Cashelmara (73 page)

He stopped. Now I was the one who was speechless, and he, mistaking my stunned expression for disapproval, said hastily, “He said he was sorry for my mother, but it was much better to face the truth than not to face it. He said my mother wouldn’t face the truth and wanted to divide the family by taking us children away from him, but he loved us all too much to let her do that. He said if she’d truly loved us she wouldn’t have left Cashelmara, and if she truly loved us she’d come back. I don’t think he’s right about that, sir, because I know she does truly love us, but I do think she should go home. I don’t mind for myself because I’m nearly grown up and I don’t need a mother any more, but my sisters are very little and my brother isn’t as grown up as I am. I know she doesn’t like Mr. MacGowan, but he and Cousin Edith are rebuilding Clonagh Court, and Papa says that if Mama comes back she can be mistress of her own house again and he and Mr. MacGowan won’t bother her at all.”

“Ned,” I said.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m thinking you don’t truly understand what your father was trying to tell you. It’s not as if he and MacGowan never do more than shake hands, you know.”

He looked blank. I saw it all then, de Salis being honest but not explicit, the boy being sympathetic but naïve. I knew I had to be very careful at this point, so I stopped to think before I spoke again. Mustn’t abuse de Salis but must uncover the truth. Concede he’d been honest but show he hadn’t been honest enough. Point out the hell Sarah had lived in and name MacGowan as the devil incarnate but leave it to the boy to decide what kind of a man that made his father. Go easy, be careful, walk on tiptoe.

“Supposing Mr. MacGowan was a woman, Ned,” I heard myself say casually at last. “Would you still say that your father was justified in demanding your mother’s return?”

“But he’s not a woman,” said Ned.

“Exactly,” I said. “All the more reason for your mother to refuse to return home.”

He looked at me. I watched the puzzled lines fade from his face until it looked very smooth and fresh and young. Then he looked away. He looked at the teapot and he looked at my untouched plate of cheesecake and he looked at the snow-white tablecloth gleaming beneath the Tiffany lamps.

“Your father was right,” I said, taking care to speak in an even, neutral voice. “It’s better to face the truth, and the truth is that he was expecting your mother to go on condoning his unnatural love affair with his agent. The only reason your mother endured it for so long was because she wouldn’t leave you children, but MacGowan made her life such a hell that it’s a wonder she’s still alive to tell the tale. At one stage she was so frightened of him that she used to carry a knife around with her for protection, because your father told her in all honesty—yes, I admit your father’s an honest man—that if MacGowan chose to hurt your mother he wouldn’t lift a finger to stop him.”

I paused. Around us the restaurant hummed with conversation mingled with the clink of glasses and cutlery.

“And if it’s honesty you’re wanting …” I could no longer keep the neutrality in my voice. I wanted to, but by this time I was in such a rage at the thought of Sarah’s past suffering that my judgment slipped out of focus and for five dark, blurred seconds I forgot all my efforts at self-control. “And if it’s honesty you’re wanting,” said my voice violently, “let me tell you that the last time your father insisted on acting like a husband he had to have MacGowan in the bedroom with him before he could act like a man with your mother. So let’s have no more talk of her going home to Cashelmara, for it’s not angry you should be with her that she left but grateful that she stayed so long.”

I’d managed to stop myself spilling out the fact that MacGowan had forced Sarah to submit to sodomy, but I still cursed myself for having said more than I’d intended. I was breathing unevenly, my fists clenched harder than ever, but Ned hadn’t moved. He was staring at the napkin in his lap, and I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes. His face was white and still.

“I’m sorry,” I said heavily. “I didn’t mean to say all that, but I wanted you to understand what your mother’s been forced to suffer these past years.”

The chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. His napkin fluttered to the ground.

“Ned …”

“Excuse me, please, sir,” he said politely and ran out of the room.

I leaped to my feet, called to Joe, “Tell Liam I’ll pay later!” and ran after Ned into the street.

I chased him all the way to Gramercy Park and caught up with him only when he stopped on the north side. Leaning against the railings, he gripped them with both hands, pressed his forehead against the iron bars and vomited.

