The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  With a hot-water bottle resting comfortably on her stomach and a tablet working internally, Catriona listened as her aunt and sister explained exactly what had happened to her, why, what she might expect, what she should be careful not to do.

  “And I’ll drop a wee word in Father’s ear,” Sybil added with a stern look, “to be sure he doesn’t expect you to muck out or ride for hours when you’re off color. Oh, don’t worry, Trina, your father does understand about all this. He’ll be glad for you, too, pet.” Sybil dropped a light kiss on her sister’s cheek. “I’ve a book for you that explains it all again.

  “And I’ve an article to show Mother as well,” Sybil added, glancing significantly at Eithne, who looked startled. “Well, in America they understand these things. Actually, I’m positive that what’s wrong with Mother is all postmenopausal change. We get it on both ends of the cycle, Trina, but you don’t have to worry about that! Yet.”

  “I’ve been trying to get Isabel to consult Doctor Standish,” said Eithne.

  “Standish? He’s medieval. He wouldn’t know a hormone from a harmonica.”

  “The change takes some women hard, Sybil.”

  “Well, it can take ’em, it doesn’t need to keep ’em,” Sybil insisted. “Especially when nowadays enlightened medicine proves that the problem can be corrected. I read all about it in Reader’s Digest.”

  “Reader’s Digest?” Auntie Eithne raised skeptical eyebrows. “They never tell the full story in a digest. But if Doctor Standish feels a specialist is indicated, I’m sure he’ll recommend one.”

  “She’d improve a lot faster if he stopped her taking those pills. She’s probably addicted to them by now, you know. I know she took a whole bottle before she married me off.”

  “Sybil, how dare you suggest such a thing?” Eithne desperately tried to signal Sybil not to discuss such matters in front of Catriona.

  “It doesn’t take daring, Auntie Eithne,” Sybil replied, ignoring the gestures and making a face at her young sister. “It takes a bit of facing facts. Which Mummie obviously isn’t. She needs a woman doctor, someone who won’t just pat her on the hand and tell her that it’s the will of God.” Sybil briefly adopted a sanctimonious expression, then relented. “I know of one.”

  “Isabel prefers Doctor Standish. I don’t think you could get her to go to a woman doctor.”

  “Then for God’s sake, get her to Doctor Standish. She can’t continue the way she is. There’ll come a time, Auntie Eithne”—Sybil shook her finger at her startled aunt—”when Irish women will stop being mere chattels and start demanding their rights as human beings.”

  “Sybil! You didn’t get those notions from the Reader’s Digest.”

  “No, I didn’t, but that doesn’t keep ’em from being true. You might say my year in London helped finish my education. And you, little sister, if you want to stay on horseback for the rest of your natural life, you do it. Choose your own destiny. Break the mold.”

  “Really, Sybil,” Auntie Eithne went on, “I’ve half a mind to tell your husband what sort of ridiculous nonsense you’ve been spouting. It’s a mercy your mother can’t hear you talk like this. It’d give her a turn!”

  “Whatever do you think she’s in now? She can’t handle the truth, so she’s retreated into prayer. She’s making everyone suffer because she can’t have her way with Trina. Well, she won’t, if I have any say in the matter. You hear me, Trina? Whoops, I hear my kids creating.” And she quickly left the room.

  “Are you comfortable now, dear?” Auntie Eithne said solicitously

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Well, if you’d rather stay up here, I’ll bring you a dinner tray.” Her aunt sounded slightly dubious, and somehow Catriona did not want everyone knowing “that she had become a woman.” Particularly her mother.

  “No, I’d rather go down now. I’m not showing or anything?”

  She was quickly and kindly reassured by her aunt. “But Trina, there is one thing. I’d rather you wouldn’t repeat what Sybil said about your mother, and that other nonsense. I don’t know what’s happening to young people today. I really don’t.” And Auntie Eithne ruined her fierce manner by sniffing. Then, with an affectionate arm about her shoulders, Eithne led her niece down to the Sunday dinner table.

  On Wednesday evening, Sybil phoned Catriona to ask how she was getting along.

