Ours is a walled garden, of warm red brick; few places that I have known give such secluded peace. There is a ruined abbey chancel in County Longford where the sun on a winter's day may be as hot as summer, so warm are the walls, so secure the shelter. In south Galway, I know of a graveyard where the western wall of an old family vault has a kind of pocket in it, which keeps out all wind, and when the sun beams directly into that spot, it becomes a Mediterranean place. Of Glengariff, nothing need be said other than it grows tropical palms.
Likewise Ardobreen's walled garden, which runs down to the little Multeen River, and that morning the warmth of the Indian summer had accumulated and heated the old red walls.
“I have been trying to grow globe artichokes,” said my father, and I followed him to a patch half-covered with panes of glass resting upon some stakes.
He picked a sphere off the matured plant and caressed it; Father breathes slowly through his nose when he is contemplating, as he did now.
“Now, why did I grow these rough old green things?” he mused. “Maybe I just wanted the feel of a baby's head about the place,” he said. “Maybe I just wanted to remember what you were like as a little baby. Boys-oh-dear, and how I would have done anything in the world to keep harm from falling on that little head.”
He handed me the globe artichoke. “Feel that.”
I ran my hands over the leaves and marveled that he had achieved a crop; we get much rain and unsteady temperatures.
“You know, 'tisn't often we grow things we want to protect,” he said. “And look at this thing. I grew it to eat it. I suppose someone's always around to eat what you grow. Whether you want to protect them or no.”
His voice cracked a little, and I looked and saw that he had tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. It was my instinct to say that he felt too much moved by a vegetable; therefore I said nothing.
“Ride slowly today,” he said. “Stay on the level, don't bother jumping any fences; she's not knowledgeable of our Irish ways.”
He stayed in the garden and I returned to the yard, where the horses, pleased with each other's company, were now prancing a little. I mounted faithful Della and led Nonie behind me to the terrace, where already April waited with Mother. Euclid had found a gap of sunshine and lay on a chaise, the early beams falling across his face. He waved us off.
Of all the days in the week, Sunday is the most tranquil in that countryside. Their ride can be traced. From the front of the house, they rode to the top of the avenue, which then slopes sharply down. Captain Ferguson's exotic wood stands to the west, open paddocks and pastures to the east. The slope lasts about two hundred yards, and at the bottom a white gate now stretches across the property. Inside the hedge to their right, they would have found a well lined with pewter-colored stone, and brimming with water.
Then they began a gentle climb to the main road—and from here anybody hiding in the trees of the castle could watch them all the way.
As I have stated before, from the lower end of our avenue, we see the peaks of Tipperary Castle and the battlements and the two small square turrets; we see the giant trees, the beeches and oaks, their bushy heads inclining toward the beauty of the house like eager men toward a lady in a salon. At the moment it all came in view April and I were riding alongside; through lack of practice, she had been keeping her eyes on the ground, as do many unaccustomed riders.
“Raise your eyes,” I said. “There is your inheritance.”
We reined in at the same time and gazed at the great house. She looked and looked but said nothing.
“Is it in any way familiar?” I asked.
She waited before answering, then said, “Only in dreams.” I had difficulty making out the words, so softly did she speak. “Nothing prepared me for this,” she said, again in a low voice.
We sat for some time and she looked all around; I believed her utterly pleased at what she saw—and I asked her as much.
“Pleased indeed,” she said, and repeated it. “Pleased indeed.”
“And you have seen but a fraction,” I told her, and we nudged our horses forward.
We trotted along the roadway for about half a mile and then I changed our direction; we passed through an open gate, rode to a wide gap in the long hedges of hawthorn, now thick with hanging knots of gleaming red berries, and began the long sloping ascent to the house. Our view of the estate improved with each yard we took. We splashed across a bright stream.
I said, “You are now on the estate itself. This is where the acreage begins.”
Ahead of us, birds rose screeching from thickets.
“How far does it stretch?” she asked.
“Almost to the mountains.”
I decided that we should climb to the old lawns that sat almost level with the south side of the roof. Nobody had ridden this path for some time, and we forced our way past some brambles and briars. In the distance rose the high walls of the main building; the bright light of the morning made the cut stone seem more tailored than ever.
April looked at everything: the sealed windows and their sleek, pointed architraves; the great door that had resisted so many attacks; the manicured cornices and peaks. We turned our horses up one last, steep path and there we stood, with all to be viewed.
The estate is wider than it is long and stretches mostly south and east.
“Four thousand acres?” She repeated my answer to a question that she had asked. “How shall we find out exactly?”
“The authorities keep a land registry,” I said. “The council in Clonmel or Tipperary town—whose spires you can see off there in the distance.”
With gestures I showed her the extent of the estate, as I believed it to be—south, southeast, and east of where we sat, until we had turned about in our saddles and faced toward Cashel, where I showed her the medieval buildings on the great Rock five miles distant. Her level eyes observed all; her cool manner took in everything; I saw as yet no excited response.
“And you have not seen the prettiest part,” I said.
