It took a while to find out. Initially Mark was too busy building a pavilion for his African collection to have much time for Belfast society. But he received callers in a proper manner and accepted invitations to various functions, so that by the end of a year most people had formed an opinion of him. Socially he was at the pinnacle, Ulster's most eligible bachelor, possessing an arrogant charm and enough dry wit to give a good account of himself at a dinner table. He was tall, wore his clothes well - and of course he was rich. But, Mark was amused to note, he was thought of as a political lightweight and a non-event in business. Both judgements were oversimplifications. Mark was a Unionist. His political views reflected those expressed by Lord Bowley, with one significant difference, Lord Bowley in Mark's opinion had run away - Mark never would. Ulster was British and would remain so. No bloody Fenian would ever sit in Brackenburn. Averdales and Ulster belonged to each other and God help the man who tried to separate them. Mark's views were so obvious to himself that he rarely bothered to express them.
Similarly with business. Mark knew others had gained ground, but he had no intention of devoting his life to commerce. Business was a means to an end, and the end was to generate wealth - it was the deployment of that wealth which fascinated Mark. He planned to spend a lot of money, so of course business was important, but what was needed, Mark decided, was a first-class general manager with Mark breathing down his neck. That would keep the Averdale investments up to scratch and leave Mark free to devote himself to the more important things of life. And he had long since decided upon those.
He was a collector. It had started with Napoleon, that tiny toy figure from the nursery, then it had been stamps, not until he was thrown out of Eton did it become works of art. It was then he had discovered Rouen's Women Bathing in the gallery at Brackenburn. Of course it had been there for years, Mark had played in the gallery as a child but had never looked at the canvases properly. Colours and shapes had registered but few of the subjects. Then he had arrived back from Eton in disgrace and everything changed. For the first time he sensed the great house was his. Old Joshua was five years buried by then, and Mark's mother no more than a memory - he was the new master and the house seemed to know it. He inspected rooms he had never set foot in, he visited the kitchen block, saw the bakehouse and the dairy - he found two bedrooms above the chapel which had never been used. He counted the books in the library. He moved his things into the main bedroom, bathed for the first time in the great marble tub which stood resplendent in his dressing room. In short he made himself at home and the house seemed to respond. Every day it revealed a new or forgotten treasure, and eventually it led him to the gallery.
Rouen's masterpiece was fifty years old then. When first unveiled in Paris it had provoked an outburst of indignation not known since Gautier's Mademoiselle de Maupin. What caused the uproar was not so much the subject matter, four female nude figures grouped around a tiled pool, but the manner of the painting's execution. There was no doubt that Rouen was a master of the female form, that was as certain as his love of women, for he was a notorious letch. Paris was not shocked by that. Nor that Rouen's nudes were so voluptuous that few men could look at them dispassionately. Rouen's nudes were not paint on canvas - they came alive in the most glorious detail. Every curve evoked a response, every buttock invited the clasp of both hands, a man's palm would itch to feel the weight of a breast, milky white thighs demanded to be parted. When he looked at a Rouen nude a man could feel the texture of her skin, taste her nipple in his mouth, smell her hair and all but possess her. But that too Paris had come to expect by 1887 and every one of the figures in Women Bathing did credit to the artist's reputation. All were breathtakingly desirable - but this time there was a difference. It began with the way they were looking at each other. The figure on the left reclined at the side of the pool, one foot idly dipping into the water as she gazed at a companion. It was that look, that seductive glance delivered from beneath lowered eyelashes, a faint flush on her cheeks, her lips slightly parted. An invitation. No man could mistake it. The body language of every other figure took on new meaning. The knowing half-smile of the reclining figure, the way her raised thigh mockingly concealed her womanhood - and the response it aroused in the other girl, one arm outstretched, nipples erect, eyes alive with anticipation. And the two other figures were gazing at each other with unmistakable longing. Rouen had portrayed four lesbians! And this a decade before Oscar Wilde described Huysman's A Rebours as a parade of the sins of the world and almost two decades before Beardsley illustrated Salome. The Paris of 1887 was shocked. "Here indeed," in the words of Verlaine, "decadence shimmered in purple and gold."
