Tara turned away from the estate agent’s window and went to join Biddy, knowing full well that however nice the dress was, she would not buy it. From now on, every penny she made would go towards the purchase of her own house.
Her own house with her own piano in it.
Chapter Twenty
Elisha Fitzgerald stepped out of the car, and paused for William to escort her up the front steps of Ballygrace House. Mrs Scully was waiting for them, a welcoming smile on her face and the door held wide.
“Thanks be to God!” the housekeeper said, taking Elisha’s vanity case and handbag from her. “Welcome back to Ireland, Ma’am. It’ll be nice to have things back to normal, now that ye’re home.”
“Thank you, Mrs Scully.” Elisha’s voice was weary though polite. “It’s nice to be back home.”
“I’ll have the dinner on the table in half an hour,” Mrs Scully said ingratiatingly. “An’ I’ve done one of yer favourites: chicken and ham with a nice sauce, and roast potatoes and carrots and peas.”
“I think Mrs Fitzgerald would like to go straight upstairs now – she’s rather tired after her flight,” William said curtly. “I’ll come down and let you know when we’re ready to eat.”
“Whatever ye like now,” the housekeeper said agreeably. “Whatever ye like.”
When they were in Elisha’s bedroom on their own, William closed the door and then went and stood with his back to the glowing fire. “I don’t know who is the more shocked – you or I.”
Elisha opened one strap on her case and then the other. “I did,” she said, keeping her eyes on the case, “actually contemplate an abortion.”
William’s eyes bulged. “No?” he gasped. “Surely not?”
She slowly nodded her head. “I am forty-three years old.” She paused for a moment, then took a long, deep breath. “I have a daughter in a mental asylum, a son who is twenty years old – and I am expecting another child. After all those years without any – any affection between us – and now this. If it wasn’t so ludicrously sad, it would be laughable. I feel as though God has played some awful trick on me!”
William strode across the floor and put his arms around his wife. “There are two of us involved in this situation – it could be a fresh start for us both. Perhaps – perhaps it is a blessing in disguise.”
Elisha pulled away from him, smoothing down her immaculate hair with trembling hands. “I fail to see any blessing in it. Whilst I feel better in myself after the break away in London, I still have to face all this business with Madeleine, knowing that in a few months’ time I am going to have another child wholly dependent on me for the next twenty years . . .” She halted now, obviously distressed. She drew a handkerchief from her coat pocket and dabbed her eyes. “What if the child has the same condition as Madeleine?” she said in a whisper.
“The chances of that happening are very small,” William countered. “It’s not a hereditary condition – I had all that out with the psychiatrist in Dublin.”
“Thank God for that, at least,” Elisha sighed. She took her coat off and laid it on the bed for Mrs Scully to put away later. Then she changed her outdoor shoes for a more comfortable pair. “And you say Dr McNally wanted to send her to Maryborough Asylum?”
William nodded. “It was simply a matter of proximity, to get her attended to as quickly as possible – but I said we wouldn’t hear of it. I insisted on having her admitted to a hospital in Dublin.”
“You did the right thing.” There was a conciliatory note in her voice. “Although I felt angry at the airport when you told me about Madeleine having been in hospital since shortly after I left, on reflection it was probably the right thing to do.”
“You needed the rest.” William fingered his moustache. “She’s well looked after in Dublin. They say it would be best if she stays there for some time, to let them try out the different medications and then monitor the effects. Eventually, they hope to have her on a medication which will eradicate the religious delusions and the voices . . .” He hesitated for a few moments, then cleared his throat. “And all the distressing symptoms she told the doctors about.”
Elisha’s hands flew to her ears. “Don’t go on! I can’t bear to hear any more about it.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Mental illness is the most awful scourge for a parent to bear! I feel so helpless. When I was over in London, I kept going over and over it in my mind – trying to work out why it should have happened to Madeleine.” She looked at her husband, her eyes clouded with worry. “I keep wondering if it’s something we did – if it’s our fault – something about the way we brought her up.”
“No – no!” William held his hand up, halting her flow of recriminations.
Elisha shook her head and sat down in the wine velvet armchair by the fire, wringing her hands in agitation. “I can’t help but think we’re being punished for something wrong we did.”
“We gave her a good home, a good education, ponies, ballet lessons – everything we could. I refuse to take responsibility for her illness – and I refuse to let you take it either. The psychiatrist was emphatic – this illness just strikes at random.” He knelt at the side of the armchair and put his arms around her, and was grateful this time that she did not flinch from his touch. “We have nothing to fault ourselves over. We did our best.”
* * *
Rosie Scully bustled about downstairs, humming contentedly to herself whilst checking that everything was just as it should be for dinner. She had been happier these last few weeks than she could remember being for a very long time. Things were back in order in her life, now that she was reinstated back where she belonged, in Ballygrace House.
It had been a case of ‘not missing the water until the well runs dry’, as Rosie had found to her cost, the few weeks she had been out of a job. For a start, there was her wages – the loss of them had left a big hole. And then there were all the little perks like the leftover food, the odd bottle of sherry, the cast-off clothes that the Missus gave her for the family, the old curtains and bedding. The list of stuff that had come from Ballygrace House was endless, and even over that short period, it was sorely missed.
