Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  I was so enraged that I did not trust myself to speak to anyone for three days, and when I eventually emerged from my seclusion I sent for my attorney, cut Annabel from my will and wrote a letter to her parents-in-law to say that on no account was she to be allowed to see her children. The horrified grandparents wrote back to say they entirely agreed with me, and we all waited to see what would happen next.

  What happened, in fact, was that Annabel had a splendid time. Possessing a comfortable income from her husband’s estate, she rented a delightful house on Epsom Downs and, by riding each day with her new husband, indulged her lifelong passion for horses. Society declared her irrevocably ruined, but it was obvious that no one could have enjoyed ruin more.

  A year passed. I might have remained estranged from Annabel for longer if I had not had an invitation to attend the Derby that summer; and although my interest in horses is limited to their performance in the hunt, I decided I was curious to see Annabel’s husband at work. However, the race was a disaster for him. He fell, and since I was humane enough to inquire after his injuries, I was soon face to face with his wife. I am not sure to this day how we patched up our quarrel, but Annabel can be very charming when she chooses. When I heard from her later that her husband’s racing career had been terminated by his injuries and that they wanted to move far from all tantalizing glimpses of the Epsom racing world, I told her she could take him to the dower house at Cashelmara.

  None of my friends could believe I had forgiven her, and no doubt all of them thought I was foolish; but I am a practical man, and I saw no point in refusing to recognize a marriage which, for better or worse, was fait accompli. Her husband was, of course, vulgar and ill-bred, but he was also civil to me and affectionate to Annabel. Was this really such a disaster? I thought not. There are worse fates for a woman than possessing an affectionate husband, and, besides, although I found Annabel exasperating, infuriating and often utterly monstrous, I was at the bottom of my heart not unfond of her.

  “I trust you enjoyed your visit to America,” she was saying as she offered her cheek for a kiss. “But it’s just as well you’ve returned to Cashelmara. Papa, I want to talk to you about Patrick. I’ve been most perturbed about him.”

  “Because he ran away from his tutor in his customary fashion?” I gestured to her to sit down. “Yes, that was most unfortunate, but I spoke to him directly after I arrived last night and the incident is now closed. How is your husband?”

  “Exceedingly well, thank you. Papa, I think you should separate Patrick as much as possible from Derry Stranahan. If I were in your shoes—”

  “You are not,” I said, “and are never likely to be in my shoes.” There was nothing that irritated me more than receiving uncalled-for advice from aggressive, opinionated females, and, besides, I thought it ill-mannered for a woman to try to instruct her father in that fashion.

  The snub was quite lost on Annabel. “Papa, you may not be aware of it, but Derry’s becoming very wild. After I heard that Patrick was at Cashelmara I called to see him and found him in circumstances that would undoubtedly have reduced you to an apoplectic fit. He was in the dining room with Derry. The entire room was awash with poteen, and a girl—one of the O’Malleys; I think her name’s Bridget—was dancing a jig with Derry on the table. This, if you please, was at five o’clock in the afternoon when I was expecting a sedate reception followed by tea! Of course I scolded them both and sent the girl away and I doubt if much harm was done, but the thought of Patrick being here alone without supervision was hardly pleasing to me. I asked him to stay with us at Clonagh Court, but he wouldn’t, and if I hadn’t known you were on the point of returning from America I would have been very worried indeed.”

  “Quite. Well …”

  “Papa, I’m telling you all this not because I feel you should punish Patrick, who’s hardly old enough to know better, but because I feel strongly that you should censure Derry. I’ve heard certain rumors too, you know, and after the incident I began to wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t intervened. Supposing there had been some … some difficulty afterward about the O’Malley girl. You know the O’Malleys are always fighting with Derry’s relatives among the Joyces. If your son and heir somehow became involved in a full-scale quarrel between the two families, it would put you in the most embarrassing position.”

  “I dare say,” I said abruptly. “I’ll look into the matter.” She was annoying me so much that I had to make renewed efforts not to lose my temper, and the fact that her information was unpleasant only made me the more determined not to discuss it. “May I offer you refreshment, Annabel?”

  “Thank you, but no. I’m sorry you should pay so little attention to what I’ve had to say. I should have thought—”

  “I’ve said I’ll look into the matter. Annabel …” I cast around for a new topic of conversation, and in my fury I chose the wrong one. “I would like to talk to you about the Marriotts,” I said rashly before I could stop myself.

  “Oh, yes?” said Annabel, cross that I should have decided to change the subject and began to tap her foot impatiently on the floor.

  I suddenly discovered that I had no idea what I should say next. Should I tell her or not? I had intended to say nothing until the following spring when Marguerite could tell me in person to make our private understanding public, but I was overcome with an irresistible urge to talk about her and failed to see how I could do so without disclosing the understanding that existed between us.

  “Well, pray continue, Papa. What is it you wish to say about the Marriotts?”

  At the very moment I made up my mind to say nothing I heard myself remark casually, “Francis Marriott’s younger sister Marguerite is coming to London next spring with Francis’ wife, Amelia.”

