Another Kind of Life

by Catherine Dunne

  I think Hannah was happy on her wedding day. She certainly appeared to be. I felt close to her again and, selfishly, that was all I cared about. She’d had time for me and interest in all my doings over the past few months, even though every moment of hers was spoken for. It felt good to have her back. She and I never spoke of the day at the piano to anyone else – now that is a secret shared among three of us: you, me and Hannah. After I had cried myself out, and feigning reluctance, had opened my bedroom door to her, I allowed her to embrace me. She had cried then, too, and hugged me close, calling me ‘Mouse’, and promising that she would never hurt me again, that she was so ashamed of her bad temper, that I was the best sister in the world. Such a reconciliation more than made up for the distance that had opened up between us since she had been taken out of school.

  The afternoon of the piano stool seemed to break something in her. The following evening, she allowed Papa’s insistence to bring her out of her room once again, to join him and Mama in the drawing room. I felt very sad for her that day. She still looked pale and unhappy, her eyes red-rimmed and sore-looking. She smiled a watery little smile at me as she made her way downstairs, and I had the strangest sensation that something in her spirit had been dulled, some vital inner light had been quenched beyond repair.

  I did not know then what had passed among the three of them, closeted once more together in the drawing room. Whatever it was, Hannah ceased to rebel openly, although she still appeared to me to be restless, touchy, quick to anger. However she felt about Mama and Papa, she was quietly affectionate to me, which was all I wanted. I did wonder, though, why she never touched the piano, never sang, never tried to make herself happy again. She was no longer locked in her room, and she was, on the surface at least, obedient to Mama and Papa. I think that was all that was expected of her.

  But once we had been to Belfast to meet Charles, she seemed to be more contented, more animated. I know that I was surprised, and, in my own childish way, filled with contradictory emotions. I suppose, in my black and white view of the world, I was secretly disappointed. That she seemed happy again should have made me glad: but I was sorry that she hadn’t fought them all for longer. Ever since that day in the MacBrides’ house when she and Charles had spoken together privately in the garden, she had become much more sober and sensible. I missed our silly songs, and the plays the three of us used to perform together, starring as The Bright Brilliant Sisters of Belfast. We still called ourselves that, although of course we had had to alter the title some six years previously in order to suit our return to Dublin. Ever afterwards, it ceased to have the same magic to it.

  I remember promising myself that what had happened to Hannah would never happen to me. Her predicament had given me fair warning. I still had some years in which to prepare my escape. I would not be married off to anyone. I intended to choose my own life.

  In her own quiet way, May was equally determined. She wanted to travel, I’d always known that. Ever since we were children, she had wanted to go to Africa, to India, to the Americas. As we got older, she longed to do the Grand Tour of Europe, as some of the girls from school had done. Italy, Germany, Switzerland all fascinated her. But she knew there was no point in hoping, no point in wishing for anything so impossible. ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’ Mama reminded us of this on many occasions. There was no longer the prospect of money for even the most modest ‘grand tour’ – indeed, if there had ever been. But May was determined – she would see Europe, or die in the attempt. Above all else, she longed to see France. She had always been enchanted by picture books of castles, I remember, fascinated by a country which had kings and queens, style, history, romance. Dublin and Belfast made her feel suffocated. She said they were too small, too stifling. They ate away at the spirit, like rust on the soul. She needed somewhere where living was on a larger scale, where there was room to breathe.

  Hannah: Spring 1899

  ‘STAND STILL, HANNAH, for goodness’ sake! I’m almost finished.’

  Hannah held on tightly to the bedpost. Her mother stood behind her, pulling ever more firmly on the laces of her corset. Lily was standing by, holding a freshly ironed petticoat draped across her outstretched arms. She held it the way one would carry a sleeping child, and something in her pose struck Hannah as almost unbearably sad. She had no idea how old Lily was – perhaps early thirties, perhaps early forties; it was too hard to tell. Her face had been lined and ruddy ever since Hannah could remember, her hands coarse and callused. Even her hair seemed to have been grey for ever. The way she waited, patiently, smiling encouragement at Hannah made the younger woman feel suddenly embarrassed. She saw how she must look to Lily – a beautiful young girl, with an affluent husband-to-be, the prospect of ease and children, all the things which, by rights, Lily should have had, too. Instead, she, Lily, was standing in someone else’s house, serving in someone else’s bedroom, holding on to the empty promise of someone else’s frilled and sagging petticoat.

