Castle richmond

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Castle Richmond, by Anthony Trollope This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Castle Richmond Author: Anthony Trollope Release Date: September 18, 2002 [eBook #5897] Most recently updated: June 19, 2010 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASTLE RICHMOND*** E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) and revised by Rita Bailey and Joseph E Loewenstein, M.D HTML version prepared by Joseph E Loewenstein, M.D CASTLE RICHMOND BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE With an Introduction by Algar Thorold London & New York: MCMVI INTRODUCTION "Castle Richmond" was written in 1861, long after Trollope had left Ireland The characterization is weak, and the plot, although the author himself thought well of it, mechanical The value of the story is rather documentary than literary It contains several graphic scenes descriptive of the great Irish famine Trollope observed carefully, and on the whole impartially, though his powers of discrimination were not quite fine enough to make him an ideal annalist Still, such as they were, he has used them here with no inconsiderable effect His desire to be fair has led him to lay stress in an inverse ratio to his prepossessions, and his Priest is a better man than his parson The best, indeed the only piece of real characterization in the book is the delineation of Abe Mollett This unscrupulous blackmailer is put before us with real art, with something of the loving preoccupation of the hunter for his quarry Trollope loved a rogue, and in his long portrait gallery there are several really charming ones He did not, indeed, perceive the aesthetic value of sin—he did not perceive the esthetic value of anything,—and his analysis of human nature was not profound enough to reach the conception of sin, crime being to him the nadir of downward possibility—but he had a professional, a sort of half Scotland Yard, half master of hounds interest in a criminal "See," he would muse, "how cunningly the creature works, now back to his earth, anon stealing an unsuspected run across country, the clever rascal;" and his ethical disapproval ever, as usual, with English critics of life, in the foreground, clearly enhanced a primitive predatory instinct not obscurely akin, a cynic might say, to those dark impulses he holds up to our reprobation This self-realization in his fiction is one of Trollope's principal charms Never was there a more subjective writer Unlike Flaubert, who laid down the canon that the author should exist in his work as God in creation, to be, here or there, dimly divined but never recognized, though everywhere latent, Trollope was never weary of writing himself large in every man, woman, or child he described The illusion of objectivity which he so successfully achieves is due to the fact that his mind was so perfectly contented with its hereditary and circumstantial conditions, was itself so perfectly the mental equivalent of those conditions Thus the perfection of his egotism, tight as a drum, saved him Had it been a little less complete, he would have faltered and bungled; as it was, he had the naive certainty of a child, to whose innocent apprehension the world and self are one, and who therefore cannot err ALGAR THOROLD CONTENTS I THE BARONY OF DESMOND II OWEN FITZGERALD III CLARA DESMOND IV THE COUNTESS V THE FITZGERALDS OF CASTLE RICHMOND VI THE KANTURK HOTEL, SOUTH MAIN STREET, CORK VII THE FAMINE YEAR VIII GORTNACLOUGH AND BERRYHILL IX FAMILY COUNCILS X THE RECTOR OF DRUMBARROW AND HIS WIFE XI SECOND LOVE XII DOUBTS XIII MR MOLLETT RETURNS TO SOUTH MAIN STREET XIV THE REJECTED SUITOR XV DIPLOMACY XVI THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS XVII FATHER BARNEY XVIII THE RELIEF COMMITTEE XIX THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY XX TWO WITNESSES XXI FAIR ARGUMENTS XXII THE TELLING OF THE TALE XXIII BEFORE BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE XXIV AFTER BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE XXV A MUDDY WALK ON A WET MORNING XXVI COMFORTLESS XXVII COMFORTED XXVIII FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT XXIX ILL NEWS FLIES FAST XXX PALLIDA MORS XXXI THE FIRST MONTH XXXII PREPARATIONS FOR GOING XXXIII THE LAST STAGE XXXIV FAREWELL XXXV HERBERT FITZGERALD IN LONDON XXXVI HOW THE EARL WAS WON XXXVII A TALE OF A TURBOT XXXVIII CONDEMNED XXXIX FOX-HUNTING IN SPINNY LANE XL THE FOX IN HIS EARTH XLI THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS XLII ANOTHER JOURNEY XLIII PLAYING ROUNDERS XLIV CONCLUSION CHAPTER I THE BARONY OF DESMOND I wonder whether the novel-reading world—that part of it, at least, which may honour my pages—will be offended if I lay the plot of this story in Ireland! That there is a strong feeling against things Irish it is impossible to deny Irish servants need not apply; Irish acquaintances are treated with limited confidence; Irish cousins are regarded as being decidedly dangerous; and Irish stories are not popular with the booksellers For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about any place, I ought to know something about Ireland; and