Cashelmara (9 page)

Naturally I avoided Clonagh Court. Even the sight of the tall gray house near the southern shore of the lough was enough to make me wince at the thought of Annabel, and although I spent the entire journey home trying not to think of our quarrel, I could not help but remember what had been said. If only she had not annoyed me at the start by ordering me about in that unfeminine and unfilial fashion! Then I would have kept my temper and avoided making mistakes. Besides, on the subject of Derry I knew she had exaggerated. I was well aware that Derry was inclined to be rash, but I like a boy with a bit of spirit, and none of his escapades had yet led him into serious trouble. Moreover, I credited him with too much intelligence to make a fool of himself and fall into his benefactor’s bad books. He had had a hard and desperate early life, mitigated only when I had decided to interest myself in his welfare, and he had told me often enough that he never wanted to experience destitution again.

Annabel had told me with her inexcusable arrogance that I should ignore Patrick’s part in the escapade and attend to Derry, but it seemed to me, determined as I was by then not to take Annabel’s advice, that Annabel had drawn quite the wrong conclusions. Derry could be left to fend for himself; it was Patrick who needed my attention. Since I had to agree with Annabel that he could not be held responsible for the incident, I resolved not to censure him, but I saw clearly that now was the time to remove him from Derry’s influence and give him the opportunity to make other friends. It was high time his horizons were widened, high time he had the opportunity to see more of the world in which he might one day play a notable part. If I let matters continue as they were I would be guilty of neglecting my duty. I owed it to Patrick as well as myself to make other, more ambitious plans for his future.

With the curiosity of hindsight I often wonder what would have happened if I had instead followed Annabel’s advice, but of course such speculation can only be unprofitable. I only tried to do what I believed was right.

But perhaps what I believed would have been quite different if Annabel had not been so ready to insult my relationship with Marguerite.

Out of a desire to treat all my children fairly I wrote that evening to my daughters Madeleine and Katherine to inform them of my understanding with Marguerite, and the next day I made arrangements to return with Patrick to Woodhammer Hall.

It was on the evening after our arrival that I decided to speak to him. When we had finished dinner I told him he might stay behind with me to drink half a glass of port, and once the cloth had been drawn I took a deep breath before embarking on my speech. Around us the paneled walls of the dining room gleamed darkly in the candlelight, and from his portrait on the wall the Tudor de Salis who had entranced Queen Elizabeth stared scornfully down at us above his starched ruff. Woodhammer was full of paneled rooms and portraits of scornful gentlemen in ruffs. I am fond of the house; it was, after all, the sole home of my family for some three hundred years, and it would be strange if I were to bear no sentimental attachment for the place; but nevertheless one cannot escape from the fact that it is ill designed, old-fashioned and, in comparison to Cashelmara, hopelessly plain. I also find it depressing. So much dark paneling gives the rooms a somber air, and for some reason—indifference, perhaps—I have never bothered to install gas lighting to dispel the gloom.

“I think it’s time you had the chance to meet more boys of your own class,” I said carefully to Patrick. “I know you have friends here at Woodhammer among the servants’ children, while at Cashelmara you’ve been friendly with Hugh MacGowan and Derry, but on the whole I think these friendships leave much to be desired. I haven’t forgotten either that you told me you were lonely in London when I was in America and that this was the main reason why you ran away to Ireland to seek Derry’s company. And you were bored too, weren’t you? Yes, of course you were. I’ve no doubt I would have been bored and lonely too at your age if I hadn’t had my brother David for company. Well, Patrick, I’ve thought a great deal about this and I’ve found a solution which I believe will have great appeal to you. I’ve decided to send you to school.”

His eyes widened, but he was clearly too overwhelmed to speak. Pleased that he should be so excited, I continued with enthusiasm: “I’m convinced you would enjoy it, Patrick. I’ve never considered such an idea before because, as your academic work was of such a low standard, I felt you would profit best from individual tutelage, but none of your tutors has ever been very successful with you, and I think now I was mistaken and that you need the stimulation of competition. I’ve decided to send you to Rugby. It’s a very famous school, and the name of its late headmaster Dr. Arnold is a by-word in educational reform. I intend to write this evening to the present headmaster and arrange for you to be admitted in the new year.”

