Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  V

  When I awoke I was aware first of the silence. The room was full of people; I could smell them and dimly see their distant faces, but nobody spoke. Yet someone was close to me. I was no longer alone.

  Then someone spoke. The Irish was soft and low, a dying language and yet so very beautiful, and the next moment I felt the cold rim of a glass against my lips and the fire of poteen as it burned my throat. I choked, gasped. An arm tightened around me, and closer than the unwashed bodies, closer even than the reek of poteen, I smelled the faint raw tang of carbolic soap and the barest nuance of tobacco.

  “You’re quite safe, my lady,” said Maxwell Drummond.

  I looked up. He was there. His eyes were grave.

  “Let me move you to the couch.”

  Someone took the glass from my hand. I felt myself lifted from the floor and placed gently on the upholstered velvet. Across the room the army of peasants spilled across the library threshold and filled the hall, but still not one of them moved and still not one of them spoke.

  “My lady, there are questions I must be asking you.” I looked up at him and he stopped. After a long moment he said, “Where’s your husband?”

  “He … left.” My voice sounded higher than usual but surprisingly strong.

  “With MacGowan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which way?”

  “Past the chapel,” I said, “and up into the mountains.”

  He turned to his followers and gave orders in Irish again. Suddenly everyone was moving, and the silence was broken by the murmur of a hundred voices and the clatter of boots on the marble floor of the hall. I closed my eyes, overcome with relief that I was to be left alone, but when I opened my eyes again I saw that although the mob had left Drummond himself was still there. I had never thought he would stay, and the shock of seeing him was so great that I started violently.

  He made a gesture of reassurance. “I won’t hurt you. Are you in pain?”

  “No, just a little weak … probably because I haven’t eaten … not since lunch. All the servants have gone. I was going to get myself something to eat, but …” I couldn’t remember what had happened, but I knew it no longer mattered.

  “You mean you’re alone in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your husband knew that?”

  “Oh yes,” I said and found that didn’t matter any more either.

  “Sweet Jesus, what a creature! If I didn’t see your figure with my own eyes I’d think he was masquerading as a man.” He finished the poteen and set down the glass with a bang.

  “MacGowan drank from that same glass less than half an hour ago,” I said.

  “You told me a little late, didn’t you? And me already poisoned!”

  We smiled at each other. I felt well suddenly and very strong.

  “I want to get even with MacGowan,” I said.

  “I’ll drink to that.” He poured himself some more poteen and handed me the glass. “We’ll both be drinking to it,” he said, so I took a little sip from the glass, not much, for I was afraid of choking on it again, and when I handed the glass back to him he raised it and said with a laugh, “To the blackest Black Protestant that ever came out of Scotland—may he fry in hell!” And when I laughed too he said, “I’ll make you a present one day. How would you like that?”

  “What sort of present?”

  “A long rope necklace, nothing fancy to be sure, but with Hugh MacGowan’s private parts dangling at the end of it.”

  He laughed again, and the most extraordinary part of all was that I laughed too. It never occurred to me to be shocked. The suggestion with the images it conjured up was so delightfully absurd that I giggled like a schoolgirl, and suddenly I knew there was no longer any doubt that I would get my revenge. My spirits soared. I couldn’t remember when I had last felt so excited, and all I wanted was for him to stay.

  But of course he couldn’t. He had to go.

  “I must bring some food for you before I leave,” he said. “How will I be finding the kitchens?”

  I tried to give him directions, but he only said, “Holy Mary, I’ll need a compass or I’ll be lost forevermore!” and disappeared with a candle into the hall. He was gone no more than five minutes. When he came back he carried a loaf of bread, half a chicken and a pitcher of milk, all crammed precariously on a small silver salver.

  “If it’s a butler you’re wanting,” he said, “I’ll not apply for the post. What’s the use of a little tray this size?”

  “That’s only for leaving calling cards.”