I strongly protest against the injustice of the above conclusions Irish cousins I have none Irish acquaintances I have by dozens; and Irish friends, also, by twos and threes, whom I can love and cherish—almost as well, perhaps, as though they had been born in Middlesex Irish servants I have had some in my house for years, and never had one that was faithless, dishonest, or intemperate I have travelled all over Ireland, closely as few other men can have done, and have never had my portmanteau robbed or my pocket picked At hotels I have seldom locked up my belongings, and my carelessness has never been punished I doubt whether as much can be said for English inns Irish novels were once popular enough But there is a fashion in novels, as there is in colours and petticoats; and now I fear they are drugs in the market It is hard to say why a good story should not have a fair chance of success whatever may be its bent; why it should not be reckoned to be good by its own intrinsic merits alone; but such is by no means the case I was waiting once, when I was young at the work, in the back parlour of an eminent publisher, hoping to see his eminence on a small matter of business touching a threevolumed manuscript which I held in my hand The eminent publisher, having probably larger fish to fry, could not see me, but sent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business "A novel, is it, sir?" said the foreman "Yes," I answered; "a novel." "It depends very much on the subject," said the foreman, with a thoughtful and judicious frown—"upon the name, sir, and the subject;—daily life, sir; that's what suits us; daily English life Now your historical novel, sir, is not worth the paper it's written on." I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost as unattractive as historical incident; but, nevertheless, I will make the attempt I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old friends, and would fain say a word of them as I do so If I do not say that word now it will never be said The readability of a story should depend, one would say, on its intrinsic merit rather than on the site of its adventures No one will think that Hampshire is better for such a purpose than Cumberland, or Essex than Leicestershire What abstract objection can there then be to the county Cork? Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most beautiful part of Ireland is that which lies down in the extreme south-west, with fingers stretching far out into the Atlantic Ocean This consists of the counties Cork and Kerry, or a portion, rather, of those counties It contains Killarney, Glengarriffe, Bantry, and Inchigeela; and is watered by the Lee, the Blackwater, and the Flesk I know not where is to be found a land more rich in all that constitutes the loveliness of scenery Within this district, but hardly within that portion of it which is most attractive to tourists, is situated the house and domain of Castle Richmond The river Blackwater rises in the county Kerry, and running from west to east through the northern part of the county Cork, enters the county Waterford beyond Fermoy In its course it passes near the little town of Kanturk, and through the town of Mallow: Castle Richmond stands close upon its banks, within the barony of Desmond, and in that Kanturk region through which the Mallow and Killarney railway now passes, but which some thirteen years since knew nothing of the navvy's spade, or even of the engineer's theodolite Castle Richmond was at this period the abode of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, who resided there, ever and always, with his wife, Lady Fitzgerald, his two daughters, Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald, and, as often as purposes of education and pleasure suited, with his son Herbert Fitzgerald Neither Sir Thomas nor Sir Thomas's house had about them any of those interesting picturesque faults which are so generally attributed to Irish landlords and Irish castles He was not out of elbows, nor was he an absentee Castle Richmond had no appearance of having been thrown out of its own windows It was a good, substantial, modern family residence, built not more than thirty years since by the late baronet, with a lawn sloping down to the river, with kitchen gardens and walls for fruit, with ample stables, and a clock over the entrance to the stable yard It stood in a welltimbered park duly stocked with deer,—and with foxes also, which are agricultural animals much more valuable in an Irish county than deer So that as regards its appearance Castle Richmond might have been in Hampshire or Essex; and as regards his property, Sir Thomas Fitzgerald might have been a Leicestershire baronet Here, at Castle Richmond, lived Sir Thomas with his wife and daughters; and here, taking the period of our story as being exactly thirteen years since, his son Herbert was staying also in those hard winter months; his Oxford degree having been taken, and his English pursuits admitting of a temporary sojourn in Ireland But Sir Thomas Fitzgerald was not the great man of that part of the country— at least, not the greatest man; nor was Lady Fitzgerald by any means the greatest lady As