Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  “Yes, so would I, but, Marguerite, Nell was a mere abbreviation of the name Eleanor, you know, and people might think it odd if I called my second wife’s daughter after my first wife.”

  “Oh heavens,” I said, “why should I care about that?” It occurred to me as I spoke how much I had grown up since the early days of my marriage when Eleanor’s name had been anathema to me. “Besides, Eleanor never used the name Nell,” I pointed out, “and Nell will never use the name Eleanor. I don’t see why people should think it odd.”

  “Well, if you’re certain …”

  “Quite certain. Oh, Edward, do you mind very much that it’s not a boy?”

  “My dearest Marguerite, of course not! I do realize you must be somewhat disappointed, but speaking for myself, I’m simply glad that you and the infant are safe and well. That’s far more important to me than the baby’s sex.”

  The great burden of my anxiety lifted. When he said anxiously, “Are you very disappointed?” I was able to answer with truth: “No, I’m glad to have a daughter. I’m really very glad indeed.”

  III

  The baby did not thrive. At first she cried a great deal, just as Thomas had cried early in his life, but Thomas had gained weight fast despite his discomforts and no one had worried about his health. We all worried about Nell. Dr. Ives used to come to the house regularly to see her and the nurse stayed on so that the baby could have special care. As soon as my lying-in was over I spent most of my time in her little room off the nursery.

  “Is the baby ill?” demanded Thomas.

  “No, darling, just a little delicate.”

  “When will she be able to play with us?” said David.

  “Not for a long while yet. But some day she will.”

  She gradually lost the red-faced complexion of the newborn infant. Her skin became pale and had a curious transparent quality that made her seem ethereal. She had blue eyes, prettily shaped, and soft down on top of her head. I thought she might be fair-haired one day. I often pictured her growing up and thought how nice it would be to choose patterns for her little dresses; later she could look through my fashion magazines with me. Perhaps she would be cleverer with a needle than I was, but that would hardly be difficult. The boys would go away to school eventually, but now I would no longer be so upset by their departure because I would still have Nell at home.

  In March, two months after her birth, she began to cry less often. She also began to cough.

  “When will the baby start to smile?” asked Thomas.

  “Later, darling, a little later. When spring comes.”

  “Will we be able to take her for walks then?”

  “Oh yes, because babies love to go out in the sunshine. She’ll smile and laugh a lot then, you’ll see.”

  I tried my hand at sewing again and made a little dress for her to wear when she was older. The material was lovely, pink silk with a layer of white muslin, and I embroidered little roses around the hem. I spent hours on the embroidery. I would sit by her cradle while I sewed and marvel at my newfound devotion to the needle. The London Season was fast approaching, but I had no interest in social engagements and had temporarily given up all my charity work.

  “I shall take it up again later,” I said to Edward. “When Nell’s stronger I shall go out more.”

  I ordered a new perambulator because I did not want her to have anything second-hand. The perambulator that had served Thomas and David now seemed too shabby, and so did all their early toys, which I had kept in a box in the attics. I bought her a beautiful doll. I had such fun choosing it. I thought how splendid it was to go into a toy shop and look at dolls instead of inspecting the endless parade of woolly animals and tin soldiers.

  Spring came. Nell was very good now. She never cried at all. I kept telling everyone how good she was.

  “She still doesn’t smile yet,” said Thomas.

  “Oh yes, she does,” I said. “I often see her smile.”

  “I think poor Baby’s cough is a little worse, my lady,” said Nurse. “This morning—”

  “No,” I said, “it’s better. I told Dr. Ives only yesterday how much better it was.”

  And at the end when the square was a mass of pink blossoms and the spring sunshine was streaming through the nursery windows onto the toys she would never see, all I said was “It’s so nice to have a daughter. We shall have such fun together when she grows up.”

  She died an hour later.

