She came up to the bar now to express sympathy, briefly resting her hand on his arm, her fingers tightening in an unspoken message. Thanking her, Michael deftly withdrew to accept the pint that Tom had pulled for him, but Fiona tossed her long red hair and seated herself on the empty bar stool beside him.
Jack Garden gave Michael a knowing wink. “I heard you got a record price for that gelding of yours.”
“Yes, I’m happy to say.”
“The Eye-talians, again?”
Michael nodded, then took a long pull on his pint. How was he going to detach himself from Fiona? He was grimly aware that there had been many times when he had been grateful for her discreet willingness, but right now bedding her was the last thing on his mind. For a variety of reasons.
“Say, is that gray of Connolly’s half as good as he’s making out?” Jack asked, pulling Michael toward him conspiratorially.
“He’s got quite a pop in him over poles on the lunge,” Michael agreed, ever the diplomat. “Good strong animal, but it’s early days. Hell, we’ve only just backed him. As you and I know so well, anything can happen with horses.”
“Yeah, pity about the glass in the menage. Pony sound yet?”
“Next week should see him right.”
“Hey, Fiona, are you dry there, girl?” Jack said, looking beyond Michael’s shoulder at her. “Michael, it’s your turn to shout—since you’ve got pockets of shillings selling horses to the Eye-talians.”
Michael vowed that he would repay Jack Garden somehow. In the meantime, this was scarcely the place, or time, to make too much of a fuss. He smiled and joked with Jack, Fiona and Bob, and Tom behind the bar; exchanged greetings with all the regulars. Later he found the appropriate moment to have a word with Tom, and the man was quite willing to change his check, returning with the notes in a brown envelope.
“Got a sick horse,” he announced when they’d all bought a round. It was ten-fifteen: not early enough to give offense, but too early for Fiona to leave unnoticed.
Fiona gave his arm a quick sympathetic squeeze, then glanced at him sideways.
“A little thoroughbred filly injured at Baldoyle . . . ” Michael eased himself away from Fiona without meeting her eyes.
“Did they nick one of yours?” Jack Garden was alarmed.
“No, but I’ve got to repair the damage done her. Catriona’s doing the hard work. Well, g’night and God bless.”
Waving impartially at all, he left the pub, reaching the safety of the Austin.
When he drove into the courtyard, the yard light was on. He walked quietly to the corner and heard Catriona talking to Conker as she filled his water bucket. The little filly had her head over her stall door and was watching.
“So, if she continues to eat and drink, and she feels safe here with us, she ought to do just fine, Conker. You don’t mind. It isn’t as if I’d neglect you.”
Michael smiled as he walked quietly across the courtyard to the Tulip’s stable for his late-night check.
“I’m right, aren’t I, Tulip?” he said as he reached the stallion’s box. “Catriona’s a horse Carradyne at heart.”
The black stallion farruped quietly; his eyes, reflecting light from the single overhead bulb; were all that was visible of him in the shadows of his stable. Michael opened the door, and the Tulip politely walked back a few steps. The water bucket was brimming, and Michael wondered if Catriona had filled it. Well, she was the only one of his children who’d dare. Even Philip was wary of the Tulip. He gave the stallion several affectionate slaps on his heavy neck.
Sybil had invited them for one o’clock on Sunday, which allowed them time to ride out, get the yard to rights, and shower and dress appropriately. Michael had heard about Catriona’s blistered feet and asked Eithne to be sure of the fit of a new pair of shoes, a task the two had undertaken on Saturday afternoon. Isabel had had good clothes sense, and Catriona, her dark hair unbraided and swinging down her back, looked quite fetching in a simple blue dress that matched the color of her eyes.
Sybil and Aidan lived in Mount Merrion, on North Avenue, in a semidetached, well-built four-bedroom house that had been constructed in the building boom after the war. Michael had always approved Sybil’s choice of husband: the Roche family had a solid business that was steadily expanding, and he got on very well with Aidan’s parents. It was obvious that he and Sybil were happy together, and they had two fine children to add to their happiness. Isabel had had some queer notion that Aidan might turn mean to Sybil, but there had never been any evidence of that.
