Dorothy Eden (31 page)

“Sit down, Madam,” he said curtly. “Is this an urgent case? I hope it is, since you’ve interrupted my dinner. Look at the clock!”

“I’m sorry, doctor, but—”

“Well don’t waste my time now. I understood it was a Mr. Stewart I was to see. Who is he? Your husband? Why doesn’t he come in?”

Katharine’s heart sank. She knew that Sir Henry Thompson was a famous man but she hadn’t anticipated his abrupt irritable manner. He would get nowhere with Charles this way. Charles would simply walk out of his room.

She had to make a swift decision.

“I had better tell you the truth, doctor. We thought it wise to come under another name to avoid publicity. The patient waiting to see you is Mr. Parnell, and he is too ill to be received in this manner.”

Sir Henry sprang up, his face changed.

“But my dear lady, why didn’t you say so at once? Mr. Parnell! Poor fellow. Let me do everything I can for him. Can you tell me a little about his illness?”

Katharine related what she could about the fevers, the sleeplessness, the rheumatic pains.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t tell me everything, doctor. He dislikes talking about his health.”

“Then I’d better see him myself.”

There was no question now of a spoilt dinner, for Sir Henry was closeted with Charles for nearly an hour. Katharine waited with what patience she could, anxiety making her body ache with tension. When at last the two men came in to her, she wondered how they could possibly be smiling. She had begun to expect the most dire news.

“Well, here he is, Mrs. O’Shea.” (So Charles had told Sir Henry who she was, or had he guessed. Did everyone in London know?) “Make him follow my advice completely. He will tell you what it is. And don’t hesitate to get in touch with me at any time. At any time at all.” He shook hands with them both, and Katharine, encouraged by his now friendly manner, asked impulsively:

“Have you advised him to retire from politics, Sir Henry?”

“I hope I’m too good a doctor to prescribe a death sentence, Mrs. O’Shea.”

“Yes. It was foolish of me to even ask. I see you understand him already.”

In the privacy of the carriage again, it was now Charles’ turn to reassure Katharine.

“It’s nothing serious, Kate. My circulation is bad, I’m always to keep my feet warm. And I mustn’t drink any wine but Moselle. My kidneys seem to be a little affected. Sir Henry has written out a diet that’s going to be a bit tiresome. You know how I never notice what I eat. And of course I am to rest.”

“And you shall, election or no election,” Katharine said grimly. “For once I’ll have my way. You shall simply disappear. Your friends can whistle for you.”

He laid his head on her shoulder.

“Very well, my darling,” said his tired voice.

T
HE ELECTION WAS OVER
, the Conservatives were in, led by Lord Salisbury, and Ireland had no Home Rule. Not that Mr. Gladstone had given up the fight. He had merely retired to Hawarden to work on a new Bill. He called it a “mischievous and painful struggle” and was as dogged in his efforts as was Parnell.

Parnell followed his example and for a great part of the time disappeared from public view. No one knew exactly where he was, though most people could make a good guess. Rumours that he was mysteriously ill spread. There were also whispers about his family’s history of mental instability. He would accept invitations to meetings or parties, and then frequently not appear, either because he had forgotten about them or had been too lethargic. He was terse and autocratic with the members of his party, and developed an idiosyncrasy of not wanting to be recognised when he walked in the streets so that he muffled his face with a scarf. His habit of seldom reading or answering letters became worse.

But for all this he retained absolutely his grip on his party. He was never too ill to be present at an important issue. There was no question of his being a spent force.

Though only Katharine knew how ill he had been, and the intensely worrying time she had had when he had been unable to read even a newspaper, unable to put pen to paper or rouse himself to any mental effort.

There was another annoyance, slight but persistent.

Willie had begun writing offensive letters to Katharine saying that his day would come, and that if Parnell continued to visit Eltham when he had been especially asked to keep away, there would be a way of revenge. It seemed as if his bitter jealousy of Parnell, not only as the man who had taken his wife’s affection, but as a man of exceptional distinction and importance, had turned to hate.

