Cashelmara (27 page)

“I mustn’t spend months grieving for Nell,” I said. “I must have some important event to plan and prepare for. Why, of course!” I exclaimed, inspired, suddenly seeing how I could make some small amends to him for my unkind words. “We shall have a family party to celebrate our wedding anniversary, but we won’t hold it at Woodhammer. We’ll go to Ireland. It’ll be the best party that I’ve ever organized, and we shall hold it at no other place but Cashelmara.”

WE CAME AT LAST
to Cashelmara, to that eerie beauty mingled with the memories of death and decay, to the wild alien fastnesses of the Joyce country where Edward had been born. It was May. The grass was lushly green after the winter rains, and the earth smelled clean and fresh and full of promise. After those dark winter months in London I felt my spirits rise, and as soon as we were settled I arranged for the family to assemble for our anniversary celebration.

The first to arrive was Patrick. I had not seen him for over a year, for as the result of his disgrace he had been banished to Woodhammer while I had been confined to London both before and after Nell’s birth. To my relief Edward had abandoned the idea of a military career for him, but he had refused to give his son any responsibility and Patrick had been obliged to occupy himself entirely with his artistic pursuits. That suited Patrick very well, naturally, and he wrote to me occasionally saying how happy he was. I suspected he had not in the least wanted to come to Cashelmara, but he turned up dutifully a week after our arrival, and Thomas and David fell upon him with great glee. Seeing how glad he was to be reunited with them, I remembered my schemes for him to have children of his own, and when a letter from Francis arrived enclosing a photograph of my niece Sarah, I found I could not resist indulging in the most delightful speculations.

Sarah. Seventeen years old now and surely, if her photograph did not lie, the belle of every future ball. It was the first picture I had seen of her with her hair up, and she looked amazingly sophisticated. Her resemblance to Francis tantalized me. She had inherited his unusual good looks, and as I stared at her picture I felt a great longing to rediscover the niece I had left behind in New York seven years before. My desire to see Sarah was probably heightened by the fact that in resembling Francis she also resembled Blanche, and Blanche, to my grief, was no longer alive. The previous summer I had received word that she had died in childbirth. The news had upset me profoundly, particularly since I myself was in dread of my confinement at the time, but Edward had been very kind, offering to take me to America at the earliest opportunity. Not that the opportunity would ever come; I knew that now. His arthritis made long journeys an ordeal for him, and no matter how much I wanted to see Francis and Sarah I knew I could never leave Edward even if he gave me permission to go alone.

“I say!” said Patrick with the most gratifying enthusiasm when I showed him Sarah’s photograph. “What a gorgeous creature! Can’t you invite her to England to visit us, Marguerite?”

“She’s still a little young at present,” I said. “But perhaps in a year or two …” My mind skipped nimbly ahead, visualizing Sarah begging Francis to take her to Europe, Francis unable to resist the request because he doted on her so much, Sarah and Francis both coming to England and staying with us at St. James’s Square. My mind ceased to skip and leaped forward instead to keep pace with my romantic imagination. Patrick and Sarah would meet, fall hopelessly in love, marry. I should have Sarah with me in England, Francis would, of course, be unable to resist visiting Europe frequently to see us both, Patrick would be splendidly settled and quite out of reach of any irrational weakness of mine …

“She’s rather fetching, isn’t she?” I said casually to Patrick. After seven years in England I had quite mastered the cunning use of the understatement. “I thought you would be interested to see her latest portrait since I speak of her so often.” And then I dropped the subject like a hot biscuit before either of us should burn our fingers.

Everyone came. Katherine arrived with her husband, maid, portmanteaux and diamonds, Madeleine arrived alone dressed in navy-blue serge and carrying a shabby black bag, and Annabel arrived on a splendid chestnut mare with the elusive Alfred reluctantly in tow. Annabel was pleased to see her daughters again at last. Their paternal grandparents with whom they lived in Northumberland had refused to permit the girls to stay at Clonagh Court, but Annabel promptly rode to Cashelmara to see them. A shock awaited her. She had been thinking of them as little girls in the nursery, but Clara was now fifteen and Edith a year younger, both quite old enough to treat their mother coolly and look down their aristocratic little noses at her husband. Poor Alfred! He was really such a nice man, and he could not help feeling ill at ease at Cashelmara. I’m sure I should have been just as ill at ease if I had been in his shoes, and finally I could not resist resorting to my usual brand of meddling.

