The Kilternan Legacy

by Anne McCaffrey

  “We could get our hair done free?” That imp of misplaced humor made me say it.

  “Oh, I’m certain Sheevaun wouldn’t mind at all,” Maureen said, a little stiffly.

  “Honest, I’m pulling your leg.”

  Gerry’s laugh was more reassuring than my words, and Maureen began to grin slowly, her eyes still on mine, and hopeful. However, now I could see their strategy in confessing Aunt Alice’s abortive attempt to secure the queendom. Ah, well, theirs was the nicer axe to be ground.

  “Sure now, Maureen, you know how Irene was in acquiring useful tenants. She liked the old gratitude bit, noblesse oblige,” Gerry was saying.

  “To be frank, however, I’d prefer less personal service and a bit more rent,” I said. “Several pounds a month is—”

  “Oh, Sheevaun would be able to pay more than that, Rene,” her sponsor said quickly. “She’s paying twelve pounds a week for two horrid little rooms now.”

  “Look, I have to get the cottage back first. But, yes, if I get it back, I’ll definitely consider your Mrs. Donnelly. I hadn’t actually committed myself to Shay’s candidate.”

  Such a decision called for coffee, at the least, and then we ambled down to watch Snow riding Horseface. As nearly as I could tell, my darling daughter was improving. Ann shouted instructions from the center of the pasture’s improvised ring, but she came over to the fence to greet Maureen and Gerry. Maybe she was on very friendly terms with them anyhow, but Ann was unusually expansive. I wondered what on earth Kieron had said to her. The girl was practically beaming at me with goodwill when she suddenly frowned and tensed.

  Following her anxious gaze, we all observed a Mini Minor cautiously drawing up the lane. Ann ducked under the rail, about to fly toward the house, when a woman poked her head out of the window.

  “Could you tell me if the Stanford children are still here?”

  “Yes, they are,” I told her.

  Her head vanished as she turned off the ignition and got out.

  “Are you taking care of them?” she asked pleasantly. “I’m Mrs. Melton of the ISPCC.”

  She extended her hand, so of course I shook it.

  “I’m Irene Teasey,” I said, since that information seemed proper. What was the ISPCC?

  “It’s very good of you to take on such a responsibility,” she went on, mystifying me more.

  “No responsibility, really. I am their mother.”

  “Their mother?” The cordiality died in her eyes, and her whole attitude became wary. More than that I couldn’t hear.

  “Yes, I’m Irene Teasey Stanford, but I resumed my maiden name when I got my divorce.”

  “Divorce?” For the amount of information she was getting from me, she was giving poor return.

  I looked about, toward Gerry, Maureen, and Ann. Gerry obligingly stepped up beside me.

  “Yes, Mrs. Melton, I divorced Teddie Stanford. It was final about seven months ago now.”

  “Oh!”

  “What is this all about, Mrs. Melton?”

  “I told you. I’m from the Irish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.”

  “You’ve come for a donation?” An odd sales pitch.

  She brushed that aside irritably. “Was there a death here recently?” She looked past me to Gerry.

  “My great-aunt, who was also Irene Teasey, died in March,” I told her. Or didn’t she trust anything I said?

  “No, no. Within the past few days?”

  “If you mean old Mrs. Slaney,” said Gerry as he pointed to the now clean cottage, “she died of a heart seizure this week.”

  “Heart?”

  Mrs. Melton’s habit could get on your nerves.

  “Yes, sure now and the old dear’d been hanging on to life as if it was worth living,” said Gerry, very smooth. I guess he had come to the same horrid conclusion I had. “Rene, here, my cousin,” and his emphasis was slight, comforting to me, and noted by Mrs. Melton, “made the sad discovery. Quite a shock it was for her, seeing as how Rene had never laid eyes on the old dear before.”

  “Oh.”

  It must have been as plain to Gerry as it was to me: Auntie Alice had spread her “murder” bit about me with a lavish hand. But why on earth she’d bothered the ISPCC …

  “May I see your children, Mrs… .”

  “I’m legally Mrs. Teasey.”

  “Mrs. Teasey. They are here?”

  “Yes, you may, since you’re here. But I think someone has grossly misinformed you and your agency, Mrs. Melton.”

