Cashelmara (67 page)

The shock of MacGowan’s return had a curious effect on me. I felt lightheaded, and from time to time I was able to look down upon myself as if from a great distance and watch the puppetlike figure who was pretending to be the lady of the house.

“There’s absolutely no need for you to trouble yourself about the household accounts any more, Sarah,” said Edith. “Hugh wants me to do it. He says you’re too extravagant and spend too much money on clothes. You’re to have an allowance, and Hugh says you must be very careful not to exceed it.”

The other servants started to give notice, and when Edith replaced them with the humblest of the valley girls, the quality of service deteriorated. But this, I was told, would be a mere temporary inconvenience until the estate was set right and Clonagh Court rebuilt.

Meanwhile the MacGowans would remain in Cashelmara.

Ned’s tutor left, and when a new one arrived he remained less than a week. Even Nanny gave notice when Edith tried to reduce the supply of fuel for the nursery fires, and the notice was withdrawn only when I broke down in tears and begged her to stay.

Strangely enough the fright of Nanny threatening to leave had a beneficial effect on me. It shook me out of my state of shock, and once the shock was gone my rage started to burn again. I was careful to conceal it, but now I was quite clearheaded enough to realize that something would have to be done. Obviously I could do nothing but bide my time until the MacGowans had returned to Clonagh Court, but after that … The difficulties of escape haunted me again. I couldn’t leave Cashelmara without the children, yet with the children it was impossible to leave. Cashelmara, as MacGowan had once said, was so remote. Even if we took no baggage we would still need a carriage, and carriages needed horses, grooms and coachmen before they could embark on a journey. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize the commotion of departure. To sneak away hurriedly in the dead of night with four children could only end in failure, for even if we managed to leave the grounds without Patrick stopping us we wouldn’t have a chance of reaching George’s house in Letterturk. Word of our flight would reach Patrick within the hour. He would ride after us, summon MacGowan … If we were indeed lucky enough to reach Letterturk Grange, there would be nothing George could do to prevent Patrick from removing the children and taking them home. And what would happen to me? Well, no doubt MacGowan would think of some appropriate solution.

The match flared in the darkness. His eyes watched me above the single steady flame.

I felt ill. My fear and hatred of him rose in my throat like vomit until I felt I would suffocate, and my brain became so clouded that I could no longer dwell on plans for escape. Perhaps when the MacGowans had returned to Clonagh Court I would be able to think more clearly.

Patrick ordered the finest Connemara marble for his lily pond, and all through that terrible summer his garden was a brilliant mass of blooms. I can see the rhododendrons, vast, sprawling and exotic, their colors rich against the lush leaves of the trees, and all the way along the walk to the chapel the azaleas blazed with a fire eerie in its intensity. The beds around the lakelike lawn were dense with color too, and I remember gazing day after day at the red trumpets of the flame nasturtiums, the dazzling blue of the gentians, the multicolored fantasy of a whole border of anemones, the pale perfection of the graceful lilies. The magnolia tree flowered too that year, and in the kitchen garden the peach trees drooped to the ground beneath the burden of their luscious fruit. I had never before seen such a beautiful garden. Patrick worked so hard, caring for his flowers until they seemed to have some mysterious entity of their own, while up on the hillside the altar cloth rotted in the chapel and the pews lay caked in dust.

It was in June that I learned I was to have no respite from the MacGowans. They decided they would live permanently at Cashelmara, and with that decision my desperation drove me to consider leaving Cashelmara without the children. But I knew I couldn’t leave them behind unless I had some assurance that I could get them back with legal help. If only I could consult a lawyer and find out what my legal position was! And as I wracked my brains to think how this could be done, it occurred to me that here at last was a situation where George could give me active assistance.

I wrote him a note. I gave it to Madeleine when she came to tea, and that was a great accomplishment for Edith watched me like a hawk and longed only for me to make some mistake that she could report to MacGowan. But I slipped the note to Madeleine after I had upset tea all over Edith’s new dress, and Edith was in such a state that she never saw Madeleine grasp the note without a change of expression and slip it into her coat sleeve.

