The Big Wind

by Beatrice Coogan

  Sterrin continued to kneel there. Sir Jocelyn’s head on her arm. She had prayed automatically. But she couldn’t continue to pray; nor even to think. Since the boy’s death she had scarcely spoken to her husband. But now she knew no sense of relief; nor any grief. She recalled her mother’s passionate grief as she fondled her husband’s dead body in her arms.

  The river flowed on, indifferent to the passing of the overlord. It swept as usual to the bend that hid it from her sight. Her husband’s head grew heavy on her arm. Already the twisted muscle was relaxing into the sculpted modelling of death. And death presented him with an impressive nobility; a reminder of what might have been! He must have been a remarkably handsome man. She studied his features without dread. She had never before held him in her arms; never been so close except that night when he had taken her. Had he been less cruel would she have come to care for him? She would have at least respected him. But, like her mother, she was capable of but one great love. There are women like that!

  When the rain fell that night there were people who still cowered beneath the hedges; still evading the workhouse; without hope of the passage money to the Promised Land of America. They looked at each other as the news spread, but they still dared not speak their thoughts!

  Not so their neighbours who had reached America. When the news came over the waters they had freedom to tell each other that justice had been done. A San Francisco paper offered a reward to the assassin. The city’s working girls read the news without regret. Bankers estimated that, within the year, these girls had sent a million dollars to maintain the homes the crowbars had levelled.

  The reward went uncollected. The assassin was never revealed. Bergin was questioned; his gun examined. The shell of the solitary cartridge discharged was found near the carcass of the bird it had killed. Routine, said his questioners, apologetically. Bergin was no vengeful evictee. He was an estate owner; a rich one.

  *

  Sterrin was nearly all packed. She stood over the open trunks watching the maids fill them with her gowns and cloaks. She had not reached upon wearing a quarter of them. And now it would be at least two years before she could wear them again.

  ‘There is no room for any more, your Ladyship.’ The sewing maid put the lid on the last trunk.

  ‘Make room!’ Her Ladyship rapped out the command. The maid looked up startled at the set, cold face.

  ‘Get more trunks; get valises, get anything.’

  The maids hurried out and Sterrin turned to Hannah. ‘See that nothing is left behind. You understand?’

  Hannah nodded ruefully.

  ‘Too well I understand, grá gal. You can trust me to see that there is not a stitch left behind.’

  A footman tapped and announced that Major Devine would appreciate it if Lady Devine could spare him a moment in the library before she left.

  The new owner, Sir Jocelyn’s cousin, came straight to the point. ‘As you are leaving this afternoon I thought I should like to discuss with you the matter of having the horse, Clooreen, returned to the stables here.’

  ‘Clooreen is my personal property. She belongs where she is.’

  ‘But my cousin, Jocelyn, was most precise on this. He was most anxious that the horse be brought here without further delay and, er...’ The major gave an embarrassed cough, ‘according to the terms of the Will—’

  ‘The Will,’ she broke in, ‘bequeathed you all the horses in the stables at Noremount Manor. Clooreen is not one of these.’ But she was meant to be. The reason for her husband’s agitation at not finding the horse here on his return became clear to her; so much about that odious Will was clear; that morning, when she had struck the silver bird in the aviary and her husband had said, ‘I have told you that some day you might go too far. This, I think is the day,’ and the other morning, when she had made the unfortunate quip about small-pox and he decided so unexpectedly to go to Dublin. ‘I find that the business that takes me there,’ he had said, ‘has been too long postponed.’ And the business, as she might well have suspected, was this vindictive Will that had disowned her. The only thing he had omitted to cut off from her was the elaborate wardrobe of garments that she was making certain to have packed.

  ‘As you will,’ Major Devine said. ‘Now,’ he consulted a list in front of him. ‘There is a casket of jewels mentioned here. It is not in the safe.’

  ‘It is in my room.’ She spoke with quiet assurance.

  ‘Oh!’ There was a challenging note in the exclamation. Did she think she could claim the jewels also?