He was looking at me so unhappily that I stopped. “Have I displeased you again in some way, Papa?”

With a jolt I saw he was not excited but appalled. “Of course not!” I exclaimed, trying not to wonder in despair why it should be so hard for me to communicate my good intentions to my son.

“Then why must I be sent away?”

“But I have just explained …” I took another deep breath and tried again. “It’s no disgrace, Patrick, to be sent to study at one of the finest schools in the country. It’s a privilege! I’m anxious for you to be happier than you’ve been of late, and I’m sure school would provide you with an exciting opportunity to make a fresh start—meet new friends …”

“But I don’t want any other friend except Derry,” said Patrick infuriatingly and set his mouth in a stubborn line.

I kept my temper. “My dear Patrick, I should hope you will always remain on friendly terms with Derry, but you must realize that even though for various reasons I’ve seen fit to give him an education and a roof over his head, he’s only the son of an Irish tenant farmer.” And I saw again as clearly as if it were yesterday my return to Cashelmara after the famine, the emaciated child shivering in the kitchen as the cook tried to feed him some gruel. Only the cook and her husband had survived among the staff I had left to tend the house in my absence, and I could remember the terrible guilt gripping me once more when I was presented with this new evidence of the ravages of famine and pestilence. When the cook had told me the child’s family had died of typhus I had said, “Keep him here.” He would not have lived a year in one of the overcrowded orphanages. Children were still dying by the thousand, and I had already seen a dozen children’s bodies that morning along the road from Galway.

I recalled myself with an effort. “You must realize that you and Derry have reached the parting of the ways,” I said to Patrick. “Derry has been privileged, it’s true, and if he does well at his law studies after he leaves school next summer there’s no reason why he shouldn’t in time become a respected member of the middle classes. But even so his life is certain to run on a very different track from your own. Now that you’re growing up you should be able to understand this, and, by the way, Patrick, on the subject of your growing up …”

And I steeled myself to talk to him about certain matters pertinent to his future private life.

Many parents believe that there are some subjects which should never be mentioned to their children, and certainly in respect of one’s daughters this opinion may well be correct. Everyone knows that females have a special sensitivity to the rougher truths of this life, and it is only kindness to protect them from those truths for as long as possible. But I believe any man who either refuses to speak to his son on such matters or else delays speaking to him until too late is failing in his parental duty. My father had never performed such a duty, it was true, but my father had been a naïve eccentric. However, my uncle Richard had performed the parental duty one summer at Woodhammer Hall, and in later years I had always looked back at that interview with gratitude.

“I’ve no doubt,” I said to Patrick, “that you have by now been exposed to Derry’s very natural interest in the opposite sex. You are, of course, aware of the meaning of the phrase ‘carnal knowledge.’”

He blushed scarlet and managed to nod his head.

“Very well. Now, it’s not my intention to give you a lecture on morals. I’m not a clergyman, and besides you’re quite old enough to distinguish between right and wrong. I merely wish to speak to you on practical matters. For example, we both know that fornication is a sin which a man should avoid, but human nature being what it is there is often a gap between what a man ought to do and what he actually does. What I wish to advise you about now is how to conduct yourself in a practical manner when you find yourself confronted with this gap. Do you understand what I’m saying so far?”

He nodded again, still scarlet, and stared down at his empty glass.

“As a good-looking wealthy young man you’ll soon find yourself subject to great temptations,” I continued, feeling more at ease now that the homily was in progress. “It would be inhuman and from a pragmatic point of view not even advisable for you to expect yourself to resist every one of these temptations, but should you find yourself unable to avoid temptation there are certain elementary precautions you must take to avoid either begetting a child or contracting some particularly distressing disease or, quite possibly, both.”

He was still speechless with embarrassment, so I gave him the required practical information and allowed him some seconds in which to digest it. Finally I added, “Are there any questions you wish to ask?”

He shook his head.

“Very well. But while we are discussing carnal behavior perhaps I should just say an additional word to you on a subject which is never normally mentioned and which is probably, in view of your sheltered upbringing, quite unknown to you. There are in this world certain unfortunate creatures—one cannot call them men—who desire only carnal knowledge of their own sex. Such knowledge is, needless to say, a vice peculiarly repugnant to all men of decency and grossly offensive to any concept of morality. I mention the subject only because these creatures often lust in their disgusting fashion after boys of your age, and since you cannot always lead a sheltered life it’s only right that you should be aware of the existence of such dangerous and perverted behavior.”

