Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

  She had thought Roaring Water Bay beautiful; Bantry Bay made her cry out loud with delight. She stood on the cliffs on the Sheeps Head, looking out to sea, and then up at the great backdrop of the Caha Mountains, and felt almost awed at its beauty. ‘If I have any connection with you,’ she said to the scenery conversationally, ‘then I shall be proud indeed.’

  The convent was inland, about five miles, in a small lush valley, a large Georgian house with a huge walled vegetable garden, and some magnificent greenhouses, all in a state of feverish fertility, kept by the nuns. It was a small order, just twenty sisters; they ran a tiny primary school for the neighbouring villages, nursed the sick, and financed themselves to a large degree by their garden produce. They had a vine in one of the greenhouses, already covered in tiny green grapes: ‘We make wine from that every year, many many hundreds of bottles,’ said Reverend Mother, as she took Charlotte on a tour of the grounds, ‘it is a great favourite, not just locally, we get orders from Kerry and Limerick as well, and even occasionally from Dublin. You must take a few bottles home with you. Now if you would like to come with me, you can pay Sister Mary Joseph a little visit, she is in the chapel, and we shall be saying our mass for her in the morning.’

  Charlotte had been prepared for this ordeal and had known she must not flinch from it; nevertheless she was trembling and had to clench her teeth to stop them chattering as Reverend Mother opened the door to the chapel set just slightly apart from the house, and distanced from it by a small covered walkway. Reverend Mother looked at her set face and smiled, took her arm gently.

  ‘You have no need to be afraid,’ she said, ‘it is nothing, death. Sister Mary Joseph was in a great deal of pain for many months. She is at peace now. She looks beautiful. You’ll see.’

  Charlotte saw. She saw a small, still shell, a white peaceful face, dressed in the white robes of her order, her wimple carefully arranged, her rope belt loosely tied, lying in her coffin. Her hands were arranged to hold a single white lily together with her rosary; she seemed to Charlotte to be neither alive, nor dead, but in some remote place in between. Her face, which Charlotte looked at curiously as her courage grew, was wide-browed, squarish; the mouth, in the set smile of death, was full-lipped, the nose small and straight. Reverend Mother stood looking into the coffin tenderly, as if at some sleeping child; without thinking, without knowing why she did it even, for she was not a Catholic, had never been to a Catholic church even, Charlotte made the sign of the cross.

  Outside again, she smiled and said, ‘Thank you. Thank you for taking me.’

  ‘That is perfectly all right. I knew it would be nice for you. Once you had found the courage.’

  ‘Well,’ said Charlotte, ‘I think you found it for me.’

  ‘If I did, I count it as my own good fortune. Now will you come and take some tea with me, or are you in a great hurry?’

  ‘I would love to have some tea. Please.’

  They sat in Reverend Mother’s study, a quiet, painfully tidy room, all shades of beige and white, with a statue of the Virgin in one corner, and a large tropical fish tank in another, an exotic colourful bubbling country, all of its own.

  ‘I like to look at the fish,’ she said. ‘They make me feel calm.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you not being calm,’ said Charlotte, smiling at her.

  ‘Well now, you might not see me not being calm, and that makes me sound very Irish, I know. But you would see me feeling it. I am a most tumultuous person. It is my worst fault. Sister Mary Joseph had great peace. I had to work very hard not envying her, not resenting it. It was so very sad you were unable to meet her. You would have liked her so much. Is the situation at home better now?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Charlotte, ‘yes, I think so. It’s very difficult for my father, coping with all of us, without my mother.’

  ‘Tell me about your mother. And how she knew Sister Mary Joseph.’

  ‘Well I didn’t know she did. But – well, it’s a long and complicated story. And of course I found out too late. You see, my mother had a christening robe made for me. By a lady called Maura Mahon, who lives about – let me see, fifteen miles away. Near Skibbereen.’

  ‘I think I know the name. But go on.’

