“I’ve made up your old room, my Lady,” the housekeeper informed Lady Winterton in a voice that was dull and flat without any semblance of the usual beauty and lilt of the Irish accent. “And I lit fires in the rooms on the first floor. I’m afraid the second floor guest rooms are completely unusable. The ceiling subsided with damp some months ago.”
“Thank you Miss Cadogan,” Lady Winterton said. “I’ve no doubt you have done your best on such short notice.”
Ursula stood shivering by the fire. It seemed an ill-wind had brought her here and she felt as though she was far more likely to die of pneumonia in this bleak and decaying house than she would of any feared infection in Dublin. She turned and saw the motorcar draw away through the window—Mary’s chauffeur was already returning to Dublin and the thought of being stranded here depressed Ursula even further.
“I’m sorry, Ursula,” Lady Winterton said. “It’s hardly an auspicious welcome to my husband’s estate. But, as you must realize, he died penniless and the estate has been left for ruin. I try and spare what I can from the income my family gives me, but there is always so much that needs doing.”
“Please,” Ursula said, summoning all her good manners despite the fact that her teeth were chattering. “Do not concern yourself on my account…”
“Would you care for some tea?” Miss Cadogan, the housekeeper, inquired—her eyes were dark and shrewd as they looked Ursula over. Ursula knew by now that in her day dress any keen observer would soon recognize her current condition.
Ursula nodded gratefully. “Tea would be lovely.”
“Grace has gone upstairs to unpack the trunks and will be down shortly,” Lady Winterton instructed Miss Cadogan. “Perhaps after tea, you could show Miss Marlow to her room and make arrangements for us to have a light dinner. Grace knows her way around and can help you with anything else you may need before you leave for the night.”
Lady Winterton turned to Ursula as the Miss Cadogan left the room. “I’m afraid I cannot afford to have her on full time—she usually comes by three times a week to check on the house. I’m afraid we’ll only have Grace to look after us until Miss Cadogan returns on Wednesday.”
“Please don’t worry on my account,” Ursula assured her. Her face was pink with embarrassment, for she hated seeing Lady Winterton’s discomfiture regarding the state of her husband’s estate.
“You know that my family controls all my money and that they refuse to let me spend what I would like on restoring this house to its former glory,” Lady Winterton said, keeping her voice low as if she feared Miss Cadogan could hear. “Nigel left me with a considerable number of debts as well as the upkeep of this place—it’s all I can do to stop it from decaying completely. If my father had his way it would have been sold by now.”
“I can imagine you feel the need to hold onto the place,” Ursula responded quietly.
“I always thought I’d return and live here someday…though I confess there are also days when I wish I could just be done with it,” Lady Winterton admitted.
“Well I for one, am grateful that you brought me here…and for your compassion for both me and my baby. There aren’t many who would…”
“Nonsense,” Lady Winterton’s response was swift. “I only wish you could have seen this place when Nigel was alive—it was glorious.”
Ursula looked about her dubiously. She doubted such a place could have ever, in anyone’s imagination been considered glorious. Yet she understood, all too well, Lady Winterton’s need to revere the place that would forever be associated with her husband. In the current circumstances, how could she not? Ursula only hoped that word had gotten back to James about the reason for her abrupt departure from Dublin, and that he would contact her soon regarding McTiernay. Empathy she may have for Lady Winterton, but it was not enough to dispel the unease she felt being in this house. In her current state of anxiety she could well imagine the spirits of the dead haunting her here—in this place of decay and ruin—in this place that seemed as cold as a tomb. Ursula shivered, for her nightmares were desolate enough; she needed no further darkness to embrace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
After tea, Miss Cadogan showed Ursula up to her room. As they progressed up the stairs and walked along the draughty corridor, Ursula noticed the bare walls bore the blanched outlines of where paintings had once hung. All of the rooms they passed still had cover sheets over what little furniture remained. There was a pervasive smell of damp in the air; a sense of decay and age that sent Ursula’s spirits lower than they had been for months. Instinctively she placed her hand on her belly as if protecting the unborn child within.
