Dorothy Eden (2 page)

“He has no manners. I hear that he simply ignores invitations.”

Katherine was aware of the piercing black eyes of The O’Gorman Mahon on her.

“That’s a thing no woman of mettle would allow to happen. Isn’t that true, Mrs. O’Shea?”

“How can I stop it happening?”

“Don’t ask me. Use your feminine wiles.” He looked at her again, thoughtfully and appreciatively. “If I make no mistake, you have plenty of them. You might do your country a service.”

“You make a mistake, Mr. Mahon. I am not Irish.”

“But you’re married to an Irishman. That makes the poor ould country, for better or worse, your own. Don’t do her any harm, Mrs. O’Shea.”

Katharine had to laugh.

“Does all this come out of a simple dinner party? Ireland’s fate?”

“An oak grows from a seed, Ma’am. Anyway, no one ever told me that Charlie Parnell didn’t like women. He was reported to be pursuing one in America. But she escaped him, or he escaped her, I don’t know the rights of it.”

Willie said he objected to his wife being expected to become Parnell’s nursemaid. The two men began a slightly drunken wrangle about what could or could not be expected of a politician’s wife, then found themselves too comfortable and too tipsy to argue. The O’Gorman Mahon swallowed a half-tumbler of neat whisky, rolled a remarkably bright and lascivious eye, and said slowly and deliberately, “You could get any man at your feet, Mrs. O’Shea. Even that old puritan Gladstone. I’m only asking ye to be a wee bit kind to a tired man. Is that beyond your ability? Say it is and I won’t believe you.”

She didn’t intend to say it was, for she was looking forward, with some curiosity, to meeting Mr. Parnell. She would place him beside her at the dinner table and, if he did prove to be unsociable and difficult, she would do her best to draw him out. Of course it was not beyond her ability. She had helped her father in his parish too much, and talked too much to all kinds of people, both rich and poor, and had too much sympathy with the wretched and the underprivileged, not to be able to find a great deal to say to Mr. Parnell.

Although she had never been to Ireland herself. She had wanted Willie to take her there on their honeymoon, but he had refused. That had been thirteen years ago in the year 1867, and things were pretty wretched, with another famine, and Kate might be upset if she saw a corpse lying in a ditch, or they encountered one of those numerous black-clad processions making its grief-blinded way to the churchyard. It was extremely tiresome the way the Irish were always starving, as if they enjoyed their misery, as if they willed the potato crops to blacken with blight. From the Queen down, the English nation was sick and tired of its awkward quarrelsome vociferous illogical and irrepressible neighbour.

As a landlord himself, even though his estate in Limerick was heavily mortgaged, Willie allied himself with the English against the constantly troublesome peasants.

Of course, if he and Kate had confined their visit to Dublin, and had had invitations to balls or receptions at Dublin Castle, they could have had a fine time. The great reception rooms at Dublin Castle were the setting for some of the finest gowns and jewels in Europe. One didn’t need to know anything about the stinking candlelit cellars in the slums where three or more families lived in one room, one could avert one’s eyes from the out-thrust skeleton hand of a starving child, or the anonymous bundle of rags lying in eternal stillness in the shadow of an alley.

But could Willie have trusted his new wife, with the tiresome social conscience she had inherited from her father (which she would soon grow out of, he trusted), to dress in her pretty elegant trousseau gowns and ignore the prevailing fashion in Dublin for black threadbare head shawls, frayed skirts and clogs, or, for the children, one ragged garment through which the wind blew, and from which a skinny shoulder or buttock stuck nakedly?

He seemed to doubt if he could. So he had taken her to Paris where they could be as gay and extravagant as they pleased.

From Paris to the racing stables in Hertfordshire which had failed, to the miserable little house in Harrow Road where Katharine’s first baby, Gerard, had been born, to the much grander house in Beaufort Gardens, where both Norah and Carmen had been born, and where Willie had indulged in a social life he couldn’t afford, to this ugly large Victorian mansion, Wonersh Lodge, in Eltham, which belonged to Katharine’s aunt, and by whose courtesy and generosity they lived there … It had been a journey that had taken thirteen years, and that had become increasingly painful as all her affection (it had never been love, she had long ago realised), for her charming weak untrustworthy self-indulgent vain husband had died.

“Miss Katharine!” That was Lucy’s voice prodding her. “You look as if you’re miles away.”

