Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  The hour of reckoning came on one fine morning in the drawing room of Duneden’s house in Bruton Street. Duneden, possibly aware that his lack of a blood relationship with me made his high-handed attitude all the more inexcusable, had made the gesture of appointing Cousin George as his spokesman.

  “Well, Patrick,” said Cousin George, pompous as ever, “we have finally reached a decision.”

  Damn handsome of you, I thought furiously but managed to assume a politely inquiring expression.

  “We have decided to lend you the money.”

  Relief streamed through me. “That’s very decent of you both,” I said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”

  “On certain conditions,” said George, not even bothering to acknowledge my words of appreciation.

  Here we go, I thought.

  “First of all, it’s quite obvious that you should live quietly for the next two years until your debts are considerably reduced.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Well, I’m sure I shan’t mind spending most of the year at Woodhammer.” I tried not to think how much Sarah would mind and told myself that I could always take her to London for visits.

  But Duneden, damn him, knew exactly what I was thinking. “Woodhammer’s too near London, Patrick,” he said at once. “And London presents you with too much temptation to spend money. I’m afraid we must advise you to close Woodhammer for at least two years and let the house in Curzon Street to supplement your income. Your cousin and I will hold the title deeds of the townhouse as some sort of security against the large sum we shall lend you. In my opinion it would be better not to sell the townhouse, as you would never recoup the enormous expenditures you have lavished upon it. Better to hold on if you can and trust that the value of the property will rise in due course.”

  “But look here!” I said, alarmed. “If I can’t live in London and you won’t let me live at Woodhammer, where the devil do you expect me to live?”

  I knew the answer, of course, before I had finished speaking. It was the first time I had ever truly known the meaning of the phrase “chilled to the bone.”

  “Cashelmara, of course,” said Cousin George, surprised. “Where else?”

  I opened my mouth to say “Never!” but closed it again. Better to play along with them for the time being. Now was hardly the moment to tell them that even the strongest cart ropes in the world could never drag me to Cashelmara to live.

  “Well, I can’t pretend I wouldn’t rather live at Woodhammer,” I said after a deadly pause, “but if I have to live at Cashelmara I suppose I must. Are there any more conditions attached to your loan?”

  Duneden had taken over the role of spokesman. “You must give us your word that you won’t indulge in any form of gambling either now or at any time during the next two years.”

  “Very well,” I said. “I know I’ve been stupid about that. I’ll give you my word. Now when can I have the money?”

  “There’s one other condition which hasn’t yet been mentioned.”

  “Yes?” I said, trying not to sound too exasperated. “What’s that?”

  “We absolutely insist that you neither see nor communicate with Roderick Stranahan at any time in the future.”

  There was another pause. The morning sunlight slanted onto the rich Axminster carpet, and below the open window in Bruton Street two landaus rattled past toward Berkeley Square.

  I stood up. There comes a time when a man has to take a stand, and although I know I have many faults I know too that I have one great virtue which no one has ever questioned.

  I’m always loyal to my friends.

  “In that case, gentlemen,” I said, “we have nothing more to discuss. Keep your money. I won’t sell my friendship with Roderick Stranahan at any price, not even for the sum you propose to loan me.”

  That shook them. They looked at me as if they could hardly believe their ears, and in their dumfounded expressions I found my revenge for all their prying and preaching and dictatorial demands.

  “Of course you’re not serious,” said Duneden at last.

  “You can’t afford not to do as we say!” blustered Cousin George, putting his foot in it as usual. I can think of no other remark that would have made me more determined than ever to refuse his money.

  Duneden’s eyes were as gray as the rainy lough at Cashelmara. He did not resemble my father in looks, yet he reminded me of him very much. And suddenly for no apparent reason I was remembering a conversation I had had with my father long ago when he had warned me about the ways of the world and told me all kinds of repulsive facts about sexual matters. I could never think of that conversation without feeling sick, and I felt sick now as I looked into Duneden’s eyes and saw in them a veiled expression which at first I could neither define nor understand. Then I realized he was pitying me, and I was so angry that I forgot to feel sick. I might have made a mess of my financial affairs, but no man had a right to look at me with contempt, least of all a man who had offered me a loan under such monstrous conditions and given me the hell of a life for damned nearly three weeks.

  “To the devil with both of you,” I said, returning his contempt, and allowed myself the luxury of telling him in no uncertain way what he could do with all his filthy money. Then I turned my back on them, walked out of the house and took a cab all the way to Temple Bar.

  Half an hour later I was confronting Rathbone in his chambers at Serjeant’s Inn and telling him to mortgage Woodhammer Hall.

  Chapter Four

  I

  ONCE THE DEED WAS done I felt in better spirits and discovered with relief that there was really nothing so horrific about a mortgage after all. Indeed Rathbone was very pleased and said I had taken a major step out of my troubles by enabling my debts to be consolidated.

