Cashelmara (23 page)

I saw little of him at first. I was too busy making arrangements for the Christmas celebrations, and he was out most of the day with Patrick on some adventure or other. He did not spend Christmas with us. Edward insisted he visit his kin at Maam’s Cross, and he departed gloomily on Christmas Eve—”to sleep under the one bed with the pigs, the hens and six of the youngest children, I shouldn’t wonder,” he remarked, but Edward said it was his duty to visit his family at Christmas, even if they were only cousins, and Derry knew better by this time than to incur Edward’s disapproval.

After his return on Boxing Day he soon reduced Patrick and myself to tears of laughter with an account of his experiences, and since all my Christmas calls had been paid and received I fancied he sought my company more often. This made me nervous, for Edward was always quick to spot any young man who paid me the most innocent attention, but eventually realized with relief that Derry’s interest was not in me but in my constant companion, Katherine.

Katherine liked Derry too. She had not seen him since before her marriage, when he had been no more than a boy, so it was as if she, like myself, were meeting him for the first time. Of course she did not say she liked him—she was far too reserved for that—but I noticed how often she smiled in his presence and how she never rebuffed him when he made deliberate efforts to charm her.

I was secretly delighted. There seemed no reason not to be; I was always reading romantic novels in which two such people fell in love as a matter of course. Katherine had been widowed for two years now; she was wealthy, beautiful and eligible. Derry was far below her by birth, but he was thoroughly presentable and his prospects were excellent. Also he knew how to circumvent Katherine’s shyness, and Katherine in her turn was the perfect audience he needed for his witty stories. The one would complement the other and vice versa. Surely nothing could have been more suitable.

To make matters even more interesting from a romantic viewpoint, it soon became clear that Katherine had a second suitor. After Christmas Edward’s friend Lord Duneden visited us from Duneden Castle, which lay eighty miles east of Cashelmara, and having been mildly attentive to Katherine since the earliest days of her widowhood, he now became more attentive than ever. As Katherine was an expert at not betraying her emotions, poor Derry was soon in a terrible taking.

“To be sure Lord Duneden’s a great nobleman,” he said, confiding in me despairingly at last, “and he has such wealth and position as I could never lay my hands on in a thousand years, but, Lady de Salis, I do have some advantages he has not. Do you think Miss Katherine—Lady Rokeby, I should say—is quite unaware of them?”

He had cornered me at the top of the stairs, and we were standing in the gallery that enclosed the circular hall. I had just returned from a second call at Clonagh Court to see Annabel but had still not managed to meet the elusive Alfred, who always seemed to be away from home either buying or selling a horse. But Annabel and I had spent a civil half hour together, and I fancied that next year she might even bring herself to spend Christmas with us if we returned to Cashelmara for the occasion.

“What do you think, my lady?” said Derry earnestly, his dark eyes febrile with anxiety, and because I was in a good mood and his attraction for Katherine was so romantically pleasing to me, I could not help but say, “Why, Mr. Stranahan, I’m sure your advantages are every bit as telling as Lord Duneden’s.”

“You don’t believe she cares for him?” he said with a passion that I could only regard as thrilling, and added, just like the hero in one of my novels, “You think I might dare to cherish a little hope?”

“Well, Mr. Stranahan,” I said, “that is really not for me to answer.” But of course I answered him with a smile and made sure he was left with the understanding that Katherine favored his suit.

I was so excited about this fully-fledged romance I had nurtured so carefully that I could not resist dropping a hint of my excitement to Edward.

We had descended from the nurseries, I remember, after saying good night to the children, and were walking down the corridor to our apartments to change for dinner. His nephew George was journeying from Letterturk to dine with us that night, and I was so absorbed in wondering if I had been too rash in putting curry on the menu (God alone knew how the Irish cooked curry) that I barely listened to Edward grumbling about his other protégé, Maxwell Drummond. Young Mr. Drummond had offended him very deeply. After only a brief attendance at the Agricultural College he had run off with the daughter of one of the masters and had brought her back to the valley as his wife. Seemingly unaware of how monstrously he had repaid Edward’s charity, he had called that morning to ask if he could rent the ruined Stranahan farm, Derry’s old home, which adjoined his property. Edward had promised to rent it to him for a nominal sum after he had completed a year at the Agricultural College, and Mr. Drummond, despite everything, still expected him to make good his promise.