But funnily enough – the biggest loss had been the status that the job had given her. She hadn’t realised just how much people had deferred to her because of her position. For example, the people in the butcher’s shop in Tullamore – the shop which delivered the meat to Ballygrace House – had been distinctly cool to her when she had called in the other week for her own bits of things.
“Heard you’ve left the Big House, Mrs Scully,” the woman who served over the counter had commented, hardly a week after she’d been out of it. “Have you found another place yet?”
“I’m not lookin’,” Rosie had snapped defensively, then had gone on to lie: “I’ve – I’ve only been out on account of my varicose veins – I’ll have to wait an’ see what the doctor says.” Then, covering all options lest she should have been sacked in her absence, she added: “He might say I’m not fit for work for a while, wi’ the standin’ and everything. I’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Oh, I’d be careful if I was you. There’ll be plenty of women looking for a position in Ballygrace House,” the shop assistant stated. “I wouldn’t go advertising the fact you’re thinking of leaving, or there’ll be a queue of them outside the house lookin’ for your job, before you’ve even made up your mind.” She’d clapped Rosie’s half-pound of sausages, her bacon rashers and black pudding on the counter. “That’ll be four and fivepence, please.”
Rosie had bit her lip as she passed over two half-crowns. She hadn’t been given the usual coppers off the price, and every item had been weighed exactly to the half-pound.
“You’ll be missing the good cuts of beef and the turkeys and hams, I would say,” the shop assistant had said as a parting remark. “The Fitzgeralds only live off the best.”
Rosie had not meant to stay away from Ballygrac
e House for so long. She’d only meant to give William Fitzgerald a day or two to cool down about the way she’d attacked that brat, Tara Flynn. But things had got a bit out of hand.
Rosie had in fact cycled out to Ballygrace House the Monday morning after Madeleine had been taken to hospital – and the morning after William Fitzgerald had gone into Tara’s room. She clutched in her hand a doctor’s note excusing her absence. The note described her illness as ‘high blood pressure’, as opposed to the varicose veins she had told everyone else. It was then she had encountered Tara Flynn once again.
Rosie lifted a pan of carrots off the stove, and drained the boiling water from them – a broad smile on her face at the memory. Oh, God worked in strange ways. If she hadn’t come to Ballygrace House that morning, she would never have caught them rowing in the kitchen, with the Master apologising over and over again to her about something he’d done. Rosie had stayed outside – hidden among the rhododendrons – until the uppity little brat had gone. And for all her bad thoughts, she had found herself actually shocked at the thought of them in that big house all on their own – Tara Flynn and the Master.
And they had been in the house all night too, on their own. She had discovered from Doctor McNally when she’d been in to see him. He had let it drop when he said about Madeleine being taken into hospital late the night before. It didn’t take much to put two and two together, to work it out what William Fitzgerald had been apologising about.
Oh, things were different now that Tara Flynn was gone forever from Ballygrace House. And Rosie Scully had heard it from her own lips that she wouldn’t be back.
“I don’t want a lift from you – now or ever!” Tara had dared to shout at William Fitzgerald. “I came into this house for the first time on my bike – and I’ll go out of it the same way.”
“Please, Tara . . .” he had cried, coming down the stairs after her.
“Just drop my case at the office,” she’d said coldly. “I’ll pick it up with the wages I’m owed tomorrow morning.”
“You’re not leaving your job, too – not on account of this?” His voice was desperate. In all her years at Ballygrace House, Rosie had never heard him like that before. “You’ve worked so hard, and have a brilliant future ahead of you – don’t throw it all away over this . . .”
Tara had wheeled the bike out from the side of the house and then, without a backward glance, had cycled on down the drive.
And thank God and his Blessed Mother that she had, Rosie thought, for things had started to look up from that moment on. The housekeeper decided to creep away from Ballygrace House without making her presence known. Her business would keep. She could tell it was definitely not a good time to throw herself at her employer’s mercy. She would manage another week or two without the money. And hopefully he would cool down in the meantime and forget any bad feelings against her.
And so, a couple of weeks later, Rosie Scully cycled back to Ballygrace House and knocked on the back door. When he answered, Rosie had put on a show like she’d never done in her life before. “Oh, Mister Fitzgerald!” she’d said, almost falling in the door. “I hope you’ll give me another chance – I wasn’t meself at all these last few weeks. I’ve been havin’ trouble with me blood pressure – it was nearly through the roof, it was that high.” She handed him the note from the doctor and managed to squeeze out a few tears at the same time. “All I want is to get back to normal – get back to me work.” When he hadn’t protested, she started to take off her coat. “I’ll give the whole house a good goin’ over – for I know it won’t have got much more than a lick and a promise from young Ella, while I was away.”
William had stared through her, as though she wasn’t really there. Then, finally he said: “This can’t happen again. You have been with us long enough to know your place. Servants cannot interfere with any family business, or any guests we choose to invite to this house.”
