Cashelmara (11 page)

“I’ll speak for them, my lord,” said young Drummond and added boldly to his kin, “If I’m talking in his own tongue himself will soon be on our side.”

I allowed myself a cynical smile, but the O’Malleys, who were the poorest and humblest clan in the valley despite their superiority in numbers, were evidently dazzled by the boy’s dash and saw nothing naïve in his suggestion.

“Father Donal?” I shouted to the priest.

“Yes, my lord?” The wounded were being carried into the nearest cabin, and he was about to disappear through the doorway after them.

“Is anyone dead?”

“No, my lord.”

“Dying?”

“No, my lord.”

“Very well, since no one requires you immediately you can take me and Sean Denis Joyce and young Drummond here to your house so that the dispute can be resolved peacefully. As for the rest of you—” I assumed my sternest expression—“go back to your work at once. If anyone else strikes a blow this afternoon I’ll see him brought before the bench and jailed.”

They dispersed sulkily, cross that I should have spoiled their fun. I could hear them muttering to one another as I rode up to the door of the priest’s cabin by the church.

Father Donal’s home was very grand for that part of Ireland. It had not only windows but also two chimneys, one for the hearth and one for the room “below” the kitchen where the priest slept. There was even another room beyond the hearth wall, or “above” the kitchen, as the Irish would say, where his sister the housekeeper slept. The kitchen itself was a large room furnished with a table, several chairs, a large chest and even a dresser along one wall. Multitudes of pots and pans hung by the hearth, and a bucket of water was simmering gently from a crane suspended over the fire.

Father Donal’s sister was flustered at the sight of me. I accepted her offer of tea and thankfully sat down in her best chair by the hearth.

“Very well, Maxwell Drummond,” I said to the boy. “You can speak first—but speak in Irish, if you please, so that Sean Denis Joyce cannot afterward complain that he did not hear every word you were saying.”

The boy gave me a thunderous look but pulled himself together and launched into a terse narrative. I had to admit he did speak well. Making a mental note to ask MacGowan how the boy had been managing his land since the death of the elder Drummond a year before, I began to listen intently to my first account of the disaster.

It was worse than I had feared. When he had finished I made no comment but merely accepted the tea from Father Donal’s sister and turned to the patriarch of the Joyce family.

“Very well, Sean Denis Joyce,” I said. “Now it’s your turn to speak.”

Joyce, who was at least three times young Drummond’s age, made a muddled, impassioned speech about wayward women and how everyone knew that the Wages of Sin was Death.

“And isn’t that the truth, Father?” he added indignantly to the priest at the end of his peroration.

“Indeed it is, Sean Denis Joyce,” said the priest doubtfully and shot me a troubled look.

“I see,” I said before Joyce could begin another speech. “What you’re both saying is this: Roderick Stranahan, who happens to be not only your kinsman, Sean Denis Joyce, but also my protégé, seduced the wife of Seamus O’Malley—your kinsman, Maxwell Drummond. O’Malley, rightly or wrongly, believed Stranahan’s reputation to be bad and suspected the worst when he saw his wife talking to Stranahan one day earlier this week. Yesterday he followed his wife to the ruins of the Stranahan cabin on the other side of the lough and found his wife and Stranahan in certain circumstances. Neither of you can agree on the exact nature of those circumstances, but whatever they were neither of you dispute that O’Malley became so inflamed that he tried to kill Stranahan with a knife. At this point my son Patrick rushed from some hiding place in the ruins and knocked down O’Malley to give Stranahan the chance to escape. O’Malley quickly recovered, but when he saw that Stranahan and my son were already some way off he was so distraught that he proceeded to stab first his wife and then himself. By some miracle his wife survived and was able to crawl to the nearest cabin for help.” I paused. “Do both of you agree that this is a fair summary of your stories?”

They had to admit it was. Finishing my tea, I stood up. “I would like to speak to the widow,” I said to Father Donal. “Take me to her, if you please.”

Seamus O’Malley’s cabin stood on the south shore of the lough within sight of Clonagh Court and the paddocks where Annabel’s husband reared race horses. The memory of Annabel and her advice was at that moment intolerable to me. Turning my back on Clonagh Court, I dismounted from my horse again and followed Father Donal past the piles of peat and pig manure into the dark smoky interior of the cabin.