  She looked sternly at me. “Such a serious complaint has to be investigated, Mrs. Teasey.”

  “What complaint? As their mother and legal guardian, I have the right to ask.”

  “I am required to verify their whereabouts, the care they’re receiving, and their mental and physical well-being.” Her glance passed over the three cottages, settling too long on the mess in front of Fahey’s.

  “There’s my daughter, Mrs. Melton,” I said, and waved toward Snow, who was bouncing about on Horseface’s back with what seemed like bruising efficiency.

  “The girl? The one on the horse?”

  “Yes, if you’d like to speak to her while I call my son. He’s helping a neighbor with his motorcycle.”

  Her stunned expression told me that she had expected babes in swaddling, or at least toddlers. So it couldn’t have been Auntie Alice. It had to be Teddie-boy.

  “Simon!” I roared to release some of my spleen. And bless him, the bullcalf roared back in a matter of seconds. “Yeah, Mom?” He came running at an admirable sprint.

  “Mrs. Melton, this is my son, Simon Stanford.”

  “How do you do, young man?”

  “A bit greasy, thank you ma’am,” he said, “so I’d better not shake your hand.” He gave me a ‘What’s up?’ quirk of his eyebrow, which I countered with a mute warning of my own.

  “The girl on horseback is this lad’s twin sister?”

  “Yes, she is. I agree, they don’t look much alike, but I didn’t have any say in the matter.”

  My levity went down badly with her, but it cheered me!

  “They also don’t look fourteen,” said Mrs. Melton, as if that were my fault. She was very put out. “Since I’m here, perhaps I’d better see where you are all living.” She turned toward the cottages, with reluctant distaste.

  “If you’ll step this way, Mrs. Melton,” and I couldn’t help making a grand gesture as I indicated the house.

  “I’d like a few words with your son and daughter, if I may.”

  I told Snow to give Horseface to Ann and come up to the house immediately. Simon must have given her the private sign, because she too turned very dutiful, sliding off Horseface. Ann, Maureen, and Gerry gave me a ‘Help you?’ look, which I appreciated but dismissed with a grin behind Mrs. Melton’s stiff back.

  She sat, rigidly erect, on the little settee as the twins ranged themselves close to me.

  “Mrs. Teasey, my office received urgent communications from the American Red Cross, the American SPCC, followed by a request from the Embassy to trace your children. We were given the distinct impression that infants had been illegally removed by you from the continental U.S.A. and were being kept in substandard conditions by, I will not mince words, a dangerously unstable woman unfit to have the care of small children, and under suspicion of committing a felony.”

  “Daddy couldn’t have!” Snow’s explosive denial blended insult, indignation, embarrassment, and fury. “Mrs. Melton, I’m so sorry. I could die! Why, you must be livid, being dragged out on a fool’s errand on such a lovely evening. Oh, Mother, can’t Mr. van Vliet do something about Daddy? I mean, this is the end!”

  “Sara!”

  “Mrs. Melton,” Simon began, and he was so incensed that his voice cracked a little, “our mother has done nothing illegal. She has the custody of us. Dad knew where we were going and when. Because Snow and I told him. He’s just—”

  “Simon!” I felt I’d better call the
children to order or some of Teddie’s ridiculous accusations might bear weight. “I too apologize most profusely, Mrs. Melton. I can’t think what has possessed the children’s father. You see, I’d inherited my great aunt’s estate …”

  “Twelve acres, four cottages, and this lovely old house,” said Snow at her most guileless, “and that lovely old horse—would you believe that he’s twenty years old?”

  The frost receded a bit more from Mrs. Melton’s attitude.

  “It seemed a good idea,” I went on, “to inspect the inheritance and for the children to meet our Irish relatives.”

  “We love Ireland,” Snow said enthusiastically, “and I’d never get a chance to ride horseback where we lived in the States.” My darling daughter made it sound as if we’d come up considerably in the world to inherit an Irish Georgian farmhouse. “We’re just started with redecorating—would you like to see what we’ve done?”

  Mrs. Melton rose. “Thank you, my dear, but I have seen all that I need to.”