  IV

  I went to my room and stayed there for a long time. The house was hushed and still. Once I heard Thomas talking too loudly and Nanny hissing “Shhh!” but after that there was a deep silence, and I supposed she had taken both boys for a walk. I went to the window, but when I saw no sign of them I looked instead at the pink blossoms and green leaves and thought how pretty the square was in the spring. It was a beautiful day.

  I changed my clothes. I put on a black dress and sat looking at myself in the glass. All the freckles had faded from the bridge of my nose, but that was because I had been out so little lately.

  Edward knocked on the door. When he came in he said, “I wondered if you still wanted to be alone.”

  I shrugged. I did not know. I felt confused and could think of nothing to say.

  He sat down on the bed beside me and held my hand. “Marguerite, I … I know there’s nothing to say that could make any difference, but—”

  “Yes?”

  “At least it wasn’t one of the boys. You see …”

  I leaped to my feet. Rage made me dizzy. The room swam in a mist before my eyes. “Don’t you dare say that to me!” I shouted at him. “Don’t you dare treat me as if I were a second Eleanor who cared as little as you do for all your unloved daughters!”

  “I only meant—”

  “Unloved!” I screamed at him. “Unloved! No wonder I never wanted a daughter after seeing the kind of women your daughters have become, Katherine thinking of love as if it were a prize awarded for good behavior, Annabel choosing to fight with you rather than be ignored, Madeleine turning to your religion-crazed old mother because you weren’t there when she needed you—you and your daughters! Why, it’s a wonder I even dared have sons, considering the way I’ve seen you treat Patrick sometimes!”

  He was so white that his face seemed almost gray. He said, faltering, in a voice that did not sound like his voice at all, “I’m sure I’ve always tried to do my duty as a father.”

  “Your duty!” I said in a fury. “Your duty! Edward, where children are concerned it’s not enough simply to do your duty! You think you’re so ill-used because your children have failed you, but the real truth is that they are ill-used because you have failed them.”

  I stopped speaking. The room was deathly quiet, but I did not stop to listen to the silence. I ran out, slamming the door with a bang that echoed through the silent house, and rushed upstairs to the nursery. Nanny and Nurse were still out with the children. The door of Nell’s little room was closed, but I went in, picked her up and held her in my arms while I cried. After a while I remembered she was dead. Shocked that I had disturbed her, I kissed her, replaced her carefully in her cradle and drew the sheet over her once more. I wondered in panic if I were going mad, not remembering, being so confused, saying so many cruel things to Edward. I returned to the nursery, but before I could leave I heard him coming up the stairs. He moved very slowly, and I knew his arthritis must be troubling him again.

  He had suffered a great deal from arthritis that winter, and I had sensed his relief when first my pregnancy and then Nell’s short life had kept me so occupied.

  When he reached the landing he paused to recover his breath. I could hear his labored breathing before he opened the nursery door and entered the room.

  I noticed again how he had aged. He always moved his legs awkwardly now, and only pride kept him from carrying a cane inside the house as well as outside. His hair was quite silver, but that only made him look more distinguished. Not even he minded the silve
r hair.

  He did not speak at once but merely stood by the door. I was unsure whether he was still out of breath or whether he had difficulty choosing his words.

  At last he managed to say, “You misunderstood me.”

  I said nothing.

  “When I said ‘At least it wasn’t one of the boys,’ I meant that the younger a child is the easier it is to bear the loss. Loss of a child is always intolerable, but when the child is no longer a baby, when there have been years, not months, of precious memories … I’m sorry. I phrased my thoughts very clumsily.”

  “You did,” I said. “Yes.”

  “But, Marguerite, I too was upset”

  “Yes,” I said. “I expect you were in your own way. But you never thought she’d live. No one truly thought she’d live, did they? I expect they thought it was pathetic when I bought the doll and the new perambulator.”

  “We all admired your courage. I’m sure no one thought—”

  “I thought she’d live if I bought things for her,” I said. “It was silly of me.” I moved to the window. “I wish the boys would come back.”

