Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  “We are the leaders of the civilized world,” I wrote, the words spinning dizzily from my pen, “and yet here on our very doorstep is this unspeakable country where the inhabitants are worse than savages and murder is so commonplace that it has ceased to be an atrocity and is treated as a way of life. Why can’t something be done about it? Why do we have to suffer this intolerable situation?”

  Mr. Gladstone in his reply explained that Ireland was indeed a grievous cross for the English to bear, but as good Christians it behooved us to improve the lot of the Irish in order that they might be led from the dark waters of their discontent into the paths of enlightenment. In other words he had the insufferable nerve to say that the solution to outrage was to mollycoddle the Irish in order to make them happier.

  “I’d like to shoot every O’Malley from here to Clonareen,” I said fiercely to George when he and his brother magistrates and the sub-inspector were at last assembled at Cashelmara. “For a start you must imprison Drummond. He’s the one responsible. Imprison him and beat him till he confesses.”

  They all looked at me blankly. I started to shout at them, accusing them of sympathizing with the murderers, and when they tried to interrupt I cursed them till I was too exhausted to curse any more. After that I found myself alone with George, who said I was making a shocking exhibition of myself and must pull myself together at once.

  “Not until I’ve found the murderer and seen him hanged!”

  “My dear Patrick,” said George, “I may as well warn you, you’ll never find him and neither will anyone else. Drummond was at Leenane at the time of the murder. Half a dozen witnesses can vouch for his presence there. There’s not even a chance that we could prove he was a conspirator, and as for proving which O’Malley threw the knife … well, you’d fare better if you tried to prove the world was flat.”

  “But there must be witnesses! If we offer a reward surely someone will come forward!”

  But all George said was “Have you never heard of Ribbonism?”

  I had but I must have looked blank, for he said in explanation, “Ireland is riddled with secret societies like the old Ribbon Society of the Forties, and all of them are busy fostering agrarian outrages in a continuing war against the landlord. The society which flourishes in this valley calls itself the Blackbooters, and no matter what anyone says to the contrary I’m convinced they’re supported by none other than the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”

  “Oh, the Brotherhood—the Fenians—no Englishman could take them seriously!”

  “Scoff if you wish, but mark my words, you’ll find no one willing to collaborate with the authorities in a case like this, for any collaborator would be subject to the most savage reprisals. You’ll never find a soul willing to testify on the subject of Stranahan’s murder.”

  “Then what do you suggest I do?” I said in a great rage. “Sit back and let my friend’s assassin live happily ever after?”

  George said nothing. His silence maddened me. I said, “Don’t think I won’t get even with Drummond one day. I won’t forget and I won’t forgive and one day I’ll see him hanged.”

  I knew then that it didn’t matter who had thrown the knife. All that mattered was that Drummond had arranged it.

  But there was nothing I could do except bide my time and bury my friend as best as I could. It was no easy task. I knew his grave would have been desecrated at Clonareen, and when I decided to bury him in a quiet corner of the family churchyard by the chapel at Cashelmara I couldn’t find a Catholic priest who would say a Mass by the graveside. Father Donal said he was crippled by a pain in his leg, and when I offered to send the carriage for him he said he had a fever and begged to be excused.

  That was when I really began to believe George’s talk about the power of those rural secret societies, but fortunately Madeleine came to my rescue. I will say for Madeleine that she was always very good at doing the impossible. She bribed the Archbishop’s private chaplain to journey to Cashelmara, and although the poor man was terrified out of his wits and obviously expected to be murdered in his bed, I was at last able to give Derry a funeral according to the rites of his own church. I wished Clara could have been there, but of course I had to forbid her to come because I could never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to her.

  Thinking of Clara made me remember Sarah, and after the funeral, when I had no choice but to face the fact of Derry’s loss, I became increasingly aware of my loneliness. A lassitude overcame me. I suppose it was the aftermath of shock, but I made no attempt to leave Cashelmara and shrank from going to London until I knew how I would be received. I still could not bear to think of our quarrel in detail, but eventually I wrote asking her to forgive me and saying that when I returned to London I did hope she would consent to talk matters over.

