The girl knelt on the bed on all fours. He gripped her long red hair in a vice-like grip and tugged hard, snapping her head back at the same time as he slammed his cock deep inside her. He took her from behind. Hard.
“Oww, that hurts, sir,” she cried.
“Who cares? You’re just a fucking whore. I’ve paid for you; I can do what I like.”
This girl he’d chosen was classically beautiful. He’d picked her from amongst the girls arranged around the room downstairs for her sparkling green eyes and a mane of red curls. When her shift dress was discarded, her dark pink nipples contrasted delightfully with her milky white flesh.
He’d used her every way he wanted. Despite the look of disdain he’d seen on her face when he’d deposited the sovereigns in her outstretched palm, she had given him enough pleasure to satiate him for a while yet.
When he was finished, George Godfrey lay back on the bed and sighed with contentment. He placed his hands behind his head and watched the whore gather her clothes.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
George stared at the girl. Had he had her before? He’d had so many girls it was hard to keep track, and redheads were his weakness. But still. He looked at her face. The girl stared back, cold, unflinching. From somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, a name appeared. “Grace?” he queried.
“That’s right, sir. Grace O’Mally. You had me the night after my seventeenth birthday whilst you were a guest of my family.”
The memory came flooding back. The young woman with the red hair and the green dress. He’d pursued her for half the evening, eventually convincing her to come to bed with promises of betrothal. He’d made a woman of her. And then her cries as she orgasmed brought her father into the room. George had never gotten dressed so fast in his life and was out the door before her father came back with the shotgun.
“My father threw me out. Told me I was ruined and no one would have me. Said I was nothing but a prostitute.” She snorted as she looked around the room. “Looks like he was right, doesn't it?”
“Grace, I’m sorry,” George started to say, but Grace held up her hand.
“Don’t lie to me. You lied to me then. I don’t need to hear your lies now.”
George shrugged.
“Well, I’m glad you found something you’re good at.”
“Go to hell, George Godfrey. Go to hell.”
With that, Grace turned on her heels and left the room.
When the door slammed behind her, George reached for his whiskey and reflected that Dublin really did have some of the finest whores in the Empire. Eventually, he dressed and returned to the drawing room to observe the ongoing card game. His friend, John O’Brien, joined him, having finished with whatever girl he’d been entertaining in another room.
George smirked at his friend, gambling companion and fellow libertine. John and George looked alike, both tall at almost six feet and broad-shouldered, each with dark, almost black hair which they wore at shoulder length, as was the fashion. On more than one occasion they had been mistaken for each other by lecturers and friends.
John had been a good son, studying at Trinity College in Dublin while his parents lived on the Inchiquin estate across the country in county Clare. However, he had fallen under the spell of George Godfrey and been led well astray. The estate was a good four days' drive away, and John nowadays joked that what his father didn’t know wouldn't hurt him.
“You know, John,” George drawled. “These whores are all very well, but nothing beats the thrill that comes from ruining a virgin.”
John shook his head and laughed at his friend’s predication for young women from good, morally upstanding families. He took a perverse pleasure in seducing and then discarding them. He left them ruined, unable to marry and forced to turn to prostitution to survive. John had often wondered if perhaps Dublin had so many whores because of the likes of George roaming the countryside. Never had the phrase, ‘lock up your daughters,’ seemed more appropriate.
He turned when he heard someone approach. It was a footman from the college looking very distressed.
“Pardon me, sir, but there’s an urgent message for you from home.” He held out a letter. “We’ve been searching all over Dublin for you, sir.”
John snatched the letter from him and ripped it open. As he read the hastily scrawled note, his face turned pale. George noticed and moved to join him.
“My father is dead,” John announced. “A heart attack.”
He crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it on the fire where it flared and burnt to a crisp.
“It appears I am now the 4th Earl of Inchiquin.”
George insisted on accompanying John back home, telling him they would call on George’s mother and father on the way to Inchiquin. George’s family resided in Limerick where his father was the garrison commander. They had moved to Ireland six years previously, and George had met John on their first day at Trinity College. The two families had become friends though they met infrequently, George’s home being a day’s ride away.
They rode in silence. John stared out the window of the carriage as the Irish countryside rolled past. Every night on the journey, John drank in the bar in whatever tavern they stopped at while George bedded whichever girl took his fancy. They arrived in Limerick on the evening of the third day and visited George’s mother and father.