We rode down from the old lawns to the northern terraces, where grass abounded between and over the wide paving stones. When we had cleared the corner of the building I said, “Now look.”
Beneath us lay the lake and the bridge that crossed the little river. So thoughtful had been the placing of the trees and the shrubberies that the estate's shape had remained firm down through the decades of disuse. At this distance, everything seemed normal—the shrubs had blossomed and the trees still carried a great abundance of leaf, now golden and ocher in the fall of the year. All growth seemed to lean toward the house and protect it, and I pointed out to April how the plantings had been so arranged as to give shelter from the northerly and easterly winds. She made no comment. Instead, she eyed some cattle browsing by the water's edge.
“Who owns those creatures?”
“I suppose some neighbors have taken the liberty of using the land. This estate has not been in working ownership since—well, since whatever happened,” I reminded her. “Mr. Wilde's story.”
“So they graze the land free?”
I said that I supposed they did, yes.
“Hmm.” She sounded determined. Then she sat back and viewed the house. “The roof seems sound.”
“I believe it will need some work,” I said, and I pointed out some damage to an expanse of slates.
“Is it possible that we can get inside?”
April dismounted (without my help), and we walked to the front of the building on the south side. The great door, I knew, had iron bars and daunting locks on the inside. I looked here, I looked there, but no entry could I find.
“We seem blocked,” she said.
I took this as a test of my resolve and I stood back and surveyed.
“What are you doing?”
I said, “Mapping the building. Let me judge which rooms sit where.”
The most recent addition to the building began down to our left, on the southwestern side, and seemed almost a buil
ding unto itself. I knew that this must be the theater, and I remembered that, almost four years earlier, when I had first scrutinized this place, I'd believed that I had found it.
“Down here,” I said. “We may be lucky. In a few minutes, begin to call out.”
I climbed a tree near the theater's roof and looked down upon a flat surface. In the center two iron arms poked up, as of a ladder. I was able to step from the tree's strong branch onto the flat roof—and I found that it was, indeed, an iron ladder that led down to a doorway recess below the surface to the roof. The ladder seemed strong enough to hold me, and I came down to the door—which had no lock. Inside, further ladders, which I felt but never saw, led me down to a wider place; all was pitch-black.
On a firm floor I reached out a hand and touched velvet; I felt that I must have penetrated the theater itself—and it proved to be a seat, on the edge of an aisle. Yet my eyes picked out no shapes; I still could see nothing, but my hands found a wall and I edged along it until I came to a curtain. This cloaked a doorway—but it yielded not at all. On and on I went, around each wall, until I reached a point where I could hear April hallooing. At another curtain here, the door behind it opened easily, and now I had more than a glimmer of light. It came from a stained-glass panel in the ceiling, and I discovered that I stood in the hallway of the theater. Ahead of me stood the door, which was barred from the inside— but the bars had no locks securing them. When I opened the door the sunlight flooded in.
April came running to my shout and we opened all the other theater doors. Within moments we had a full view of the auditorium, on whose stage her own grandfather—if the legend was accurate—had died of apoplexy.
The world may boast greater theaters, but it has few as lovely. That velvet which I had touched had been made of a turquoise color, trimmed with a gold braid; and the seats in their neat and almost intimate rows— we counted that the auditorium accommodated one hundred—had been made of a gentler hue, almost the blue of a duck's egg, which excellently complemented the curtains and the other trim. Tiepolo himself, I reflected, might have painted the ceiling; it billowed with his soft blues and whites, and I subsequently learned that the painter, an Italian by name of Rampalli, had been commissioned to paint it after the fashion of Tiepolo.
We could not yet see the stage. The curtains, of gold with the same turquoise braided trim, had been drawn closed. Securing the curtains, in the very center, hung an aged object—and closer examination disclosed a long-dead funeral wreath. A card pinned to it said, simply, “Terence Burke Requiescat in Pace.”
Upon this discovery I called April over.
“Look. Perhaps some of the legend is true,” I said.
She said nothing but stared a long time at the remains of the wreath; and she turned the card with its black borders over and over in her hand. Then she asked, “Do you think it possible to enter the house?”
We tried and tried again. Two passages led from the theater, but each one ended at a door that had been secured from the other side, and no amount of tugging and heaving would take us through. When we finally ceased we returned to the theater and inspected every part of it.
It had been excellently appointed, and the stage and auditorium had been raked to perfect angles. I found the winches that operated the curtains, and now we could see how it was meant to be when a play was being staged. No scenery could we find, not a painted fly, not a sculpted backdrop of “pillars” or “columns,” and we made our way backstage.
Here we found three large rooms, marked, “Green Room,” “Ladies' Dressing-Room,” and “Gentlemen's Dressing-Room,” and two smaller rooms. The first of these said, “Principal Actor”—and the second said, “Mrs. Burke.” We stood in front of this and I thought of Mr. Wilde and his description; I can still recall the words: “She had a long nose, not so retroussé as yours, not so tip-tilted, and with not the same curve at the end of the nostrils. Her lips had some but not all of your voluptuousness. And she had your smile, a wonderful, curving slice of joy.”
