The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Sybil!” Eithne cried, dismayed.

  “Actually, the family’s a good deal smaller now,” Sybil went on, unperturbed, “really just my brother Philip and my sister, Catriona—oh, and my American cousin, Patricia, for the summer. Auntie Eithne and her son, Owen, usually take tea over here. Sundays, though, the entire clan might gather.” Sybil rolled her eyes. “I can promise you one thing, Mrs. Comyn, Cornanagh is never dull,” she said brightly. “That is, if you don’t mind nonstop talk about horses and endless tracks of dirt in the house.”

  “Sybil!” Michael called warningly.

  Eithne cleared her throat. “Perhaps Sybil and I should show you about the house now, Mrs. Comyn?”

  Michael shot his sister-in-law a grateful look and stood as the three women went off on their tour.

  “She’s come, has she?” Bridie poked her head around the hall door as soon as the women had left.

  “As you saw, Bridie Doolin, peeking out the kitchen window.” Michael waggled a finger at the old cook but tempered his warning with a smile. “You give her half a chance, Bridie. She doesn’t seem to be the sort who would interfere unnecessarily.”

  Bridie came round the door, her face screwed up indignantly. “Now, Captain, sor, and me as fair a person as ever lived. A’ course, it’s not up to me who comes into this house over someone who’s labored hard for more years than I care to name.”

  “Bridie, Cornanagh wouldn’t be the same place without you in the kitchen, and you know it. Eamonn and Paddy both said so when they were here.”

  The old woman lowered her eyes coyly and began to twist her apron. “Oh, Captain!”

  Just then, they both heard the women descending the stairs. Bridie closed the hall door quietly behind her, retreating unobserved to meet them in the kitchen.

  Michael found that he had his ears pricked for the sound of voices, but he could hear nothing. He fidgeted nervously, hoping Bridie and Mrs. Comyn would take each other’s measure without prejudice. He hoped the matter would be settled today, if Mrs. Comyn was willing to give the place a try, for he most certainly did not want to repeat this sort of nonsense.

  Sybil was chatting away in a very relaxed manner to Mrs. Comyn as they reentered the lounge, but Eithne’s eyes met his anxiously. “Well now, Michael, Mrs. Comyn has seen the house and met Bridie. A cup of tea, perhaps, Mrs. Comyn?”

  Mrs. Comyn inclined her head graciously in acceptance. Eithne left her in his charge so gratefully that Michael began to wonder if something had gone wrong. “Well, Mrs. Comyn, I trust the size of the house has not put you off?” he ventured.

  “This is a lovely old home, Captain Carradyne, and has been well maintained.” Her eyes met his in a level gaze. “What had you in mind for salary and perquisites?”

  Michael cleared his throat. “You would, of course, be considered a member of the family,” he began, and sensed that this found favor with her. “I can offer a salary of one hundred pounds a month, with a yearly review, as well as a full day off each week and half days as required. I’m sure that you were shown the room you would occupy, and we can certainly make it more comfortable to suit your needs.” He smiled encouragingly and was rewarded by another of her almost royal nods. “If you have no objection, then, I thought perhaps a month’s trial to see if we suit . . . ?”

  “That would be most satisfactory, Captain.”

  “When would you be able to take up the position, Mrs. Comyn? On the fifteenth?”

  “Shall we say next Sunday, Captain, the twelfth? I’d prefer to vacate the premises before I’m required to.”

  Rather than be forced out of her own home, Michael thought, and experienced a stab of sympathy and respect for the woman’s pride. “That suits me perfectly, Mrs. Comyn. Now, would you require any assistance in removing?”

  “Thank you, no. I have that in hand.”

  Almost on cue, the door opened to admit Patricia, who gave Mrs. Comyn a long sharp look, Eithne carrying the tea tray, and Catriona, bringing up the rear with the cake stand. Michael kept his expression neutral, as if the tea parade were an everyday occurrence. Such a spread meant Bridie was prepared to surrender to the inevitable.

  As if Patricia had officiated frequently at formal teas, she moved the table into position for Eithne to set down the tray, held her aunt’s chair, and then stood quietly while Catriona set the cake stand by Mrs. Comyn with a shy smile.