“You’re being most uncharitable,” I said severely to the girls. “Does Mr. Smith beat your mother? Does he oppress her and make her life miserable? You ought to be thankful that she has a kind, considerate husband who makes her happy, and as for your mother herself, I don’t think your attitude toward her is at all justified. I know she was wrong to leave you, but she’s sorry for it now and I think the least you can do is try to be pleasant to her even if you can’t forgive her yet for what she did. Anyway, it’s most un-Christian to harbor grudges and treat your mother as if she were a nasty smell. Didn’t your grandparents take you to church in Northumberland? Your behavior doesn’t reflect well upon the way they’ve brought you up.”

This put the girls to shame, just as I had intended, and to my satisfaction they did try after that to make amends. They were not bad girls, but I could not help thinking it was a pity they were not more like their mother, whom I found increasingly companionable. Clara was very pretty and just the tiniest bit dull, while Edith—poor Edith!—was plain and lumpy and seldom had more than two words to say for herself. However, I knew what it was to suffer in the shadow of a pretty older sister, and fourteen is a difficult age.

Meanwhile I continued to meddle happily in other fields and thought my meddling highly successful.

“Oh, Edward, promise me you won’t talk to Madeleine about getting married!” I begged him, and he assured me with a laugh that he had already resigned himself to Madeleine’s spinsterhood.

“And to the nursing?” I demanded at once.

“Well, if I’m to forgive her by welcoming her to my house I suppose I must resign myself to that too,” he said reluctantly, but in fact he was very civil to Madeleine, and since she herself was as serene as ever despite her sordid existence in London’s East End, they did manage not to quarrel with each other. Madeleine earned a little salary now, so she was not entirely impoverished, but her hands were roughened by hard work, and I often wondered how she endured such a life, particularly since she could have lived in the luxury that suited Katherine so well.

“Edward, you will be nice to Katherine, won’t you?” I said. Oh, I did meddle! My long nose inched its way into everyone’s affairs, and I could not remember when I had last enjoyed myself so much. But Edward did not need to be reminded about Katherine. When she arrived he kissed her warmly and told her with great admiration that he had never seen her look so beautiful.

“Papa is somewhat changed,” Katherine observed wonderingly. “I declare he has become quite mellow with age.”

“Like an elderly lion,” said Patrick, and I could see he was already sketching the lion in his mind’s eye. “A lion who’s tired of hunting and wants to lie in the shade and snooze.”

“Edward,” I said tentatively later, “about Patrick’s future …”

“I have it all arranged,” he said, smiling at me. “Patience!”

So I restrained myself with an effort from meddling further with that subject and cast all my energies into organizing the family dinner party that was to take place on the evening of our wedding anniversary, the twentieth of June.

As it was such a special occasion, Thomas and David were allowed to stay up and dine with us, but since this brought the number to thirteen the concession did create difficulties.

“If only George didn’t have to come!” I said, but Edward said that George, as his only nephew, had a right to be there. Finally I solved the problem by inviting Lord Duneden’s two married daughters and their husbands. They were special friends of mine, as well as being Katherine’s stepdaughters, and Edward had known them since birth. This brought the number to seventeen, a clumsy total, but at the last moment Alfred Smith excused himself from attending on account of a touch of fever, and this reduced us to the splendid number of sixteen.

Instinct told me then that the evening would be a success, and so it was. To this day I can remember walking into the dining room at Cashelmara and seeing all the Georgian silver gleaming in the soft candlelight and the long red velvet curtains glowing like some sumptuous backcloth behind a richly decorated stage. I can remember Hayes, in a gale of excitement, opening the champagne and tiptoeing reverently around the table to fill the glasses, and, best of all, I can remember Patrick rising to his feet to propose the toast. I was so proud of him because hė did not stammer but spoke as if he had labored long in preparing the speech and even longer in memorizing every syllable.

