Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  “Be quiet,” I said.

  “But I don’t understand.”

  I had to leave the room. I couldn’t listen to her nagging any more. I went downstairs and got drunk and fell asleep at the dining-room table, and when I awoke I went outside into the tangled garden to watch the sun rise.

  I think it was then that I decided to become a gardener. I sat on a mildewed bench on one side of a weed-strewn patch of undergrowth and saw smooth green lawns, blazing flower beds and a series of winding walks through the woods amidst the rhododendrons and azaleas. I could build little terraces and design arbors. There could be a fountain, perhaps a pond with water lilies and a statue or two, pure white marble in the shadow of cypress trees—an Italian garden. It would remind me of Florence and happier times. I didn’t know anything about gardening on such a large scale, but I was sure I could learn. It would be more fun than woodcarving too, because whenever I carved wood I knew anything I produced would be so very far from the perfection of Grinling Gibbons. But a garden … I would no longer have to worry about how to pass the time at Cashelmara. I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. I would need only to think about flowers and trees and shrubs, about earth and stone, light and water. And I would make a wonderful garden at Cashelmara, a garden so beautiful that people who came after me would say, “This garden was created by Patrick de Salis” and my name would be synonymous with beauty and art and peace, and that would be my immortality. It wouldn’t matter if I never had a son; it wouldn’t matter if I failed at everything else I undertook. I would make a great garden at Cashelmara and create a work of art out of a wilderness.

  I spent much time thinking about my plans, and after I had walked a dozen times around the walled acres attached to the house I withdrew to the library to sketch my ideas on paper. It was then that I discovered the gardening books. I had never noticed them before, but I had always assumed that none of the books in the library could possibly interest me. The gardening books were in the small alcove at one side of the fireplace, and when I examined them I found my grandfather’s name, Henry de Salis, written neatly on every fly leaf.

  I became passionately interested in my grandfather. I searched the attics, and when I found a portrait of him I took it downstairs to the library. I had long meant to remove my mother’s picture from its position over the chimney piece, and now I was able to replace it with the portrait of the stranger I had never known. He was a plain man with mild blue eyes and an innocent expression. The portrait was indifferently painted, but it meant more to me than that elegantly executed portrait of my mother with her overpowering beauty and grace.

  Sarah couldn’t understand it, but then Sarah couldn’t understand anything I did nowadays. We had muddled along together hopelessly for a week or two after Marguerite had left, and then, thank God, a diversion had arisen when Katherine asked if she might visit us.

  Of course we both begged her to come (Katherine, of all people!) because anyone’s company was preferable to being alone with each other at Cashelmara, so Katherine journeyed from Duneden Castle to spend September with us. Duneden didn’t come, but that was no surprise since I knew he despised me, and besides I knew Katherine was only at Cashelmara because it would have been socially incorrect not to have acknowledged the presence of her brother and sister-in-law less than eighty miles from her country home.

  When Katherine left I did try to make love to Sarah again, but it was no use, even though I was primed with just the right amount of poteen. It began to rain endlessly at Cashelmara, hour after hour, day after day, and there was nothing I could do in my garden. I browsed among my grandfather’s books and dreamed of what I would do when spring came, but all the time I was aware that first I must endure Christmas, a Christmas alone with Sarah, for Marguerite had long since promised to spend that Christmas with Katherine, and although I too hoped for an invitation no word reached us from Duneden Castle.

  Alfred Smith had departed for Epsom; Madeleine was already planning a Christmas dinner for all the shiftless peasants who were willing to pretend to be starving in order to get a free meal. We were alone.

  On the fifteenth of December I rose at dawn, dressed and padded downstairs to the library.

  “Please come,” I wrote to Derry. “Cousin George and Duneden can go to the devil for all I care, for I’m so down I don’t even mind about Woodhammer any more. It’s pretty dull here as you can imagine, and I would so like to have a merry Christmas. I do hope Clara is recovered from her ill health. Sarah is quite well. We look forward to seeing you both. Please, please come. Yours, P.”

