Cashelmara (54 page)

We did not hear from her again, but Marguerite began to raise money for the poor at Cashelmara by a series of charitable ventures, and Edith and I found ourselves working side by side to help her. Edith enjoyed charitable ventures. Organizing them gave her an excuse to be bossy and officious. I kept my temper as best I could, but I was relieved when the last parcel of clothes had been dispatched to Father Donal and the last farthing had been sent to the dispensary at Clonareen.

“I don’t know how much longer I can endure staying in the same house as Edith,” I confided to Patrick in an agony of exasperation. “If only matters could improve at Cashelmara!”

As if in answer to my wishes, MacGowan reported in October that there had been a change of fortune. The rains had ceased, the crops had ripened and the turf might still be saved if the fine weather became prolonged. As for the blight, it was not universal, and potatoes were being sold in Letterturk for fourpence a stone.

“I have told the police they need no longer guard Cashelmara,” he added, “for I have no doubt that that coward Hayes will be back from his relatives in Dublin now that matters have eased. I advise you strongly, my lord, to dismiss Hayes from your service. Such disloyalty should not go unpunished. I myself put a high value on the virtue of loyalty, as your lordship well knows, and firmly believe that God punishes the idle, the shiftless and the untrustworthy. May He in His Mercy bring the Irish to True Repentance by submitting them to this season of Famine and Pestilence. I remain, my lord, ever your humble, obedient and loyal servant …”

“He sounds positively Cromwellian!” exclaimed Marguerite, horrified after Patrick had read the letter to us, but Patrick pointed out that MacGowan had always had fanatical religious leanings and that Scots Presbyterians were notoriously attracted to the idea of a stern God punishing the shiftless Irish.

“I wonder why Madeleine doesn’t write to tell us things are better,” I said a day or two after we had received MacGowan’s letter.

“I expect she’s still very busy,” said Marguerite, who was drawing up a guest list for a charity ball she intended to give in London in the new year. The starving Irish had become a very popular cause, and Marguerite had every hope that the Prince of Wales himself would attend.

“Aunt Madeleine only enjoys writing about bad news,” remarked Edith, pausing during her embroidery of quite the ugliest sampler I had ever seen. “Now that the news is good I’m not surprised we don’t hear from her.”

“You’re the one who can’t bear to hear good news,” I said before I could stop myself. “We all know you hate to hear of anyone who’s happier and luckier than you are.”

“Certainly I can’t bear people who brag about their good luck in such an immodest fashion!”

“Edith!” said Marguerite, stern as a governess. “Sarah! Stop being so childish!” And she added severely to me after Edith had marched out of the room, “Sarah, you must know by this time that to mention the word ‘luck’ to Edith is as dangerous as waving a red rag at a bull!”

Luck, luck, luck. One bazaar, one sale of work, one tea party. So lucky. One walk with my beautiful new baby, one hour playing with my affectionate, loving John, one brief kiss for Ned before he dashed into the garden to play cricket. So much luck. One luncheon with the rector, two dinner parties with local families, one embrace from a handsome husband who told me how much he loved me. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

“Patrick,” I said in November, “we can’t go on indefinitely staying on Marguerite’s charity. Don’t you think that now the situation has improved we should go back to Cashelmara?”

When I looked at Patrick I saw the relief mingle with his enthusiasm. “Well, I hadn’t liked to suggest it,” he was saying, “because I thought that in spite of Edith you were happier here with Marguerite, but to tell you the truth I’m anxious to get back to Cashelmara too. I have a new scheme for the garden …” And as he began to talk about his garden again I thought how odd it was that having detested Cashelmara so intensely in the past we should now both feel drawn back there by compulsions beyond our power to control.

Marguerite protested so strongly when we announced our plans to leave that we immediately invited her to come with us and spend Christmas in Ireland.

“We would so love to repay you for all your hospitality,” I begged her. “Can’t you give us an opportunity to begin as soon as possible?”

“But are you sure you’re not going back too soon? You won’t see much rent before next spring.”

“There are one or two pictures I can sell to tide us over,” said Patrick, “and MacGowan’s recent reports have been very optimistic. There’s no difficulty, Marguerite.”

“Well, if you’re certain …”

“Positive.”