this greatest lady, and the greatest man also, will, with their belongings, be among the most prominent of our dramatis personæ, it may be well that I should not even say a word of them All the world must have heard of Desmond Court It is the largest inhabited residence known in that part of the world, where rumours are afloat of how it covers ten acres of ground; how in hewing the stones for it a whole mountain was cut away; how it should have cost hundreds of thousands of pounds, only that the money was never paid by the rapacious, wicked, bloodthirsty old earl who caused it to be erected;—and how the cement was thickened with human blood So goes rumour with the more romantic of the Celtic tale-bearers It is a huge place—huge, ungainly, and uselessly extensive; built at a time when, at any rate in Ireland, men considered neither beauty, aptitude, nor economy It is three stories high, and stands round a quadrangle, in which there are two entrances opposite to each other Nothing can be well uglier than that great paved court, in which there is not a spot of anything green, except where the damp has produced an unwholesome growth upon the stones; nothing can well be more desolate And on the outside of the building matters are not much better There are no gardens close up to the house, no flower-beds in the nooks and corners, no sweet shrubs peeping in at the square windows Gardens there are, but they are away, half a mile off; and the great hall door opens out upon a flat, bleak park, with hardly a scrap around it which courtesy can call a lawn Here, at this period of ours, lived Clara, Countess of Desmond, widow of Patrick, once Earl of Desmond, and father of Patrick, now Earl of Desmond These Desmonds had once been mighty men in their country, ruling the people around them as serfs, and ruling them with hot iron rods But those days were now long gone, and tradition told little of them that was true How it had truly fared either with the earl, or with their serfs, men did not well know; but stories were ever being told of walls built with human blood, and of the devil bearing off upon his shoulder a certain earl who was in any other way quite unbearable, and depositing some small unburnt portion of his remains fathoms deep below the soil in an old burying-ground near Kanturk And there had been a good earl, as is always the case with such families; but even his virtues, according to tradition, had been of a useless namby-pamby sort He had walked to the shrine of St Finbar, up in the little island of the Gougane Barra, with unboiled peas in his shoes; had forgiven his tenants five years' rent all round, and never drank wine or washed himself after the death of his lady wife At the present moment the Desmonds were not so potent either for good or ill The late earl had chosen to live in London all his life, and had sunk down to be the toadying friend, or perhaps I should more properly say the bullied flunky, of a sensual, wine-bibbing, gluttonous—king Late in life, when he was broken in means and character, he had married The lady of his choice had been chosen as an heiress; but there had been some slip between that cup of fortune and his lip; and she, proud and beautiful, for such she had been—had neither relieved nor softened the poverty of her profligate old lord She was left at his death with two children, of whom the eldest, Lady Clara Desmond, will be the heroine of this story The youngest, Patrick, now Earl of Desmond, was two years younger than his sister, and will make our acquaintance as a lad fresh from Eton In these days money was not plentiful with the Desmonds Not but that their estates were as wide almost as their renown, and that the Desmonds were still great people in the country's estimation Desmond Court stood in a bleak, unadorned region, almost among the mountains, half way between Kanturk and Maccoom, and the family had some claim to possession of the land for miles go to you I strove as mothers strive for their children I taught myself,—I strove to teach myself to forget that I had loved you I swore on my knees that I would love you only as my son,—as my dear, dear son Nay, Owen, I did; on my knees before my God." He turned away from her to rub the tears from his eyes, and in doing so he dragged his hand away from her But she followed him, and again took it "You will hear me to the end now," she said; "will you not? you will not begrudge me that? And then came these other tidings, and all that scheme was dashed to the ground It was better so, Owen; you would not have been happy with the property—" "I should never have taken it." "And she, she would have clung closer to him as a poor man than ever she had done when he was rich She is her mother's daughter there And then—then — But I need not tell you more You will know it all now If you had become rich, I would have ceased to love you; but I shall never cease now that you are again poor,—now that you are Owen of Hap House again, as you sent us word yourself that day." And then she ceased, and bending down her head bathed his hand with her tears Had any one asked him that morning, he would have said that it was impossible that the Countess of Desmond