  It was a poor letter, but there was nothing else I felt capable of saying. Anyway I sealed it, saddled a horse and rode off with the letter to the inn at Leenane, where the mail car was due to call later in the day. The sun came up as I rode past the tip of the lough and crossed the stone bridge over the Fooey River. As my horse toiled uphill to the top of the pass, I looked back over my shoulder and saw the mountains were black against a pale pink sky.

  I was within a mile of the road that ran from Galway to Leenane when I saw someone riding toward me.

  I knew at once who it was. How I knew I’ve no idea, for it was barely light and he was no more than a black-coated figure on horseback, but I knew. He knew who I was too, for we both spurred our horses to the gallop at one and the same moment. The mud flew from the hoofs, the wind sang in my ears, and then the next moment we were laughing, reaching out to grasp each other’s hands, and Derry was drawling in that cool voice which was so painfully familiar to me: “Ain’t life grand?”

  Chapter Five

  I

  “IT WAS DAMNABLY DULL in London after you left, Patrick,” said Derry after we had recovered from the splendid shock of seeing each other so unexpectedly. “Besides, I drew the ace of spades so often at cards I was sure I’d sicken and die if I stayed in England.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he expected to see death smirking at him, and when I laughed he protested, “But it’s a deadly business being an Irishman in London. You English are such a stiff-necked crowd!”

  “I hadn’t noticed anyone being stiff-necked toward you.”

  “Well, to be sure everyone was friendly to me when you were there, but once you were gone the prejudice against me was disgraceful. Watermill and Huntingford wouldn’t accept my IOUs, and that bastard Danziger as good as asked me to quit the Albatross. He said there’d been a complaint I cheated at cards—cheated, by God! It’s a pity there were no witnesses to our conversation or I’d have sued the shirt off his back for slander.”

  “But who—’’

  “Oh, how should I know who lodged the complaint? It was Steele, I dare say. He owed me a couple of hundred and didn’t want to pay up when I needed his cash to settle my debts. But what does it matter who ran rusty on me? The lie was soon passed around that I’d been booted from the Albatross for cheating at cards, and soon no one in politics would touch me with a ten-foot greased pole. So much for my ambitions! That was what the ace of spades meant, I’ve no doubt—my death as a rising politician!”

  “But that’s monstrously unfair!”

  “So it may be, but I don’t care any more. I thought I’d go back to the bar and settle in Dublin. I’ve left Clara at St. James’s Square with Marguerite. I thought I’d cross over first to find somewhere to live before I brought her to Ireland. But once I set foot in Dublin it seemed a shame not to take the train to Galway, and when I reached Galway … well, I took an outside car as far as Oughterard and then the horse went lame and we were all stranded, but I managed to hire this horrible nag, who can barely put one hoof in front of the other—”

  “You mean you’ve ridden all night from Oughterard?”

  “It was either that or bed down in some flea-ridden hovel!”

  “You poor old fellow, you must be exhausted! Let’s get home as quickly as possible.”

  “Well, I’ll not make things awkward for you. I haven’t forgotten how you’re placed with that rogue at Duneden Castle, but
I can’t see the harm in such a short visit. What’s your news? How’s Sarah?”

  I shouldn’t have told him but I did. I told him the whole story, only omitting that Sarah had twice reduced me to impotence, and afterward when he said lightly, “Holy Mother of God, women are the very devil, aren’t they?” I found my loneliness less oppressive. “What we men have to put up with!” said Derry, his black eyes sparkling with impudence, and I laughed, for life looked good to me again and even my worst troubles seemed trivial now that I had Derry once more by my side.

  II

  As soon as Sarah saw Derry she went straight upstairs to her room and wrote to Cousin George. She didn’t have to wait long for a response. That same afternoon George thundered over from Letterturk, stormed into the library where Derry was drinking soda and brandy with me and announced that I had broken my word, b’God, and I’d be sorry, wait and see. The whole scene was so ludicrous that Derry couldn’t resist caricaturing George in his presence, and George became so enraged that I honestly thought he was going to have an apoplectic fit.

