Cashelmara (42 page)

“Sarah darling,” I said tentatively, “we have to try to save money during the next few months until my affairs are straightened out. I know it’s an awful bore, but now that Woodhammer is mortgaged I’ve simply got to be careful. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sarah. “I’ll cut down the guest list for our New Year’s Eve ball.”

I began to feel uncomfortable. “Well, the fact is, Sarah, I think we’d better cancel our plans for the ball this year. You see—”

“Cancel the ball!” She looked at me as if I were mad. “But how can we do that? People expect us to repeat last year’s success!”

“I can’t help that. We have to go down to Woodhammer, I’m afraid, and lead a quiet country life for a while. In fact I think I really should let the townhouse for twelve months.”

“Let the townhouse!” She couldn’t have looked more horrified if I had suggested she ride naked down Curzon Street.

“Well, maybe I won’t let it,” I said unhappily. I did hate to disappoint her. “But we must restrict our time in London, Sarah, because it costs us so much money.”

“Oh, stop talking about money!” burst out Sarah, in a great tantrum by this time. “I wasn’t brought up to pinch pennies, and I don’t see why I should have to begin now just because you chose to go on a series of gambling sprees with Derry Stranahan!”

“It’s got nothing to do with Derry.”

“It’s got everything to do with Derry!” she blazed. We stood there by the window of the enclosed deck, and beneath our feet the boat rocked as uncomfortably as our own marriage. Sarah’s eyes were tawny and her mouth was set in a hard angry line. “And I’ll tell you this,” she said. “I’m not staying at Woodhammer while he’s just across the river at Byngham Chase, and I’m not staying in London while he lives just around the corner in Clarges Street. I despise and detest him. I always have and I always will, and if I’d known before I married you that I’d have to see him every day of my married life you can be sure I’d have broken off the engagement and stayed in America.”

“My God, I wish you had!” I cried, turning my back on her in a rage. We were so angry that we refused to speak to each other during the remainder of the journey to London, and when we reached Curzon Street at last I slept in my dressing room as I always did when she was indisposed.

The next morning I told her we would be leaving for Woodhammer at the end of the week.

“You can do as you please,” said Sarah. “But I’ve already told you I won’t go to Woodhammer while Derry’s at Byngham Chase. If you leave London I shall go to St. James’s Square to stay with Marguerite. That should avoid any gossip for the time being.”

I was so furious with her that I almost said, “Go ahead—I don’t give a damn!” but I had my pride, just like any other man, and I knew no husband ought to stand by meekly while his wife dictated her plans to him. “You’re not staying here in London!” I said resolutely.

“Try and stop me!” retorted Sarah.

We both arrived on Marguerite’s doorstep at almost the same moment. I had rushed out and collared a hansom while Sarah had waited for the brougham to be brought to the door, so fortunately I did have a ten-minute start. I had just managed to explain to Marguerite about Sarah’s complete lack of understanding of my financial situation when Lomax announced Sarah’s arrival.

“Oh my God!” I groaned.

“Wait here,” said Marguerite, resourceful as ever. We were in the drawing room. “I’ll receive her downstairs. Now, Patrick, calm down, be patient and whatever you do don’t dare interrupt us.”

I paced up and down the drawing room for half an hour. When Marguerite finally reappeared I was in such a state that I could hardly summon the words to ask her what had happened.

“At least I’ve managed to explain to her about your financial difficulties,” said Marguerite, subsiding into the nearest chair, “although I can’t explain to her why you have to see so much of Derry. You and Sarah will have to compromise with each other, Patrick. Sarah says she would be willing to stay next year at Woodhammer if you in your turn would see less of Derry. But how you’re going to do that when Derry’s perpetually on your doorstep, I’ve no idea.”

“And I’ve no idea,” I said bitterly, “how Sarah is going to live all the year round at Woodhammer without driving us both mad.”

“If only—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I was only thinking what a pity it was that she doesn’t have a baby yet.” She fidgeted uneasily with her sleeve before changing the subject. “Derry should have some sort of occupation,” she declared. “If he did, perhaps he wouldn’t depend so much on you for company. Didn’t you say he wanted to be a member of Parliament? Perhaps if he brought Clara up to town after Christmas I could arrange for him to meet one or two people who might take an interest in him.”

