“Who would they be?”
“Sean Denis Joyce and—but I think I’ve told you about young Maxwell Drummond.”
The history of the local factions was unbelievably complicated, but Edward explained to me that Mr. Drummond, whom he wished to send to Agricultural College, was related through his mother to the O’Malley clan and that the O’Malleys and the Joyces were the two most numerous families in the valley.
Mr. Drummond lived with two maiden aunts in a neat whitewashed cabin almost big enough to be called a farmhouse. There was a potato patch behind the house, a courtyard strewn with chickens and piglets to one side and a manure heap planted blandly outside the front door. To my surprise the manure did not smell. It was mixed with soil from the bog, and this soil contained a chemical, so Edward told me, that negated the natural odor. Inside the cabin was not particularly clean (I can still remember the hen roosting in a bucket that hung on the wall), but it was immaculately tidy. To my astonishment I even saw three books that had been dusted and placed on the table to impress me. One was a Bible (in Latin), one an English grammar (with uncut pages) and one was a well-thumbed work called Legends, Myths and Other Histories of That Venerable Country Ireland.
“My father was a reading man, my lady,” said young Mr. Drummond, who was about my age and clearly unafflicted by shyness. “I myself could read by the time I was five years old—and isn’t that the truth, Aunt Bridgie?”
Aunt Bridgie said it was the truth, so it was, and the Holy Mother of God alone knew what a wondrous sight it was to see a children scarce five years old with his nose in a book of mighty learning.
“And I’ve traveled, my lady,” said Mr. Drummond. “I’ve seen other sights beyond the Joyce country, for my father was an Ulster man, and he went home during the Hunger to County Down, where there was more hope of food and work. It’s all through Mayo I’ve traveled and Sligo and Leitrim and Cavan and Monaghan and Armagh—the whole breadth of Ireland I’ve seen, and one day I’ll see it all again, so God help me I will.”
“Mr. Drummond is altogether too bumptious,” I said disapprovingly later to Edward. “He never stopped talking about himself the whole time I was there.”
Edward looked amused. “He’s a cut above the usual Connaught peasant and he knows it,” he said. “If that means he has an inflated opinion of himself, I’m not about to discourage it. It makes him ambitious, and God knows there are few enough among my tenants who have any ambitions to improve either themselves or their lands.”
And the very next day he summoned Mr. Drummond to Cashelmara to offer him the chance of a year at the Royal Agricultural College in Dublin. When I returned from my visit to the leader of the Joyce family Mr. Drummond was in the hall.
“God save you, my lady!” he exclaimed with such a blast of Irish charm that I was almost swept off my feet, and I saw then to my surprise that he was not so unattractive as I had at first supposed. His best clothes did not fit him properly, but his aunts had trimmed his black hair for the occasion and his swarthy skin had a scrubbed look.
“I’m going to Dublin!” he said, stars in his eyes. “To be sure Lord de Salis is the noblest landlord ever to draw breath on Irish soil!” And somehow when he smiled at me radiantly it was impossible not to smile back and wish him well.
“I don’t truly care for Mr. Drummond,” I remarked afterward to Patrick. “He’s so uncouth and uppity, but nevertheless there’s something fetching about him. I can’t quite describe it. I think my favorite novelist would call it ‘earthiness.’”
“Earthiness!” scoffed Patrick with a bitterness quite foreign to his nature. “Yes—the earthiness of the dung heap! You have very strange taste, Marguerite, if you think Drummond fetching. Wait till you see my friend Derry Stranahan! Then you’ll see Drummond’s no more fetching than the pigs he keeps.”
I finally discovered that Drummond had had a hand in Mr. Stranahan’s banishment and that Patrick was ill disposed toward him in consequence.
Katherine had elected to remain in England to visit her husband’s family, but Patrick and Mr. Bull had traveled to Cashelmara with Nanny, Nurse and Thomas. I was delighted to see Thomas again. He had grown even during the two short weeks we had been separated, and I spent much time in the nursery encouraging him to inch around on his forearms like a little seal. He had splendidly strong back muscles and an adventurous spirit.
