Cashelmara (98 page)

“I mean the whole truth!”

“Ned,” said Uncle David tentatively, “I remember I fell in love when I was sixteen, but I’ve fallen in love at least a dozen times since, and it’s only now, when I’m twenty-seven, that I’ve finally met a girl I’m convinced would make me happy.”

“It’s no good telling Ned it’s insane to marry at sixteen, David,” said Uncle Thomas. “You know it and I know it, but Ned’s incapable of knowing it, so we’re at an impasse.”

“But there must be something we can say!” exclaimed Uncle David. “Let me see. I suppose Madeleine’s talked of the religious point of view, so it’s no good going into that. Anyway there’s nothing immoral about wanting to get married, is there? That’s what makes everything so difficult.”

“What I want to know,” persisted Uncle Thomas stubbornly, “is why Sarah has consented to a marriage of which she can’t possibly approve.”

Uncle David suggested that it was probably relief that I wished to conduct my private life in a moral manner.

“Is that the reason, Ned?” said Uncle Thomas, not believing a word of it.

“I really can’t answer for my mother,” I said politely.

“Very well, we’ll ask questions you can answer. Of course the root of the problem is sexual. Have you had sexual experience?”

“Really, Thomas!” said Uncle David.

“For God’s sake, David, we can’t all accept your views on chastity! Well, Ned?”

“If you’re wondering whether Kerry’s pregnant, the answer is no, she’s not. And if you’re about to tell me to wait for Kerry and use some other woman while I’m waiting, please don’t bother. I’ve already decided not to do that.”

“It’s the best course you could possibly take!” said Uncle Thomas, who was growing angrier and angrier. “If you could have a suitable outlet for your sexual impulses I think you would soon come to your senses and see your friendship with Kerry in its true perspective. Thwarted sexuality is the cause of most of the world’s problems, in my opinion. I read the most interesting book the other day—”

“My dear Thomas,” said Uncle David, who was becoming almost as angry as his brother, “now is hardly the time to enter into a discussion of pornographic literature.”

“It was a medical textbook! For God’s sake, David, be realistic! Which is the lesser of two evils? A mistake Ned may regret all his life or a night he won’t even remember a year later?”

“There are other choices!” said Uncle David passionately. “Ned should go away—a grand tour of the Continent. Why, I could take him myself! I wouldn’t want to be away from Harriet for too long, but—”

“It’s very kind of you, Uncle David,” I said, “but I don’t want to be away from Kerry either.”

“I refuse to allow you to marry that girl,” said Uncle Thomas.

I refrained from reminding him that I didn’t need his consent.

“We should speak to Sarah, Thomas,” said Uncle David. “It’s no good talking to Ned. He’s not going to listen to us.”

“Sarah! Sarah’s obviously beyond reason! We all know she’s been beyond reason for years. Damn it, if she doesn’t stop this marriage, I’ll have Ned made a ward of court.”

“Absolutely not,” said Uncle David strongly before I could speak. “I’ve had quite enough of the family name being a synonym for courtroom scandal. It seems it’s now for me to tell
you
to be realistic, Thomas! It’s obvious Ned’s determined to marry, and even if we make him a ward of court there’s nothing to stop him eloping to Scotland and marrying without anyone’s consent at Gretna Green.”

“Very well!” yelled Uncle Thomas, in a great temper by this time. “Throw in the sponge! But if you cared for Ned as much as I do you’d bloody well oppose this ridiculous marriage of his with your dying breath!”

“Uncle Thomas,” I said. “You’ve made your point. I’m very grateful to you for your concern, just as I’m very grateful to Uncle David for opposing any move which would mean more family scandal. I hope you’ll both come to my wedding on December the fifth.”

“You young fool,” said Uncle Thomas. “I suppose you think you’re going to have unlimited marital bliss and live happily ever after. It’s pathetic.”

“Come, Uncle Thomas,” I said patiently, “is there really anyone who believes marriage guarantees living happily ever after?”

But Uncle Thomas was too upset to answer, and all Uncle David said was that it was a pity a young man of my age should be quite so cynical.

“You’d best wait, dear,” said Nanny. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.”

“Quite,” I said.

“I don’t know what your mama’s thinking of, letting you do such a thing.”

