Cashelmara (36 page)

“Oh Lord,” I said in disgust after skipping to the last paragraph, in which George threatened to call on me the very next day to discuss the situation. I passed the letter to Derry. “Look at this!”

“I don’t need to look at it,” said Derry. “I can imagine what it says.” He pursed his mouth into the shape of a prune, lifted his nose as if an unpleasant smell lay beneath his nostrils and became Cousin George. “Can’t stand that fellow Stranahan!” he barked. “Always knows how to get the better of me! Damned insolent young puppy, b’God!”

I laughed till I felt weak. “Encore!” I pleaded at last. “Encore!”

Derry sank his chin upon his chest, frowned mightily and assumed a dour expression.

“MacGowan!” I gasped in delight.

Derry recited in MacGowan’s clipped lowland accent, “My name is MacGowan, I’m sober and mean; I don’t smile, I don’t laugh and I don’t drink poteen.”

I was laughing so hard by this time that I hadn’t the breath to beg for more, but Derry was all too anxious to continue the performance. He stood up. He patted his hair and pulled it down over his ears. Then he took off his octagon tie, undid the top buttons of his shirt and pulled the linen away from his neck to give an illusion of bare shoulders.

“Patrick darling,” he minced in Sarah’s well-modulated American accent. “I want this, I want that, I want simply everything.”

He stopped. I was about to protest, “Hey, steady on! Cousin George and MacGowan but not Sarah!” when I felt the draft from the open door whisper around my ankles as Sarah watched from the threshold.

Derry said quick as a flash, “Lady de Salis, thank God you’re here! I was trying to cheer Patrick up with a little mimicry, but I swear he’s so exhausted that it’s been nothing but a losing battle. Well, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll go and dress for dinner.”

Within ten seconds he had slipped past Sarah, closed the door and disappeared.

“How dare you!” exploded Sarah, shaking with rage. “How dare you let him mock me like that!”

“I was just about to cut up rough about it when you arrived.” Fortunately the whisky made me calm. “Besides, he didn’t mean any offense, I’m sure. Darling, is anything the matter? I thought you were going to have a bath.”

Sarah promptly burst into floods of tears and sobbed something about the servants not understanding a word she said and that she wished she was back home in New York.

“My poor Sarah …” I did indeed feel very sympathetic and did not in the least begrudge the next half hour spent appeasing her. When hot water had finally been squeezed from the kitchens I made her promise to retire to bed immediately after her bath. “I’ll have some dinner sent up here,” I said, inspired, “and as soon as I finish eating I’ll come upstairs to sit with you.”

Well, I did mean to go upstairs, but Derry and I started to kill a bottle of port together, and before we knew what was happening we were looking at two empty bottles and the grandfather clock in the corner was chiming midnight.

“Bedtime,” I said, trying to sound firm and only succeeding in sounding surprised.

“Lord, I wish I was in your shoes,” said Derry, “and had Sarah waiting for me upstairs. Share her with me, you lucky bastard.”

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” I said kindly. For once he was even drunker than I was. “And don’t tell me you’re lonely, because I’m sure there’s some kitchen maid whom you’ve been using as a warming pan these past months.”

“What do I care about kitchen maids?” he said morosely. “What do I care about warming pans? I could die tomorrow and no one would care.” Derry always talked about death when he was drunk, and when he was thinking of death he’d often say to me, “Ain’t life grand?” as if amazed that death could ever have such a miraculous counterpart. He was very morbid on the subject, but no doubt that was because he was a Catholic and the after-life was mapped out for him with such chilling precision. Personally I think Protestants are more sensible in keeping notions of the after-life comfortingly vague. I mean, I absolutely believe in God, but I don’t think anyone goes to hell unless they’re really wicked, and I doubt very much that heaven is full of angels and cherubs. That would be so awfully boring. I picture heaven as being like an idyllic garden, full of flowers and trees and friendly animals, for after all, if God made man in His own image, why shouldn’t He have made Eden in the image of heaven? It all seemed perfectly logical to me and a great comfort when I thought about death—which wasn’t often, only when Derry reminded me of it.

“I
should care if you died tomorrow,” I said, patting him on the head as I heaved myself to my feet. “Well, good night, old fellow. Sleep well and do try not to be so down.”

