The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “In a sense,” Michael replied cautiously. “Artie, get in the car. Let’s do a reconnaissance and see if anything else dropped off the back of the lorry. Mick, the sergeant’ll be here any minute, and I want you to talk to him.”

  Although Michael held the Austin to a bare five miles an hour, they found only a cheek strap and considerably more odds and sods of junk than one would think roadside vegetation would conceal. However, the strap was found on the Newcastle road, a bend away from Killaois Farm.

  Sergeant Pat Quinn from Newtownmountkennedy was still inspecting the premises when they returned. He made notes of the recovered items and Michael’s belief that James Fitzroy might be able to help the sergeant with his “inquiries,” then closed his notebook and promised to get on with the matter straightaway.

  When he’d left, Michael told the girls to use the show tack and work the ponies. He left Mick to see if there were enough spare bits in the tack box to put a horse bridle together and went in to make a few phone calls.

  His first call was to Bobbie Evans, who assured Michael he had more than one saddle he’d be glad to lend. He invited his friend to come up and take what he needed and promised to keep his ears open as well.

  Gratified to receive such cooperation from his neighbor, Michael rang off and phoned Selina. Kathleen answered and bluntly told him that Mrs. Healey was not at home, and no, she didn’t know when her mistress could be expected. Michael asked the woman to have Mrs. Healey phone Cornanagh, as they’d had a break-in and her tack had been taken. She said she’d leave the message and hung up on him.

  Disgruntled and curiously uneasy, Michael went on to call those of his hunting clients whose tack had disappeared with his own.

  Selina did not receive Michael’s message until late afternoon, for she’d been to see the solicitor who had handled her father’s Irish affairs. She doubted that Mr. O’Hara would sully his firm’s name by drafting separation papers but felt sure he’d refer her to someone who would.

  She had to shock the old gentleman considerably more than she intended after he tried to soothe her with platitudes and advised her not to make any rash decisions. In the end he had acquiesced and given her the name of another solicitor. On the phone, Ian Coghlan sounded younger and certainly more incisive, but he too had tried to wheedle and placate her. At last she cut through his rhetoric and demanded an appointment for the following morning, which he gave her.

  She spent the afternoon shopping aimlessly, pausing for a meal or a drink whenever the aching in her body made it necessary for her to rest. She dawdled as long as she could and then returned home in time for a long bath before David could be expected home for dinner.

  “He phoned to say he wouldn’t be in, missus,” Kathleen informed her when she returned at last. “He’s gone to Belfast.”

  Selina felt faint with relief. “Thank you, Kathleen. Any other messages?”

  “Yes, Captain Carradyne phoned and said your saddle got nicked.”

  “Oh, my God, what in the world . . . ?”

  She went immediately to the phone and dialed Cornanagh, but the number was engaged. She slammed the phone down impatiently and stood there, thinking furiously. At last she turned to Kathleen. “Well, if my husband is away, I shan’t need to keep you, Kathleen. So have a pleasant evening.”

  As soon as the woman had left, Selina tried Cornanagh again, swearing impotently when the line was still busy. Eventually she went up and drew her bath. Soaking relieved her aches, but she was beginning to wonder if she’d ever feel really clean again.

  Dressed in a loose cotton robe, Selina managed to eat a little of the tasty meal Kathleen had prepared when the front-door bell chimed. Willing it to be Michael, she rushed to open the door, completely forgetting that she wore no makeup.

  It was Sybil.

  After one shocked gasp, she stepped inside and shut the door, setting down the parcel she was carrying. “I know bloody well you didn’t get those bruises from being tossed!” she said, her eyes blazing. “What happened?”

  Sybil’s rage was like a match to tinder. Before she could stop to think, Selina had revealed everything. It simply poured out of her, all the sordid details festering in her spirit. And when she had finished, she felt lighter, easier in her mind.

  “And now,” said Sybil, “I’m going to phone a doctor friend of mine”—she raised her voice above Selina’s protest—“a woman doctor, Maurie Woods, who’s been helping us with cases like yours. If you ever want to file for a separation . . . ”

  “I’m seeing a solicitor tomorrow.”