  “Well, I’ve still got it, Sybil, if that’s what you mean.” The novelty had worn off, and Catriona was not all that pleased with the prospect of this carry-on every twenty-eight days. However, it hadn’t interfered with riding at all once the initial cramps had eased.

  “It’ll stop in due time, Trina. It’s only four days. Now, has Auntie Eithne got Mother to the doctor yet?”

  “I doubt it. But no one tells me anything. Bridie’s been moaning about all the trays she’s had to carry upstairs and Mummie not eating more than a pick.”

  “Damn, you’d think Mummie enjoyed being ill.” Catriona was a bit flabbergasted to hear Sybil say what Bridie had bitterly mentioned. “Well, I’ve that article about menopause and hormone therapy. Mummie is going to read it if it’s the last thing I do.” After inquiring how the new pony was going, Sybil hung up. Catriona knew that it was just a polite afterthought, but still, Sybil had remembered to ask.

  And Conker was going great. He was almost fit after his long retirement, and most of his grass belly had been worked off. He acted more like a five-year-old than a staid and aged pony. The Spring Show was eleven days off, and with each session Catriona’s hopes of winning improved.

  On Friday when Catriona came into the yard, she was surprised to find the Chou Chin Chow gelding in the box next to Conker. The new gelding poked his head out the door at her, talking deep in his throat. She let him sniff her hand, blew in his nostrils when he raised his head, and then gave him a good scratch, right up to his ears.

  “Let him get to know you, Trina,” her father said, coming up behind her.

  “I think he’s super, Dad. Will Mrs. Healey really show him for us? She’s such an elegant rider. She’ll make a horse look even better. What’d you give for him?” Aghast at her cheekiness, Catriona waited for a rebuke, but her father only laughed.

  “I stole him, Trina, as Jack Garden will discover when he starts winning!”

  11

  MICHAEL Carradyne felt the situation in his home keenly. He tried on three occasions to reason with Isabel, but she would begin to say a silent rosary, her eyes focusing on another dimension entirely. She rejected his appeal to see Dr. Standish by saying that a medical practitioner knew better than to meddle in spiritual matters.

  Catriona and her father began to rise, breakfast, and escape the house before Bridie arrived to take charge of her kitchen. Catriona would quickly rinse their dishes so that Bridie could have no complaint. She’d be with her father in the yard, halfway through mucking out, before Mick or Artie appeared.

  “Captain, you’ve no call to be doing that now,” Mick would complain, his face as dark as peat with outrage. “Artie and me’re to do that. You get on with the riding, see?”

  “Mucking out’s soothing, Mick. Clears the sinuses,” was her father’s rejoinder, but he would relinquish the fork to Mick.

  There was plenty to do in the yard all day. Mrs. Healey appeared every morning to help break and back the Chou Chin Chow gelding, whom she had named Charlie Chan. Michael had been commissioned to break and school five three-year-old horses. And Sean arrived every afternoon, now that the Spring Show was nearly upon them. With Catriona on Conker in the lead, the Prince settled more quickly and worked better.

  “Maybe I should always work them with you, Trina,” Michael had remarked on the second occasion. “Sean’s actually relaxing.”

  “The pressure’s not on the boy all the time,” Mrs. Healey said. “Really, I have no use for such parents. That child is not a natural rider. I suspect, though, that he does very well in either cricket or football.”

  “However did
you know?” Catriona asked, surprised, because she happened to know that Sean was on the St. Andrew’s cricket team.

  “A lucky guess,” Mrs. Healey replied. “It doesn’t take money to play cricket or football, which, at Sean’s tender age, add nothing to the family status.”

  Catriona did not quite understand that, but she thought it would be great if Sean and she could change mothers. And why couldn’t her mother be as keen and helpful and knowledgeable about horses as Mrs. Healey? Then everything would be all right at Cornanagh. And, not because Father John had given her such penances, but because she wanted to, Catriona was praying every evening: praying that her mother would get better.

  She really needed the solace of Mass, but she dreaded the approach of Sunday and another encounter with Father John.

