Cashelmara (41 page)

“I’ll come if you like,” he said straightaway. No man could have been a better friend than he was. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about that gray-bearded old goat and that shabby overgrown bullfrog.” And he gave such an amusing imitation of Cousin George admonishing me that I couldn’t help laughing, and once I’d laughed I did feel much better about facing my ordeal.

“No,” I said, scraping up my courage. “I got myself into this mess and I must get myself out of it. It would be quite unfair to drag you into it as well. Stay with Clara and make a novena for me or do one of those other jolly Catholic things you enjoy so much.”

He protested, but I was firm, and the next morning, wearing my best brave face, I departed on the dreary journey to Ireland.

It was raining when I reached Cashelmara, and the house was as damp as the inside of a grave. Huddling over the library fire, I drank a great quantity of hot brandy and water before I could face the journey upstairs to my room, but the next morning my nose was running and I felt very sorry for myself. It was still raining. The lough was the color of smoky glass, and the mist lay heavily on the mountains. Having nothing better to do, I huddled over the library fire again with more hot brandy, and water, and then just as I was beginning to feel better Cousin George and Duneden arrived and I again felt as sick as a pauper in prison.

It had not occurred to me to question why the meeting was to be held at Cashelmara instead of at Duneden Castle or Letterturk Grange, but I discovered the answer soon enough. My inquisitors wanted to interview MacGowan, inspect the books and determine whether the estate was being administered to my best advantage.

“Frankly, Patrick,” said Duneden in his politician’s voice, “I find it hard to believe you could have lived so far beyond your income that you now need a loan of such gargantuan proportions.”

“I had many heavy expenses this year,” I said in my best meek voice.

“What kind of expenses?” demanded Cousin George at once.

I knew it was no good talking about a run of bad luck at cards or Derry’s wedding, so all I said was “Good Lord, George, you don’t expect me to provide an inventory, do you? Talk to Rathbone if you need details like that, and personally I can’t see why you need to know such details anyway.”

“My dear Patrick,” said Duneden, sounding just like my father, “you are asking us to supply you with a considerable sum of money. In return I think we’re entitled to know something of your financial affairs.”

“Yes, of course,” I muttered, anxious to smooth him over. “I do realize that. Very well, where do we begin?”

Well, we had the devil of a day. MacGowan was summoned, the books were produced and every penny of income from the estate was investigated. The next three days were spent riding around the estate (rain fell continuously) and inspecting matters in person. Cousin George thought the rents were shockingly low, for in many instances they hadn’t been raised since the early Fifties, and Duneden too said it was a mistake not to have the rents set at a realistic figure.

“Once the Irish become accustomed to having a roof over their heads for a pittance,” he said, “they’ll fight tooth and nail against a more equitable arrangement.” And Cousin George added, “If you give them an inch they’ll expect a mile for the rest of their lives. Besides, it’s for their own good. You won’t help them if you go bankrupt, Patrick, and I saw too many ruined estates after the famine not to know how the tenants suffer in those circumstances.”

Despite all this it was grudgingly agreed that MacGowan was honest and had done a reasonable job in the circumstances.

“Very well,” said Duneden after MacGowan had been instructed to implement a new scheme of rents, “so much for Cashelmara. Now we must adjourn to Woodhammer.”

I tried to protest, but I might as well have saved my breath, for they had me by the short end of a rope and we all knew it. So I was placed in the embarrassing position of having to explain to Sarah why my kinsmen were looking into my affairs, and the whole wretched process of investigation began all over again.

The ironic part was that I had always been so sure nothing ever went wrong at Woodhammer, but it turned out that old Mason, the steward, had become very slack and profits had dropped sharply. Also there was some sort of national slump in agriculture. I didn’t understand why, but Cousin George blamed bad harvests and Duneden blamed the rising power of the United States and I’m sure they were both wrong. Anyway, after we had spent a week at Woodhammer Duneden announced to my horror that we must journey to London to talk to Mr. Adolphus Rathbone of Rathbone, Armstrong and Mather.

