The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  The next morning Michael listened for the old stallion’s welcoming whinny. You could regret the death of a useful animal, he told himself, but you shouldn’t grieve for it, and it certainly wasn’t on to mourn your stallion. However, the concerns of Cornanagh intruded once again when Barry met him at the kitchen door.

  “With the weather so good and all, Captain, we ought to be thinking of cutting the hay. Too good a chance to miss, whatever else.” It was Barry’s way of expressing his understanding of Cornanagh’s loss.

  Selina phoned at ten-thirty on Sunday to tell him that she wouldn’t be riding this morning and could he turn her mare out for the day? From the way she spoke, Michael knew someone was listening, and he grimaced over the need for such subterfuge.

  “Isn’t Selina coming over today?” Patricia asked at noon as they were finishing dinner.

  “It’s Sunday,” Eithne said, “and that’s generally a family day in Ireland, dear. She does have other obligations.”

  “Gets a day off for good behavior, huh?” Patricia grinned at her uncle. “She sure was great yesterday.”

  “Indeed she was,” Michael remarked neutrally, looking up as Bridie entered the room.

  “A person is here to see you, missus,” she said, glaring at Eithne. Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left the room.

  “Oh, dear,” Eithne said, plainly dismayed. “He wasn’t supposed to come today.”

  “Auntie Eithne has a secret admirer?” Philip said teasingly, and was totally unprepared to see his aunt burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Auntie Eithne, honest. I was only teasing.”

  “Eithne . . . ” Michael went to her, crouching by her chair when she refused to look at him. “Eithne, what’s the matter? Any friend of yours is certainly welcome at Cornanagh.”

  “Oh, Michael, it’s not what you think.” She lifted a tear-stained face to him and then, with a gulp, dissolved into sobs, this time against his shoulder.

  “There, there, Eithne,” Michael said soothingly, patting her tear-streaked face with the napkin. “Here, take a drink of water. I’ll go to the door and we’ll sort this thing out for once and for all.”

  Eithne placed an urgent hand on his arm. “Wait, Michael. Not yet—not until I’ve told you what I ought to have told at least you, a long time ago.”

  He looked at the two girls. Patricia’s ears were all but flapping with curiosity.

  “No,” she said, anticipating him, “they have to know, too.”

  Owen, looking both disgusted and puzzled, reentered with Philip, whose eyes were dancing with amusement.

  “I beg to report, missus,” he said, tugging at an imaginary cap brim, “that your consignment of antique furniture has just arrived from County Laois. Mr. Riley found that, after all, he could do a nixer better on Sunday than Monday.”

  “Oh, dear!” Eithne seemed about to dissolve into tears again.

  “Really, Eithne, it’s nothing to weep over,” Michael said soothingly, despite a slight impatience with his sister-in-law’s inexplicable tears. “Though I must say you gave us all the impression that Cornanagh had more than enough valuable things gathering cobwebs in the attic without taking on someone else’s jumble.”

  “But it’s not jumble, Michael. Some of it is very valuable,” Eithne managed through her sniffles. “And oh, we can’t just let him unload those things. They might get damaged. And then they won’t be worth a penny.” She struggled to her feet, wiping her face with the napkin. “Will you help me, boys? Michael, I was going to ask you if I could store them in the old shed. Just until they can be shipped.”

  “Shipped?”

  “Explanations later?” Philip suggested helpfully. “Mr. Riley doesn’t strike me as a very patient man. And he has his hand out of his pocket—and not to shake with.”

  “Oh, dear. I’ve got to give him cash.”

  “Do you have it, Eithne?” Michael asked, his patience restored but his curiosity as keen as Patricia’s.

  “Yes, yes, in my handbag.”

  “Trina, get your aunt’s handbag, and the rest of you come with me.”

  The transfer from van to shed was completed with none of the questions that were bursting to be asked. While Philip and Owen worked, Catriona brought Mr. Riley a cup of tea to which Michael added a noggin of something to ease his labors, greatly improving the sour old man’s temper.

  When Mr. Riley finally trundled out of the courtyard, Michael turned to Eithne.

  “You were right about those things being valuable, Eithne, but why did their arrival reduce you to tears?”

  She compressed her lips, and sighed as she looked at the ring of inquisitive faces. “You see, Bridie has taken it up all wrong.”

