1949 Read Online Free PDF Page A

his oldest sister was an event.
    â€œNed’s after taking Kathleen’s letter,” his aunt told him. “He’s in one of his moods, so leave it with him for now. Ursula has a letter from Henry Mooney, though.”
    â€œIs someone ill in Dublin? The babby?” Frank always expected bad news.
    â€œThey’re all in good form,” Ursula assured him, “though Isabella’s hardly a babby anymore. She’ll be three this autumn and I have yet to see her. They’re urging me to visit them in Dublin.”
    â€œNed won’t let you go,” Frank said.
    â€œI’m too old to need his permission.”
    Lucy gave her a look. The two got along well enough, but a glimmer of jealousy was surfacing between them. “How old are you then?” Lucy asked maliciously.
    Ursula responded as she always did to a challenge, with sparkling eyes and a rush of color to her cheeks. “Old enough to travel! Let me remind you that I went up to Dublin on my own for Henry and Ella’s wedding. And I’ll go now if I choose, with or without Papa’s permission.”
    Lucy exhaled sharply. “You wouldn’t defy your own father!” But she knew otherwise. Lucy and Eileen Halloran were the products of a highly conservative rural society. Ned’s daughter was made of different clay.
    With an exasperated sigh, Norah Daly turned from the range. “Leave it be. I told you before; I want no rows in this house. Was the war not bad enough?”
    â€œWhich war?” Ursula asked. “The one we won or the one we lost?”
    Next morning, the ticket agent at the Ennis railway station greeted the girl warmly. Everyone knew Ursula Halloran. Her father had fought the British from the General Post Office in 1916. In Clare there were no better credentials.

Chapter Two
    â€œSo you sneaked off to Dublin without telling anyone.” Henry Mooney chuckled. “I did that myself, first time I came up to the Big Smoke.”
    â€œYou always said it’s easier to apologize afterward than to ask permission beforehand.”
    â€œThat’s a motto for newspaper reporters, Ursula,” Ella chided, “not an excuse for bad manners.”
    They were sitting in the parlor of the Mooneys’ semi-detached Georgian villa in Dublin’s Sandymount Avenue. The couple were a study in contrasts. Henry, in his early forties, was well built in spite of rounded shoulders and a tendency to slouch. His eyes were enmeshed in laugh lines. His deep, calm voice with its west-of-Ireland accent elicited confidences. Even strangers trusted him.
    Born into the upper levels of Dublin society, Ella Rutledge Mooney was a strawberry blond with dark amber eyes and a hand-span waist. Her anglicized enunciation identified her as a member of the Protestant Ascendancy, the propertied class in Ireland. Some mistook Ella’s finishing-school manners for hauteur—until they saw her smile and fell in love, as Henry had done, with her dimples.
    Earlier this evening they had taken Ursula upstairs to visit little Isabella in the nursery, under the watchful eye of Tilly Burgess, the Mooneys’ housekeeper. Tilly was a necessary part of the household. Like other women of her class, Ella had been brought up to marry, not to cook and clean. Besides, Tilly was the only person who could control the headstrong Isabella. The child’s parents were too doting for discipline.
    Now as they sat in the parlor, Henry asked Ursula, “How do you like my beautiful daughter?”
    â€œShe really is beautiful. But why did you call her Isabella? Doesn’t the Church want children to be given saints’ names?”
    Ella said, “Since we married we’ve drifted away from organized religion. Henry’s Roman Catholic…”
    â€œBackslid Roman Catholic,” Henry interjected.
    â€œAnd I was raised Anglican,” Ella went on imperturbably, “but we’ve seen so many