Poor wretched little bastard, I thought as I kept my distance and waited for him to finish. I felt pretty sick myself, because I knew that although I’d started out so well I’d made a mess of things, and all I could do now was repeat to myself over and over again: I’ll make it up to him. I’ll be extra kind and nice to him. And one day, if he should ever turn to me for help, I’ll give him the best help any boy could wish for.

When he had finished vomiting I offered to take him home, but he tried to run away from me again, and we had a little struggle on the sidewalk.

“I’m taking you home,” I repeated. “I’m seeing you to the door. I’m responsible for you, and your mother would never forgive me if I left you to find your own way back.”

He made a futile effort to hit me and then gave up. His face was awash with tears.

I thought of walking over to Broadway and taking a streetcar, but I was sure he wanted the privacy of darkness, so we headed on foot down to Fourteenth Street and around Union Square to Fifth Avenue. The child stumbled along beside me, not saying a word, but every so often I would hear him sobbing wretchedly to himself, and when we neared the Marriott mansion he tried to dry his eyes on his sleeve.

“We can wait a minute before we go in, if you like,” I said, stopping by the gates, and although he shook his head violently he started to cry again, so we waited. I leaned against the wall and lighted a cigarette so he wouldn’t think I was staring at him, and at last he was able to say in a small trembling voice, “I want to go home and I want my mother to come with me. I promised I’d bring her back. What’s going to happen to us now?”

“I’ll take you both home before long,” I said. “Your mother and father will settle their differences in a court of law, and everything will be well again, I promise you.”

“But I want to live at Cashelmara,” he said. “I don’t want to live anywhere else.”

“Indeed and why shouldn’t you live there?” I said. “You’re the heir, and Cashelmara will be yours one day.” And all of a sudden I thought: Holy Mother of God, that’s an idea and a half and no mistake.

“But if my parents don’t live together and I have to look after Mama …”

“There, there,” I said, soft and gentle as lamb’s wool, “we’ll not be thinking about that just now, for to be sure it’s best we cross our bridges when we come to them.”

But I was already crossing bridge after bridge. Get rid of MacGowan. De Salis didn’t care for either Ireland or Cashelmara, so without MacGowan why should he stay? He could go to England and live with his brothers. Of course he might need a little persuasion, but … We could deal him a hand that would suit us all, let him see the children occasionally, give him an allowance. Then Sarah could live at Cashelmara with the children, and I … Well, Ned would want someone to look after the estate for him until he came of age, and what better agent could he have than someone who knew the valley as well as I did and would look after his interests as if they were my own? I could even ask my boys to come and help me, and suddenly I could see their handwriting on a series of envelopes, Maxwell Drummond Esquire, Cashelmara, County Galway.

“I think I’ll go in now, sir,” said the poor wretched child at my side.

“Of course, Ned,” I said kindly. “I hope our next meeting will be a happier one.”

I watched him as he crossed the courtyard and toiled up the steps to the front door, but even after the butler had answered the bell I made no effort to leave. I looked up at the gilded gates and thought of Cashelmara, and every ambition I’d ever had in my life made the blood run singing through my veins.

O
F COURSE SARAH AND
I had often discussed the future, but it had never occurred to either of us that we might live at Cashelmara. Sarah had thought her divorce settlement would enable her to buy a small country house with farmland, and I’d planned to go looking for somewhere suitable while she was seeing her attorneys. I would have liked to go back to the Joyce country where Cashelmara stood, but I saw that a fresh start somewhere else would have its advantages; and since Sarah would be making a sacrifice by living in Ireland, I thought I’d best make the sacrifice of turning my back on Connaught in favor of Ulster. I wasn’t a stranger to that part of the world, for my father had taken his family there during the worst of the Great Hunger of the Forties, but I’d been little more than a baby then and my memories were blurred. But there was rich country in Ulster, I knew that, and I suspected that if I had a decent farm to run I’d make more money there than I ever made at my home on Lough Nafooey. It’s not that money means everything, and anyway Sarah would have the income from the divorce settlement, but I couldn’t live on her money, and besides … Well, I needed to make enough to afford to live like a gentleman. You can’t bed with a lady and not provide decent sheets. Eileen had taught me that.

