Free 1949 by Morgan Llywelyn

Halloran, of Clare and Dublin” for employment.
    Sitting on the bed in her room, she spread the envelopes out like playing cards. “Begin with P.S. O’Hegarty,” Henry had instructed. “If you make a good impression on him you shall not need the other three. I have known P.S.—that is what everyone calls him—for years. He has written several books on Irish subjects, which explains why his language is a bit flowery. P.S. used to be a postmaster with the British civil service. When they found out he was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood they dismissed him. After the War of Independence he took the pro-Treaty side, and now he’s the secretary of the Department of Posts and Telegraphs, with a lot of jobs in his gift. Some of his opinions may get up your nose, but I trust your teachers at Surval have taught you better than to blurt out your politics on first acquaintance.”
    The Department of Posts and Telegraphs was temporarily housed in Dublin Castle while the General Post Office, destroyed by British artillery during the 1916 Rising, was being rebuilt. For seven centuries the sprawling complex known throughout Ireland simply as “the Castle” had been the seat and symbol of English domination. Now it contained the government of the Irish Free State.
    To Republicans, the Castle was still occupied by the enemy.
    As Ursula Halloran approached the wrought-iron gates opening into the Upper Yard, her thoughts, whatever they might be, were concealed behind a facade of impeccable poise. Her felt hat was from Kellett’s, the leading Dublin milliners; her white gloves were spotless. The mauve suit she wore turned her eyes to a mysterious smoky gray.
    â€œI have an appointment with Secretary O’Hegarty,” she told the guard. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to his office?”
    In Ireland people were labeled by their accents, which identified both their birthplace and their station in life. This young woman’s precise diction was beyond the guard’s ability to categorize, but her self-assurance was convincing. With a respectful salute, he passed her through the gate.
    Patrick Sarsfield O’Hegarty was a bespectacled, square-faced man with a tightly trimmed moustache. Meeting Ursula at the door of his office, he bowed her in with the courtesy of his generation and held a chair for her.
    She handed him the letter of introduction. After a perfunctory reading he dropped the letter atop a pile of other papers on his desk. “My old friend Henry Mooney seems to think you would be an asset to the civil service,” O’Hegarty remarked in a lilting Cork accent. “We’re receiving applications by the score but we’ll always look at someone special.”
    Ursula dazzled him with a brief smile before dropping her eyes. The gesture conveyed the message that she was someone special, but too modest to say so.
    O’Hegarty studied her in silence for a few moments. “Well, well. I suppose you’d best tell me about yourself. Your people are from Dublin and Clare, I understand?”
    Sitting with an erect back and her hands neatly folded in her lap, Ursula gave him a creatively edited version of her family history. Obfuscation could be learned.
    â€œYou’re very well-spoken,” he observed. “Where were you educated?”
    â€œFor the past several years I’ve been studying on the Continent,” she replied smoothly, “specializing in languages. I am fluent in both French and German. And Irish of course. An bhfuil Gaeilge agat? * ”
    â€œI come from an Irish-speaking family,” O’Hegarty told her with obvious pride. “I’ll arrange for you to take the civil service examination as soon as possible. The exams are competitive, but with your background you should have no difficulty in winning a place, Miss Halloran.” He hesitated. “It is ‘Miss’? To join the civil service