  “Which one? Coghlan? Well, he’s not the best but he’s not the worst,” Sybil said grudgingly. “Most of ’em don’t want to know, even when we can provide hospital proof of brutal beatings. You may not know it, but a husband can beat his wife black, blue, and purple, and unless he does so in front of three witnesses who will testify in court—and that’s the real rub, given a good old Irish reluctance to be seen in court for any reason—she can’t even get a barring order.”

  Selina stared at Sybil, trying to absorb what she’d just heard. “You can’t mean that!”

  “I can and do. Most women can’t even pay for counsel unless they have a private income. You’d be amazed at the number of women I talk with who have trouble even getting housekeeping money. But we’re working on it.” Sybil patted Selina’s hand. “Now let me call Maurie Woods. Honestly, that’s the first step.”

  When Sybil left the lounge to make her call, Selina found herself wilting against the sofa cushions. It was a relief to have unburdened herself, but it was also unnerving somehow. Talking about it had transformed the whole nightmare into an inescapable reality. Selina opened her eyes as a smiling Sybil returned.

  “Maurie said she’d come right over. The sooner the better, as it were, so she can make a record of the internal damage. Oooh, you look puny. Like a drink? Tea, coffee, scotch?” Sybil spoke jauntily, but her eyes were so kind Selina felt the sting of tears. “There now, Selina, the worst is over. ‘Once a victim has been able to verbalize the attack, she has a much better chance of rationalizing it.”

  Selina gave her benefactress a weak smile. “Oh, I’ll be able to rationalize it all right. I just can’t understand it . . . . By the way, what brought you here to me tonight?”

  “Ah!” Sybil cried, leaping up from the sofa. “I couldn’t resist showing it to you, and I have to smuggle it back in to Cornanagh.” As she spoke, she went to the entrance hall and retrieved the parcel, unwrapping it as she returned. Then, with a flourish, she turned the front of the framed picture to Selina.

  “Oh, my God,” Selina said, sitting up and reaching for the portrait of the Tulip and Michael. “Oh, my God. It’s . . . it’s perfect.”

  “Well, there are a few flaws . . . but Janey Mack, when you consider that Trina’s only thirteen and has no formal training, it’s pretty bloody good, isn’t it? She had me frame it for his birthday.”

  “His birthday?”

  “I admit Dad seems ageless, but he gets one birthday a year like the rest of us. July twenty-sixth.” Sybil winked. “He hates parties, but we always have a big family dinner. Would you like to join us this year? We’d love to have you.”

  Selina hesitated, finding considerable amusement in her circumstances. Would Sybil be as helpful and hospitable if she knew?

  “Well, I don’t want to push you right now, but you’d be very welcome.”

  “How could I miss the opportunity to see Michael’s expression when he unwraps this? Catriona is so gifted.”

  “For a lot more than horses,” Sybil said tartly, “but if that’s what she wants, she has the right to fulfill herself. And I’ll fight for that for her.” Selina was a bit surprised at Sybil’s vehemence, and Sybil caught her expression. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’ve been at sword’s point with my grandmother again. She’s positively medieval in her attitudes, but then, that’s the way she was brought up. It’s just that things are changing in Ireland, and— Sorry, I shouldn
’t bore you with my pet hobbyhorse—the only kind I’ll ride!”

  Sybil’s exuberance and enthusiasm were contagious, and as they waited for Dr. Woods, Selina decided that Michael and Catriona were not the only admirable Carradynes.

  “Janey Mack, listen to me, forgetting the other marvelous news! Auntie Eithne’s Texan arrived this morning, proposed to her, and then fell asleep. He’d been traveling since early Texas time yesterday, and he was so worried about Eithne, or her refusing him, that he never closed his eyes on the plane last night. Isn’t that marvelous?— Oh, and has Dad rung you about the robbery? Would you believe it . . . ” She chattered on, giving Selina all the details. “Can you imagine? Yanking out the grill with the tractor! Daddy and Mick admit to having had a few pints with Mrs. Comyn’s carter, so they slept through everything. Just like men! Never around when you need them.” Sybil’s smile was full of loving tolerance.

  “Never mind the robbery,” Selina said when Sybil paused to catch her breath. “My tack is insured. I want to hear more about Eithne and Davis.”