Right now, his daughter and her husband welcomed their guests at the door, and little Perry and Ann came bouncing out of the lounge, shrieking with glee at the appearance of Grandda. Michael swung them both up and carried them into the room.
“Have you heard from Jack yet?” Sybil asked when everyone had been served their Sunday drinks and was seated in the lounge.
“No, although Patrick said he would contact both the Nicaraguan embassy in the States and the Order’s office in New York State.”
Sybil frowned. “I do hope they haven’t had another coup or revolution or whatever.”
“That would have made at least a mention in the papers,” Aidan replied.
“In any event, I managed to get a letter off to him, with a clipping from the Times,” Michael said.
“That was a very nice article,” Sybil murmured, and bent her head, dabbing at her eyes and nose with a tissue. “I honestly didn’t realize that Mother did so much community work . . . .” After a moment’s silence, she began afresh, lightening her mood with determination. “How’s that little waif of yours, Trina?”
“She’s come on a treat,” Catriona replied. She glanced at her father for confirmation and grinned as he nodded. “We caught her just in time. Another day and she’d’ve been too far gone. Poor thing. And she’s so sweet, despite the way she was treated. Some horses are like that, though, genuine, honest, kind.”
“Unlike Temper,” Philip said with feeling. He’d had a hairy ride on the gelding that morning.
“He’s one of the stubbornest animals we’ve ever bred,” Michael agreed.
The phone rang, and Sybil excused herself while Aidan courteously complimented his brother-in-law on his success in the show. When Sybil returned from the phone call, her eyes were a trifle reddened.
“Dear,” she said, “Nualla Fennell has called a meeting for tomorrow evening. Is that all right?”
Aidan grinned, teasingly proud. “This one’s following in her mother’s footsteps, doing community work.”
“What? Not my mother’s.” Sybil rolled her eyes and grinned at her father. “She’d’ve had a fit if she knew I was assisting battered wives.” She clasped her hands in an attitude of prayer and gazed soulfully heavenward. “It is a wife’s duty to submit to her husband’s will, even if it results in black eyes and lacerations!” She gave a snort of disgust. “Well, some of those gurriers are going to find that the worm is turning in Ireland!”
“I’m starved, Syb,” Aidan said, noting the surprise on his father-in-law’s face and rising to his feet.
“That’s right, change the subject. Ohhhh, you men!” Sybil said with mock fierceness. She gave Aidan a quick kiss on the cheek before she started for the kitchen. “Trina, would you give me a hand? And Perry, you can be useful, too.” She beckoned to her son, who obediently descended from his grandfather’s lap to trot after mother and aunt.
“What’s she on about?” Philip asked as Aidan ushered them into the dining room and pointed out their seats.
“Mind you, having heard some of the tales she brings home from these meetings”—Aidan lifted his daughter into her high chair and began to fasten a bib about her neck—”I agree that something should be done. I don’t entirely hold with some of Sybil’s more radical notions, but it’s to her credit that she’s willing to do what she can to help.”
Sybil entered the dining room, proudly carrying the roast on its wooden platter, while Catr
iona followed with two heavy dishes of vegetables.
It was an excellent meal, complete with Yorkshire pud, done to perfection, three veg and creamed and roast potatoes, and a large apple tart with whipped cream for sweet. After the dinner Sybil took her two children up for their afternoon nap while Trina and Aidan, who coaxed Philip in to dry the delft, coped with the washing-up. Michael had been ensconced in the lounge with a glass of excellent port and was feeling quite relaxed.
“Daddy,” Sybil began when she rejoined her father, closing the lounge door behind her, “how is Catriona taking Mother’s death?”
“Eithne thinks she hasn’t quite realized it yet.”
Sybil sat down on the footstool beside Michael’s chair and gave her father a determined look. “I think she’s terribly relieved and doesn’t dare admit it,” she said. “Mother was just beastly to her, you know, and there wasn’t anything you or I could do about it, was there?”
