Cashelmara (32 page)

“Cousin Amelia is large, seventeen stone at least, and has three chins, an enormous bosom and large, sad, cowlike eyes. I can’t see how Cousin Francis could even begin to claim his marital rights amidst all that flesh, but I’ve heard he has a string of mistresses scattered through the town. New York is a great town for kept women and what the Americans call ‘houses.’ Prostitutes aren’t allowed to solicit on Broadway but walk along very fast with their eyes on the ground—a most curious sight. They’re called ‘Street Walkers,’ and if they can get a customer they beckon him into a side street where the police don’t interfere. Then there are places called ‘concert saloons’ where there’s no classical music but an awful lot of gin, and dance houses where the dancers are quite the dregs of humanity.”

I tried to make it sound as if I had witnessed these colorful places with my own eyes, but in fact I had only heard about them from Cousin Francis one evening after the ladies had withdrawn from the dining room and he was comfortably launched on his second bottle of port. He had undertaken to warn me against visiting such places, since thievery was common and disease rampant.

“But you would enjoy the gambling here,” I noted to Derry. “It’s against the law in the state of New York, but nobody cares about the law as far as gambling’s concerned, least of all the police. There are gambling houses within a block of Broadway and many more over on the East Side and down the Bowery in the lower-class neighborhoods. The great American game is faro. The first-class houses are usually honest, very sumptuous in their furnishings and attended by well-mannered Negro servants, most of them ex-slaves from the South. Oh God, that Civil War! As a topic of conversation it’s still second only to President Johnson’s impeachment, and, talking of the impeachment, to hear Cousin Francis waffling interminably about the dangers to the Constitution is worse than being forced to read about the latest plans afoot at Westminster for Parliamentary Reform! But I mustn’t say a word against Cousin Francis, who’s really been most hospitable to me, and I suppose if he’s going to be my father-in-law I’ll have to get used to all his boring speeches about politics.”

Derry’s letter in reply to my lengthy discourse on Sarah’s family, street walkers and faro arrived soon after Sarah had accepted my proposal.

“Re Marguerite,” he began in legal fashion. “It’s clear as a spring dawn that she’s jealous of Sarah—but not for her place in your cousin Francis’ affections. You’re very dense sometimes, Lord de Salis.

“Re Cousin Francis and Cousin Amelia: How could two such frightful people have produced the Sensuous Sarah? What’s her brother like? Since you don’t mention him I suppose he’s away pursuing his studies at Harvard, or whatever their colonial imitation of Oxford is called.

“Re your passion: Well, you always were subject to strange whims. I regard it as part of your charm, but truthfully, Patrick, honestly—you’re not seriously entertaining this mad idea of marrying an American girl, are you? It seems a damned tragedy to marry when you’re only twenty-three, and it’s not as if you’re in my position and have to marry for money (by the way, my latest heiress went to England and is now engaged to some nincompoop called Lord George Swindon-Cunningham). Besides, if you have to marry at twenty-three, why the devil choose an American girl? That stepmother of yours has been influencing you again or I’m a Dutchman, but I’ll say no cross word against Marguerite, because if she’s opposed to your interest in Sarah I suppose we must be allies. Well, fate can make strange bedfellows—which reminds me, American tastes in bedroom matters seem pretty droll, although by God if ever I found myself in bed with an American woman I’d gag her first so that she wouldn’t say anything to distract me. The accent would put me off so, and besides American women are always so damned managing that I wouldn’t put it past them to give directions to the man of their choice when lying on their backs with their legs apart. For God’s sake come back to England before you do anything silly. Yours, etc.
DERRY
.”

I was amused but also annoyed. The allusions to Marguerite didn’t upset me, for Derry was always talking nonsense about her, but his remarks on American women—which were a comment, no matter how indirect, on Sarah—irritated me immensely. In fact I was so irritated that I even complained to Marguerite that Derry had cut up pretty rough about the idea of my marrying an American girl.

“And what on earth’s he going to say when he hears I’m now engaged?” I added in gloom.