George’s mother, Anne, was a large, well-endowed woman who pressed John to her bosom and held him there whilst sympathising over his father’s death. When he finally came up for air, she turned on George and demanded why he didn’t have a lady friend betrothed yet. George tried to argue that there was plenty of time to settle down but his mother was having none of it, eventually telling him that if he didn’t sort out something soon, she’d settle it for him.
They set off on the final leg of the journey to Inchiquin the next morning with messages for his mother from George’s mother ringing in their ears. When the horse and carriage rolled to a stop outside the main entrance of Inchiquin House, John sighed at the sight of the welcome party. His mother was dressed in black with a lace veil obscuring her face. His younger sister stood by her side, also dressed in black while the maids and footmen stood arranged behind them.
When he stepped down from the carriage, everyone bowed to welcome the new Earl of Inchiquin. He held his mother, who stared stoically ahead. It was up to his little sister to show some emotion. As they hugged, she wept, and in between the tears, she told him how they knew he was dying, as they had heard the Banshee.
“Stuff and nonsense,” their mother snapped. “It was nothing but the screech of a barn owl or a fox.” She turned and headed into the house. “Come, children,” she ordered, and John and Elanor dutifully followed, with George following behind. As George passed the maids still standing to attention, he spotted Molly, a beautiful girl with red curls who he had flirted with on every one of his visits here, despite her rebuking him every time.
John, George, and Elanor sat up late into the night, sharing gossip and catching up. When Molly entered carrying a candle for Elanor and informing her that she had turned down her bed, both the men stood as Elanor got up to go to bed.
“Will you turn my bed down too, Molly?” George grinned. He’d seen the slight upward curl at the side of Molly’s mouth. He’d have her yet, he told himself.
Life at Inchiquin settled down into a new normality. John struggled at first to get his head around the various duties as landowner, employer, and Earl of Inchiquin, but gradually, he developed a routine. George spent the day wandering the house or grounds, deliberately trying to come across Molly as many times a day as possible. Every time, she was polite but firm, rejecting his advances as he used every excuse to get her into bed. Every time, she would politely but firmly tell him that she wouldn’t be getting into bed with any man until she had a ring on her finger.
Both John and George knew trouble was brewing the day George’s mother arrived. She swept into the main hallway and bellowed for George to get down here and say hello. Once George had then been dismissed, she and John's mother were ensconced in the drawing room for what seemed like hours. They finally reappeared for supper, and it was then that George’s mother informed George that he was to be married and that John’s mother had agreed to hold the wedding ceremony there at Inchiquin.
George was flabbergasted and tried to speak, giving the impression of a frog with the mouth opening and closing. His mother dismissed his arguments with a wave of her hand. He was to be married in a fortnight and that was that.
Discussion about the upcoming wedding and who the mysterious bride-to-be was was the main topic of conversation amongst the staff over the next two weeks as preparations got underway.
One evening, as Molly came out of Elanor’s room, she almost bumped into George, who was loitering as usual.
“Please get out of my way, sir,” she asked politely as George blocked her path. He stepped closer, forcing her to press her back against the wall.
“Oh, Molly,” he whispered. He ran a finger down her cheek as he gazed into her eyes. “You always think the worst of me.”
Molly bristled. “Sir, you are to be married. I really think you should try and hold off until she gets here.”
“But, Molly,” he whispered back. “She’s already here.” He took her hand and softly caressed her fingers.
“You’re already here. You’re the one for me.” He lowered himself down onto one knee, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed the back of her hand softly. He raised his eyes to meet her confused stare.
“I was going to announce to the world tomorrow that I have found my bride. I planned to propose to you in public. In front of everyone. If only you say it will be you.”
“Oh George,” she sighed happily. Her resistance crumbled at the thought of being Mrs George Godfrey and she nodded enthusiastically as he stood up. She almost fell into his arms as he kissed her on the lips.
“Yes… yes, I will,” she sighed.
Once his bedroom door closed, George pressed her against it and kissed her neck. Her heart hammered in her chest as, layer by layer, he stripped her to her undergarments. When the final layer slithered to the floor, she stood, naked and vulnerable in front of him. He took her by the hand and led her to his bed. She lay down, suddenly nervous and unsure. She was a virgin and had barely been kissed and now she was naked in his bed.
