Cashelmara (47 page)

The servants all thought Derry’s death had unhinged me, but I took no notice, and presently when the lawn showed no marked improvement I wrote to the Royal Agricultural College for information about grass seed. If my lawn was ever to resemble a lake it was no use wasting more time on a patch of land that was more of a clover field than a grassy sward.

Still no word came from Sarah.

One gray afternoon I was outside digging up all the clover when Hayes tiptoed from the house to say that visitors had arrived.

“Visitors?” I said blankly. I straightened my back, rolled down my shirt sleeves and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Who?”

Hayes peered at the card on his salver. “A Mr. Rathbone of London,” he pronounced, rolling his “R” like a Frenchman.

I stretched out a muddy hand and snatched the card from him in disbelief. My first thought was that Sarah was petitioning for divorce. As far as I knew she had no grounds, but I could see no other explanation for Rathbone’s journey to Ireland.

“To be sure he’s come as an escort,” said Hayes helpfully. “These would be difficult times for a lady traveling alone, I’m thinking.”

“What lady?” I said, startled.

Hayes looked at me with that compassionate wariness that kind people reserve for the hopelessly insane.

“Why, your lady, my lord,” he said. “Your wife, may the Virgin and the Holy Saints protect her.”

I left him and rushed across the lawn.

Rathbone was in the morning room. He was alone.

I said two words—“my wife?”—and he, still rising to his feet, answered, “I believe she went upstairs to your apartments, my lord, to refresh herself from the journey.”

I raced upstairs, tripped on the top step and hurtled against the wall so hard that I damned nearly dislocated my collarbone. Then with my heart beating like a bass drum I stumbled down the gallery and burst across the threshold of the bedroom.

She was there. She was very pale, and as we stood staring at each other I sensed a new stillness about her, a poise and gravity that were unfamiliar.

“Sarah?” I whispered uncertainly and wondered for one bizarre moment if I was hallucinating.

She took a step forward and tried to speak, but no words came. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Sarah …” I could hardly speak myself. “You’ve forgiven me?” I said, still not daring to believe it. “You’ve come back?”

She nodded. The tears began to stream down her face, and suddenly I realized with shock that they were not tears of distress but tears of joy. “Oh, Patrick,” she said in a strange, quiet voice. “Patrick, it’s like a miracle. I’m going to have a baby.”

T
HE BEAUTY OF THE
royal pair … excited universal admiration; for the bridegroom was the handsomest prince in Europe, and the precocious charms of the bride had already obtained for her the name of Isabella the Fair.

Lives of the Queens of England

—
AGNES STRICKLAND

HE WAS BORN IN
December, just before Christmas, and weighed exactly eight pounds.

“Francis!” I whispered adoringly as soon as he was placed in my arms.

“Edward!” said Patrick equally adoringly at one and the same moment.

We never could agree about anything.

“I really think you should give way to Patrick this time, Sarah,” said my aunt Marguerite, the peacemaker. “After all, the baby is heir to the title, and it would be more suitable, by English standards, if he were named for Patrick’s father, not for yours.”

I would never have followed Marguerite’s advice so often except that she was always right. I can’t bear people who are always right, but Marguerite was always right in such a clever way that I still loved her just as dearly as if she had been my sister (and probably a whole heap better). So I gave in to Patrick for the umpteenth time (oh, it does so aggravate me to give way when my heart is set on something!), and the baby was christened Patrick Edward after his father and grandfather in the chapel at Cashelmara.

The champagne had hardly vanished from our glasses at the luncheon afterward when Patrick and I were squabbling about whether Baby should be addressed as Patrick or Edward.

“Patrick would be nicer than Edward,” I said. I have always thought Edward is an unbearably stuffy English name.

“No, we can’t call him Patrick,” said Patrick. “It would be too confusing.”

“But Edward is so stiff for a little boy!”

“We can call him Ned.”

“Ned!” I was horrified. “Just like a donkey! Oh, Patrick, we can’t!”

“I like it,” said Patrick with that mulish expression I had come to know and dread, “and Neddy is the nickname for a donkey, not Ned. If you spoke English properly you’d know that.”

