Kilpara (20 page)

“
Be glad to,” I said.

The man who was the center of attention pushed
his way back from the bar and came over to our table, downing half
his glass of black beer.

“
What did I tell you, Charlie old
chap,” he said waving his glass at Sloane. “There’s no beating her,
I said. And there wasn’t, now was there? Of course not. Proved the
doubters among us wrong, now didn’t I?”

“
To be sure,” Ligham
admitted.

“
Sheer luck,” Sloane said frostily.
“Black Knight had a bad day.”

“
No such thing,” the stranger said.
“If the race was run a hundred times over, Pandora would win every
time. You didn’t back her, did you? You’d be happy to see me go
broke and have me hand my daughter over to you. Well, not this
time, Charlie old chap, Pandora saw to that.” He laughed loudly and
when his laugh began to die, and his heavy stomach stopped shaking,
he noticed me.

“
And you are?”

“
Mr. Ellis from America,” Sloane
announced, introducing me.

“
Arthur Purcenell.” The newcomer
gripped my hand.

I looked into Purcenell’s bright excited eyes
and assessed the man behind them. His round glutton face flushed
red from the thrill of winning was accentuated by his heavy build,
balding black hair and a split between his teeth that made his
words whistle when he spoke. He showed obvious satisfaction at
having the upper hand over the other two men in what appeared to be
some kind of contest among the three of them.

“
Americans love horses—sure they
do,” Purcenell said. “They ride them all over the place in America.
My horse, Pandora, is the fastest in all of Great Britain. You
agree, don’t you, Charlie?” He guffawed as he turned to Sloane.
“She proved that today when she beat the best champion there
is.”

“
She may be the best in Ireland,”
Sloane said, an edge in his voice. “But you can't claim the title
for all of Great Britain.”

“
Sure, I can,” Purcenell said
stubbornly. “Pandora’ll beat any horse. There’s none better than
her anywhere in the world.”

“
Righto,” Sloane said. I sensed he
was baiting Purcenell, but Purcenell was too pumped up to notice.
Sloane stroked his mustache. “No doubt, you’ve heard of
Guardian?”

“
No—” Purcenell was more cautious
now.

“
He’s the best there is,” Sloane
said. “I could arrange a competition, if the wager is
right.”

Other horse enthusiasts came over and slapped
Purcenell on the back. “Nice race, Arthur,” they said in
turn.

Purcenell beamed, and after the men left he
said, “Who owns this Guardian?”

“
Sir Geoffrey Thornton, the Royal
physician.”

Purcenell was visibly impressed and said
almost gleefully, “I stand by what I said. Pandora can beat any
horse.”

“
He’s coming to Ireland in a
fortnight for a visit. I’m sure he’d be delighted to have some
amusement while he’s here.” A sly smile twisted around Sloane’s
mouth. “I’ll see him next week in London. Shall I arrange the
contest?”

“
By all means,” Purcenell said.
“I’ll look forward to it. But it’ll be me who’s amused when Pandora
wins. He turned to me. “Your friend, the American here, will be
witness that Arthur Purcenell means what he says. You’ll come to
the race?” I opened my mouth to speak, but he forged ahead. “Of
course, you will, you're American, and Americans love horses and
horse racing. Set it up, Charlie old chap, and we’ll talk about the
wager.”

Sloane pounced immediately. “The wager is your
daughter's hand if you lose, and I pay five hundred pounds to you
if you win.” Purcenell’s face turned red and he began trembling
from head to foot. He turned and pushed his way back to the bar,
mumbling something under his breath that sounded like “over my dead
body.”

Sloane didn’t seem to notice or may have
chosen to ignore Purcenell's discontent as he grinned at Ligham. He
rose to leave. He turned to me, reinforcing Ligham’s invitation to
join in a card game. I courteously agreed. He handed me his card
with an invitation to call on him. I noticed his address was
Larcourt, Lough Corrib.

