The Kilternan Legacy

by Anne McCaffrey

  “She’d never the least intention of any other course,” said Lady Maud, “once you were named for her.”

  “That far back?” I was astounded. “But the will—”

  “Pshaw!” said Lady Maud. “More tea, dear?” she asked Simon, who held out his cup.

  “Irene gave them all a chance,” said Lady Mary, uncharacteristically stern. “Such a commotion when she went on the stage!”

  “More of a commotion when she refused to live with any of them after the accident…”

  “With each of the sisters certain that all Irene could do was mind their children …”

  “She accepted our hospitality,” said Lady Maud, “when she first returned from England.” An expression of intense sorrow robbed her face of all youthfulness and joy. “Her voice”—a hand gestured with ineffable, graceful regret—“was gone.”

  “Yet we never heard a single word of complaint for what she had so tragically, needlessly lost. That’s why it was such a reviving thought to her that you also sang Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  “It was as if,” Lady Maud said, pausing dramatically, “her voice had not been lost, merely passed on.”

  “But you see, Lady Maud, I didn’t even know she was a singer.”

  “It was in your blood, my dear Irene. You couldn’t deny the promptings of your inheritance any more than you should now deny the rightfulness of inheriting.”

  “I see you’ve a phonograph, Lady Maud,” said Simon quickly.

  I hadn’t noticed one, and followed his glance to the shadow on the far wall: a horned, crank-type gramophone.

  Lady Mary bounced to her feet. “Indeed we do. And we’ve all Irene’s records! She was so generous to us in that respect.”

  “Could we hear one? Please?” begged Snow.

  “Certainly,” said Lady Maud, airily gesturing her permission. “It’s so nice to have someone who can wind it, for, truth to tell, the spring is much too tight for either of us any more.”

  Simon was on his feet, carefully picking his way past the small-scale furniture like a giant in a doll’s house.

  “What is your favorite?” Lady Maud asked me courteously.

  “My favorite of Mother’s is ‘Poor Wandr’ing One,’” said Snow, and when I hastily agreed, Lady Mary told Simon where to find that album. (Afterward Simon told me that the Ladies Brandel’s 78 albums would make a collector flip his wig. “Mom, they had Caruso imprints worth a fortune!”)

  He found the right side of the heavy old record, which he handled with awed care, where Frederick is entreating “one whose homely face and had complection/have caused all hope to disappear/of ever winning man’s affection.”

  “Not one!”

  “Not one?” pleads Frederick.

  “Yes, one,” and I gasped with shock at the voice. What one hears of one’s own voice differs from what others hear out in front. I’d thought I was accustomed enough to hearing my recorded voice. And there was “I” singing as I had always wanted to. For, to be utterly candid, I simply hadn’t the training or the great natural voice that my great-aunt had had. I could hear the difference.

  I recovered enough from the shock to smile reassuringly at the delighted ladies.

  “I knew you’d be amazed that you sound so much alike!” said Lady Mary in a hoarse whisper.

  “Do listen, Mary dear,” said Lady Maud with gentle reproach.

  Talk about infatuation with the sound of one’s own voice! I only wished it were my voice.

  They insisted that we hear the rest of the first act. And there was more tea in our cups, and more bread and butter, until I worried that we might be eating the dear ladies out of house and home. I hadn’t a clue how fat the trust fund was, but at one point Snow leaped to answer the kettle’s summons, and on her return caught my anxious eye and reassured me. I made a mental note to find out the exact details from Mr. Noonan.

  These ladies must be preserved as long as possible, although they seemed to be doing a good job by themselves.

  With considerable reluctance, we made our adieus at six o’clock.

  Chapter 9

  I FELT RELIEVED about the circumstances of my inheritance. The good Ladies had reasserted Kieron’s valid reasons for Aunt Irene’s decision, eccentric as they seemed to me and unfair in the eyes of her disappointed relatives.

  Irene Teasey had dared to be what she wanted—a singer when such a profession was not quite respectable—she’d made money doing so (which was construed in some oblique way to be wrong in the eyes of her conventional family), and she had managed—despite her femininity—to have invested it so wisely that she was now condemned for the success of that perspicacity. That figured, as Simon would say.