  ‘That’s enough, Mama – I can hardly breathe!’

  Sophia clucked and fussed around her eldest daughter. Lily slid the satin petticoat over Hannah’s head, smoothing its lacy edging.

  ‘Boots?’

  Hannah nodded, and quickly realized that the question was not meant for her. Sophia replied, her whole body intent on what she was doing.

  ‘Yes – and fetch me the button-hook, Lily, please. We should be ready for the gown shortly.’

  Hannah said nothing. This was how she had felt more and more over the past weeks – as if she were standing at the sidelines of her own life. Her mother had grown busier and busier, her father more and more remote. Hannah had felt as though she were a nuisance, an impediment to the advancing march of her mother’s preparations. She would leave little to Lily and Katie: she wanted to do it all herself. She was rarely absent from Hannah’s side, instructing her on how to stand, how to look, how to be. Hannah’s frustration grew until, one day, she could stand it no longer, and openly lost patience with her mother.

  ‘Mama! Please! Leave me alone!’

  On that occasion, Hannah had stormed up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door in temper, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. She had apologized, of course, hating and resenting every moment of her mother’s martyred air. She still didn’t know which was worse – Mama’s over-eagerness to get everything just right, or Papa’s air of complete detachment.

  Papa had barely spoken to Hannah once the engagement had been announced. It was as though he washed his hands of her; she was no longer his responsibility. Now he had other things to occupy him. But Mama had thrown herself into the wedding preparations with all the energy she could muster. It was as though someone had thrown her a lifeline: now she could be useful again, could arrange the perfect wedding, could see people’s admiring glances and feel perhaps a small return of the old glory.

  Hannah sat at her dressing table now while her mother pinned up her hair. She was vain enough to like what she saw. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks naturally coloured. Her wedding-gown would be much more modest, of course, but for now, the smooth petticoat over the boned corset exaggerated the curve of her breasts above her pinched waist. And Mama had always said she had lovely shoulders – smooth and white. She had been right to lace her so tightly, too – the restrictions of her corset made Hannah sit tall, made her appear much more elegant and self-assured than she felt. The older woman looked over her daughter’s shoulder now, and both faces were reflected together, warmed by the bright morning light. Her mother’s eyes were shining.

  ‘You look beautiful, my dear.’

  Hannah was surprised at the sudden wistfulness of her tone. She said nothing. Perhaps they would speak of it later. Lily brought the wedding-gown to them then, carefully draped in soft, white muslin. Sophia hooked all the buttons closed while Lily ran a critical eye over the set of the sleeves, the fall of the skirt, the perfect line of the intricately embroidered cuffs. At one stage she knelt, fixing some
invisible imperfection at the hemline. Her employer had just left the room.

  Lily looked up. She looked shy, awkward. She held something in her hand, raising her palm towards Hannah. It was a tiny silver brooch.

  ‘It belonged to my mother, Miss Hannah. You know, somethin’ old, somethin’ new, somethin’ borrowed, somethin’ blue – well, have this here as your somethin’ borrowed. I’ll pin it here, just on the hemline – no one’ll see it.’

  She averted her face quickly, but Hannah could see the burn of embarrassment flush its way up her neck to the hairline. Lily turned up the end of the heavy gown and pinned the little brooch neatly on the folded fabric of the hem. Hannah felt the tears spring to her eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Lily. I’ll be very careful of it.’

  ‘Sure I know you will, miss. And I wish you every happiness.’

  That was all she had time for. Sophia returned with some small bottles and jars.

  ‘A little powder,’ she said, ‘and a tiny smudge of rouge on your lips. Now. You’re ready.’