  “Well, they’re going to get married right away,” Sybil told her. “Register office, probably, as you have to post banns for a church wedding. You see, Davis has got a job for Owen, but there’s more chance of him getting a proper visa if he’s got a relative in the States.”

  “Surely Eithne isn’t marrying Davis to get her son out of Ireland?”

  “No!” Sybil replied, laughing. “And you’d know that for sure if you could see the look on Eithne’s face when Davis is in the room.” She rolled her eyes. “Turtledoves. It has Pat in kinks. She and Trina’re to be bridesmaids, if you have them at register office weddings.”

  “And Trina? How does she feel about all this?”

  Sybil sobered. “She’s been awfully quiet, but I think it’s more the robbery than Eithne marrying. I mean—”

  Sybil’s observation about Trina was cut off by the doorbell. Selina rose nervously, suddenly dreading the examination even if it were to be conducted by a female doctor. Fortunately Maurie Woods’s matter-of-fact but sympathetic attitude put her apprehensions to rest, and the examination was so deft that it was over before she could resist.

  “There’s no irreparable damage, my dear,” Maurie said reassuringly when she was through, “but you will be sore for a while longer. Keep up with the soaks. The physical damage is far less serious than the mental. We do have a counselor, a woman, if you want to talk about it,” she added kindly.

  Selina smiled. “Sybil’s already done a lot for me.”

  “Could you bear seeing your general practitioner? Two medical opinions are better.”

  “And there’s the usual male suspicion of collusion?”

  Maurie shot her a droll look. “Two would be better than one, but I won’t push it.”

  She refused refreshment, saying she had a full surgery, then reminded Selina that she would be available at any time.

  “I’ve got to rush, too,” Sybil said apologetically as she rewrapped Catriona’s framed portrait. “You’ll be all right by yourself?”

  “Yes, of course,” Selina replied, smiling.

  “Good. But I don’t think you ought to ride for Dad for a while.”

  “I’m not. David’s left for the north again, thank God, but I’ve told your father that I wouldn’t be able to ride for a few days.”

  “Make it a week, at least,” Sybil urged. “To give Trina another chance on Charlie.”

  Selina grinned. “You do know, don’t you, that Michael bought Charlie for her, not me?”

  Sybil returned her grin. “I know. You know. Daddy knows, but Trina hasn’t twigged it yet. Take care of yourself, pet.” And she was out the door, down the steps, and carefully placing the portrait on the backseat of her car.

  That was when Selina noticed the dark gray sedan parked down the street. The driver was still in it—and he’d been there when she had come home several hours earlier. Selina waved good-bye to Sybil, watched as she drove away, then closed the front door, frowning. Well, it could be just a coincidence. Nevertheless, she fastened the door chain and made sure the burglar alarm was turned on. She also checked the kitchen door before she went upstairs to her room.

  31

  BY Monday afternoon, Catriona could stand it no longer. She sneaked into Philip’s room, a place no one would think to look for her; she had to be by herself and try to sort things out. Philip’s room was quiet and overlooked the Ride. This morning it still carried the faint scent of his after-shave. The walls were decorated with photos of him on various prize Cornanagh horses, the broken polo mallet he’d nicked from Phoenix Park the summer he was going with a polo player’s daughter, and a nice collection of red firsts and blue seconds.

  It was also uncharacteristically neat; Mrs. Comyn must have tidied it. All his clothes were either hung up or put away, the bed was smooth, pillow plumped under the tightly stretched spread. There wasn’t even a spare shoe kicked into a corner or a half-open drawer in the press. But the room felt safe to her, and she went to the window, staring out at the sun-drenched Ride.

  She would have preferred to commune with Conker, but the yard had been widdershins this morning, with Mick as ferocious as a thundercloud and Artie with a face as long as a wet week—and all over the burglary. Catriona sighed. If it hadn’t been for Owen . . . She didn’t want Auntie Eithne to leave Cornanagh, but at least it meant Owen would be leaving, too. And once Mr. Fitzroy heard that Owen was gone, he’d leave Cornanagh alone. The robbery was Owen’s fault, not Cornanagh’s, and it wasn’t fair, not the least bit, that the horses were the ones to be treated so unjustly. Especially when nothing bad would be happening to Owen, who had caused all the trouble. Being sent to America wasn’t a punishment at all, not to Owen. It just wasn’t fair.