“Oh, it won’t happen again,” Rosie assured him, dabbing at her watery eyes. “It wouldn’t have happened only for the blood pressure . . . and I’m on tablets for that now.” And she meant every word of her apology, because now there was no Tara Flynn to rise her she would be as meek as a mouse.
Nothing could rise her again, now that little uppity brat had gone from Ballygrace House, gone from her good job in Tullamore – gone from the Midlands entirely. It had been the talk of the place, Tara Flynn walking out of the auctioneer’s office and disappearing to Dublin. Then – according to the housekeeper’s cousin from Ballygrace – there had been more talk, saying she had gone to England. And not only had she gone to England, but she had been accompanied by that ungrateful little whore that Lizzie Lawless had fostered. The one who had dared to blame poor Dinny Martin for getting her in the ‘family way’.
Through subtlety and innuendo, Rosie Scully had sown the seeds of scandal regarding Tara’s departure. She had hinted at some sort of ‘friendship’ between William Fitzgerald and the foxy-haired madam from Ballygrace. She said nothing definite, which could be traced back to her, but the rumours had flown round the village and reached the ears of anyone who knew Tara Flynn. It had even been suggested that she had left after finding herself in the same predicament as her friend.
It had given Rosie the utmost delight when the rumours had come full circle and she was approached in Tullamore after Mass last Sunday, and asked if she had heard anything about Tara Flynn’s hasty departure. “What goes on in Ballygrace House,” she had said piously, “is no business of mine – or anyone else’s.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Tara had never heard music like it. She sat, transfixed, as the exotic woman’s fingers roamed over the piano keys, making the most beautiful sounds. Several times, tears came into Tara’s eyes as a particular piece transported her back to Ireland. ‘Moonlight Sonata’ took her back to Ballygrace House and Madeleine’s birthday party. Images of Gabriel Fitzgerald and her dancing on New Year’s Eve floated through her mind, of the afternoon they spent in Dublin . . . of the first time he had kissed her.
The beautiful music surrounded her, reminding her of all the silly, romantic dreams she once had – and rebuking her for the silly, romantic girl she had once been. It all seemed a lifetime ago, not just months.
When the Scottish pianist moved on to Chopin, Tara thought of her brother, Joe. She pictured them both that last afternoon taking turns on the piano – much to the delight of the two old aunties. She must write to him this week, she suddenly thought. She had promised to write as soon as she was settled in at her new address.
Tea and biscuits were served at the interval and there was also a bar.
“Shall we have a drink?” Biddy suggested, her eyes scanning the crowds for a glimpse of any young people among all the ancient music enthusiasts in their fur coats and evening dress. “I could get us a sherry each if you like.”
“No,” Tara whispered sharply, “tea will do us fine. We can’t afford to throw money away, when neither of us has a job.”
Biddy sighed inwardly and took a sip of her pale, weak tea. She had never been so bored in all her life. Her legs were stiff and aching, and her backside was numb from sitting on the hard seats for so long. She hoped with all her heart that things would look up when she got a job. Spending an evening out at a place like this was worse than going to a funeral.
When Biddy went off in search of the ‘ladies’, Tara left her seat and wandered through the crowds looking at the beautiful architecture of the impressive Town Hall. She took in the ornate ceilings and stained-glass windows, and compared them to some she remembered back in the big houses she had seen in the Irish Midlands. How she would love a house with all these beautiful old details, she thought to herself. It was funny she should feel that way, because when she had admired a beautiful moulded centrepiece in Ruby Sweeney’s sitting-room, the landlady had announced that she couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
“As soon as I can afford to replace all these old-fashioned lead windows,
then the ceilings are the next job,” Ruby had stated. “I want them lowered with a false ceiling, to cover up all the ugly looking borders and light surrounds. They’re dead old-fashioned now, they are.” She had shaken her head in amusement at Tara. “You’re a funny little bird at times. For a young girl, you have an old head on those shoulders.”
Tara had stopped to examine a plaque on the wall when she overheard a woman at her elbow saying: “That young pianist has made her mark in the musical world already, and apparently a lot of her success is down to her husband.”
“Is he here tonight?” the woman’s companion asked.
“He’s the distinguished old fellow who changes the pages of her music – the one with little grey beard and moustache.”
“You’re joking!” The companion laughed. “He’s never her husband – he looks more like her father.”
“Well,” the first woman said in a low voice, “according to what I’ve heard, he’s nearly old enough to be her grandfather. He’s in his late fifties, and she’s only in her early twenties. He discovered her when she was playing in a small local concert in the highlands of Scotland. He’s a wealthy Italian and apparently he owns a castle in the highlands. I’ve heard it said he’s a millionaire. He happened to attend the concert to support the fund-raising, and discovered this young musical genius.”
“She’s obviously no fool,” the companion said lightly. “It’s the quickest way for a young woman to climb the ladder in all walks of life – marrying an older, rich man. By the time he’s dead, she still has her whole life in front of her.”
Tara went back to join Biddy at their seats and, when the curtain lifted on the beautiful Scottish pianist, she suddenly noticed the distinguished, handsome man who introduced her again to her audience, and then escorted her proudly to her seat at the piano. And then, as the enchanting music surrounded her, Tara wondered if perhaps there was something in the conversation she had heard.
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