  “I leave tomorrow for Duneden Castle!” were his parting words as he hurled himself from the room.

  “Hell hath no fury like a squireen scorned, b’God!” barked Derry after him, and George, who hated to be called a squireen, was so incensed that he had to step back into the room to say that Derry was without doubt damned to hell for all eternity.

  “I’ll make it comfortable for you when you arrive,” said Derry, having the last word as usual. “Au revoir.” And we both burst into gales of laughter even before he had left the room. I suppose we were a little unkind to George, but I did so resent his heavy-handed efforts to dictate to me.

  “Jesus,” said Derry, wiping his eyes, “now the cat’s properly among the pigeons and no mistake. I’m sorry, I should have held my tongue.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m sick to death of Cousin George.”

  “How important is his money to you at present? I mean, what exactly is your financial situation?”

  I wasn’t sure myself, but I did my best to explain. “He and Duneden paid the debts I incurred last summer,” I said, “and they’ve promised to pay the interest on the Woodhammer Hall mortgages each year so long as I live quietly at Cashelmara and have no communication with you. If we all keep this up for three years I will have saved enough money to pay off the second mortgage and my income will be in a healthier state again. I might even be able to afford to live at Woodhammer and go up to town occasionally. But meanwhile all the Cashelmara monies go directly to George and Duneden, who pay me a monthly allowance.”

  “What do they do with the surplus? Do they invest it?”

  “I’ve no idea. I suppose so.”

  “Do you receive the interest on the investment?”

  “I shouldn’t think so, since they’re paying the interest on the mortgages. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

  “Patrick, I swear no man was ever half as trusting as you are! Does Fielding still work for you? Perhaps he’d know more about the situation.”

  “No, Fielding was dismissed as an economy. All the bills go to Duneden, and I suppose his secretary sees the tradesmen are paid.”

  “But Jesus, Patrick, you’ve put yourself entirely in the hands of your worst enemies, and they could be swindling you out of hundreds a year!”

  “Well, it was either that or lose Woodhammer,” I said glumly, “and even though they’re my worst enemies they are at least English gentlemen.”

  “English gentlemen!” scoffed Derry. “English gentlemen swindled me out of a political career and a fine life in London! I’ll tell you, Patrick, I’d rather meet six members of the Molly Maguires armed to the teeth than a brace of English gentlemen armed with a power of attorney! How much is the annual interest on the Woodhammer mortgages? I’d be willing to wager that with a little careful rearrangement and some shrewd investment you could safely pay the interest, wipe out the second mortgage and still save money—and all without a whisper of help from Duneden and Cousin George!”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I’m not much good with money.”

  “But I am,” said Derry. “I’ve learned the hard way how to count my pennies. Oh, I know I made a mistake about that damned railway, but even the sharpest fellows make mistakes now and then. I’ll help you, Patrick. Don’t turn a hair if those two English gentlemen make a fuss. Clara and I can come and live here at Cashelmara, and I’ll make you a rich man again if it’s the very last thing I ever do.”

  III

  Duneden and George tore up the deed which gave them their power of attorney and declared the trust set up to “save me from myself” was irrevocably destroyed.

  “We’ve done all we can for you,” said Duneden. “We can do no more.”

  Thank God, I thought. I wanted to say it aloud, but somehow I had no chance before he and George walked out. I watched them go with enormous relief, and afterward Derry shared a bottle of champagne with me to celebrate the return of my independence.

  The next problem was Sarah.

  “I refuse to live beneath the same roof as Derry,” she said stonily. “Either he goes or I go.”