“Insolent young fool!” growled Edward for at least the tenth time. “If he rents the Stranahan property he’ll pay me a fair rent for it. That’ll teach him not to ruin his prospects in future! I’m only surprised that the girl hasn’t already left him now that she knows she’s been reduced to a peasant! Imagine a young man like that marrying a schoolmaster’s daughter! Absurd!”

“But so romantic!” I sighed, wrenching my thoughts away from the curry at last. “Of course it would help if they had money—I do realize that. But, Edward, supposing they did have money. Supposing Mr. Drummond could somehow keep his wife in suitable style. Would a slight difference in social station be truly significant?”

“Marguerite, I don’t know how such matters are in America, but I assure you that here the difference in rank between Mr. and Mrs. Drummond is very far from being slight.”

“But supposing the difference was between someone like Derry Stranahan and … and Katherine?”

We were in our apartments by this time. He had been about to tug the bell rope to summon his valet, but he stopped with his hand in mid-air.

“Derry?” he said slowly. “And Katherine?”

“Oh, Edward!” I said happily. “It’s so exciting. I’m sure they’re dreadfully in love! Of course Derry is a little younger than she is, and I know by birth he’s far inferior to her, but he’s been well educated and shows such promise and after all he is your ward.”

“He is not my ward,” said Edward. “I have never accepted him as a member of my family and I certainly never intend to. He’s an Irish peasant’s son to whom I have exercised a certain amount of charity—often greatly against my better judgment—and if that has given him ideas far above his station I’m afraid he’s about to face a considerable disappointment.”

I was dumfounded. “But …”

“Marguerite, have you encouraged this fancy of his?”

“I … well, no—that is to say, at least not in any particular manner.”

“Have you encouraged Katherine to think of this boy as a possible suitor?”

I swallowed. “Not exactly, but …”

“Can you conceivably have been so foolish as to think that I could ever approve of such a match?”

“Well, I … I thought Derry was your ward. I did not realize—I did not quite understand …”

“No,” he said, and I realized with fright that he was very angry. “You did not understand. You knew that I had been obliged to send Derry abroad because of certain immoralities which I have no intention of describing to you in detail, and you knew that I have in the past disapproved of his influence over Patrick. You knew too that it was only out of kindness that I permitted him to spend this month at Cashelmara before his departure for Dublin. You knew all this and yet you assume I would welcome Katherine forming an attachment for him! And worse than that you have the effrontery to say you ‘did not understand’ that I would disapprove of the match!”

I said, stiff-lipped, “I did know of Derry’s past misbehavior, of course, but I thought that was all forgiven and forgotten. And since he’s so sincerely attached to Katherine …”

“I doubt that very much,” said Edward. “He’s merely anxious to get his hands on her money so that he won’t have to earn his daily bread.”

“I can’t help thinking you’re being a little cynical, Edward.”

“And I can’t help thinking you’ve been unbelievably naïve!” he cried, losing his temper. “And worse than that, you have as usual succeeded in meddling in my children’s affairs and taking their part in direct contradiction to my wishes!”

“I didn’t know this time I was contradicting your wishes,” I faltered, “but if I’ve given you offense I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.” And before he could hurl another angry word at me I fled from the room. I wept as I ran down the corridor and I wept as I scrambled up the nursery stairs, but I did. I had to pause to compose myself before I tiptoed into the night nursery to be alone with the children.

Thomas was already asleep, his red hair tousled and his snub nose pressed sideways upon the sheet, but David was awake and cooing softly to himself as he watched the flicker of the nightlight. He smiled serenely as he saw me. I picked him up. He gurgled, pulled my hair lovingly and lay, fat and placid, in my arms.

“Dearest Baby,” I said, “you’re really much too stout.” Then I wept over him so emotionally that I thought in alarm that I must surely be pregnant again, but afterward I felt better, very calm and self-possessed.

Replacing David gently in his cradle, I tiptoed out of the nursery and went resolutely downstairs in search of Katherine.

“Pray don’t be so distressed, Marguerite,” said Katherine. “Naturally you could not be expected to know Papa’s feelings on the subject. I too thought he regarded Derry as a ward.”