“How can you say I don’t speak English properly?” I exclaimed, amazed by his nerve, for he was always using the most dreadful slang, and my speech was far more proper than his was. Besides, to be frank, I have always thought the well-bred American accent is far more pleasant on the ears than the languid drawl of the London drawing rooms.

After this squabble Marguerite said to me in private, “Sarah, give way to Patrick absolutely with this child, and then you can do exactly as you wish with the next, can’t you see?”

“If there ever is another baby,” I said bitterly. I had not intended to say that, but I was feeling so cross at the prospect of Baby being called after a donkey that I let the words slip out.

“Of course there’ll be another baby!” said Marguerite sharply. “Don’t be foolish, Sarah. You’ve had this golden opportunity to make a fresh start in your marriage, and I can’t believe you could be so shortsighted as to let the opportunity slip through your fingers.”

That appealed to my pride, of course, and also her words put the silly squabble in its true perspective so that I felt ashamed. What did it truly matter what Baby was called? He was there—that was the important thing—and he was thriving, and he was without question the most beautiful baby in the world. All mothers say that about their babies, I know, but Ned really
was
the most beautiful baby. Everyone said so, not just me.

“Your luck’s changed, Sarah,” said Marguerite to me before she left Cashelmara for London in the new year. “I really believe all’s going to be well between you and Patrick now, but whatever happens in future don’t forget that there are three things you must never do. Never complain about the lack of money, never refer to past disasters, and never, never,
never
—”

“—mention the name Derry Stranahan,” I said wearily, trying not to sound impatient. Four and a half years of marriage had at least taught me a little wisdom, and I had no intention of making the mistakes I had made when I was a bride of nineteen. “I know, Marguerite, I know. You’ve said all that to me before.”

“Some things should be said more than once,” said Marguerite, but she saw I was annoyed and added quickly, “Don’t think I’m prejudiced. I’ve been just as stern to Patrick as I’ve been to you. In fact,” she continued, smoothing a layer of praise over the unpalatable advice, “when I remember Patrick’s neglect of you in the past, Sarah, it’s a wonder you’ve remained faithful to him. You’ve behaved very well, and you’ve certainly earned the right to some happiness now.”

I like to be praised. Certainly nothing would have been pleasanter for me than to have smiled warmly and murmured a gracious word of thanks, but her praise was misplaced and I knew it. So instead of smiling I blushed—and I seldom blush, for I’ve not the complexion for it—and muttered in embarrassment about ballroom flirtations in London.

“But you never went to bed with anyone, did you?” said Marguerite sharply, and that flash of coarseness stunned me so much that before I knew it I was telling her the truth. I had never told anyone the truth before, never. There are some subjects that are so unmentionable that it’s difficult even to think of them, let alone put them into words.

“You never went to bed with anyone, did you?” said Marguerite, and I said, shuddering as I spoke, “Heavens, no! It’s bad enough having to go to bed with Patrick! Why should I ever want to go to bed with anyone else?”

And as we stared at each other in the silence that followed I saw to my stupefaction that I had shocked her far more than she had shocked me.

I often wonder whether circumstances or heredity play the biggest part in making us what we are. I have always believed myself to be a victim of circumstances and that my life began to go wrong when I made an unfortunate marriage, but why did I make such a marriage in the first place? Because I was brought up to believe that the highest pinnacle of achievement for a girl consisted of marriage with a rich, young, good-looking aristocrat? Or was it because I was my father’s daughter and placed too much emphasis on luxury? Or could it even—horrible thought!—have been because I was also my mother’s daughter and always longed to please people by “doing the right thing”?

One fact at least is certain: Nothing in my childhood had prepared me for an unhappy marriage. Oh, I know I was extravagant and willful and spoiled half to death by a doting father—how clearly I can see that now! But I was loved. Loved too much, perhaps, cossetted to excess, protected from the harsher realities of the world by a gold-plated cocoon, but loved nonetheless, and for many years while I was growing up the thought that I might ever exist in a world where I was unloved simply never crossed my mind.