  “Cat, you shouldn’t oughta worry about your mum so,” Artie surprised her by saying as they were sweeping the yard on a Thursday evening. “M’mum says women get sort of silly daft, but they always snap out of it.”

  “It’s not Mummie. It’s . . . it’s . . . ” Artie nodded encouragingly, and suddenly she had to tell someone. “It’s Church, and Father John. He gave me awful penances because I’m not a good daughter . . . .”

  Artie stared at her for a long moment, then swallowed, making the Adam’s apple in his thin neck bobble. “There’s some as are saying she’s being a touch hard on you when you’ve finally got a cracker pony. And if you’re getting the business from Father John, go to Kilcoole. They’ve an early Mass, too, and it’s not that far if you go over the fields.”

  When Catriona’s doubt was obvious, he added, “The sin is in not going to Mass, not where you go, Cat, and you need the comfort.”

  Catriona wrestled with the ethics of such a solution all Friday. St. Michael’s was her parish church, Father John her regular confessor. But even Sister Conceptua, adroitly questioned, admitted that it was by no means compulsory to attend the parish church if, for a valid reason, it was impossible to do so. Nevertheless, Catriona felt almost guilty as she slipped across the fields, soaking her shoes and socks, to reach St. Anthony’s in Kilcoole. Her prayers and participation in the Mass were sincere, and she returned home much refreshed by the familiar and comforting rite, and delighted with this new option.

  On Monday, as soon as she climbed on the bus, Mary Evans thrust a flat-wrapped package at her. “Happy Birthday, Catriona!” she said with a shy smile of anticipation on her plump face.

  “You remembered?” Catriona blinked back sudden tears. Bridie hadn’t said a word this morning. Owen never did remember, until dinnertime when everyone had had a chance to remind him, and she’d seen neither her father nor Philip.

  “Of course I remembered, Trina! As if I would forget. Open it,” Mary urged, for she was eager to see Catriona’s reaction to the present, purchased with considerable thought.

  “Oh, Mary, National Velvet! A copy all my very own.” Eyes shining with delight, Catriona clasped the paperback to her chest with both hands. “Oh, you are such a dear, dear friend!” With uncharacteristic effusiveness, Catriona hugged her friend, mindful of the book’s safety.

  “Now you look happy,” Mary said, well pleased.

  “And so I should. I’m thirteen today.”

  “Well, you’ve been awfully glum lately.” Mary was firm. “You haven’t fooled me, but I know you, clam face. With your mother sick and all, it can’t be fun.”

  “How do you know my mother’s sick?”

  “Everyone knows that by now,” Mary replied. “I knew something was wrong, and it couldn’t be Conker because you would tell me that. So, what’s wrong with your mum? You can tell me, you know. I can keep my mouth shut as much as you can.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows what’s really wrong with her.”

  “It must be grim,” Mary said. “Is your mum better that you look happier?”

  “Not really.” Catriona could not admit to Mary that she hadn’t seen her mother at all over the weekend. “It’s just that the Spring Show is next week, and both Conker and the Prince worked really well over the weekend.” She giggled. “Sean’s finally learned how to relax. He might even win this year if he keeps his head in the ring, and the Prince doesn’t spook at the crowds.”

  “Well, you know you can always come over and visit me if things get too rough.”

  “Thanks, Mary, you’re a real friend. And when I’ve finished National Velvet, I’ll give you another read of it.” Catriona squeezed Mary’s hand gratefully. She stroked the cover of the book, rewrapped it, and put it safely in her book bag. “I think Bridie’s planning a cake for tea. She was that way, you know, this morning.”

  “Will your relatives be coming over for tea?”

  Catriona hesitated before replying. She almost didn’t want to see any of them, except Sybil, because all anyone talked about was her mother and her illness. She earnestly hoped that Grandmother Marshall would stay away: she ought to be spared that on her birthday.

  “Sybil will come,” she told Mary.

  “More colored pencils?”

  “No, I asked for chalk pastels. You can get a lot more shading and contrast with pastels.”

