Tyringham Park (29 page)

Charlotte smiled back. “Just curious.”

For the summer vacation Harcourt, as usual, went to Tyringham Park to spend it with Giles. Lochlann, with three of his old school friends, travelled to Boston to work in a
country club.

Charlotte had four months to reinvent herself before she saw Lochlann again. She planned to lose a large amount of weight and give up smoking at the same time.

The energy she was feeling after years of torpor must be a manifestation of love. Could these strange unfamiliar feelings of joy and optimism come from anything else? The romantic fiction she
read seemed to indicate they were, and she had nothing else to go by.

She filled her days with walking and painting, concentrating on semi-starvation, and keeping a constant image of Lochlann in her mind to strengthen her resolve.

By September she could walk a mile without becoming breathless and could fit into clothes she hadn’t worn for years. Her hair had been professionally cut and she wore it in a style that
accentuated her re-emerging cheekbones and jaw line.

All the romantic clichés were true – she felt as if she loved the world and it loved her. Food and sleep were peripheral, life was lived on a higher plane and she finally was
convinced that she understood the secrets of the universe.

Two years. The students would graduate in two years’ time and disperse to hospitals all over Ireland and abroad to do their internships. Until then she was assured of regular exposure to
Lochlann’s company. She intended to enjoy every second of it.

Lochlann, tanned from a summer in the outdoors, seemed pleased to see her when he returned from the US, and tried not to show how astonished he was at the change in her, but
she could tell he was impressed.

Lochlann came to Harcourt’s rooms from the commencement of term, though the serious studying wouldn’t begin until after Christmas. They spent a lot of time just talking, invariably
about medical matters, in an animated and analytical way. Sometimes other students joined them. Charlotte, warmly welcomed on her earlier visits, took it for granted that she would now be included
in the gatherings. For most of the time she was happy just to sit and listen. The eight-year age gap that existed between her and them she tried to dismiss as unimportant.

Her flimsy excuses for calling, the lengths of her visits and the ruses she employed to inveigle Lochlann to her rooms were becoming embarrassing to Harcourt, though Lochlann gave no hint of
exasperation or impatience. Her window was stuck, she couldn’t reach the box at the top of the wardrobe, there was a spider in the bath, she needed to move a bronze sculpture.

“I’ll come,” Harcourt offered more than once. “No need to bother Lochlann, Charlotte.”

“No, I’ll go. It’s no bother and won’t take a second.”

“You’re too good to her. Don’t let her take advantage,” Harcourt often said to him after Charlotte had left and was always answered with, “It was so little to do
it’s hardly worth mentioning.”

Dublin
1938

It took four years for Peregrine Poolstaff to summon the courage to visit the townhouse again. If he didn’t have news of Cormac Delaney as an excuse to call, he
wouldn’t have dared, then or ever.

He gave Queenie his card and asked if she would be so kind as to inform Miss Charlotte he had visited Cormac Delaney’s studio in Paris and had purchased a painting from him that Miss
Charlotte might like to see. What he requested was advice on where to have the canvas stretched and framed – he didn’t know how to go about it or who else to ask.

Queenie’s stare of hostility unsettled him, as he assumed she was reflecting her mistress’s attitude, but he continued with his rehearsed speech, making a mental note to caution
Charlotte, at a later date, about being too intimate with servants. It irked him to have to tell Queenie so much of his business but he knew that if she didn’t have these tempting messages to
relay he had no hope of gaining admittance.

Would Miss Charlotte kindly grant him a few minutes of her time and – here was the bit he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist – allow him the opportunity to relay a private
message from her former tutor?

Queenie didn’t invite him inside to wait but closed the outside door in his face and left him standing on the street facing the Square while she passed on his words to Charlotte. Peregrine
had to accept the servant’s insolence but determined that if his plans came to fruition, and there was no reason why they shouldn’t with Charlotte now considered unmarketable because of
her age and past history, the first thing he would do would be get rid of Queenie.