“Everyone is so happy in your family!” Patrick said to me wistfully when he first came to New York, and it was true. Papa and Mama were fond of each other; certainly they never quarreled in front of us, and although I found out years later from Charles that Papa had kept a mistress, I think it must have been an arrangement that suited not only Papa but Mama as well. Charles, two years my senior, was more studious and serious-minded than I was, but that was only fitting, since he was the son and heir and there was a certain responsibility on his shoulders. I thought that Charles was gorgeous and was utterly devoted to him. So was Mama. I suppose that was why Mama and I were so often at odds with each other when I was growing up, although since I was Papa’s favorite it was only right that Charles should be hers.

However, to give credit where credit is due, I must admit that Mama suspected what no one else, least of all me, suspected—that marriage would turn out to be a rude shock for me. Mama always gave the impression of being lazy and stupid, but that was merely because she was fat. In fact she had plenty of common sense and was most industrious in her social activities, but she suffered from timidity and never quite had the strength to stand up against Papa and myself when we were at our most autocratic. But I knew she was worried about me before the wedding, because she steeled herself to talk about Unmentionable Matters, and that must have been a great ordeal for Mama, who was always the soul of propriety.

“I wish you weren’t going so far away after you’re married, dearest.” I can hear her say that now. I can still see that anxious expression in her large brown eyes. “I do wish you were to be living in New York.”

“I’ll have Marguerite with me in London,” I said impatiently, thinking she was making a great fuss about nothing. I had long since made up my mind that Patrick and I were going to live happily ever after, just as all the best people did, and I saw no need for Mama to be living within arm’s reach of my home.

“But Marguerite is only eight years older than you are,” Mama was saying, “and besides …” She and Marguerite had never been the best of friends, but of course she couldn’t say this. “… besides, there are times when a girl needs her mother.”

“Oh yes,” I said, stifling a yawn. I was very missish, thinking I knew everything. “Well, you can come and visit us in London.”

“Not for a while,” said Mama. She was so sensible always, never permitting herself any illusions. ‘Tour papa’s always so busy and anyway he dislikes Europe. In a few years, of course, we shall visit you, but then you’ll be settled and won’t need me so much.”

“Mama, I’m sure I shall manage perfectly well! I can’t see why you should be in such a fluster.”

“Well, it’s very hard for two people to live together, Sarah, and although Patrick’s so kind and gentle he may seem very unkind to you at first.” And she told me all about the Marriage Act—she spoke of it as if the initial letters were capitals—and as she spoke she became redder and redder, but she went right to the end almost without pausing for breath. Looking back, I can only admire her courage, but at the time I thought she was beastly to tell me so many horrible things, and when she had finished all I said was an insolent “Oh, I’ve known all that for years!” which was an absolute lie because, having been brought up in a gold-plated cocoon, I wouldn’t have known that men differed from women below the waist if I hadn’t seen Charles naked when we were very young. Even the classical statues in the mansions on Fifth Avenue always sported fig leaves in the right places.

I thought about the Marriage Act all the way through the wedding ceremony, and the more I thought of it the more convinced I became that I would like it—just to spite Mama, who had made it all seem so revolting. In fact by the time I left the church with Patrick I was very cheerful and had decided that the Marriage Act couldn’t truly be so great an ordeal or no couple could possibly hope to live happily ever after.

I remember feeling angry with Mama for frightening me so much, and when the time came for me to leave the wedding breakfast my farewell kiss to her was cool.

Poor Papa was dreadfully affected by my leaving and wept, which upset me very much. I even began to wonder whether he was crying at the thought of me submitting to the Marriage Act, and that made me feel nervous again so that I resented his distress.

So by the time we reached Papa’s summer mansion where Patrick and I were to spend the first weeks of our honeymoon, I felt both angry and resentful; I didn’t even feel in the mood to kiss Patrick, and yet when he was too drunk to do more than sleep through the wedding night I felt just as angry with him as I had felt with Papa and Mama. Indeed when I look back the emotion I remember best from my entire married life is that anger which began on my wedding day, that dull, smoldering resentment I could neither explain nor understand, the feeling that somehow, somewhere along the way, I had been cheated and short-changed. Often I was unaware of the anger; sometimes it would erupt during a quarrel, but usually it was dormant, a small core of discontent ceaselessly eroding the walls of my elegant, gold-plated cocoon.