“I dare say he’d like that,” I said gloomily. “But meanwhile I still don’t see how I’m going to persuade Sarah to go down to Woodhammer.”

“Why don’t we all go down there for Christmas?” suggested Marguerite. “I think Sarah would come if I agreed to go with her, even though Derry’s still at Byngham Chase.”

This proved to be an acceptable compromise, but I still thought Sarah was being unreasonable, and I resented her implacable antagonism to my best friend.

“God, women are the very devil, aren’t they!” exclaimed Derry as we went riding together at Woodhammer on Boxing Day. “Always complaining about something or other!”

“Clara doesn’t complain much, surely?” I said, surprised.

“Don’t you believe it! She’s always moaning about how ill she feels now she’s pregnant. Well, it gives her something to grumble about, I suppose, poor child.”

“But you and Clara are happy, aren’t you?”

“To be sure we are—why not? Being married ain’t so bad when all’s said and done, and I’ll be as proud as a dog with two tails when Clara has the baby.”

I was silent. I didn’t grudge him one ounce of his good fortune, but I couldn’t help feeling a little envious of his meek loving wife and the baby coming in the spring. Sarah and I were on speaking terms, but she was so chilly when we were alone that I was still spending every night in my dressing room, and I had begun to wonder if she would ever present me with a son and heir.

However, she did thaw considerably once the Stranahans had accompanied Marguerite back to town. We began to share a bed again, and soon we were both hoping that she might be following in Clara’s footsteps, but again we were disappointed. One day in March I came indoors from a ride and found her crying in her room.

“Never mind,” I said after I had learned what the trouble was. “Our luck’s bound to turn soon. It’s just a question of being patient.”

“I’m tired of being patient!” cried Sarah, tears streaming down her face. “How can I go on being patient when Mama keeps sending baby clothes from America and even that stupid little Clara gets pregnant on her honeymoon …”

But Clara lost the baby. It was born early and lived only a few hours.

“Better luck next time,” wrote Derry philosophically, but I knew he was down because he barely mentioned politics. There was some talk of his standing as a liberal candidate for a Lancashire borough in the next election, and he was very bucked about it.

“If only we could go back to London!” wept Sarah. “I’m sure I’ll never have a baby when I’m so unhappy down here!”

“My poor Sarah …” Well, a man doesn’t like to see his wife unhappy, does he? I mean, I had to do something to cheer her up, so I said I’d take her to London for a couple of weeks. It was April, the entire London Season lay ahead, and since we had lived so quietly for five months I thought both of us were entitled to a reward.

I didn’t mean to go gambling with Derry. I really didn’t. But you know how it is after you’ve split a bottle of champagne with your best friend and a few other fellows are cutting the cards and everyone’s so damned pleased to see you back in town. And I did mean to steer clear of loo, which is such a silly game that no sensible man would touch it with a coachman’s whip. Nor did I mean to touch poker, that monstrous heathen game, but there was an American at the club that night and you know how the Americans are about poker. And you know too how it is when you win twenty pounds straight off and someone calls for soda and brandy and the card room’s so warm and comfortable and cozy.

I meant to stop when I was winning; I had it all worked out. I was determined to leave as soon as I was fifty pounds to the good, but then I had the very devil of a hand and lost a little, not much, just a couple of pounds, and of course after that I had to go on. I mean, I had to, didn’t I? You know how it is when the pale-yellow light glows alluringly on the green baize cloth and a fellow snaps the cards in his fingers and you have a whole new round coming up. Anything can happen, can’t it? You know you’re going to win eventually, so you simply have to go on. And someone orders more brandy and soon nothing matters, nothing can touch you, you’re beyond all pain, all despair, because nothing matters except the cards and the pattern they make when they fall and the clink of coins or the whisper of paper money as the winnings are pushed back and forth across the table.

I had to go on.

It was dawn when the game broke up. I felt numb, as if someone had slammed me over the head with a gun butt, and it was Derry who found the hansom to take us to Curzon Street.

Before we parted he said, “You can have back the money I won, if you like.”

