“We’re not going to Scotland,” I said. “We’re going to Woodhammer.”
“But—”
“We’re going to Woodhammer.” I’m an easygoing fellow in many ways, but I’m perfectly capable of sticking to my guns if my mind’s made up.
“Very well,” said Sarah, a spot of color burning in each cheek. “But not with Derry and Clara.”
“But dash it, Sarah, they’ve got nowhere else to go and they can’t possibly stay in town in August.”
“I won’t have them at Woodhammer!” cried Sarah violently. “I’ve put up with them long enough!”
“How can you possibly say that when they’ve scarcely been back a week from their honeymoon?”
“Haven’t I had to put up with them ever since we left Woodhammer last October and came to London? I’m absolutely sick of you and Derry living in each other’s pockets! Marguerite said I must make allowances for you both before he got married, but no matter what she says I’m not making allowances for you any longer!”
I was dumfounded. I had no idea she felt so strongly, and I couldn’t help feeling she was being a little unreasonable. After all, a man’s entitled to have his best friend to stay occasionally, isn’t he? Feeling in need of some sympathetic help, I turned as usual to Marguerite, but to my surprise she was very cool and said it was time I left Derry to fend for himself.
“You’ve done everything a friend could do and more besides,” she told me bluntly. “Now it’s up to him to lead his own life for a while and not depend on you any further. Let him find someone else to ask him out of town.”
“But I’m the only real friend he has. I do have some sort of obligation.”
“Yes, you do!” said Marguerite with such strength that I flinched. “But your obligation’s not to Derry. It’s to Sarah.” And she gave me a look that would have bored a hole through a two-inch mahogany plank.
“Very well,” I said resignedly, seeing it was useless to argue with her. “Perhaps you’re right, but I’ve already invited Derry to stay. How can I turn around now and tell him not to come?”
“Since you’re the only friend he has,” said Marguerite, “I’m sure he’ll be all too willing to make allowances for you if you apologize to him and say you’ve been obliged to change your plans.”
Well, it was damnably awkward, but fortunately I happened to hear that a small estate two miles from Woodhammer called Byngham Chase was to let, so I was able to suggest tactfully to Derry that Clara might think it fun to have her own little place in the country that summer. I had to tread carefully, though, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and meanwhile Sarah was kicking up an awful rumpus at the thought of having the Stranahans for neighbors. Since she hadn’t complained about having them as neighbors in London I couldn’t see why she should make such a fuss, but to soothe her I began to talk of our approaching visit to the Continent, and soon she was mollified enough to look at maps and guidebooks. A Franco-Prussian war was still very much in the offing, so I told Sarah it would be wiser to postpone a visit to Paris, but I saw no reason why we couldn’t go to Italy by sea. I liked Italy better than France anyway. I liked the quality of the light and the shapes of the cypress trees, the palazzos and the paintings, the marble and bronze, the wine and the laughter and that lovely lissome language.
“Wait till you see Florence,” I said to Sarah hungrily and discovered to my surprise that I was really quite keen to go. Accordingly I wrote to my lawyers to say I needed funds for a three-month sojourn abroad, and on the day before we were due to leave London for Woodhammer Mr. Rathbone of Rathbone, Armstrong and Mather called upon me unexpectedly in Curzon Street.
Mr. Rathbone was not a crusty old man, as family attorneys so often are. He was still in his thirties, with rather a swell’s taste in clothes and long Dundreary whiskers. “But young Rathbone is very sound,” my father had said after old Rathbone had died. “He’s well suited to follow in his father’s footsteps.”
For some reason the memory of this remark had always set my teeth on edge, although whenever I saw Rathbone I did try not to let it prejudice me.
“Lord de Salis,” he announced after presenting his compliments to me in the usual manner, “I’m afraid I have business to discuss which—alas!—must necessarily be of a delicate and painful nature.”
I hadn’t a notion what he was talking about, so I told him I had a luncheon appointment in half an hour and perhaps he wouldn’t mind if he stated his business quickly.
“Of course, my lord,” said Rathbone. “The business relates, sad to say, to your lordship’s pecuniary situation.”
