Cashelmara (65 page)

I ran to the window, saw who it was and rushed to open the front door.

Patrick was unhurt. He dismounted as soon as the horses were halted at the foot of the steps, but MacGowan’s coat was streaked with blood, and one arm hung uselessly at his side.

“Quickly, Sarah!” gasped Patrick. “Call Terence and Gerald and tell them—”

“The servants have gone,” I said. I leaned against the doorpost to ease the weight on my feet.

“What do you mean? Gone where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Christ Almighty! Well, don’t waste time standing there gaping at us. Get some brandy, for God’s sake!”

“Get it yourself,” I said and went to sit down again on the stairs.

Through the open door I saw him help MacGowan down from the saddle. MacGowan never made a sound, but I knew he was in pain because when they entered the hall all he did was look for the nearest chair.

“Come into the library.” They disappeared for a moment before Patrick returned to the hall.

“Damn you!” he exclaimed to me in a fury. “Won’t you even lift a finger to help a man with a bullet in his arm?”

I said nothing, and the effort of keeping silent was so intense that I had no strength left to rise to my feet. Yet the thought of the bullet was pleasing to me. I smiled as Patrick turned abruptly and went into the dining room.

“Christ, is there no more brandy?” He returned to the hall in a worse rage than before. “Where’s the key to the cellar?”

“Flannigan has one,” I said coolly. “The other is upstairs in the top drawer of my writing table.” He was already climbing the stairs when I added, “But there’s no more brandy. You drank it all.”

He looked angrier than ever and ran on upstairs to bring lint and bandages from the bathroom closet.

When he reappeared he carried not only the medical supplies but a jar of poteen that had lain hidden in some secret cache. He neither spoke to me nor looked at me, and it was hard to believe that a few hours before he had been bringing me flowers and inquiring conscientiously about my health.

He dressed MacGowan’s arm. I heard him say things like “Looks like a flesh wound. If I bind it up very tightly … Have some more poteen. Sorry, did that hurt? You must see a doctor … soon as possible.”

MacGowan spoke only once. He said, “One day I’ll ruin that bastard Maxwell Drummond,” and the ugly lowland Scots accent was so strong in his voice that he sounded a different man from the well-spoken agent who ruled Cashelmara.

I wanted to go upstairs now that I was no longer alone in the house, but after those long nerve-wracking hours of solitude I derived a curious comfort from the presence of other people—even those two people—and I was still sitting on the stairs five minutes later when I heard the murmur of sound far away.

The front door was open. As soon as I reached the threshold I saw the torches flaring downhill by the gates and heard the distant tramp of marching feet.

“There are people coming up the drive!” I ran into the library and the words tumbled from my mouth so fast that I hardly knew what I said.

Patrick went ashen. “Are you sure?”

“Look!” I dragged him to the window and pointed into the gathering dusk.

He spun around to face MacGowan. “We can ride up the Azalea Walk past the chapel and escape into the mountains. Do you think you can get back on your horse?”

MacGowan nodded and levered himself to his feet.

“You’re not leaving me,” I said to Patrick. The newspaper account of the Maumtrasna murders flashed sickeningly through my mind and made me forget the pride which would have forbidden me to turn to him for help. “You can’t leave. I’m alone here.”

He was busy helping MacGowan. “I’ve got to go with Hugh.”

I stared at him wordlessly.

“They’ll kill him if they find him here. I’ve got to help him get away.”

“Let him get away by himself!”

“He’s injured.”

“He’s well enough to ride!”

Patrick simply shook his head and helped MacGowan to the door.

“Patrick, you can’t leave me alone here. I’m eight months pregnant. I’m having your child. Please stay. You’ve got to stay. Please!”

“They won’t harm a pregnant woman.”

“But a savage mob, bent on violence …”

He took no notice. I went on pleading with him, I even wept, but I might not have existed. All he cared about was MacGowan.

They had barely scuttled away on horseback around the side of the house when the mob swept around the last curve of the drive and howled across the gravel sweep toward me.