  “Well, I called,” he said, “and in my own way I’ve left my card.” He looked around the room. “This is a fine house,” he said, “a house fit for a king. I always did admire Cashelmara.” He poured some milk for me into the glass which had held poteen and after a moment added, “I’ll see that Miss de Salis knows you’re alone here and she can come with the doctor to make sure all’s well. But no harm will come to you between now and then, that I promise. Are you sure there’s no pain?”

  I was looking at the laugh lines about his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, but suddenly I could no longer see them, for he had moved too close and his face had slipped into a different focus. He was sitting on the couch beside me, and I saw only his straight, narrow upper lip as the palms of his hands slid gently behind my head.

  I parted my lips even before his mouth closed on mine. I had never done that before, but then I had never liked kissing, so moist and messy and later jerky and rough. But now I wanted to be kissed, and to my surprise everything became very smooth and firm as my whole body relaxed in his arms.

  My mouth was free again. I felt him straighten his back, and I squeezed my eyes tight shut to summon the will to say goodbye. But he postponed all goodbyes. He leaned forward again, and as his hands moved upon my neck and shoulders I couldn’t believe I had once thought him uncouth. It was almost as if he knew how repulsive I found emotional violence, but of course he’d never know that. I’d see he never looked at me with pity and contempt when he discovered what a failure I was.

  Tears blurred my eyes. He withdrew, but I felt so bitter and confused that I scarcely noticed. By the time I was able to look at him again he had risen to his feet and was looking down at me.

  “Is it crying you are,” he said, “and you the bravest woman I ever met! Tears are no use. It’s not tears that’ll get you even with MacGowan.” He stooped over me again and tilted my face to his. “I wish you a safe confinement,” he said, “and a speedy recovery. And when you’ve returned to health—” he paused, his eyes inches from mine—“I’ll come looking for you.”

  He didn’t wait for my reply. He left the room, and I heard his boots ring out as he crossed the hall; but I was strong still, and I no longer minded being alone in the house. I drank a little milk and ate some bread and meat, and after a long while I remembered how I had blamed Drummond for Marguerite’s death and how convinced I had been that the very sight of him would repulse me.

  It was five hours before a distraught Madeleine arrived with Dr. Cahill, but I didn’t mind the long wait. I merely lay on the library couch and thought of Maxwell Drummond, and whenever I remembered the necklace he had promised me I felt my lips curve involuntarily in a smile.

  Chapter Eight

  I

  MACGOWAN ESCAPED. HE AND Patrick found their way over the mountains into the Erriff Valley, where MacGowan took the first passing outside car to Westport, while Patrick, with MacGowan’s horse in tow, rode the other way to the inn at Leenane.

  The servants crept back to Cashelmara. Madeleine, who had decided to stay with me until all danger of a miscarriage had passed, reprimanded them until they all wept for shame and then packed them off to Mass in Clonareen to assuage their guilt. One of the grooms was delegated to ride to Letterturk after Mass to fetch George.

  George reported that Clonagh Court was a gutted ruin and that the elder MacGowan’s house had been attacked with the thoroughness
of a wrecking machine. Hugh had sent his father to Galway the day before, so the old man was safe, but three peasants had been killed in the fight with the soldiers, and the captain of the military detachment came to Cashelmara to say his men had suffered numerous injuries.

  The police arrived to make arrests, but George said no, better not; God alone knew what might happen if there were arrests now on top of evictions and shootings, and it would be best to let matters quiet down before taking any further steps.

  “We’ve got to consider Sarah’s health,” he said to Madeleine. “We can’t risk any further violence at Cashelmara at present.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought George would have been so sensible,” said Madeleine to me afterward. She herself had deplored the evictions and had repeatedly told Patrick not to take MacGowan’s advice.

  “Of course,” said George, “Patrick is quite unbalanced on the subject of MacGowan.”

  “We won’t talk about that in front of Sarah,” said Madeleine.

  “Why not?” I said. “I know better than anyone how unbalanced he is.”

  Neither of them would meet my eye. “We must speak to Patrick, George,” said Madeleine to him after a pause.