  “Speaking of relatives, have you heard anything more from your cousin?” And when Catriona regarded Mary blankly, “Your American cousin, Patricia? Is she still coming this summer with your mother sick and all?”

  Catriona did not know. In the fuss and furor over her mother, she had completely forgotten about that proposed visit. She asked her father while they were doing evening stables.

  “Yes, she’s coming,” he said. “June fifteenth, to be precise. You’ll like having someone your own age, won’t you?”

  “Yes, but we don’t have Blister for her, and . . . and we don’t know if Conker would be too much for her.”

  Her father gripped her shoulder affectionately. “Jack Garden has a pony that he’ll lend if it’s needed. Or I’ll take Mrs. Evans up on her offer of old Patch if that’s all your cousin can manage. Don’t worry your head about a pony for her, Trina.” For the first time in ages, her father grinned, his eyes twinkling. “I hear Bridie’s giving us a special tea tonight.”

  Now that he had referred to her birthday, she couldn’t be accused of wheedling. “Wasn’t it super of Artie to give me a body brush with Conker’s name burned on the back of it? That way he’ll always have his very own.”

  Michael Carradyne ruffled his daughter’s hair. He’d made a special trip to Kilcullen to Berney Brothers’ saddle shop from which he always bought the riding equipment Cornanagh needed. What had been adequate as a bridle for old Blister was not appropriate for a pony of Conker’s caliber. He found himself anticipating the look on Catriona’s face when she held up the new bridle. And the hell with Isabel.

  Actually, his wife elected to stay in her room as usual that evening, although she called Catriona in to visit her on her way down to tea. Catriona appeared in the lounge, looking sadly pensive, and dutifully displayed the new rosary. Her birth date and initials had been inscribed on the silver cross.

  Michael was delighted with her stunned reaction to the bridle.

  “This is because you don’t get to wear a bridle,” Owen said, grinning as he handed her his gift, a gold locket that opened. “To preserve Conker’s photo,” he added with an embarrassed grin when she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

  “Hey, I’ve got something for you, too,” Philip complained in mock jealousy. His present was a blue lightweight anorak jacket. “To keep away the wind and the wet when you ride out this spring.”

  “And it’s got pockets I can reach from both sides. Oh, Pip!” He was awarded an equally ardent embrace. “You’re the best brother a girl ever had.”

  Then Eithne entered the lounge to announce tea. Catriona had been excused from her usual household chores on her birthday and allowed to open the family’s gifts before the evening meal, so the table was already laid out. Bridie had outdone herself with a roast chicken stuffed with sage
and onion dressing, roasted and creamed potatoes, mushy peas about which Owen complained, and braised celery, Catriona’s special favorite.

  Just as they finished the meat course, Sybil arrived with her husband, Aidan, and her two children, a sturdy five-year-old boy and a tiny girl who had just discovered how to walk. She demonstrated this, round and round the dining room table, tripping up on the rug, righting herself, and toddling off again under indulgent eyes.

  From Sybil and Aidan, presented by Catriona’s young nephew, was a riding shirt, complete with high collar, a stock, and a pretty tie pin.

  “With room to grow into,” Sybil said with a wink as Catriona held the slightly large shirt against her.

  When Eithne gave Catriona a large flat package that was shortly seen to contain one hundred different shades of pastel sticks and a block of special pastel paper, Eithne and Sybil had a laugh together. Generally it was Eithne who thought of clothes and Sybil who provided drawing materials.

  “Oh, this is the very best birthday I’ve ever had,” Catriona said with a sigh of tremulous joy.

  “And she hasn’t seen Bridie’s cake yet,” Eithne told the gathering.

  “Let’s see if she needs help lighting all those candles,” Philip told Owen, and the pair headed off to the kitchen. They reentered immediately, Owen holding open one of the double doors, Philip the other, as Bridie, a smirk of great satisfaction on her face, marched in holding the Spode plate on which rested a truly splendid cake. It was festooned with roses and wreaths in a pale pink, with an appropriate inscription on top and candles all alight.