“I wonder if Annabel will come to see him,” said Patrick, watching Thomas’s antics admiringly. “Has she called yet?”
“No. Edward says she won’t call either and that I’m not to call on her. It’s such a pity, isn’t it? I’d like to meet her.”
“I’ll try and coax her to come,” said Patrick. “I shall tell her how nice you are and how silly she’s being.”
Annabel and her second husband occupied themselves by breeding horses, a popular Irish pastime. Since she had remained implacably opposed to her father’s remarriage, I was not surprised when Patrick had no success in persuading her to call, but at last, acting on the assumption that she was probably as curious to see me as I was to see her, I became determined to find some solution to our impasse. After commissioning Patrick to do some sketches of Thomas, I purchased a puppy, one of the Knoxes’ litter of Irish setters, and sent both the sketches and the dog to Clonagh Court with my compliments.
Annabel called and left a card the very next day.
The day after that I left my card at Clonagh Court.
“I thought I told you not to call on her!” exclaimed Edward when I dutifully informed him of the news.
“But she called on me first!” I said, producing her card as evidence.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to upset you, dearest.”
The next day I received a letter which said, “My dear Cousin Marguerite, thank you for the setter and the sketches of the baby. Both appear to have considerable character. I am not as a rule interested in infants but trust that one day Thomas and I will meet. Your cousin, Annabel Smith.”
Immediately I wrote back: “My dear Cousin Annabel: I should be most happy to effect an introduction between you and Thomas. I am At Home on Tuesdays. I remain, your affectionate cousin, Marguerite Marriott de Salis.”
Having thus maneuvered ourselves into a relationship, no matter how formal, we were then able to satisfy our mutual curiosity without loss of face on Annabel’s part and without fear of Edward’s wrath on mine.
Two days later, Annabel cantered up the drive, hitched her horse’s reins carelessly to the nearest tree and strode up the steps to the front door.
VI
“I suppose you think I’ve behaved monstrously to you,” said Annabel half an hour later as we returned to the drawing room from the nursery, “and I have, of course. But sometimes Papa aggravates me so much that I stop at nothing to aggravate him in return. In fact when I look back it seems I’ve spent most of my life being angry with him for some reason or another. But men can be so extraordinarily tiresome, can’t they?”
“Women too,” I murmured vaguely as she paused for breath.
“Oh, women!” said Annabel. “Women are so much put upon in this world they have a perfect right to be tiresome, but men have no excuse at all, as I said to my first husband the day I decided to leave him—though I never did leave him. I was younger then and more of a coward. Oh, he was a tiresome man! I can’t think why I married him. No, that’s not true. I know exactly why I married him. I wanted to escape from Woodhammer Hall. Woodhammer! Ugh! It was like a tomb—no, a shrine. Louis’s shrine. I suppose Papa has told you all about Louis.”
“Poor little boy.”
“Stuff. He was an absolute menace and so abominably spoiled! I know one’s not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but frankly I’d rather speak ill than speak lies, and it’s about time someone did speak truthfully about those dreary years at Woodhammer after poor Mama went into seclusion. Of course I was devoted to Mama, who was the most beautiful and courageous person, an
d naturally I’m devoted to Papa too even though he’s so tiresome, but how dared they behave as if Louis’s death had rendered them childless? They had four surviving daughters and an infant son. Why didn’t they count their blessings? Of course Louis’s death was a tragedy, I’m not denying that, but they should have paid more attention to the living instead of perpetually mourning the dead. I never could understand why they thought Louis was so exceptional anyway. I was just as clever as he was and just as good-looking too, if the truth be told. But of course Papa has always regarded women as inferior beings. It must have been so dreadfully trying for Mama.”