  To add insult to injury, she had left her so much despised and unexpectedly valuable property outside the immediate family. The gesture was not so much of spite as a wish to continue the tradition of her independent spirit with the only one of her relatives (me?) whom she felt qualified to ascend. Well, she had earned the right to dispose of her possessions any way she chose. And she had chosen me.

  I would go on Sunday to the relative tea and observe. I would nod, smile, and ooze (as Snow said) from any commitments. I’d see if I could spot those of the younger generation whom Irene had wanted to assist. I was beginning to comprehend why she hadn’t named them … with specimens like Imelda and Alice looming large and rapacious on the horizon.

  Yes, we’d do the pretty on Sunday and then forget about the whole kit and caboodle. We’d tour until the probate was accomplished, and get home in time for the twins’ school opening. We’d’ve had a relatively inexpensive holiday. I’d half decided not to sell the queendom—at least not this year. I could rent the main house and have Ann and Kieron keep their eyes open—even make Ann my agent, with a small stipend to ease her situation. Such fun I’d have in Westfield, talking about my Irish holdings. And Teddie would be livid at my luck. (Preserve the Image!) I did want to evict the Faheys, and I would see if I liked George Boardman and could make a deal with him. I wanted to meet the Cuniffs, and I’d better brief Simon and Snow and have them speak with old Mrs. Slaney.

  Really, the similarity between our singing voices was uncanny, I’d have to try to find copies of those recordings. Of course, I wouldn’t actually say they were of my voice… and while I thought that, I could feel the temptation to perform welling up. Ah, well! If only I could sing like that … And, at thirty-six, I was far too old to be a G and S ingenue.

  “Hey, Mom! Mom!”

  Simon’s voice jerked me out of my reverie.

  “Telephone. For you.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s safe. It’s Shamus Kerrigan.”

  I had been bombarded with so many new impressions that day that I had to stop a moment and think who might Shamus Kerrigan be. Then I hurriedly took the phone.

  He was a smoothie! My half-formed notion to evade his invitation was neatly spiked. He said that if I were still game enough to be seen in his company, he’d collect us at half ten, and that we should bring raincoats just in case the weather blessed us.

  “Which in Ireland is a certainty,” he added with a laugh, and then rang off before I could demur.

  “You were going to cancel,” said Simon in a very stern mood.

  I gulped. “Well, yes. Because he’s just one more complication on top of the relatives.”

  “Ah, Mom, cool it! He won’t bother you about the lane. I’m sure of it.”

  I knew that he had no way of substantiating that opinion except that he would will Shay Kerrigan not to.

  “Well, even if he does, it won’t get him anywhere until after probate.”

  “Then why are you looking under the K’s in the phone book?”

  “Well, that won’t do me any good anyhow, there are too many S. Kerrigans,” I said, closing the book with a slap. “I yearn to see a Schwartz or Chang in the phone book.”

  “Too many damned Irishmen, huh?” said Simon, grinning, and he put his arms around m
e. “Now don’t you worry, Mother.”

  “You’re so good to me, Simon!”

  He gave a self-deprecating snort and a quick, awkward kiss.

  “I’m hungry. Bread and butter is not enough.”

  “You know, so am I.”

  “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you. I’ll peel the spuds.”

  I was fixing cabbage with caraway seeds when I heard Snow babbling away in her luring tone of voice. “Good Lord, who’s she found?” I asked Simon.

  He looked up from peeling his spuds and shrugged his shoulders. Then Snow appeared in the back door.

  “Mother,” she called in the “highbred” tone she can affect, “you’ll never guess who’s surfaced.”

  “Really, I am intruding,” said a very male, deliciously baritone voice, and then my darling daughter was hauling a complete stranger into the room.

  I’ve always been fascinated by prematurely silver hair, which is apparently a Celtic trait. Snow’s victim had a head of wavy, shiningly silver hair, set off by very black eyebrows and a gorgeously trimmed black-and-silver handlebar moustache. He was laughing as she dragged him into the kitchen, reluctant to intrude.

  “Oh no, you’re not. We’ve been wanting to meet you. Mother, this is the man who wants to buy the cottage.”

