t wear the black, as Thomas MacDonagh had seen it already. The pink was too fancy, so in the end she chose her navy blue with its white lace trim, which showed off her neat waist, her complexion and red hair.
‘You look divine,’ John promised as they walked to the nearby tram stop.
‘What will we talk about?’ Muriel fretted when they reached their stop. ‘What will I say to him?’
‘MacDonagh is the type of man who is never short of conversation,’ her sister reminded her as they approached the tea-rooms.
MacDonagh was already there, sitting at a table near the window.
‘Best seat in the house,’ he laughed, pulling out their chairs politely. ‘I am so glad that you and your sister could make it.’
As Muriel perused the menu she noticed he was watching her. A waitress hovered around them and took their order for cucumber and chicken sandwiches.
MacDonagh and John chatted easily while Muriel tried to keep up with their conversation which was about their mutual acquaintances Arthur Griffith and Tom Clarke.
‘I used to buy the Sinn Fein paper in Tom Clarke’s shop and he was the first person to encourage me to submit my work there.’
‘Clarke may be an old Fenian, but he has the respect of all of us who know him,’ said MacDonagh. ‘His long years of being imprisoned in England have never dampened his beliefs.’
‘I suspect they have made them even stronger,’ suggested John. ‘More radical.’
‘Muriel, do you know Tom Clarke?’ he asked, as if suddenly remembering she was sitting at the table too.
‘I’ve never been to Mr Clarke’s tobacconist shop,’ Muriel admitted, feeling rather left out as her sister and MacDonagh seemed to have many acquaintances in common. It felt peculiar that her younger sister knew far more about the society he mixed in than she did. ‘But I have often heard John speak of him and his wife Kathleen.’
MacDonagh, utterly polite, changed the subject and began to talk about the university, telling them stories that made them both laugh aloud. How he managed to juggle his study, his work on the Irish Review, his writing and his involvement in many organizations was a mystery.
‘I hate to be bored,’ he confessed.
Mr MacDonagh certainly did have a way with words and a fine mind, and he was unafraid of speaking his thoughts, which was truly admirable.
John spotted some friends and went over to join them.
Muriel suddenly became conscious that they were alone, but MacDonagh began asking her about her work assisting with the school dinners and suddenly they were both chatting easily about their own childhoods and family.
‘Our parents have raised twelve of us, six boys and six girls,’ explained Muriel. ‘They had high expectations for the education of all their children equally. Kate attended the University of Dublin and was one of its first female graduates.’
‘Your parents sound most enlightened – different from many of their generation.’
‘Enlightened – Mother and Father are certainly not that!’ She laughed. ‘They are fierce unionists loyal to the crown and the empire.’
‘But they obviously do believe in the education of all their children equally and that young women must use their intelligence and talent,’ he said approvingly as John returned to join them.
The teapot was finally empty and the waitress had started to clear the cake stand and their plates.
‘I am afraid we must go, Mr MacDonagh, but thank you so much for inviting us,’ said Muriel graciously as he paid the bill.
They walked together to the tram stop, where MacDonagh politely waited with them until their tram arrived.
As she rode home, Muriel couldn’t help wondering why MacDonagh had invited her to meet him; it was quite clear he had far more in common with John than with her. Watching the houses and rear gardens of Harcourt Street and Ranelagh from the tram window, she felt disappointed, as she suspected that she was unlikely to hear from Mr MacDonagh again.
However, she was wrong …
A second letter! Muriel’s heart sang as she opened the note. She could scarcely believe it. This time he was inviting her to join him on a visit to Dublin’s Botanic Gardens, where they could stroll and enjoy the formal planting and the magnificent glass Palm House. She searched his letter for a hidden meaning, perusing each word, studying his handwriting. This time there was no mention of bringing her sister or a chaperone. She couldn’t help smiling, deliriously happy because MacDonagh wanted to see her again.
After that they met as often as they could, often secretly at the National Gallery, at exhibitions, the museum, the National Library, grabbing every precious minute they could together. Some days MacDonagh would cycle to their road to meet her and they would walk together around the area or in the park, hoping they would not encounter anyone they knew. Muriel was aware that her parents would not approve of her relationship with such a nationalist.
At night, the theatre, concerts and visits to the Gaelic League became the perfect places for them to see each other. Sometimes when they met he wore his kilt, which Muriel found most attractive. In this traditional dress MacDonagh conveyed the type of man he was, proud of his Gaelic heritage and not afraid to demonstrate his strong beliefs that Ireland was a separate nation from Britain. He was in favour of the Home Rule Bill, believing that an Irish parliament with its own members and ministers would be an important first step towards Irish freedom.
As her relationship with MacDonagh deepened, Muriel saw little of George and made constant excuses as to why she could not meet him, wishing that he would stop writing to invite her out.
MacDonagh was the most wonderful man and he excited her in a way no one else had. He was reckless and brave, funny and charming, and when she was with him he made her feel that she was beautiful. No one had ever told her that she was pretty or beautiful, but he told her all the time. He buried his face in her long, thick red hair, saying how much he adored it. Ever since she was a little girl her mother had made her feel ashamed of her hair, forcing her to wear it up and covered with a hat. MacDonagh laughed as he unpinned it and let it tumble and ripple around her shoulders.
‘You are the most beautiful girl in the world, Muriel,’ he said, ‘and the wonderful thing is that you do not even realize it.’
Sometimes when she saw him in conversation with another woman she worried that he had grown bored with her. She could not help it, but at times she even grew jealous of her sisters and the attention he paid to them.
‘But it’s you I love,’ he teased.
When she visited his cottage it felt as if they were a proper couple, cooking meals together, playing with his dog, curled up together on the couch reading. She would sit and watch him work for hours, noticing his long, dark eyelashes and the funny furrowed wrinkle he got on his brow when he was concentrating, and she loved the way he sang under his breath when he was happy.
Every day she cared more and more for him, but she knew she must keep their growing involvement a secret from Mother, who would not countenance such an arrangement. John, Grace and Nellie all knew about their relationship but she said nothing to her sister Kate, who had moved back to Dublin with her husband, Walter. Kate was the best sister in the world but had never been good at keeping secrets from their mother.
Now Muriel wrote to George to tell him clearly and politely that they could no longer see each other or correspond. In her heart she knew that she loved only Thomas MacDonagh.