“He’ll get used to the idea,” said Marguerite sharply, and added in a milder, more persuasive tone, “After all, I’ve got used to it, so why shouldn’t he? For a while I wasn’t anxious for you to marry Sarah, I admit, but now …”

I brightened. “You really approve?”

“Yes.” She hesitated before saying positively, “Yes, I do. I was confused for a time, but now I’m sure it’s for the best. Quite sure,” she repeated as if there still remained some doubt about it, and then she smiled and said she was sorry she had been so short with me lately.

I smiled too. Nothing could have pleased me more than this hint that we were to be friends again, and when she saw I was cheered she said encouragingly, “Derry’s next letter will be full of congratulations, you wait and see. He won’t want to quarrel with you.”

She was right, but I spent many anxious days awaiting his verdict, and when the letter finally came I was almost too nervous to open it.

“My congratulations to you,” he had written agreeably. “Your speed took me by surprise, but evidently Sarah has made marriage seem irresistible to you! However, I hope you don’t intend to remain in America till your wedding next June. Now that you’re engaged there surely can’t be any danger of her running off with some other fellow, so why don’t you come home for a visit? Don’t forget that Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder—or, to be a trifle more vulgar, Abstinence (in moderation, of course!) makes the Ardor—but you can guess the rhyming adjective. If you come back for Christmas, think what a jolly time we could have together at Woodhammer Hall! You know how much I’ve always wanted to see Woodhammer. Well, I must stop. Forgive me for writing only a short letter, but I have a brief to prepare for tomorrow, and I’m already burning the midnight oil. My best wishes to the future Lady de Salis. Yours, etc.
DERRY
.”

This was all very well, but after I had recovered from my relief I began to feel in the deuce of a quandary. The truth was that the idea of Christmas at Woodhammer did seem appealing, for I was already exhausted by America. But I didn’t see how I could possibly leave Sarah. For a start I didn’t want to leave her, but it was really more complicated than that. It would be more accurate to say I didn’t dare leave her. I knew she loved me, but she was so ravishing and so desirable that I was terrified she might slip through my fingers even though we were now engaged. If I returned to England for even the briefest of visits she could always say afterward, “Well, you left me—you went away. You couldn’t have loved me much, so how can you blame me for having turned to someone else?”

Derry might be unaware of the danger, but I could see it all too clearly.

“Well, of course you must stay!” said Marguerite firmly when I confided in her. “We’ll all stay.”

“But I know you want to return before the end of the year.” There had never been any question of Marguerite remaining permanently in America. She was determined to live in London so that Thomas and David could grow up to be Englishmen, just as my father would have wished.

“Oh, it’s not essential that we should return then,” she said at once. “After all, these are exceptional circumstances. We’ll stay until next summer and then Thomas and David can be page boys at the wedding while I can sit in the front pew and enjoy myself.”

“I suppose we could all go back to England in December and return again next spring.”

“Much too upsetting for the boys,” said Marguerite. “That dreadful long sea voyage, all those thousands of miles—no, it would be much better for us to stay here for the extra months.”

“I suppose it would, yes. But don’t you think this hot weather is unhealthy for children?”

“We’ll be going upstate next week to Francis’ house in the Hudson Valley. Oh, you’ll love our house on the river, Patrick! I know you don’t like cities, but you’ll feel so much better in the country. And later on … well, there’s no need for you to stay in New York all the time, is there? You should really take advantage of being on this side of the Atlantic and see as much of America as possible. Yes, that’s it! You can take a tour, just like Mr. Trollope did, although I shouldn’t go to the South, as they say it’s still a wasteland from the war. But Francis has friends in Boston and Washington and Philadelphia, and of course you must see the Great Lakes—perhaps Chicago …”

American women can indeed be very managing sometimes. I began to wonder if there was more truth in Derry’s letter than I’d dared to admit.

“But what on earth am I going to tell Derry?” I said, embarrassed as usual by my good fortune. It seemed so unfair that I should be idling away my time touring America while Derry was slaving away in some poky legal chambers in Dublin with no prospect on the horizon but a solitary Christmas at his lodgings.

“Tell Derry you can’t bear to leave Sarah, of course,” said Marguerite, giving me a look that plainly told me I was being unintelligent. “What else do you need to say?”