“Then I’ll come. But it’s odd,” Marguerite said, puzzled, “that we haven’t heard again from Madeleine.”

We decided to leave at the end of November. Thomas and David would still be at school, but Patrick wrote to tell them to travel to Cashelmara with Edith as soon as their term ended. Edith, thank God, had embarked on another visit to Clara, so there was no question of her coming to Cashelmara immediately; but even without Edith and the boys we were to be a large party, and several days passed before Patrick had made all the travel arrangements.

“Home!” said Ned, skipping for joy. “We’re going home!”

His excitement was infectious. Even I became so excited that I forgot the oppressive silence of Cashelmara, the mist, the rain and the damp, and thought only of the sunlight sparkling on the waters of the lough and the mountains shimmering in a purple haze. Eagerness, bizarre but undeniable, took possession of me, and by the time we left at last for Cashelmara I was in a fever of anticipation.

Holyhead, a rough crossing to Kingstown, the awkward journey between Kingstown and Dublin with the baby screaming and John crying and all the servants distraught. A night in Dublin, a cheerful start to the station, the long dreary journey west to Galway, another night in a hotel and then the hired carriages, shabby and noisy, which were to take us those last miles to the gates of Cashelmara.

The horses were changed at Maam’s Cross. The weather was sunny and mild, and despite the appalling journey I felt my spirits rise.

“Why don’t we see any people?” said Ned. “Why are all those cabins in ruins?”

“All the people have gone to America, dear,” said Nanny. “It’s nicer for them there.”

“But why did they pull down their homes before they left?”

“I dare say the landlord did that, dear, when the naughty people didn’t pay their rent.”

“Why didn’t they pay their rent?”

“They didn’t have enough money.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never known any child to ask as many questions as Ned does,” I said to Marguerite with a smile.

“Thomas was just the same. I must say, the countryside is extraordinarily deserted. I’ve never seen it as empty as this before.”

It was late afternoon by that time, and it was later still when the carriage edged through the pass above Lough Nafooey and we looked down upon Cashelmara.

The walls were as white as a bleached skull.

That was when the nightmare began. We went down into the valley, past abandoned cabins and ruined fields, and not a living creature moved as far as the eye could see. And all the time, facing us across the valley, stood Cashelmara, macabre Cashelmara, its windows blank as black holes in a lifeless white body.

“What’s that smell?” said Ned.

None of us recognized it. But the odor grew stronger and stronger until I was scrabbling in my handbag for my lavender bottle, and suddenly Ned said, pointing outside, “What’s that?”

It was a blackened, putrid mass lying in a ditch. Nanny took one look and jerked Ned away from the window. As I fought the urge to vomit I noticed her face had turned gray.

“What was it?” said Ned as the carriage creaked past.

Nobody answered him. John, who was sitting on my knee, buried his nose against my breast.

“What was it?” persisted Ned. “I want to know.”

“Sarah,” said Marguerite, thrusting her smelling salts under my nose.

“Aunt Marguerite …”

“It was a dead body, Ned. It’s gone now.”

“Was that where the smell came from?”

When there was no answer he tried again. “Was that—”

“We won’t talk about it any more, dear,” said Nanny, recovering herself. “Sit down, there’s a good boy.”

“I wish Papa was in this carriage,” said Ned. “He always answers every single question I ask.”

I was still unable to speak.

We reached the gates of Cashelmara at last, and the trees rose darkly on either side of the carriage.

“The drive’s covered with weeds,” said Ned.

The carriage rounded the last curve. We were face to face with the house.

“Oh, look!” exclaimed Ned, horrified. “Who did that?”

The front windows were broken. The door sagged drunkenly on its hinges. The air of dereliction clung to the walls in an aura of ruin.

“So MacGowan allowed the police to go home too soon,” said Marguerite grimly. “Sarah, Patrick did write to MacGowan, didn’t he, to tell him which day we would be arriving?”

“Of course he did!” I was almost too appalled to speak. “And I wrote to both Hayes and his wife to tell them to prepare the house for us because MacGowan said they were returning from Dublin.”

But when we entered the house there was no sign that we had been expected. The furniture still lay beneath the dust covers, and on venturing through the green baize door to the servants’ quarters, we found the kitchens empty, the pantry stripped of all food, the floors covered with mice droppings and mildew. Of Hayes and his wife there was no sign.