  ‘Well, my mother died, and I was going through her things, and I found the robe. And I was interested, because you see there is a family robe, an heirloom I suppose you could call it almost, and my sister and my brother wore it, but I didn’t. So I was just – curious. And I thought any link with my mother would be nice to explore. So I came to see Miss Mahon. And found, by a rather circuitous route, that it was Sister Mary Joseph who had ordered the robe. And she said, when I wrote to her, that she remembered my mother. And you know the rest.’

  There was a silence. Charlotte thought how crazy Reverend Mother must think her, haring around Ireland after some woman who had ordered a christening robe twenty-one years earlier. She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, there is more, but it’s very complicated. I don’t think –’

  ‘My dear child, I would not dream of expecting you to tell me anything at all. It is entirely your own business, what you are doing. I am simply delighted to have met you. Now then, I wonder how much I can help you. Sister Mary Joseph was a very private person, not a great talker. She certainly never mentioned having a christening robe made.’ Her lips twitched slightly. ‘But then of course she wasn’t here at the convent then, she was at the hospice in London. Well, maybe her brother will be able to talk to you.’

  ‘Her brother?’ Charlotte looked at her in wonderment; for some reason she had expected Sister Mary Joseph to be all alone in the world.

  ‘Yes. Her brother, David St Mullin. He will be here tomorrow.’

  The burial mass was very moving. The sisters filed into the chapel as a small choir sang ‘Pie Jesu’. Sister Mary Joseph’s coffin, closed now, and covered with pure white flowers, lilies, roses, freesias, stood on a plinth near the altar. The service, which Charlotte had expected to find tedious and incomprehensible, was lyrically beautiful; she sat and gazed at the beautiful stained-glass window above the altar, and watched and listened as the priest dispatched Sister Mary Joseph to join the angels; as they knelt in final silent prayer, one of the sisters sang ‘I Know that My Redeemer Liveth’, and Charlotte found herself suddenly and sharply back in her grief for her mother; at the end her face was wet with tears.

  So engrossed was she in the service that she forgot about the importance to her of the man seated just behind the nuns, a slightly short, stocky figure with grey hair, wearing a rather shabby black coat, and carrying a very battered-looking black homburg.

  Afterwards she followed, far behind the rest, as Sister Mary Joseph was borne out to the small graveyard behind the chapel; David St Mullin had left the chapel, his head bowed, and she had still not seen his face. She stood a little apart as the coffin was lowered into the ground, feeling a sudden chill at her heart; David St Mullin threw the first clods of earth onto it, and then stepped back. She saw his face then for the first time, heavy with sadness: square-jawed and wide-browed, like his sister’s, and she liked what she saw. It was a kind face, and the mouth was gentle, and humorous; she felt she could approach its owner without too much trepidation.

  Reverend Mother led David St Mullin over to her, as the procession of sisters and the priest filed back to the convent; she was smiling, although her face too was tear-stained.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Lady Charlotte,’ she said, ‘it was so nice to have you with us. I wish Sister Mary Joseph could have known you. Mr St Mullin, this is Lady Charlotte Welles. Lady Charlotte has just discovered that her late mother, Lady Caterham, knew your sister when they were both young.’

  Charlotte took the hand that David St Mullin was holding out to her. ‘How do you do, Mr St Mullin. I do hope you will forgive my being at your sister’s funeral, stranger that I am to your family, but yes, my mother did know her. Your sister wrote and told me so.’

  ‘Indeed?’ he said, courteously in
terested.

  ‘I wonder, Mr St Mullin, do you remember my mother? … Virginia Caterham?’

  There was a silence. Charlotte felt herself growing ice cold and sweaty at the same time. Was he trying to remember? Trying to duck the question? Calling up an alibi?

  Finally he said, ‘No. No I really don’t. I’m so sorry. Should I?’ He sounded absolutely genuine; regretful, charming, eager to help.

  She sighed. ‘Well – I thought you would. Or rather I suppose I hoped you would. Does – does the name Maura Mahon mean anything to you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Who is Maura Mahon?’

  ‘She’s an old lady. Who made my christening robe.’