That was a good question. I spent several hours trying to think of the answer, and in the end I became convinced that if I could only compensate him in some way for my absence both he and my conscience would be appeased.

“Dear Derry,” I wrote carefully at last. “I’ve got myself into a tricky position here and don’t see how I can return to Woodhammer for Christmas—or indeed at any time between now and my wedding day. I’ve tried to press for an earlier wedding date, but apparently it takes them months to get ready, and anyway Cousin Francis is playing the clinging papa and insisting on a year’s engagement. However, since it seems I’ve no choice but to reconcile myself to a long absence from home, I wonder if you would accept an important commission from me. Could I engage you in your professional capacity and ask you to keep an eye on affairs at Cashelmara? I don’t have to worry about Woodhammer because Mason is such a good steward, but you know how matters slide downhill at Cashelmara if no one visits the place at regular intervals. If you could keep an eye on the servants and see they don’t spend all their time drinking poteen and having faction fights, I’d be awfully grateful.

“By the way, I heard from Annabel this morning. Clara and Edith are actually staying with her at Clonagh Court now. Those stiff-necked old grandparents of theirs finally expired within a month of each other at their ghastly morgue in Northumberland, so they can’t keep the girls from Annabel any more. As I’m their nearest male relative the Court of Chancery has appointed me their guardian, which is rather jolly, and as soon as the family attorney wrote to tell me so I asked Annabel to liberate the girls from Northumberland. Annabel already had, as it turned out, but I’m sure she has no idea what to do with two nubile daughters, so why don’t you call with some suggestions? Clara told me once she thought you were a terrific Heavy Swell, and since Annabel thinks pretty well of you too you may have some luck with an heiress at last! Good hunting anyway. Yours, etc.
PATRICK
.”

“Dear Patrick,” Derry wrote back promptly in reply, “why you should want to consign me to a fate worse than death (becoming Maxwell Drummond’s neighbor again) I can’t think, but since I am, God help me, a native of that part of the world, and since I’m bloody sick of working like a dog in damp dark chambers for a pittance and since I’m pretty well fed up with life at the moment (why the
hell
can’t you come home and we can have some fun?) … well, to cut a long list of grievances short, yes, I’ll take your wretched commission if you’ll pay me one hundred pounds a month (a man can’t live a decent life on less than a thousand a year, and we both know that) and give me a power of attorney so that I can deal with your affairs properly. You’re a great deal too trusting with that Scots bastard MacGowan, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was robbing you right and left. Look how he leased my father’s old lands to that devil Drummond for twenty pounds a year! I remember very well your father saying he wanted Drummond to have the land for a nominal rent, so where do you think those twenty pounds went? Not into your father’s pocket, you can be sure of that. Those Scots are all alike. They can never bear to part with money—either their own or anyone else’s. Cursed Black Protestants the lot of them.

“Dear God, what fun it’ll be to set foot in Clonareen again and start discussing the merits of celibacy once more with Father Donal! Make sure you write at once to your London lawyers so that I can have my power of attorney as soon as possible, and then I’ll take care of Cashelmara as well as if it were my very own. Yours, etc.
DERRY
.

“P.S. Good news about Clara. What sort of income has she got, do you know? I suppose she can do pretty much as she likes with it when she marries. Maybe if all goes well I’ll be spending my Christmas at Clonagh Court! Are you sure you can’t come home and join us?”

But I didn’t go home. I remained in America with Sarah, and it was to be many months before I saw Derry again.

I dreamed about Sarah that night. I dreamed that she was riding down the road to Clonareen, the road that followed the shore of the lough amidst the blazing yellow of the gorse. She rode a white horse and wore a black riding habit, and in her left hand she carried a long curling riding whip. She rode slowly past the stone-walled fields on the hillside above her, but when she reached the ruined cabin which had once been Derry’s home she left the road and guided her horse up the deserted bohereen to the front door.

Derry walked from the ruins to meet her, his hands outstretched in greeting.

I was watching from behind one of the walls, just as I always did, and as I peered through the familiar crack in the crumbling stonework I saw that she was facing him amidst the weeds which had long since pushed their way through the earthen floor.