Mrs. Murphy’s skin had been ashen, that of a malnourished woman who has lost far too much blood bringing her child into the world. After ten children, she looked considerably older than her forty-four years, and had barely had the energy to hold the mug of tea Breda had made her. “I believe fried liver is good for building up one’s strength after a difficult birth,” Margaret said, recalling Susannah’s advice to a new mother.

“Don’t worry. Agnes will see to that, and make sure Mammy has plenty strong porter to drink, which one of my brothers will bring back from the brewery.” Breda cut her scone in two and took a delicate bite. “You are full of surprises, my lady. I thought Mammy was going to fall off her chair when you changed Liam’s dirty napkin.”

Margaret laughed. “It was positively fragrant compared to some I’ve encountered.”

“You’ll be doing the nursemaid out of work, when you have your own babes.”

“Perhaps. What about you? Do you intend to get married?”

“I’m in no rush. I’d have to give up earning money if I took on a husband.” Breda took a sip of tea, her brow furrowed. “God’s honest truth, though, is that I’ve no wish to end up like Mammy. I know the church teaches us that children are a blessing, but if I bide my time before I take the plunge, I’m thinking I’ll be less blessed but maybe happier.” Breda winced. “Sorry, that sounds selfish.”

“It sounds an eminently sensible approach to me. Have you finished?”

“It seems a crying shame to leave so much food, but I don’t think I’ll be fit to eat again for days.”

“I have an idea,” Margaret said, summoning the waiter. “Please have all of this wrapped up and put in a hamper, and supplement it with whatever you think necessary to feed—how many will be home tonight, Breda, including your father?”

“Eight, but you can’t—”

“Eight people,” Margaret said to the waiter. “Eight very hungry people.”

“I am afraid the Shelbourne does not provide picnic hampers, Lady Margaret.”

“I’m sure that can be remedied,” Margaret said, for the second time that day adopting her mother’s most imperious tone.

“I will speak to the manager; it may be possible,” the waiter said doubtfully.

“I am certain that it will be. Miss Murphy here will provide you with the directions. If you will have the Powerscourt carriage brought round now, I would be much obliged.”

“My lady!” Breda watched the waiter’s retreating back with a mixture of glee and horror. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Do you think your mother will be insulted?”

“No, Mammy will be over the moon. Never look a gift horse and all that.”