should weep And now the tears were streaming from her eyes as though she were a broken-hearted girl And so she was Her girlhood had been postponed and marred,—not destroyed and made away with, by the wrinkled earl with the gloating eyes She had said all now, and she stood there, still holding his hand in hers, but with her head turned from him It was his turn to speak now, and how was he to answer her I know how most men would have answered;—by the pressure of an arm, by a warm kiss, by a promise of love, and by a feeling that such love was possible And then most men would have gone home, leaving the woman triumphant, and have repented bitterly as they sat moody over their own fires, with their wine-bottles before them But it was not so with Owen Fitzgerald His heart was to him a reality He had loved with all his power and strength, with all the vigour of his soul,—having chosen to love But he would not now be enticed by pity into a bastard feeling, which would die away when the tenderness of the moment was no longer present to his eye and touch His love for Clara had been such that he could not even say that he loved another "Dear Lady Desmond," he began "Ah, Owen; we are to part now, part for ever," she said; "speak to me once in your life as though we were equal friends Cannot you forget for one minute that I am Countess of Desmond?" Mary, Countess of Desmond; such was her name and title But so little familiar had he been with the name by which he had never heard her called, that in his confusion he could not remember it And had he done so, he could not have brought himself to use it "Yes," he said; "we must part It is impossible for me to remain here." "Doubly impossible now," she replied, half reproaching him "Yes; doubly impossible now Is it not better that the truth should be spoken?" "Oh, yes I have spoken it—too plainly." "And so will I speak it plainly We cannot control our own hearts, Lady Desmond It is, as you say, doubly impossible now All the love I have had to give she has had,—and has Such being so, why should I stay here? or could you wish that I should do so?" "I not wish it." That was true enough The wish would have been to wander away with him "I must go, and shall start at once My very things are packed for my going I will not be here to have the sound of their marriage bells jangling in my ears I will not be pointed at as the man who has been duped on every side." "Ah me, that I was a man too,—that I could go away and make for myself a life!" "You have Desmond with you." "No, no He will go too; of course he will go He will go, and I shall be utterly alone What a fool I am,—what an ass, that by this time I have not learned to bear it!" "They will always be near you at Castle Richmond." "Ah, Owen, how little you understand! Have we been friends while we lived under the same roof? And now that she is there, do you think that she will heed me? I tell you that you do not know her She is excellent, good, devoted; but cold as ice She will live among the poor, and grace his table; and he will have all that he wants In twelve months, Owen, she would have turned your heart to a stone." "It is that already I think," said he "At any rate, it will be so to all others Good-bye, Lady Desmond." "Good-bye, Owen; and God bless you My secret will be safe with you." "Safe! yes, it will be safe." And then, as she put her cheek up to him, he kissed it and left her He had been very stern She had laid bare to him her whole heart, and he had answered her love by never a word He had made no reply in any shape,—given her no thanks for her heart's treasure He had responded to her affection by no tenderness He had not even said that this might have been so, had that other not have come to pass By no word had he alluded to her confession,—but had regarded her delusion as monstrous, a thing of which no word was to be spoken So at least said the countess to herself, sitting there all alone where he had left her "He regards me as old and worn In his eyes I am wrinkled and ugly." 'Twas thus that her thoughts expressed themselves; and then she walked across the room towards the mirror, but when there she could not look in it: she turned her back upon it without a glance, and returned to her seat by the window What mattered it now? It was her doom to live there alone for the term of life with which it might still please God to afflict her And then looking out from the window her eyes fell upon Owen as he rode slowly down across the park His horse was walking very slowly, and it seemed as though he himself were unconscious of the pace As long as he remained in sight she did not take her eyes from his figure, gazing at him painfully as he grew dimmer and more dim in the distance Then at last he turned behind the bushes near the lodge, and she felt that she was all alone It was the last that she ever saw of Owen Fitzgerald Unfortunate girl, marred in thy childhood by that wrinkled earl with the gloating eyes; or marred rather by thine own vanity! Those flesh-pots of Egypt! Are they not always thus bitter in the eating? CHAPTER XLIV CONCLUSION And now my story is told; and were it not for the fashion of the thing, this last short chapter