Cashelmara (35 page)

“Hurrah!” I yelled, beside myself with delight at seeing him again, and on an impulse I flung wide the carriage door, jumped out and dashed up the drive toward him.

He started to laugh. He was always so casual, so debonair. Of course he laughed.

“Derry!” I shouted. “Derry, you old bastard!”

He waved again, still very languid. “Bastard yourself!” I heard him drawl. He was always so cool, you see, that I never expected him to be other than unflurried, but suddenly he was running too, and when we embraced at last and he said, still laughing, “You damned fool, what the devil took you so long?” I saw to my amazement that his black eyes shone with tears.

WE MUST HAVE SEEMED
as garrulous as a couple of fishwives as we stood there talking nineteen to the dozen, and we were so pleased to see each other again that neither of us noticed the carriage creak to a halt before the front door. It was only when I saw Derry’s glance flick past me that I realized Sarah was watching us. The coachman had helped her down and she was standing very still, the damp breeze plucking limply at her veil. She looked not only beautiful but exotic against the drab dark background of the woods, and I felt my heart almost burst with pride.

“Sarah!” I exclaimed, overjoyed that I was at last able to introduce the two people I loved best. “May I present my friend Roderick Stranahan! Derry—my wife!”

They faced each other, and the chill between them struck me like a slap in the face. It was Derry’s fault. He looked her up and down as if she were one of his damned women, and Sarah responded by looking down her nose at him as if he stank of the sewer. Derry laughed. The scene at once plunged deeper into disaster, and Sarah, turning her back on him with studied rudeness, said haughtily to me, “Patrick darling, is it really necessary for us to remain out here in the rain? You and Mr. Stranahan may be content to chatter away with no thought for my comfort, but I’m very cold and exceedingly tired and I want to go indoors at once.”

“Of course,” I mumbled, red to the ears with embarrassment. “Forgive me. This way.” I offered her my arm, but she was so angry that she ignored it, picked up her skirts and climbed the steps unaided.

All the servants were clustered in the hall to catch a glimpse of the new mistress of the house. Twenty pairs of round eyes became rounder, and twenty necks craned forward with a flexibility that would have put a herd of giraffes to shame. Hayes the butler, a thin, reedy man in his fifties, began to make one of his famous speeches of welcome, but in the middle of his rapturous lyricism Sarah said petulantly to me, “Patrick, I have the most ferocious headache. I must lie down at once or I declare I shall faint right away.”

Having begun by feeling angry with Derry, I now began to feel angry with her again. Hayes
was
an old bore when it came to speechifying, but it took so little to please him, and I thought she might at least have had the courtesy to hear him out. I said awkwardly, “Hayes, forgive us, if you please, but my wife is exhausted by the journey and must rest at once. We both thank you from the bottom of our hearts for such a magnificent and moving welcome.”

(You have to exaggerate always when speaking to the Irish; no exaggeration is ever too much for them to endure.)

Hayes looked disappointed, but chivalry helped him to assume a solicitous expression. I was told that all was prepared for us, and after thanking him profusely again I took Sarah upstairs to the apartments which were set aside for the master and mistress of the house.

“What!” said Sarah. “No fire? And hasn’t the room been aired? I thought the butler said all was ready for us!”

“I’ll ring for the maid,” I said hurriedly and gave the bell rope such a tug that it nearly came apart in my hands.

“And I must have hot water,” said Sarah. “At once. I feel chilled to the bone.”

I sighed. To ask for hot water immediately at Cashelmara was like asking for champagne at a country inn.

“Well, I think I’ll leave you now,” I said uncomfortably after I had given the order for hot water and the maid was busy lighting the fire. Sarah’s own maid had arrived, and the footmen were busy heaving the enormous array of American luggage up the curving staircase. After pausing in the dressing room long enough to wash my hands and face in cold water, I hurried along the gallery to the drawing room, but Derry wasn’t there. I went downstairs, looked in the saloon, which was also empty, and then crossed the hall to the library.

