Tyringham Park (28 page)

“I don’t give lessons any more.” Cormac looked alarmed. “And I may not be in Paris much longer.” As if his life depended on it, he bent to study two small paintings
hanging beside the large one.

“Pity. You’d find me a very agreeable pupil, not like Charlotte with her temper and her sulks.”

“You’ve not been listening to me. She had no major character faults. If you are looking for a juicy bit of scandal to spread around the family, I’m afraid I can’t help
you. I couldn’t think of a bad word to say against her even if I tried.”

Deeply moved by his words, Charlotte was annoyed to find tears welling up, and opened her eyes wide to disguise them. “The thing is, can your word be trusted? I heard you led Charlotte
astray, painting misshapen nudes all day long.”

“Did you now? No need to ask where that story came from. God preserve me from narrow-minded craw-thumpers and from uninformed gossips who listen to them.” Cormac turned to face
Charlotte for the first time and spoke with rising anger. “You were in Belgium being fed tittle-tattle by a woman who knows as much about art as a flea, while I was here for six years in
Charlotte’s company, and I can tell you without fear of contradiction that Charlotte was one of the most admirable and gifted people I ever had the privilege to meet. If it wasn’t for
the fact that I am so keen to see her new work I’d leave immediately and come back to see her when she has no disloyal cousin sitting there in her chair spouting bile. Shame on
you!”

Charlotte felt a surge of love and affection for Cormac. She tried to speak but made a sound like a honk. Tears spilled over and began to fall.

“And don’t try those crocodile tears on me. If you dish out dirt you can’t expect to get bouquets of flowers back in return.”

“Joke,” Charlotte wept, praying that this indeed was a joke. “The joke’s over.”

“What joke? What are you talking about?”

Charlotte wiped her eyes and looked into Cormac’s face. She felt a coldness spreading over her body and kept staring at him. He stared back, waiting.

“Have I changed so much?”

“How would I know? I’ve never met you before, and after today I hope I never see you again.”

“Cormac, I’m not a cousin. I’m Charlotte.”

“And I’m Brian Boru! I thought you said the joke was over, Miss.”

“It is me,” she said, swamped by feelings of unspeakable shame. “Or should I say in front of my old, dear teacher ‘It is I’? The same teacher who said that artists
must above all things be observant?”

Cormac half-laughed, then abruptly stopped and focused on her as if he needed to weld her image onto his memory. His mouth dropped open.

“Christ Almighty, Charlotte. Oh my God, Charlotte, what has she done to you? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, of course it’s you!” He looked as if he’d been punched. “Bloody
hell. I wasn’t really looking. That bad-mouthing cousin of yours had me distracted. And this gloomy room. I couldn’t see you properly.” He rushed over and pulled back the
curtains. “There. Now no one could mistake you.”

“You can’t bluff your way out of it, Cormac, but thank you for trying. I know I’m disgusting.”

“No, no. Don’t say that. It was the dull light and the short hair and the fact that I wasn’t really looking at you that threw me. You look fine. Reubenesque.”

“That’s one way of putting it. All those nice things you said . . .” Her eyes filled up again.

He pulled a footstool up beside her and took her hand with his good hand.

“I only said them because I knew it was you all along,” he laughed. “Now do you want to hear my real opinion?”

“Too late. You can’t talk your way out of it now. I never knew you thought so well of me.”

Cormac’s face became grave. “Every word I said was true. You were all that and more. We’ve so much to talk about, but first, I want to see your work. I have been imagining you
going in so many creative, original directions. Come on, let’s go and see them.”

Charlotte began weeping in earnest. “I didn’t last,” she managed to say. “It all just slipped away. Without you around I couldn’t motivate myself. It all seemed so
pointless.” She looked at him and let out a loud sigh. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

“You didn’t let me down. Never think that. It was I who let you down, I can see in hindsight. I shouldn’t have left before I pushed you into the Society – they would have
looked after you and encouraged you, and stood up to your mother.”

“They could have tried, but it wouldn’t have done any good.”

“But you’re not sixteen any more. You’re a young –”

“Not so young.”