“What are we to do?” I whispered to Marguerite. We were alone in the kitchens. Patrick was combing the rest of the house for some sign of life, and the children and the servants were waiting in the hall.

It was the only time I had ever seen Marguerite at a loss for words. She stood stock-still in the middle of the scullery, her face blank, her glance traveling quickly over our dirty deserted surroundings.

“We’ll have to stay here,” she said at last. “For tonight at least. It’ll soon be dark and the children are tired.”

“But I can’t send the children to bed with nothing to eat!”

“We’ll take one of the carriages to Clonareen. Madeleine must have some food at the dispensary. We can take some food for tonight and set out for Galway tomorrow morning.” She closed the door of the pantry with an air of finality and turned her back on it. “Obviously MacGowan didn’t get Patrick’s letter,” she said after a moment. “I wonder if Madeleine’s long silence means that she also hasn’t heard from us. Well, we’ll soon find out. Let’s go back to the hall.”

“I suppose Hayes and his wife never came back from Dublin,” I said as we opened the green baize door again. “I merely assumed that since MacGowan said conditions were improved—”

“I think we misunderstood MacGowan,” said Marguerite. “It may be true that the crops are saved and that potatoes are for sale in Letterturk, but I think the change of fortune has come too late for many people in this part of Ireland.”

Patrick was coming downstairs as we entered the hall. He reported that the house was deserted, and when Marguerite repeated her suggestion of seeking help from Madeleine he immediately offered to set out for Clonareen.

“No—wait, Patrick.” Marguerite lowered her voice so that the servants wouldn’t hear. “It would be better from the point of view of morale if you stayed here and took command, just as the master of the house should. That little nursemaid looks as if she might have hysterics any minute. Keep her busy—keep them all busy. They’ll be much less likely to panic if you’re here. I’ll go with Sarah to see Madeleine.”

“But supposing you and Sarah meet a bunch of marauders on the road!”

“I doubt if we’ll meet anything except more rotting corpses, but anyway the elder coachman has a blunderbuss.”

“Well, if you really think it would be best …”

“I do. Come on, Sarah.”

We told Nanny and Nurse to take the children upstairs and make them as comfortable as possible in the nurseries, and then I explained to Ned where we were going and promised we would soon be back. By that time I had given up trying to invent an excuse to stay behind. I couldn’t let Marguerite go on her own, and it did seem best that Patrick should remain at the house to take command.

The senior coachman didn’t in the least want to drive another three miles to Clonareen, but when Marguerite said there would be no food for anyone unless he did he reluctantly scrambled up onto the box again. The younger coachman was assigned the task of finding fodder for the horses, and when we left he was staring hopelessly at the empty stables.

Fortunately Marguerite was right about the marauders. We met no one on the road to Clonareen, although as the journey progressed the light faded and the air turned much colder. I was glad I had my heaviest sealskin jacket to wrap around me as I stared out of the window at the deserted countryside, but I still found it hard to stop shivering.

“I must remember to ask Madeleine for some arsenic,” said Marguerite. “I know she always keeps a supply at the dispensary, and there’s nothing better for killing vermin. I’m afraid the mice have colonized Cashelmara very thoroughly in your absence, Sarah.”

I shivered all the more. “I’m not staying there one hour longer than I have to! Marguerite, if you want to go straight back to England while we stay in Galway, I wouldn’t blame you in the least.”

“Nonsense! Of course I shall stay until you’ve sorted everything out. You’ll need help recruiting some suitable servants and ordering the dispatch of all the necessary foods. To set Cashelmara back on its feet is going to be the most exhausting undertaking, and you’ll need every scrap of help you can get.”

The smell of rotting flesh prevented me from replying. This time I found my lavender bottle immediately, and Marguerite already had her smelling salts in her hand.

It was still twilight when we reached Clonareen, but the main street was empty. The dirty hovels straggled to the crowded graveyard, and beyond the church the hulk of the dispensary loomed large in the uncertain light. When the carriage halted, the silence screamed in our ears. Not a dog barked, not a bird sang, not a tomcat yowled in the dusk.