  “Then you won’t have to send us back to Daddy, will you?” The fear on Snow’s face was not sham.

  “No, my dear. There’s no need to. The facts of the situation were grossly misrepresented to my agency.”

  I would have escorted her back to her car, but at the front door she turned to me and held out her hand.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Teasey, and I apologize for intruding.”

  “Oh, no, the apologies are all on our side, Mrs. Melton.”

  “It is scarcely your place to make any apologies, Mrs. Teasey,” and when Mrs. Melton smiled, she was a very different, totally likable person. Then she shook her head, stern once more, and walked briskly away.

  What had been fulminating within my savage breast during the interview had now reached boiling point. How I had been able to keep my cool while Mrs. Melton was in the house, I don’t know. I suppose I must have realized how important it was for me to be pleasant and conciliatory, and give the appearance of being well-balanced.

  “What time would it be in America right now, Simon?” Not that it made any difference, because I was picking up the phone and dialing for the overseas operator.

  “You’re calling Dad?” And the anger on his face turned to gleeful anticipation.

  “No, I’m calling Hank. I couldn’t hear your father’s voice right now without foaming at the mouth. Hank’s got to start proceedings or whatever to keep that man from harassing us. First he has me watched—” Whooops!

  “Watched?” Both kids leaped on that one.

  “You can call Hank if you want to,” Simon said through clenched teeth, “but I’m calling my father. And I’m telling my father—”

  “Not if I get the phone first, Brother,” said Snow, in every bit as quiet a tone. “Watching you or us, Mommy?” she asked.

  “Me.” I suddenly wanted them to go easy on their father, but my answer didn’t please them.

  “Why? To open a custody case or something?” asked Snow and there was a sort of look on my daughter’s face that was going to haunt me: It was too remorseless, too adult, too cruel.

  “Well, he hasn’t a hope in heaven,” she went on. “You tell Hank that, and we’ll tell our doting daddy.”

  For a wonder, Hank was actually in his office. Feeling my veins bubble again, I gave him a rundown of the recent indignities of surveillance, harassment of the children’s friends in the States, plus the nice lady from the ISPCC. Hank blew his cool all the way across the Atlantic. At an inverse ratio, I began to calm down. I even began to see the amusing side of this.

  “When I get through with Theodore Teddie-boy Preserve the-Image Stanford, there won’t be anything left in the mirror of his narcissism to reflect an image. He’ll—” Hank broke off, inarticulate for once. “What time is it there, Rene? I’ll phone back as soon as I have something in train.”

  I told him, thanked him, and rang off. Simon took the phone out of my hand. And I walked out of the room. I wanted to hear what they said so badly that I couldn’t listen. I kept right on walking, as much to work off the energy of that excessive spleen as to quit the scene of combat. To my surprise, because I’d forgotten all about them, Gerry and Maureen were still at the pasture fence, chatting with Ann. Horseface was grazing contentedly, reins looped about his neck.

  “It seems,” I said as I joined them, “that my ex-husband said his children were being lodged in substandard conditions, cared for by a murderess. The only agency he doesn’t seem to have called on to find his poor lost infants is the U.S. Marines.”

  “Infants?” Gerry and Ann had exclaimed as the words were out of my mouth. Gerry grinned more and more broadly as I went on with my explanation. Maureen just stared, but Ann’s face got darker and darker.

  “It never stops, does it?” asked Ann when I finished. “Whether you’re American or Irish, the man persecutes whenever he feels like it and gets away with it.”

  “Oh, no he doesn’t,” I said firmly. “And not all men. Just certain thoroughly spoiled immature temperaments who’ve never got it through their thick heads that you can’t win ‘em all with charm and a sweet smile.” Some of my own anger cooled before the hopeless look on Ann Purdee’s face. “Besides which, I can’t really uphold the theory that says all men are bad, or all women nice. Look at Auntie Alice for a bad example—Oh Gerry, I’m sorry. Kieron’s sisters, too.” That comparison was hardly better chosen.

  “But there’s no way of knowing, is there?”

  I blinked at her vehemence, ruing the disappearance of that happy, relaxed Ann of a scant half-hour before.