  I tried to imagine whose side Marguerite would take and had an uncomfortable feeling it might be Sarah’s. Besides, I didn’t want to lose Sarah, particularly now that I was in charge of my own affairs again and feeling more of a man. Despite her threats I doubted that she would leave me for good, since her pride was too great to tolerate the disgrace attached to a deserting wife, but I did fear she might go to London for a prolonged stay with Marguerite. I disliked the thought of being a husband who couldn’t keep his wife at his side when he wanted her, and I disliked even more the possibility that my friendship with Marguerite might suffer in consequence. Accordingly I was anxious to soothe Sarah, but I had no idea how I was going to begin. I really did need Derry’s help in organizing my financial affairs, and the last thing I wanted to do was to kick him out of the house.

  “But why should there be any difficulty?” said Derry, unruffled as ever. “Clara wants a home of her own just as much as Sarah does. Why don’t we live at Clonagh Court now that Alfred Smith’s gone back to England? It’s three miles away at the other end of the lough, and Sarah needn’t see either of us if she doesn’t want to. On the other hand it’s near enough for you to visit us as often as you like.”

  That did seem to be an ideal solution. Sarah could no longer protest that she was forced to endure Derry’s company, and when I was careful to spend every evening with her she could no longer complain of being neglected. I still didn’t sleep with her—I hadn’t quite enough courage yet to try that again—but I felt I was taking steps in the right direction and might resume our relationship in the bedroom when a suitable opportunity presented itself.

  Meanwhile I had other problems to overcome. Derry had organized my money very neatly, using my surplus income to cover the interest on the Woodhammer mortgages. He had been careful not to offend MacGowan by interfering with estate matters, and since the rents had recently been overhauled there was little he could have done in the way of reform. The four of us, Derry and Clara, Sarah and I, lived modestly but comfortably in our respective homes, so really I had no complaint to make except that I couldn’t see how I was ever going to pay off either one of those mortgages. But Derry soon invented a scheme.

  “There’s money to be made in forestry,” he said and told me a long story about an Irish peer who had made a fortune out of planting a few trees on his estate. “I think it would be worthwhile consulting a forestry expert,” he suggested. “He could tell us which part of the estate would be suitable for a plantation, and it wouldn’t commit us to any expenditure. If we decided not to go ahead all we’d lose is the man’s fee.”

  That sounded reasonable to me, so I wrote to the Royal Agricultural College in Dublin and presently they recommended to me a Mr. MacDonald, who had pioneered experiments in forestry in the Scottish Highlands.


  It was plain to see that he was appalled by the treeless wastes of the Cashelmara estate, but he did think an area was suitable for a small plantation. Halfway down the lough the road to Clonareen curves inland to follow the spur of Leynabricka, and the land which slopes upward at this point does possess a layer of topsoil above the usual bare rock. Since the soil was too poor and the slope too steep for all but the most primitive farming, I hardly thought it would be much loss to clear the land of the few potato patches that had been optimistically planted there and tell the peasants to go somewhere else. Derry said there was still plenty of abandoned land where they could resettle themselves if they made the effort, and the rest of their tribe in the valley would see they didn’t starve.

  “In fact you’d be doing them a favor by evicting them,” said Derry, “for that land wouldn’t support a tinker’s goat if it could help it, and there’s some far better land on the south side of the lough which they could farm in conacre.”

  So I decided to proceed with the scheme. I was rather taken with it by this time, for Mr. MacDonald had spoken lyrically of his Scottish successes, and it did seem a jolly idea to make money by planting trees.

  My only worry was that I had no idea where I was going to find the money to make the initial investment. The seedlings had to be bought, planted and nurtured, and after all the bills were paid I didn’t have a penny to my name.

  “Perhaps I could sell some heirlooms,” I said to Derry, although I hated the thought of parting with the beautiful Georgian silver and even doubted that I was legally entitled to do so. I wished I could have pawned all Sarah’s useless jewelry, but that was out of the question. I had to tread so carefully with Sarah.

  “Don’t sell anything,” said Derry, producing the perfect solution with his usual ease. “Why bother? You’ve got a rich father-in-law ailing on the other side of the Atlantic. Write and remind him that he can’t take his money with him when he departs for the next world.”