I wrote to George: “I had resolved to remain here for the children’s sake, but matters are at such a pass now that I think it would be far worse if they remained at Cashelmara than if I took them away. However, I dare not leave openly for fear of what MacGowan might do to me if I tried. I know I am a danger to him because I can testify about his perverted behavior with Patrick, and if the matter is brought before the courts there must be at least a chance that I cannot only bring them both to ruin but also deprive Patrick of custody of the children—something which Patrick has always dreaded. Yet before I attempt to leave I
must
find out my exact legal position, and since I cannot escape from the valley I have no choice but to ask you if you would see an attorney on my behalf. I know it is a great deal to ask, particularly since you cannot approve of the scandal resulting from a divorce, but dearest George, I no longer care about the scandal. I’m far too desperate for that. Please, please help me. In particular be sure to ask the attorney if, by appearing to condone the situation here, I have lost my grounds for a divorce. I cannot leave only to find that the children are denied me, for I would never dare return to be with them. Words cannot express how much I fear and loathe MacGowan.

“Please believe me when I say there is no use in reasoning with Patrick. He will never, never give MacGowan up. And please, I beg of you, be very careful to destroy this letter as soon as you have read it and never breathe one word about my request for help.”

In this at least George obeyed me. He must have destroyed the letter, for no word of it reached MacGowan’s ears, but despite all I had said he could not believe Patrick would refuse to give up MacGowan once scandal threatened. I suppose George was shocked because I had put into words what he himself had long suspected, and the shock must have impaired his judgment, for he came to Cashelmara to reason with Patrick one last time.

Patrick and MacGowan saw him in the morning room, and when I had eluded Edith by saying I had a headache I waited in the shadows of the gallery in the hope of seeing the expression on George’s face when he left. I was frightened in case he betrayed I had written to him, and all I cared about was finding out whether or not I was safe.

But I never saw George again. I heard voices raised in argument and seconds later a heavy crash followed by silence.

“He fell,” said MacGowan hours afterward to Dr. Cahill. “It was very unfortunate. A stroke perhaps? A touch of apoplexy? It seemed as if he lost his balance, and before we could catch him he struck his head on the fender.”

Dr. Cahill revealed that George had long suffered from high blood pressure and diagnosed that a spasm of dizziness had caused the fall. “… and the fall against the fender killed him. Most unfortunate accident. No one in any way to blame …”

I said nothing. I didn’t know what to believe, although I was sure Dr. Cahill would have spoken up if he had suspected George’s head injury had not been caused by the fender. I wanted to believe in the possibility of an accident because I knew I would be less frightened if I did, but night after night I would dream of MacGowan’s strong arm and awake sweating with fear.

I wondered if I could send word to Thomas and David but decided I couldn’t Too dangerous, both for me and for them. Could Madeleine help? But she was so religious. She might simply tell me that, unfortunate though it was, I had a moral duty to stay with my husband in any circumstances. Perhaps Charles … No, MacGowan mailed all my letters to America, and I was sure he read them first. I could ask Madeleine to mail a letter, but did I dare risk passing a letter to Madeleine again?

By this time I had given up the idea of seeking legal advice before I took any radical step, but I still didn’t trust the law to restore the children to me if I were to leave Cashelmara on my own. I knew what the law thought of deserting wives, and I knew too that MacGowan would engage the best lawyers to discredit me and vindicate Patrick. In the circumstances I thought it would be foolish to assume that I would be automatically granted custody of the children.

So I was back where I’d begun. I knew I had to escape and I knew I had to take the children with me, but I still couldn’t see how I was ever going to do it.

In July Drummond was tried in Galway and sentenced to ten years in jail.

Drummond would have helped me. If Drummond were free …

There must be some way, I thought. There must be.

In September two political prisoners escaped from a jail near Dublin, and the newspapers said the Irish National League had bribed the jailers to ensure the escape. The Irish National League was a new organization that included members of the dissolved Land League as well as all sections of the Home Rule Party. If I could somehow talk to Mr. Parnell … MacGowan and Patrick had both testified against Drummond at the trial. If I could show someone high up in the National League that Drummond’s trial, arrest and imprisonment were the result of a personal feud … But I dared not write to Mr. Parnell and I couldn’t escape to see him. I was almost as much of a prisoner as Drummond was in the county jail in Galway.

