An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  He had been eight years old when Mary Sullivan had returned to Killaree, Maura in her arms. From then on he had given the two of them whatever aid he could. Once she had been taken under Lord Clanmar’s wing, and once he had become Lord Clanmar’s land-agent, they had grown even closer, riding almost daily together, discussing her lessons, his work-load on the estate, talking and laughing with an ease born of a shared history. And now they were saying goodbye. If she went to America as she intended, he would in all probability never see her again.

  He said laconically, as if his question was of no importance, ‘If you had the choice, would you not prefer to stay in Ireland, sweetheart?’

  ‘No,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Not unless it was to be at Ballacharmish.’

  Ballacharmish. He could offer her a lot. As Lord Bicester’s land-agent he would have a stone-built house and be a man to reckon with. But he couldn’t offer her Ballacharmish or anything approaching Ballacharmish. And he didn’t relish the prospect of a wife heartsick for a home and a way of life that could never again be hers. Other factors stayed his tongue. Marriage was often a damned inconvenient affair. There would be babies; constraints. And he was, after all, only twenty-five. The whole wide wonderful world lay before him and to enjoy it to the full a man needed to be single.

  The words he had so very nearly uttered remained unspoken. It was a moment he would always remember. A moment he would come to bitterly regret.

  ‘Write me when you get to New York,’ he said abruptly, and not trusting himself to remain with her any longer he kissed her for the first time full on the mouth, picked up his bag and strode away.

  For several disorientated minutes Maura remained where she was, her hands clasped tight on the fencing to prevent herself from tumbling off, her senses reeling. Should she run after him and tell him that she had changed her mind? That she couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again and would he mind if she looked for a position for herself in Waterford or nearby Kilkenny?

  Already he was a hundred yards away. She watched in a frenzy of indecision as he tossed his bag into the waiting donkey-cart, vaulting up beside the odd-job boy who was to drive him to the train station at Rathdrum.

  ‘Kieron.’ She jumped from the fence and began to run. ‘Kieron!’ It was too late, there was a breeze blowing against her and her words were lost on it. ‘Kieron!’ she shouted again, running, running, running.

  The trap bowled towards the dirt-road to Killaree, turned a comer and vanished from sight.

  She slowed to a halt, gasping painfully for breath, her emotions in tumult. Was his failure to hear her all for the best? Her suggestion that she accompany him would probably have horrified and embarrassed him. His kiss had probably been no different to the kisses he had given the housemaids when he had made his goodbyes to them. She hugged her arms about her tightly, her breathing steadying. Fate had decreed that he had not heard her calling him and now he was out of her life as completely as Lord Clanmar and her mother were. It was a loss she was going to have to accept and to come to terms with. Just as she was going to have to come to terms with saying goodbye to Isabel.

  Isabel had adamantly refused to leave Ballacharmish before Maura’s ship sailed. A distraught Miss Marlow had telegraphed Lord Clanmar with the information that they would not now be arriving in London until three days after the date he had stipulated. With deep reluctance, knowing that if she did not do so Isabel would make the journey unchaperoned, she had agreed to accompany Isabel and Maura on the stressful rail journey to Queenstown and the docks.

  Maura had not looked behind her as she had walked out of Ballacharmish. To do so would have been to collapse utterly. She had climbed into the brougham with her one small bag, her face white, her eyes tortured. Killaree had been deserted as they had driven through it and she had been grateful. Isabel had slid her hand into hers, remembering the day so many years ago when she had driven towards Ballacharmish for the first time and a diminutive figure high on the hillside had waved her an exuberant welcome.

  At Queenstown they had travelled the short distance from the station to the docks by carriage. As they came to a halt alongside the carriages of departing first-class passengers, the coachman said awkwardly, ‘I can’t drive any nearer to the gangplank you require, madam. There aren’t any carriage facilities for steerage travellers.’

  The noise and the confusion was nearly overpowering. To the right of them, near the bows, a gangplank led high into the ship and well-dressed passengers were boarding, minions scurrying in their wake carrying mountains of luggage. To their left a dense, ill-clad crowd was pushing and shoving towards a gangplank leading deep into the bowels of the ship’s stem.