  “Really?” said Annabel. “How nice. However, I never go to London nowadays, as you know, so I hardly think it likely that I shall meet them unless you invite them to Cashelmara.”

  “Marguerite is to be married in London next summer,” I said in a tone of voice suitable for discussing the weather. By this time I was asking myself crossly why I should avoid discussing such a matter with my own daughter. To shy away from the issue could only suggest that Annabel intimidated me, and that of course was nonsense. “I was hoping you would attend the wedding,” I added with a note of defiance.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Annabel, stifling a yawn. “I can’t bear society weddings, and I’ve never met Marguerite anyway. Why on earth is she getting married in London instead of New York?”

  “It’s more convenient and she has no objection,” I replied, crossing the Rubicon with a self-possession that by this time bordered on the reckless. “Her husband has estates in England and Ireland.”

  “Ireland!” I had her attention at last, and as she sat bolt upright I realized with appalled fascination that I had made a monumental mistake. “Cousin Marguerite will be coming to Ireland? Where does her future husband live?”

  “At Cashelmara.”

  There was a silence. For the first time in my life I saw Annabel at a loss for words. We sat facing each other, she on the couch, I on the edge of my armchair, and far away on the chimney piece the elephant clock began to chime the hour.

  “You,” said Annabel slowly at last, “are marrying Cousin Marguerite Marriott?”

  There was nothing to do but go through the motions of redeeming a situation that was already beyond redemption, so although I was furious with my blunder I managed to say in an equable voice, “Yes, she’s the most delightful girl, and I hope you’ll find it easy to be friends with her.”

  “Can my memory conceivably be serving me incorrectly or is she really only a child of seventeen?”

  “She will be eighteen when we marry, and someone who is eighteen is no longer a child. Annabel, I realize that this news must necessarily come as a shock to you, but—”

  “A shock!” She stood up abruptly and began to tug on her gloves. “Yes, it’s a shock. Your hypocrisy always
shocks me. And to think how virtuously you accused me of ill-bred vulgarity when I married Alfred!”

  “You should be careful not to say things you’ll regret later. When you meet Marguerite—”

  “I’ve no wish to meet her. It’s disgusting.” She was already heading for the door, and her movements were oddly uneven. “Absolutely disgusting. You’ll be the laughingstock of London. Everyone will say you’re in your dotage. Really, Papa, how dare you think of making such an exhibition of yourself with a young girl! I declare I’ve never been quite so revolted in all my life!”

  My fury, which had until then been directed against myself, now streamed toward her in a thick ungovernable tide. I caught her by the shoulders. I did not speak. I merely spun her round and shook her until I realized she was crying, and then I stopped, for her tears shocked me far more than any of her abuse. I had not seen her cry since her childhood long ago. She was the very last woman to indulge in noisy floods of weeping, and even now as I watched she dashed the tears from her eyes and reached for the door handle.

  “Annabel …” I was already bitterly regretting my loss of temper, but I was too late.

  “I refuse to receive Cousin Marguerite as your wife,” she was saying abruptly. “You will, of course, wish Alfred and me to leave Clonagh Court and live elsewhere.”

  My spirits had sunk to such a low ebb that I barely had the strength to reply. “Why should your husband be penalized for your foolishness?” I said wearily. “No, stay at Clonagh Court and perhaps one day you’ll overcome your stupidity. Meanwhile, pray don’t return to Cashelmara unless you wish to apologize for the intolerable rudeness you’ve displayed to me this morning.”

  She did not answer. She walked quickly away, her shoes tapping a sharp rhythm on the marble floor of the hall, and presently I returned to my desk to resume my letter to Marguerite. But I could no longer write. I merely sat at the desk and looked around the room, but there was no solace for me there, only the clock ticking somnolently on the chimney piece and, close at hand by the inkwell, my son Louis smiling at me joyously from his small, exquisite gold frame.

  Chapter Four

  I

  AFTER THE DISASTROUS SCENE with Annabel I asked myself over and over again why I had been so misguided as to confide in her. To have confided in my mistress had been justifiable, since she deserved to know the arrangements I was making for her future, but where Annabel was concerned I had no such excuse for not holding my tongue until the engagement was formally announced. Perhaps I had been unwittingly trying to place Annabel in the role of confidante which had always suited Nell so well, or perhaps the truth was simply that Annabel had annoyed me so much that I had become quite unreasonable in my attempts to annoy her in return. A third possibility—that I was beginning to resemble an infatuated young man who talked of his beloved at every conceivable opportunity—was of course so absurd that I refused to entertain it at all.

  However, one fact at least was clear. Having confided in Annabel, I was now obliged to confide in Patrick before he heard the news from her. I spent a careful ten minutes planning what I should say, and then with great reluctance I summoned him to the library.

