Tipperary (35 page)

In other words, when April Burke got her hands fully on the case— that is, seven months after her father's death—she approached it with her customary vim. Once her father's funeral was over, she began the necessary rearrangements of her life that would optimize her attention to the lawsuit. She kept the house in London open—but now she turned her face west, to Ireland and, as if anticipating a life to come, began to insert herself into Anglo-Irish society.

Thursday, the 26th of July 1906.

My dear Robbie,

Yes, please come to Bantry—the Atlantic is so wonderful just now. A squall yesterday which drove marine oddments up onto the sands. I walked for an hour this morning, and was the best beachcomber; I found scallop shells, jellyfish, gray, wrinkled driftwood, and a wonderful seppe shell—or “cutting-fish,” as they call it here
.

Shall I expect you by Sunday, the 5th? If so, you shall renew your acquaintance with an interesting person! You recall that my lovely friend Mr. O’Brien had developed a perfect passion for the young woman who attended poor dear Oscar? Well, she is to be a house-guest of Doty Bandon's at Castle Bernard; she is coming over for her great lawsuit—she's seeking what she claims as her “birthright,” Tipperary Castle. Nobody here believes her; they think her a charlatan, and she has behaved dreadfully to my Mr. O’Brien. I am firmly among those who hope that she loses!

Castle Bernard is very merry. The Bandons seem to make grandeur intimate—how I wish that Oscar had known them. So as you see, dear chum, lots of ding-dong gossip awaits—hurry-hurry!

Con molto amore,

Mollie.

Saturday, the 4th of August 1906.

My dear Kitty,

In haste. Shall we meet at Limerick? If you designate a hotel, we can have tea. (Do they have tea in Limerick?) I should like you to meet my Mr. Somervilles, father and son; they are my protectors among the law!

Speedily,

April
.

SUNDAY, THE 16TH OF SEPTEMBER 1906.

Charles came home on Friday evening. He says that he means to stay some time. When Bernard asked about ailing patients, Charles said they are all “in a good way.” At times I have thought how safe to be ill, were Charles the attendant healer. He cares so much.

Although he has not said so, I know that he has come to be with Euclid. This morning, he helped Euclid into the ponytrap. It took a long time. Euclid glowed after their drive. They went to Golden and saw Athassel again, which Charles enjoys.

Onward from the autumn of 1904 I have little to say of Ireland's events in general. Naturally I observed them as they occurred. Our island moved smoothly through the reign of King Edward the Seventh, and grew increasingly passionate about self-government; the talk of Home Rule replaced and surpassed in heat the debate on land reform.

In fact, the whole country burned with a nationalistic flame. Enthusiasts for the revival of the Irish language held many and vigorous meetings, and when I look back now I can see that the whole country was talking itself into a ferment that would one day boil into revolution.

As a “nation” (which we now increasingly called ourselves), we revisited our glorious past of myth and wonder; we reminded ourselves of our ancient poets and our many Gods and our brilliant artistic virtues. It often became heady, and Euclid became quite a specialist in ancient Irish paganism. He demonstrated how our mythical past had indeed been a matter of fact, and told us that we must observe what had happened— because in the workings of the past lay the clues to the future. And he told us, with Father's encouragement and to Mother's delight, that we would soon again become brilliant.

On the third of October 1904, as I have reported, I saw April and her driver turn their faces to the Limerick road. That she had been in my home, under our roof, between our walls, still dazed me with delight; now she departed and I believed that she would return. She did, and in circumstances that in time brought great turmoil.

It began with a letter from London, in spring 1906, to my mother. April wrote to tell that her father had died; it seemed that a stroke felled him, but she had the comfort of being present at his death, and she wrote movingly of how she missed him. Immediately, I wrote to her conveying my sincerest condolences; I had had little time to acquaint myself with her beloved father, but in that period I came to like him as much as a fellow might in so brief an acquaintance. In truth, I missed the dear man from the proceedings of my mind, as I had much looked forward to seeing him again, perhaps on the grounds of the castle that he might one day walk as of right or, as I have said, touring with me through the ruins of Athassel, burial place of de Burgo earls.

