VII
The Brits
Return
After much verbal abuse and a few threats, Brigadier Ian Wendall and Lady
Emily Talbot hired a horse and a cart from a smithy in Dublin. Their only other
choice was to purchase two rickety bicycles. Emily’s taste in dress and
footwear convinced Ian that horse and cart was the practical solution. In
Dublin, motor cars were plentiful. Here and there they’d pass another horse and
cart, and many individuals on bicycles. The city was noisy, crowded and sooty.
Ian directed the horse, along paved streets, and eventually into the
countryside. There traffic dwindled to a trickle, and eventually they picked up
dirt highways and hilly, green lanes. “It is certainly pretty,” Emily
commented, “But a few more trees and a few less rocks would very much be in
order.”
“Trees,” Ian harrumphed. “Sore subject that. The Irish, of course, are
blaming us for their lacking.”
Emily, dressed for a drive in the country, shifted in her seat, taking
him in from the side, and then again turning to examine the scenery. Her eye
caught on the sight of a motor car with its bonnet up. A tiny man cursed it out
and waved a stick at its motor. She returned her attention to Ian. “So how much
time have we lost?”
“Quite a bit actually. If we could have left Dublin yesterday, we’d have
been in by last evening.”
“The Irish are an angry race, aren’t they?”
“You were warned.” He clicked his tongue and encouraged the old nag
forward. This was possibly the worst piece of horse flesh he had seen in all of
his years of military service, although possibly one of the most dear. The
thief that finally agreed to letting it to him demanded blood. It amazed Ian
they were allowed into Ireland at all, or even allowed to leave Dublin alive.
And she had planned to let a motor car.
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