I said nothing.

“You’ve changed,” she said, and suddenly she was no longer Nanny but an uncertain middle-aged little woman shrinking from the world beyond the nursery walls.

“I’m just the same, Nanny,” I said, kissing her, but I knew I wasn’t.

“I don’t know why everyone says I’m so young,” I remarked later to Kerry. “Sometimes I feel at least thirty. In fact I can’t even remember what it was like to be a child. Childhood was all so long ago.”

Childhood seemed long ago when I looked in the glass. I was six feet one by this time, and my shoulders were broadening respectably. I was still too lanky, but at least I could now look at myself without immediately being reminded of a lamppost. My skin had cleared. My hair, still the color of mud, now grew gratifyingly in thick whiskers, and I had every hope that even the color would improve with age. I still wasn’t as handsome as my father and perhaps I never would be, but I was at least presentable.

“I feel just as grown up as you do,” Kerry was saying, and she added with a sigh, “Being away from home helps one to grow up fast, I guess.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to be married in Boston?” I always worried about the possibility of her being homesick.

“No, so long as Ma and Pa and the girls can come I’d rather have a true Irish wedding at Cashelmara. After all, this is going to be my home, isn’t it, and if I’m married here everyone in the valley will get to know me when they join in the celebrations.”

This point of view unfortunately caused more controversy with my mother, who claimed that the list of wedding guests should be restricted to close relatives and the local gentry.

“Why should it be as short as that?” I demanded. “Why should you keep it quiet as if you were ashamed of it? Kerry’s going to have the best wedding any girl could wish for.”

My mother argued no further about this but presently objected to the marriage taking place in Clonareen.

“It would be more suitable if it were conducted in Galway,” she suggested.

“I want Father Donal to officiate.”

I liked Father Donal, who thought it was the most natural thing in the world that I should want to be a Catholic and told me exactly what I wanted to hear about my new faith. Aunt Madeleine talked continually of dogma, which bored me to tears, but Father Donal told me about the saints’ days and the different sorts of Masses, and he even drew up a list of rules for me so that I would know when it was appropriate to light a candle and when I should make a novena or a suitable genuflection. The best part about Catholicism is that although it’s deliciously mystical, full of color and pageantry, it’s also so practical, bristling with rules to cover not only every religious dilemma but also the wear and tear of daily life. I liked the idea of having rules to obey. Perhaps it was because my life had been disordered for so long, but whatever the reason I found the principles of the Roman Church a comfort and was only sorry I hadn’t discovered them earlier.

I took my first communion on the sixteenth of November, but although I invited my mother to attend she refused.

“I’ll attend your wedding,” she said, “but apart from that it would be wrong for me to enter any church, Catholic or Protestant. I should feel too much of a hypocrite, and I hate to be reminded of how I’ve cut Maxwell off from his faith.”

Drummond had never spoken to me on the subject of religion, and he didn’t speak of it now. He was too busy preparing for the Gallaghers’ arrival, and my mother was initiating more domestic upheavals by transforming part of the attics into a new series of guest rooms. The original west-wing guest rooms were assigned to Kerry and myself, and we enjoyed ourselves dragging out the ugly furniture and giving orders for the dreary wallpaper to be stripped off. After that the real fun began. The largest room, which we decided to use as our bedroom, was painted the color of daffodils, and the sitting room was decorated in white and shamrock green. I thought it looked splendid. Later we ordered a fourposter bed to be made, and Kerry designed white muslin curtains peppered with red bobbles. In the bedroom was a recess that proved ideal for an oratory, and soon we were spending happy hours poring over the catalogue of a Dublin shop that specialized in religious wares. After ordering a silver crucifix we chose a big statue of the Madonna and Child and a gilt-framed reproduction of Holman Hunt’s “Light of the World,” which I thought was pretty good, better than any dusty old classical picture. We both loved the statue. The Madonna wore the traditional blue robe and looked plump and happy, like Kerry, and the infant Christ was a jolly baby with plenty of spirit. Finally we made the finishing touches to the room. A purple altar cloth embroidered with a figure of St. Patrick was commissioned, Kerry bought two fat mauve candles which emitted a delicious aroma when lighted, and we ordered six sets of rosary beads—“Because I’m always losing mine,” explained Kerry, “and I expect you will too.”