The woman lay in fever on a straw pallet. Since she still had all her teeth, I judged her to be in her early twenties. After Father Donal had explained gently that I wished to speak to her, I asked one or two questions and listened to her pathetic halting replies. I did not stay long. I soon heard all that I needed to hear, and, leaving Father Donal with the poor woman, I retreated to the bohereen where Drummond and Joyce were waiting with my horse.

I swung myself into the saddle again. “Before reaching a decision I must speak to my son and Roderick Stranahan,” I told them abruptly. “But you can be certain that once I’ve heard all the evidence I shall see that justice is done.”

“If you find Derry Stranahan’s to blame, will you banish him from your house, my lord?” demanded Drummond in his uncannily good English. “Will you tell him never to darken your door again?”

“Hold your tongue, boy,” I snapped at him. “I’ve given you a fair hearing and promised you justice. To demand more than that is the height of insolence. Good day to you both.” And feeling sick at heart, my limbs aching with weariness, I began my ride to my nephew George’s house at Letterturk.

My nephew George was a bachelor, a bluff, hearty, good-natured fellow devoted to shooting, fishing and striding around his small estate with a masterful expression on his face. Once a year he went to Dublin to present himself at the Castle, but otherwise his social habits consisted of visits to Cashelmara to see me and the occasional dinner with other squires who lived on the shores of Lough Mask. I had always thought it a pity that my brother David had fathered such a dull son, but such thoughts made me feel I was being uncharitable to George, who, whatever his shortcomings, was a very dutiful nephew.

“My dear uncle,” he gasped, steaming to meet me as soon as I reined in my horse outside his front door. “Thank God you’ve come!”

“Is Patrick here?”

“Yes—and that insolent puppy Stranahan, by God! Uncle, if you hadn’t arrived I swear I would have turned him out of the house. There’s a limit after all to what a man can be expected to—”

“I’m damned tired, George. Is there a groom for this horse?”

“Yes—yes, of course, Uncle. Forgive me. Peter! Lord de Salis’s horse! Come inside, Uncle, sit down, rest …”

I managed to extract a glass of brandy from him, and as soon as I felt better I told him I wanted to see Patrick alone. It was ten minutes before Patrick summoned the courage to creep into the room. He looked pale, and before I could even open my mouth to reprove him he had started to cry.

“For God’s sake, Patrick, pull yourself together and stop behaving like a child in petticoats!” I spoke more sharply than I should have done, but nothing could have exasperated me more than this readiness to burst into tears. “We’ll start at the beginning,” I said, restraining myself with an effort and speaking in a calm voice. “Why did you run away from school?”

“I hated it,” he sobbed, weeping harder than ever. “I tried to like it but I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It was like a prison. I didn’t see why I had to be shut up in a place like that. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

I ignored this attempt to wallow in self-pity. “Did you have difficulty with your lessons?”

“I can’t do Latin and Greek. I’ve tried and I can’t.” More sobs.

“Didn’t you make any friends among the other boys?”

“None of them liked the sort of things I like.”

Considering his artisan interests and his other unsuitable pastimes, I was hardly surprised. “I suppose some of them were unkind to you,” I said, trying not to be unsympathetic. “But, Patrick, you must learn to defend yourself and stand on your own two feet! I dare say school is a rough place at first, but—”

“Yes, you can only guess!” he cried, obviously too distraught to care how rudely he interrupted me. “You’ve never been to school! You don’t know what it’s like!”

“The only reason why I didn’t go to school was that when I was growing up the public schools had a poor reputation and were patronized exclusively by the middle classes. But the educational system has altered in the last thirty years, and since I believe in keeping abreast of the times—”

“I won’t go back there! I won’t!”

“No indeed,” I said. “They won’t have you.” I tried not to despair, wished I felt less tired and wondered what on earth I was going to do with him. “Since it seems pointless to discuss your education further at present,” I said steadily, pouring myself some more brandy, “let us return to the subject of your extracurricular activities. Whose idea was it that you should come to Ireland?”

“Derry wrote and said his school had closed early because of an outbreak of typhoid fever.”

“Did he suggest you should run away and join him?”

“No.” He shook his head vigorously. “He only said he wished I was with him at Cashelmara.”