  ‘I will bring it to you.’ She turned away. He stepped after her.

  ‘I will go up with you.’

  She stopped and looked him full in the eyes without speaking. He wilted under her gaze.

  ‘You must not trouble yourself, I shall send a servant.’

  ‘Major Devine,’ she said firmly, ‘I will hand you over the casket myself. It has been kept always in my room, but Sir Jocelyn retained the key. That is it.’ She pointed to a small but complicated-looking key on the bunch that lay on the desk. He looked down at it, relieved. ‘As you will,’ he said again.

  He accompanied her to the door and watched her slowly mount the stairs. Once inside her door she made a dash for the little watch pocket in the bed drapes. Thank heavens they were still there! She had forgotten about the keys since that night when she had returned from Mrs. Delaney. And thank heaven for Mrs. Delaney, who had insisted upon her having all the other keys duplicated as well as the store key. ‘You are at least entitled to know what is behind locked doors and drawers,’ that sound woman had said. ‘Knowledge is power.’

  The casket held the less opulent jewellery, including many of the gifts purchased for her during her engagement. The grand parures and diadems and necklaces for great occasions were kept elsewhere. She rummaged feverishly then drew forth a locket, a simple affair on a slim gold chain, its pendant of mosaic of flowers done in enamel and surrounded by pearls. She pressed the spring at the back. It was there, a shiny black curl. She pushed the locket inside the neck of her gown. ‘You are not going round the fat neck of Mrs. Theophilus Devine.’

  In the act of replacing a pair of amethyst earrings, she paused. Her husband had bought them because he thought that they matched her eyes. ‘They may as well go on matching them.’ She pushed them down after the locket. Rage at his base suspicion had her fingers still trembling as she locked the casket. ‘He’ll accompany me, indeed!’ On a sudden she unlocked it and drew out a handful of rings. She removed her indoor mittens and thrust a ring on every available finger. ‘That will steady them,’ she gritted.

  There was no sign of her agitation as she entered the library holding the casket.

  ‘Would you care to check the contents?’ she asked placing it in front of him on the writing table. ‘I presume you have a list.’ She didn’t presume anything of the kind except, perhaps, for such of the jewels as were heirlooms. ‘And hadn’t you better take these too—my betrothal ring and its keeper?’ She made a gesture of withdrawing her left mitten. He backed away expostulating and embarrassed. For a moment he thought to offer her back the casket; then he recalled the rumours that she might have done the murder herself. The overseer who had supervised the evictions had seen her enter the little wicket gate to that lonely path a moment before the shot sounded. The footman who had tucked Sir Jocelyn into the carriage after the Assizes Ball, when a stone had been flung at the carriage, had heard her say, ‘If anyone turned me out of my house I wouldn’t be content to throw a stone at him. I’d shoot him.’ Everyone knew that she was a whizzer with a gun.

  He swept an arm around to indicate all the priceless objets d’art that crowded the room. ‘If there are any of these, or anything elsewhere that you would like to take, any souvenirs?’

  She looked around her and felt her first tug of deprivation. If she had taken more care; if she had acknowledged the existence within her of the child that she had lost, she would not be surrendering her possessions in this ignom
inious fashion. The inheritance would not have gone on tilting sideways to still another indirect heir. But she had not acknowledged the existence of the child even to herself. It had just been a nebulous surge; a suppressed conjecture; instinctive as the urge that had driven her down in the night hours for the oatmeal; as the one that had impelled her just now to retrieve the locket with Young Thomas’s hair.

  Her gaze came back to his. ‘I do not covet any souvenirs of my stay here.’

  More to avoid the look in those fearless eyes he turned to place the casket in the great bookcase, where a drop-leaf door in the centre was down, revealing a recessed compartment. He lifted some parchment documents out of his way and left them on the writing table while he disposed of the casket. She glanced indifferently at them, then the inscription on one of them forced itself into her consciousness. Her heart gave a lurch. There was a momentary cessation of existence, then her knees buckled and she sat down abruptly. He turned at the slight sound.