  There was another silence. Then he said, ‘Lady Charlotte, I’m sorry, but you are talking in riddles, I think. Why should your christening robe have anything to do with me?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlotte, feeling suddenly, heavily hopeless. ‘I’m sorry. I just met Miss Mahon, you see. And she was asked to make my christening robe by your sister, Sister Mary Joseph. And – well, I thought you might know of some connection. Because I don’t. My mother is dead, you see. It’s not important really – just a small mystery.’ She smiled at him, determinedly casual.

  David St Mullin was silent. Charlotte was just going to start saying thank you, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter, all the silly, conventional, untrue things, edging towards the end of the conversation, when he said, ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t for me. My wife made our children’s christening robe. She’s a very fine needlewoman. She would have been most affronted at the suggestion anyone else did.’ His voice sounded amused. Charlotte’s heart felt as if it had turned to some icy, heavy substance.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and getting any words out at all seemed almost impossible. ‘Oh, I see. Well obviously I am mistaken. I’m so sorry. As I said, it’s not important.’ She tried to smile.

  ‘Well, no,’ he said, ‘there is one possible explanation. It might perhaps have been my younger brother.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Charlotte. ‘Your brother! I never thought of that. I didn’t know you had one.’ Her voice died away. God in heaven, he must think she was crazy.

  His voice was amused. ‘How could you have done? Anyway, he’s been in America for a year. He couldn’t get over. He’d seen Felicia a month or so ago. Reverend Mother wrote and told him not to worry to come. She said the sisters and I would all see her safely on her way. He’s very busy and not – terribly well off.

  ‘Anyway, that might be an explanation, don’t you think? Although why he should have ordered a christening robe for your mother, I cannot imagine.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlotte, almost humbly.

  ‘Perhaps he was going to be a godfather or something. Although then you would have known him, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘A mystery. Well, now, have I solved your problem for you, do you think?’

  ‘I think probably yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m sorry, you must think I’m quite mad.’ She was recovering herself now, regaining confidence. ‘But it’s one of those infuriating loose ends that just won’t be tied up. Er – what does your brother do?’

  ‘You seem very interested in him!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘It’s all right. Charlie’s a barrister. His chambers are off Fleet Street. I’ll give you the number. But as I say, he’s away till September. There’s no great rush though, I imagine?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlotte. ‘No, not at all. And thank you very much. You’ve been terribly kind.’

  It was many hours later, as she lay staring into the darkness, still trying to persuade herself that it was highly unlikely that the impoverished Mr St Mullin could actually be anything to do with her, that she properly realized that his name was Charles.

  ‘Dear God,’ she said aloud, ‘does that mean something or is it just a very strong coincidence?’

  God, clearly feeling he had done enough for her for the time being, declined to answer.

  ‘Dear Mr St Mullin,’ she wrote. It was the fourth time she had begun her letter. ‘Please forgive me for writing to you like this, but …’ For the fourth time she scrumpled the piece of paper, threw it into her waste paper basket. But what? But I think you are probably my father. But I think you had an affair with my mother. But I really have to meet you. But what do you look like. But…

  ‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘Shit shit shit.’ It was no good; a letter wasn’t going to work. A phone call was easier.

  She picked up the phone, dialled the number; she already knew it by heart. ‘May I speak to Mr St Mullin, please?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’ The voice was bored, distant.

  ‘My name is Welles. Lady Charlotte Welles. Er – Virginia Caterham’s daughter.’

  ‘One moment please.’

  There was a long silence; now what, wondered Charlotte, now what was she to say – ‘Oh hallo, I wondered if we could meet, and talk about my mother … Oh, hallo, my name may not mean anything but … Good morning, Mr St Mullin, a voice from your past.’ Now what was it she had thought, worked out, oh yes – ‘Mr St Mullin, I wonder if you remember meeting my mother, many years ago.’

  She licked her dry lips, took a deep breath as she heard clicking, meaning she was being put through. This was it. Mustn’t flunk it now. A voice spoke: a deep, very beautiful voice, more resonant, more mannered than that of his brother.