  “Oh, good Lord, Sara …”

  “I told you, young lady, that I didn’t think this was the time to intrude, and I still think so. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Teasey …”

  “No, please, Mr. Boardman …”

  “No, please, Mrs. Teasey,” and his eyes were bright with amusement. “I’ve the habit of looking in on Horseface of a Friday evening, and your charming daughter apprehended me.”

  “He’s hunted Horseface.” There was no quelling Snow. “And he sings Gilbert and Sullivan!”

  The upshot of that was that George Boardman, who was as nice as his looks, joined us for supper. He reassured Snow that twenty was far from being decrepit in a horse and that he had indeed hunted the beast last year, albeit a fairly quiet hunt, but that Horseface had a good few years in him, in which Snow could learn how to ride. He’d become acquainted with my great-aunt when she’d still been active in the Rathmines & Rathgar Gilbert & Sullivan Society. He was forced by Snow to admit that he’d sung with them—still sang with them, for that matter. I wasn’t surprised—his speaking voice hinted at musicality.

  “She coached me,” he said, warmly reminiscent, “in Covent Garden’s best fashion, and she was superb! How she could imitate a baritone!” He laughed at some outrageous memory. “It’s such a shame that you never met.”

  “Now, Mother,” said Simon, patting my hand. “Cut it out. Mother feels guilty.”

  “She oughtn’t,” replied George Boardman flatly. “Irene was pleased as punch to have a relative who sang G and S. Those sisters of hers never saw her on stage, and they’d the gall to criticize her for it. No, don’t you worry your head over inheriting. Just follow in Irene’s footsteps. Her loss is sorely felt.”

  I thought he was hinting at something, but Snow interrupted the flow of the feeling.

  “You want to buy one of the cottages, don’t you?” She said it more than asked.

  George Boardman glanced quickly from her to me.

  “Aunt Irene said you did,” Snow went on. “Well, don’t you? Mother wants to get the Slaneys and the Faheys out.”

  “You’re a bold miss for sure,” he said, not altogether approvingly.

  “Snow has a good practical head on her shoulders, if little tact,” I said, seeing my daughter’s flush. “She’s not jumping the gun, because I have already asked Mr. Noonan to find out if you still want to buy. Aunt Irene left me a letter, and I should like to comply with her instructions.”

  Ah, that was it. He knew about the letter.

  “Of course,” I went on, “there’s all this business about probate, but Mr. Noonan said that possibly you’d buy now and pay later on a caretaker basis.”

  “I’d like to buy on any terms you think best.”

  “Even with the place as big a mess as it looks?” asked Snow.

  He gave her another long look, and she flushed again, subsiding into the chair. I saw Simon give George Boardman a look of intense respect. Simon, poor dear, often felt at a loss as to how to handle two women at once.

  “The place has tremendous potential, Mrs. Teasey.”

  “Rene, please.”

  He smiled wryly. “It seems odd to hear such a request in that voice. You do realize that you and your great-aunt sound fantastically alike.”

  “Yes. I seem to have scared poor old Mrs. Slaney into thinking I was the ghost of Irene Teasey.”

  He sat up, startled. “Yes, you would. The poor old thing.

  Have you reassured her?”

  “More or less,” said Simon. “Her son—”

  “Tom Slaney’s about?” For some reason this irritated George. “I’ll look in on her myself. Poor old wight.”

  “Wouldn’t she be better off in an old-people’s home?” I asked hopefully. I’d already had doubts about putting out any tenant Aunt Irene had favored.

  “She’d certainly be safer, and her bit of money wouldn’t be spent on drink…” but I could tell George Boardman didn’t really think I should evict the poor old lady.

  There followed one of those awkward pauses, which Simon broke by remarking that we’d heard the Ladies Brandel’s recordings of Irene.

  “Aren’t they pets?” George said, his face lighting up with a smile of extraordinary delight. “I was going to suggest that you visit them. Which album did you hear?”

  “Pirates.”

  “I say, did you ever sing Mabel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am a pirate king…’” he sang, and he had a very good rich baritone. With his looks, he’d’ve made a fine Pirate King.

  We got a trifle off the subject of his buying the cottage with a discussion of which roles he and I had sung. We ended up singing snitches and snatches of arias and choruses. I hadn’t sung in so long that my voice tightened up quickly, but if he noticed, he gave no sign. Then too, Simon and Snow know as much G & S as I, and so we were all singing away, fairly shouting out the Policeman’s Chorus.

