Cashelmara (7 page)

“Grandpapa didn’t bother about that sort of thing,” Patrick had objected. “He merely lived quietly at Cashelmara and did as he pleased.”

“What possible relevance does that have to the conversation? Your grandfather lived in another age when people of our class did not consider themselves responsible for the social and moral welfare of the masses. The world has progressed since your grandfather’s day, and even if it had not I fail to see why you should feel bound to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps. You’re my son, not his.”

But in fact I often glimpsed my father in Patrick and thought it an ironic jest of heredity that I, who bore no resemblance to my father, had somehow managed to transmit that missing resemblance to my son.

Glancing again at the pictures hanging from the canopy, I made a great effort to be patient and fair.

“I should like an explanation,” I began levelly, “of why you ran away from your tutor despite the fact that before I went to America I warned you what would happen if you ran away from a tutor again.”

He made a small hopeless gesture with his hands and hung his head in shame.

“My dear Patrick, surely you must have something to say for yourself!”

“No, Papa.”

“But why did you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

I was so exasperated that it cost me a great effort not to strike him, but I was determined to give him a fair hearing.

“Was your tutor unkind to you?”

“No, Papa.”

“Did you dislike him?”

“No, Papa.”

“Were you unhappy in London?”

“No, Papa. But I was a little lonely, so when I realized Derry would be home from school—”

“You knew quite well that I would never have approved of you staying at Cashelmara with Roderick without adequate supervision. Roderick’s a fine young fellow, but he’s at a mischievous age. Look at the trouble he led you into this evening! I blame him entirely for your drunkenness, but I blame you for putting yourself under his influence in this fashion.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Do you have anything else to say to explain your disobedience?”

“No, Papa,” he said.

I looked at him helplessly. I did not want to beat him, but I had committed myself earlier to punishing him if he continued to run away from his tutors, and I did not see how I could avoid a beating without causing him to lose respect for me. Yet although like any other responsible parent I believed in the maxim “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” I had begun to think Patrick had developed an immunity that made sparing the rod a matter of indifference to him. I realized, of course, that this must be an illusion, but, illusion or not, I now had my doubts about how far a beating would deter him from further wrongdoing.

“Then if you have nothing further to say,” I said to him, “you leave me no choice but to punish you as you deserve.”

“Yes, Papa,” he said and took his beating without another word.

Such passive acceptance disturbed me, but I was very tired by that time, much too tired to consider an alternative form of punishment for the future, and after I had left Patrick I retired with relief to my private apartments.

The next morning I still did not feel inclined to grapple with Patrick’s problems, so after breakfast I sent a note to my agent asking him to call on me and settled down to write at last to Marguerite. This raised my spirits considerably. I had just finished describing the voyage and was in the middle of a long sentence saying how much I wished she were with me when there was a tap on the library door and Hayes announced the arrival of my eldest surviving daughter, Annabel.

Eleanor and I had had many children, but the majority of them had died in infancy. In an age when more parents could expect to see all their offspring reach maturity we had been unlucky. No doctor could provide an explanation of our misfortune. Eleanor and I had both been healthy, and Woodhammer Hall, where our children had been brought up, had provided a robust rural environment. But five of our daughters had not survived the first year of infancy, and neither of our two eldest sons had reached his fifth birthday. For eight years our daughter Nell, the first born, had been our only child to escape death, and in retrospect I feel this was one of the reasons why she became our favorite daughter; her survival had made her doubly precious to us. However, after a period in which we lost two daughters and two sons Annabel entered the world and was followed at regular intervals by Louis, Madeleine, Katherine, three more little girls who had died in infancy and finally Patrick. Madeleine, to my fury, had inherited my mother’s religious fanaticism and become a nun, Katherine had married a diplomat and was now residing in St. Petersburg, and Annabel, after a checkered and scandalous matrimonial career, was at present living at Clonagh Court, the dower house which I had built for my mother at the other end of the valley.