The painting had a startling effect on the sixteen-year-old Mark Averdale. The girl at the poolside mesmerised him. No woman had ever looked at him like that but he had no doubt about her meaning. And her eyes seemed to look directly back at him, to send an electric shock up his spine. He drank in every inch of her, from her flame red hair to the polished pink toenails. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was perfect, flawless, unique. He grew giddy when he imagined his hands on her body, his lips on hers - and he grew giddier still when he imagined pushing that coyly placed thigh aside. To possess her! To have her as his own! A man would be a king to own such a beauty.
Rouen's painting was moved to the master bedroom and few nights passed without Mark playing with himself as he stared at the girl with the red hair. He christened her Kate for no reason he could think of - and night after night Kate's name was on his lips as his seed spurted into his hand.
Then came his first sexual experiences, taken in a dozen brothels across Africa. Some of the girls were white, others were brown, some were freshly pretty and others so experienced that they coaxed unforgettable sensations from his body - but none were as beautiful as Kate. It was always her name he called at the moment of climax, and when he opened his eyes he was forever disappointed not to find Kate beneath him. Even later, when he returned to Brackenburn at the age of twenty-one, Kate's beauty remained untarnished. Reading and experience had taught him the true meaning of Rouen's painting, but he rejected it as a cruel joke played by the artist on his model. It was impossible to believe that a girl so beautiful could be a lesbian.
By then Mark had become a dedicated collector. More than wild game trophies had been acquired in Africa - endless bazaars had been raided for the ivories and wood-carvings which emptied from the crates into Brackenburn. The erotica disappeared into Mark's bedroom, but the bulk of the collection was housed in the new pavilion which Mark had built over the bakehouse.
Mark saw his place in history. The name Averdale would become synonymous with art. He would create a great collection, arrange exhibitions - loan paintings to the Tate in London, the Louvre in Paris and the Met in New York. The Averdale name would become internationally famous. But some paintings would be kept for himself. Some works would be his alone. He would not share Kate's beauty with anyone.
By 1932 Mark's African Pavilion was completed. He had settled as far into Belfast society as he wanted to go - and by 1933 his income had taken him to sale rooms all over Europe. Brackenburn was turned into a treasure house. Not a room lacked something exceptional - a Poussin, a Caravaggio, a Palmer, a sketch by Braque, a Chippendale secretaire, a bronze by Greuze - the list was as endless as the effect was pleasing, for without doubt Mark had a very good eye. And just as his possessions multiplied around the house so too did the collection of private art in his bedroom. Erotica abounded - but Mark never found anything more sensual than Rouen's painting. Nothing aroused him as did that figure reclining by the pool. Kate was perfect, flawless, unique.
But Mark sought other things during those years, not hurriedly for a collector never hurries when choosing anything, but he planned to have them by his twenty-fifth birthday when sole control of the Averdale fortune would be his. The first was a wife and the second was a general manager. Brackenburn needed a mistress to supervise the staff. Running the grea
t house took more time than Mark could spare - and a wife was needed to produce Averdale sons. The need for a general manager was equally obvious. Mark was spending to the hilt. His investments would need to yield every penny if his plans for the Averdale Foundation were to mature - and a general manager would help find the money.
So in 1935 - during precisely the week that Matt Riordan arrived in Belfast and Sean Connors set out across Ireland with his father - Mark Averdale married Dorothy Manners, eldest daughter of Sir Walter Manners, the local Unionist MP. Manners too was a rich man, not in the Averdale class but he farmed a useful acreage. His daughter had been raised partly in Ireland and partly in England, as is the way with the Anglo-Irish. Ireland had taught her to ride and England had taught her to read.