After a thirty-minute delay, during which time Peregrine had to suffer the stares of passers-by, Queenie opened the door to report that her mistress would see him in three days’ time at
four o’clock. There was no mention of an alternative arrangement if that day didn’t suit him.

“More than gracious,” Peregrine said, his bulging forehead throbbing because of the indignity the servant was making him suffer. Would she please inform Miss Charlotte he would be
honoured to attend to her then as her most obedient servant?

Queenie smirked, and took satisfaction in again closing the door in his face, using even more force than she had used earlier.

When the time came, Charlotte received Peregrine civilly enough. With a gravitas that he hadn’t possessed when she knew him earlier, he told her how he had travelled to Paris with an aunt
and uncle. During a tour of the studios there, he had come across Cormac Delaney by chance and had admired his work so much he felt compelled to purchase a canvas. Would she like to see it?

“Very much so.” Of course she would. Why else had she allowed him to visit?

When he retrieved the painting from the anteroom where he had left it with his hat and coat, Charlotte had to restrain herself from snatching it out of his hand. She stood back while he rolled
it out on the table and leaned forward to examine it.

“I knew it,” she said, “I knew it,” not bothering to tell Peregrine what it was she knew.

Cormac’s style had changed, influenced by the Cubists. For all that he’d said about staying apart from the Paris scene during his six years at the townhouse to develop a unique
style, he hadn’t resisted their power. A suggestion of a hand and the shape of a small head were all that was left of a human figure amongst the geometric shapes. Colour, and the use of
overlapping rather than perspective, created space and depth. The painting vibrated with cool colours against warm, light against dark, and didn’t yield up all its significance in one
look.

“You bought well,” she said, admiring Cormac’s skill in the details.

It was wonderful, though she wished he had continued on his own path, taking a different route from Braque and Picasso, giants who would overshadow anyone following their trail.

How big was his studio? How many completed works did he have on offer?

Peregrine snapped to attention with pleasure at questions he could answer, followed by more. What sizes did he favour? Were they all in a style similar to this one? He faltered. No, there were a
few brightly coloured nudes . . .

“Ah-h.”

And others, but he didn’t have the technical terms to describe them. He worried he hadn’t chosen wisely. At the time, he and his aunt and uncle couldn’t agree, and finally he
let Cormac make the decision for him. Surely the artist couldn’t be wrong.

Did he look well? What was his message?

Peregrine puffed up. “He told me to make sure you didn’t forget your promise. The year is nearly up. He said you’d know what he meant.”

She did, and smiled in anticipation of Cormac’s next visit. Would he be able to believe that her appearance and attitude had changed so much in less than a year, and would he like the new
paintings she had done, stacked in the old classroom?

Queenie brought in the tray for afternoon tea and subjected Peregrine to a disdainful glare. Peregrine looked over at Charlotte to see if she had noticed, hoping she would chastise the servant
in front of him, but she was eyeing the cakes and didn’t witness Queenie’s flagrant show of disapproval.

Things have changed, thought Peregrine, as Charlotte allowed herself one thin cucumber sandwich, leaving all the cakes for him. During his earlier courtship she had shown no hesitation in
scoffing everything in front of her.

Peregrine held Charlotte’s attention by mentioning the work of other artists he’d seen in Paris. It was obvious he had put a lot of work into preparing for this visit. One
wouldn’t have to be an astute reader of people to realise he was trying to hide his desperation while presenting himself as a serious suitor. An apology for his previous behaviour was
implicit in his eagerness to ingratiate himself and, to give him the benefit of the doubt, perhaps delicacy prevented him from mentioning it.

The visit lasted over an hour and, despite the fact that there were no awkward silences and Charlotte showed nothing but friendliness, Peregrine could sense that she wasn’t interested in
him. If, to secure her affection, he had to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness for the public humiliation he had inflicted on her at the Hunt Ball, he would, and if she demanded marriage as
compensation he would gladly accede, but one cue after another failed to elicit a response.