“But it’s obvious he had a profound admiration for your mother’s intelligence! And he has some really radical ideas about women’s education.”
“Papa? Radical? Good God if he’s a radical I’m a horse thief! However, don’t misunderstand me. I know Papa is a very remarkable man, and I’m sure no one admires his political career more than I do. But I find him so tiresome because I can never make any headway with him at all unless we have a row, and family quarrels, as I’m sure you know, Cousin Marguerite, are always so appallingly exhausting.”
There was a knock on the door. “Excuse me, Mrs. Smith, begging your pardon,” said Hayes apologetically, poking his nose into the room, “but—”
“My father’s back from Clonareen?”
“It’s coming up the drive he is, ma’am, at this very minute.”
“I must go.” Annabel leaped to her feet, grabbed her riding crop and began to pull on her gloves. “I’m delighted to have met you at last, Cousin Marguerite, and I must thank you for receiving me after so much awkwardness. The baby’s a dear little creature. I’m very glad I was able to see him.”
“But surely won’t you stay—”
“Oh no, better not or Papa and I will almost certainly have another row. Perhaps you could give him my love, though, as a preliminary peace offering after all these months when we haven’t been on speaking terms.”
“Yes, of course. But—”
“Do call at Clonagh Court and meet my husband before you return to England. Papa has probably told you that Alfred is dreadfully common and vulgar, and so he is, but he’s such a nice man, so amusing, and he’s never, never tiresome. I’m at home on Wednesdays.”
“Wednesdays. Yes. But, Cousin Annabel, your father has said only complimentary things about your husband. He’s truly pleased that you’re now happily married.”
“Is he? Well, why on earth couldn’t he have told me so?” said Annabel crossly. “Really, he’s even more tiresome than I thought he was!” And sweeping out of the room without allowing me time to reply, she hurried downstairs to avoid meeting her father in the hall.
VII
“Well, I’m glad she was civil to you,” said Edward when he heard of Annabel’s visit. “She can be so disagreeable and tiresome. When I think of all the trouble she’s caused me in the past—”
“But it’s clear she’s deeply attached to you, Edward.”
“I wish it were clear to me,” he said bitterly, but after that he thawed and confessed his affection and said I might call at Clonagh Court if I wished.
But I did not call on Annabel immediately. I thought it would be a mistake to rush matters, and, besides, there would be plenty of time in the future to further our acquaintance. So I waited until the end of my visit to Cashelmara before I took the carriage to the far end of the lough to return her call, but although I had chosen the right day I found no one at home. The master and mistress, I was told, had gone to the horse fair at Letterturk and would not be back till dusk. Concluding that either Annabel had forgotten her promise to be at home or that the horse fair had been too tempting to resist, I left a card and returned to Cashelmara.
Three days later I was once more setting foot on English soil.
We had not been cut off from the outside world at Cashelmara, for every day a stable boy was sent to collect the newspaper which arrived at Leenane on the “car” from Galway, but I had felt so far removed from the hub of world events that the news had had as little meaning to me as the news from a distant planet. However, all that was changed once we arrived at Woodhammer, and I was reminded again of the gigantic upheavals grinding through my country and leaving bloody trails of disaster in their wake. Thomas had been born during the bombardment of Fort Sumter in April. Two days later had come Lincoln’s call to arms, and after that followed news of more secessions—Virginia, North Carolina, Arkansas, Tennessee—until I could almost hear the noise of tearing, like splitting cloth, as America was ripped in two. Even the good news, the news of the slave states that had turned their backs on secession, was mangled by news of the rout of the Federal troops at the battle of Bull Run. I was flung into a great panic when I heard about this, but Francis wrote, “It won’t happen again because we shall be better prepared next time and because the finest general in the whole of the United States is to be given charge of the Army of the Potomac.” And that was when I heard for the first time the dismal clang of the name George B. McClellan.