  He came closer to me. I noticed how his hand shook before he placed it on my arm. “Perhaps you would like to go away for a while—a month or two on the Continent—”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “That won’t be necessary. I’m not Eleanor and I’ve no intention of ignoring the children—or you—while I indulge in a nervous collapse.”

  He said nothing. The silence lasted a long time.

  Finally I said, “Edward, I’m sorry I’m saying all these hurtful things to you, but I simply can’t help myself. Please forgive me.”

  “It’s the shock,” he said. “I understand.” He put his arm on top of the chest of drawers and shifted the weight from one leg to the other. There was another silence.

  “What can I do?” he said at last. “Is there anything I can do?” And I knew he was asking not only what he could do for me but what he could do for his children.

  “I should like to go to Woodhammer,” I said. “The countryside will look so lovely in the spring. And, Edward, I want all the children to come to stay with us, and I especially want you to forgive Madeleine so that she can come and stay as well.”

  “Madeleine will never come. Neither will Annabel.”

  “Yes, they will. Madeleine will want to see the boys and Annabel will want to see her daughters. We can invite them down from Northumberland for a visit. How long is it since you’ve seen your granddaughters, Edward?”

  “It would all be too much for you—such a large gathering.”

  “I mustn’t spend months grieving for Nell,” I said. “I must have some important event to plan and prepare for. Why, of course!” I exclaimed, inspired, suddenly seeing how I could make some small amends to him for my unkind words. “We shall have a family party to celebrate our wedding anniversary, but we won’t hold it at Woodhammer. We’ll go to Ireland. It’ll be the best party that I’ve ever organized, and we shall hold it at no other place but Cashelmara.”

  Chapter Six

  I

  WE CAME AT LAST to Cashelmara, to that eerie beauty mingled with the memories of death and decay, to the wild alien fastnesses of the Joyce country where Edward had been born. It was May. The grass was lushly green after the winter rains, and the earth smelled clean and fresh and full of promise. After those dark winter months in London I felt my spirits rise, and as soon as we were settled I arranged for the family to assemble for our anniversary celebration.

  The first to arrive was Patrick. I had not seen him for over a year, for as the result of his disgrace he had been banished to Woodhammer while I had been confined to London both before and after Nell’s birth. To my relief Edward had abandoned the idea of a military career for him, but he had refused to give his son any responsibility and Patrick had been obliged to occupy himself entirely with his artistic pursuits. That suited Patrick very well, naturally, and he wrote to me occasionally saying how happy he was. I suspected he had not in the least wanted to come to Cashelmara, but he turned up dutifully a week after our arrival, and Thomas and David fell upon him with great glee. Seeing how glad he was to be reunited with them, I remembered my schemes for him to have children of his own, and when a letter from Francis arrived enclosing a photograph of my niece Sarah, I found I could not resist indulging in the most delightful speculations.

  Sarah. Seventeen years old now and surely, if her photograph did not lie, the belle of every future ball. It was the first picture I had seen of her with her hair up, and she looked amazingly sophisticated. Her resemblance to Francis tantalized me. She had inherited his unusual good looks, and as I stared at her picture I felt a great longing to rediscover the niece I had left behind in New York seven years before. My desire to see Sarah was probably heightened by the fact that in resembling Francis she also resembled Blanche, and Blanche, to my grief, was no longer alive. The previous summer I had received word that she had died in childbirth. The news had upset me profoundly, particularly since I myself was in dread of my confinement at the time, but Edward had been very kind, offering to take me to America at the earliest opportunity. Not that the opportunity would ever come; I knew that now. His arthritis made long journeys an ordeal for him, and no matter how much I wanted to see Francis and Sarah I knew I could never leave Edward even if he gave me permission to go alone.

  “I say!” said Patrick with the most gratifying enthusiasm when I showed him Sarah’s photograph. “What a gorgeous creature! Can’t you invite her to England to visit us, Marguerite?”

