Tara closed her eyes and nodded. There was no point in attempting to explain the ways of village tittle-tattlers like Rosie Scully to someone so removed from it all like William Fitzgerald. How could he understand women whose lives were so empty of excitement that they filled their days feeding off the misfortunes of others, like pitiless vultures.
A small sigh escaped from Tara’s lips. She knew from the look in the old woman’s eyes, that something nasty would be made of the innocent scene she had walked in on.
Tara passed the next few hours practising on the grand piano and sorting through notes for her forthcoming accounting and shorthand exams. She was thankful when it was young Ella who knocked on the sitting-room door, to inform her that her meal was ready in the dining-room.
The salmon, boiled potatoes and glazed carrots were as tasty and beautifully presented as all the other meals in Ballygrace House, but Tara had no appetite. Whether it was due to the large lunch she had had earlier in the day, or the upsetting events which had followed – she could not stomach the meal.
When Mrs Scully appeared in the dining-room with a dish of trifle, her hawk-like eye fell on the barely touched meal. She clapped the trifle down some distance away from Tara, then reached across the table to remove the plate with the salmon. “I suppose you’re not used to being fed such grand meals at home,” she said scathingly. “I suppose bacon and cabbage would be more in yer line?”
Tara gripped the edge of the table, rage coursing so fast through her veins that she felt dizzy. “I beg your pardon?” she said in a steely voice. “You are very mistaken if you think for one moment that I value your opinion.” She paused, making sure that her words had sunk in. “I have no interest, whatsoever, in anything that you think – so I’d be grateful if you would keep your personal comments to yourself. “
The china plate that Rosie Scully was holding tumbled out of her shocked hands and fell back on the table, splattering the salmon and vegetables all over the lace cloth. “You little whore!” she hissed between clenched teeth. “Don’t you have a quare nerve – comin’ in here, as if butter wouldn’t melt in yer mouth! First you have yer eye set on young Master Gabriel, and when he’s not around, you make yerself available to a married man. A man ould enough to be yer father!”
“How dare you!” Tara was up on her feet now, flaming with anger.
But Rosie Scully thought herself well entitled to be giving an opinion and was only gearing herself up to battle. “I know all about you, Tara Flynn,” she spat disdainfully. “An’ I know all about yer little whore of a friend – Biddy Hart! They’ve got her well out of the way at the minute – an’ the little bastard in her belly.” She snorted loudly. “An’ you won’t be long in followin’ in her footsteps, by the cut of you! “
“You’re nothing but a bad-minded old woman!” Tara pushed the chair back against the wall. “I’ll speak to Mr Fitzgerald when he comes back tonight – and I’ll tell him everything that you’ve said.” She walked towards the door, struggling to control the wave of anger which was still rising inside her in a frightening way.
“And, I,” Mrs Scully said in a sneering voice, her eyes narrowed in hate, “will be letting Mrs Fitzgerald and everybody in Ballygrace know about your sinful shenanigans with a married man! And you – with a brother that’s in for the priesthood.”
Tara turned slowly and looked the housekeeper straight in the eye. “Some terrible things must have happened in your life, to have made you such a bitter and twisted old woman.”
Rosie Scully’s mouth dropped open in shock.
“Nothing you can do or say will have any effect on me or the way I choose to live my life.” And with that, Tara held her head defiantly high, and walked out of the room.
* * *
Never had an evening passed in such a painfully slow manner. Tara found reading and studying impossible, and she had no heart for playing the piano. The radio playing quietly in the corner was the only distraction from her thoughts. That, and the periodical checks on her sleeping friend.
She had already planned what she was going to tell William Fitzgerald about Mrs Scully. She would tell him how she found the situation intolerable and that she was leaving Ballygrace House first thing in the morning. Asking him to choose between herself and the housekeeper was unfair, and she had no wish to put him in that position. However pleasant and convenient it was for her to stay in the house, she could not trust herself to control her temper again, should she be goaded by the old woman.