By this time, like Francis, I had recovered from my initial distrust of Lincoln, and now that the war had broken out there was no question about which side I felt was in the right. But for me, living in England, one of the most intolerable aspects of the war was that the English attitudes toward it were so preposterous. For a start no one had any idea why the war was being fought. Most people thought it had something to do with state interference and the infringement of property rights, and the English have very set views on property and how far the government may interfere with it. Even the people who were sympathetic to the North thought the issue was purely concerned with slavery and had no inkling of the constitutional issues involved, but at that time these people were in the minority, since public opinion favored the South.
In vain Edward explained to me wryly that when confronted by a dispute the English notoriously sided with the underdog. In my fury this explanation simply wasn’t good enough for me. I knew perfectly well that England had become resentful of the Northern United States and had begun to regard them as a rival in world affairs. The prospect of that rival being pulled down a peg or two was far too delightful not to be savored, but I thought it revealed all the less attractive qualities in the Anglo-Saxon character.
However, despite the distressing news from America and the exasperating attitudes of the English, it was pleasant to be back at Woodhammer, and I was delighted when we soon became so busy entertaining visitors that I had no time to be bored with country life. Among the acquaintances whom Edward invited to share the hunting with him was his closest friend, Lord Duneden, whose younger married daughter I found particularly congenial. Lord Duneden’s situation resembled Edward’s before our marriage. He had been a widower for some years and was toying with the idea of finding a new wife. I even wondered if he might follow Edward’s example and marry a much younger woman, for he was unusually attentive to Katherine, but Katherine herself quickly scotched that suspicion by saying I read too many frivolous novels and had too lively an imagination.
“Besides,” said Katherine, who was enjoying the privacy of her widow’s weeds, “I shan’t want to marry again for a long time—and even if I did I would prefer to marry a man who is not half bald and elderly-looking.”
I could not say that Lord Duneden was too old for her, since Edward was even older than he was, but I did agree he had little hair and was inclined to be stout. “But he has great charm,” I said, “and he’s very kind.”
“Perhaps,” said Katherine with studied indifference, and after that we did not discuss Lord Duneden any more.
We had a very happy Christmas at Woodhammer. Thomas learned to haul himself to his feet by clinging to the bars of his crib, and Patrick did a splendid sketch of him glaring ambitiously at the rail. Patrick was so good with Thomas. The three of us used to spend much time playing together in the nursery, but although Edward too visited Thomas every evening to say good night he did no more than pat th
e baby’s head and watch him for a moment or two.
“Thomas will be more interesting to you when he’s older,” I said, aware that I could hardly expect Edward to follow Patrick’s example and romp with the baby on the nursery floor. “What fun it will be when he can walk!”
“Children grow up too quickly,” he said, smiling at me. “You should enjoy his infancy while it lasts.”
“Oh, I’m enjoying it! But I’m ready for Thomas to be more than a baby now, especially since …” But I stopped. I wanted to say, “Since there’ll soon be a new baby for me to enjoy,” but for some reason I was tongue-tied.
“Since what?” he said naturally, but when I still could not explain he guessed the news and gave me a kiss. “And what is his name?” he asked, amused. “And when is he coming?”
“At the end of June, I think,” I said, disarmed by his good humor and feeling less awkward “But he doesn’t have a name yet because you must choose it. I was so autocratic in deciding upon Thomas.”
“No,” he said. “You choose the name.”
“Why?” I cried. “Don’t you want to choose it? Does the baby’s name mean so little to you?” And in a fit of emotion so common to me when I was pregnant, I burst into tears.
“My dearest Marguerite!” He was shocked to the core. “What a thing to say!”
“Then choose a name!” I sobbed and hurled myself against his chest in a positive orgy of weeping.
“David,” he said at once, “after my brother. I was very fond of him, and I remember you said you liked him when he visited New York.”
I was reassured. I managed to say to him, “You’re pleased?”
“Of course,” he said, holding me tightly and stroking my hair. My face was still pressed against his chest, and I could not see his expression.
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