“God save you, my lady!” said Father Donal when Edith and I met him one day during a morning call on Madeleine, and suddenly I remembered Patrick talking about the Land League and old MacGowan writing sourly, “… and the priest’s in it up to the neck.”

“Good morning, Father Donal,” I said, smiling at him, and that same night I summoned all my courage and said to Patrick in front of the MacGowans, “I wonder if you could arrange for Father Donal to call here to see me? I’ve been thinking for some time about becoming a Roman Catholic and I would like to take instruction.”

I saw MacGowan look at me. But I never looked him in the eye nowadays, so I was careful not to arouse his suspicions by suddenly giving him a bold stare. I merely kept my voice low and glanced meekly at Patrick, exactly as I always did, and across the dining-room table I was aware of MacGowan relaxing in his chair, his suspicions lulled.

“But how commendable, Sarah!” he said dryly, mocking me. “And how unlike you!”

“Yes … I know.” I tried to smile, as if I were humoring him. I sometimes did that and I knew he wouldn’t think it unusual. “But ever since Jane was born I’ve been thinking more and more about my religion.” I thought this was a clever touch. After a brush with death many people take to religion with unexpected fervor.

“I dare say that could be arranged, Patrick,” said MacGowan genially. “You can write to Father Donal for Sarah, if she wishes. Edith, perhaps you too would be interested in learning more about the Roman Church.”

Edith opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. “Well, it’ll be a diversion, I suppose,” she remarked offhandedly and gave me a pitying look.

Edith lasted four hours of instruction, during which Father Donal talked long and earnestly in his delightful Irish voice about everything under the sun except his faith, and then before his fifth visit I overheard her say to MacGowan, “Do I really have to endure any more instruction from Father Donal?”

“Aren’t you enjoying it?” he said, amused.

“On the contrary I declare he’s quite the most boring little man I’ve ever met”

“And Sarah?”

“Oh, poor thing, she’s quite in earnest. It’s absolutely pathetic.”

I felt giddy with triumph. I saw Father Donal alone at last, and as soon as I had made sure no one was eavesdropping I began to talk about the National League and political prisoners and Galway County jail.

Father Donal’s eyes grew very round, and after a while he forgot to close his mouth, and at the end he was sitting on the edge of his chair.

“God save you, my lady,” he said at last. He was so dumfounded he could think of nothing else to say. “God save you.”

“I’m sure He will if we can save Drummond first. Listen, Father, I have a plan. I want Drummond to go to New York and take a message to my brother. It’s very important both for my safety and the safety of my children, and it must be a complete secret because if word gets back to MacGowan I’ve no doubt we’ll all be murdered in our beds. If the Blackbooters or the Brotherhood or whatever they call themselves nowadays could arrange for Drummond’s escape to America …”

“My lady, there’s but one problem, but pray God you have the means to solve it. It’ll take a lot of money.”

“How much?”

He thought about it. “It’s the bribes, you see, several of them, each man asking for more than the last. Ah, it’s a terrible world we live in, and the love of money is the—”

“A hundred pounds?”

“At the very least, my lady.”

But I had no money, and my necklaces, bracelets, earrings and tiaras had all been sold to stock Patrick’s garden and pay for the marble lily pond.

I took off my wedding and engagement rings and gave them to him. “Sell these.”

He was transfixed. “My lady, you can’t—”

“I want Drummond out of that jail and on a boat to America,” I said. “Everything I have depends on that.”

“But if your husband should be asking you about your rings—”

“He’ll never notice.”

“Mr. MacGowan might notice,” said Father Donal.

We looked at each other. “I shall tell him I lost them,” I said, “and he’ll never be able to prove otherwise.”

He opened his mouth and shut it again. At last he said, “I’ll be praying for you, my lady—even if you stay a Protestant,” he added as an afterthought. I always thought this was the most Christian remark I ever heard during all my years in Ireland and not at all typical of an ill-educated country priest.