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” I said. “I lost more to the other fellows than I did to you. Besides, what do I care? I’m not a pauper and I’ll get it all back. I’ll have a lucky streak soon, you’ll see.”

So I stayed the whole summer in London while I searched for my lucky streak, and Sarah was so delighted that she even overlooked my regular outings to the Albatross with Derry. When she ordered a new summer wardrobe and redecorated the first floor of the house, I hadn’t the heart to stop her, and anyway I knew my luck at cards was sure to turn any moment. It did too. For one glorious week I could do nothing wrong at the card table, but even before I could count my winnings my luck had slipped through my fingers again. Well, it had been such a damnable short lucky streak that I was sure I’d find it again in a day or two, so I kept playing. But to my horror disaster followed disaster, and by the time we withdrew to the country in August I had already told Rathbone to sell the townhouse and arrange for a second mortgage on Woodhammer Hall.

I told Sarah I would rent a townhouse for the following summer. It was the only way of pacifying her, but when in October I had to refuse her suggestion that we should give a Christmas ball at Woodhammer we quarreled bitterly and were on bad terms for some weeks. Derry was still pursuing his political ambitions in London, so I spent most of my time by myself in my attic workroom. Carving soothed me. I tried to make an elaborate bowl of flowers in the manner of Grinling Gibbons, but the stems were too stiff and the petals looked heavy as lead. Disappointed by the failure, I found I could no longer shut out my troubles, and indeed by this time Sarah’s sourness had become so unpleasant that I wrote to Marguerite to ask her if we could spend Christmas with her in London.

It was in London—at the Albatross, of course—that I heard about the railway shares. Everyone was talking about them and saying what a marvelous investment they were. Everyone knew fortunes had been made in America with the development of the railways, and this new company, floated in order to build a railway from San Diego to Tucson, was reckoned certain to quadruple any investor’s money.

Derry had put a lot of money into the scheme, and not wanting to be left out, I borrowed two thousand pounds from my old friend Mr. Goldfarb of Bread Lane. Everyone said that I was wise and that the opportunity was too good to be missed.

Everyone.

The crash came in April when the company went bankrupt. We were still in London. I had already rented a townhouse because I thought that with several thousand pounds’ profit on my investment a temporary home in London was the least I could afford. But now all hope of profit was gone, my borrowed money was lost and Mr. Goldfarb was again paying visits to Rathbone at Serjeant’s Inn.

I got a bit desperate then. It was understandable after all because I really was in the devil of a hole. Derry would have helped me out if it had been possible, but he too had lost all his money in the crash and was now utterly dependent on Clara’s trust funds.

Borrowing another two thousand pounds, this time from a Mr. Marks of High Holborn, I set off once more for the card table.

It was my only hope, you see. And somehow … well, it’s hard to explain, but I was absolutely certain that I would win and make everything come straight.

A month later, knowing Woodhammer was lost unless I swallowed my pride, I once again set down to write to Duneden and my cousin George.

I dreamed of my house slumbering amidst its lush parkland. I dreamed of the house I loved, those warm mellow walls and tall chimneys and the orderly reassuring formality of the Elizabethan garden. I dreamed of that glowing wood paneling and my ancestors in their ruffs and the massive strength of the mahogany furniture. And last of all I dreamed of the staircase, the sublime carving by Grinling Gibbons, whose work meant more to me than any masterpiece by Michelangelo or Leonardo or Raphael. I saw each fragile leaf, each delicate cluster of berries, each gossamer-thin tracery of flowers in full bloom. I could try all my life to carve as he carved, yet no spark of his gift would ever be mine. But that staircase was mine, and no one was going to take it away from me; no one was going to deprive me of my home. But the thought that I was the de Salis who might lose Woodhammer forever was so painful that my mind refused to dwell upon the house as a whole and clung solely to the staircase, which in its beauty and grace represented all that my home meant to me.

Duneden said, “You’re obviously quite unable to handle money. I refuse to lend you a penny unless you hand over complete control of your financial affairs to your cousin and myself. We shall pay you a monthly allowance.”

That beautiful staircase. I could see the golden light of evening slanting through the long windows and blazing fiercely upon the wood Gibbons had transformed.