  “You’ve got to audition this fall for the Society,” he said. “I’d give anything to see their faces when Irene Teasey appears on stage!”

  “Oh, but we’re only here to settle the estate,” I said.

  “Oh, I hadn’t realized. Then you’ll be selling up?”

  “Oh, no. Just the cottage to you. I’ll probably get a good tenant for the house here.”

  “You’re not selling anything else?” He was very intent.

  “Oh, no.”

  “I think Mother’s getting used to the notion of a queendom of her own,” said Simon teasingly.

  “Mother’s stubborn too,” said Snow, unaffectedly this time. “Too many people want her to sell.”

  “Oh?” And George Boardman very much wanted to know who.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know of a Brian Kelley?” I asked.

  “Indeed I do. Kieron usually bounces him off the place as soon as he shows up.”

  “Kieron can’t play my watchdog all the time,” I said, a little glumly, because I didn’t want to run into Tom Slaney again.

  “Not to worry. Slaney comes floating in about the first of the month, gets fluttered, and ends up in the nick.”

  “Make an edict, Queen Irene,” said Snow with a giggle. “No Slaneys, Kelleys, and bulldozers welcome here!”

  “Bulldozers?”

  “Yes,” said Simon before I could, “we warned off a bulldozer our first day here. Do you know a guy named Shamus Kerrigan?”

  George was very serious as he looked toward me. “I know Shay Kerrigan very well. So did your great-aunt. In fact, he bought that property because she’d give him access up this lane.”

  “What?” we all said in chorus.

  “But—but—in her letter to Mother she said not to give
Shamus Kerrigan access to the lane.”

  “Was he going to put ticky-tacky boxes on that land?” asked Snow, rather more aggressively than need be.

  “No, he most certainly was not, because I’m his architect and I won’t design that sort of house.” George Boardman was equally adamant.

  “That’s a relief.” said Snow, heaving an appropriate sigh.

  “Your great-aunt knew of our intention,” George said to me. “That’s why her sudden reversal was such a surprise. I tried to speak about it, and she wouldn’t even hear Shay’s name. Then she had those strokes, and neither of us cared to pursue the matter. Shay’s about shelved the whole project.” George looked at me thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s why it’s such a relief to know she’d still let me have the cottage. Frankly, I was beginning to think we were both in her black book, and neither of us could figure out why.” He rose. “I really must be going now. I’ve an engagement.”

  While it was a relief to me to have him go after that unfortunate turn of conversation, we all tried to make him feel that his return would be very welcome. He assured me that we’d see a lot of him, one way or another.

  Chapter 10

  THE CUKRAGH was a topologically astonishing area, and the “soft” air (that means very fine misty drizzle) lent it an additional mystery. We had come down an ordinary road which wound through typical small Irish towns, and were thrust onto a smooth, rolling plain, a vast prospect, at first seeming to flow limitlessly into the mist-obscured distance.

  The “softness” of the day was lifting, giving deceptive prominence to sheep grazing at the top of the next rise, so that they stood in bold relief against the brightening sky, looking much larger than they actually were. To our right was the distant raceground of the Curragh, also limned bigger than actual size.

  “This is where the high kings of Ireland used to hold chariot races,” said Jimmy Kerrigan, Shay’s engagingly personable nephew. “You get out here early enough and you can see them training the race horses.”

  Shay Kerrigan had arrived on our lane only fifteen minutes late, charming and rather overpoweringly attractive in an Arran sweater, matching cap, old corduroys, and heavy boots. His slightly built nephew, a dark curly-haired lad with traces of his uncle’s charm in his smile, was also regulation-Arran-sweatered, wearing bell bottom pants of which Snow and Simon instantly approved. Jimmy’s fascination with Snow was patent, but his readiness to align himself with Simon against her became apparent in the first exchanges. Jimmy had been as apprehensive about meeting Snow and Simon as they had been about him, but all shyness dissolved with an adroit comment or two by Shay. The three hadn’t stopped talking since we’d left Dublin proper and headed southwest toward Naas and Kildare.