He crawled on top. She could smell the whiskey on his breath as he pressed his hand between her legs. She spread for him, gave herself to him and he took her. Over and over. She’d never felt so good. She never realised it could be so good. She writhed on the bed, whimpering, her hand over her mouth to muffle her cries as he made her orgasm with his tongue and fingers. When he finally stripped, and she saw his cock, his beautiful, big, hard cock, she was ready. She was more than ready. She craved it, craved him, and welcomed him inside her as he took her, took her virginity, and made her squeal with pleasure as he took her again and again. He gave her so much pleasure she thought she had died and gone to heaven. All the time, she kept thinking she had a lifetime of this in front of her and how stupid she’d been to hold out on him.
She lay in his arms, watching the pale light of pre-dawn filter through the gap in the curtains. She rose from the bed and kissed him before getting dressed. She could hardly wait for George to propose to her in public. He had told her he wanted to wait until his mother was up before he told her, but he couldn’t wait for her to be in his bed tonight again.
But first, she had to pretend everything was normal. She pulled on her maidservant’s dress for what she hoped would be the last time and slipped out the door.
As she exited George’s room, she bumped into the Housekeeper, Mrs Maguire.
“You silly girl,” she lamented. “He’s ruined you. No one will want you now. I hope it was worth it for one night.”
“I hardly think a day matters,” she retorted haughtily. “I am to be married tomorrow, and George can ruin me then as many times as he wants.”
“You stupid, stupid girl,” Mrs Maguire wailed. “He’s not going to marry a servant girl like you. The Earl and Countess of Shannon are arriving within the hour along with their daughter, Penelope.” Her face turned into a sneer. “She is betrothed to George Godfrey.”
Molly’s hands flew to her mouth, and she let out a low, mournful wail. She looked from the housekeeper to the closed bedroom door and back again.
“No, no, no, no, no,” she cried, but in her heart, she knew it was true.
She turned on her heels and ran up the stairs to the servant quarters. Mrs Maguire was right. No one would want her now. Her only hope was to get as far away as possible to somewhere where no one knew of Molly O’Connor or what she had done. She gathered her few meagre belongings into a scarf and crept down the back stairs to the kitchens.
The house was in bedlam as servants rushed around getting everything ready for the arrival of the wedding party. She pulled her travelling cloak around her and lifted a pie from the table. She opened the back door and then paused. Even since the 1798 Rebellion, weapons had been stationed at all entrances to the house. She picked up a loaded revolver and slipped it under her cloak. With one last look around her home for the past six years, she slunk off into the early morning light.
She’d walked for most of the day, pausing only to eat half the pie she’d lifted from the kitchen. Her feet ached. She began to scan the fields in the hope of finding some shelter for the night as dusk settled across the landscape when she spotted a woman sitting on the wall.
She approached to inquire if there might be a place to sleep for the night when she noticed the woman was brushing her long grey hair with a comb that looked like it was made from a bone. The woman was dressed in white, with a grey travelling cloak like her own draped over her shoulders. The woman was giving low, mournful, stuttering sobs as she scratched the comb through her long, bedraggled hair. Molly felt a chill wrap itself around her as she fancied it could be the Banshee.
The woman raised her eyes to Molly and Molly stared into the wildness. She didn’t speak but just raised her finger and pointed back along the road Molly had come.
Molly shook her head. She couldn’t go back.
The woman continued to point back towards Inchiquin, raised her head and gave out a loud, lonesome, wailing cry.
Molly’s heart raced. The Banshee cried when someone was going to die. She felt the butt of the gun beneath her cloak. She knew what she had to do. She had to avenge herself on George Godfrey. She turned back.
She walked all night. Her feet ached so much; every step felt like torture. Finally, as dawn broke, the outline of Inchiquin house loomed through the morning mist.
She saw George Godfrey standing, smoking a cigarette in the early morning light. She heard the wail of the Banshee. She pulled the trigger on the gun.
Two thoughts suddenly occurred to her as she watched the figure crumple before her eyes. One: the Banshee cried for the old Irish families, the O’s and the Mac’s. She wouldn’t cry for the likes of George Godfrey. And two: it really was remarkable how alike John O'Brien was to George Godfrey.