“I am, Lucy. At least not miles, but years away.” Katharine gave herself a shake, bringing herself back to the present. “I was thinking of my wedding day, I don’t know why.”

Lucy’s lined and shrunken face softened. She dearly liked to talk of weddings, and that of dear Miss Katharine, who had been her charge from infancy, most of all.

“You wore that white lace bonnet trimmed with pink roses that the Captain admired. You looked like an angel. And then you nearly ruined your looks by crying and thinking you might be making a mistake. I was ashamed of you. Imagine if the Captain had seen his bride in tears.”

“He’s seen her like that often enough since,” Katharine said briefly.

But Lucy was having none of that. She had brought up her charges, Katharine, and her sisters, Emma, Clarissa, and Anna, to hold their heads up, keep their backs straight, and not to indulge in self-pity.

“Now, I’ll not listen to any grumblings. You with a good-looking husband who’s a member for Parliament, and three lovely children. Shame on you, Miss Katharine! And am I to pack your night things?”

Katharine went into another daydream, this time about her children, Gerard, her handsome son who was now at preparatory school, and the two little girls with their rosy faces and their soft bright delphinium-blue eyes. Aunt Ben called them her butterflies, but they were more like flowers, a delicious nosegay of pink, blue and white. Her children were the good things Willie had given her. She had to rouse herself to answer Lucy.

“My night things? Yes, Lucy. I don’t care to travel alone late at night. I’ll stay at Thomas’s Hotel.”

Lucy could make no comment about that, because it would have to have been derogatory towards the dear Captain. She knew that he had rooms in London, and seldom came to Wonersh Lodge on any day but Sundays when he took the children to Mass. He would be unlikely to accompany his wife home after a late night in town. He insisted on her doing a certain amount of entertaining for him, but she could hardly complain about spending the rest of the night at Thomas’s Hotel, where they had known her since her childhood. She must enjoy escaping from the boredom of the country now and then, although she professed to like living in Eltham, and playing the part of unpaid companion to her old aunt. Though it couldn’t exactly be called unpaid, since the old lady had provided the house, the servants, and a good deal of their expenses. She had done this because Katharine was her favourite niece and she liked to have her near. She was very old, very rich. Katharine knew that Willie found a great deal to commend itself in the present situation, though he did not intend it to be thought that his marriage had failed. So Katharine, looking well-groomed and attractive, must make an appearance in society now and then.

Katharine had not lived with Willie for thirteen years without knowing exactly how his mind worked. He had no more surprises for her. She had long ago decided that her happiness must come from her children. But she could still enjoy an interesting dinner party. Willie had always admitted that she was an accomplished hostess. She was looking forward to this evening and the challenge it presented. She had met plenty of Willie’s Irish friends, most of them hearty hard-drinking talkative men like himself. She had a distinct feeling that Mr. Parnell would be stimulatingly different, that his cold and unapproachable manner would be just a façade which a perceptive woman could penetrate.

“Now, Miss Katharine, I’ve spoken twice,” said Lucy severely.

“I’m sorry, Lucy, I wasn’t listening.”

“I asked what train you mean to catch.”

“Oh, the five-thirty will be early enough. I promised I would go and see Aunt Ben first, since I’ll be late in the morning. I’ll pour tea for her, and be back in an hour.”

Aunt Ben had young Mr. George Meredith there when Katharine called. He read to the old lady every afternoon. She had always had an interesting literary and political circle, especially when her husband, who had been a Member of Parliament, had been alive. A great many celebrities had passed through her famous tapestry room. Now she was old, almost ninety, and there were no more large parties at the Lodge, but she still liked to cultivate young writers. She enjoyed listening to Mr. Meredith because he had a pleasant voice, but this did not mean he had freedom to read anything he chose, particularly his own works. She found them not to her taste at all. Perhaps when he was an accomplished writer and had stood the test of time, like her old friend, Mr. Trollope, she would enjoy his work. Only, by that time, of course, she would be dead and buried. It was a pity, but infinitely better for their friendship if he confined himself to reading Miss Austen, Mr. Thackeray and Mr. Trollope.

When Katharine arrived, Mr. Meredith seemed glad to escape. He bowed himself out, taking care to step only on the rugs, as another fad of Aunt Ben’s was that she did not like the highly polished parquet floor to be walked on in anything but soft slippers, of which she kept a supply handy for callers.