It was impossible to stop him. Two days later I was sitting in the morning room of my house in Curzon Street and listening in despair as Rathbone talked blithely of townhouses, society weddings, dispensaries in the west of Ireland, umpteen new ball gowns and last, but unfortunately not least, Mr. Goldfarb of Bread Lane and his ruinous rates of interest.

To cap it all Duneden had by this time heard gossip that I had once dropped three thousand pounds in a single night at the Albatross, and after that I knew I could expect nothing but a raw deal.

By this time I was in a state of mingled anger, resentment and humiliation. I was livid that they had seen fit to pry into my affairs and although I admitted they had a right to know how matters stood I still felt that between gentlemen a loan should be either given or refused with no questions asked. It was only because they were kinsmen that they had dared assume this monstrous right to pry. I was also furious that they should humiliate me before my lawyer and my servants by treating me as if I were a mere child who couldn’t be expected to keep his house in order. I knew I had behaved stupidly; that went without saying. But everyone makes mistakes, and I didn’t see that my stupidity made me the feckless rogue they clearly thought I was. The only reason I played along with them was because I really did need the money, but in the end I even began to wonder if such treatment at the hands of my relatives was too high a price to pay.

The hour of reckoning came on one fine morning in the drawing room of Duneden’s house in Bruton Street. Duneden, possibly aware that his lack of a blood relationship with me made his high-handed attitude all the more inexcusable, had made the gesture of appointing Cousin George as his spokesman.

“Well, Patrick,” said Cousin George, pompous as ever, “we have finally reached a decision.”

Damn handsome of you, I thought furiously but managed to assume a politely inquiring expression.

“We have decided to lend you the money.”

Relief streamed through me. “That’s very decent of you both,” I said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”

“On certain conditions,” said George, not even bothering to acknowledge my words of appreciation.

Here we go, I thought.

“First of all, it’s quite obvious that you should live quietly for the next two years until your debts are considerably reduced.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Well, I’m sure I shan’t mind spending most of the year at Woodhammer.” I tried not to think how much Sarah would mind and told myself that I could always take her to London for visits.

But Duneden, damn him, knew exactly what I was thinking. “Woodhammer’s too near London, Patrick,” he said at once. “And London presents you with too much temptation to spend money. I’m afraid we must advise you to close Woodhammer for at least two years and let the house in Curzon Street to supplement your income. Your cousin and I will hold the title deeds of the townhouse as some sort of security against the large sum we shall lend you. In my opinion it would be better not to sell the townhouse, as you would never recoup the enormous expenditures you have lavished upon it. Better to hold on if you can and trust that the value of the property will rise in due course.”

“But look here!” I said, alarmed. “If I can’t live in London and you won’t let me live at Woodhammer, where the devil
do
you expect me to live?”

I knew the answer, of course, before I had finished speaking. It was the first time I had ever truly known the meaning of the phrase “chilled to the bone.”

“Cashelmara, of course,” said Cousin George, surprised. “Where else?”

I opened my mouth to say “Never!” but closed it again. Better to play along with them for the time being. Now was hardly the moment to tell them that even the strongest cart ropes in the world could never drag me to Cashelmara to live.

“Well, I can’t pretend I wouldn’t rather live at Woodhammer,” I said after a deadly pause, “but if I have to live at Cashelmara I suppose I must. Are there any more conditions attached to your loan?”

Duneden had taken over the role of spokesman. “You must give us your word that you won’t indulge in any form of gambling either now or at any time during the next two years.”

“Very well,” I said. “I know I’ve been stupid about that. I’ll give you my word. Now when can I have the money?”

“There’s one other condition which hasn’t yet been mentioned.”

“Yes?” I said, trying not to sound too exasperated. “What’s that?”

“We absolutely insist that you neither see nor communicate with Roderick Stranahan at any time in the future.”

There was another pause. The morning sunlight slanted onto the rich Axminster carpet, and below the open window in Bruton Street two landaus rattled past toward Berkeley Square.