  “There is a matter I wish to discuss with you,” I began and immediately noticed his expression of alarm. Did I so seldom have anything pleasant to say to him? I was perturbed enough to abandon my set speech and put him at his ease as quickly as possible. “It has nothing to do with your past conduct,” I said at once. “It concerns my visit to America and your mother’s cousins, the Marriotts. In particular it concerns your cousin Marguerite, the younger of Francis Marriott’s two sisters.”

  He gazed at me in silence and waited trustingly for me to continue.

  “I was very taken with Marguerite when I met her,” I said, “and I’ve invited her to visit England next spring.”

  There was another silence. His expression was blanker than ever. Taking a deep breath, I plowed on. “I’ve resolved that she should join our family, Patrick. Before I left I broached the subject with her, and she agreed to permit the existence of a private understanding that we would be married next summer in London.”

  He continued staring at me as if he were waiting for me to say something else. I was just wondering in great exasperation if he had listened to a single word of my monologue when he said in a rush, “Oh, that’s very nice, Papa. Is it proper for me to congratulate you?”

  “I can’t think why the devil it shouldn’t be.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well … congratulations, Papa. Papa …”

  “Yes?”

  “Papa, will she …” He stopped again and blushed.

  “Will she what?”

  “Will she have children?”

  “My dear Patrick!”

  “I shouldn’t mind if she did,” he said, the words tumbling from his mouth. “I like babies. But, Papa, there’s no need for you to do this, you know. I’m sure it must be very boring for you at your time of life to have to marry anyone, so if you feel obliged to remarry because you want another son, please don’t put yourself to such great inconvenience, because I’m going to turn over a new leaf, I swear it. I’m going to work so hard at my lessons that you’ll never be disappointed in me again.”

  “Patrick,” I said. “Patrick.”

  He stopped. His face was flushed with earnestness, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “My dear child,” I said, disturbed, “you’re entirely mistaken about my motives.”

  “I know you’ve always held it against me that I ruined Mama’s health. Nell told me how you wouldn’t even choose a name for me and that I was called after you only because no one knew what else to call me.”

  “If Nell told you that I hope she also told you that I thought your mother was dying and I was completely distraught. Do you suppose I would have behaved in such a way if I’d been in my right mind? And as for your accusation that I blame you for your mother’s ill health, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “But then why are you always so strict with me? If you really bore me no grudge you wouldn’t beat me so often!”

  “My dear Patrick,” I said, relieved that we had at last reached the core of his misunderstanding, “you must realize that when a parent takes the time and trouble to correct a child he does so out of love for the child, not out of resentment or lack of interest. The very fact that I have never allowed your errors of behavior to go uncorrected should be proof to you that I cared very much for your welfare and Was most concerned to give you the best possible upbringing. I’m only sorry you should have been so uncertain of my very deep affection for you. You’re my heir. Nothing can alter that, nor would I wish it altered, though as we both know your conduct has certainly left something to be desired in recent months. However, that has nothing to do with my decision to remarry, and even if Marguerite does have sons you can be certain that my affection for you will remain unchanged. Now, please—no more such foolish talk, because it does no credit to either of us.”

  I had spoken as kindly as I could, but to my distress he began to cry. Hoarse sobs choked him, and he buried his face in his hands in a clumsy effort to smother his tears.

  “Patrick, please,” I said, upset, not wishing to be unkind but knowing I should be firm. “Control yourself. The situation doesn’t call for such grief, and, besides, tears are unmanly in a boy of your age.”

  He sobbed louder than ever. I was just wondering in exasperation what the devil I was going to do with him when there was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?” I shouted in distraction.

  “My lord,” said Hayes, “it’s Ian MacGowan who’s here to see your lordship, if you please.”

  MacGowan was the agent at Cashelmara.

  “Tell him to wait.” I turned back to Patrick as soon as the door closed, and to my relief I saw that he had found a handkerchief and was mopping up his tears.

  “I meant what I said about turning over a new leaf, Papa,” he assured me earnestly. “I shall be a new person
altogether, I promise.”

  I said I was delighted to hear it. At last, after I had dismissed him as gently as possible, I heaved a sigh of relief, sent word to the stables to saddle my horse and went upstairs to change my clothes. Half an hour later I was riding with MacGowan down the road to Clonareen.

  I could not remember when I had last had such an exhausting morning.

  II

  MacGowan was a Scot whom I had engaged after the famine to help reconstruct my ravaged estate. In dealing with the Irish one has to recognize their limitations. It is no use choosing one of their number to collect rents and run an estate with thrift and efficiency. MacGowan, a gloomy Presbyterian, not only had the knack of dispelling the mists of Irish whimsy which clung to the subject of rent payment but was intelligent enough to indulge in the occasional glum act of Christian charity, and this meant that although he was disliked he was by no means loathed by the tenants. He lived in a comfortable stone house two miles away, but I suspected the comfort was marred by his wife, who was one of those brawny Scots women with a perpetually threatening expression. Their one son, a boy of thirteen, was a solitary child; his Scots blood and his father’s occupation made him an outcast among his Irish contemporaries, but occasionally he would venture to Cashelmara in the hope of fraternizing with Patrick and Derry.