  ‘Charlotte? Virginia’s daughter? How wonderful. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you and her down the years. Would you like to meet and have lunch? I’d love to have a look at you.’

  ‘Oh yes please,’ she said, ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

  Chapter 20

  Virginia, 1960–1

  ‘Oh yes please,’ she said, ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

  It had been worth enduring what had so far been a terrible evening, to hear Virginia Caterham say that.

  Charles had not wanted to go to the cocktail party. He was studying terribly hard, he was tired, he was going away for the weekend, and the last thing on earth he had in mind for himself was standing and shouting for upwards of two hours with a glass of warm gin and tonic in his hand.

  But the cocktail party was being given by his pupil master, who had expressed a very strong hope that he would be there, and he could see he had absolutely no option.

  And so at half past five he changed into a clean, slightly less shabby shirt in the cloakroom of Lionel Craig’s chambers, reknotted his tie (and then wished he had not done so, as it fell into a just different position and looked even more creased and worn out than it had before), rubbed his shoes one at a time on the back of his trouser legs, brushed his rather unruly dark hair (wondering how he was going to find the requisite three shillings to get it cut as Lionel Craig had rather strongly hinted it should be) and walked down Chancery Lane and into the Strand to wait rather hopelessly for a number eleven bus. Lionel Craig had departed half an hour earlier in his Rolls; it had naturally not entered his head to offer his impoverished young pupil a lift.

  The traffic was appalling; it was almost a quarter to seven before the bus lumbered into Sloane Square. Charles leapt off it and ran frantically up Sloane Street, tore up the steps of the mansion block and pressed Lionel Craig’s bell. A maid in a black dress let him in, with the observation that the party was nearly over and, smoothing his windblown hair, gulping his breath into some semblance of normality, he walked casually into the drawing room. Barbara Craig was standing by the door; she was a large, imposing woman with a shelf of a bosom (encased that evening in red lace), impeccably pleated iron-grey waves, and a sternly pleasant face.

  ‘Ah, Mr St Mullin,’ she said. ‘What a pity you’re so late, all the canapés have gone.’ She rather liked Charles, he was so handsome with his wild dark hair and dark blue eyes, and she felt sorry for him because he was so patently poor and so thin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs
Craig,’ he said, ‘no buses.’ He was still slightly out of breath.

  ‘I know how bad they are,’ she said sympathetically, patting his hand, ‘my daily is very often late. Now then let’s get you a drink. Jarvis, bring the tray over here please, now what would you like, all the usual, and there’s some Bucks Fizz, that’s lovely, I always think, and of course it makes the champagne go so much further.’

  Charles took this to be a sign that she would like him to have the Bucks Fizz, and took a glass; it was gloriously welcome. ‘Now then, come along and I’ll introduce you to some nice people …’

  Charles moved stealthily away after sixty seconds or so and made for the table in the corner where a few of the less popular canapés still remained. He was just downing a third mini ham sandwich and wondering if he could consume the entire bowl of stuffed olives without being observed when a slightly amused voice behind him said, ‘You seem to be starving. Don’t they have lunch where you come from?’

  ‘They do,’ said Charles, turning round slightly shamefaced, trying to swallow the six olives he had already put in his mouth, ‘but that was six hours ago and –’and promptly choked. Before he did so, before he found himself gasping and fighting for breath, spluttering into his handkerchief, desperate not to spray the room with what was left of the mouthful of olive and ham, he took in the fact that the owner of the voice was tall and beautiful with creamy skin, a cloud of dark hair just touched with auburn and extraordinary eyes, golden in colour and flecked with brown. And she was wearing a plain white dress which set off her beauty to perfection, and a very fine pearl and diamond choker. After that he lost the capacity to absorb anything; he was dimly aware for the next thirty seconds that someone was thumping his back, and presumed it was the owner of the voice; as his breath came back, his lungs refilled and the world returned to normal, she swam into focus again, half concerned, half amused, holding out a glass of water.