  “But even so, my lord,” he warned me, “it’s imperative that you live carefully for a while if you want to avoid having to sell any land.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said soothingly. “I do understand that.” I was so relieved to be free of Cousin George and Duneden that not even the thought of future economies could upset me. After I left Rathbone I sauntered back to my house through the sunlit streets, and that same day I returned to Woodhammer to tell Sarah joyfully that our troubles were over for the next few months.

  “So we’ll be able to go abroad straightaway!” I said, kissing her affectionately. I was so glad I didn’t have to disappoint her by abandoning our plans.

  Well, we did have a marvelous time on the Continent despite the fact that the Franco-Prussian War was in full cry by this time, and since Paris was under siege I had no choice but to stick to my plan to sail straight to Italy.

  “If only we hadn’t postponed our visit so often!” said Sarah, trying to sound merely regretful but succeeding in sounding accusing as well. “Now I’ll never see the Empire in all its glory. Everyone says Paris will never be the same again.”

  Fortunately, to my great relief, Italian society opened its doors to us as soon as we stepped onto Italian soil, and once we were showered with invitations to country estates, town mansions, operas, theaters and salons, Sarah soon recovered from her disappointment. She was a great success; she had a new wardrobe for the occasion, and although in truth I did get a little tired of our exhaustingly sociable life in Rome, Venice and Florence, I was proud to see her stunning all those foreigners with her elegance. However, finally we managed to snatch a few quiet days by the northern lakes, and I painted some amusingly splashy watercolors of Como and Maggiore. In fact I would have been quite happy to paint all day long if Sarah had not complained that I was neglecting her, and her restlessness reminded me that I still had to explain to her about the sort of life we would be obliged to lead in the future.

  I broke the news to her on the cross-Channel steamer as it chugged through the choppy December seas on the way to Dover. We had traveled home through Switzerland and the new state of Germany, and still avoiding poor starving Paris (I must say, I felt as anti-Prussian as the
Prince of Wales by that time), we had boarded the steamer at Ostend.

  “Sarah darling,” I said tentatively, “we have to try to save money during the next few months until my affairs are straightened out. I know it’s an awful bore, but now that Woodhammer is mortgaged I’ve simply got to be careful. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sarah. “I’ll cut down the guest list for our New Year’s Eve ball.”

  I began to feel uncomfortable. “Well, the fact is, Sarah, I think we’d better cancel our plans for the ball this year. You see—”

  “Cancel the ball!” She looked at me as if I were mad. “But how can we do that? People expect us to repeat last year’s success!”

  “I can’t help that. We have to go down to Woodhammer, I’m afraid, and lead a quiet country life for a while. In fact I think I really should let the townhouse for twelve months.”

  “Let the townhouse!” She couldn’t have looked more horrified if I had suggested she ride naked down Curzon Street.

  “Well, maybe I won’t let it,” I said unhappily. I did hate to disappoint her. “But we must restrict our time in London, Sarah, because it costs us so much money.”

  “Oh, stop talking about money!” burst out Sarah, in a great tantrum by this time. “I wasn’t brought up to pinch pennies, and I don’t see why I should have to begin now just because you chose to go on a series of gambling sprees with Derry Stranahan!”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Derry.”

  “It’s got everything to do with Derry!” she blazed. We stood there by the window of the enclosed deck, and beneath our feet the boat rocked as uncomfortably as our own marriage. Sarah’s eyes were tawny and her mouth was set in a hard angry line. “And I’ll tell you this,” she said. “I’m not staying at Woodhammer while he’s just across the river at Byngham Chase, and I’m not staying in London while he lives just around the corner in Clarges Street. I despise and detest him. I always have and I always will, and if I’d known before I married you that I’d have to see him every day of my married life you can be sure I’d have broken off the engagement and stayed in America.”

  “My God, I wish you had!” I cried, turning my back on her in a rage. We were so angry that we refused to speak to each other during the remainder of the journey to London, and when we reached Curzon Street at last I slept in my dressing room as I always did when she was indisposed.

  The next morning I told her we would be leaving for Woodhammer at the end of the week.

  “You can do as you please,” said Sarah. “But I’ve already told you I won’t go to Woodhammer while Derry’s at Byngham Chase. If you leave London I shall go to St. James’s Square to stay with Marguerite. That should avoid any gossip for the time being.”

  I was so furious with her that I almost said, “Go ahead—I don’t give a damn!” but I had my pride, just like any other man, and I knew no husband ought to stand by meekly while his wife dictated her plans to him. “You’re not staying here in London!” I said resolutely.

  “Try and stop me!” retorted Sarah.

  We both arrived on Marguerite’s doorstep at almost the same moment. I had rushed out and collared a hansom while Sarah had waited for the brougham to be brought to the door, so fortunately I did have a ten-minute start. I had just managed to explain to Marguerite about Sarah’s complete lack of understanding of my financial situation when Lomax announced Sarah’s arrival.

  “Oh my God!” I groaned.

  “Wait here,” said Marguerite, resourceful as ever. We were in the drawing room. “I’ll receive her downstairs. Now, Patrick, calm down, be patient and whatever you do don’t dare interrupt us.”