  “May I present my daughter, Catriona, Mrs. Comyn?” Michael said formally, and Catriona curtsied. “And my niece, Patricia Carradyne, from Connecticut, who is spending the summer with us.” To his utter amazement, Patricia, as demure as a convent resident, also dropped a graceful curtsy.

  Eithne served tea with the willing and deft assistance of her two nieces, while Sybil rattled on about her children and the various other members of the Carradyne family. Bridie had outdone herself in the dainty sandwiches, iced lady cakes, and freshly baked tarts. There was a momentary lull after everyone had been served. Then:

  “Do you like horses at all?” The question seemed to burst from Patricia as if she had been actively suppressing it.

  Mrs. Comyn smiled: in Michael’s eyes the first spontaneous reaction from her.

  “Yes, Patricia, I do. Do you have a pony?”

  “We both have,” Patricia said, now taking charge of the conversation. “I’ve got Ballymore Prince for the summer, and we’ve qualified for the 14.2s at the August show. So has Catriona, on Conker, only she’s in the 13.2s. She got a first yesterday at Galloping Green. I got fifteen faults.” Her candor won another smile from Mrs. Comyn. “You’ll come and see us jump at the RDS, won’t you?”

  “I should be delighted to watch. The Horse Show, if weather permits, is always a splendid event.” She turned to Michael. “You mentioned that you often have foreign buyers, Captain Carradyne?”

  “Yes, in fact, we sold four show jumpers last year to the Italians. If the proposed Horse Board Bill is passed, I think more Europeans will look to the Irish horse market once they can be sure of an animal’s breeding and performance.”

  On the breeding and showing of horses, Mrs. Comyn was able to comment intelligently, and Michael’s anxiety over her reserved manner began to dissipate. She quietly displayed considerable background and information about horses in Ireland and agreed with him about the main problems facing the industry. By the time tea was finished, and a good many of the little cakes and tartlets had been consumed by Patricia and Catriona, the atmosphere in the lounge had eased considerably.

  “I must be on my way now, Captain. There seem to be so many people on the roads these summer Sundays.” Mrs. Comyn got to her feet in a graceful movement. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Roche, Catriona, Patricia.” Each came forward and gave her hand a formal shake. “Thank you for the lovely tea, Mrs. Carradyne, and my compliments to Mrs. Doolin. I shall look forward to Sunday, Captain Carradyne, with pleasure.”

  She turned toward the door, which Michael opened hastily. They all escorted her to her ancient Morris, and Michael again opened the door for her, closing it politely when she was settled in the driver’s seat. With a gracious nod of her head, she started the car and drove sedately from the courtyard.

  “I think she’ll do very well indeed, Dad,” Sybil commented when the car was out of sight. “Grandmother can’t complain about her respectability.”

  “My word, she has changed,” Eithne said at Michael’s elbow. “She’s so . . . so reserved. But she did seem to thaw a bit when the girls came in.”

  “What did you think, Trina?” Michael asked.

  “I think she seems awfully sad and . . . well, kind of brave,” Catriona replied. “D’you think she’ll really like it here?”

  Michael and Eithne exchanged glances. They had mentioned nothing of Mrs. Comyn’s circumstances.

  “But did you like her?” Sybil persisted.

  Her head tilted to one side, Catriona regarded her sister for a minute. “Yes, when she does smile, it’s a nice one. And she un
derstands horses.” Michael ruffled her hair, and she grinned.

  “I wonder what Mrs. Doolin thinks,” Patricia said mischievously. “But that sure was the most elegant tea I’ve ever et!”

  All through the long, tedious weekend, Selina kept wondering what was happening at Cornanagh. She had even toyed with the idea of phoning Michael on Saturday evening to see how the girls, and Tulip’s Son, had done but decided it would be unwise to do so.

  She couldn’t understand why wives were needed on what was patently a working weekend. The men would have been far better served in their offices, with their secretaries or personal assistants at hand, than cluttering up Elizabeth Murray’s gracious lounge or locking themselves in Declan’s billiard room.