Patrick’s flush had faded. He looked sick.

“I’m afraid I’ve been somewhat outspoken,” I said, “but I speak only with your welfare in mind. The world is often a distasteful place, and the darker side of human nature can be dark indeed. It would have been wrong of me to let you go off to school believing that the world is the safe, comfortable place it seems to be when viewed from the nursery window. You’ll understand that later and be grateful to me for speaking frankly with you now.”

Patrick asked my permission to leave the room.

“Yes, you may go if you wish,” I said and wondered immediately if I should have waited till he was older before making such speeches to him. But then I remembered Annabel’s story. If Patrick was old enough to drink too much poteen and watch Derry dance a jig with a peasant girl on the dining-room table, he was old enough to hear advice on sexual matters.

Yet somehow I was uncomfortably aware that the interview had not gone according to plan.

I remained at Woodhammer until November, for the hunting is excellent in that part of Warwickshire and ever since my youth I’ve enjoyed riding to hounds. It was a sociable time of year in the country, but despite various dinners and balls I managed to complete my thesis on Indian corn, write my report on Mr. Appleby’s knotter and somehow find the time to supervise Patrick’s education. I was not inclined to engage another useless tutor for him before he went away to school in January, and, besides, since I had spent the entire summer in America I felt it my duty to devote time to him that winter.

Meanwhile, Marguerite was writing from New York. She wrote every week, but as so often happens between the continents, the post was irregular and sometimes I did not hear from her for a month. She said that
A Tale of Two Cities
had just been published and the streets of New York were awash with tears for Sidney Carton. She said the “Fall Colors” were wonderful this year, and they had made a special excursion up the Hudson again to Francis’ “Summer Place” to see them. She said Francis had asked her to tell me how kind and generous he was being to her and she thought this was “very bumptious” of him, even though he had just bought her a beautiful sable-trimmed “Highland cloak” for the winter. Francis had said to her that she was to be sure to mention the sable-trimmed Highland cloak. “Although why he should be in such a gale to impress you I can’t imagine,” she added. “Is there some secret which nobody’s dared tell me?”

I smiled but replied evasively. She was never going to hear me say a word against her brother.

I had told none of my acquaintances in Warwickshire about my understanding with Marguerite, but before I left Woodhammer I did confide in my closest friend, Lord Duneden, who was staying with me at the time. I had received two very displeasing letters from my daughters Madeleine and Katherine, and I hoped that Duneden, who was also a widower with grown daughters, would feel sympathetically toward me.

“Thank you,” Madeleine had written with chilling brevity from her Dublin convent, “for your letter bearing the news of your intention to marry Cousin Marguerite Marriott. Naturally I wish for your happiness and will continue to pray for you every day. I remain your devoted sister-in-Christ …”

This disapproval cloaked in religious language and garnished with the promise of daily prayers was offensive enough to me, but Katherine’s letter from St. Petersburg made me seethe with rage.

“Dearest Papa,” she wrote in her neat handwriting. “Thank you for your letter. Andrew and I were, of course, much surprised to learn of your marital aspirations toward Cousin Marguerite Marriott. We both wish you happiness but cannot find it in our hearts to offer you our congratulations. Indeed, since I so earnestly desire your happiness, I would beg you to reconsider your decision if I did not realize that it is not my place to advise you on such an intimate and personal matter. However, I beg instead to remind you that Society looks askance at any grave disparity in age between the partners of a match, and although American females may, if appropriately connected, be accepted in the right circles they are seldom admired since their ways are rarely compatible with English modes of conduct. I should not wish Cousin Marguerite to be unhappy in Society as the result of deficiencies for which she cannot and should not be held responsible. Nor would I wish you, dearest Papa, who are so well respected by your fellow men, to suffer the censure of those who would find such a match as you propose singularly unfitting. With the assurance that Andrew and I wish only to express our deepest love and concern, I remain your devoted daughter,
KATHERINE
.”