Cashelmara (49 page)

“No, she doesn’t!” I protested, but it was true. Katherine, so beautiful, so elegant, living the life I would have liked to lead, political hostess, society matron, wife of an influential and respected peer. “I suspect I make Katherine discontented,” I said defiantly to Patrick. “She has no child.” And all the time I was thinking: Mustn’t complain, mustn’t nag, mustn’t wish life was just a little more exciting and we could live anywhere in the world except Cashelmara.

Patrick’s brothers liked Cashelmara, but for two growing boys it probably seemed an exciting place, with endless uncharted territory to explore beyond the boundary walls and the prospect of a different expedition each day. Marguerite gave them an unusual amount of freedom to do as they pleased, which everyone said was a very foreign way to bring up children, but I thought the results proved her justified, for the boys were well mannered without being dull and lively without being a nuisance. I did not care greatly for Thomas, who was a sharp-nosed, red-headed child with too high an opinion of himself, but David was delightful, full of imagination and a rambling old-fashioned charm. Presently he overcame his dismay at no longer being the baby of the family and even offered to take Ned for a walk in the perambulator.

“Silly!” said Thomas, who thought all babies far beneath his notice.

“Not at all,” said David, who was twelve years old and often sounded at least sixty. “To push a perambulator in Patrick’s garden requires great courage and considerable fortitude.”

This, unfortunately, was all too true. Patrick had plowed up the lawn and was busy creating what he called an Azalea Walk that would link the lawn with the chapel. The mud, mess and destruction were so appalling that whenever I wheeled the perambulator I simply took Ned down the drive to the gates.

I spent so much time with Ned—too much time, his nanny probably thought, for I always wanted to help with his bath and dress him in his clothes and brush his hair with the little silver brush. Both Patrick and I were forever visiting the nursery, and I was never happier than when we were both sitting on the nursery floor with Ned amidst all his toys.

I wrote ecstatic letters to my family. “Darling Mama and Papa, everything is well here and we’re all so happy …” and “Darling Mama and Papa, when are you coming to see us? I know I wasn’t anxious for you to visit us when we had all our troubles, but those days are quite gone now .…” and “Darling Mama and Papa, Patrick and I are so anxious that you should visit us at Cashelmara …”

It was in June when the black-edged letter came from America. It was addressed to Patrick, and Charles had asked him to break the news to me as gently as possible. Papa had died at the end of May after a short illness, and there would be no likelihood of Mama visiting Cashelmara for many months to come.

I was so distressed that I wanted to rush back at once to New York, but Patrick and Madeleine both pointed out that since Papa had already been buried by the time the letter reached Cashelmara it was too late to think of attending the funeral.

“Besides,” said Madeleine practically, “imagine a long sea voyage with an infant!”

“We could leave Ned here, of course,” said Patrick doubtfully.

“Oh, I couldn’t bear to leave him behind!” I cried and burst into a torrent of fresh weeping at the thought of it.

Marguerite fortunately was at Cashelmara. It was a comfort to me to be able to talk about Papa to someone who had loved him as much as I had, and presently when I felt better I wrote to Mama and Charles to explain that it was impossible for me to face the long sea voyage at that time. I also begged Mama to reconsider her decision not to visit Cashelmara, but she wrote back explaining that her own health was so indifferent that her doctor had forbidden her to travel. As for Charles, he was so involved with business matters that it would be a long time before he could leave New York. Papa’s fortune had suffered severely during the Wall Street crisis of ’73, and his failing health had hindered his attempts to reconstruct his financial affairs before his death.

Because of these misfortunes I hardly expected to receive a large legacy—or indeed any legacy at all—but despite all his troubles poor dearest Papa had still managed to scrape together fifty thousand dollars for me. Considering Papa had spent most of his life being a millionaire, this sum was hardly a fortune, but to us, crushed by debt as we were, the legacy seemed enormous, and we were both immensely cheered. Patrick did say with reluctance, “I suppose we should put all the money toward paying off our debts,” but I wouldn’t have it. After all, Papa had intended the money for me to spend as I pleased, and although I was willing to contribute to paying our debts I didn’t see why the debts should swallow every penny of the legacy.