“I should never have encouraged you if I’d dreamt—”

“I don’t think you did encourage me particularly. Anyway,” said Katherine calmly, “it hardly signifies now. Naturally I would never consider a marriage that would distress Papa.”

“Oh, but …” I said and bit my tongue.

“In a way this simplifies the situation,” said Katherine. “I shall marry Lord Duneden. He is not very handsome, but as you once remarked, he’s charming and kind and I expect I shall be quite happy.”

“But, Katherine,” I said, so horrified that I found I had to speak after all, “you mustn’t marry someone you don’t love! Why should you marry Lord Duneden—or anyone else—just now? Wait a little longer. There’ll surely be other suitors before long, and I’m certain at least one of them will appeal to you just as much as Derry.”

“I doubt if any of them would be so suitable as Duneden. Papa thinks so highly of him and they’re such old friends. Duneden has an Irish estate, just as Papa has, and a house in London, and he too is active in parliamentary matters. Papa would be very pleased if I married Duneden.”

I could not let this pass. I tried to, but it was beyond my powers of self-restraint. “Katherine,” I said. “You’re a widow. You’re your own mistress. You’ve already married once to please your father—but that was when you were eighteen and knew no better. You’ve admitted to me you weren’t happily married. Why must you make the same mistake again when this time there’s absolutely no need for you to please anyone but yourself?”

“I could not please myself,” said Katherine, “if I displeased Papa.” She was wooden, impeccably correct. I remembered that her mother had referred to her as a wax doll, and suddenly I was dreadfully angry—but with whom I was angry I was not entirely certain.

“You’re a fool, Katherine,” I said. “Do you really think marriage with Duneden will make Edward love you any better?”

She froze. I saw the wintry look in her eyes and knew I had lost her. Afterward, looking back at the entire disaster with the wisdom of hindsight, I decided it was then that my married life began to go wrong.

I DID NOT AT
first realize that my marriage had entered a new phase. The seeds of discord had all been sown by the time Katherine married Lord Duneden that spring, but none of them might have taken root if I had been more mature and Edward less influenced by my mistakes. We had quarreled over Madeleine, we had quarreled over Katherine, and had Annabel not taken such care to lead her life well apart from us we might easily have quarreled over her too. Certainly the stage was set for us to quarrel over Patrick, but the stage need never have been used if a number of unforeseeable circumstances had not merged to draw us all remorselessly from the wings.

The first of these circumstances was Edward’s change of attitude toward me. He was perfectly justified in regarding me as a meddling child after the hash I had made of Katherine’s romance, but his mistake was that he continued to treat me as a meddling child long after Derry had been packed off to Dublin to begin his legal studies and long after Katherine had so delighted him by marrying his best friend. He recovered from his anger, of course; the only fortunate aspect of Edward’s temper was that it seldom lasted long, but afterward he behaved toward me exactly as if he were a father saddled with a wayward child whom he was obliged to discipline with affection. I knew then what it was like to be one of his children. He was sufficiently kind and concerned to make one truly wish to please him, but no matter how hard one tried to please he was always just beyond the edge of one’s emotional reach. One was conscious of him making great efforts in the name of duty, but the very fact that he acted out of duty was enough to chill all intimate communication. His kindness and concern lacked spontaneity; when examined they fell apart at a touch. He was a private person and, despite all his talk of loneliness, very self-contained. Because he could withdraw for long periods to absorb himself in his work, he assumed other people did not need him any more than he needed them. It wasn’t easy to be Edward’s child, and it was very hard indeed to be his wife when one was treated like one of his children.

I began to be restless and dissatisfied.

My mistake was that I concealed it. My horror of quarrels had increased with the years, so that when Edward began again, as he had in the early days of our marriage, to instruct me how to behave at dinner parties and to tell me which charities I should support or which books I should read to broaden my outlook, I merely accepted the advice without complaint. But by this time I had my own ideas on these subjects, and I considered that I had already discovered the best way for me to approach his elderly friends on social occasions. Such poise as I had acquired had come because I never made any attempt to be other than myself. When Edward started telling me what I should say to each guest I felt he was trying to mold me into someone else, and my poise suffered in consequence. I began to dread each dinner party in case I displeased him by a careless word, and my position became increasingly burdensome to me.