  Their hostess had done her best to entertain the three wives, two of whom had no conversation at all and were quite content to sunbathe around the luxurious swimming pool or bat a few tennis balls on the grass courts. Selina and Elizabeth ran out of social chitchat by late Saturday afternoon.

  An elaborate but well-presented dinner on Saturday evening was graciously attended by the men, who carried on oblique and cryptic conversations and drank far too much. To Selina’s chagrin, they joined the women after their port and cigars, apparently determined to turn the evening into a drunken free-for-all. Their convivial host called in the butler, who was kept busy for the rest of the night serving the guests whatever drinks they fancied.

  Inevitably the jokes became coarser, and anecdotes about absent friends grew malicious, if not downright slanderous. At one point, the banker, George, began a drinking competition with Francis, and their wives joined in the spirit of the occasion, cheering them on.

  Fortunately David had the good sense to remain on the sidelines and get quietly plastered on his Scotch and sodas. Unfortunately, he failed to notice when Declan plumped himself down beside Selina, pinning her against the arm of the low couch. As she tried to rise, he put his arm around her, his fingers lightly feeling the bare skin of her shoulder. When he drunkenly insisted that she try a sip of the rather bilious concoction in his glass, she took the tumbler, let it slip through her fingers, and spilled it over both of them. That brought Declan to his feet with a slurred expletive and caught the attention of her hostess, which had been Selina’s aim.

  “Elizabeth, have you something to use on stains?” she asked. “I’m terribly fond of this gown, and I feel so stupidly clumsy.”

  Elizabeth had a spot remover to recommend, and Selina was thus able to leave the room in her company. When she reached the dubious safety of her bedroom, she locked the door. Around dawn, she had to get up to let David in. He was exceedingly drunk, and she could barely get him to the bed. He would be very sorry tomorrow morning, and she was glad.

  She and Elizabeth were the only ones up for breakfast, and the meal was served out on the sun-drenched flagstones beyond the sitting room. Elizabeth looked haggard and tried her best to sound cheerful. Selina fretted over wasting such a beautiful day and resented not being able to join Michael and watch the girls jump.

  With a little effort and a rare go at the crossword puzzles, she managed to let the Sunday papers occupy her the entire morning. Around noon, the men finally emerged: George and Frank looking badly dyspeptic, Declan sullen, and David obviously suffering from hangover as well as indigestion. After drinking several cups of coffee, they decided that what they needed was a good round of golf. The women were not invited.

  Selina spent a tedious afternoon with the women at poolside, and when the men got back, looking considerably more alert, she tried to sound sincere in her thanks to Elizabeth as they all said their good-byes. She also managed a deft evasion of Declan, who had been using farewells as an excuse to claim slobbery kisses from his women guests.

  Needless to say, David took her to task on the way home.

  “I do not like parties,” she told him firmly, “which end with half the guests drunk and disorderly. I don’t care how important they are in the world of business and finance, David. Nothing excuses such excess. And if Declan Murray ever attempts to maul me again, I’ll slap him. It’s beyond me why I had to come on a weekend clearly devoted to business discussions!”

  “Declan particularly asked me to bring you this weekend. He thought you and Elizabeth would get on well together.”

  “So we did, watching her husband pay attention to everyone but her.”

  “I don’t know what’s come over you lately, Selina.”

  “Not lately, David, if you’re referring to Declan. I’ve told you before that he’s a lecherous man, and I will not be fondled like a whore. And don’t tell me again how valuable he is as a financial wizard. That doesn’t excuse his personal behavior.”

  “You obviously had too much sun, Selina,” David declared as if this were the only plausible explanation for her behavior.

  Selina closed her eyes and shook her head wearily. “If you say so, David.” She rested her head against the seat back and let the motion of the smooth Jaguar and the sound of its throaty engine lull her into a doze.

  David turned the radio on for the news at some point, rousing her just when she was on the point of failing asleep. But they were already in Dalkey.

  “Will you be at home at all next week, David?” she asked as he tooled the Jag through their gates.

  “No. This month could be critical; I’m afraid I’ll have to be off early in the morning for Belfast.”

  “In spite of Declan Murray, it was lovely today in West Meath.” She forced a note of conciliation into her voice. After all, she’d have one whole week without him; she could afford to be pleasant.