“Oh yes,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Did you arrange the funds for my visit to Italy?”
“My lord,” said Rathbone, “it appears that for the moment there are no funds for your proposed visit to Italy.”
Well, I knew at once he was mad. I mean, there I was, sitting in my house in Curzon Street with Woodhammer Hall, Cashelmara and an income of God knows how many thousands a year, and he was telling me I couldn’t rustle up a bit of change to take my wife for a holiday.
“Your lordship owes your bankers a considerable amount of money,” said Rathbone.
“Well, what of it? Isn’t that what bankers are for?”
“Lord de Salis, there comes a time when even bankers must draw the line. And in addition to the bankers there are, it unfortunately seems, the moneylenders. I have had a visit from a Mr. Goldfarb of Bread Lane.”
“Oh, that concerns gambling debts,” I said. “I issued a lot of paper to the fellows at the club, and when I had to make good the notes Mr. Goldfarb helped me out. He’s a friend of Captain Danziger, the club secretary, and was very obliging to me actually.”
“Even Mr. Goldfarb cannot be obliging indefinitely, my lord.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, deciding I had had enough of his tomfoolery. “I dare say I have spent quite a bit of money this year, but I’m not a poor man and I can’t see why my creditors should be making such a deuced fuss. There must be plenty of men in London who are worse in debt than I am.”
“I dare say, my lord, but I can hardly advise you to join their ranks. I think it essential that you should reduce your debts before they grow extensive enough to become a severe drain upon your property. That’s why I cannot, in good conscience, recommend that you take a costly journey abroad with your wife at this time.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can’t disappoint my wife. I must have the money. Go to some other banker and get it.”
“My lord, I doubt if there is a banker in London who would advance you money at the moment without some sort of lien on your estate.”
“Well, give them a lien or whatever they want! For God’s sake, Rathbone, haven’t I made myself clear?”
There was a pause. “Your lordship is instructing me to mortgage Woodhammer Hall?” asked Rathbone politely at last.
“What!” I leaped out of my chair.
“There’s no other way to get the money, my lord. Your debts are too severe.”
“No one’s touching one brick of Woodhammer Hall!”
“Well, no one can touch Cashelmara, my lord,” said Rathbone, “because of the entail.”
“But entails can be barred—especially in Ireland! Wasn’t there some act of Parliament passed after the famine to make it possible for almost anyone to bar an entail to get rid of an estate?”
“The Encumbered Estates Act doesn’t apply to Cashelmara, my lord.”
“Why the devil not?”
“Because the ultimate remainder in fee tail is to the Crown. To put it in other words—”
“Yes, for God’s sake do.”
“When Queen Elizabeth granted the estate to your ancestor with the provision that it should descend in the male line, there was also a provision that if ever that male line should cease the estate would revert to the Crown. This has the effect of creating an unbarrable entail, a rare but not altogether unknown situation. The Duke of Marlborough,
for instance—”
“I’m not interested in the Duke of Marlborough!”
“Very well, my lord. Then I shall merely repeat that, bearing these circumstances in mind, I must advise you that Woodhammer is your only negotiable estate.”
I sank back into my seat again.
“Quite apart from this visit to the Continent, my lord, I think it would be advisable to pay off at least thirty thousand pounds of your debts or else no matter how quietly you live you will barely be able to pay interest on the principal sum outstanding. Perhaps if you were to sell this house in London—”
“No,” I said. I tried to imagine what Sarah would say if I did. “Out of the question.”
“Then perhaps if you sold some of the Woodhammer lands—”
“Never!” I said fiercely.
“Well, in that case, my lord, it might be best to consolidate your debts by taking out a mortgage on Woodhammer Hall, and if you’re still set on going to Italy I dare say there would be a little money to spare after the mortgage has been arranged.”
But the thought of mortgaging Woodhammer was repugnant to me. “There must be some other way,” I said stubbornly.
“Not if you refuse to sell any property, my lord,” said Rathbone, “and not while Mr. Goldfarb is exacting forty percent interest on his loan. If you won’t reduce your debts you must at least consolidate them and pay a civilized rate of interest to a reputable source.”
