The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  Breeding and training horses was never a profitable occupation, though it could be: it should be. If only others would wake up to the potential of the Irish horse, establish standards, get decent facilities in which to show and sell the young stock, thoroughbred as well as three-quarter. Employ trainers to improve rider performances. And establish internationally recognized horse shows, with prize money amounting to six figures, instead of a miserly hundred pounds and a tacky trophy, to attract more of the top show jumpers and monied sponsors. Then there’d be a reason for young people to choose horses as a career.

  The problem with us Irish, he thought, is we’re all chiefs with no Indians. Can’t work together toward a single goal like the Horse Bill, because everyone defines the goal differently and fights over the definition till Kingdom Come—Ulster being a prime example of that psychology.

  He took down the heavy account ledgers, the manila envelope stuffed with notices from the tax collectors, found a pen that still had ink in it, and began his tedious calculations.

  He was halfway through a column of figures when he heard the phone ring. And ring. He ignored it, wanting to finish, but the phone continued to ring. Where the hell was Bridie? Could the woman do nothing on her own without Isabel to prod her? Abruptly the ringing stopped, and a minute later someone tapped at the thick door, fortunately just as he finished the column.

  “Yes, what the hell is it?” Michael knew that his temper frayed when he was forced to cope with figures.

  “Daddy?” Catriona’s voice quavered a bit.

  “Yes, pet?”

  “It’s Mrs. Healey. For you.”

  As he opened the door he saw Catriona’s anxious expression, so he ruffled her hair as he picked up the phone.

  “Michael, I feel a right fool, but I think I’ve left my clutch bag there. Probably in the dining room.”

  “Not to worry,” Michael replied, more pleased than he should be to hear her voice so unexpectedly. “Trina’ll pop into the dining room and see if there’s a spare purse lying about.” And Catriona ran eagerly off.

  “I changed rather a large check at the bank yesterday,” Selina went on, “and I’ve been half-afraid the purse might have dropped out of the car when I got petrol. David called yesterday to tell me to be sure to have enough on hand because he’s certain the banks’ll be out next week.”

  “Will they so?”

  “He has a weird habit of being right.”

  “We’ll be in trouble if they do. Ah, yes, Trina’s found it, Selina.”

  “What a relief!”

  “I’ll drop it in to you, shall I?” The offer was made before he was aware that this was an excuse to see her again, this almost magical day. He held the purse Catriona had given him as a talisman.

  “Oh, would you?” She laughed. “I don’t deserve such courtesy.”

  “Why not? About eight-thirty?”

  “Grand! Most considerate of you, kind sir.”

  He replaced the phone and, damning himself for being all kinds of a fool, went back to the office and worked on taxes until almost tea time.

  He showered and dressed, taking special, but not too noticeable, pains with his appearance. He had, he decided, not lost to age and weather the looks that had allowed him to cut quite a figure in the army. But then, Carradyne men aged well. His father had still been a very handsome fellow up till his death.

  The evening meal was a pleasant one with only himself, Catriona, and Philip to enjoy the excellent shepherd’s pie. Was it sheer coincidence that Bridie served them a strawberry fool for the sweet course? To be sure, Catriona was delighted and went through three helpings.

  “It’s never any good the second day,” she said to excuse her greed.

  The child—no, he must really start thinking of her as a girl, if not a young woman now—was in the best of spirits, and he found himself proud of her, as Selina was, that she’d been so resilient over her disappointment. He would give her a note to be absent from school three days during the Spring Show anyway. He needed her to work the Prince. Sean would only make a hames of it as he had last summer when his father made so much of bringing his friends to the Royal Dublin Show to watch his son ride. Catriona would keep the elegant pony light and relaxed until the very moment the class was called.

  He’d deliver Selina’s purse, he decided, come back to Willow Grove, have one drink, and then go home. An early evening, even an early Saturday evening, would do him no harm. And if Fiona happened to be there, well, that would solve that problem.

  At first, standing at the door of the Healeys’ rather splendid Georgian home, he thought that she might have changed her mind. But the outside light was on, so he was expected. He used the knocker the second time, in case the electric bell was out. He was about to give another stroke when the door opened and a rather breathless Selina stood there.

  “I thought I’d heard the bell,” she said, one hand appealingly at her throat. “Television!”

  He handed her the purse, noticing that her dress was the right shade of red to accentuate her delicate complexion. Then he wondered if she always dressed so elegantly for an evening watching the telly.

  “Oh, do come in, Michael.” She reclaimed the purse and gestured him in. “Or may I buy you a drink?” She waggled the purse as her bonafides to stand a round.

  Michael hesitated, then hoped that moment’s reluctance wasn’t visible. He would have liked to come in the house for that drink, to be in her environment. But all things considered, discretion must prevail.

  “By all means,” he said affably, remaining where he was on the threshold.

  “I’ll just get a coat.” She pulled open a cloakroom to the right of the front door. He stepped in then and took the camel’s-hair coat. With a flick of his hand, which he was pleased to see he remembered, he arranged her shoulder-length hair to the outside of the coat. It was very silky, almost as fine as Catriona’s. Yes, Michael, remember Catriona, home alone because her mother is ill in hospital. Remember also, Michael, that you live each day one at a time. And this is a remarkable day.