“But, Patrick, just think!” I said, giddy as a starving man at the sight of a feast. “Fifty thousand dollars! Surely can’t we spare a little of it to have a month or two in London?”

“And Woodhammer,” said Patrick longingly. “We could pay off the second mortgage, open the house again—”

“Entertain,” I said. I was already buying ball gowns and engaging a French maid. “Oh, Patrick, just a month in London before we go down to Woodhammer!”

“Well, of course you can have your month in London!” he said, kissing me. “You’ve been so wonderful, Sarah, these last few months. A month in London is the least you deserve.”

I wept for joy. We kissed again, very passionately this time, and afterward so intoxicated were we by the prospect of escaping from Cashelmara that we whirled in waltztime around the drawing room as Patrick sang “The Blue Danube” at the top of his voice.

Need I describe what happened in London? Shouldn’t it have been perfectly obvious to us that despite all our vows and promises London was a place in which neither of us could be trusted?

“Oh, but everything’s quite different now,” I said to Marguerite when she tentatively dropped a word of warning. “We’re both so much wiser than we used to be.”

Yes, I really said that. I went to London, beautiful, exciting, feverish London, with its overwhelming, unending brilliance, and I really believed I knew better than to be extravagant. I believed it even when I began to buy new clothes, because surely in the circumstances new clothes were justified after those long dreary months of penny-pinching at Cashelmara. Didn’t I deserve a reward for all those occasions when I had never complained? So I ordered gowns, gorgeous gowns lavishly trimmed with flounces and puffings and flowers, and day dresses in satin and Jap silk, designed in two shades of the same color, apple green and moss green, pastel blue and sulky blue. Oh, they were so luscious! I ordered a shawl mantle and a three-decker cape and three sealskin jackets. No, I can’t explain why I bought three except that they were all a little different and all so ravishingly beautiful, and wearing any one of them made me feel very special and happy. Then I bought muffs to match and three pairs of long kid gloves and a Dolly Varden hat with “follow-me-lads” streamers and ten pairs of high-heeled shoes. By this time my old underclothes seemed desperately shabby, and I couldn’t rest until I had an entirely new supply of petticoats and silk stockings. And then there were the little lace caps, the chemisettes, the fichus and the berthas—all so lovely and all making me feel like a queen. And Patrick, dearest Patrick, gave me jewelry because he said he was so proud of me. He gave me a long emerald necklace, and of course it was so stunning that I simply had to buy earrings to match. All our friends were so glad to see us again, and everywhere we went people said what a handsome couple we were and how glad they were to find us both so happy.

“Oh, Patrick!” I said as the allotted month in London neared its end. “How can we ever endure to return to Cashelmara when the time comes?”

Yes, I said that. It was dreadful, but I said it. And I said more too, words I’m too ashamed to repeat about how I hated pinching pennies and hated living in the country and I could never be truly happy unless I was living in town.

That night Patrick slipped out of our rented townhouse after I had gone to bed. He did that every night for five days, and I knew nothing about it until one morning I went downstairs to breakfast and discovered he was missing.

He returned at two o’clock that afternoon. By that time I was frantic with worry and on the verge of summoning the police, but pride alone stopped me. I thought the police would at once assume they were dealing with one more unfaithful husband and his hysterical wife, but I was convinced Patrick hadn’t been unfaithful, just as I was convinced he hadn’t been gambling. Infidelity was hardly a vice of his, and as for gambling—hadn’t he promised to reform?

He came back very quietly, his face gray with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, the reek of brandy clinging to him like an invisible coat of armor. He looked at me as I rushed down the stairs, but he did not speak.

“Where have you been?” I demanded, distraught, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the footman was no longer in earshot. “How dare you stay out all night! I’ve been worried half to death!”

He did not answer but moved past me up the stairs.

“Patrick!” I grabbed his shoulder and shook it. I was still more angry than frightened, and when he wrenched himself loose so roughly that I nearly fell downstairs I lost my temper. “Stop it!” I cried. “What’s the matter with you? Stop it at once!”