I had remained within reach of Ardobreen in the weeks after April's departure; in case she needed my attentions again, I wished to travel no farther than a day's ride from Limerick. During that time, I attempted in vain to gain the opinions of my parents as to whether she might prove a suitable and lovable daughter-in-law. Mother said she needed “greater knowledge of the girl” before she could essay such an opinion, and my father said she reminded him of how Mother looked at that age.

Euclid told me that I must be “firmer” with April, and when I replied that Father seemed to show no such firmness with Mother, Euclid said in his darker tone, “Different field, different beast.” I still do not know what he meant.

That summer passed in short journeys to outlying counties, and one long journey to Donegal—a matter of some weeks. A priest in Bundoran, who had been Mr. Egan's patient and was much given to working in the garden, had written to me complaining of the itch. I stayed with him many days until it vanished (my treatment was a mixture of sulfur powder and pig's lard). Riding through Ireland in August had been exceptionally pleasant, and I saw many harvests, drank many ales in celebration; home again, I resumed my shorter journeys.

One Saturday in October 1906, I arrived home from Templemore and a patient with the gout (which is cured by drinking a boiling of ragwort, and eating a porridge of oatmeal, each three times a day) to find a letter from London awaiting me. Mother sat with me as I opened it; I have it here, as I have all April's letters to me.

Dear Mr. O’Brien—

Or “surely” (as you say in Ireland) surely must I not call you “Charles”? For all the goodness you have shown me I may assume your friendship, may I not? Your letter regarding Papa's death moved me, and showed me how dear you feel in your friendship to me. Therefore I begin again, this time with “Dear Charles.”

I have written to your mother my thanks for her condolences too, and I have asked her—as I ask you—to extend my gratitude to your father for his sound advice regarding the law and Tipperary Castle. Acting upon your father's words last year, I engaged Mr. Somerville's practice in Limerick, and as the newspapers have reported, they agreed to act for my father in the matter of this estate.

When Papa died, I became his sole legatee, and as an early step I petitioned the Courts that the property be placed under some good care. The petition was granted on condition that a Caretaker be appointed, and to this end I took the liberty of suggesting your name. I know nobody else in Tipperary and I understand too that you harbor deep feelings for the place, and that is how I know that it will be in excellent hands under your watchful eyes.

Mr. Somerville has told me that he will shortly write to you (and, as he said, be pleased to address a son of Mr. Bernard O’Brien) with greater details than I can furnish now. As you may judge from this letter, the suit has already been entered upon with the most serious intent.

May I include you in my expressions of thanks for all you have done and are about to do?

Yours with gratitude,

April Burke.

Mother asked me whether she too might see the letter; she read it without comment, other than the question “Do they mean to pay you for this caretaking?” In my delight I protested that I should not expect or accept payment.

The law truly does move slowly. Next September—of 1907, almost three years after April's first visit—a sealed packet arrived, heavy with brown wax, postmarked “Limerick” and addressed to me at Ardobreen. It contained a detailed “Letter of Appointment” and some keys bearing ancient labels. Court papers indicated that permission had been given to appoint a “Responsible Overseer” to the property and a Court Order made to that effect. (This resulted in Euclid for many days addressing me, and referring to me, as “R.O.”)

I had not waited for the official authority. In the intervening months, I had ridden over to the castle many times, most particularly in the winter months. At no time did I take any steps to exceed the curiosity of a passing stranger or to anticipate my coming powers.

Each successive visit persuaded me further of the castle's thrall. My father believed my mother a truly beautiful woman because, he said, “Every time you look, her face is different—that's the sign of true beauty.” I had observed the same with April—and now I saw it in this place that I hoped would become her (and my) home.

Whether in morning light, or through drifts of noontide rain, or early evening fog, which floats a foot above the ground like a gray magic carpet, this estate gave off enchantment. I liked nothing better than to sit on Della, in the exact place where April and I had first dismounted, and look on the walls, the battlements, and the wonderful vista down to the bridge and the lake.