Michael shook his head, feeling a surge of relief at Sybil’s candor.
“Oh, I loved Mother, Daddy, for her good qualities: she never shirked an unpleasant task, and she was really very good managing the ICA and Church affairs. But she simply had no understanding of Catriona at all. I always thought it was because she didn’t want Catriona.” She gave her father a penetrating stare. “I was quite old enough, at fourteen, to understand.”
“Sybil!” Michael was startled, and the glass of port tilted in his hand, splashing him. Absently she offered him a tissue from her apron pocket.
“Well, I don’t hide from truths, Daddy. That’s one reason Aidan and I get along so well.” She giggled unexpectedly. “You’ll never believe the twaddle she told me before I got married. Poor Mother! Poor Daddy!” There was a knowledge in her eyes as she patted his hand that astonished Michael. “You’ve been loyal to a fault and with precious little to compensate—except the horses. That’s why I nearly cheered when you came down hard on Grandmother’s notion of bringing Catriona up ‘suitably.’ Her notions are what made Mother so impossible. And Daddy, I really tried hard”—Sybil put both hands on her father’s arm, her eyes beseeching him to believe—“to get Mother to see reason and shed her medieval notions of woman’s position in Ireland. But there was Grandmother, always supporting the opposite point of view!”
“Sybil,” Michael said, covering her hands with his, “don’t blame yourself. You did try. Isabel didn’t want to hear.”
“Emotional blackmail.” Sybil nodded knowingly. “Only it backfired on her.” Sybil gave a sniff and retrieved the port-stained tissue to blow her nose briskly. “Well, Catriona is not going to be as ignorant as Mother was brought up to be. Not if I can help it. She’s going to know what her options are as a woman. And you’re going to see to it that she makes a mark as a horsewoman—Cornanagh’s first!”
Michael burst out laughing at his daughter’s aggressiveness and caught the finger she was waggling at him in an affectionate grip, grinning back at her so amiably that she relaxed and gave him a sheepish smile.
“So, we’re agreed,” she finished, less militant now that she knew her father was on her side. “Grandma Marshall is out, Cornanagh and horses are in, and I’ll be over to check on Catriona whenever I can. When’s the cousin coming?”
“Eamonn said he was sending her over as soon as her school was out. June fifteenth or so.”
“Wants to get the child out of the house before he files for the divorce? That’s wise.”
“How did you know?”
“Oh,” Sybil said airily, “I picked up a few things that Uncle Pat let drop. We could use divorce here in Ireland . . . .”
Trina, Aidan, and Philip entered the lounge at that point, and the conversation turned to more general topics. At three-thirty Michael ended the pleasant afternoon by reminding his daughter that he had horses to tend. But he had genuinely enjoyed himself and embraced Sybil with great affection at leavetaking. It had been a most instructive afternoon.
Eithne had managed to slip away in her car while the others were all out riding. She had been so grateful that Sybil had invited them to Sunday dinner in Mount Merrion, leaving her free for the day. Davis Haggerty would be leaving for the States on the Monday plane, and they’d had so little time together, what with Isabel’s funeral and everything.
So far, with the exception of Bridie, no one suspected that Eithne’s interest in antiques was anything more than a hobby. Ever since she had become friendly with Davis, she had felt obliged to practice discretion. In the beginning she had not wished to offend Isabel, and now . . . well, she felt it was a very poor time to spring any more surprises on Michael or upset Catriona so soon after the loss of her mother. She had been racking her brains trying to find a solution, and bless him, so had Davis.
The thing of it was that their association had all started so innocently three years ago. She and Meg Kelly had been schoolgirls together, and Isabel had certainly never objected to Eithne going out for an evening with Meg. It wasn’t as if Eithne had been looking for male companionship, but Davis Haggerty had been so completely respectful, even at the beginning when he’d chatted up Meg and Eithne, more out of loneliness than from any lascivious motive. He had such an infectious chuckle, and a really charming smile, and told such interesting tales of his travels about Ireland, that it would have taken someone considerably more hard-hearted than Eithne, or Meg, to discourage him.