  Seeing his elderly customer’s bewilderment, the coachman said helpfully, ‘The gangplank on the left is the one for steerage passengers, madam.’

  Miss Marlow took one look at the heaving crush of half-starved emigrating Irish, their worldly goods in bundles in their arms, and said faintly, ‘Then we can go no further.’ She turned towards Maura, ‘We must say goodbye to you here, my dear. May God take care of you.’

  Maura kissed her on her cheek, fighting down a sudden, unexpected onrush of tears. As she stepped down from the brougham, Isabel followed her.

  ‘Isabel! Come back at once!’ Miss Marlow demanded agitatedly. ‘It is most unsafe! Isabel! Isabel!’

  ‘I’m going with Maura,’ Isabel said implacably, and ignoring Miss Marlow’s continuing cries of protest she slipped her arm through Maura’s and together they began to push a way into the throng of departing and destitute Irish.

  ‘Oy, nobs board near the bows!’ a sailor called out to them as he caught sight of Isabel’s black silk crinoline entering the crush.

  Maura was not nearly as hampered. In order to scrape up the fare money she had sold everything she possessed, including the mourning dress she had worn since Lord Clanmar’s death. Her one remaining dress was as near to a mourning dress as possible. The colour of crushed blackberries, it was high-necked and made of serviceable, hard-wearing, coarse cotton. Her only other possessions were her shawl and the chemises and night-dress that were in her travelling bag.

  ‘Nobs near the bows!’ the sailor shouted again towards them.

  Maura was beginning to wish earnestly that she could take notice of him. The stench of stale perspiration was nearly overpowering and she knew that it would be far worse once she boarded. Envying the nobs who would have cabins that would provide them with privacy and a semblance of comfort, she clutched her carpet-bag to her chest and continued to press forward towards the stern.

  Never in her life had Isabel been in such close proximity to the poor. ‘This is terrible!’ she gasped, as they reached the foot of the gangplank. ‘You can’t possibly live communally with these people! You’ll catch lice! Fleas!’

  Maura was about to remind her that if she did, it wouldn’t be for the first time; she had caught them often enough as a child, in Killaree. As the sea of unwashed bodies pressed in on her she suddenly felt a great wave of empathy towards them. They were dirt-poor Irish, as she had been. And they were leaving a country they loved out of sheer necessity, just as she was doing. Their hope was that in America they would be dirt-poor no longer, hers that she would be able to put her years of privileged education to good use. They all had a lot in common, far more than Isabel could ever realize.

  A seaman asked her to show her ticket and she forgot about her fellow travellers, saying with stunned disbelief, ‘This is where we have to say goodbye, Isabel. You can’t come any further.’

  Isabel could hold her tears back no longer. ‘Write to me – write to me every week. You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ She dropped her travelling-bag, uncaring of its fate, hugging Isabel for the last time.

  ‘Come on there!’ the seaman exhorted. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty people trying to get past. Make way for Gawd’s sake!’

  Hardly sensible of what she was doing Maura retrieved her bag and made
way. As Isabel was swallowed up in the crush she entered the dark bowels of the ship, unable to see more than a foot or two in front of her, barely able to breathe.

  The allocation of deck space for steerage passengers was meagre. With every emigrant desperate to wave goodbye to family and friends, it was almost impossible to squeeze a way through to the front and the deck-rail. By the time she succeeded, the hawsers had been freed and the ship was making its way out to open sea.

  There was no sign of Isabel or Miss Marlow. Beyond the clutter of the docks and the crowded roof-tops of Queenstown, the Nagles Mountains shimmered in the distance, blue-green and blue-grey. Ireland. She was seeing it for perhaps the last time in her life.

  ‘I won’t forget,’ she whispered as the sea wind tugged tendrils of hair from the knot in the nape of her neck, blowing them across her face. ‘I won’t forget. Not ever.’