  ‘You are ill, my Lady?’

  The blood had gone from her face. Its whiteness was no longer of a white rose, but of thin lime. He darted to the bell rope and her wits returned sufficiently for her to curse herself. Why hadn’t she grabbed the document while his back was turned, instead of wasting time collapsing. She fought back the waves of weakness and got to her feet. She braced her shoulders against the mad pounding of her heart. She assured him that there was nothing amiss with her and left the room with head high.

  Inside her bedroom she leaned against the door. Hannah looked up, startled, from sewing the cloak.

  ‘Oh, Hannah, Hannah, this is the worst of all!’

  The maid half-carried her to the chaise longue. ’Twasn’t in nature to go on enduring the likes of what this poor white blossom had faced; to come upon her husband murdered as she had come upon her father; and after losin’ the hopes of her little child!

  ‘Hannah!’ It was only a whisper. ‘Hannah, how will I face them? I’ve sacrificed everything. It has all been for nothing. Poor Mamma! Poor Dominic! The poor servants!’ She had looked up at the anxious face, ‘And yourself, Hannah.’ The maid stiffened. Céad míle curses upon the head of that footman. The rumour must have drifted to her Ladyship that ’twas her own true aim had fired the shot.

  ‘He has it, Hannah. The castle. I saw it. Down there in the big bookcase.’ The maid put her hand on the forehead that was pressed to her bosom. Would she be going a bit like her mamma? Next minute her hand was pushed away and Sterrin was on her feet.

  ‘By the livin’ God, what am I wasting time ullagoaning for? God never made a gap but he grew a bush to stop it with.’

  Major Devine looked up impatiently from the great roll of parchment, then jumped politely to his feet. It was Lady Devine who had tapped.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she began gently, ‘that I must encroach upon your hospitality for another night. I really don’t feel up to the journey this afternoon.’ He was all concern and reassurances.

  ‘By all means—’ He barely stopped himself in time from saying, ‘stay as long as you wish’. That might be a bit too long.

  She made no move to go. ‘There is something else.’ She gave him a shy, pleading look. ‘You were kind enough to ask me if there was anything that I should like to have as a souvenir. I’m afraid that I was not very courteous.’

  What could she be coveting? Whatever it was, it would be impossible to resist these eyes. She opened the big tapestry embroidery bag that swung from her arm. He watched curiously.

  ‘You’ll probably think me very silly, but I should like to keep these.’

  To his amazement she produced a highly ornate pair of shoes with jewelled heels. ‘They would scarcely fit you. You are much bigger than Sir Jocelyn.’

  ‘But, my dear lady,’ he gasped, ‘if you wished for something so personal belonging to Jocelyn, why not—’

  ‘But you see,’ she interrupted, ‘these are musical shoes. Look!’ She whisked off her shoes and put on the others then stood up and with her skirt drawn up a few inches tapped out a tune. ‘Aren’t they delightful?’ she asked.

  ‘They are truly delightful,’ he agreed, his eyes glued to the slender ankle and shapely display of limb that rounded slimly up into the hint of white lace threaded with black ribbon. She dropped her skirt and resumed her seat.

  ‘Then I may have them?’ Her eyes wistful and pleading held him while her toe pushed one musical shoe gently towards the massive fold of window curtain beside the table leg.

  What a child she was! She was on her feet again, drawing the string of her bag and securing it on to her arm with a little pat of satisfaction. A strange mixture of childlikeness and dignity, he thought. Circus shoes and all. Dammit, she managed to go out like an abdicating queen.