Katharine was alarmed and afraid. She hated the scenes Willie made in front of the children. Once, after he had gone, she found Carmen in tears, and Norah, very flushed, saying: “Why does Papa have to be so horrid? Does he really hate us?”

“Not you, my darlings,” Katharine said sadly.

Carmen lifted a tear-streaked face.

“Mamma, we don’t really have to go to a horrid boarding school, do we?”

Katharine felt a small chill.

“I didn’t know anything about this. Is that what Papa has been saying?”

Norah, less volatile and emotional than her sister, said aloofly, “He said we were getting too big to be at home. He was going to make enquiries about boarding schools.” But Carmen, in a flood of tears, flung herself at her mother. “He said we ought to be away from you, Mamma. Why must we? We’d
die
at boarding school.”

“Clare and Katie would miss us,” Norah said. “Could you manage without us, Mamma?”

Her daughters were growing up. They were pretty girls. It was almost time they were out of school frocks and pinafores. Soon they would put their hair up and go to parties. Thinking back to her own girlhood, so sheltered, so correct, Katharine had a pang of dismay. Was Willie right this time? Should the girls be taken from her and brought out by someone thoroughly respectable? Could she, a notorious woman (oh yes, that was true, much as she refused to believe it), launch these charming innocent budding creatures into society? What black harm was she doing her family?

It was so long ago since she had protested that she would not have her children hurt. But the irresistible events had swept her on, and here she was with the love and trust of Norah and Carmen so precariously retained. On his last holidays Gerard, too, had been less friendly. He had made comments about the new horses in the stables, and had admired Dictator’s speed, but had not attempted to ride any of them, preferring the elderly pony which was now too small and slow for him. All the children, by an unspoken law, avoided the room where Charles worked.

Clare and little Katie toddled after him, and Grouse always lay at his feet. But the older children held him more in awe than affection. They were not his. They had not experienced his tenderness.

Reassuring her daughters that they would not under any circumstances be sent away, Katharine forced herself to take a calm detached look at the situation. Had the time come to sacrifice Charles and her own personal desires for the children?

But it took only the sound of wheels in the carriageway, the familiar knock at the door, and his voice, “Kate, where are you?” for the old obsession to sweep over her. She might as well fight against a tidal wave. The children, she told herself, would soon enough grow up, marry, make their own lives. But Charles—those dark eyes so anxious until they saw her, the hand that sought hers—she knew that she never would nor could forsake him.

The climax came after a mischievous report in the
Pall Mall Gazette
. Charles, returning late from London, had had a slight accident. Too slight to have been mentioned if, unfortunately, he had not been recognised.

The paper reported: “Shortly after midnight on Friday evening Mr. Parnell while driving home came into collision with a market gardener’s cart. During the sitting of Parliament the Hon. member for Cork usually takes up his residence at Eltham, a suburban village in the south-east of London. From here he can often be seen taking riding exercise round by Chislehurst and Sidcup. On Friday night as usual his carriage met him at the railway station by the train which leaves Charing Cross. As he was driving homeward a heavy van came into collision with Mr. Parnell’s conveyance, damaging it, but fortunately causing no serious injury to its owner.”

Willie happened to read this report, and wrote one of his furious letters to Katharine saying that although he knew well enough that she was ignoring all his requests, it was intolerable that the whole world should know of her behaviour.

Willie, since Mr. Chamberlain’s desertion of the Irish cause, had been in an unhappy position. He had refused to vote for the Home Rule Bill, and went on refusing to cooperate with his party. He was extremely unpopular, and this heightened scandal must have been galling to him.

Katharine had one of her rare moments of feeling sorry for him, and tried to reassure him.

She wrote, “I should say the paragraph has been put up by Healy and Co. to annoy you. Charles says it is better to put up with a great deal of abuse rather than retaliate for it is ill fighting with a chimney sweep. I advise you to hold on to your seat for I am sure you will annoy the sweeps most by doing so. I am sure there is no end to their spite after your Galway success.”

Whether Willie accepted this explanation or not, there was worse to come.

Gerard, home for the Christmas holidays, had been taken by his father to see the great Jem Mace in a boxing tournament.