That too was empty, but I lingered, remembering my father. There was a huge desk which occupied much of the floor, and I thought of all the times I had entered the room and seen my father sitting there, his back to the window, his elbows submerged in a sea of papers. The top of the desk looked strangely naked now. On an impulse I sat down in my father’s chair and surveyed the room. The books made it gloomy, but there was a fireplace of Italian marble which I liked, and above the mantel was an arresting portrait of my mother. I stared at her dark eyes and thought how odd it was that we should have had any connection with each other. But it was a good portrait. I thought I might wrap it carefully and put it in one of the attics so that it would not deteriorate in the damp Irish air, and I was just planning the picture I would paint to replace it when I noticed the miniature of my brother Louis peeping at me from behind the inkwell. Louis had died when I had been three months old, but my father had spoken of him so often during my childhood that I had come to think I had known him all too well. Leaning forward, I took the miniature between my thumb and forefinger and dropped it firmly into the bottom drawer of the desk. I had wanted to do that for a very long time.

The door opened. Derry drawled, “God, it looks odd to see you sitting there!” and we laughed together before I remembered the scene in the drive.

“Derry, why the devil did you treat Sarah like that?” I demanded crossly. “I must say I thought you were damned uppish with her.”

“But Jesus Christ, Patrick, didn’t you see the way she looked at me?”

“I—”

“Oh, very well and I’m sorry!” he interrupted, all impatience and good humor. “I’ll smooth her over at dinner, I promise, and make amends somehow, but Lord, Patrick, what a chilly piece of skirt! Doesn’t she freeze the balls off you in bed?”

“Stop it,” I said.

He laughed. “Ah come, Patrick! Aren’t you going to tell me all about your life between the sheets?”

“Not this time.” I wanted to feel angry with him but only succeeded in feeling ill at ease. “Sarah’s my wife. She’s not just a piece of skirt, as you put it.”

“Oh God, a romantic!” he drawled, strolling over to the window with a yawn.

When I said nothing he turned; our glances met, and I glimpsed some fleeting indefinable expression in his eyes. The next moment he was saying lightly with a smile, “Don’t take offense. I was only joking, and you know how I love to joke about anything under the sun, Patrick. Have we been apart so long you don’t remember all my worst faults? Listen, I admit I’m jealous, for I’ve never seen a creature half so ravishing as she is, and that’s the truth of it. You’re a devil of a lucky man, Patrick, but you always were lucky, weren’t you? I never knew anyone luckier than you. Sit down, there’s a good fellow, and let’s order some whisky to lift you back on your toes after your journey, for I’ve so much to talk to you about that upon my honor I scarce know where to begin.”

I began to feel better. Of course it was natural he should envy me such a beautiful wife, and since he had been honest enough to admit his envy I resolved to forgive him for his misbehavior toward Sarah. Accordingly after Hayes had brought us whisky and water and we had settled ourselves in the armchairs that flanked the fireplace I asked him genially how matters had been faring at Cashelmara. “I didn’t have a letter from you for over a month before I left America,” I added, trying to make this a mere comment, not a complaint. “I hope nothing was wrong.”

“Didn’t you get that letter I wrote about your cousin George?”

“No … Oh Lord, has George been interfering again?”

My cousin George, the only son of my father’s only brother, lived in a hideous house at Letterturk, five miles away, and spent his time either shooting innocent fowl or else watching not so innocent foxes be torn to pieces by disgusting packs of hounds. He was twenty years my senior and as bossy as a nanny goat.

“Damnation!” said Derry. “The letter must have missed you. I did wonder if it would get to you in time. Well, to cut a long story short, I’ve decided I’d like a change of scenery, Patrick my friend. When do you intend to leave for Woodhammer?”

“As soon as possible,” I said fervently. “We came here only to see you. Yes, why don’t you come and stay at Woodhammer for a while? That’s a marvelous idea. I’ll call on Annabel tomorrow and ask if she’ll let the girls come to stay with us too. Of course it’ll be a bore to have Edith, but I can hardly invite Clara on her own.”

“You’ll not find Annabel agreeing to part with either of them. She made it clear to me last month that she has other plans for Clara.”

“No! Really?” I could hardly believe it. It wasn’t like Annabel to be snobbish, for her own second husband wasn’t half as presentable as Derry.

“I had a little disagreement with that husband of hers,” Derry was saying carelessly. “He’s a nasty little weasel and no mistake. He didn’t like me playing up to Clara, and when he called me a cheap fortune-hunting tinker’s bastard—well, didn’t I have to tell him what I thought of jockeys who prefer riding horses to riding women? I had to say something to defend myself, didn’t I, and besides I really admire Clara. She’s pretty as a picture and so sweet-natured I declare I’d think of marrying her even if she hadn’t a penny to her name, but of course after I’d insulted Smith Annabel flew into a fine rage and told me never to darken her door again.”