  “Where’s your local?” he asked as he handed her into the Austin.

  She gave a little laugh. “I don’t really have one in Dalkey. D’you? Or is the Queen acceptable?”

  “Noisy. What about the Coliemore? Good view of Goat Island.” He grinned at her, determinedly putting aside every reservation.

  “A pub with a view! That’s for me.”

  The Coliemore parking lot was crowded, but Saturday night was always a busy time for pubs. As he turned down a line, looking for a space, he suddenly spotted Eithne’s little car. He braked in surprise, for she had distinctly told them she was going to her father’s in Longford. She had even had an overnight case with her. But that was her car, dinged wing and all.

  “This may be too crowded to get a drink,” he remarked easily. “I’ll just check.” He gave her a fleeting grin and, leaving the gear in neutral, got out.

  He entered the pub, its air blue with cigarette smoke, and scanned the crowd, looking for his sister-in-law. The car could have been stolen. Then he spotted her, seated at the far end of the bar, laughing with unusual vivacity with her companion, a rather stocky man. This, apparently, was not the time to find out what Eithne was doing here.

  “Not a space anywhere. Sorry, Selina.” He got back in the car and began to reverse.

  “Where away now?” she asked.

  “The Castle?”

  “Grand!”

  It was only a short drive up the road to the old Castle, during which Michael tried to assimilate the fact that Eithne, who was supposed to be in County Longford, dancing attendance to her impossible old father, was very definitely in County Dublin, being danced attendance on by a presentable man. Despite his slight embarrassment over finding Eithne out, he had to grin. That cagey minx. He wondered how often indeed she had gone dutifully to County Longford. How very convenient it was, too, that Gavaghan was far too miserly to be on the phone and thus accessible.
Clever Eithne! And he’d never suspected. Nor, he was very sure, had Isabel.

  There were plenty of spaces in the Castle parking lot, as the old place was not in vogue at the moment. Nor was the air in the lounge as tainted with smoke. They settled themselves in an empty booth.

  “May I have a Carlsberg?” Selina asked, cocking her head at Michael.

  “Of course.”

  “David says it’s a plebeian drink, but I really enjoy a good lager.”

  “Then I’ll join you.”

  When the barman returned with the lagers, Michael was so astonished to see Selina Healey put a five-pound note on the tray that he spluttered for a moment.

  “Michael,” she said in mock reproof, “I owe you a drink for saving my pelf that way.”

  “Saving your what?” He took the offending note and put it in front of her, reaching for his wallet. She stopped him, smiling up at the amused barman.

  “When a lady offers to pay, she should be allowed the privilege, right?”

  “Fine by me, lady,” the barman said, grinning apologetically at Michael.

  “Really, Selina . . . ”

  “Really, Michael!” She mimicked him perfectly, even to deepening her voice to his baritone level. “You shout for the next round. But a lady always keeps her promises!”

  Rather than cause a fuss just then, Michael subsided until the barman had left.

  “Is your male ego bruised?” Selina’s eyes were sparkling with such devilment that he decided not to give her satisfaction and shook his head. “That was a rather nice sort you were riding this afternoon,” she began. “Did you breed him?”

  “Yes, he’s another of Tulip’s by a three-quarter-bred mare my father bought. Her last foal, in fact, which might account for why he is rather slow to develop.”

  “Big horses do take time to grow into themselves, but he’s got a marvelous front on him. Does he jump?”

  “Easily enough, but I’ve been concentrating on the flat work first.”

  “You are probably one of the few trainers in Ireland who do, outside of Sylvia Stanier.”

  “Loyal to Burton Hall?”

  “Well, I know that crowd. I never got in with the Mespil Road people. What’re you going to do with the gelding?”

  “Bring him on this spring, put him in the Horse Show, and see if I can spin him off to the foreign buyers.”

  “Tut tut! Selling Ireland’s best natural resource out of the country?”

  “To the people who will give me a decent price for a made horse.”

  “My, we are touchy.”

  “It’s a case, my dear Selina, of being damned if I do and broke if I don’t. You know how people are: if you’re making money, they carp about how unfair it is that you’re making money and they’re not. But if you’re not well off, they criticize you for dossing about all the time.”

  “It’s odd. I never have understood it.”

  “Have you had to?”

  “Now, that’s unfair, Michael Carradyne!” Then she saw that he was teasing her in turn. “Let’s not have any more arguments,” she growled at him. “What other youngsters are you breaking and making? Every time I’ve been down there recently, there’re new faces staring at me over stall doors.”

  Michael was perfectly willing to talk about horses and their prospects, including those he was breaking for others. But he knew his own young stock best, the ones the Tulip sired. Cornanagh had five brood mares, though Frolic remained his own personal favorite, and most years there were five new foals to be reared. He generally sold them off as made horses at four and five; sometimes he kept an especially promising show jumper as an advertisement. Also as an abrasively consistent winner at the smaller shows to remind his detractors that Cornanagh bred the best in County Wicklow.