  Chapter Six

  Victor Karolyis sat in his ornately carved, wood-panelled study and smiled to himself with satisfaction. Alexander would be in Europe for approximately a year. It was long enough for him to put his plan into action and to see pleasing results from it. He had been looking out of his first-floor window at the teeming activity of Fifth Avenue, now he swung round in his leather swivel-chair, facing the door.

  ‘Fetch Miss Burrage in,’ he instructed his secretary.

  The girl who entered did so with an air of nervous defiance. Her dress and coat were cheap, her well-polished boots the serviceable ones of a household servant.

  ‘Please be seated,’ he said, continuing without preamble. ‘You have been told what it is I wish to see you about?’

  The girl sat with great unease on the edge of the hard-backed chair facing the desk. ‘Yes, sir. I have been told that my present employment places me in a position to render a service I will be highly paid for.’

  Victor regarded her thoughtfully. She was a plain girl and as such there would not be many extra-curricular ways in which she could successfully supplement her income. That being the case, she might very well be prepared to overlook a few scruples. She was also obviously intelligent, which was vital. A stupid girl could quite possibly do more harm than good.

  When she had first entered the room he had been indecisive. He was so no longer. Resting his clasped hands on the enormous surface of his antique desk, he said, ‘You act as Miss Genevre Hudson’s personal maid?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said dutifully, her eyes sharpening.

  ‘And you have served her in that capacity for how long, three months … six months?’

  ‘Three months, sir.’

  He knew very well that it was three months, but her answer pleased him. No matter how deceitful his employees often had to be in carrying out his wishes, he expected them to be utterly straight where he was concerned.

  ‘Has that been long enough for you to have acquired great feelings of loyalty to Miss Hudson?’

  ‘My feelings of loyalty are adequate for the service I fulfil, sir.’

  He suppressed a grim smile. She obviously had a good idea of what was coming and he couldn’t help wondering if she had earned extra income similarly before, in previous households. He handed her a sheet of paper covered with Alexander’s large, confident handwriting.

  ‘Miss Hudson is shortly going to be in correspondence with my son. This is his handwriting. When letters from Europe arrive for her, from him, I would be grateful if you could intercept them and deliver them to me.’

  She nodded, completely undiscomfited by the impropriety of the request.

  ‘What is the system for letters leaving the house?’ he asked, confident that whatever it was, it would pose no problem.

  ‘Letters are put in a dish in the hall and one of the footmen takes them to be posted.’

  ‘Then kindly remove all letters in Miss Hudson’s handwriting destined for Europe before he does so.’

  ‘And bring them to you, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the remuneration?’

  He rose to his feet. ‘Fifty dollars for each letter I receive.’

  It was as much as Josie Woods’girls received for every client they entertained, but it would be well worth it. It would ensure she kept her mouth shut and it would ensure that she was scrupulously vigilant.

  Alexander’s first letter had been sent from Southampton and had obviously been despatched within minutes of his stepping ashore.

  He had written in vibrant royal-blue ink.

  The Atlantic was like a mill-pond. No fun at all. I will be at Gussie Schermerhorn’s London home by tonight. Rumour has it that she is more than good friends with the Prince of Wales and so the next few weeks are likely to be extremely interesting. I love you lots and miss you with all my heart.

  A second letter came hard on its heels.

  Dearest, darling Ginnie, Am now being squired around London by Gussie Schermerhorn and her friends. She’s quite a different person away from Charlie’s father. Charlie would be surprised! No-one stays put in this country. Every weekend Gussie is a guest at some country house or other. Next week it’s to be Chatsworth, which I think is pretty near to Yorkshire. HRH and Princess Alexander are to be the guests of honour. Wonder what he’s like in the flesh? Write me in care of Gussie’s town house. Will be based there from now until I leave for Waterford. Am missing you like mad, but every day apart is a day nearer to our being reunited. Love me lots, dearest Ginnie. I will love you, and only you, to the day I die.

  His third letter was drastically different in tone.