  The distressed knot in Catriona’s heart tightened again at the knowledge that Pip, too, would soon be leaving. She felt wretched because he was over the moon at the thought of tackling Madison Avenue. But he deserved a chance, she had to admit. He was wasted as a car salesman.

  In the deepest, most critical part of her mind, Catriona knew that Philip was not as committed to Cornanagh and its horses as she was. But he was such marvelous fun and the very best of her brothers, and she loved him so terribly, terribly much.

  She moved from the window and did a tour of the room, blowing dust off the ribbons, straightening one of the framed photos, rubbing her finger against the after-shave bottle, and inhaling the scent. Soon all this would be gone, and the room would be just a room.

  Desolate, Catriona sprawled facedown on the neatly made bed, pounding it with her fists. Pip, Auntie Eithne, Cornanagh . . . Everything had gone wrong since Blister died, and it was just too much! Bad things should happen one at a time so you could get over them more easily. Not like this—not all at once.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Catriona saw the door swing open. She was both dismayed and relieved to see Mrs. Comyn enter the room: she couldn’t have borne it if it had been Pat.

  “Oh, excuse me, Catriona, I didn’t realize you were here.” Mrs. Comyn started to leave, then stopped. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Her voice was soft and kind, not distant or cool, the way she sounded at other times.

  Tears came unbidden to Catriona’s eyes. “Everyone I love is going away. And I’ll never see them again.” Catriona buried her face in the pillow and sobbed.

  “Now, now, child . . . ” She was lifted against Mrs. Comyn’s lavender-scented shirt and comforted with gentling hands and soothing words. “It must all be quite unsettling for you, losing your mother so suddenly.”

  “Blister died first,” Catriona said, her voice muffled. “Then Mother, and nothing’s been the same since. Now Pip’s leaving as well as Auntie Eithne.”

  “Now, then, my dear . . . ” Mrs. Comyn lifted Catriona’s chin and smiled into her eyes. “Surely you don’t begrudge your brother and aunt their good fortune. You haven’t struck me as a selfish child.” Catriona shook her head,
somewhat surprised: she certainly did not want to be considered selfish. “Though I quite see how the events of the last few days would be unsettling, especially when it all seems aimed at your horses.”

  “They’ve never harmed anyone. Why do they have to be victims?”

  “Sometimes, my dear, it’s hard to understand the reason for events . . . ” Mrs. Comyn hesitated for a moment. “But generally, if we look at what happened before, we can figure out, quite logically, how it could occur. And it is much more sensible to be logical, because emotion gets in the way of constructive thought.

  “I haven’t been here very long”—she gave Catriona a wry smile—“but I did hear that Mr. Fitzroy blames your cousin for his daughter’s pregnancy and has sworn revenge. But to break in and steal all the tack was a stupid thing to do.” Her voice grew steely, cold as ice. “And it will all come right very shortly, believe me . . . . Now, child, a spot of the weeps is quite understandable, but your aunt is already worried enough about you. You don’t want her to feel as if she’s to blame for this, too, do you?”

  Shyly Catriona shook her head. “Mrs. Comyn, do you like Mr. Haggerty?” she asked.

  “I believe I do,” the older woman replied as if mildly surprised at her answer. “He is certainly devoted to your aunt and has gone to great lengths to show it. I think we must all be happy for her sake. And your brother’s. Of course you’ll miss him; he’s very fond of you. But you must concentrate on how much better off he’ll be in America. And it’s not as if they’ve dropped off the edge of the world—they’ll all be coming home for Christmas, so you’ve something to look forward to, don’t you?”

  “Yes . . . ” Catriona suppressed the unworthy thought that Philip was sure to bring her an extra nice gift from America. “Christmas at Cornanagh is the greatest crack!”

  “I expect it will be,” Mrs. Comyn said in her droll way, and got up, signaling Catriona to rise as well. The two of them smoothed the rumpled covers. “There now.”