“Take it from me, you’re young. Why don’t you come back to Paris with me now and make a fresh start?”

“Paris? I couldn’t.”

“Why not? What’s to stop you? You’re over twenty-one and independently wealthy. You’re obviously wasting your life here.”

“I can’t go to Paris. I can’t even walk from here to the door without running out of breath. I’ve been in these rooms so long I don’t think I can cope with other
people. I’ve no energy and no purpose.”

“Trust your old tutor to look after you. You’ll soon make up for lost time. You already have the advantage of the language.” He became more animated with each word.
“Don’t sit around thinking about it. Just do it. I can walk the legs off you like I did when you were a girl and you can regain your health. You can always return if it doesn’t
work out.”

“I lack the courage. You described me as courageous but you were wrong. I’m really a coward. There’s a certain comfort in rotting here – no decisions to be
made.”

“You’ll soon change your attitude when you’re mixing with like-minded people. It’s sinful to give up on life before you’ve lived it.”

He was making so much sense she had to side-track him.

“I’ll tell you what, Cormac, I’ll make a deal with you. Give me a year and make the same offer. I’m just not mentally prepared for it at the moment.”

“I hope you’re not saying that to fob me off and keep me quiet.”

“Of course not.” The image of the archangel from her dream the previous night flicked across her mind.

“All right then. I’ll take your word for it. One year from now. Shake on it.”

They shook hands and grinned into each other’s faces.

“So you didn’t marry either?”

“Me? No. Never. I’m married to my work. I always thought creativity and domesticity didn’t mix.”

“When I was a child I was hoping you and Holly would marry.”

“Did you now?” Cormac enjoyed that remark. “Lovely lady, but even she couldn’t tempt me. You know yourself. Can you imagine being immersed in a masterpiece and being
called away to fix a leaking tap or shift furniture? God preserve me from that. But I’m not holding back – I don’t want to bring a blush to your maidenly cheeks so I won’t
say any more. One year, then. It was wonderful to see you again. Can’t say the same about your nasty cousin.” He kissed her on the top of her head, and she felt immediately lonely.
“Now I’m off to see if your father’s failing eyesight has had a beneficial effect on his brushwork.”

Charlotte listened for the two sets of footsteps passing her door, waited for a short while, and then made her way to Harcourt’s rooms. She took her time so she
wouldn’t be out of breath when she arrived. Down to the end of the corridor and along a short hallway – she should be able to make it. She was conscious of herself – her arms
stood out from her sides like the gunslingers she saw on the covers of westerns her father left lying around the house. The skin on her inner thighs was already chaffed, causing an increased
feeling of discomfort with each step, and her joints ached. She adopted a rolling action to minimise the friction on her flesh.

She stopped for breath – not even at the stairs yet. To give herself courage she told herself it was a scandal she hadn’t visited her younger brother for years. He had made overtures
to her up until two years ago, but had finally given up after she rejected his offered friendship once too often.

The long pause she took outside his door was necessary to slow her heartbeat and to rehearse what she was going to say.

Harcourt opened the door in response to her knock. With light shining directly on his face, the likeness to Manus she had noticed the week before in the dim corridor wasn’t so marked, but
it was still there.

“So you meant it. I’m pleased. Do come in.” He looked happy to see her. “Wait until I pull over a seat.”

The one he chose was too small. Charlotte pointed to a large leather armchair.

“All right if I take this one?”

“Of course.” Harcourt immediately saw his mistake.

“Thank you.”

“You’re well?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Are the exams over?”

“No, two more weeks.”

“And will you be going to Tyringham Park again for the summer?”

“Yes, Uncle Charles has given me an open invitation. Says he likes me to keep Giles company.”

“You’re lucky to have a cousin your age.”

“I certainly am. But they keep asking for you and want you to come and stay. For as long as you like.”

“That’s very kind. They have invited me before but I’d rather not go.”

