“What do you mean?” I asked.
He leaned closer. “The whole of Dublin knows that he's sweet on her, but she won’t have him. He proposes and she turns him down, over and over. That's what the crowd will be going to see tomorrow, not the beauty of his words, but the sparks flying between them.”
“At the Ambassador, you say,” I said.
He nodded. “And in the meantime tonight, go and enjoy yourself at the Gaiety. I hear the play was a smash success on Broadway in New York. Oona Sheehan was the star over there. She stays here sometimes, you know. What a vision of loveliness she is.”
“She stays here, does she?” I asked. “Has anyone been here asking for her recently?”
“Why would they do that? The whole country knows when she comes to visit. They wouldn’t need to ask for her. We have a line of young men waiting hopefully for her all around the green.” He smiled.
I wasn’t going to get any further on that tack.
“Tell me,” I said, “have you heard of a playwright called Terrence Moynihan?”
He grinned. “I’m not the person to ask about playwrights. I wouldn’t know Shakespeare from Oscar Wilde, except that one of them died in jail.” He laughed at his own joke.
I bade him good day and went out into the street, wondering who might know about Terrence Moynihan. The priest in Tramore had called him poet, playwright, orator, and patriot, if I remembered correctly. Someone in intellectual circles in Dublin must have encountered him. And the most intellectual circle that I could think of would be Trinity College, just a stone's throw away up Grafton Street. As I approached it, I was again struck by the sheer beauty of those buildings. Carefree young men drifted between them, not even noticing how lovely they were. I walked around the railings and was about to enter through the main gate when a porter in black uniform stepped out of the gatehouse and stopped me.
“Where do you think you’re going, miss?” he asked.
“To ask the college professors questions about a playwright,” I said haughtily.
He laughed. “That's a good one. You know as well as I do that no females are allowed on college property. Nor will there ever be, no matter how hard they try. Go on then. Off with you.”
Seething with righteous indignation, I had to retreat. I knew little about universities, but I had assumed that this was the twentieth century and women were no longer barred from places of higher learning. It seemed I was wrong. I stomped off, muttering and at a loss what to do next, and almost collided with a young woman.
“I see you’ve encountered the ever-civil watcher at the gate and been rudely repelled,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. She was petite but by no means delicate looking, and she spoke with no trace of an Irish brogue.
“I only wanted to speak to one of the professors,” I said. “I had no idea that women would be barred from entering in that manner.”
She laughed. “They’ll fight the admission of women to Trinity with their dying breaths,” she said. “Fortunately, we have crusaders on ourside, campaigning with equal ferocity to have women admitted. Miss Alice Oldham is our greatest champion. Have you met her yet?”
“I’ve only just arrived in Dublin,” I said. “I live in America these days.”
“Where women have greater freedoms?” she asked. “We are still denied the vote,” I said. “Still not allowed to enter a saloon.”
“Then you’re equally oppressed,” she said. “And presumably you haven’t had a chance to attend a meeting of the Inghinidhe na hEire-ann.”
“The what? I’m afraid I don’t speak the Irish language.”
“The daughters of Erin. It's a society for the promotion of women and all things Irish, founded by Maud Gonne.”
“The actress?” How strange that the same names kept cropping up.
“Acting is the least of her talents,” the young woman said. “She has great visions for the future of Ireland with an educated and liberated womanhood standing side by side with the men.”
“Then I should most like to attend a meeting,” I said.
“I’ll be happy to introduce you next time we meet, if you are still in Dublin,” she said.
“I’m only on a short visit,” I said, “but I’d certainly like to come to a meeting with you if I’m still here.”
“My name is Alice. Alice Wester.” She held out her hand.
“And I am M—Mary Delaney.” I only remembered the alias at the last moment. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Wester.”
“Call me Alice, please. Within the Daughters of Erin we are all sisters alike. Queen Mab will be delighted to welcome you.”
“Queen Mab?” I asked. “Wasn’t she the queen of the fairies?”
In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)
Rhys Bowen's books
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