The telephone in the hall rang twice, and Tara heard footsteps on the tiles outside as someone answered it, but she could not tell whether it was Ella or Mrs Scully. Then later the younger maid came into the sitting-room to put more turf in the basket. She was as pleasant as usual, and gave no indication as to whether or not the gossipy older woman had said anything about the argument.
Around ten o’clock, Tara heard William Fitzgerald’s car sounding on the gravel outside. She was on her feet at the fireplace when he came into the room.
“Sorry I was so long,” he said, going over to the drink decanters on the sideboard. He poured himself a large whiskey. “But it was a good evening’s work. Everything seems to be in order with the stud farm.” He held up a crystal decanter. “Would you like a sherry, Tara? Or a glass of wine?”
Tara shook her head. “No, thank you . . . I think I’ll go off to bed now.”
“Are you all right?” he said, looking closely at her. “Has anything else happened with Madeleine since I left?”
“No, she’s been sleeping all the time.” She hesitated for a moment, then decided to take the bull by the horns. “It’s actually Mrs Scully. I don’t know if you’re aware . . . but she has a strong dislike for me.”
He sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Has she said or done something to upset you this evening?”
Tara turned away from him, and stared into the fire. “I don’t want to cause any trouble, especially with Madeleine being ill and Mrs Fitzgerald being away. It might be best if I left. In fact . . . I think I should go in the morning. Madeleine will be fine if she has one of the maids here to look after her.”
“No –” he said angrily, “you will not go. You have to tell me what she said.”
Tara took a deep breath. “She said something about you and me . . . about walking in on us earlier on. Then she was particularly nasty about my friend, Biddy.”
“That’s it!” William said. “I won’t have that meddling old woman causing trouble in this house. I’ll sort her out once and for all.” He banged his whiskey glass down on a small table and stalked out of the room. Tara listened and could hear his footsteps as they went all the way down the hallway towards the kitchen.
But William Fitzgerald was too late, because Rosie Scully was already on her way, pedalling with all her might to her second cousin’s in Ballygrace. Determined to do her worst.
* * *
The following Saturday morning, when Tara cycled back to Ballygrace to do the bakery accounts, she knew immediately that the housekeeper had spread her poisonous lies.
“And how’s that young Fitzgerald one getting on?” The bakery owner’s wife said, poking her head into the small office. “I wouldn’t normally go sticking me nose in – but I hear that you’re lodging out at Ballygrace House.”
“She’s fine,” Tara replied, not lifting her eyes from the accounts sheet.
Mrs O’Neill lingered in the doorway, reluctant to leave the conversation without having gained even a snippet of news, to add to all that she’d got from the butcher’s wife. “And how,” she said, in an uncommonly friendly manner, “d’you find livin’ up in Ballygrace Castle?” She used the childish, old name for the house. “It surely must be a big change for you, and your family only cottagers.”
Tara still did not lift her head. “The house is fine, and Madeleine’s fine,” she said in a flat, disinterested voice.
“And how,” Mrs O’Neill looked back into the shop to check th
ere were no customers, “is Mr Fitzgerald himself? I hear the Missus has gone abroad for a while and he’s left there on his own.”
Tara turned to face her. “Apart from seeing him in the auctioneer’s office, I wouldn’t know how he is,” she said evenly. “It’s none of my concern. I rarely see him in the house, as he works most evenings.”
“Is that a fact?” The baker’s wife was delighted to have got some information out of her. “Surely he comes home for a bite to eat now and again?” She paused. “Doesn’t Rosie Scully from Tullamore keep house for them there?”
Tara sucked her breath in at the mention of the name.
“I’d say,” Mrs O’Neill went on, “that she’d put a goodly dinner down to him in the evenings. I hear from her cousin that she’s a fine cook.”