The morning after my dinner with Ned I got up early, brewed myself a large pot of tea on my little stove and sat munching the remains of yesterday’s loaf. I still felt bad about Ned, but since there was no use crying over spilled milk I willed myself instead to think of my plan to live at Cashelmara. I wondered how I could put it to Sarah. I knew Cashelmara would have unpleasant memories for her, so I’d have to play that down and concentrate on Ned’s future. I reached the end of the bread and spread on the last of the bacon drippings before I looked at the gold watch I’d won the other day at poker. Eight o’clock. Time to clean my gun before I went off to the Marriott house to collect Sarah.

My gun was one of the famous model P’s, the colt revolver that goes by all kinds of names like “Peacemaker” and “Single-Six.” They’re great ones for naming guns in America. It was a .36 caliber and (being the model P) was a single-action revolver, which meant you had to cock the damn hammer manually for each shot. But the Americans swear the single-action is more accurate, and they don’t hold much with the double-action kind you meet across the Atlantic. They’re probably right. I tried a Smith & Wesson double-action once but was glad to pick up my “Peacemaker” again afterward.

I had just opened up my gun and was busy with the gun oil when someone tapped timidly on my door.

“Who’s that?” I yelled. I felt unprotected with my gun out of action on the table, and in New York you never know what might happen next. Grabbing the bread knife, I padded up to the door, eased out the stopper that masked the peephole I’d carved in the wood and took a look at my visitor just as Sarah whispered, “It’s me.”

I scooped her inside. “You came alone!” I was shocked.

“I couldn’t wait till you called at ten, so I told Evadne I was going early to Stewart’s with my maid and took the carriage before she could say no.” Evadne was her sister-in-law, Charles Marriott’s frumpy wife. “Maxwell, I’m so upset about … What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Just my gun.”

“Gun!”

“Security guards always carry guns—didn’t I tell you?” I was thinking how smart and lovely she looked in her fur cape and fur muff. She made me feel tousled, for I was still in my shirt sleeves and I hadn’t shaved and I knew I must look just like the escaped convict that I was. “Never mind my gun,” I said, wiping my oily hands on a rag. “Sit down and have some tea. I suppose it’ll be Ned who’s put you in such a spin.” I made up my mind as I spoke not to confess to her that I had mishandled the interview. It wasn’t just that I was ashamed of myself; I also wanted to spare her from extra worry and anxiety.

“Yes. Ned was dreadfully upset,” she was saying, “and so was I.” Apparently he had asked her if I had told him the truth about his father and MacGowan, and when she had said yes he had shut himself in his room and refused to speak to her.

“Give him time,” I said, realizing with relief that Ned hadn’t been specific about what I’d told him. “He’ll get over it. Of course it was a shock for him.”

“But why is he so angry with me still?” she said frantically. “I thought once he knew the truth about his father he would at least be on my side!”

“And so he will be,” I said, very soothing.

“Maxwell, you didn’t tell him about—”

“About what?” I said much too quickly, thankful that I could truthfully deny disclosing the sodomy even though I’d disclosed MacGowan’s presence in the bedroom, but fortunately Sarah was only referring to her love affair with me.

“Yes, I did tell him,” I said, hiding my relief. “Why not?”

“Well, I—”

“Since when have you been ashamed of it?”

“It’s not that. It’s simply that it must have been so much for Ned to bear … all at once … don’t you see?”

“I wanted him to know I loved you and was going to take care of you. Look, sweetheart, I’ve had a wonderful idea which’ll suit Ned right down to the ground and have him eating out of our hands in no time.” And I told her about my plan to return to Cashelmara.

She shuddered at first, but I’d expected that. “I hoped I’d never have to return there as long as I lived.”

“Of course you did, but it’s going to be Ned’s one day, isn’t it? And if your husband’s not there and MacGowan’s gone …”

Something in her expression stopped me. There was a glitter in her eyes, just as there always was when MacGowan’s future was mentioned, and as I watched the color touched her cheeks gently and her parted lips became moist. “You won’t forget my necklace, will you?” she said, and when we both laughed the passion of her hatred struck a spark in me and I wanted her.