I searched feverishly for inspiration. Francis Marriott would probably lend me money, but I didn’t want to go begging to my father-in-law. But there was Cousin George. He was sitting childless on a tidy little fortune. And there was Katherine’s husband Duneden. He wasn’t exactly a pauper either. I didn’t want to go begging to my cousin and brother-in-law any more than I wanted to go begging to Francis Marriott, but they were at least English gentlemen, and I knew they would understand that a fellow can have a bit of difficulty now and then.
“I’ll raise the money by some other means,” I said abruptly. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made the arrangements. Good day, Mr. Rathbone.” And having thus terminated the interview firmly, I summoned the butler to show him to the door.
II
I didn’t tell Sarah about Rathbone’s visit. I saw no need to mention any difficulty before we went abroad, although common sense told me that on our return I would have to say a cautionary word or two about extravagance. However, my first task was to inform not Sarah but Cousin George and Duneden, so after gritting my teeth I faced the ordeal of writing the necessary letters. I kept my tone casual and tried to avoid sounding desperate while simultaneously making it clear that I was in an awkward situation. I had of course borrowed money before from time to time, but never from my cousin and brother-in-law and never in such large amounts, and I was very nervous as I waited at Woodhammer for their replies.
I had to wait two weeks, and even before I finally received their joint letter I had suspected that the two of them were conferring with each other. Duneden was at his country estate eighty miles from Cashelmara, and Cousin George would have thought nothing of blustering over from Letterturk for a council of war.
“My dear Patrick,” George had written, the tone of his letter so cool that I knew he had been writing at Duneden’s dictation. “Lord Duneden and I are in receipt of your letters of the 23rd, and since I have had the pleasure of dining with him today we found ourselves in a position to discuss your situation in detail. However, we agreed that there remain many details unknown to us, and we should be obliged if you would contrive to see us at the earliest opportunity in order that we might discuss the matter further. Might I suggest that we all meet at Cashelmara at the end of the week of August the fifteenth? Pray let me know your inclinations on the subject so that we may make the necessary arrangements. I remain your affectionate cousin …”
There was no choice but to go. I told Sarah that a crisis had prompted MacGowan to send for me, and she was very sympathetic. In fact she even offered to go with me, which I thought was damned decent of her since she disliked Cashelmara so much, but of course I insisted that she remain in England. Fortunately, as Marguerite and the boys were due to stay with us, I didn’t have to insist very hard. But to Derry I could be more frank. I had already told him about the grisly conversation with Rathbone, and now it was a relief to confide to him my dread of the approaching interviews.
“I don’t care about George,” I said. “I could face George any day, but Duneden is a different kettle of fish altogether. I wish to God now that I hadn’t dragged him into it, but I could never have got such a large sum of money from George alone and there was no one else I could have approached. God, Derry, I wish you were coming with me! I’m nervous as a kitten and I don’t mind admitting it either.”
“I’ll come if you like,” he said straightaway. No man could have been a better friend than he was. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about that gray-bearded old goat and that shabby overgrown bullfrog.” And he gave such an amusing imitation of Cousin George admonishing me that I couldn’t help laughing, and once I’d laughed I did feel much better about facing my ordeal.
“No,” I said, scraping up my courage. “I got myself into this mess and I must get myself out of it. It would be quite unfair to drag you into it as well. Stay with Clara and make a novena for me or do one of those other jolly Catholic things you enjoy so much.”
He protested, but I was firm, and the next morning, wearing my best brave face, I departed on the dreary journey to Ireland.
It was raining when I reached Cashelmara, and the house was as damp as the inside of a grave. Huddling over the library fire, I drank a great quantity of hot brandy and water before I could face the journey upstairs to my room, but the next morning my nose was running and I felt very sorry for myself. It was still raining. The lough was the color of smoky glass, and the mist lay heavily on the mountains. Having nothing better to do, I huddled over the library fire again with more hot brandy, and water, and then just as I was beginning to feel better Cousin George and Duneden arrived and I again felt as sick as a pauper in prison.