  Dearest, darling Ginnie, Why no letters? I’m going crazy not having heard from you. Are you miffed because I made out I was enjoying myself over here? You know better than to think that I could ever truly enjoy myself when you are not with me. This separation is only for a little while, Ginnie. When it’s over, we will have the rest of our lives to be together. I love you more than words can say, certainly more than I can possibly write. Only you, Ginnie. For ever.

  Victor was well pleased with them. They showed that the Burrage girl was doing a good job, and they showed that Alexander was moving in exactly the sort of exalted circles he had intended he should move in. All he had to do now was to grow exasperated at Genevre Hudson’s lack of response to his letters and fall in love elsewhere, preferably with the daughter of an earl.

  Genevre’s letters he didn’t even read. Alexander had obviously told her before he left that his first port of call was to be London and that Gussie Schermerhorn would be acting as his hostess, for her letters were correctly addressed to Gussie’s rented town house in Grosvenor Square. Voyeurism was not one of his peccadilloes and he tossed them on to a fire, unopened. They would soon come to an end. To be out of sight was to be out of mind and he expected every day to hear of her name being linked elsewhere.

  Genevre had at first been mildly disappointed at the length of time it was taking for Alexander’s letters to reach her, and then as the days and weeks passed and there was still no letter, her disappointment turned into dismay, and then distress.

  She wrote hopefully at the end of November.

  Dearest love, I cannot imagine why you haven’t written, perhaps you have just been so terribly busy that you haven’t realized how time has passed. I am missing you so much that I can hardly bear it. Please write to me. There is something desperately urgent I need to be able to tell you.

  Time and again she tried to write down the words and couldn’t.

  It would have been different if he had been writing lovingly and

  often to her, but he hadn’t, and she didn’t know the reason why.

  ‘Please write,’ she whispered as she sealed the envelope. ‘Oh Alexander, my love. Please write!’

  It was over two months since she last menstruated and she could no longer fool herself that the cause was a chill or excessive tiredness. She was having a baby. Alexander’s baby. Her emotions were in such tumult that she didn’t know which of her reactions were uppermost. First had been horror. How on earth would sh
e tell her father? Even worse, how on earth would Alexander tell his father? Hard on the heels of her horror had come sizzling excitement. She and Alexander were going to have a child. It had seemed too incredible, too wonderful to be true. Then had come the need to make plans and arrangements. Alexander would have to terminate his Grand Tour in order for them to be married. It would have to be a quiet wedding, though not too quiet in case suspicions were aroused. Perhaps after the wedding it would be best if they returned to Europe together and remained there until after the baby was born. They could stay at her family home in Yorkshire. At the thought of her baby being born in the same room in which she had been born she was filled with such a strong surge of maternal love that she had thought she would die of happiness.

  And then had come the long silence from Alexander. At first she had put it down to the unreliability of postal communication between Europe and America. Later she had begun to wonder if Alexander was so caught up in the headiness of his London social life that he had simply not found the time. As the weeks merged into the third month the terrible prospect that he was no longer thinking of her seized hold of her and would not let go.

  What was she to do? Unless he knew about the baby he could not possibly return and marry her. With an unsteady hand she had written to him again, telling him of the baby. The letter had gone, unread, into Victor Karolyis’s waste-paper basket.

  Letters from Alexander to Genevre continued to be delivered to the Karolyis mansion in an unremitting stream. With each that arrived Victor grew increasingly irate. Surely the boy should have taken umbrage by now at her continuing silence? If he didn’t do so damned quickly his time in London was going to be completely wasted. Vainly he scoured the letters for mention of a recurring, aristocratic female name. There were names in plenty but none that indicated that Alexander was beginning to take a romantic interest elsewhere. His entire concern was her failure to write to him. Was it because her father had forbidden it? Was she ill? Could she not contact Charlie and ask him to write to him on her behalf? He was leaving England for Ireland in a week’s time and if she didn’t write to him in care of his Anglo-Irish hosts, he was going to return home instead of continuing on to Germany and Italy. He loved her desperately and he was going out of his mind with worry.