The Blood Upon the Rose (41 page)

Catherine glanced at Andrew and shook her head. ‘No thanks, Josie, I’m showing Major Butler around the estate. But I’ll look in again another day if I can.’

As they rode off up the lane, Andrew laughed. ‘So much for your support for Sinn Fein,’ he said. ‘Even that filthy old hag can see they’re a bunch of murderers. Wasn’t it women like her who threw horse dung on the traitors in 1916, because their service pensions couldn’t be paid during the Rising?’

The rain was coming down in sheets now, and a flash of lightning made the horses frisk nervously. Grainne danced round in a circle. Catherine yelled: ‘She’s just an ignorant old woman who doesn’t know any better. It doesn’t mean the Republic’s wrong – it’s coming, like it or not. You’ll see!’

Then the rain and the thunder made it too hard to talk. They trotted up the lane towards Killrath. Catherine was soaked, and the rain made her skirt cling to her. Andrew grinned in appreciation as he watched her slim back and haunches move at the trot. But the incident puzzled him. There were peasant families like that at Ardmore. All landlords suffered them, but they brought no conceivable benefit to the world that Andrew could see. He understood Ferguson's irritation with the girl better now. A girl of her class needed such woolly sentiment knocked out of her.

He wondered if he were the man to do it.

The following afternoon, Catherine wrote to Sean.

A ghra,

This may be the last letter you ever get from me, and I shall not know if you've received it because I don't want you to reply.

You told me not to try to see you again so I won't, but I have to say these things because they are so clear in my mind now and you must know them.

The times we were together were the most wonderful in my life. I will remember them always, every moment. I did what I did because I loved you and I believed you loved me, for a while. But you've told me you don't love me, now. I believe you because of the way you told me - before the detectives came. I won't beg. You wouldn't want a girl who did that, anyway. It was the cruellest thing anyone has ever said to me. I shall never forget it.

I hope one day you learn what it is to love as much as I loved you. For your sake, I hope she loves you too.

You would agree with my father; he wants me to marry a man of my own class as you said. I may not be able to resist it, but it will be a sad cruel heartless business, like sending a mare to the stud, the way he thinks of it. Nothing like what we had.

You don't understand my free speaking perhaps but that is what the world needs more of. If the Republic comes and women are not free to choose as men are it will be a poor thing, not what James Connolly died for.

I miss the touch of you, Sean. More than anything. Never lose your courage.

Your lover,

Catherine.

She wanted to tell him what she thought about his killing the policeman but that might be to condemn him with her own hand. As it was. the thought of prison warders reading the letter hurt, but that was a thing for them to be ashamed of, she thought, rather than her. If what she felt was true, it should be said.

Alone in his room, Andrew washed, shaved, and changed into dry clothes. Then he paced up and down distractedly. This was not supposed to happen, but the girl was getting under his skin. And into his mind, too, so that he could think of nothing else.

In part it was the enforced idleness, he thought - the empty time waiting for the next stage of the operation. He couldn’t stay in Dublin, or go back to Ardmore. But that he could cope with on his own. With this girl here, it was a different matter.

In a way what she had said was true. He did not know a lot about women. He had made love to a dozen or more - mostly high-class whores in officers’ brothels in France and London. But there was not a lot to understand in that. He had paid his money, bought them drinks, been forceful and manly, and always it had been over too soon. Most had failed to hide their obvious repugnance at the sight of his face. Then, when he had tried the tricks he had learnt with Elsie, they had been terrified. Only with Elsie had he had a relationship. And she had not been a normal girl either.

Catherine was not very much like Elsie. Elsie had been much more buxom, more earthy, broader and stronger in the face and the body. She had not been well educated or intelligent; in fact she had been simple and mildly insane. And he had never, even when he was wildly in love, considered marrying her.

Catherine was like Elsie in only two ways. She did things that were quite unpredictable and exciting; and Andrew had fallen in love with her.