I stood up. There comes a time when a man has to take a stand, and although I know I have many faults I know too that I have one great virtue which no one has ever questioned.

I’m always loyal to my friends.

“In that case, gentlemen,” I said, “we have nothing more to discuss. Keep your money. I won’t sell my friendship with Roderick Stranahan at any price, not even for the sum you propose to loan me.”

That shook them. They looked at me as if they could hardly believe their ears, and in their dumfounded expressions I found my revenge for all their prying and preaching and dictatorial demands.

“Of course you’re not serious,” said Duneden at last.

“You can’t afford not to do as we say!” blustered Cousin George, putting his foot in it as usual. I can think of no other remark that would have made me more determined than ever to refuse his money.

Duneden’s eyes were as gray as the rainy lough at Cashelmara. He did not resemble my father in looks, yet he reminded me of him very much. And suddenly for no apparent reason I was remembering a conversation I had had with my father long ago when he had warned me about the ways of the world and told me all kinds of repulsive facts about sexual matters. I could never think of that conversation without feeling sick, and I felt sick now as I looked into Duneden’s eyes and saw in them a veiled expression which at first I could neither define nor understand. Then I realized he was pitying me, and I was so angry that I forgot to feel sick. I might have made a mess of my financial affairs, but no man had a right to look at me with contempt, least of all a man who had offered me a loan under such monstrous conditions and given me the hell of a life for damned nearly three weeks.

“To the devil with both of you,” I said, returning his contempt, and allowed myself the luxury of telling him in no uncertain way what he could do with all his filthy money. Then I turned my back on them, walked out of the house and took a cab all the way to Temple Bar.

Half an hour later I was confronting Rathbone in his chambers at Serjeant’s Inn and telling him to mortgage Woodhammer Hall.

ONCE THE DEED WAS
done I felt in better spirits and discovered with relief that there was really nothing so horrific about a mortgage after all. Indeed Rathbone was very pleased and said I had taken a major step out of my troubles by enabling my debts to be consolidated.

“But even so, my lord,” he warned me, “it’s imperative that you live carefully for a while if you want to avoid having to sell any land.”

“Yes, of course,” I said soothingly. “I do understand that.” I was so relieved to be free of Cousin George and Duneden that not even the thought of future economies could upset me. After I left Rathbone I sauntered back to my house through the sunlit streets, and that same day I returned to Woodhammer to tell Sarah joyfully that our troubles were over for the next few months.

“So we’ll be able to go abroad straightaway!” I said, kissing her affectionately. I was so glad I didn’t have to disappoint her by abandoning our plans.

Well, we did have a marvelous time on the Continent despite the fact that the Franco-Prussian War was in full cry by this time, and since Paris was under siege I had no choice but to stick to my plan to sail straight to Italy.

“If only we hadn’t postponed our visit so often!” said Sarah, trying to sound merely regretful but succeeding in sounding accusing as well. “Now I’ll never see the Empire in all its glory. Everyone says Paris will never be the same again.”

Fortunately, to my great relief, Italian society opened its doors to us as soon as we stepped onto Italian soil, and once we were showered with invitations to country estates, town mansions, operas, theaters and salons, Sarah soon recovered from her disappointment. She was a great success; she had a new wardrobe for the occasion, and although in truth I did get a little tired of our exhaustingly sociable life in Rome, Venice and Florence, I was proud to see her stunning all those foreigners with her elegance. However, finally we managed to snatch a few quiet days by the northern lakes, and I painted some amusingly splashy watercolors of Como and Maggiore. In fact I would have been quite happy to paint all day long if Sarah had not complained that I was neglecting her, and her restlessness reminded me that I still had to explain to her about the sort of life we would be obliged to lead in the future.

I broke the news to her on the cross-Channel steamer as it chugged through the choppy December seas on the way to Dover. We had traveled home through Switzerland and the new state of Germany, and still avoiding poor starving Paris (I must say, I felt as anti-Prussian as the Prince of Wales by that time), we had boarded the steamer at Ostend.