When the crowd dwindled, I left the inn to
walk along the beach. So much had happened since we left
Stonebridge. I was no longer Ellis O’Donovan, the reluctant son
bringing his mother back to Ireland to save her children the agony
of watching her die, but just plain Ellis, a businessman ready to
procure the marble quarry owned by Irish clergy that somehow
involved St. Bridget’s Convent. Then there was the encounter with
Purcenell, whose words whistled through split teeth, and whose
burly figure wasn’t nearly as large as his ego. I could see why
Aunt Sadie thought the situation was hopeless. It would be an
overwhelming task to convince the man he should allow Mother her
request when he viewed Kilpara’s former owners to be nothing more
than contemptible Irish postulants. Feeling desolate, I longed for
Astelle’s comforting arms.

That evening, grooms arrived from the convent
and began packing up what they hadn’t taken on their previous
journey. I asked about Brazonhead and they said they had walked him
several times and he was gradually adjusting.

“
Sure is spirited,” one man
said.

“
More than a handful, if you ask
me,” the other one added. “Must be something to watch him in his
element.”

I nodded agreement.

The man grinned. “He seemed calmer after a bit
of exercise and a good brushing down. Might even take to his new
home, in time.”

I thanked them both and went to see Mother.
She had eaten most of her evening meal, the drapes having been
closed to give the room a restful atmosphere. She was feeling
drowsy and didn't protest when I stayed just long enough to bid her
good night. Afterwards, I retired to my room and tried to occupy
myself with a game of solitaire. But my mind kept creeping back
over the day's events. I felt a web of circumstances was drawing me
into some unforeseen showdown with Purcenell. I wondered what I
could offer the man that might change his mind. I became resolved,
that this time round, the Purcenells would not control my parents’
destiny as they had done once before.

I arose before dawn and went to the kitchen in
the hope of finding early morning staff from who I could pry some
coffee. As I passed the Tea Room, I saw Aunt Sadie sitting by the
window staring at the sun creeping over the horizon. Not wanting to
disturb her, I slipped unnoticed into the hotel kitchen where a
stout woman stood kneading bread dough and the delicious smell of
bread and cakes baking came from big ovens.

“
Is it too early to ask for
coffee?” I said.

“
Can’t sleep, eh?” she answered.
“It’s the change ye know, bothers people when they cross the ocean.
I’m brewing tea now, but if ye wait a bit, I’ll have ye a cup of
coffee. Would ye like some warm bread with butter and marmalade and
maybe a rasher or two to go with it?”

“
That would be great,” I
said.

“
If ye wait in the Tea Room, I’ll
bring it in.” She put the dough in a large baking pan and placed it
in the oven. “You’ll settle down soon enough, so ye will.” I
thanked her and went to the Tea Room where Aunt Sadie still sat in
the same position. I wondered if she was praying.

I coughed and she turned around. “Ellis,
you’re up early.”

“
Uneasy, I suppose,” I said. “And
you?”

“
I rise early, out of habit. I like
to check on patients in the wards while everything’s quiet, comfort
the ones that are restless, and afterwards spend a little time in
the chapel.” I looked into her serene face wondering why she had
chosen this selfless life. What gratification was there, if any, in
such piety?

“
I met Purcenell yesterday
afternoon,” I announced.

“
Burly man, balding hair, with a
noticeable split between his front teeth?” Aunt Sadie
said.

I nodded.

“
I saw him here at the inn,” she
said. “But he was too preoccupied to notice me. I wonder what he’s
doing in Galway.”

“
He was celebrating. His horse won
an important race. I was introduced to him by Charles Sloane whom I
met quite by accident and who misunderstood my surname to be
Ellis—”

Aunt Sadie seemed to read my mind. “You didn't
correct him? Please don't do anything reckless, Ellis. It won’t
help matters.”

“
I want to get closer to Purcenell.
Find a way to convince him to allow Mother her request. You said
yourself he won't speak to an O'Donovan. This is the only
way.”

Aunt Sadie shook her head. “Maybe I was hasty
in telling you about Purcenell.” Her voice sounded worried. “I
should've waited until you better understood our ways.”

I was about to respond when the stout woman
came into the Tea Room with a large pot of coffee, steaming bowls
of oatmeal, large slices of warm bread, and bacon. At the sight of
the food, all thoughts of Purcenell were put aside.