  “What has Bridie to do with your sudden interest in antiques?”

  “She thinks . . . she’s certain . . . well, she did overhear my conversations with Davis, but she had taken the very worst interpretation, and I certainly don’t want to put more on your plate right now, Michael.” She paused, then took a deep breath and went on, “All I’m doing is acting as a consultant for a very nice, respectable buyer for a reputable interior decorator based in Houston, Texas. Of course he phones me from time to time when they need something in a hurry. Of course I have gone with him to special auctions. But there is nothing wrong in that at all.”

  “Not a thing,” Michael said, glancing significantly at Owen and Philip, who quickly added their approval. “So, now that Eithne’s secret is out, you girls get on with the washing up.”

  “Daddy, will you be needing us this afternoon to help with the hay?” Catriona asked.

  “Not today. Barry’s only mowing, and the boys and I can spell him on the tractor. Why?”

  “Well, Mary Evans wants us to hack out with her.”

  “Go right ahead. But no tricks, Patricia!” Michael waggled a finger at her, and she took on her most innocent expression. “No, I mean it. We’ve another show, and I don’t want the Prince lamed for it.”

  “Okay, Unk, I’ll behave.”

  As Patricia pulled Catriona about to head back to the house, Michael turned to his sister-in-law. “And now I think I’d like a little fuller explanation, Eithne. Let’s go into the lounge.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Owen said firmly.

  “Come on, Auntie Eithne,” Philip said, taking her free arm and marching her between himself and his father toward the house. “Confession is good for the soul, and you’ve been holding out on all of us.”

  It was a relief to Eithne to reach the lounge and settle herself on the couch with Philip beside her, Michael in the armchair, and Owen perched on the arm. Philip had been right: it would be good to clear the air once and for all.

  She told them about her chance meeting with Davis Haggerty three years before, of how their friendship had developed to the extent that she acted now as his business liaison, searching out antiques between his trips to Ireland.

  “And how long have you been doing that?” Owen demanded when she concluded her explanation. He waved vaguely in the direction of the old shed.

  “Well, that’s the first time, really, all on my own for so many pieces, but when I saw the auction advertised and found several items that I know are needed urgently, I phoned Davis, and he said I should go ahead. He trusts my judgment, you see.” She flushed prettily.

  “But, but . . . all that stuff cost a bundle!” Owen exclaimed. “Wherever could you get that kind of money?”

  “Oh, Davis’s firm sent a letter of credit for me on the Citibank in St. Stephen’s Green. The auctioneer was quite delighted because, you see, what with the bank strike, it’s been very hard to get the prices—in cash—that their clients expect.”

  Philip let out a whoop. “So my clever auntie strikes while the iron is hot! Good on you!”

  Owen’s expression turned forbidding. “But what if what you bought was no good?”

  “Don’t be such a gombeen, Owen,” Philip said, giving his cousin a friendly push. “Auntie Eithne’s been r
eading up on antiques over the past several years, I’d say. She’s a clever boots, isn’t she, Dad?”

  “She certainly is,” Michael agreed.

  “And just what do you get out of this?” Owen continued, apparently determined to find some flaw in his mother’s scheme.

  “Well, I didn’t want to accept anything. I mean, I’ve had fun going to the auctions. It doesn’t seem right to accept money for something you enjoy doing anyway. But Davis insisted on paying me a finder’s fee. And yesterday, because I was working on my own—Davis usually comes over, but he’d just been so he couldn’t—he sent me a guide on the top price I was allowed to pay. So it’s really quite simple.” Eithne looked brightly at the three men, who were regarding her in various degrees of amusement and amazement.

  “I think you’re simply great, Auntie Eithne,” Philip said, giving her a congratulatory pat on the back.

  “I do, too,” Michael remarked. He chose his next words carefully. “I think we’ve been exploiting you, Eithne, and unfairly. It’s about time Cornanagh stopped imposing on your kind disposition.”

  “Oh, but Michael, you don’t impose!” Eithne protested.

  “Certainly Bridie has. I’ll just sort her out now, today.”

  Eithne’s look was dubious but not overly hopeful. She still hadn’t quite told Michael everything. And she would have to be completely candid now; Davis would expect it of her.