  She did not reply. Presently I wrote again and said I was coming to London to take her to America as I had promised. I thought that at least would prompt some response, but when I heard nothing I suspected her letters were being intercepted by ill-wishers. At that point I sent for MacGowan. I was tired of living in an armed fortress, tired of troubles created by malcontents determined to make my life a misery. I told MacGowan to do whatever had to be done to put matters right with my tenants, and when he asked about the forestry plantation I told him I had abandoned the scheme and the O’Malleys could go back to their land if they wished.

  I waited another week in case there was word from Sarah, but when none came I wrote a third letter. For the first time I tried to face the memory of our quarrel, and after many drafts I wrote, “My darling Sarah, I know I said unforgivable things to you when we quarreled, but none of them was true. Looking back, I feel that I never said them and that they were said by someone else. Whoever that someone was he’s gone now and I’m myself again. I’m no longer the man who made you so unhappy. I’m the man who loved you and married you and loves you still. Please give me another chance. All I want is to make you happy and prove I love you better than anyone else in the world. Please write. I shall leave here and come to you as soon as you send word that there’s a chance of me being forgiven. All my love, PATRICK.”

  I waited. The days dragged past. Eventually in despair I wrote to Marguerite. Was Sarah determined to remain unforgiving? Had she perhaps already left for America? Was she ill? Dying? Dead?

  “Please write,” I begged Marguerite. “Please, please write.”

  I felt so isolated. Despite MacGowan’s overtures of peace to the O’Malleys I still thought it unwise to wander far beyond the grounds, so I didn’t go riding or boating or paying calls on my neighbors. Instead, as my lassitude ebbed, I began to work on the garden. I had decided to shape the lawn so that it resembled a lake surrounded by flowers and shrubs. Lawns, I had read, could provide a satisfactory visual substitute for water, and although I hoped later to build a lily pond I had decided to place that farther uphill on a plateau in the woods. The pond would be part of my Italian garden, linked to the “lake” garden by a long flight of steps. When the trees were cleared the view would stretch over the roof of the house to the lough and the mountains, and I could then frame the view by building some sort of pavilion—an Italian teahouse, perhaps, or a ruined temple. The garden would be Tuscan, not Renaissance, the design based on Petrarch’s idea of what a classical Roman garden might have been like, and the emphasis would be not on flowers but on water and stone. And to border my Tuscan garden … well, I thought a topiary might be fun. I liked the idea of shaping trees, molding them into different shapes, cutting, nurturing, experimenting.

  I loved my garden already, although it was still a wilderness, and in my distress it proved to be a solace to me. I cut the lawn and edged it; then I found a rusty roller in one of the greenhouses and began to roll it up and down, up and down over the coarse bumpy turf.

  The servants all thought Derry’s death had unhinged me, but I took no notice, and presently when the lawn showed no marked improvement I wrote to the Royal Agricultural College for i
nformation about grass seed. If my lawn was ever to resemble a lake it was no use wasting more time on a patch of land that was more of a clover field than a grassy sward.

  Still no word came from Sarah.

  One gray afternoon I was outside digging up all the clover when Hayes tiptoed from the house to say that visitors had arrived.

  “Visitors?” I said blankly. I straightened my back, rolled down my shirt sleeves and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Who?”

  Hayes peered at the card on his salver. “A Mr. Rathbone of London,” he pronounced, rolling his “R” like a Frenchman.

  I stretched out a muddy hand and snatched the card from him in disbelief. My first thought was that Sarah was petitioning for divorce. As far as I knew she had no grounds, but I could see no other explanation for Rathbone’s journey to Ireland.

  “To be sure he’s come as an escort,” said Hayes helpfully. “These would be difficult times for a lady traveling alone, I’m thinking.”

  “What lady?” I said, startled.