And he’d been quite candid. In the very first hour, he had told them all about himself—that he was divorced, had a son in college, that he’d been in the army in the Pacific, that he worked for a very respectable decorating firm in Houston, Texas, and came to Dublin twice a year looking for antiques. His firm “did” houses all over the state.
“That’s why I need so much stuff,” he had told them. “In Texas we use space because we’ve got it, and we like to spread out. Why, we’ve got as much oil as those Arabs, and that means money, which means we can charge as much as the traffic will bear when we get the things home. All it has to be is old. Preferably big, to fill up our Texan spaces. We don’t try to put anything over on our customers: they get value for their money.”
“The original owners don’t, though,” Eithne had pointed out.
“Well, honey”—his habit of addressing her as “honey” in that charming drawl of his always delighted her—“you know as well as I do, now, that they don’t value what they’ve got. We pay more than they would get at an auction, if anyone could get some of that heavy old stuff to sales rooms. We get fine old furniture, they get money, and everyone’s happy. That’s good business.”
Meg had liked him, too, and never discouraged him from joining them. It had been Meg who had told him about the furniture auction in Aughrim, which she’d seen advertised in the Wicklow People. And it had been she who suggested that Eithne act as his guide. Which Eithne had done. And she had enjoyed the outing tremendously, as much because he turned out to be so knowledgeable about antiques as because he was a most agreeable companion.
She had been his driver that spring on several excursions and had promised—rather surprised at herself—to keep an eye out for any especially tempting auctions over the summer. He sent her a checklist of items that his firm would be very eager to obtain and willing to pay her a “finder’s fee.” He came over several times to secure a purchase which Eithne discovered for him. At no time had he pressed her for details about her family circumstances, and he had always respected her request that he not appear uninvited at Cornanagh. In every way he had been the perfect gentleman.
By the end of the following year, their friendship had developed considerably. Eithne missed him more than she had expected to and anticipated each return with an eagerness that surprised her.
She had become valuable to Davis as a contact, although she didn’t think of herself in such terms: she was only helping a friend, after all. She knew the county families in Meath and West Meath from her girlhood years there—her mother had come from a very good old family in Louth. From Isabel’
s involvement in the Irish Countrywoman’s Association, she had become familiar with many lovely homes and estates in Wicklow, Waterford, and Wexford. To learn more about the various periods of furniture and their originators, she had started taking out books from the library at Greystones, ordering special volumes from the vast Trinity College Library. Gradually she began to appreciate the finer points of the different schools of furniture designers and to understand instinctively what would suit the needs of Davis’s clients.
She began to watch out for the sales of county estates, and once or twice she had acted on her own, securing a few pieces she thought Davis could use. Davis had complimented her instincts and had insisted on giving her the finder’s fee and expenses. Eithne had been somewhat embarrassed, but the money had come in handy, and she had been grateful for the windfall. Actually she found that she had enjoyed the search, the challenge, and certainly the thrill of auctions, outbidding contenders without going over whatever price she had initially set herself. Davis had given some invaluable pointers.
“You figure out what sort of money is tops for the item. Then you bid up to that point, and quit. That way you’re never burned. People are funny in an auction situation. They’ll bid out of sight for the worst crap imaginable, simply to keep someone else from getting it. Crazy!”
Just after the Spring Show, she had seen the stark public notice announcing that creditors to the estate of Desmond Comyn of Rathderry House, Wexford, should contact his solicitors. Remembering how impressed she had been with the decorations and furnishings at the Georgian house when she and Isabel had attended an ICA tea there, Eithne had phoned his widow, Elizabeth Comyn, and set up an appointment, which was to take place in a few hours. If the estate was up for sale to satisfy creditors, the furniture was likely to be sold as well—and through Davis, Mrs. Comyn could get a far better price for some of her possessions than other dealers were likely to offer.
Now she drove into the Coliemore Hotel parking lot, empty this early on a Sunday morning, and parked next to Davis’s rented Cortina. He had obviously been watching for her, for he emerged from the door of the hotel as she got out of her car.
The Lady Page 23