She was neither plain nor pretty. In a good light and dressed in clothes which suited her she could look attractive, but at other times her prominent teeth lent a distinctly horsey cast to her face. But she had good skin and rich brown hair, and a reasonable figure which looked best in the jodhpurs she wore for at least part of each day. Dorothy was an expert horsewoman, quite knowledgeable enough to advise her father when he took her racing. She was too practical to be really feminine and tended to be impatient with her younger sisters who giggled about the young men who took them dancing. Truthfully Dorothy was surprised by Lord Averdale's attentions - surprised, flattered and impressed - especially when she was shown over Brackenburn. After that she worked at it reading huge tomes on art and antiques - so that before the courtship was over she could talk quite knowledgeably about Brackenburn's treasures. She would never be an expert but then she never sought to be, feeling much safer by prefacing her opinions with, "Mark is the real connoisseur, of course, but I do rather like this ..."
The wedding night was adequate. Dorothy tried hard. By the time Mark came to her room she had doused herself with so much cologne that she reeked like a scent factory. Then she removed her nightdress and submitted to his fondling with such enthusiasm that she fondled him back - causing him to come in her hand, which created a delay of half an hour until he recovered. And when she did get him inside her, at the second attempt, his stiffness seemed to subside at every second. Eventually she mounted him and rode as hard as she would her bay gelding. He enjoyed that. His knees lifted, his hands clasped her buttocks, and with her heavy breasts bouncing madly in his face he urged her on with such cries of encouragement that she might have been leading the field in a point-to-point. Even his climax reminded her of a horse race, with Mark crying, "Whoa ... oh God ... whoa!" She went to sleep with the satisfied feeling of having done her job well.
When she awoke in the morning he had returned to his room. She was surprised but not dismayed, in fact she was rather pleased. She rang for tea and read the Telegraph, then bathed and dressed and went down to join him. He kissed her cheek and after breakfast they spent a pleasant day exploring Brackenburn. Of course Mark knew its history by heart, but it was still new enough for Dorothy to want to learn more. And so began the pattern of their days together.
Mark visited her room seven times in the first month. She blessed the man who had taught her to ride, "Squeeze with the knees," he had told her, "that's how to make him respond." How right, she thought. But she was not unhappy. If the sex act failed to excite at least it did not nauseate. She could take it or leave it and began to suspect it would be left more often than taken in the years ahead. Meanwhile she was mistress of Brackenburn which meant a great deal to her. The great house needed an exceptional hostess and Dorothy felt quite up to the challenge. Belfast society held no fears for her. She planned to hold court, but was shrewd enough to move slowly - changes should appear to be of his making, not hers. So to begin with she contented herself with mastering the running of Brackenburn, a considerable task in itself since there were 22 indoor and nine outside staff to be organised. But Dorothy coped so well that by 1936, within a year of her wedding day, Brackenburn functioned more smoothly than at any time in its history.
Mark was pleased too - Dorothy's presence at Brackenburn had transformed his existence. The grounds looked perfect whatever the season, and the house itself was immaculate. Of course there was the matter of sex, but then Mark had never looked on Dorothy as a sex object. That was not her function. It would be unfair to expect her to rouse him to the same fever pitch as an African whore, or to provide the excitement of Molly Oakes, his mistress in London. Molly was superb. But even so, despite such discreetly taken pleasures, Mark's sexual desires were only partially satisfied. The truth was he was seeking perfection, chasing a dream - a dream of a willowy, milk-skinned woman with flame red hair. He was looking for Kate. No matter that his bedroom was now crammed with erotica, it was always Rouen's painting which drew his eye - and not a week passed without him spending one night masturbating while gazing upon Kate's artful expression. It was the way she looked back, that knowing look which inflamed him. He talked to her, using every foul gutter word he could put his tongue to, but still she smiled as her eyes seduced him. She was perfect, flawless, unique.
Dorothy never set foot in Mark's rooms. Once, during her first month at Brackenburn she had gone thinking to inspect the work of the housemaids, but the rooms had been locked. The housekeeper explained that maids were not allowed in the master's rooms for fear of damaging his treasures. Dorothy thought that absurd. The maids cleaned everywhere else, besides how were the rooms kept clean? Apparently Jenkins, the master's valet, did everything necessary. Dorothy raised the matter with Mark ... but Mark grew quite angry.