“Good morning, Papa,” she said briskly, sweeping into the library with her customary
élan
before I could tell Hayes that I would receive her in the morning room. “My servants informed me this morning that you had been seen arriving in the valley last night, so I thought I would call upon you at once, as there is something I must discuss with you. Dear me, how tired you look! I really think that at your time of life you should be content to lead a less peripatetic existence. You’re not so young as you used to be, you know.”

It would be impossible, in any description of Annabel, to exaggerate her tactlessness. It was beyond belief. She had inherited Eleanor’s spirited approach to life, but for some reason the inheritance manifested itself in an unfeminine aggressiveness I thought profoundly unattractive. However, Annabel was handsome, and there is a type of man, I am always amazed to discover, who likes such Amazonian women with a will of their own and a tongue to match.

When Annabel, at eighteen, had been married to a political acquaintance of mine some twenty years her senior, Eleanor and I had heaved a sigh of relief. Much better for her, we reasoned, to be married to an older man who would provide a steadying influence. But never were we more mistaken. Eleanor died before the marriage was three months old, but I saw my son-in-law so worn out by his wife’s escapades that after six exhausting years of marriage he sank to an early grave. There were two daughters in whom Annabel professed little interest, and presently she left them with their paternal grandparents in Northumberland and returned to London. In dread of what Annabel might achieve now that she had a widow’s freedom and all London in which to display it, I quickly cast around among my friends and found yet another misguided man who found such women irresistible. I was about to coax him to propose when Annabel dumfounded me—and all the delighted society gossips—by running off with the chief jockey of the racing stables her husband had owned at Epsom.

I was so enraged that I did not trust myself to speak to anyone for three days, and when I eventually emerged from my seclusion I sent for my attorney, cut Annabel from my will and wrote a letter to her parents-in-law to say that on no account was she to be allowed to see her children. The horrified grandparents wrote back to say they entirely agreed with me, and we all waited to see what would happen next.

What happened, in fact, was that Annabel had a splendid time. Possessing a comfortable income from her husband’s estate, she rented a delightful house on Epsom Downs and, by riding each day with her new husband, indulged her lifelong passion for horses. Society declared her irrevocably ruined, but it was obvious that no one could have enjoyed ruin more.

A year passed. I might have remained estranged from Annabel for longer if I had not had an invitation to attend the Derby that summer; and although my interest in horses is limited to their performance in the hunt, I decided I was curious to see Annabel’s husband at work. However, the race was a disaster for him. He fell, and since I was humane enough to inquire after his injuries, I was soon face to face with his wife. I am not sure to this day how we patched up our quarrel, but Annabel can be very charming when she chooses. When I heard from her later that her husband’s racing career had been terminated by his injuries and that they wanted to move far from all tantalizing glimpses of the Epsom racing world, I told her she could take him to the dower house at Cashelmara.

None of my friends could believe I had forgiven her, and no doubt all of them thought I was foolish; but I am a practical man, and I saw no point in refusing to recognize a marriage which, for better or worse, was
fait accompli.
Her husband was, of course, vulgar and ill-bred, but he was also civil to me and affectionate to Annabel. Was this really such a disaster? I thought not. There are worse fates for a woman than possessing an affectionate husband, and, besides, although I found Annabel exasperating, infuriating and often utterly monstrous, I was at the bottom of my heart not unfond of her.

“I trust you enjoyed your visit to America,” she was saying as she offered her cheek for a kiss. “But it’s just as well you’ve returned to Cashelmara. Papa, I want to talk to you about Patrick. I’ve been most perturbed about him.”

“Because he ran away from his tutor in his customary fashion?” I gestured to her to sit down. “Yes, that was most unfortunate, but I spoke to him directly after I arrived last night and the incident is now closed. How is your husband?”