  Hayes looked at me with that compassionate wariness that kind people reserve for the hopelessly insane.

  “Why, your lady, my lord,” he said. “Your wife, may the Virgin and the Holy Saints protect her.”

  I left him and rushed across the lawn.

  VI

  Rathbone was in the morning room. He was alone.

  I said two words—“my wife?”—and he, still rising to his feet, answered, “I believe she went upstairs to your apartments, my lord, to refresh herself from the journey.”

  I raced upstairs, tripped on the top step and hurtled against the wall so hard that I damned nearly dislocated my collarbone. Then with my heart beating like a bass drum I stumbled down the gallery and burst across the threshold of the bedroom.

  She was there. She was very pale, and as we stood staring at each other I sensed a new stillness about her, a poise and gravity that were unfamiliar.

  “Sarah?” I whispered uncertainly and wondered for one bizarre moment if I was hallucinating.

  She took a step forward and tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Sarah …” I could hardly speak myself. “You’ve forgiven me?” I said, still not daring to believe it. “You’ve come back?”

  She nodded. The tears began to stream down her face, and suddenly I realized with shock that they were not tears of distress but tears of joy. “Oh, Patrick,” she said in a strange, quiet voice. “Patrick, it’s like a miracle. I’m going to have a baby.”

  Part Four

  SARAH

  Passion 1873–1884

  THE BEAUTY OF THE royal pair … excited universal admiration; for the bridegroom was the handsomest prince in Europe, and the precocious charms of the bride had already obtained for her the name of Isabella the Fair.

  Lives of the Queens of England

  —AGNES STRICKLAND

  Chapter One

  I

  HE WAS BORN IN December, just before Christmas, and weighed exactly eight pounds.

  “Francis!” I whispered adoringly as soon as he was placed in my arms.

  “Edward!” said Patrick equally adoringly at one and the same moment.

  We never could agree about anything.

  “I really think you should give way to Patrick this time, Sarah,” said my aunt Marguerite, the peacemaker. “After all, the baby is heir to the title, and it would be more suitable, by English standards, if he were named for Patrick’s father, not for yours.”

  I would never have followed Marguerite’s advice so often except that she was always right. I can’t bear people who are always right, but Marguerite was always right in such a clever way that I still loved her just as dearly as if she had been my sister (and probably a whole heap better). So I gave in to Patrick for the umpteenth time (oh, it does so aggravate me to give way when my heart is set on something!), and the baby was christened Patrick Edward after his father and grandfather in the chapel at Cashelmara.

  The champagne had hardly vanished from our glasses at the luncheon afterward when Patrick and I were squabbling about whether Baby should be addressed as Patrick or Edward.

  “Patrick would be nicer than Edward,” I said. I have always thought Edward is an unbearably stuffy English name.

  “No, we can’t call him Patrick,” said Patrick. “It would be too confusing.”

  “But Edward is so stiff for a little boy!”

  “We can call him Ned.”

  “Ned!” I was horrified. “Just like a donkey! Oh, Patrick, we can’t!”

  “I like it,” said Patrick with that mulish expression I had come to know and dread, “and Neddy is the nickname for a donkey, not Ned. If you spoke English properly you’d know that.”

  “How can you say I don’t speak English properly?” I exclaimed, amazed by his nerve, for he was always using the most dreadful slang, and my speech was far more proper than his was. Besides, to be frank, I have always thought the well-bred American accent is far more pleasant on the ears than the languid drawl of the London drawing rooms.

  After this squabble Marguerite said to me in private, “Sarah, give way to Patrick absolutely with this child, and then you can do exactly as you wish with the next, can’t you see?”

  “If there ever is another baby,” I said bitterly. I had not intended to say that, but I was feeling so cross at the prospect of Baby being called after a donkey that I let the words slip out.

  “Of course there’ll be another baby!” said Marguerite sharply. “Don’t be foolish, Sarah. You’ve had this golden opportunity to make a fresh start in your marriage, and I can’t believe you could be so shortsighted as to let the opportunity slip through your fingers.”