It had not occurred to me to question why the meeting was to be held at Cashelmara instead of at Duneden Castle or Letterturk Grange, but I discovered the answer soon enough. My inquisitors wanted to interview MacGowan, inspect the books and determine whether the estate was being administered to my best advantage.
“Frankly, Patrick,” said Duneden in his politician’s voice, “I find it hard to believe you could have lived so far beyond your income that you now need a loan of such gargantuan proportions.”
“I had many heavy expenses this year,” I said in my best meek voice.
“What kind of expenses?” demanded Cousin George at once.
I knew it was no good talking about a run of bad luck at cards or Derry’s wedding, so all I said was “Good Lord, George, you don’t expect me to provide an inventory, do you? Talk to Rathbone if you need details like that, and personally I can’t see why you need to know such details anyway.”
“My dear Patrick,” said Duneden, sounding just like my father, “you are asking us to supply you with a considerable sum of money. In return I think we’re entitled to know something of your financial affairs.”
“Yes, of course,” I muttered, anxious to smooth him over. “I do realize that. Very well, where do we begin?”
Well, we had the devil of a day. MacGowan was summoned, the books were produced and every penny of income from the estate was investigated. The next three days were spent riding around the estate (rain fell continuously) and inspecting matters in person. Cousin George thought the rents were shockingly low, for in many instances they hadn’t been raised since the early Fifties, and Duneden too said it was a mistake not to have the rents set at a realistic figure.
“Once the Irish become accustomed to having a roof over their heads for a pittance,” he said, “they’ll fight tooth and nail against a more equitable arrangement.” And Cousin George added, �
�If you give them an inch they’ll expect a mile for the rest of their lives. Besides, it’s for their own good. You won’t help them if you go bankrupt, Patrick, and I saw too many ruined estates after the famine not to know how the tenants suffer in those circumstances.”
Despite all this it was grudgingly agreed that MacGowan was honest and had done a reasonable job in the circumstances.
“Very well,” said Duneden after MacGowan had been instructed to implement a new scheme of rents, “so much for Cashelmara. Now we must adjourn to Woodhammer.”
I tried to protest, but I might as well have saved my breath, for they had me by the short end of a rope and we all knew it. So I was placed in the embarrassing position of having to explain to Sarah why my kinsmen were looking into my affairs, and the whole wretched process of investigation began all over again.
The ironic part was that I had always been so sure nothing ever went wrong at Woodhammer, but it turned out that old Mason, the steward, had become very slack and profits had dropped sharply. Also there was some sort of national slump in agriculture. I didn’t understand why, but Cousin George blamed bad harvests and Duneden blamed the rising power of the United States and I’m sure they were both wrong. Anyway, after we had spent a week at Woodhammer Duneden announced to my horror that we must journey to London to talk to Mr. Adolphus Rathbone of Rathbone, Armstrong and Mather.
It was impossible to stop him. Two days later I was sitting in the morning room of my house in Curzon Street and listening in despair as Rathbone talked blithely of townhouses, society weddings, dispensaries in the west of Ireland, umpteen new ball gowns and last, but unfortunately not least, Mr. Goldfarb of Bread Lane and his ruinous rates of interest.
To cap it all Duneden had by this time heard gossip that I had once dropped three thousand pounds in a single night at the Albatross, and after that I knew I could expect nothing but a raw deal.
By this time I was in a state of mingled anger, resentment and humiliation. I was livid that they had seen fit to pry into my affairs and although I admitted they had a right to know how matters stood I still felt that between gentlemen a loan should be either given or refused with no questions asked. It was only because they were kinsmen that they had dared assume this monstrous right to pry. I was also furious that they should humiliate me before my lawyer and my servants by treating me as if I were a mere child who couldn’t be expected to keep his house in order. I knew I had behaved stupidly; that went without saying. But everyone makes mistakes, and I didn’t see that my stupidity made me the feckless rogue they clearly thought I was. The only reason I played along with them was because I really did need the money, but in the end I even began to wonder if such treatment at the hands of my relatives was too high a price to pay.
Cashelmara Page 32