“So that you could applaud his latest exploits in adultery!”

“Papa, I didn’t do anything wrong. I never touched any of the women. All I did was watch sometimes when he …he kissed them. The only thing I ever did was hit Seamus O’Malley on the head. But, Papa, I had to do that because otherwise he would have killed Derry. He had a knife and was running berserk.”

“Quite,” I said dryly. “I suppose I must be thankful that you are at least loyal to your friends. Very well, Patrick, leave me now, if you please, and tell Derry I want to see him at once.”

“Yes, Papa. But … but, Papa, aren’t I to be punished?”

It was almost as if he were disappointed. Hastily dismissing this impression as a bizarre illusion, I decided he was merely incredulous at the prospect of escaping scot-free.

“Certainly you’re to be punished,” I said at once. “You’re to be sent to a new school at the earliest opportunity. Now do as I tell you and send Derry to me immediately.”

He stumbled from the room. I was just wondering whether I should pour myself a third glass of brandy when the door opened again and I was face to face with Derry Stranahan.

He wore exactly the right expression; even the movements of his body seemed penitent. Pausing six feet from the armchair in which I was sitting, he stared humbly at his toes as he waited for the inevitable wrath to fall.

“Well, Roderick,” I said evenly, determined not to demean myself by losing my temper and depriving him of a fair hearing, “I’ve listened to Sean Denis Joyce, I’ve listened to Maxwell Drummond, I’ve listened to Patrick and now I suppose I must listen to you. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m innocent, my lord,” he said at once, the words rolling off his tongue as readily as melted butter from a tilted dish. “I’m only sorry if in my innocence I’ve caused you embarrassment.”

“I see,” I said. “A man is dead, his wife may be dying, men have been maimed in a faction fight, my son has been obliged to resort to violence on your behalf, but
you
are innocent. Continue.”

“My lord, there was no adultery—and the assignation was none of my doing! The woman begged me to meet her—”

“In the ruins of your old home?”

“Yes, my lord. You see …”

My patience snapped at last. “That’s enough!” I shouted, rising to my feet so swiftly that he jumped. “Tell me the truth this instant, for I’ll not listen to another word of your lies! You seduced that woman, didn’t you?”

“No, my lord,” he said, and then as he saw my expression: “Yes, my lord.”

“This woman was in fact only the latest victim of your escapades with the opposite sex. Isn’t that true?”

He began to look frightened. I saw his actor’s mask slip. “I … I meant no harm.”

“You meant no harm! You deprived a proud, possessive, violent man like Seamus O’Malley of his wife, you thoughtlessly set out on a course which was certain to wreck the wretched woman’s life, and yet you meant no harm?”

All his glibness was gone. He was ashen.

“Listen to me, Roderick,” I said, forcing myself to speak in a calmer tone of voice. “As I told Patrick recently, I’m not unsympathetic to young men who find the opposite sex irresistible. But I have no sympathy for a young man who thinks only of his own needs, who treats a woman—no matter what kind of woman—without humanity and decency and who doesn’t give a damn how many lives are ruined so long as he may go his own selfish way. Seamus O’Malley died by his own hand. That at least is clear, but it’s also clear to me that the O’Malleys are justified in holding you partly responsible for the tragedy. Think again, Roderick! Can you truthfully tell me with a clear conscience that you’re innocent of all blame?”

He could not, of course. After a moment’s struggle he said haltingly that he wished he could undo the harm he had done.

“No doubt you do,” I said, “but what’s done is done, as we both know. Well, there’s only one solution to the situation as it stands at present. You can’t stay in the valley or the O’Malleys would soon make your life intolerable. You’ll have to leave Cashelmara.”

Nothing I said could have frightened him more.

“Please, my lord,” he stammered, hardly able to speak, “please don’t turn me out into the world without a shilling.”

“My dear Roderick,” I said coldly, “foolishly or otherwise I’ve spent a great deal of time and money on your upbringing, and there’s nothing I dislike more than wasting time and money. You’ve been very irresponsible and have certainly gone to great lengths to prove your immaturity to me, but you’ve done well at your school and there’s no doubt that you do show promise. I still intend to send you to a university, but I also intend to remove you from Ireland for several years.”