  Perhaps only Michael caught the shadow on her face and decided that she had discreetly withheld some information. He cleared his throat. “All right now, boys, you’d better spell Barry on the tractor. I’ll join you presently.” Dismissing them with a wave of his hand, he turned back to Eithne.

  “Michael, how are we going to sort Bridie out?” Eithne asked when the boys had left the room, “I mean, she’s going to think I’ve been complaining about her. And while we all know she eavesdrops, we can’t come right out with that sort of an accusation!” She sighed. “After all, she is Cornanagh!”

  “She is also getting on. We’ll just have to get in a housekeeper.”

  “Can you afford one?”

  “I think so. And I would like you to be able to go on with your . . . uh, antique hunting. I realize that your Fund doesn’t stretch as far as it used to . . . ”

  Eithne gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “It isn’t as if I need as much now, with the boys on their own—”

  “And Owen with his hand out to you every time he runs short.” Michael acknowledged her generosity with a tolerant grin. Then, abruptly, “Is this Haggerty fellow married?”

  Eithne colored, fumbled for her handkerchief, and looked so guilty that Michael was almost sorry he had asked.

  “No . . . but I could never leave Cornanagh, Michael, especially not now, when Catriona needs me so badly.”

  “D’you mean to tell me that you’ve had an offer from Haggerty?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  She twisted her handkerchief nervously, evading his glance and reddening to her ear tips. He gave her shoulder a little shake to make her look up.

  “Has he, Eithne?”

  Her eyes held by his, she nodded slowly, once again looking close to tears.

  “And you said no?” She nodded again, biting her lip. “Because you don’t want to marry him?” After a moment she gave her head a quick shake. “Eithne Carradyne, I have had one martyr in this household, and I absolutely refuse to have another. If you want to remarry, do so. It’s time you started thinking of your own happiness.”

  “But . . . but . . . Catriona? I can’t desert her.”

  “As long as there is a horse or a pony in Cornanagh’s stables, Catriona will not feel deserted,” Michael said firmly. “You marry the man, d’you hear me? I’ll give you away myself! And be glad for you. And we’ll do just grand with Bridie in the kitchen and a housekeeper to see to the rest!”

  They both heard the click of the door. Grinning at Eithne as he strode across the floor, Michael wrenched open the door to see Bridie scurrying down the hall.

  “Bridie Doolin!”

  Thus it was not difficult after all to sort Bridie out. But she was not pleased at the idea of sharing her domain with a housekeeper.

  “Ye hired me as yer cook, and you can’t complain that I don’t set a good table for ye, come what may,” she maintained stoutly. “But I’m having no jumped-up parlor maid telling me how to run my kitchen, so I won’t. And you’d better make that plain as a pikestaff, Captain, or I’ll leave ye to fend for yerselves, so I will.”

  “I promise you, Bridie, we’ll find somebody quite suitable,” Eithne replied.

  “Mrs. Healey knows of several likely candidates,” Michael added, praying he was right.

  Bridie was instantly mollified. “An, well. She’d know, she would.” Then, smoothing her apron in a final gesture, she marched out of the lounge, head high.

  “What d’ya wanna bet she put her ear to the door as soon as we left?” Patricia asked Catriona as the cousins made their way to the yard after finishing the washing up.

  Catriona giggled. “I’ve never seen her put things away so fast in my life. Bridie’s been just poisonous to Auntie Eithne, and all for no reason at all.”

  “I wish I could hear what your dad says to her. He sure had a look in his eye that bodes no good for Bridie Doolin—the old bitch.”

  “Pat, you mustn’t say such things. Bridie’s . . . well, she’s Bridie.” They were getting down saddles and bridles now, and Catriona paused, looking worried. “Cornanagh wouldn’t be the same without her somehow,” she said softly.

  “Yeah, well . . . sometimes you have to go on without things, like without—” She stopped. “C’mon, let’s ride. It’s too pretty a day to waste. And we promised to meet Mary.”

  They tacked the two ponies and were swinging out of the yard when Patricia exclaimed, “Cat, why can’t I ride one of the horses? My feet are even with his knees.”

  Catriona looked down, surprised. “No, they’re not. And you’re much better on the Prince than Sean ever was. You don’t let him scare you.”

  “I’d much rather ride Annie. She’s sweet, and besides that, she’s a horse.”

  “She’s exactly the same height as the Prince.”

  “Yes, but she’s made like a horse, not like a pony, and she acts like a horse, too.”

