Then one night, without any warning, I do not dream of Devlin. I am in a small, dank room. The roof slopes down on both sides of the room. The corners are dark and dusty. A single, metal bed stands beside a small circular window. There is hardly any space for anything else.

Even in my dream, I feel a deep sense of loss.

I see myself stand in front of the circular window. Then I am looking out, down to the ground far below. I recognise a man below. He is wearing a strange jacket and pants, and he looks like a picture from one of my history books. The man looks up at me silhouetted in the small window, as I glare down at him with a loathing I cannot understand.

A girl appears behind me with a tray in her hands. There is a teapot, teacup, sugar pot, small milk jug and a plate of biscuits on the tray. She looks around, and then shrugging her shoulders faintly, she places the tray on the wobbly bedside table.

“Where am I?”

She looks at me unsure. “The attic?”

“Why?”

“Remember? The master found you with that servant boy who was taking advantage of you in the forest.”

“No. I leaned in and kissed him. He never ever tried anything. It was all me.”

“It is too late now, child, Devlin is gone.”

“Where did he go? You must help me to get out of here.”

“Oh no child, your da is very, very angry with you. You best stay here until he calms down. Besides Devlin is long gone to Dublin by now.”

“Dublin?”

“Yes, child. Devlin. He left the day your da locked you in here.”

I sit down on the bed. My legs are unable to carry my weight any longer. I say softly, “Devlin and I never even had a chance to say goodbye. It feels as if he died, it is so final.”

She puckers her face and nods her head a little. “Probably died. I think you might be right, child.”

I look up at her shocked.

She wrings her hands in the white apron tied around her waist. “There is a great sickness on the streets of Dublin. They say people are growing big black lumps on their skin, and their tongues are turning black. They say it is called the Black Plague and people are just falling down dead in the streets. Dreadful business.”

I am unable to pull a breath of air into my lungs.

Waking up, I am gasping for breath.

The next night I dream of an elderly lady who opens the door to the dark room I am in.

The woman says, “You may leave the room now.”

Sitting on the bed, I look at the door. I have a feeling of dread, and I do not want to walk out of the room. It feels as if I have been trapped in the attic for a long time.

Filling my lungs with air, I get up and walk out of the room. In the hallway, sunlight bounces throughout the space. It has been a long time since I have felt the warmth of the sun.

I follow my feet down the stairs to a room where the sun is shining in brightly through the large windows. The woman, who opened the door for me, is sitting in a rocking chair facing one of the large windows.

She shocks me when she says, “Your father is dead.”

I sit down on a chair beside her. Words refuse to form on my tongue.

“You caused a lot of problems for your father.” She says it as if she is blaming me, as if it is my fault. I feel a deep sense of guilt. She continues, “Surely you understand. Your father went through persecution since that scandal you brought over this family.”

“How could it be regarded as a scandal?” I ask incredulous.

“You were in an inappropriate relationship with a servant. How can you be so naive?”

This dream merges into another.

I am on a horse, and I do not even know how to ride a horse. I have never even seen an actual horse in real life.

Nudging the horse, it lurches forward, starting to gallop. My long, dark hair lifts in the air behind me, as the wind sweeps in under it. It feels as if a weight is lifted from my shoulders as my cares and worries, my disgruntlements, are stripped away from me. I approach a boundary wall, a stone wall, built by peasants years ago. Turning my horse, I let it walk along the boundary wall until I see another rider, ahead of me, on the other side of the boundary wall.

He looks very imposing on his black stallion and as I get nearer to him, he turns in his saddle to look at me. Immediately I like him. The way his smouldering green eyes look at me, the way his dark hair hangs over his eyebrows. He smiles at me and my heart jumps fiercely in my chest. I ride past him without stopping and I can hear him following me.

He calls after me, “Are you not Eilish?”

I pull at the leather straps in my hands and stop. Turning in my saddle, I wait for him to catch up to me. When he reaches me, I ask, “How do you know my name?”

He smiles down at me. “I have seen you around. Where are you going?”

“Circling our land. And you?” I ask politely.

“Same. Just making sure everything is as it should be.”

“So, you know my name, should I not know your name?”

“I am Gerard.”

I wake up with a start. My room is still midnight dark, and I do not want to reach for my phone on my bedside table to see what the time is, so I close my eyes and soon I am fast asleep again.

Gerard is sitting on the wall, beside his horse. It is as if he is waiting for me. I smile happily, but reluctant to let him see the joy on my face, I look down at him arrogantly and nod my head in acknowledgement, while I continue walking my horse past him.

“Morning Eilish,” he calls after me, but I ignore him, keeping my back stiff and straight, sitting as ladylike as I possibly can.

I feel his eyes burning into my back and I chastise myself for not stopping to talk to him.

It is as if my mind is set to repeat and this happens again and again, until he gets up and grabs onto my horse, just as I am passing him.

He looks up at me. “So, how long is this going to carry on?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” I look down at him pompously.

He laughs loudly. “Yes, you do.”

I answer insulted, “No, I don’t.”

“Stop awhile, if you don’t mind, and talk with me.”

He reaches his arms up toward me, and with my heart in my stomach, I lean down to him. He helps me down from the horse and then I sit down next to him on the wall. We sit there silently, looking out over the fields, the grass gently swaying in the breeze. The silence feels comfortable, and I feel at ease in his company.

The sun starts to set over the horizon, painting the rolling hills in a cascade of pastel colours and still neither one of us say a word.

I get up to go and he holds me back by taking my hand. The sensation, which runs through my veins at this simple gesture, the touch of his skin to mine, makes my heart race.

“Will you meet me here again tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” I reply coyly.

I pull my hand from his gently and walk away, as he calls after me, “I hope so.” My unbelievable attraction to him is intense. It is scary and daunting.

The memory of this dream remains with me longer than the others. In my everyday life, my parents continue making plans, packing boxes, shipping favourite pieces of furniture, seemingly oblivious, as always, of how I feel. My mum starts to pack the things in my room. Slowly my cosy, comfortable haven starts to resemble an empty shell with four walls and a bed. All my memories are slowly stripped from the walls and my surroundings. With trepidation I feel the inevitable future rush toward me.

Sometimes my mum creeps into my room late at night. She often asks me softly if I am sleeping, and when I say no, she sits down on my bed next to me. She takes my hand into hers, smiling encouragingly, and then she tries to convince me how great it will be to make new friends, to widen my horizons and how I will do well anywhere in the world, because I am such a clever girl.

Whatever.

Once she leaves my room, thinking she has convinced me enough, I turn myself to the wall and I cry myself to sleep.

On other nights, when my mum is too busy disrupting my life to be worried about me, I lose myself in a fantasy wherein I meet Gerard at the stone wall. I imagine us sitting there, and sometimes we will just sit there next to each other, but other times I’ll make up long intricate conversations where I tell him how unhappy I am to be moving across the globe, to another hemisphere, until I tumble into unconscious sleep.

Standing up from the wall to go, he pulls me into his arms gently and holding me close, he fleetingly brushes his lips over mine. The feelings it rouses in me can never be forgotten. His hands are around my waist, drawing me into him. He presses his lips against mine. It is simultaneously magical, frightening, irresistible and sensual.

As the days became shorter and the frost remains thick on the ground, we meet discreetly in the stables each afternoon. I can feel the way his hands caress my skin, the way goose bumps erupt over my entire body at his mere touch, and his soft murmurings as my body is cradled close to his.

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