I couldn’t remember when I had last enjoyed myself so much.

“It’s strange how your taste is so different from mine, Ned” was my mother’s only comment. “I suppose that’s Kerry’s influence.”

Why she thought I was incapable of having an opinion of my own I had no idea, but I didn’t care. I was having too much fun to mind what she said any more.

I didn’t think of Drummond. We were polite when we saw each other, but when he wasn’t there I forgot about him. Later after my wedding I would think about him, but at present I was still celebrating my great victory over him and all I cared about was having a good time.

“What are you going to do when you’re grown up, Ned?” asked John one day.

“I
am
grown up!” I said with a laugh, “and at present I’m not going to do anything except enjoy myself!”

“I’m going to enjoy myself too,” said John firmly. “I’ve decided to stay at Cashelmara forever and look after the garden. Mr. Watson said to Mama there was nothing more he could teach me, and this means I’m grown up too, doesn’t it? He’s not teaching you any more, and you say you’re grown up. It must be a sign of growing up when tutors go away.”

“You’ll have to get to my age before you can call yourself truly grown up.”

“Why? I can read now. Shall I read to you? I’ll read ‘Cinderella,’ if you like.”

“You only read that because you know it by heart,” said Jane brutally. She was seven years old now and still devoted to Ozymandias and her watercolors. She also kept a journal, just as my mother did, and boasted that she recorded the name of anyone who slighted her so that God could refer to the list at the Day of Judgment “And what’s so special about being a gardener?” she added scornfully. “I’m going to be an animal doctor when I grow up, or if I’m not an animal doctor I shall paint pictures which people will call the work of a genius, or perhaps I shall do both and be a painter
and
an animal doctor.”

“Jane, you’re so peculiar!” said Eleanor, horrified. “What would your husband say?”

“I shan’t have a husband,” said Jane. “I don’t think a husband would suit. But I shall find a nice man like Mr. Drummond who’ll clean my paintbrushes for me and help cook the cat food.”

“I shall have a husband,” said Eleanor firmly. “Except that I wouldn’t marry at sixteen like Ned because everyone says that isn’t fitting. I shall have a house in the country and a house in London so my husband must have at least ten thousand a year because London is very expensive, and I must have a brougham of my own for paying my calls. Perhaps we could have a place in Scotland as well. All the best people have places in Scotland. And I would have a vast circle of very dear friends, and my very dear friends would say whenever there was an occasion, ‘Oh, we must invite Eleanor or the entire occasion will be a failure.’ Every house of importance would be open to us, and every Tuesday night I would have an ‘evening’ and wear a midnight-blue gown with ostrich feathers, and all the politicians would come to discuss the burning issues of the day.”

“Ten thousand a year would be nice!” I said, laughing, “but the rest sounds a bit dull.” I had no idea how much money I was supposed to receive each year, but I did know I enjoyed spending it. I ordered case after case of champagne and arranged for a massive supply of food for our guests. I distributed alms to all my tenants, and I donated a large sum to the church in Clonareen so that Father Donal could arrange for the building of a Lady Chapel. My mother warned me that I must be more cautious, but I took no notice. I was only interested in doing exactly as I pleased.

Kerry’s wedding dress was finished. The tailors completed my new suits. Cashelmara was beginning to hum like some enormous spinning top, and in my mind’s eye I could already see it bursting at the seams with gaiety.

The Gallaghers arrived.

“Ma’s in an awful state,” confided Kerry. “She daren’t tell Pa, but she’s furious with him for not telling her earlier about your ma and Mr. Drummond. She even asked me if I truly wanted to marry you and said I could back out now while there’s still time. Poor Ma! Isn’t it sad to see all these old people worrying so about us?”

I didn’t see much of Kerry by this time, as we were both so preoccupied with our families, our guests and the wedding, but this was probably for the best. I had long since resigned myself to waiting once I knew we were to have an early marriage, but resignation in theory is easier than resignation in practice, and if I spent time alone with her I became strained and irritable. I tried to explain this so that she wouldn’t misunderstand, but it was difficult for both of us, and by the time December came we hardly knew how to wait the last five days to the wedding.