Tara stood up and closed the account books. She had it in her mind to tell this woman exactly what she thought of Rosie Scully, but to do so, would only put her on the same level as the scandalmongers. “As I said before,” Tara’s voice was icy, “it’s none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me, is Mr O’Neill there? I need a word with him about the accounts.”
The baker’s wife folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll get him for you now.” Then, taking one last stab, she added: “That’s a grand job you have in that office. I saw you the other day in Tullamore with Mr Fitzgerald, all got up in the front of his car. You looked to be fine and friendly with him.” Then, delighted that she had broached the scandalous subject, she turned on her heel and went in search of her husband.
Tara was met with a similar reception in the village shop when she went to sort out the books for them a short while later. A group of gossiping women went deadly silent when she came into the shop. “And how’s yerself, young Miss Flynn?” one of the women called as she passed by them by on her way upstairs to the office.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said in a clipped tone, hurrying on with her business.
The woman winked at her two companions. “I say you’ll be missing your friend, Biddy Hart, these days.”
Tara ignored the comment, and started to mount the steps.
“I suppose you’ve enough company out there in Ballygrace House with Mr Fitzgerald?” one of the other women called after her in a jeering voice. “You wouldn’t have much time to be thinkin’ about the likes of Biddy Hart now . . . or yer Uncle Mick.”
When Tara reached the door of the office, she closed it firmly and then turned and pressed her back flat against it. At long last, by her association with the Fitzgeralds, she had given the local gossips the ammunition they thrived on. And even better, it had come hot on the heels of the news about Biddy and the baby.
Tara’s shoulders slumped against the old cracked door, and tears came into her eyes. This was the reason she had always kept herself to herself – deep down she knew she was vulnerable to attacks like this, for daring to be so different from the other girls. Whether there was any truth in the gossip was of no odds. They would pass from one to another, adding a bit here and there, delighted to have something on ‘that uppity Tara Flynn’ at last.
* * *
Later that afternoon when Tara called back in at the cottage, she was relieved to find that the gossip had not reached Mick or Kitty’s ears as yet. She gave them a brief outline of the animosity between herself and the housekeeper, and told them to ignore any rumours about her, because it was malicious lies spread by Mrs Scully.
Kitty had been kind and understanding. She bustled about sorting Tara cold ham and tomatoes and freshly baked cake bread, while Mick had sat grim-faced and saying little. As he passed her on his way out to the yard, he had patted her shoulder with a comforting hand. “Pay no heed to her or her kind, “ he said quietly. “She’s only an oul’ begrudger – jealous because you’re makin’ something of yourself.”
Their attitude had lifted Tara’s spirits a little but she felt guilty for not telling them everything. But how could she? How could she explain that the housekeeper had walked in on William Fitzgerald kissing her hand? She knew that it looked strange to an ordinary person, never mind one with a bad mind like Rosie Scully. But it had meant nothing. Nothing at all.
William Fitzgerald had apologised to Tara for putting her in such a compromising situation, or – what had been construed as a compromising situation – by the housekeeper. He had brushed it off as an insignificant incident, which should be forgotten by both herself and the housekeeper. He said that he would confront Mrs Scully about her general attitude to Tara. Depending on how contrite she was, he might give her a severe warning and another chance. The thought of sacking her and having to find a replacement in his wife’s absence, he explained, did not sit easy with him. He had enough to contend with, without having domestic problems. He smiled and said he was fairly sure that the housekeeper would not wish to lose her job over such a minor matter.
Tara had not felt reassured by his view on the matter, and was sure that Rosie Scully would never admit to being in the wrong. She felt even less reassured now, having suffered the backlash of it all from the local gossipmongers – and she wondered how wise she had been to agree to return to Ballygrace House that evening. She had given no promises about staying for the rest of the month that Mrs Fitzgerald was away but, for her friend’s sake, she would spend a few more days until William made other arrangements.