  Catriona gathered her reins. “Come on, we can trot to McBride’s Lane.”

  Patricia’s soft chuckle followed Catriona down the pleasant lane and into the shade by the stream.

  After the three girls had hacked about Mary’s place and practiced vaulting on the placid Champers, Mrs. Evans invited the visitors to stay for tea. She rang Cornanagh and spoke to Eithne, who gave permission.

  “Aunt Eithne’s become a consultant for a big Houston firm of interior decorators. It’s a new career. Maybe she’ll even open up her own business,” Patricia informed the table at teatime.

  “Really?” Maura Evans exchanged glances with her husband.

  “Yes, she’s been commissioned to buy things at auctions. She got a load delivered at noon, and there were these real neat writing chests that fold out into these super writing tops, with little pockets for writing papers and envelopes and stuff underneath.”

  “We’ve got one of those, don’t we, Dad,” Mary said proudly.

  “In fact, we do,” said Donal Evans. “I found it when we were valuing a house in Carnew. In very good nick it was, too.”

  “My aunt says she can sell all she can get.” Patricia cocked her head expectantly.

  “You are cheeky,” Maura said with a laugh. “I think we’ll keep this one. Have you girls signed up for Pony Club camp yet?”

  “Camp?” Patricia asked skeptically.

  “It’s not like your kind of camp,” Mary explained. “You get to pass your Pony Club tests, and there are neat instructors, and you only go during the day. Your pony can stay there overnight and stuff, but you have to take off their back shoes. So they can’t kick other ponies.”
r />   “I think you’d enjoy it, Pat,” Maura Evans said with a twinkle in her eyes. “It’s a very Irish thing to do.”

  Patricia laughed. “Well, I’m here to get Irishized, and no Irish camp would be as corny as American. Where do we sign up?”

  After the girls had done the washing up, they played card games with Mary’s parents and her brother. At ten o’clock the phone interrupted their rather hilarious game: it was Michael, inquiring if there were a pair of lost girls and ponies about the premises.

  Maura Evans apologized. “I hadn’t realized how late it was getting. I’ll send them home directly. Did you want me to follow in the car?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Maura. There’s plenty of light, and they’re both cautious.”

  “You girls had best saddle up and scoot on home,” she said when she had rung off. “I’d no idea it was so late.”

  “Wow! It’s like ten o’clock, and the sun’s still shining!”

  Donal and Maura came out with Mary to assist them and walked with them down the long drive to the road, before waving good-bye.

  “Gee, Mary’s got the grooviest mother,” Patricia said wistfully when they were on their way.

  “Yes, she does,” Catriona agreed, and sighed deeply.

  “And her dad’s almost as nice as mine . . . and yours.”

  The two girls trotted home, envious in their separate ways of Mary Evans.

  25

  “A housekeeper?” Selina said, blinking in surprise at Eithne’s unusual greeting. The woman had evidently been waiting for her, for she had run out the door and popped the question as soon as the red Lancia had pulled into its usual parking space in Cornanagh’s yard. “Well,” she said with a laugh as she swung her legs out of the car, “I’m sure we can find one. For Cornanagh?”

  Eithne colored prettily, managing to look both confused and pleased.

  “Do come in and have a cup of coffee with me, Selina,” she said. “Michael’s out in the hay fields, so he won’t be riding quite yet. I did hope that you’d be here a trifle early this morning.” She guided Selina into the house and paused, listening for a moment. Then she nodded her head and ushered Selina into the drawing room. “This is a bit more private,” she said, gesturing to the table on which a coffee tray had been placed. “You see, keeping a house as large and busy as this is quite time-consuming. And lately . . . well, the fact of the matter is, I’ve been helping to buy antiques for an interior decorator in Texas. It’s become something more than a hobby for me, and yesterday, while I was explaining everything to Michael, things sort of came to a head—with Bridie, I mean. She will”—Eithne dropped her voice, her eyes going instinctively to the door—”listen!” She paused for emphasis. “And she takes things up entirely wrong. A year ago she overheard a conversation I had with Davis—the man who shops in Ireland for the firm—and totally misunderstood. And ever since then she’s been . . . well, nasty. With no reason at all. Then yesterday, when the furniture came and I was explaining all about it to Michael, Bridie was listening at the door.”