I turned and ran. I was so frightened that I didn’t even stop to close the front door. I tried to barricade myself in the library by dragging a chair across the room, but the chair was too heavy for me, and when the pain shot through my body I sank in terror onto the couch. The tears were streaming down my face. I hugged the baby as if I could will it to stay in my body, and oddly enough this futile gesture gave me courage. Rage at Patrick’s desertion flooded through me, and with the rage came the familiar strength so that when I heard the front door crash open and the hoarse voices shouting in Irish I stood up, wiped the tears from my face and moved behind the huge desk before turning to face the intruders.

Someone kicked the door open. A torch flared. Noise blasted across the room, and the smell of smoke and unwashed bodies slapped me across the face. My strength abandoned me suddenly. A great sickness churned in my stomach, and even as a bearded ruffian yelled something unintelligible at me the room faded before my eyes and I slipped thankfully over the edge of consciousness into the dark.

When I awoke I was aware first of the silence. The room was full of people; I could smell them and dimly see their distant faces, but nobody spoke. Yet someone was close to me. I was no longer alone.

Then someone spoke. The Irish was soft and low, a dying language and yet so very beautiful, and the next moment I felt the cold rim of a glass against my lips and the fire of poteen as it burned my throat. I choked, gasped. An arm tightened around me, and closer than the unwashed bodies, closer even than the reek of poteen, I smelled the faint raw tang of carbolic soap and the barest nuance of tobacco.

“You’re quite safe, my lady,” said Maxwell Drummond.

I looked up. He was there. His eyes were grave.

“Let me move you to the couch.”

Someone took the glass from my hand. I felt myself lifted from the floor and placed gently on the upholstered velvet. Across the room the army of peasants spilled across the library threshold and filled the hall, but still not one of them moved and still not one of them spoke.

“My lady, there are questions I must be asking you.” I looked up at him and he stopped. After a long moment he said, “Where’s your husband?”

“He … left.” My voice sounded higher than usual but surprisingly strong.

“With MacGowan?”

“Yes.”

“Which way?”

“Past the chapel,” I said, “and up into the mountains.”

He turned to his followers and gave orders in Irish again. Suddenly everyone was moving, and the silence was broken by the murmur of a hundred voices and the clatter of boots on the marble floor of the hall. I closed my eyes, overcome with relief that I was to be left alone, but when I opened my eyes again I saw that although the mob had left Drummond himself was still there. I had never thought he would stay, and the shock of seeing him was so great that I started violently.

He made a gesture of reassurance. “I won’t hurt you. Are you in pain?”

“No, just a little weak … probably because I haven’t eaten … not since lunch. All the servants have gone. I was going to get myself something to eat, but …” I couldn’t remember what had happened, but I knew it no longer mattered.

“You mean you’re alone in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband knew that?”

“Oh yes,” I said and found that didn’t matter any more either.

“Sweet Jesus, what a creature! If I didn’t see your figure with my own eyes I’d think he was masquerading as a man.” He finished the poteen and set down the glass with a bang.

“MacGowan drank from that same glass less than half an hour ago,” I said.

“You told me a little late, didn’t you? And me already poisoned!”

We smiled at each other. I felt well suddenly and very strong.

“I want to get even with MacGowan,” I said.

“I’ll drink to that.” He poured himself some more poteen and handed me the glass. “We’ll both be drinking to it,” he said, so I took a little sip from the glass, not much, for I was afraid of choking on it again, and when I handed the glass back to him he raised it and said with a laugh, “To the blackest Black Protestant that ever came out of Scotland—may he fry in hell!” And when I laughed too he said, “I’ll make you a present one day. How would you like that?”

“What sort of present?”

“A long rope necklace, nothing fancy to be sure, but with Hugh MacGowan’s private parts dangling at the end of it.”

He laughed again, and the most extraordinary part of all was that I laughed too. It never occurred to me to be shocked. The suggestion with the images it conjured up was so delightfully absurd that I giggled like a schoolgirl, and suddenly I knew there was no longer any doubt that I would get my revenge. My spirits soared. I couldn’t remember when I had last felt so excited, and all I wanted was for him to stay.

But of course he couldn’t. He had to go.

“I must bring some food for you before I leave,” he said. “How will I be finding the kitchens?”