might be spared It shall at any rate be very short Were it not that I eschew the fashion of double names for a book, thinking that no amount of ingenuity in this respect will make a bad book pass muster, whereas a good book will turn out as such though no such ingenuity be displayed, I might have called this "A Tale of the Famine Year in Ireland." At the period of the year to which the story has brought us—and at which it will leave us—the famine was at its very worst People were beginning to believe that there would never be a bit more to eat in the land, and that the time for hope and energy was gone Land was becoming of no value, and the only thing regarded was a sufficiency of food to keep body and soul together Under such circumstances it was difficult to hope But energy without hope is impossible, and therefore was there such an apathy and deadness through the country It was not that they did not work who were most concerned to work The amount of conscientious work then done was most praiseworthy But it was done almost without hope of success, and done chiefly as a matter of conscience There was a feeling, which was not often expressed but which seemed to prevail everywhere, that ginger would not again be hot in the mouth, and that in very truth the time for cakes and ale in this world was all over It was this feeling that made a residence in Ireland at that period so very sad Ah me! how little do we know what is coming to us! Irish cakes and ale were done and over for this world, we all thought But in truth the Irish cakes were only then a-baking, and the Irish ale was being brewed I am not sure that these good things are yet quite fit for the palates of the guest;—not as fit as a little more time will make them The cake is still too new,—cakes often are; and the ale is not sufficiently mellowed But of this I am sure, that the cakes and ale are there;—and the ginger, too, very hot in the mouth Let a committee of Irish landlords say how the rents are paid now, and what amount of arrears was due through the country when the famine came among them Rents paid to the day: that is the ginger hot in the mouth which best pleases the palate of a country gentleman But if one did in truth write a tale of the famine, after that it would behove the author to write a tale of the pestilence; and then another, a tale of the exodus These three wonderful events, following each other, were the blessings coming from Omniscience and Omnipotence by which the black clouds were driven from the Irish firmament If one, through it all, could have dared to hope, and have had from the first that wisdom which has learned to acknowledge that His mercy endureth for ever! And then the same author going on with his series would give in his last set,—Ireland in her prosperity Of all those who did true good conscientious work at this time, none exceeded in energy our friend Herbert Fitzgerald after his return to Castle Richmond It seemed to him as though some thank-offering were due from him for all the good things that Providence had showered upon him, and the best thank-offering that he could give was a devoted attention to the interest of the poor around him Mr Somers soon resigned to him the chair at those committee meetings at Berryhill and Gortnaclough, and it was acknowledged that the Castle Richmond arrangements for soup-kitchens, out-door relief, and labour-gangs, might be taken as a model for the south of Ireland Few other men were able to go to the work with means so ample and with hands so perfectly free Mr Carter even, who by this time had become cemented in a warm trilateral friendship with Father Barney and the Rev Ỉneas Townsend, was obliged to own that many a young English country gentleman might take a lesson from Sir Herbert Fitzgerald in the duties peculiar to his position His marriage did not take place till full six months after the period to which our story has brought us Baronets with twelve thousand a year cannot be married off the hooks, as may be done with ordinary mortals Settlements of a grandiose nature were required, and were duly concocted Perhaps Mr Die had something to say to them, so that the great maxim of the law was brought into play Perhaps also, though of this Herbert heard no word, it was thought inexpedient to hurry matters while any further inquiry was possible in that affair of the Mollett connection Mr Die and Mr Prendergast were certainly going about, still drawing all coverts far and near, lest their fox might not have been fairly run to his last earth But, as I have said, no tidings as to this reached Castle Richmond There, in Ireland, no man troubled himself further with any doubt upon the subject; and Sir Herbert took his title and received his rents, by the hands of Mr Somers, exactly as though the Molletts, father and son, had never appeared in those parts It was six months before the marriage was celebrated, but during a considerable part of that time Clara remained a visitor at Castle Richmond To Lady Fitzgerald she was now the same as a daughter, and to Aunt Letty the same as a niece By the girls she had for months been regarded as a sister So she remained in the house of which she was to be the