  “She’s still a little young at present,” I said. “But perhaps in a year or two …” My mind skipped nimbly ahead, visualizing Sarah begging Francis to take her to Europe, Francis unable to resist the request because he doted on her so much, Sarah and Francis both coming to England and staying with us at St. James’s Square. My mind ceased to skip and leaped forward instead to keep pace with my romantic imagination. Patrick and Sarah would meet, fall hopelessly in love, marry. I should have Sarah with me in England, Francis would, of course, be unable to resist visiting Europe frequently to see us both, Patrick would be splendidly settled and quite out of reach of any irrational weakness of mine …

  “She’s rather fetching, isn’t she?” I said casually to Patrick. After seven years in England I had quite mastered the cunning use of the understatement. “I thought you would be interested to see her latest portrait since I speak of her so often.” And then I dropped the subject like a hot biscuit before either of us should burn our fingers.

  II

  Everyone came. Katherine arrived with her husband, maid, portmanteaux and diamonds, Madeleine arrived alone dressed in navy-blue serge and carrying a shabby black bag, and Annabel arrived on a splendid chestnut mare with the elusive Alfred reluctantly in tow. Annabel was pleased to see her daughters again at last. Their paternal grandparents with whom they lived in Northumberland had refused to permit the girls to stay at Clonagh Court, but Annabel promptly rode to Cashelmara to see them. A shock awaited her. She had been thinking of them as little girls in the nursery, but Clara was now fifteen and Edith a year younger, both quite old enough to treat their mother coolly and look down their aristocratic little noses at her husband. Poor Alfred! He was really such a nice man, and he could not help feeling ill at ease at Cashelmara. I’m sure I should have been just as ill at ease if I had been in his shoes, and finally I could not resist resorting to my usual brand of meddling.

  “You’re being most uncharitable,” I said severely to the girls. “Does Mr. Smith beat your mother? Does he oppress her and make her life miserable? You ought to be thankful that she has a kind, considerate husband who makes her happy, and as for your mother herself, I don’t think your attitude toward her is at all justified. I know she was wrong to leave you, but she’s sorry for it now and I think the least you can do is try to be pleasant to her even if you can’t forgive her yet for what she did. Anyway, it’s most un-Christian to harbor grudges and treat
your mother as if she were a nasty smell. Didn’t your grandparents take you to church in Northumberland? Your behavior doesn’t reflect well upon the way they’ve brought you up.”

  This put the girls to shame, just as I had intended, and to my satisfaction they did try after that to make amends. They were not bad girls, but I could not help thinking it was a pity they were not more like their mother, whom I found increasingly companionable. Clara was very pretty and just the tiniest bit dull, while Edith—poor Edith!—was plain and lumpy and seldom had more than two words to say for herself. However, I knew what it was to suffer in the shadow of a pretty older sister, and fourteen is a difficult age.

  Meanwhile I continued to meddle happily in other fields and thought my meddling highly successful.

  “Oh, Edward, promise me you won’t talk to Madeleine about getting married!” I begged him, and he assured me with a laugh that he had already resigned himself to Madeleine’s spinsterhood.

  “And to the nursing?” I demanded at once.

  “Well, if I’m to forgive her by welcoming her to my house I suppose I must resign myself to that too,” he said reluctantly, but in fact he was very civil to Madeleine, and since she herself was as serene as ever despite her sordid existence in London’s East End, they did manage not to quarrel with each other. Madeleine earned a little salary now, so she was not entirely impoverished, but her hands were roughened by hard work, and I often wondered how she endured such a life, particularly since she could have lived in the luxury that suited Katherine so well.

  “Edward, you will be nice to Katherine, won’t you?” I said. Oh, I did meddle! My long nose inched its way into everyone’s affairs, and I could not remember when I had last enjoyed myself so much. But Edward did not need to be reminded about Katherine. When she arrived he kissed her warmly and told her with great admiration that he had never seen her look so beautiful.