  “We aren’t often blessed with such lovely weather, are we?”

  His response was equally amiable, and they parted civilly to go to their separate rooms.

  At eight o’clock the next morning, Selina turned the Lancia into the yard with an incredible sense of reprieve. Catriona and Patricia were lying in wait for her and surged forward to be the first to open her door, babbling so about the Galloping Green show that she had to silence them both for an intelligible recital of Cornanagh’s successes.

  “Did you have a nice time, Selina?” Catriona asked, remembering her manners.

  Selina smiled. “I would much rather have been with you two. How did you get on with the housekeeper?”

  “She’ll be okay,” said Pat.

  Catriona frowned. “She looked so sad and lonely.”

  “Bridie gave us a super tea, and Mrs. Comyn comes next Sunday,” Patricia added. “C’mon, Cat, we’ve got to finish tacking up. Uncle Mihall’s down checking the field horses.”

  Michael was at the top of the far field, looking larger than life and so handsome that Selina’s heart began to race. Seeing him again, after such a long, lonely weekend, filled her with longing and an almost physical pain. Perhaps she would have to stop coming to Cornanagh . . . . Ah, no, she couldn’t do that. She’d simply have to watch herself. After all, it wasn’t as if there were any sort of understanding between them.

  Michael answered her wave with a vigorous gesture of his own. His smile when she reached him was tender and caressing, and he put out a hand to catch her by the shoulder. She felt a surge of tremendous affection and relief: despite the many demands upon his time and attention, he had missed her, as she had missed him.

  At that moment a shout alarmed them both. Artie was pelting down the Ride, waving both hands and yelling. Michael and Selina ran to meet him.

  “What is it, Artie?”

  The boy came to such an abrupt halt that he had to balance himself with one hand on Michael’s arm. He swallowed, his eyes wide with apprehension.

  “There’s a man in the yard, sir,” he said, gasping, “with a shotgun, and he’s threatening to kill Owen.”

  “Owen?” Michael shot Selina a startled look and then began to run, half limping, toward the yard.

  For a man with a damaged leg, Michael managed a pace that left Selina, as well as Artie, well behind. He only slowed down to
get round the strap-iron gate that Artie had left open in his haste.

  They halted at the sight of the tableau in the courtyard. Mick, pitchfork in hand, was standing at the entrance to the yard, with Barry and a frightened Billy ranged beside him, one with a shovel and the other with a yard broom. A battered green Wolsley, the driver’s door hanging open, occupied the center of the court, its wheels cut to the left as if the car had braked suddenly. Selina could see a girl crouched in the passenger seat. But her attention turned immediately to the menacing figure of the man, his stocky frame hunched as he trained the heavy-gauge shotgun on Owen.

  Owen stood a trifle apart from the others, who had evidently followed him out into the court: Patricia and Catriona were very close together, Pat’s arm about her cousin’s shoulders. Eithne was standing by Philip, hands to her mouth, her face stark with fear and confusion; Philip looked on in surprise and apprehension, while Bridie peered around the door frame, her mouth open in a round of horror.

  “I’ve got ya, ya gobshite, ya evil fornicating bastard. You’ll not sport with another gel, for I’ll blow ’em off ya.”

  To give Owen his due, he stood straight and calm, his eyes steady on the man without so much as blinking to acknowledge his uncle’s arrival.

  “I don’t think so,” Michael said calmly, and with unexpected swiftness he moved forward. The surprise was sufficient to cause the assailant to swivel toward a new danger. Seizing his advantage, Michael pushed the barrel of the shotgun up, wrenching it away, then brought the butt up and slammed it into the man’s chest with such force that he was pushed back against the car. “Now,” he said, pointing the shotgun at its owner, “who are you, and what is your complaint?”

  “He knows who I am,” the man said, brandishing an agitated fist at Owen. “He knows. Look at the guilt writ all over him.”

  Michael turned to his nephew. “Owen, can you enlighten me?”

  “It’s Jim Fitzroy from Kilcoole,” Mick answered, coming to stand by Michael Carradyne. “Owns a dairy farm halfway down the Newcastle road.”