Charlotte’s fortune could be used to fix his Big House’s leaking roof, crumbling stonework, mildewed rooms, gaping window frames and rotting tapestries. And she could furnish him
with an heir, tall healthy-looking woman that she was. What a fool he had been to let her go. The most galling thing of all was that he really liked her and was impressed by her improved
appearance. If only he could turn back the clock!

Peregrine didn’t expect a second invitation, but he was determined to ensure that the townhouse wouldn’t be permanently closed to him.

“If there’s anything I can do for you,
anything
, just say the word and consider it done,” he said with a tremor of sincerity. “At any time for whatever reason, I
am at your command. Promise me you will remember that.”

Much as Charlotte was loath to part with Cormac’s painting, she rolled it up and handed it to Peregrine so that he wouldn’t ‘forget’ it to engineer another visit. It did
cross her mind he might have offered it to her as a gift, but he was flustered, trying to leave with dignity, a skill he’d never mastered.

She wouldn’t tell her parents of Peregrine’s visit. His title and lineage were so impressive they would pressurise her to encourage him, especially as it wasn’t likely she
would get another offer. But he was too late. Under normal circumstances she would give him another chance because of her lack of choice, but since her sighting of Lochlann she had no interest in
any offer he could make. She would rather settle for small portions of Lochlann’s company than the lifelong commitment of marriage and children with Peregrine, isolated on his distant County
Donegal estate where she might never set eyes on Lochlann again.

Whenever Charlotte visited her brother’s rooms she took the chair next to Lochlann’s, and during the next hour her knee or arm would touch his
‘accidentally’ and her excitement when that happened was obvious to Harcourt, though Lochlann didn’t seem to notice. Sometimes when Lochlann was speaking, he would place his hand
on Charlotte’s forearm for a minute or two to emphasise a point and Harcourt could see her change colour and radiate happiness. She even ventured to put her hand on Lochlann’s when he
was talking but, surprisingly, had the sense not to let the touch linger too long.

On Friday nights it had become a tradition that whoever went to Harcourt’s rooms ended up having too much to drink. It became the highlight of Charlotte’s week. The two glasses of
wine she allowed herself loosened her tongue and heightened her feeling of wellbeing. Lochlann, surrounded by clusters of friends, would always draw her in and she would stand close to him. Later,
when the members of the group moved away out of politeness, some raising their eyebrows in disbelief and others smiling in amusement, she had exclusive access to him for long periods while the rest
of the company talked about subjects that didn’t interest her.

It was disconcerting to discover that after she had made efforts to sound witty and affable in her conversations, quoting things that Cormac had said, Lochlann couldn’t remember one word
the next day. She was forced to learn how to identify the point of inebriation at which he lost his memory so that she could save her best lines until the early part of the evening the following
week and not waste them.

He spent Saturdays and Sundays with his family and school friends. Charlotte spent those hours wondering what he was doing and wishing Monday would come soon.

In this unvarying fashion one academic year slid into the next.

The medical students' final year was uneventful except for Niamh McCarthy’s news. Her boyfriend at home had met a girl at a dance and had fallen in love. It took him a
long time to tell Niamh as he was afraid of causing her pain. She took it well and, to his relief, was instantly forgiving. He hoped she would meet someone who would suit her as well as this new
girl suited him. She didn’t tell him she already had.

Harcourt relayed all this to Charlotte, while flicking through
The Irish Times
to make it look as if the news he was imparting was of little consequence. He felt sorry for her, but was
relieved he had something definite with which to dash her unrealistic expectations. Her flirting during the Friday night socialising was becoming increasingly blatant.

Niamh now sometimes joined Harcourt and Lochlann in their study sessions. From the first time she met her rival, Charlotte analysed her looks, conversation and mannerisms, looking for flaws,
trying to identify the ingredient that made her so attractive to men. She thought Niamh’s laugh was ‘common’, though it seemed to be one of the many characteristics Lochlann
liked. There was no doubt the girl was friendly, but not as good-looking as Harcourt had led her to believe. Was she a little bit too long in the neck?