mistress, learning to know their ways, and ingratiating herself with those who were to be dependent on her "But I had rather stay with you, mamma, if you will allow me," Clara had said to her mother when the countess was making some arrangement with her that she should return to Castle Richmond "I shall be leaving you altogether so soon now!" And she got up close to her mother's side caressingly, and would fain have pressed into her arms and kissed her, and have talked to her of what was coming, as a daughter loves to talk to a loving mother But Lady Desmond's heart was sore and sad and harsh, and she preferred to be alone "You will be better at Castle Richmond, my dear: you will be much happier there, of course There can be no reason why you should come again into the gloom of this prison." "But I should be with you, dearest mamma." "It is better that you should be with the Fitzgeralds now; and as for me—I must learn to live alone Indeed I have learned it, so you need not mind for me." Clara was rebuffed by the tone rather than the words, but she still looked up into her mother's face wistfully "Go, my dear," said the countess—"I would sooner be alone at present." And so Clara went It was hard upon her that even now her mother would not accept her love But Lady Desmond could not be cordial with her daughter She made more than one struggle to do so, but always failed She could,—she thought that she could, have watched her child's happiness with contentment had Clara married Owen Fitzgerald—Sir Owen, as he would then have been But now she could only remember that Owen was lost to them both, lost through her child's fault She did not hate Clara: nay, she would have made any sacrifice for her daughter's welfare; but she could not take her lovingly to her bosom So she shut herself up alone, in her prison as she called it, and then looked back upon the errors of her life It was as well for her to look back as to look forward, for what joy was there for which she could dare to hope? In the days that were coming, however, she did relax something of her sternness Clara was of course married from Desmond Court, and the very necessity of making some preparations for this festivity was in itself salutary But indeed it could hardly be called a festivity,—it was so quiet and sombre Clara had but two bridesmaids, and they were Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald The young earl gave away his sister, and Aunt Letty was there, and Mr Prendergast, who had come over about the settlements; Mr Somers also attended, and the ceremony was performed by our old friend Mr Townsend Beyond these there were no guests at the wedding of Sir Herbert Fitzgerald The young earl was there, and at the last the wedding had been postponed a week for his coming He had left Eton at Midsummer in order that he might travel for a couple of years with Owen Fitzgerald before he went to Oxford It had been the lad's own request, and had been for a while refused by Owen But Fitzgerald had at last given way to the earl's love, and they had started together for Norway "They want me to be home," he had said one morning to his friend "Ah, yes; I suppose so." "Do you know why?" They had never spoken a word about Clara since they had left England together, and the earl now dreaded to mention her name "Know why!" replied Owen; "of course I do It is to give away your sister Go home, Desmond, my boy; when you have returned we will talk about her I shall bear it better when I know that she is his wife." And so it was with them For two years Lord Desmond travelled with him, and after that Owen Fitzgerald went on upon his wanderings alone Many a long year has run by since that, and yet he has never come back to Hap House Men of the county Cork now talk of him as one whom they knew long since He who took his house as a stranger is a stranger no longer in the country, and the place that Owen left vacant has been filled The hounds of Duhallow would not recognize his voice, nor would the steed in the stable follow gently at his heels But there is yet one left who thinks of him, hoping that she may yet see him before she dies ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASTLE RICHMOND*** ******* This file should be named 5897-h.txt or 5897-h.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/8/9/5897 Updated editions will replace the previous one the old editions will be renamed Creating the works from public domain print editions means that 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CASTLE RICHMOND BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE With an Introduction by Algar Thorold London & New York: MCMVI INTRODUCTION "Castle Richmond" was written in 1861, long after Trollope had left Ireland... its appearance Castle Richmond might have been in Hampshire or Essex; and as regards his property, Sir Thomas Fitzgerald might have been a Leicestershire baronet Here, at Castle Richmond, lived Sir Thomas with his wife and daughters; and... At Christmas-time during that winter a ball was given at Castle Richmond, to celebrate the coming of age of the young heir It was not a very gay affair, for the Castle Richmond folk, even in those days, were