Aunt Ben put up her face to be kissed.

“It’s nice to see you, Katharine, but I wasn’t expecting you until the morning.”

“I told you I would come and have tea with you before going up to town.”

“Oh, yes, of course, how forgetful I am. You’re giving a dinner party. That’s nice. It’s time you had some gaiety. You’re too much with an old woman and children. I don’t deny it’s nice for me and the butterflies, but you want the company of men occasionally. And I don’t mean only Willie. You have great assets, Katharine. It’s time a man discovered them.”

Katharine looked sharply into the gentle unfocussed eyes, as dim and faded as yesterday’s bluebells.

“I mean a real man, my swan. You know my opinion of Willie. I am sorry to say I have never considered him anything more than an overgrown schoolboy. It’s only because he is your husband that I receive him at all.”

“But, Aunt Ben—”

“I am eighty-eight years old and permitted to be outrageous. I don’t say you have to fall in love. That would make excessively awkward complications. But enjoy mature conversation and companionship with the opposite sex. I have been fortunate enough to have that privilege all my life. It’s something an intelligent woman shouldn’t have to do without. You’re still young. There’s time. Life doesn’t end in Eltham.”

Katharine was laughing. Aunt Ben’s perspicacity constantly amused and surprised her.

“This is only a small political dinner, Aunt Ben. Willie thought we ought to entertain Mr. Parnell. We may find him very dull.”

“Dull!” The old lady leaned forward to tap Katharine with her fan. “It’s not like you to be so stupid, Katharine. How could a man who seems to be wielding more power than Daniel O’Connell—I met him once, and a most fascinating eloquent noisy creature he was, he swept me off my feet. I remember feeling quite stunned afterwards. Ever since then I’ve decided a little leaven of the Irish in the world is an important thing. But what was I saying?”

“About Mr. Parnell.”

“Oh, yes. If he is greater than Daniel O’Connell, then being dull is the last thing to expect of him. You are more likely to feel stunned, as I did.”

“If he comes,” Katharine murmured.

Aunt Ben looked at her in surprise.

“Good gracious, do you think he might not come? My dear child, I think I can trust you not to let him escape with a display of bad manners like that.”

Katharine was dressed in her town clothes before she went to say goodbye to the children.

They rushed at her with cries of joy, in spite of Miss Glennister’s attempts at restraint. Katharine wondered again if this young woman were quite the most suitable person to be the little girls’ governess. She was not good at keeping order, and there was something wistful and sullen beneath her prim exterior. However, one had to remember the un-satisfactoriness of a life such as hers and realise that she could have had worse faults than her affected cheerfulness and her furtive looks of envy.

“Mamma, are you going to London?” Norah demanded, and Carmen added, “To see Papa?”

“Both. We are giving a party. Lucy has packed my bag. So Miss Glennister will read you your bedtime story tonight, and I expect you to be good children.”

“Mamma, who will dance with you? Papa?” Carmen asked.

Norah, with the superiority of the elder sister, said scornfully, “She will dance with a lot of gentlemen. Won’t you, Mamma?”

“Not nicer gentlemen than Papa?” Carmen asked anxiously.

“Silly, how could there be nicer gentlemen than Papa, or Mamma wouldn’t have married him. Would you, Mamma?”

“Or had him for our father?” said Carmen. “You have to have a father for babies.”

Norah forgot to look superior and said eagerly, “Mamma, couldn’t you get us another baby? Carmen and I would so dearly like one.”

Another baby? The children didn’t know what they were asking. How could she tell them that there would never be any more babies. She had resolved that that part of her life with Willie was over the morning six weeks ago when he had come to her at Thomas’s Hotel. The morning indeed, when he had been supposed to call for her there the previous evening to take her to Lady Londonderry’s ball! Dressed in her ball gown, she had sat waiting from ten o’clock to midnight. Then in a rage she had torn off her clothes, dropped them on the floor, and gone to bed.

Shamefacedly Willie had appeared after breakfast, saying that he had completely forgotten about her until less than half an hour ago. The ball, the fact that he had persuaded her to come up to town for it and that she would be dressed and waiting for him, had entirely vanished from his mind. He had been detained at his club. Some friends of his had arrived from Ireland. She knew what the Irish were.