  I’m dressed, Hannah thought, but I don’t know if I can call myself ready. She felt suddenly assailed by the doubts and fears which had been crowding around her for the last several weeks. She was afraid that her first romantic, tender feelings towards Charles were beginning to wither. She had tried desperately to nurture them, but it was weeks now since she and he had met properly, and his letters recently had seemed dry, dutiful rather than affectionate. Hannah began to feel real fear. If he didn’t even try to care for her, then she had no chance. The only hope of survival she had was if they could learn to love one another. She hadn’t wanted to marry at all; but if she must, then at least let her marriage be something other than the harsh, arid place inhabited by her mother and father.

  Hannah gathered up her heavy skirts and followed her mother’s careful footsteps down the stairs. She moved with difficulty: her heart had begun to thump and it was impossible to draw long, clean breaths. May and Eleanor were waiting for her – everyone was waiting. She had wild, sudden notions of fleeing from her parents’ house, or hurling herself over the banisters to make good her escape.

  But she would do none of those things. She knew that. She would carry on as expected throughout the day; she would be charming and grateful, modest and gracious. And she would be married: there was no escaping that.

  Charles had left her alone in the hotel room. He had begged her permission to smoke a cigar before retiring, and had left quietly, almost discreetly. Hannah supposed she should be grateful for his delicacy, but the truth was, she felt too nervous to be left alone. The Shelbourne suite was luxurious, certainly, but none the more inviting for that. Now that the day was over, Hannah felt curiously stale and flat. She longed for another glass of champagne: she wanted to feel the fizz and bubble she had enjoyed after the church ceremony, once everybody was together again at the hotel. It was a delightful feeling, drinking champagne and being the centre of attention. She knew she had looked lovely: everyone told her so. Charles’s admiring glances throughout the afternoon had made her face colour more than once. She regretted that it had all passed her by so quickly.

  She unpinned her hair and let it fall heavily around her shoulders. Her head felt sore and tired: it had become an effort to stand so upright for so long. Sitting had been no relief either: she had eaten little, the pressure on her ribcage growing more intense as the wedding reception drew towards evening. At one stage she had felt faint, and Mama had had to rub her wrists together surreptitiously. A discreet whiff of sal volatile made her feel alert again, capable of seeing through the final few hours.

  Now she needed to escape from her clothing but she didn’t know where to start. There were hundreds of buttons, it seemed, all down the back of her dress. She began to feel sorry for having sent Lily away – what had she been thinking of? She couldn’t even begin to undress herself. Nor could she sit in any comfort: she felt as though her whole upper body was caught in a vice. She was powerless, stupid and powerless. She thought of May and Eleanor, of their still uncomplicated lives in the safe familiarity of their own bedrooms. She started to cry; she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stem the tears which welled and fell without her wanting them.

  ‘Let me help you, my dear.’

  Hannah hadn’t even heard Charles re-enter the room. She started, whirled around to face him, her cheeks streaked with tears.

  ‘Oh, no – you can’t – you mustn’t!’

  Hannah was horrified. Mama had told her urgently, more than once, how her husband would expect, would want, a shy and modest bride: she must be led by him, must not be forward in word or deed. If she were anything other than demure, then all could be lost.

  ‘Nonsense, my dear – I’m your husband.’

  She could smell the cigar-smoke on his moustache, and something else, something more pungent. Whiskey. She searched his face. She wanted to ask him, but struggled against her instinct, mindful of her mother’s advice. But then, Mama need never know, no one need ever know anything that passed between them now. If she didn’t ask, if she played her role as the shy and modest bride, then perhaps she would never really know him. She struggled to find the words. The silence between them had become almost painful.

  ‘Have you – you’re older – I mean . . .’

  He smiled at her.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I’ve done this before.’

  He stood back a little from her, not touching her. His expression was grave, but the ever-present humour seemed to hover just beneath the surface.

  ‘Do I shock you?’