“Here you are then,” Miss Cadogan said as she led Ursula to the last open doorway. “I’ve tried to make it as comfortable as I can, though truth be told, it was one of the few rooms in any fit state to be used. I only sorry I haven’t had a chance to remove all the old things that were stored in here.”
“I’m sure it will be more than adequate, thank you, Miss Cadogan,” Ursula replied as she followed her into the small narrow room. The windows, though they had been cleaned, were still opaque with age and disuse, and let in little in the way of sunlight (which, on this day there was precious little anyway). The iron four poster bed had been dusted and reset with fresh linens, yet the thick Victorian bed spread folded on top looked as though years of filth and despair had irredeemably altered and darkened the fabric so that whatever pattern it once held could no longer be distinguished. The walls of the room must have once been painted a pale yellow, but they too had darkened over time, till they had become the color of dried birch leaves.
In the corner of the room was a large wooden trunk covered with a dust sheet. Once Miss Cadogan had left, Ursula lifted the lid cautiously only to find, to her horror that inside the trunk lovingly packed in straw were the obvious reminders of childhood: a button-eyed Teddy bear; a wooden train set, a book of Mother Goose tales; baby clothes in tissue paper, and a lace christening cap wrapped in a silk handkerchief.
Ursula stepped back quickly, letting the lid bang close and the dust sheet crumple to the floor. Surely this was not the proposed nursery, she thought in horror, as she sat down heavily on the bed. Her eye caught the faint outline of a frieze along the top of the walls—the barest outline of what had been planned—shepherds and trees, sheep and roosters. Ursula could not hide her dismay.
“Will that be all?” Miss Cadogan’s voice from the doorway jolted Ursula from her thoughts. “Yes,” she stammered. “Yes, of course…You should go see to Lady Winterton,” Ursula said. “I am sure I am quite capable of splashing some water on my face before supper.” She looked around searchingly.
“Water jug’s over there, Miss, on the cabinet.”
“Thank you.”
“I can remove the trunk if you’d prefer,” Miss Cadogan said, in her funny abrupt tone. “This was the Master’s room when he was a boy and we had hoped…”
Ursula’s face paled even further with the reference to Lady Winterton’s lost baby and Miss Cadogan nodded sagely. “I can see why it might distress you…but I was not to know you were with child.”
“No…No…Of course…” Ursula wasn’t sure what else to say.
“It’ll all be put to rights one day of course. Her Ladyship will see to that. One day the house will restored to its rightful place.”
Ursula’s face must have revealed her skepticism.
“You just see!” Miss Cadogan insisted. “I know she has grand plans!”
Ursula bit her lip. Lady Winterton could hardly have ‘grand plans’ when her family refused to let her use any money to restore the place. Ursula found herself staring helplessly into space, trying to think of a suitable response while Miss Cadogan made a great show of fluffing the pillows on Ursula’s bed and straightening the bed linen.
“It was such a pity,” Miss Cadogan continued. “For her Ladyship I mean. It should have never have ended the way it did.”
“No,” Ursula said awkwardl
y.
“He was still so young, but then the doctor always warned that it would be the drink that would take him in the end.”
Ursula frowned, she had assumed Miss Cadogan had been referring to Lady Winterton’s unborn child. Now she looked at the floor, embarrassed at the thought of that her few careless words could now discredit Lady Winterton’s husband’s name.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Cadogan said hastily, perceiving Ursula’s discomfiture. “I thought you knew.”
“Just that he died,” Ursula said shaking her head. “That’s all Lady Winterton told me.”
“So she didn’t—” Miss Cadogan stopped herself.
“Didn’t?” Ursula prompted.
“She didn’t tell you that he committed suicide?”