  There was a smoky darkness in the library that night when Sterrin slipped into it. Those anthracite fumes, so different from the turf, always caught at her throat. Tonight they seemed worse than usual. But since her miscarriage her sense of smell—in fact all her senses had quickened. She tiptoed to the bookcase and foostered with her keys. One after the other failed in the lock. Her heart was thudding and her fingers, as each key failed her, began to tremble. Hurrying footsteps went racing past the door. From somewhere there came a sound of agitated voices. Strange at this hour. This night of all nights. Dear God, let this key work. She had to stop to force a handkerchief into her mouth to muffle the cough. The fumes were unbearable. At last a key engaged. She groped frantically and found, not one but three rolls of parchment. Which one was it? She raced to the fireplace. There was only the faintest red in the dying creesach. One roll after another she tried, the evil sulphuric fumes choking her until tears streamed from her eyes, and she was within a dog’s bark of pitching the lot into the fire, when the mean red eye of the creesach showed up a familiar word. At that moment Hannah’s voice called out her name; again and again, at the top of her voice.

  ‘Miss Sterrin! Miss Sterrin! Your Ladyship!’ The woman must have taken leave of her senses to betray me like this. Oh, Mother of God! And then came Major Devine’s voice, startled, angry; ‘Do you mean to say that your mistress is in there?’

  The door was pushed open. ‘Lady Devine, what in God’s name are you doing there?’ He lifted the candelabrum high over his head.

  There was no one down there where the great gothic bookcase stood, undisturbed, as he had left it. The wind bellied a curtain. There was a flash of fire on the ground; there was a banner of flame in the room. It showed Lady Devine on her knees groping in the folds of the curtain near the writing table. He saw her fish out something and hold it aloft.

  ‘I came down to look for this. I found that I had only one in the bag.’ It was one of the musical shoes.

  He bore down on her. ‘Are you mad, girl? Do you realise that the house is on fire?’ He pulled her roughly to her feet and dragged her towards the door. A buffet of fiery air struck them and drove them back. The Major pushed Sterrin towards the window. There was a tinkle of glass and she was out in the cool air. From behind came a wail like a banshee. Sterrin stepped back into the burning room. The Major tried to pull her back but she fought him like a tiger.

  ‘You’ve caused enough trouble looking for your damned silly shoes.’

  ‘Let me go!’ she yelled. ‘It is not shoes now but a human being.’

  She dived for something white from which the wails were proceeding, but could get no grip; only something bumpy and fleshy and eerie, then realised that it was Hannah’s face, which the maid had had the presence of mind to cover with an apron; but there was no more presence of mind left. She stood there blinded, terrified, yelling. Sterrin pawed, found hair and pulled.

  ‘Shut up!’ she hissed. ‘If I’ve to drop what’s in my other hand to pull you out you’ll be sorry later that I saved your life.’

  And that’s just what happened. As she dragged the maid through the window Sterrin dropped the precious object that was pressed tight to her side beneath the Vesperatum cloak. Major Devin
e, looking up from directing the human chain of buckets from the fountain court, saw the windows of the ground floor fill with great orange whorls and curling waves of fire. As he looked, a figure in something shimmering went in through the window, as a diver goes towards the water, head first.

  ‘Come back, for God’s sake,’ he shouted, but his voice was lost against the steady roar of the flame that was like a great wind.

  Inside, Sterrin pawed and clawed along the burning floor. Flames licked the back of her hand and ran up her arm. Her quickened senses could distinguish the intimate singeing smell of her forehead curls. And then she found the bag and was through the window again, the bag held over her face.

  ‘I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.’ She couldn’t stop saying it.

  ‘You deserve to burn, to expose the lives of others for the sake of a toy.’

  His voice was savage and so was his grip on her arm. His cousin, Sir Jocelyn, knew what he was doing when he disinherited this nitwit. God in heaven, what sane woman would venture into that inferno for a musical toy! She broke from him and ran. There was lurid light on the lawn. It guided her to the shelter of the trees, black, immense, shivering in the red darkness. He must not find her. He would take her bag from her. She must never go down there again. All around her the birds were aroused and fluttered in the air with shrill cries of alarm and wonder. A swarm of wasps routed from their nest against the eaves of the house, hummed in the night air with savage anger. Rats came from the cellars and galloped like grotesque, diminutive horses, in the long grass near the trees. She screamed and the sound guided Hannah to her.