All the next day he was so quiet and subdued that finally Katharine asked him whether he were feeling ill.

“No, Mamma. I’m perfectly well.”

“Then is something worrying you, darling? You have such a frown.”

The boy coloured furiously and burst out, “Is it true, Mamma, what Papa read to me in the paper last night? He asked me if it was and I said no, because I had to. But is it true?”

Again the chilly feeling was touching Katharine.

“How can I answer you until you tell me what you’re talking about?”

The boy’s eyes were on his boots.

“The paper said that Mr. Parnell was always here in this house.”

“And you denied it?” Katharine said softly.

“I had to! How could I let Papa think that about you?”

The tormented blue eyes begging for her own denial were almost more than she could face.

“It’s true, as you know, that Mr. Parnell often comes here to work and rest. I myself have always been deeply interested in Mr. Parnell’s work and thought it of first importance and that talk by foolish people scarcely mattered. But if it is going to hurt and worry you, then I promise to see that he makes other arrangements. So you see that although Papa was speaking the truth, in his way, so were you in yours. And there’s nothing for you to be upset about.”

Although Gerard seemed satisfied, she was sure that he was only partly so. His father’s conversation (had it been deliberate, to turn her son against her?) had had a severe effect on his adolescent mind.

That, and Willie’s constant abuse, and Charles’ health finally made up her mind for her. She would find a suitable house in London within easy reach of the Houses of Parliament for Charles. She would establish him there with a housekeeper, and then visit him frequently. It was the best she could do. The present situation was becoming intolerable for everybody. Even Aunt Ben had commented on it, for Mr. Meredith had inadvertently (or had he, too, a liking for gossip?) read her the article in the
Pall Mall Gazette
, and she had made one of her indirect but penetrating comments about the dividing line between love and self-indulgence.

The house was in Regent’s Park, and for discretion Katharine rented it in the name of Mr. Clement Preston. She said she was Mr. Preston’s sister. She was able to find a good capable couple called Harvey to look after the house, and Charles, acknowledging its eminent suitability, agreed to move in.

On his first evening there she took charge herself. She supervised his unpacking, asked Mrs. Harvey to cook a small but appetising meal for two, saw that fires were lit in all the main rooms, and then disappeared to change.

When she came downstairs Charles, in his comfortable smoking jacket, was sitting before the fire in the drawing room, relaxing quietly before dinner. He sprang up at her entrance, then gave an admiring exclamation.

She had dressed for this first meal in the new house in a pale grey gown ruffled at the neck and sleeves. She had also done her hair in an elaborate style on the top of her head, the coiled weight of it held by a Spanish comb. She had on high-heeled velvet slippers, and carried a fan.

She was the lady of the house come down for an informal dinner with her husband.

“Kate, you’re lovely. Have I seen this gown before?”

“No. I kept it for tonight. We must celebrate our new house. I hope you are enjoying it, Mr. Preston.”

He gave his small courtly bow.

“From this moment, immensely.”

She laughed, taking his hand.

“Mr. and Mrs. Preston were the happiest. That’s why I chose their name.”

Charles Stewart had been less happy, he had had to visit the Harley Street specialist. Mr. Fox had written letters from Kilmainham Jail. Mr. Campbell had kept her waiting a very long time in a small depressing lodging house in Bloomsbury. But the fates had always been kind to Mr. and Mrs. Preston.

“Kate, part of you is a child still.” He leaned towards her. “Will you grow up sufficiently to be kissed?”

His cheek was warm from the glow of the fire. His hands were firm through the thinness of her gown. The familiar touch of his lips was excitingly unfamiliar, as if this new adventure had made him partly a stranger. She felt that she was a little strange to him, too. His hands sought enquiringly.

“Do you have to go back to Eltham tonight? Say no, please. You can’t leave me here alone.”

She leaned against him.

“I am at Anna’s—officially. Just for tonight. No, I couldn’t leave you here alone.”

There were distant sounds from the kitchen. “Are you Mrs. Preston?” he asked.

The solemnity of his tone made her giggle.