  “I wonder if you’ll have the opportunity,” I said bluntly. “It would be suicide for MacGowan to come back to the valley at present, and Patrick will want to stay with him.”

  They looked at me doubtfully. I could see they were thinking that the shock had affected my reason.

  “But, my dearest Sarah, of course he’ll come back!” exclaimed Madeleine, shocked. “I know Patrick has behaved very badly, and you can hardly be blamed for feeling bitter, but he does at least have a conscience. Besides, quite apart from you and the baby, he has no choice except to return to Cashelmara. He has no money and nowhere else to live.”

  I still thought Patrick would go with MacGowan, but I was wrong. He came back. He rode home that evening from Leenane with MacGowan’s horse in tow and refused to see anyone until the next day. He might have stayed longer in seclusion if Drummond hadn’t arrived with Michael Joyce, the new patriarch of the most influential family in the valley, but they wanted to present certain demands, and George, who was still at Cashelmara, refused to receive them on Patrick’s behalf.

  I didn’t see Drummond. I was resting in the boudoir and discovered that he was at Cashelmara only when George came upstairs to consult Madeleine, who was keeping me company.

  “Patrick will have to talk to them,” he said, worried. “If we send them away today, they’ll be back tomorrow. To think that the Joyces and the O’Malleys should be united for once! Ever since I can remember they’ve always been at each other’s throats! Well, at least MacGowan’s brought unity to the valley, even if he hasn’t brought peace.”

  “I’ll fetch Patrick,” said Madeleine, putting aside her sewing. “Sarah mustn’t be troubled by all this.” So she left the boudoir and walked through my bedroom to the door that linked my room with Patrick’s. I didn’t hear him answer her knock on the door, but when she entered the room I did hear her say, “How disgusting! How could you bring yourself to touch whisky at this hour of the morning?” and Patrick yelled at her to leave him alone.

  “Dear me,” said George, hurrying to Madeleine’s rescue.

  There was a violent quarrel.

  “I’m not seeing that bastard Drummond!” shouted Patrick.

  “Damn silly thing to say!” exclaimed George. “Excuse my language, Madeleine, but really—”

  “Please, George,” said Madeleine, “now is hardly the time to worry about my sensibilities. Patrick, you must talk to Drummond and Joyce. You’re not in a position to do otherwise, and if you can’t see that you’re more of a fool than I thought you were.”

  “Shut your bloody mouth,” said Patrick. That was when I knew how drunk he was, for he would never normally have talked to a woman in that way.

  “No, I won’t!” said Madeleine strongly. “I’ve shut it for long enough, thank you very much, and now I think it’s time I said something. You must pull yourself together, Patrick. You’ve become an absolute disgrace, drinking so heavily, abandoning your pregnant wife, hero-worshiping that man MacGowan in such a humiliating fashion—”

  “Don’t preach to me! Get out!”

  “Yes, I will preach to you! It’s my moral duty both as your sister and as a Christian. What would Papa have said if he could have seen you like this?”

  “Never mind Uncle Edward,” said George practically. “Thank God he’s dead and didn’t live to see this debacle. It’s what other people say that matters now, and I might tell you, Patrick, that your private life is becoming subject to the most unfortunate rumors from here to Dublin—and to London too, for all I know.”

  “For God’s sake, what does that matter now? Hugh’s gone, isn’t he? I’m here with my pregnant wife, aren’t I? Well, aren’t I?”

  “You must give us your word MacGowan will never return. That’s what Drummond and Joyce want, and if you don’t give them what they want I’ll not answer for the consequences.”

  “Patrick, you have a duty to Sarah and your children and your unborn child—”

  “I simply want to be left in peace. I want to work in my garden. I want the children to come back.”

  “Then …”

  “Oh, tell Drummond and Joyce what you like! What do I care so long as you all leave me alone!”