  He told her about attending the Dáil debates on the Horse Board Bill, and his hopes for it.

  “Actually,” Selina said. “My father has always thought it was a pity something wasn’t organized in Ireland to improve the standard of horses.”

  Michael grinned at her, signaling the barman for another round, and talked on. Until time was called, he was unaware that she had been adroitly encouraging him to continue with comments and questions.

  “I am sorry, Selina, waffling on like that.”

  “Why? Because we talked horses all evening?”

  “Because I talked horses all evening!”

  “But I asked you.” Her surprise was genuine. “I wanted to know. I hadn’t properly realized just how involved you are. Oh, I knew from Tom Hardcastle that you kept one of the best livery stables in Wicklow, and I’ve certainly had no complaints about Flirty Lady in your care. Why, you’re worse than Catriona. And she might outgrow it all. You haven’t.”

  “It’s a Carradyne failing.” Michael tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone, but she caught it and quickly covered his hand with hers.

  “I don’t think it’s a failing, Michael Carradyne. And I’m sorry to hear time called.” She stood up, and he helped her with her coat.

  They stepped out into the crisp spring evening and silently made their way to the car. As they drove back to Selina’s house, Michael kept thinking of clever things he would like to say. But he could articulate nothing. He caught a glimpse of her profile in the streetlights and thought she looked sad or distant. He wasn’t sure which and didn’t want to chance his luck. He didn’t drive at his usual clip because of his reluctance to end this day, to leave her company.

  All too soon he had to turn the Austin into her driveway. He could, and did, escort her to the door, taking her keys to unlock it. He pushed it open, then put the keys back into her hand and held it.

  “This has been a wonderful day, Selina.”

  She smiled up at him, starlight catching a gleam in her eye. “Yes, it has, Michael. Thank you.” Before he guessed her intention, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, whirling away and into her house. “See you tomorrow!” came her cheerful call through the door.

  Laughing to himself, shaking his head, but immeasurably pleased by her sauciness, he returned to his car. Once he had it straight on the road, he touched the spot on his cheek and smiled all the way back to Cornanagh.

  A giggle penetrated Catriona’s sleep. She’d lain awake a long time, listening to the house. She had never noticed how many noises the old house made at night when there was no one in it but herself. She wasn’t nervous alone. She was thirteen and quite old enough to be left. She’d rather enjoyed having the telly all to herself and getting exactly what she wanted from the larder without needing to ask. She had felt very grown-up.

  The giggling continued, and Catriona, clutching her quilt about her, went to the window. There was enough light for her to see Owen’s Mini in the courtyard and two people making a very unsteady way to the mews house. The girl’s idiotic laughter continued until closed off by the door. Then Catriona remembered Owen and a girl in bed, the day of Blister’s last hunt. Auntie Eithne had been away on that occasion, too.

  Catriona wasn’t disturbed as she turned back to her bed, merely puzzled. But she knew that Owen was obviously doing something not quite on. It had to do with the whispering that went on among the fourth and fifth formers at Dominican. It had to do with why girls her age weren’t allowed to read some books and why she wasn’t allowed in the yard when the Tulip covered a mare. But she’d seen that anyhow and really wasn’t much wiser.

  She padded back to her bed, shivering at the cooled sheet and hugging herself until it had warmed up enough to lull her back to sleep.

  14

  THE ringing of the phone roused Catriona. She glanced at her alarm clock, knuckling her eyes because she couldn’t quite believe the reading: six-fifteen?

  She heard rapid footsteps and low cursing. Her father wouldn’t be best pleased awakened so early on a Sunday. She yawned and snuggled back into her covers, but she was awake now. She was also rather curious who would have the temerity to ring Cornanagh when everyone knew that Sunday was
a morning to lie in.

  She was compelled to get out of bed and go to the head of the stairs. Her father replaced the receiver, missing the cradle the first time. She couldn’t see his face, but there was something about the way he stood that worried her.

  “Daddy?”

  At her soft voice her father looked up, and she could see that the call had upset him. Sort of absently he tied the belt of his robe and then began to climb the steps to her. Something was terribly wrong. She wanted to ask him but didn’t dare. She just stood where she was, waiting for him. When he was nearly to the top, on a level with her, he pulled her into his arms. He hadn’t done that in a long time, and she wasn’t sure, considering his expression, if she should embrace him.

  “That was St. Gabriel’s, Catriona. Your mother died just before six o’clock.”

  Catriona heard what he said, but the words did not make sense.

  “But Daddy, how could she die? She wasn’t really sick. Everyone said so. You said so.”

  Her father, still holding her tightly, sat down on the top step and gently transferred her to his lap. He pushed back her sleep-tousled hair and stroked her cheek.

  “They suspect a heart attack, Trina. They don’t know yet for certain. But all that fasting left her in a very weak condition. She died in her sleep.”

  “Without the last rites?” Catriona was appalled, knowing how much the sacrament would mean to her mother.

  “No, she had those. And Father John had anointed her only Thursday, and she’d taken Communion. She died in a state of grace.”

  “But she died!” And suddenly Catriona had to believe this awful news. Her mother had died!