“Exceedingly well, thank you. Papa, I think you should separate Patrick as much as possible from Derry Stranahan. If I were in your shoes—”

“You are not,” I said, “and are never likely to be in my shoes.” There was nothing that irritated me more than receiving uncalled-for advice from aggressive, opinionated females, and, besides, I thought it ill-mannered for a woman to try to instruct her father in that fashion.

The snub was quite lost on Annabel. “Papa, you may not be aware of it, but Derry’s becoming very wild. After I heard that Patrick was at Cashelmara I called to see him and found him in circumstances that would undoubtedly have reduced you to an apoplectic fit. He was in the dining room with Derry. The entire room was awash with poteen, and a girl—one of the O’Malleys; I think her name’s Bridget—was dancing a jig with Derry on the table. This, if you please, was at five o’clock in the afternoon when I was expecting a sedate reception followed by tea! Of course I scolded them both and sent the girl away and I doubt if much harm was done, but the thought of Patrick being here alone without supervision was hardly pleasing to me. I asked him to stay with us at Clonagh Court, but he wouldn’t, and if I hadn’t known you were on the point of returning from America I would have been very worried indeed.”

“Quite. Well …”

“Papa, I’m telling you all this not because I feel you should punish Patrick, who’s hardly old enough to know better, but because I feel strongly that you should censure Derry. I’ve heard certain rumors too, you know, and after the incident I began to wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t intervened. Supposing there had been some … some difficulty afterward about the O’Malley girl. You know the O’Malleys are always fighting with Derry’s relatives among the Joyces. If your son and heir somehow became involved in a full-scale quarrel between the two families, it would put you in the most embarrassing position.”

“I dare say,” I said abruptly. “I’ll look into the matter.” She was annoying me so much that I had to make renewed efforts not to lose my temper, and the fact that her information was unpleasant only made me the more determined not to discuss it. “May I offer you refreshment, Annabel?”

“Thank you, but no. I’m sorry you should pay so little attention to what I’ve had to say. I should have thought—”

“I’ve said I’ll look into the matter. Annabel …” I cast around for a new topic of conversation, and in my fury I chose the wrong one. “I would like to talk to you about the Marriotts,” I said rashly before I could stop myself.

“Oh, yes?” said Annabel, cross that I should have decided to change the subject and began to tap her foot impatiently on the floor.

I suddenly discovered that I had no idea what I should say next. Should I tell her or not? I had intended to say nothing until the following spring when Marguerite could tell me in person to make our private understanding public, but I was overcome with an irresistible urge to talk about her and failed to see how I could do so without disclosing the understanding that existed between us.

“Well, pray continue, Papa. What is it you wish to say about the Marriotts?”

At the very moment I made up my mind to say nothing I heard myself remark casually, “Francis Marriott’s younger sister Marguerite is coming to London next spring with Francis’ wife, Amelia.”

“Really?” said Annabel. “How nice. However, I never go to London nowadays, as you know, so I hardly think it likely that I shall meet them unless you invite them to Cashelmara.”

“Marguerite is to be married in London next summer,” I said in a tone of voice suitable for discussing the weather. By this time I was asking myself crossly why I should avoid discussing such a matter with my own daughter. To shy away from the issue could only suggest that Annabel intimidated me, and that of course was nonsense. “I was hoping you would attend the wedding,” I added with a note of defiance.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Annabel, stifling a yawn. “I can’t bear society weddings, and I’ve never met Marguerite anyway. Why on earth is she getting married in London instead of New York?”

“It’s more convenient and she has no objection,” I replied, crossing the Rubicon with a self-possession that by this time bordered on the reckless. “Her husband has estates in England and Ireland.”

“Ireland!” I had her attention at last, and as she sat bolt upright I realized with appalled fascination that I had made a monumental mistake. “Cousin Marguerite will be coming to Ireland? Where does her future husband live?”

“At Cashelmara.”

There was a silence. For the first time in my life I saw Annabel at a loss for words. We sat facing each other, she on the couch, I on the edge of my armchair, and far away on the chimney piece the elephant clock began to chime the hour.