  That appealed to my pride, of course, and also her words put the silly squabble in its true perspective so that I felt ashamed. What did it truly matter what Baby was called? He was there—that was the important thing—and he was thriving, and he was without question the most beautiful baby in the world. All mothers say that about their babies, I know, but Ned really was the most beautiful baby. Everyone said so, not just me.

  “Your luck’s changed, Sarah,” said Marguerite to me before she left Cashelmara for London in the new year. “I really believe all’s going to be well between you and Patrick now, but whatever happens in future don’t forget that there are three things you must never do. Never complain about the lack of money, never refer to past disasters, and never, never, never—”

  “—mention the name Derry Stranahan,” I said wearily, trying not to sound impatient. Four and a half years of marriage had at least taught me a little wisdom, and I had no intention of making the mistakes I had made when I was a bride of nineteen. “I know, Marguerite, I know. You’ve said all that to me before.”

  “Some things should be said more than once,” said Marguerite, but she saw I was annoyed and added quickly, “Don’t think I’m prejudiced. I’ve been just as stern to Patrick as I’ve been to you. In fact,” she continued, smoothing a layer of praise over the unpalatable advice, “when I remember Patrick’s neglect of you in the past, Sarah, it’s a wonder you’ve remained faithful to him. You’ve behaved very well, and you’ve certainly earned the right to some happiness now.”

  I like to be praised. Certainly nothing would have been pleasanter for me than to have smiled warmly and murmured a gracious word of thanks, but her praise was misplaced and I knew it. So instead of smiling I blushed—and I seldom blush, for I’ve not the complexion for it—and muttered in embarrassment about ballroom flirtations in London.

  “But you never went to bed with anyone, did you?” said Marguerite sharply, and that flash of coarseness stunned me so much that before I knew it I was telling her the truth. I had never told anyone the truth before, never. There are some subjects that are so unmentionable that it’s difficult even to think of them, let alone put them into words.

  “You never went to bed with anyone, did you?” said Marguerite, and I said, shuddering as I spoke, �
�Heavens, no! It’s bad enough having to go to bed with Patrick! Why should I ever want to go to bed with anyone else?”

  And as we stared at each other in the silence that followed I saw to my stupefaction that I had shocked her far more than she had shocked me.

  II

  I often wonder whether circumstances or heredity play the biggest part in making us what we are. I have always believed myself to be a victim of circumstances and that my life began to go wrong when I made an unfortunate marriage, but why did I make such a marriage in the first place? Because I was brought up to believe that the highest pinnacle of achievement for a girl consisted of marriage with a rich, young, good-looking aristocrat? Or was it because I was my father’s daughter and placed too much emphasis on luxury? Or could it even—horrible thought!—have been because I was also my mother’s daughter and always longed to please people by “doing the right thing”?

  One fact at least is certain: Nothing in my childhood had prepared me for an unhappy marriage. Oh, I know I was extravagant and willful and spoiled half to death by a doting father—how clearly I can see that now! But I was loved. Loved too much, perhaps, cossetted to excess, protected from the harsher realities of the world by a gold-plated cocoon, but loved nonetheless, and for many years while I was growing up the thought that I might ever exist in a world where I was unloved simply never crossed my mind.

  “Everyone is so happy in your family!” Patrick said to me wistfully when he first came to New York, and it was true. Papa and Mama were fond of each other; certainly they never quarreled in front of us, and although I found out years later from Charles that Papa had kept a mistress, I think it must have been an arrangement that suited not only Papa but Mama as well. Charles, two years my senior, was more studious and serious-minded than I was, but that was only fitting, since he was the son and heir and there was a certain responsibility on his shoulders. I thought that Charles was gorgeous and was utterly devoted to him. So was Mama. I suppose that was why Mama and I were so often at odds with each other when I was growing up, although since I was Papa’s favorite it was only right that Charles should be hers.