She had never told anyone about the shame she felt whenever she thought of Tyringham Park. To think she had thrown that brooch at Miss East and cut her cheek. Miss East, the woman she wished was
her mother, the saviour she longed to see. It still made her feel sick to think about what she had done and she hated her younger self for having done it. And Manus. How could she face him, the man
who had to shoot Mandrake because of her incompetent handling of Sandstorm? He wouldn’t chastise her but his kind, sad eyes would say it all.

There was a long silence. Charlotte was looking at her brother, liking him and wishing she knew him better so they wouldn’t now be speaking to each other in this stilted fashion.

There was a sound of a door opening and closing behind her.

“Charlotte, this is a friend of mine, Lochlann Carmody. He’s in the same year and we shame each other into studying during the end-of-term panic. Lochlann, my sister,
Charlotte.”

Charlotte turned and held out her hand to her earthbound archangel – for it was he whose face had appeared in her dream – and couldn’t imagine that he would be the type to let
anyone slip through his hands and fall to the ground.

Cormac’s visit had energised Charlotte. How could she have wasted all those years after she had failed in the matrimonial stakes and reneged on her deal with Victoria?
She must contact David Slane – she knew he genuinely liked her work and would point her in the right direction.

The fact that Cormac hadn’t recognised her had deeply disturbed her. The cakes and pies Cook laid out for her each night since then were left unclaimed, and Queenie had been commanded to
bring only cigarettes from the stores. When the contractions of hunger gripped her, all she had to do was remember the shocked look on Cormac’s face to lose her desire for excess food.

On a subsequent visit to Harcourt’s rooms they had talked about Manus, and Charlotte studied her brother’s face closely while they did so, once again noting the
similarity between the two men. Charlotte wanted to know if Manus had aged well – he used to be so handsome, she said. Hard to say, Harcourt answered. He had so much facial hair it was
impossible to tell. Charlotte said she couldn’t imagine him with a beard as he had been clean-shaven when she knew him.

“Do you like him?” she asked.

“Very much. He makes sure the city boy on holidays is trained to ride like a son of the estate.”

In the end it was Harcourt who brought the visit to an end, saying they needed to prepare for the physiology exam and couldn’t afford to waste time. Lochlann directed a special smile at
her as she was leaving and said that her visit certainly wasn’t a waste of time. He had enjoyed it, and hoped they would meet again soon. Charlotte waited until the door behind her was closed
before she moved off – she didn’t want the students looking at her slow, waddling progress.

“Does your friend have a girlfriend?”

Charlotte couldn’t trust herself to say the name ‘Lochlann’.

“Who? Lochlann? No, but he’d like to, and he will. Niamh McCarthy’s her name.”

“Is she a medical student too?”

“Yes, one of the three females in our year.”

She must be very unfeminine to want to study a course like that, Charlotte thought. Aloud she said, “What’s she like?”

“Lovely in every way. Lochlann’s not the only one in the class who has his eye on her, but the rest of us don’t stand a chance with him around. They’re drawn to each
other like magnets.” Harcourt began to smile. “You should see the two of them walking down Grafton Street together. They look like film stars. People trip over themselves trying to get
a good view of them.”

Niamh’s boyfriend back in Co Mayo had given up the chance of a university career to look after his five younger siblings, Harcourt went on to explain. Niamh admired him for that but, after
three years, the separation was beginning to take its toll. The boyfriend kept commenting on how citified she’d become, and besides it was obvious to everyone she fancied Lochlann.

“It’s only a matter of time,” said Harcourt.

“What does her father do?”

“He’s a doctor, and Lochlann’s parents are both doctors. Most of the class are like that – it seems to run in families. I’m the odd one out in more ways than
one.”

“How did you two become friends?”

“Well, we’re in the same year, obviously. Then we found ourselves walking home the same route after lectures every day. Found no shortage of things to talk about so it went on from
there.”

“Where does he live?”

“Two streets over. Bostobrick Road.”

“Which end?”

“This is turning into a bit of an interrogation. The end with the double-fronted red bricks. The southern end.”

“Yes, I know the ones. They’re very nice. Quite roomy.” About a fifth of the size of the townhouse, but still regarded as roomy.

“Why do you want to know?” Harcourt smiled.