  “Not one hundred percent sure, but you do have clues,” and I thought of the kids’ theory about hands. “Ann, how old were you when you got married?”

  “I was nineteen.”

  “I was only nineteen when I married, too,” I told her. “Just took me a little longer to realize what a mistake I’d made.”

  “Your case is different,” Ann began, almost belligerently, her eyes sparking.

  “I know,” I said, with all the rue I could put into my voice. “In my country, there are legal mechanics to solve the problem.”

  “Can you do something about that?“asked Ann skeptically, jerking her head to mean the recent visitation.

  “My solicitor is handling the matter with due legal process.”

  “Then, girls,” Gerry said, spreading his hands wide, “you should always marry Americans.” A wide grin kept the remark from being snide. Nonetheless, I sensed that the tone of conversation did not please him, wherever his sympathies might lie with the present company, or whatever he had told me about never marrying an Irishman.

  “Good old Yankee know-how,” I said with a self deprecating grin, and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Well, my sense of proportion is operating again, and I fervently hope that the twins are putting their paternal parent straight.”

  “The twins? Their father?” Ann was astonished.

  On cue, the “infants” appeared among us. Their father had not been in his office and was not expected in, and they were mightily disappointed.

  I also felt let-down and cheated. And yet, funnily enough, I was relieved. Some inner scruple in me wanted a good relationship (if not the image) preserved between the twins and their father: Children should love and be able to respect both parents, if possible.

  “I know three gals who stand in the need of a jar or two,” said Gerry.

  “Oh, I couldn’t…” Ann physically stepped away from the invitation.

  “Nonsense,” said Snow, who had started to unsaddle Horseface. “You never go anywhere—except to funerals! And the kids are all asleep, so don’t weasel out because they’d cry if you weren’t there.”

  “There’s safety in numbers,” Gerry said, teasing. Maureen added her urgings.

  “He can’t have spies in every pub in Dublin, now, can he?” I argued. “And when was the last time you went anywhere? Without kids … without…”

  Ann muttered something dark about Kieron, stopped, and glan
ced apprehensively at his cottage.

  “He’s free to come too, you know, though it cuts the odds for me a bit.” Gerry’s grin was calculated to egg her on.

  Ann found one last, feeble evasion—her clothes—but Maureen asked since when had one had to dress formally to drink a jar with friends?

  “I’ve a pair of huge dark glasses you could wear,” said Snow, all enthusiasm, “and that floppy hat. You’d look just like any other Yankee tourist.”

  “Oh, what will Sally—”

  “Sally’s got a date tonight, and you know it,” said Snow, with disgust at her protestations. “What’re you aiming for? Sainthood?”

  For some reason, that taunt decided Ann, and we all linked arms to march over to Kieron’s cottage. He gave Ann one long searching look after his initial astonishment.

  “I’ll just wash my hands,” he said, and did so.

  Then we all clambered into Gerry’s blue Humber and jackrabbited away in a cloud of dust.

  “You know, we should have got Mary and made it a residents’ association meeting,” I said, suddenly in the best of good spirits.

  “She and Molly’ve gone out with George,” Ann said, nervously peering out the car window before scrunching down in the back seat.

  Did she really think that that husband of hers would pop out of the hedges to waylay her? Speaking of popping out of hedges, I noticed when Nosy’s car edged into sight behind us. I opened my mouth to comment on that, then decided against it. Ann might see Paddy Purdee’s hand in that too.

  I don’t remember what we talked about that evening, since so much happened later of more importance, but I remember what a fine time we all had—even Ann, once she got used to the notion of enjoying herself out in public. Not that she was public in the back of the dark booth with her hat and glasses on.

  As usual, time was called all too soon. The jars we had poured into Ann Purdee gave her sufficient Dutch courage to sit straight up by the window in the back seat—well, as straight as she could with Kieron’s arm about her. Maureen adroitly joined Gerry and me in the front seat. I was feeling good too, and for some reason or other which I can’t now remember, we kept singing the unexpurgated version of the Colonel Bogey song. Kieron knew the most scandalous variations! A very merry carload pulled up the lane, right to Ann’s doorsteps. My two were deep in books, and there hadn’t been a sound upstairs, they told Ann.