  “Of course he was disgracefully drunk,” said Madeleine to me after George had gone downstairs to see Drummond and Joyce. “I would have said more to him, but I didn’t think that in his condition it would have been of any use.”

  “No use at all,” I agreed wearily.

  I didn’t see Patrick alone until two days later. Madeleine had by that time returned to the dispensary, and George, after promising Drummond and Joyce that a new moderate agent would be engaged to replace MacGowan, had retreated in exhaustion to Letterturk. Since the valley was quiet again I decided to consult Patrick about recalling the children.

  “I’ve already recalled them,” he said. “I wrote to Nanny yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I exclaimed angrily, for I had stayed awake the previous night worrying about whether it was too soon to send word to their hotel in Salthill.

  “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Yes, but …” Some bleakness in his manner attracted my attention. It was unlike him. “Patrick, you must make more effort, you really must, or the children will suspect all’s not well between us.”

  As soon as I spoke I thought: After the baby’s born I’ll leave him. I’ll take the children and go to Dublin—or London—to seek legal advice. Now that MacGowan’s gone I don’t have to be terrified of escape any more.

  But then I thought: With MacGowan gone life at Cashelmara would at least be tolerable. I’ll never forgive Patrick, just as I’ll never forgive MacGowan, but although I despise and detest him I’m not afraid of him, and no doubt I could arrange matters so that we seldom had to talk to each other. And for the children’s sake I’ve got to avoid scandal, got to avoid divorce. If it’s at all possible I must try to stay, and besides … wasn’t Drummond going to come looking for me when I was well again?

  “Patrick,” I began reasonably, but he interrupted me.

  “I’m tired of lying,” he said. He was drinking again. It was only eleven o’clock, but he was drinking soda water and some of the brandy Flannigan had brought back from Galway. “I’m tired of caring what people think.”

  “But you must care what your own children think! Think of Ned—nearly nine years old now! If he should ever guess the truth—”

  “He’ll find out. One day.”

  “But he mustn’t! How can you say that so calmly?”

  “Because my values are different from yours. Because I don’t want my son to say of me one day, ‘My father was a wonderful liar and a superb actor whom I never really knew at all.’ I want him to say, ‘My father loved me and he was honest with me—and that
’s all that matters.’”

  “You’re drunk again!” I said furiously, but because MacGowan’s expulsion had given me new heart and because I now wanted Patrick’s cooperation I smothered my anger and contempt and made another attempt to approach him. “We’ve got to try to keep up appearances, Patrick,” I said reasonably, choosing a phrase he had often used to me. “If we give up now it’ll mean our past efforts have all been for nothing. Promise me you’ll make a fresh effort—for the children’s sake.”

  “I’ll promise you anything you like,” he said, “if you would only leave me alone.”

  Fortunately his spirits improved after the children returned, but the prolonged bouts of heavy drinking had taken their toll on his appearance. He looked older, his face more lined, his complexion more blotched, his eyes more bloodshot. With MacGowan’s departure he had lost interest in his garden, and the lack of exercise had made him put on weight so that his splendid physique was now showing the first signs of ruin. He still had the self-assurance MacGowan had given him, but without a sense of purpose he seemed to sink deeper into apathy, and whenever the children were absent he was morose and hostile. However, in their presence he did make an effort to be his old self, and when I saw this I thought with relief that the children might still be spared the shame and disgrace of a divorce.

  The baby came.

  I was very ill. Unlike my previous experiences, the birth was long and difficult, and afterward I lost so much blood that I was unconscious for hours. No one could tell me until much later about the tumors, and even then Dr. Cahill was so busy assuring me that they weren’t cancerous that I found it hard to understand what had happened. No one had expected me to live. Dr. Cahill had been obliged to use a surgeon’s knife, and had it not been for the fact that he was a young man and had been trained in London as well as in Dublin I’m sure I couldn’t have survived. Even despite his modern knowledge I developed an infection, and for days afterward I was aware of nothing but the heat and pain of fever. But at last one morning I was better and could remember that long ago I had had a baby.