My candle wavered unsteadily as I crossed the circular hall, and hot wax stung my fingers. Muttering a curse, I clambered up the stairs and wove my way along the gallery to the door of my apartments.

My man was waiting up for me patiently, so I at once stripped and dived into my night shirt. By the time I had finished with the chamberpot behind the screen he had whisked away my clothes, so I dismissed him, to our mutual relief, and plowed over to the communicating door.

I had expected to find the bedroom in darkness, but to my horror the bedside lamp was turned up high and Sarah was propped against the pillows with a book in her hands.

“Where were you?” she demanded at once in a shaking voice.

Oh God, I thought. I suddenly felt very tired and not a little befuddled. The pillows on my side of the bed gleamed at me invitingly.

“You promised you’d come upstairs directly after dinner! I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I didn’t notice the time.” I slid into bed and leaned forward to give her a kiss, but she turned her face away.

“I suppose you were too busy gossiping with Mr. Stranahan!”

“Well, why not?” I said, aggrieved. “He
is
my best friend. Do be quiet, Sarah, and let’s both go to sleep! I’m too tired to cope with tantrums.”

“Tantrums! Aren’t I entitled to be angry? You’ve treated me abominably ever since we’ve set foot in this dreadful place!”

“We’ll be leaving in a day or two.” I snuggled into the pillow and savored the luxurious texture of the fine Irish linen.

“Not with Mr. Stranahan, I hope!” she said, sitting bolt upright in bed.

Instinct told me that if I once admitted this I would be doomed to a sleepless night. Summoning all my energy, I sat bolt upright too and did my best to be masterful. “Sarah, you’re tired and overwrought,” I said severely. “Stop whining at me, put out that lamp and go to sleep.”

“I’m not whining at you!” She flung her book halfway across the room, and I thought how beautiful she looked when she was angry. Her eyes glittered, her cheeks glowed and her hair, unplaited that night, streamed over her slender shoulders in a turbulent cascade. “How dare you say I’m whining at you!”

“You’re whining, moaning and being altogether most objectionable,” I said, losing my patience with her. “Be quiet this instant!”

She slapped me across the face.

I stared at her. A second later she struck me again, and after a long silence I realized I was going to make love to her. I moved roughly at first because I was afraid she would fight, but there was no fighting. She lay back on the pillows and let me do as I pleased, and afterward she even took my hand and held it shyly as if to show me all was forgiven. I felt a deep rush of affection for her. Taking her in my arms, I held her so tightly that she gasped, and although neither of us spoke I knew we were both happy.

So I had a good night’s sleep after all, despite my fears, and it was not until I awoke the next morning that I started to wonder how on earth I was going to tell her that Derry was coming with us to England.

As matters turned out I didn’t have to tell her immediately, for soon after breakfast a hastily scribbled note arrived from my brother-in-law Alfred Smith to say that Annabel had had a bad fall from a horse and could I come at once to Clonagh Court.

Sarah looked sulky, as if poor Annabel had deliberately inconvenienced her, and said of course she was much too tired still to consider even the smallest of journeys. “I did hope we could spend the morning alone together,” she added, “but I do understand that if Annabel is injured seriously you must visit her at once.”

I was too worried to pay much attention to her sulks. Alfred had not been explicit in his note, and I at once imagined Annabel with a broken back and less than an hour to live.

“Come with me,” I begged Derry, in a great state by this time, and he said sympathetically that he’d ride to Clonagh Court with me, although it would be better if he went no nearer the house than the gates.

So we set off together down the road to Clonareen, and despite all my anxiety I felt my spirits lift. It was a fine morning. The dew on the wayside grass sparkled, and my tenants smiled at me from their fields or from the doorways of their cabins. Derry pretended not to notice a soul, but after all he did have his dignity to maintain, and it was awkward for him since he had once been one of their number. I was too preoccupied by responding to my friendly reception to pay much attention to the looks which were thrown at him, although I do remember thinking it was a pity people had to be so jealous.

Our journey was still proceeding in this mildly pleasant fashion when we rounded a bend in the road and saw ahead of us none other than the valley’s prize troublemaker, Maxwell Drummond.