I tried to give him directions, but he only said, “Holy Mary, I’ll need a compass or I’ll be lost forevermore!” and disappeared with a candle into the hall. He was gone no more than five minutes. When he came back he carried a loaf of bread, half a chicken and a pitcher of milk, all crammed precariously on a small silver salver.

“If it’s a butler you’re wanting,” he said, “I’ll not apply for the post. What’s the use of a little tray this size?”

“That’s only for leaving calling cards.”

“Well, I called,” he said, “and in my own way I’ve left my card.” He looked around the room. “This is a fine house,” he said, “a house fit for a king. I always did admire Cashelmara.” He poured some milk for me into the glass which had held poteen and after a moment added, “I’ll see that Miss de Salis knows you’re alone here and she can come with the doctor to make sure all’s well. But no harm will come to you between now and then, that I promise. Are you sure there’s no pain?”

I was looking at the laugh lines about his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, but suddenly I could no longer see them, for he had moved too close and his face had slipped into a different focus. He was sitting on the couch beside me, and I saw only his straight, narrow upper lip as the palms of his hands slid gently behind my head.

I parted my lips even before his mouth closed on mine. I had never done that before, but then I had never liked kissing, so moist and messy and later jerky and rough. But now I wanted to be kissed, and to my surprise everything became very smooth and firm as my whole body relaxed in his arms.

My mouth was free again. I felt him straighten his back, and I squeezed my eyes tight shut to summon the will to say goodbye. But he postponed all goodbyes. He leaned forward again, and as his hands moved upon my neck and shoulders I couldn’t believe I had once thought him uncouth. It was almost as if he knew how repulsive I found emotional violence, but of course he’d never know that. I’d see he never looked at me with pity and contempt when he discovered what a failure I was.

Tears blurred my eyes. He withdrew, but I felt so bitter and confused that I scarcely noticed. By the time I was able to look at him again he had risen to his feet and was looking down at me.

“Is it crying you are,” he said, “and you the bravest woman I ever met! Tears are no use. It’s not tears that’ll get you even with MacGowan.” He stooped over me again and tilted my face to his. “I wish you a safe confinement,” he said, “and a speedy recovery. And when you’ve returned to health—” he paused, his eyes inches from mine—“I’ll come looking for you.”

He didn’t wait for my reply. He left the room, and I heard his boots ring out as he crossed the hall; but I was strong still, and I no longer minded being alone in the house. I drank a little milk and ate some bread and meat, and after a long while I remembered how I had blamed Drummond for Marguerite’s death and how convinced I had been that the very sight of him would repulse me.

It was five hours before a distraught Madeleine arrived with Dr. Cahill, but I didn’t mind the long wait. I merely lay on the library couch and thought of Maxwell Drummond, and whenever I remembered the necklace he had promised me I felt my lips curve involuntarily in a smile.

MACGOWAN ESCAPED. HE AND
Patrick found their way over the mountains into the Erriff Valley, where MacGowan took the first passing outside car to Westport, while Patrick, with MacGowan’s horse in tow, rode the other way to the inn at Leenane.

The servants crept back to Cashelmara. Madeleine, who had decided to stay with me until all danger of a miscarriage had passed, reprimanded them until they all wept for shame and then packed them off to Mass in Clonareen to assuage their guilt. One of the grooms was delegated to ride to Letterturk after Mass to fetch George.

George reported that Clonagh Court was a gutted ruin and that the elder MacGowan’s house had been attacked with the thoroughness of a wrecking machine. Hugh had sent his father to Galway the day before, so the old man was safe, but three peasants had been killed in the fight with the soldiers, and the captain of the military detachment came to Cashelmara to say his men had suffered numerous injuries.

The police arrived to make arrests, but George said no, better not; God alone knew what might happen if there were arrests now on top of evictions and shootings, and it would be best to let matters quiet down before taking any further steps.

“We’ve got to consider Sarah’s health,” he said to Madeleine. “We can’t risk any further violence at Cashelmara at present.”

“I wouldn’t have thought George would have been so sensible,” said Madeleine to me afterward. She herself had deplored the evictions and had repeatedly told Patrick not to take MacGowan’s advice.