Ursula awoke in the middle of the night with a raging thirst. The room felt stuffy and yet still cold. The fire in the grate seemed to have sucked all the oxygen from the room but its heat dissipated so quickly that it failed to make its way across the room to where the bed was situated. Ursula huddled beneath the sheets until her thirst finally drove her from her bed. She shrugged on a cardigan over her nightgown, grabbed a shawl and pulled on a pair of woolen socks to keep herself warm as she ventured out. The hallway outside was positively glacial—a damp, icy darkness now seemed to consume the house.
With a shiver Ursula drew the shawl and cardigan in around her as she groped her way down the corridor, cursing herself for not having the foresight to ask for a flashlight or candle by which to guide her way. Her thirst however compelled her to find the kitchen. There was, of course, no staff to speak of—only Lady Winterton’s lady’s maid, Grace, and she was no doubt at the very top of the house asleep in the servant’s quarters. Lady Winterton’s room was on the other side of the landing but Ursula hardly liked to disturb her for something as trivial as a drink. Ursula’s eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness as she made her way down the staircase.
At the foot of the stairs Ursula found a gas lamp and a box of matches on the hall table. She lit the lamp and, holding it by its brass handle, made her way toward the back of the house where, she assumed, she would find the kitchen. She soon found it and, after a few desultory pumps at the old-fashioned sink, she managed to get the water to flow. Unable to find a glass she used a teacup instead, gulping three cupfuls down in quick succession. She then refilled the cup for a final time and started making her way back along the hallway. Past the kitchen and dining room, Ursula found a narrow room lined with bookshelves—the moonlight picking out the gold lettering on some of the spines nearest the window. The room was sparsely furnished but, as Ursula thrust the gas lamp inside, she immediately recognized the place as a library or study of some sort—most probably Lord Winterton’s given the heavy wooden shelving and dark masculine brown wallpaper.
“What are you doing?” Lady Winterton’s voice made her jump.
Ursula turned quickly to find Lady Winterton standing behind her with a small portable flashlight in hand.
“Just needed a drink of water,” Ursula explained, holding up her cup. “Sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I was afraid you may have taken ill,” Lady Winterton said. She stepped forward and touched Ursula on the forehead and cheek. “You do feel a little feverish.”
“Do I?” Ursula responded blankly.
“Yes, you should get back to bed as quickly as you can,” Lady Winterton advised. Her tone betrayed her concern. “I will call for a doctor in the morning—just in case.” Ursula had to admit she did feel a little clammy and disorientated and now fear gripped her like a vise. She squeezed her eyes closed for the anxiety of illness was so great—the threat to her unborn child so disquieting—that it made her head throb.
“Come with me,” Lady Winterton said firmly as she took Ursula’s arm and steered her back towards the staircase.
By morning Ursula had barely slept and Lady Winterton insisted she stay in bed while Grace went to fetch the local doctor. When the esteemed physician finally arrived he pronounced her fever to be little more than a ‘nervous reaction to the country’ which failed to inspire much in the way of confidence. Ursula finally fell asleep around eleven and when she awoke the house was silent and still. Even the clock on the bedside table had ceased its ticking. Ursula had no idea of the time but as she got out of bed and walked over to the window she could see the sun was now low in the sky and she guessed it was close to four. From this vantage point she could see across the fields to a small copse of trees. The low grey clouds had lifted and the sky had emerged blue and clear. Ursula felt her forehead with the back of her hand and hoped the fever had broken, for she no longer felt clammy or racked by thirst. Indeed she felt restless, longing to be free of the oppressiveness that this room—this house—seemed to produce.
Ursula quickly dressed and headed downstairs, her footsteps echoing along the empty corridors and near deserted rooms.
“Lady Winterton wasn’t expecting to see you up and about,” Grace’s voice called out from the hallway. Ursula spun round. “You startled me!” she exclaimed. “The house felt so quiet I thought I’d been abandoned.”
“Lady Winterton’s out visiting some of the tenants on the estate,” Grace explained. “Would you care to wait in the front parlor? I can get you some tea or a late luncheon if you would like.”
“Actually,” Ursula said, “I feel like trying to get some fresh air.”