He tried to analyse how this could possibly have happened. When he had met her everything had been going wrong for him. Ardmore had burnt down, his mission against Collins had failed, he had had no clear plan for the future. That was not unlike the time he had stumbled on Elsie's cottage in the Schwarzwald, exhausted, starving, near to giving himself up. At that moment Catherine, like Elsie, had done something quite unexpected, challenged him in a way that forced him to take notice of her.

So whenever I’m in a mess I fall in love with the first woman I see, he thought. Or do women force themselves on me because I’m in a mess?

There was a lot more to it than that.

There was the fact that she seemed unaffected by the sight of his scar. She could be callous about it, cruel, but she was not horrified. That made him feel a man again, rather than a leper.

There was the fact that both women had had something that Andrew badly needed: in Elsie’s case, food and shelter, in Catherine’s, a lot of money and a very big estate. So I’m a mercenary bastard, Andrew thought. Well, he could admit that.

But that wasn’t the whole story either. Although Andrew could be both cynical and ruthless, he was not unfeeling. Certain emotions could take him over completely, and then he would put all his energy and ruthlessness at their service. Anger and a desire for revenge, for instance, in dealing with a German machine-gun nest or the men who had burnt down Ardmore. Love - or was it lust? - in staying with Elsie for over two months, much longer than he had needed to.

And now, with Catherine Maeve O'Connell-Gort, what?

It seemed to Andrew like everything he had ever heard about love. He could still remember the first time he had seen her, down to the last detail of the cool, appraising look on her face. There had been something behind that look, some stronger emotion which she was trying to hide. Perhaps it was that emotion which had driven her to challenge him. Perhaps -
oh God I hope not
- perhaps there was a similarity with Elsie here too.

Perhaps Catherine was waiting for a Hans, as Elsie had been.

Oh Christ I hope not,
Andrew thought. But now the idea had come to him it made a lot of sense. That was the reason why she seemed, underneath that hard, brittle surface, so unhappy and self-absorbed. It might be the reason why she had come down from Dublin - to get away from a lover who had jilted her. Perhaps her father had even sent her away because the young man was unsuitable. And that was the reason why, most of the time, she seemed scarcely aware of his existence at all.

An obsession like that will be hard to get rid of, Andrew realized. I have to make her notice me and respond to me. I have to make her as obsessed with me as I - God help me - am with her.

He had no clear idea how to do that. If he could get her in bed he imagined - he hoped - he could get her to enjoy the sort of games he had played with Elsie. The sight of those lips parted as she gasped her orgasm would be worth - well, it would be worth a lot.

Especially if the inheritance of Killrath came with it.

When Catherine came downstairs for dinner she felt fresh, clean, empty. She had soaked for an hour in a hot bath, washed her hair, and put on a soft, loose-fitting green dress. She was pleasantly tired from the ride, relaxed and glowing from the bath.

Feelings that Sean would probably never have again.

She felt like a traitress.

But Sean didn't want her, didn’t need her. That was all over now. She must forget him, or she would go mad.

Only there was nothing else in the world to think about.

Andrew was in the room too, smoking and reading a newspaper by the fire. He looked up, admiring the way her skirt swung as she crossed the room. She ignored him, walked straight across to the table in the corner, and poured herself a large glass of sherry.

He smiled, the scar twisting on his cheek. ‘The curse of the idle rich.’

‘What?’ She gulped the drink, and frowned at him as he sat staring at her over the top of the newspaper.

‘Drink. The curse of Ireland - especially those with too much money and not enough to do. I didn’t think you were like that.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

She refilled the glass and went past him to curl up in the window seat. She had to wipe the windowpane with her hand to peer out at the driving rain and low, scudding clouds.

‘That’s the other curse of this country - foul weather.’

She ignored him. He stood up, with his back to the fire, apparently amused, persistent. He had seldom seen a girl quite so haunted, so at odds with the world. Perhaps if she started drinking, some of her ghosts might come to the surface.

‘You still haven’t told me why you came down here.’