Madeleine was up and about when Tara returned to the house. She had shrugged off the heavy sedation of the previous night, and her eyes were bright and alert. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, when young Ella showed Tara into the sitting-room. “I’ve been bored all afternoon. Daddy’s been gone since lunchtime, and there’s only been Ella and me in the house all day.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Tara said gently. “Now that you’re up and about, is there anything you’d like to do?”
“I was just thinking,” Madeleine said with a faraway smile, “that I’d like to do a jigsaw. Gabriel and I used to make jigsaws a lot when we were younger . . . I really miss him for things like that.” She paused for a moment. “I’ve some new jigsaws upstairs that I haven’t even opened.”
For the rest of the evening, Tara and Madeleine fitted pieces of a fragmented portrait of the Virgin and Child which Madeleine had bought in a religious shop in Dublin. Thankfully, there had been no sign of Mrs Scully around, and when William Fitzgerald returned around half-past nine, Tara went off to bed, pleading a headache. After the awful day, she just wanted to fall asleep and blot everything out.
Madeleine was up and about from six o’clock on Sunday morning. Although she did not actually come into Tara’s bedroom to wake her up, her movements in the hallway outside, and her footsteps tripping up and down the stairs made certain that Tara would not go back to sleep.
It made no difference, Tara thought as she dressed. She had slept very badly in any case. Her mind had kept going over and over the situation about William Fitzgerald and Mrs Scully. She had a horrible feeling about it all but there was nothing she could do. She had never done the housekeeper any harm and yet the woman seemed to hate the very sight of her. And she had now to contend with her reputation being torn to shreds in Ballygrace.
Over breakfast, William told Tara that Mrs Scully had sent a message in with her grandson that she was ill and would not be back at work for some time. “Doesn’t want to face the music,” he commented, “but she’ll eventually have to face it. She won’t receive a penny from me, until I have a full explanation for her behaviour.”
Tara listened to him and politely nodded her head. She was heartsick of the subject.
Madeleine made a fuss when her father suggested that she should perhaps not go to Mass for once. “No!” she protested. “I can’t miss Mass – it’s a mortal sin.”
“I think,” William said, “that we might have a drive out today. We’ll go to Mass in Birr for a change. It’s a fine day, and we’ll all benefit from the fresh air.”
All three set off in the car, Tara feeli
ng both relieved at not having to face the gossips at Ballygrace Church, and apprehensive about how Madeleine would behave in church after her performance on Friday.
When they arrived at the church, William motioned that they should sit in one of the back pews, nearer the door. He stood back to allow the girls in before him, and Tara went first, ensuring that Madeleine was in the middle. As soon as Mass started, Tara noticed that Madeleine was becoming agitated. She watched the priest and listened to his words intently, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Every so often, she rocked backwards and forwards as though she were in a trance. And every so often, William reached forward and put out a discreet hand to halt the rocking. But within minutes, Madeleine started again.
“Are you all right?” Tara asked her several times but Madeleine didn’t react. She just continued looking with intense concentration at the altar, or rocking back and forth. Tara noticed people further along the row nudging each other and whispering.
When Communion time came round, Tara was greatly relieved when William indicated that they should quietly leave by the back door. In the coming and going of the Communion queues, they were hardly noticed. Madeleine, thankfully, made no protest at being ushered out, and for the second time in as many days, she was quickly bundled into the car and driven back to Ballygrace House.
As soon as they arrived back at the house, William did as the doctor had instructed and gave Madeleine more of the medication. By the time lunch was ready at two o’clock, she was once again upstairs heavily sedated, and Tara found herself dining with William alone. Given the tense circumstances, he was charming company as usual.
After lunch, Tara excused herself, saying that she had a backlog of studying and piano practice to catch up on, and she spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening in the sitting-room, working on her own.
Around six o’clock, Tara decided to have a walk out in the fresh air before supper. There was no sign of William or his car, and Tara presumed that he had gone off somewhere when she was playing the piano, his car engine drowned by the music.
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