  Hannah shook her head. Perhaps shock was part of the overwhelming feeling she was trying to grapple with, but much more potent was the sense of relief that flooded her, drowning out fear, apprehension and all the exhaustions of the day. She hadn’t wanted both of them to struggle on in silent, mutual incomprehension. Despite Mama’s earlier promise that married love could become ‘rather wonderful’, she had hinted darkly over the last few weeks about the unnamed physical difficulties, fears and embarrassments that beset many a wedding night. Hannah hadn’t wanted to listen, felt keenly her mother’s intrusion into part of her life which she now wanted to keep private. She was no longer a child: her parents had seen to that. She wanted to claim her adulthood, to move away from Mama’s incessant murmurings of what was right and proper, acceptable or shameful. And now here was Charles, expecting her to be shocked. She had the feeling that a great deal depended on her answer.

  ‘No!’ she blurted. ‘I’m not shocked – just glad one of us knows what to do!’

  The air in the room seemed to clear, and she had the sense of a bright, open space between them.

  He smiled then and pulled her to him gently.

  ‘Hannah, Hannah, Hannah – I care about you a good deal. Do you think you will learn to care for me?’

  He was still holding her, and it was easier that way, easier not to have to look at him. His voice was tender, a little mocking, but she knew he was serious.

  She nodded, her eyes filling with unaccountable tears.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I should like to.’

  He released her then, holding on to both her hands. His eyes were kindly.

  ‘Good. Then all the rest is easy. Let me help you with your dress, at least – then I’ll leave you if you wish. God’s truth, I don’t know how you can breathe in that contraption.’

  He was grinning at her now, his face reflected in the mirror in front of them. His expression was boyish again, just as it had been on that momentous, fiercely ordinary day in his mother’s garden.

  He began to unbutton her dress, swearing softly every now and again, making her laugh, letting her cover her embarrassment at being undressed by a man – even a man who, astonishingly, seemed to be her husband.

  ‘Bloody end to them – who dreams up buttons like these?’

  Finally, she was free. He loosened the last stay of her corset and turned her around to face him.

  ‘Now, my dear,
you may continue in my absence, or wait for my return if you wish. It’s up to you.’

  Hannah was immediately alarmed.

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  His voice dropped to a whisper, mock conspiratorial.

  ‘To acquire us a bottle of champagne. I believe we’ve both just had a fairly trying day. You must promise never, never, to tell anyone – my reputation as a gentleman would be ruined.’

  He gazed at her sternly.

  ‘Go on, then. Promise.’

  His expression made her giggle.

  ‘I promise. But where will you go?’

  ‘A lady must never ask.’

  He leaned towards her and his lips brushed the top of her shoulder. And then he was gone. Whether it was the relief of being able to breathe again, or the sensation of a sudden and affectionate ease between them, Hannah couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she felt absurdly light and free. Perhaps the beginnings of the tenderness she had felt towards him were not such delicate plants, after all. She would not scurry into her nightgown, waiting for him passively under cover of darkness. Her shoulder tingled where he had kissed her. She would wait, she would be daring and allow her husband to finish undressing her. His kindness, his humour had made her feel warm and expansive – she wanted to be light-hearted, to laugh with him, to wash away the strain of Mama, of Papa, of the last few weeks. She would trust him.

  May: Summer 1899

  IT DIDN’T TAKE the children long to get used to her. They had been shy that first morning, not looking at her directly, keeping their eyes on their books. She’d liked the way they said her name: ‘Mamzelle May’ sounded much more exotic than she felt.

  The previous night had been almost sleepless: she’d been too tired and strained after the long journey, her head full of restless dreams. When May had first learned of the country home where she would spend her first four months in France, her imagination had supplied a house something like the one to which Grandfather Delaney had taken them all, years ago – near Rosses Point in Sligo. She remembered an early Victorian two-storey house, with four bedrooms, draughty windows and a vast range in the kitchen, beside which all the neighbourhood cats made themselves welcome. Although it was summer, they’d kept the range lit all through the grey, rain-filled fortnight: the tiles on the kitchen floor were the only warm place in the whole, chilly house.