“
Eat this, the both of ye, while
it’s hot,” the woman commanded, setting the tray down. “It’ll give
ye the strength you’ll need to get through the day.” We thanked her
heartily, and her ruddy face broke into a pleasant smile as she
left.

A shadowy sun, barely visible behind clouds,
greeted us as we piled into the carriage. Aunt Sadie became all
business, our earlier conversation forgotten as Mother became her
foremost concern. She cautioned the drivers to go carefully over
rough spots in the road. They agreed respectfully and the carriage
rumbled its way slowly over the narrow, winding, irregular streets
of Galway Town toward St. Bridget’s Convent. Along the way, Sadie
pointed out where the Corrib River emptied into the harbor, an
outlet for the two great lakes, Lough Mask and Lough Corrib. Here
the river was a shallow, rocky, swift stream that Aunt Sadie said
one could walk across it on the backs of salmon during spawning
season. She pointed out familiar buildings to Mother, whose memory
returned keen. Her face lit up as she recalled places of her
childhood. We passed the Spanish Arch where she announced they had
hidden from their governess.

“
Remember how easy it was to
distract her,” Aunt Sadie said.

“
We sneaked off to market with the
coins Father gave us and spent them on trinkets,” Mother
said.

“
They were treasures to us,” Aunt
Sadie agreed.

They looked at each other and an understanding
passed between them. Aunt Sadie squeezed Mother’s hand.

Before long, Mercy Hospital and Saint
Bridget’s Convent loomed straight ahead, dark, dank stone buildings
brightened only by patchy blue skies and green grass. They faced
the west side of Galway Town, not far from the ocean, strongholds
against forceful winds. Although the buildings seemed like dark
fortresses that harbored the sick and dying, bright flower gardens
abounded that had seen many busy hands. These were filled with
color as peonies, day lilies, marigolds, foxgloves, and irises
mingled in clusters near scattered chestnut trees. Mother sniffed
as we passed fuchsia bushes in bloom. “There’s nothing more
delightful than the smell of fuchsia mixed with ocean air,” she
said.

Aunt Sadie laughed. “I’ve never thought of the
two together, but I suppose you’re right.”

We were taken to a smaller building set apart
for visiting priests and nuns. Inside, the floors were polished
till they shone, and clean bright curtains hung on long windows
that looked out onto cut lawns and hedges. A room had been arranged
for Mother downstairs where novices in starched habits, their faces
bright and wholesome, moved softly across tiled floors to assist
us.

My accommodation was immediately above, past
the landing where a large statue of the Virgin Mary stood. Because
these rooms were meant for visiting priests, a cross hung on the
center wall of the main room, the mournful figure of Jesus looking
down. Beneath was a kneeler for the worshipper to pray and
meditate. One wall was covered with books, mostly religious. A
divan stood in the center of the room sided by two lounging chairs,
and next to the window stood a round table large enough to invite a
companion for dinner. To the right was the bedroom where the bed,
like everything else, was made from heavy mahogany. A wardrobe was
positioned in one corner just a few feet away from the chest of
drawers. A desk, a straight-back chair, and a large arm-backed
chair filled up the rest of the room.

Mother seemed content in this restful
atmosphere, thanks to the kind attention of the novices. They moved
silently in and out most of the day, which I spent making short
visits to her room. A housekeeper had been assigned to take care of
us and that evening Aunt Sadie joined us in the library for a light
meal. Afterwards, she left for evening prayer. Mother rested in the
company of a novice who sat by her bedside, her head bent in silent
meditation over the black hard-covered missal in her
hands.

I learned that summer evenings were long in
Ireland, and we had arrived at a time when these were lengthening.
There was still plenty of light left when I slipped outside to
check on Brazonhead. He nickered even before I reached his stall
and began pawing at the ground when he saw me. “You restless,
fella?” I asked. He continued to paw at the ground. “Okay, okay,” I
said. “Let’s go for a ride.” His saddle hung close by, freshly
cleaned, and Brazonhead could hardly contain himself as I strapped
it on.