“The case,” I murmured, “seems incontrovertible.”
She simply nodded; not a word did she say. Instead she opened the door of the dressing-room that only her grandmother would ever have used or entered. It was dark but surprisingly free of any musty odor. When I pressed the door to its widest we saw that some candles still sat in their sconces, and I lit them; to my surprise, the wicks took.
This dressing-room had been furnished for an empress. A great looking-glass dominated one wall from the ceiling to the floor, and it had an answer from another large glass over the dressing-table across the room. I doubted that the room had ever been used; no brushes, combs, or other grooming implements stood on the dressing-table, no wig on the wooden block. But in a corner I saw some objects resting on a great chair, and I took hold of them—a lady's heavy green gown; a long and generally decorative green brocade coat with cream lapels and revers; a pair of broad brown-leather gauntlets, small enough for a lady; a small cloth bag which contained brown hair (a wig, I presumed); and a pair of lady's buttoned boots, also brown. Dust flew, and we coughed.
SUNDAY NIGHT, THE 2ND OF OCTOBER.
Charles and Miss Burke returned in time for a late luncheon. I prevailed upon the young lady that she need not change for the table. In the country, I said, we rest easier about such things. Perhaps she has gone back to England thinking us barbarians. I do not care. And I do not care for her. A cool young miss, indeed.
Beforehand, Bernard and I talked for an hour and more about our son's love affair. Bernard confesses that he is distressed. So am I. He says that he sees full well why Charles became infatuated. I said that I do not. Bernard said that if a woman so beautiful once turns her lamp upon a man, he is caught in its beam. I protested that it is such a cold beam. He said, “So is the moon's.”
Why do men like being thus fascinated? I have no patience with it. It distracts from the work of Life. It preys upon the spirit of the innocent—like Charles. But what am I to do? I told Bernard that I shall wait and watch—for the moment. But I do not promise to keep silent or distant if I see that she plays with Charles too much like cat with mouse.
She is such an icy one! I might have thought that she would return from such an important adventure with some imprint of excitement upon her face. Instead, she sat to table as cool as a leaf. Bernard asked her opinion of the house and estate—which is easily the finest for many miles around. “Quite pleasing,” said Miss B.
Quite pleasing, indeed! Here is my poor son turned inside out, from heat to harness, over this woman. Here is she with the likelihood to become one of the wealthiest landowners in the county by neither strength nor effort. And all she can say is “Quite pleasing.”
I fear that I pressed her.
“We found the theater,” she said. Then I learned that Charles had found it, by dint of enterprise and imagination. But she joined in the claim. Is that what she is? A claimer? She shall not claim my son until and unless she can prove to me that she has a heart worthy of his.
I watched her closely. Her hands are bony and will age badly. So might she. She eats not at all—a pick here, a morsel there. So she is not generous even to herself? Nor did she give much to me, when I asked her questions about her ride over to Tipperary Castle. Is it not a fine place? How did you like the land? Did you observe how beautifully the stone is cut? “Oh, yes,” and “It's agreeable,” and “I know little about stone.”
At that moment I wished that I had not reared my sons to behave elegantly toward women.
During the meal a visitor came. We have a long view of the avenue from the terrace. It is a courtesy in the country to ride slowly into another's property. This newcomer knew of such manners and trotted his horse nicely.
Bernard did not know him, nor did I—nor did Charles nor Euclid, and they know everybody. He came close to the terrace and dismounted without speaking. He took off his hat and approached us—thickset, short, and black-haired.
“Forgive the intrus
ion,” he said. The coat he wore might have been Spanish. “And forgive a business mission on the Sabbath Day.”
“Your courtesy forgives you, sir,” said Bernard. He can be irksomely florid at times.
We invited the man to join us. He told us that his name was Dermot Noonan. We shall hear more of him. He came to inquire whether we knew that somebody was trying to claim Tipperary Castle.
That was when I understood the wideness and depth of Miss Burke's nerve. She never moved a particle of her body.
Bernard asked the stranger why he inquired.
“I believe it should belong to the people,” said this Mr. Noonan. “It's been vacant a long time. It should revert to its neighbors; it was our land once. All of us from around here.”
Euclid's eyes grew round, a sight I always enjoy. And Charles's occasional shrewdness kept him silent too. Mr. Noonan had a hardness to him.
“Where do you come from?” I asked him.
“I was educated at Salamanca, Mrs. O'Brien.”
Few people around here have the composure to call me that; “ma'am” or, more commonly, “Missus” is what they call me.
“And why are you here?”
“I am riding to all the local houses to tell of my intention to go to court over that estate”—and he gestured past his shoulder.
He took a drink, asked many questions, and gave few answers. But at least he told us that he was a lawyer. (Bernard said that he should “try and get that cured.”) During the time he was among us this Mr. Noonan began to fasten upon Miss Burke. And she upon him. I know that I saw warning signs, threats to my son's heart.
Tipperary: A Novel of Ireland Page 19