Grace looked at her dubiously. “It’s alright,” Ursula reassured her. “I am feeling much better—I just need to stretch my legs a bit—especially as it looks as though it may have finally stopped raining.”
“Very good Miss,” Grace answered noncommittally. “I’ll be heading off to the village soon to pick up further provisions.”
“Tell me,” Ursula prodded gently. “How is Lady Winterton doing?—I’m worried it must be very hard for her being back here.”
“She’s always a little sad when we come back, Miss…I think the reminders are too much for her sometimes.”
“Yes,” Ursula murmured. “You were her maid when Lord Winterton died, were you not?”
“I was…”
“Had he been ill for a long time before it happened?” Ursula asked.
“He’d been bad for while…” Grace acknowledge. “But I think it was the court case that finally did it”—she pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket with a sniff—“Robbed him of all hope it did and then it was only a matter of months…”
Grace hesitated, as if she concerned she may have betrayed her mistress’ confidence.
“Please don’t feel embarrassed,” Ursula said hastily, although she dearly wanted to question Grace further. “I never liked to ask Lady Winterton—and I certainly didn’t mean to upset you—it’s just my curiosity.” Ursula gave an apologetic smile. “Forgive me.”
Grace nodded and blew her nose loudly. Ursula told Grace she would bundle up warmly and take a brief walk around the estate.
“When is Lady Winterton likely to be back?” Ursula inquired, as she bundled on her jacket and overcoat.
“She said not until supper—she was planning on dropping in on a few of the neighbors as well.”
“Thank you,” Ursula responded. “I’ll probably be back well before her, but if not, can you please tell her where I’ve gone and that I am feeling much better. I don’t want to worry her any more than I already have.”
Grace bobbed a curtsey and said, “Right you are, Miss.”
In her thick brown woolen coat, sensible boots and her hat pulled down warmly over her dark auburn hair, Ursula made her way out of the rear door of the house and set off across the thick green meadow that lay at the back. Tangled with brambles and weeds, it was hard to tell whether this had ever been a cultivated garden or if wild fields had always backed onto the estate. About half a mile through the thick grass, Ursula came upon the ruined remains of a small stone building. It looked as though it had once been a cottage. Inside there were rusting farm implements and what app
eared to be a pair of wrought iron gates propped up against the remains of one the walls. The gates caught Ursula’s eye for they had the remains of elaborate iron-scrollwork still visible. Ursula gingerly stepped through the doorway, careful not to step on the rusty pitchfork that lay on the ground submerged by weeds. Using her sleeve she pushed aside the cobwebs to read the scrollwork. Tir Tairngire.
Though Ursula had no idea what it meant, the name itself was not unfamiliar. She tried to recall where she had seen the name before but could bring nothing to mind. With one final glance at the broken gates, she retreated from the cottage. By now the enthusiasm and energy with which she began her walk had died and she began to feel tired.
She was still ruminating on the name—irritated that she could not remember where she had seen it before—when she returned to the house. The smoldering remains of a small bonfire greeted her near the back door.
“That was a short walk, Miss,” Grace called out. “I still haven’t had a chance to head off to the village.” She pointed to the fire. “Her ladyship wanted me to try and clear some of the old rubbish about the place. Hope the smoke won’t bother you.”
“Grace,” Ursula said. “Do you know what Tir Tairngire means?”
“But of course Miss, it’s this place isn’t it…”
“Ah, of course…” Ursula said softly to herself before she turned back to Grace and asked. “Do you know what it means?”
“The Land of Promise, Miss…It’s what Lord Winterton named this place after he took my mistress to be his bride. He had grand plans, he did—wanted this to be one of the finest estates in all of County Meath.”
But that was not how it turned out, Ursula thought, remembering where she had seen the words Tir Tairngire before. She gazed at the smoldering fire. The edge of a pamphlet was still visible and the scorch marks reminded her of dark green foliage; the white paper, the edge of a waterfall…A flame flared, and the red-orange flash was like the burst of sunlight through a forest canopy.
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