“Be quiet!” He was upstairs by this time, and when I ran after him he dragged me into the drawing room and slammed the door. Then he started cursing. He said that I was spoiled and rotten, that all our troubles were my fault.

“You drove me to it!” he shouted at me in the voice he used only when he was very drunk. “Breaking all your promises not to be extravagant, making such a fuss, complaining about Cashelmara! You drove me to it!”

“To what?” I screamed at him, but I already knew. My anger vanished. I was terrified.

“To winning back all the money you’ve spent!” he yelled back at me, and even before he launched into his long rambling explanation I knew that he had lost all we had and far more besides.

He talked and talked. He relived every hour of his past five nights of gambling. He explained how he had won and how he had very nearly won and how he had almost won and how he would have won “if only.”

“And it’s your fault,” he repeated again when there was nothing left to say. He was crying. His face was crumpled with grief, and huge tears blurred his eyes so that he looked blind. “It’s all your fault.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words were never spoken. Denials were no use. I wanted to hurl abuse at him, but that would have served no purpose either. As I stared at him in silence I knew only that we were back again on the razor’s edge of disaster and that my entire future depended on what I said next.

I thought of Ned and the other children I wanted, and finally my pride too came to the rescue, reminding me of the bitter humiliation of having to admit to the world that my marriage had ended. I thought of nineteen-year-old Sarah Marriott marrying her rich, titled, handsome young Englishman, the splendor of that social success, the glory of being the bride of the season, the heady prospects awaiting in a dazzling future. I can’t bear to fail, I thought fiercely, I won’t.

“Patrick,” I said, “let’s not talk about it any more at present. You look dreadfully tired. Why don’t you sleep for a while? You’ll feel better once you’ve had some rest, and then we can talk about everything calmly and decide what we must do.” And making an enormous effort, I sat down on the arm of his chair and kissed him on the forehead.

His response was so pathetically grateful that I was appalled. He clung to me, saying he despised himself, he was no good, he had always known he was no good, he had always been stupid and foolish, failing at everything he undertook.

“That’s silly talk,” I said, trying not to sound as chilled as I felt by this outburst of self-pity. “Think of all your gifts. Think of Ned. How can you be a failure when you have a son like Ned?”

He said he didn’t deserve Ned, didn’t deserve me, we were too good for him.

I did feel sorry for him, but I was still repelled by his abject humility. I had to remind myself forcibly that he had given me a child, which I had wanted more than anything, and that he really was a kind, gentle and affectionate husband. Plenty of women would have envied me. But then all those dreadful thoughts began to run through my head again—supposing I leave him; no, I can’t, I’d be ruined; supposing I reconciled myself to ruin; no, I can’t, because if I left him I would have to give up Ned; there’s nothing more despicable than a deserting wife, all the judges say so; remember that case in the paper only the other day.

“I do love you, Sarah,” said Patrick, still crying like a little boy, and after a pause I said, “I love you too.” I didn’t know by this time whether that was true or not, but I thought it ought to be true if I were to stand by him. “You must go to bed now, Patrick,” I repeated. “You must get some rest,” and while I spoke I was thinking, I’m trapped. There’s no way out. None.

He was docile as a child as I led him to bed, and presently after his valet had been summoned I returned to the drawing room. Rain was falling. The tree in the tiny garden was lushly green. For a long time I stood watching by the window, and as I stared the anger began to burn in me again, and my nails dug like pins into the cold palms of my hands.

He had to sell Woodhammer Hall. It was already mortgaged so heavily that no further mortgages were possible, and his cousin George, Katherine’s husband Lord Duneden and Rathbone the family attorney all agreed that Woodhammer must go.

We were back at Cashelmara by this time, but Patrick returned to England to take one last look at the home where he had spent his early years. No one would give him the money for the journey, but he pawned some silver. He was away two weeks, and I was just beginning to worry when he reappeared. He looked ill, and his clothes were in a dreadful state because he had not been able to afford to take his valet.

“What were you doing all this time?” I said sharply and added with dread, “Did you gamble again?”