“Oh dear,” I said unhappily. Because I was fond of both Annabel and Derry, it was painful to think of them at such odds with each other. “But, Derry, where does George come into all this?”

“Well, after the row with Smith the next thing I knew Cousin George was puffing over from Letterturk to say Annabel had complained I’d been getting above myself or some such stuff. He stood on the carpet about two feet from where you’re now sitting and breathed fire like some nasty overfed dragon—not about Clara, if you please, but about MacGowan. Yes, MacGowan, the Scots bastard! He said he—George—had been exercising considerable restraint for many months, but Annabel’s complaint was the straw that had broken the camel’s back. And when I asked him what I’d done all he could say was that I’d upset MacGowan!”

“But—”

“So I said, ‘Of course I’ve upset MacGowan, the dishonest, thieving rogue! Thanks to my power of attorney I’ve been able to twist the purse strings out of his hands and put him back in his place!’ After all, MacGowan’s supposed to be an agent, not a malevolent despot. So then Cousin George goes purple and says his uncle always thought highly of MacGowan, and when I point out—respectfully, mark you—that the late Lord de Salis was no longer in this world, Cousin George flies into an even dizzier tantrum and mutters some dark threat about an interview with you when you come home. He
is
a boring little man—and so damnably rude too!”

“Oh dear,” I said unhappily again.

“Never mind,” said Derry soothingly. “If I can’t have Clara, to be sure I’ve no wish to stay here at Cashelmara. Cousin George and MacGowan can go to hell together for all I care and Maxwell Drummond with them.”

“Don’t tell me Drummond’s been bothering you too!” I cried in despair.

“He’d bother the Queen herself if he had the chance. It was nothing, no more than a tempest in a teapot that arose when I decided to raise the rent he pays for my father’s old lands. Twenty pounds was such a ridiculously low figure, and since I’m sure most of it went straight into MacGowan’s pocket … well, I was only trying to straighten out your affairs, Patrick! But of course Drummond hasn’t paid a penny of the new rent and says he won’t pay either till he’s seen you in person.”

“Now at last I’ll have the chance to evict him!”

“You might be able to take my father’s old lands away from him, but you’ll never evict him from his own property, for he’s not a tenant at will—he’s a leaseholder. He has a fifty-year lease on that hovel and the surrounding acres, so you can’t evict him whenever you please as you would any other tenant. If he failed to pay the ground rent you might get a chance, but the ground rent’s so low he’ll always be able to raise the money to pay.”

“But everyone in Ireland is a tenant at will! How the deuce could Drummond have a leasehold property?”

“Because your father—God save his soul—had all those eccentric ideas about improving the lot of the Irish. He granted the leasehold to Drummond’s father after the famine as an incentive to improve the land, and Drummond inherited it. He’ll be your neighbor till the day of judgment, Patrick—or the year nineteen hundred, whichever comes first.”

This was all such gloomy news that I poured myself some more whisky. “I wish to God we were at Woodhammer,” I said fervently.

“When can we leave?”

“I’d better give Sarah a day or two to recover from the journey. Perhaps at the end of the week.”

There was a knock on the door, and Hayes entered with a letter. The silver salver on which it lay was an interesting shade of yellow. Mellow saffron, I thought, remembering the labels on my set of watercolors.

“This has just arrived from Letterturk, my lord.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “It’s from Cousin George. He didn’t waste any time, did he?”

“Burn it unopened,” advised Derry as Hayes withdrew.

But I had a morbid curiosity to see what George had written.

“My dear Patrick,” he had begun paternally. “First of all may I welcome you home from America. My best wishes to you and your bride. I look forward to meeting her soon.” Having thus disposed of the formalities, he launched himself into a new paragraph and adopted a more florid style. “Much as I regret to do so, I feel bound by honor and duty …” Cousin George was always feeling bound by honor and duty. Many were the times I’d wished they would strangle him. “… to inform you that there has been trouble at Cashelmara for some months now and this is, in my opinion, due solely to the meddling presence there of Roderick Stranahan …”