“… and I’m sure Papa will not mind,” he concluded, “if I ask you all to drink especially to Marguerite, who has drawn us all together for …” He hesitated for the first time, stopping before he could say “for this family occasion” and instead merely repeating “who has drawn us all together.” At that point Annabel said “Hear, hear!” in a very Annabelish fashion, Madeleine smiled at me fondly and Katherine abandoned her haughty mien to regard me with childlike affection.

I felt quite overcome.

Patrick was saying, “So let’s all drink to Papa and Marguerite on this their seventh wedding anniversary!” And as everyone raised his glass David’s mellow contralto was heard saying, “Mama’s face is exactly the same color as a tomato, and it doesn’t at all match the color of her hair.”

Everyone laughed. Thomas looked peeved that he had not made the remark himself, but the next moment his vanity was appeased when Patrick summoned him to present the family gift. It was a salver, inscribed in memory of the occasion, and after we had inspected it admiringly Edward rose to his feet to reply to the toast.

He thanked his children for coming to Cashelmara; he thanked them for their present; he thanked me “for more than could ever be expressed in words,” and just as David was watching my tomato hue again with interest Edward said to his eldest son, “I would like to drink a toast to you too, Patrick, in belated celebration of your coming of age. Now that you’re grown up I shall look forward to ceding part of your inheritance to you to administer as you think fit. It’s a great comfort to me at my time of life to know that I have a son upon whom I can rely for help.”

Poor Patrick was immediately far more overcome than I was. I saw the tears in his eyes and prayed hard that Edward would not notice, but fortunately he was already looking at the others as he raised his glass.

“I shall do my very best to help you, Papa,” Patrick assured him when he had recovered his poise. “Which portion of Woodhammer did you intend me to administer?”

“Woodhammer?” said Edward, surprised. “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Woodhammer. You know the estate there well enough already. I was thinking that now is the time when you should learn more about Cashelmara.”

I saw Patrick’s expression and my heart sank. I tried to kick him to warn him not to object, but I only succeeded in kicking Annabel instead.

“Good God!” said Annabel. “There’s a colt under the table!”

“Oh, Annabel!” I exclaimed feverishly. “Do tell Edward about that colt you bought the other day at Letterturk fair. It was such an amusing story!”

Annabel needed no further encouragement. The situation was temporarily saved, but later after the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room I said privately to Edward, “Dearest, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve decided to put so much trust in Patrick. I’m sure he feels very honored and pleased. Of course he’ll find it a little lonely here at Cashelmara, especially after we leave for England, but if he had company for a little while I’ve no doubt the prospect wouldn’t seem so intimidating to him. Couldn’t Derry come to stay for a week or two? After all, Derry’s acquitted himself so well in Dublin, hasn’t he, and you never truly blamed him for that wretched business with Katherine which was all my fault. And now that Patrick’s grown up … well, the situation is so different, isn’t it, from the days when he was just a boy and easily led into mischief? I dare say too that Derry is quite settled down now that he’s been called to the bar. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm if he visited Cashelmara—don’t you agree?”

Of course he agreed. Edward was not going to disagree with me on that night of all nights, and once again I preened myself on my successful meddling and thought how clever I was at managing my family’s affairs.

Derry arrived two weeks later on the morning after Katherine and Duneden had departed. Madeleine had long since returned to her hospital, and because Edward was anxious to attend the closing sessions of Parliament we intended to return to London ourselves the following week. However, I wondered if he would be fit enough to travel, for after the party his arthritis had troubled him so severely that he had been unable to ride around the estate. Patrick had been obliged to go out alone with MacGowan, and Edward, who had been looking forward to instructing his son, had been frustrated in his desire to accompany them.

Another matter frustrated him too. When the pain was bad during our times alone together there was nothing he could do except dose himself heavily with laudanum and wait for the pain to pass.

“You mustn’t worry on my account,” I said at once when he became upset.