  I paced up and down the drawing room for half an hour. When Marguerite finally reappeared I was in such a state that I could hardly summon the words to ask her what had happened.

  “At least I’ve managed to explain to her about your financial difficulties,” said Marguerite, subsiding into the nearest chair, “although I can’t explain to her why you have to see so much of Derry. You and Sarah will have to compromise with each other, Patrick. Sarah says she would be willing to stay next year at Woodhammer if you in your turn would see less of Derry. But how you’re going to do that when Derry’s perpetually on your doorstep, I’ve no idea.”

  “And I’ve no idea,” I said bitterly, “how Sarah is going to live all the year round at Woodhammer without driving us both mad.”

  “If only—”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing. I was only thinking what a pity it was that she doesn’t have a baby yet.” She fidgeted uneasily with her sleeve before changing the subject. “Derry should have some sort of occupation,” she declared. “If he did, perhaps he wouldn’t depend so much on you for company. Didn’t you say he wanted to be a member of Parliament? Perhaps if he brought Clara up to town after Christmas I could arrange for him to meet one or two people who might take an interest in him.”

  “I dare say he’d like that,” I said gloomily. “But meanwhile I still don’t see how I’m going to persuade Sarah to go down to Woodhammer.”

  “Why don’t we all go down there for Christmas?” suggested Marguerite. “I think Sarah would come if I agreed to go with her, even though Derry’s still at Byngham Chase.”

  This proved to be an acceptable compromise, but I still thought Sarah was being unreasonable, and I resented her implacable antagonism to my best friend.

  “God, women are the very devil, aren’t they!” exclaimed Derry as we went riding together at Woodhammer on Boxing Day. “Always complaining about something or other!”

  “Clara doesn’t complain much, surely?” I said, surprised.

  “Don’t you believe it! She’s always moaning about how ill she feels now she’s pregnant. Well, it gives her something to grumble about, I suppose, poor child.”

  “But you and Clara are happy, aren’t you?”

  “To be sure we are—why not? Being married ain’t so bad when all’s said and done, and I’ll be as proud as a dog with two tails when Clara has the baby.”

  I was silent. I didn’t grudge him one ounce of his good fortune, but I couldn’t help feeling a little envious of his meek loving wife and the baby coming in the spring. Sarah and I were on speaking terms, but she was so chilly when we were alone that I was still spending every night in my dressing room, and I had begun to wonder if she would ever present me with a son and heir.

  However, she did thaw considerably once the Stranahans had accompanied Marguerite back to town. We began to share a bed again, and soon we were both hoping that she might be following in Clara’s footsteps, but again we were disappointed. One day in March I came indoors from a ride and found her crying in her room.

  “Never mind,” I said after I had learned what the trouble was. “Our luck’s bound to turn soon. It’s just a question of being patient.”

  “I’m tired of being patient!” cried Sarah, tears streaming down her face. “How can I go on being patient when Mama keeps sending baby clothes from America and even that stupid little Clara gets pregnant on her honeymoon …”

  But Clara lost the baby. It was born early and lived only a few hours.

  “Better luck next time,” wrote Derry philosophically, but I knew he was down because he barely mentioned politics. There was some talk of his standing as a liberal candidate for a Lancashire borough in the next election, and he was very bucked about it.

  “If only we could go back to London!” wept Sarah. “I’m sure I’ll never have a baby when I’m so unhappy down here!”

  “My poor Sarah …” Well, a man doesn’t like to see his wife unhappy, does he? I mean, I had to do something to cheer her up, so I said I’d take her to London for a couple of weeks. It was April, the entire London Season lay ahead, and since we had lived so quietly for five months I thought both of us were entitled to a reward.

  I didn’t mean to go gambling with Derry. I really didn’t. But you know how it is after you’ve split a bottle of champagne
with your best friend and a few other fellows are cutting the cards and everyone’s so damned pleased to see you back in town. And I did mean to steer clear of loo, which is such a silly game that no sensible man would touch it with a coachman’s whip. Nor did I mean to touch poker, that monstrous heathen game, but there was an American at the club that night and you know how the Americans are about poker. And you know too how it is when you win twenty pounds straight off and someone calls for soda and brandy and the card room’s so warm and comfortable and cozy.

  I meant to stop when I was winning; I had it all worked out. I was determined to leave as soon as I was fifty pounds to the good, but then I had the very devil of a hand and lost a little, not much, just a couple of pounds, and of course after that I had to go on. I mean, I had to, didn’t I? You know how it is when the pale-yellow light glows alluringly on the green baize cloth and a fellow snaps the cards in his fingers and you have a whole new round coming up. Anything can happen, can’t it? You know you’re going to win eventually, so you simply have to go on. And someone orders more brandy and soon nothing matters, nothing can touch you, you’re beyond all pain, all despair, because nothing matters except the cards and the pattern they make when they fall and the clink of coins or the whisper of paper money as the winnings are pushed back and forth across the table.