Apart from that incident, they were superficially happy. Certainly they never quarrelled, Dorothy made sure there was nothing to quarrel about. The house was organised to perfection. Mark's treasures were cared for - household accounts were maintained with an auditor's vigilance, and twice a month Dorothy rode Mark in bed with the vibrant energy she displayed on Pegasus, her hunter.
But Mark still lacked a general manager. His guardians liked the idea, seeing only wisdom in placing an experienced businessman at Mark's elbow. They put forward various candidates but Mark turned them all down, sensing that none possessed the ruthlessness which would be necessary to screw every ha'penny out of the Averdale investments. Nineteen-thirty-six and '37 were busy years. Mark tried to split himself in two, supervising his investments while adding to his art collection. It was impossible. He found himself at board meetings when he wanted to be at Christie's in London - or in a Paris sale room instead of dealing with business in Ulster. He grew more desperate with every passing month - and then he found Eoin O'Brien.
They were such opposites that it was difficult to imagine them having anything in common. Mark was tall, fair-haired and long-chinned; O'Brien was short, dark and granite-jawed. At twenty-seven Mark affected an air of assured calm. At forty-five O'Brien attacked life with both hands. Yet physical differences cloaked similarities. Both were Ulster Protestants, with all the stubbornness of the breed, both were greedy for possessions, and both could be ruthless in getting them. And they were to share something even more important than that.
O'Brien owned a small engineering company, tiny by Averdale standards, employing only a hundred men, but it provided O'Brien with an excellent livelihood - enough for him to own a smart house in Belfast's most exclusive suburb. There he lived with his wife and two children, a prosperous upright pillar of the community. He read the lesson in church, presided over his Orange Lodge, and was a local committee man of the Unionist Party. Eoin O'Brien was considered a coming man, perhaps with a future in politics. But his ambitions were much more basic than that. O'Brien wanted a fortune, perhaps as large as Averdale's, and he had promised himself to have it before he died. Already his company supplied Averdale Engineering with components, and although he hardly mixed in the same circles he had met Averdale a number of times. His next step was an invitation to Brackenburn: get that he told himself, and he would be on his way. And in 1938 O'Brien received such an invitation but for reasons he never knew, nor would have suspec
ted in a thousand years.
It had begun in Liverpool. Mark was on his way home from London where he had purchased an exquisite Moreau for eight hundred guineas. The auction had been so competitive that he had almost lost it, but he had clung on, determined to have the Moreau, and he had - but at twice the price he had expected to pay.
He had stayed in London overnight, at the house in St John's Wood, where Molly Oakes was so sympathetic about the price he had paid to indulge one passion that he quite overlooked what it cost to satisfy another. Then he caught the morning train to Liverpool, where he took a cab from Lime Street to the Adelphi Hotel, intending to lunch before boarding the mid-afternoon ferry to Belfast. After a drink in the Steve Donaghue Bar, he adjourned to the dining room for a solitary meal - and it was there that he got the shock of his life. He was just about to order when he glanced towards the door, for no other reason than the man at the next table had turned and Mark had followed his gaze. He gasped aloud. The menu fell from his hands. His heart stopped. Colour drained from his face. A woman was standing just inside the door, her head turned towards the lobby as if waiting for someone. Even from fifteen yards away there was no mistaking that flame red hair or the alabaster whiteness of her skin. It was Kate! The girl in Rouen's painting.
"Is anything the matter, sir?" asked the waiter at Mark's elbow.
Mark sat rigid. He had worshipped too long at the altar of Rouen's genius to be mistaken. It was Kate. Her height, her slim grace, the angle of her head, the long eyelashes. Suddenly she turned and looked directly at him. Green eyes met his. Deep emerald-green eyes, just like in the painting. She blushed. Colour suffused her cheeks until they bloomed like a peach - exactly the shade Rouen had captured.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 101