‘I was ordered to. By my father.’ She sipped the sherry without looking at him.

Progress, he thought. Play the fish gently and it may come to land. He strolled over to the drinks table and poured himself a small whiskey with plenty of soda.

‘I saw you as someone more independent than that.’

‘Did you?’

‘Certainly. You’re a medical student, aren’t you?’

The man was a pest, there was no doubt about it. But he was an irritation she could use, perhaps, to distract herself from her own grief. Left on her own, she felt at times it would drown her.

‘Look, Major Butler …’

‘Can’t you drop that? Call me Andrew, please - it sounds so stupid with just the two of us.’

‘All right, Andrew.’ It sounded such a civilized name for such a hard, damaged face. ‘My life is for me to lead, wouldn’t you agree? If I choose to study medicine, that’s my business.’

‘Of course. But I’d have thought you’d be proud of it, not prickly as hell.’

‘I’ve always been prickly. If I’m not, I don’t get what I want.’ And even when I do, I still lose it, she thought. I wasn’t prickly with Sean, surely - or was I?

He perched himself on the arm of a chair, and considered her. ‘You know what? I don’t think you know what you do want.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, look round you at this house, and your other home in Merrion Square. You’ll inherit both, now that your brothers are dead. If I were in your position I’d spend all my time learning to manage them, not running off to Dublin to train as a doctor.’

‘Well, you aren’t in my position, are you?’ She crossed the room to pour herself a third glass of sherry.

‘No, I’m not, but I could be.’

‘Oh yes?’ She turned, leaning against the drinks table, and raised her glass to him mockingly. ‘Is my father going to adopt you as a new son? Congratulations.’

‘Of course not. But he might consider me as a possible son-in-law. Given that I’ve already won you in a shooting match.’

The shock of it stunned Catherine so that she could not speak for a moment. But it made perfect sense, she realized. This was why her father had sent her down here: not just to get her away from Sean and the police, but because he knew this - this stud - was here. Perhaps they had already discussed it, even arranged the terms of the marriage contract behind her back. This was how it felt, then; this was how daughters were bought and sold to keep family estates together.

She took a long, slow sip of her sherry, then put it down and walked across the room towards him. She stood about as close to him as it was possible to stand without touching. He was nearly four inches taller than her, much bigger and stronger than Sean, she realized. Close to, his eyes were steel grey, the scar livid, his face very decisive and hard. Nothing gentle or foolish about it at all. He made no attempt to move or smile.

She said: ‘I told you you had no place here. This is my house and I want you to go.’

‘That’s not a very ladylike reply.’

‘I meant it.’

‘Catherine.’ He caught hold of her wrist. She tried to pull it away but his grip was surprisingly strong. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it with a mock flourish. ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t a very polite way to ask but I meant what I said. We’re two of a kind, you and I. Think about it, please.’

‘Let go!’

‘I have.’

She stepped back, shaken, rubbing her wrist. She wondered if she should hit him but she had the feeling, quite clearly, that he would hit her back. She was furious.

‘I said you knew nothing about women. You can’t even be trusted to behave in decent society, it seems.’

In an isolated cottage in the Black Forest he might have pushed matters further, but here there were servants outside the door, ready at any moment to knock and announce with a polite cough that dinner was served. Also, the purpose of the game was to make her like him as well as fight. Andrew decided to change his tactics. He sat down, to seem less of a threat.

‘I’m sorry. You’re probably right. I haven’t seen many young women recently and you’re a remarkably beautiful one, though you may not realize it.’

‘It’s a bit late for flattery.’

‘Is it? Maybe, if you say so. Look - sit down, can’t you?’ She perched on the window seat, well out of his reach.

‘What’s so wrong with the idea, anyway? You’ve got this big estate, and you need a husband to run it. You’re a very attractive girl, and despite my face you can see I’m not a hunchback …’

‘You have been talking to my father, haven’t you?’

‘Not about this. I’m just trying to talk sense.’