Derry always claimed that Drummond was descended from Scotsmen, and Drummond’s father had indeed come from Ulster, where many Scots have settled, but to me Drummond was Irish to the backbone, stubborn as the donkey that pulled his cart and a thousand times more aggressive. He had wide shoulders, wide enough to make the rest of his body look disproportionately thin, a thick neck and a broken nose; I thought he was quite the ugliest looking cove I had ever seen. His one redeeming feature was that he didn’t smell as much as he used to, for his wife, a schoolmaster’s daughter accustomed to more refined odors, was obviously strict in keeping a supply of soap in the house.

He drew his donkey cart onto the verge to let us pass and gave me a peremptory nod. “Welcome home, Lord de Salis,” he said. He had a brogue as thick as sour cream, but he chose his words like an Englishman. “I hope you’ve come here to put your house in order.” And he gave Derry such an insolent look that it was a wonder Derry didn’t leap from his saddle and start thrashing him.

But Derry was much too debonair to descend to such crassness. He merely yawned, made a great business of watching a cloud drift across the sky and said idly to me, “We’d best hurry, Patrick, if we want to reach Clonagh Court before the rain starts.”

“I hope God’ll be sending enough rain to drown you, you bastard,” said Drummond, “for it’s no peace we’ll have in this valley till He does. Good day to you, Lord de Salis,” he added as an afterthought, giving the donkey a taste of the switch, and the beast began to plod forward past us along the verge.

“Just a minute!” I said angrily. I wasn’t going to let him get away with insulting any friend of mine. “If you think Mr. Stranahan chose the thankless task of managing my affairs in this valley, you’re quite wrong! He has better things to do with his time than persecute people like you. He’ll be leaving with me for England at the end of this week, and—”

“God save you, Lord de Salis!” cried Drummond, interrupting me with the most infuriating glee. “I knew you’d see the light of day and remove that villain from Cashelmara as soon as you returned! No son of your great and mighty father, may the Lord bless and preserve his memory, could have done other than that. I wish you joy of England, Derry Stranahan, but to be sure I’d rather set foot in purgatory than scrape even the smallest tip of my little toe on Saxon soil.”

The donkey broke into a trot. The cart spun lightly away in a shower of mud that spattered Derry’s clothes, and I shouted a curse after Drummond, which he unfortunately failed to hear.

“Damned impudence!” I yelled. Even my horse was dancing with rage.

“Forget him, Patrick! Let him go to the devil and be damned, for he’s not worth your anger!” Derry was already smiling in contempt, and when I tried to protest he merely hunched his shoulders, turned down his mouth at the corners and said in Drummond’s brogue, “To be sure it’s doomed to eternal hell-fire he is, the black rogue, with not a soul to buy him a Mass from the priesteen.”

I smiled too then—he was so clever with his mimicry—and for a moment nothing mattered because we were out riding together and the sun was shining and it was good to be alive.

“Ain’t life grand?” said Derry.

It was only then that I thought of death, just as he always did when life seemed especially good, and my anxiety rose once more as we rode on to Clonagh Court.

The house lay on the southeastern tip of the lough half a mile outside the straggling settlement of Clonareen. At the eastern end of the valley there is a large expanse of lowland marking a break in the ring of mountains. The break in the circle is not visible from either Cashelmara or the western pass into the valley because of the spurs of the southern mountains, but the plain stretches beyond Clonareen to the shores of Lough Mask and the little towns of Letterturk, Clonbur and Cong. Clonagh Court, the dower house my father had built for his mother, stood on rising ground in the shadow of the mountain called Bencorragh and faced the plain. My grandmother had deliberately chosen this view because after years of living at Cashelmara she had declared she was tired of looking at the lough and the mountains.

In the paddocks in front of the house a number of horses were grazing docilely. I wondered which of them had been responsible for Annabel’s fall, and suddenly I felt very much upset, for Annabel was really awfully jolly, and although I had never known her well (she had been grown up when I was still in the nursery) I liked her far better than my other two sisters, Madeleine and Katherine. I think she liked me too. In fact she had even said once that I was a much finer fellow than our brother Louis, which I thought was pretty decent of her because everyone used to talk of Louis as if he were a child saint. But Annabel would have had no time for child saints. She was much too honest and sensible for that.