“No, no, no!” I screamed again and woke on the verge of hysteria. I scrabbled for a match to light the candle, and all the time I was shouting for Patrick. At last he emerged from the adjoining room, and as the match flared in the darkness I could see he was tousle-haired, yawning and bewildered.
“My dear Sarah, what on earth’s the matter?” he demanded, but when I sobbed that I had had a fearful nightmare he said “There, there!” very kindly and took me in his arms. “What was it about?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember.” My body was still trembling. “Patrick …”
“Hm?” he said, stifling another yawn.
“I must have another baby. Please.”
“Why not? It’d be awfully jolly. I don’t know why you have to sound as if I’d strictly forbidden it. After all, it wasn’t me, you know, who begged for a separate bedroom a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, I know. I was at fault, but—”
“Yes, you were. Well, never mind. We’ll try again if you like. We’ll go back to our Fridays.”
“But, Patrick …”
“Now what’s the matter?”
“I thought … well, must we wait till Friday? Can’t we … isn’t it possible to—to begin tonight?”
“For God’s sake, at this hour? With you on the verge of hysterics and me half asleep?”
I saw at once I was being unreasonable, but tears still pricked humiliatingly behind my eyelids. “I’m sorry,” I said. I tried to speak levelly and made a great effort to compose myself. “I simply didn’t think. Forgive me.”
“Of course.” He kissed me with great tenderness. “I’ll stay with you for the rest of the night,” he said, slipping into bed beside me. “Then you won’t be too frightened to blow out the light. Nightmares are beastly things, ain’t they?”
He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, but I lay awake for the rest of the night, and when dawn came I was still remembering how Maxwell Drummond had looked around the room for me when he had opened the door of Father Donal’s cabin in Clonareen.
IV
I thought of Drummond for months afterward, all those long dreary months when I never became pregnant, the first nine months of 1876. I saw him twice during that time, once in May when I glimpsed him in the distance heading for Letterturk and once later that summer when I glanced out of the window of the dispensary and saw him pass by in his donkey cart. I allowed myself to invent elaborate fantasies. At first I merely pictured meeting him and having a long polite conversation. The meeting place would be at the dispensary or in the main street of Clonareen or even by his farm, which stood above the road to Cashelmara. Then gradually the fantasies changed. The meeting place would be in some wild remote mountain fastness—a ruined cabin, perhaps. We would still talk politely, but now our conversation would be on a less formal level. I imagined him taking my hand in his and holding it while he looked searchingly into my eyes. Wasn’t that what always happened in the romantic novels that Marguerite lent me whenever she came to stay? The pastoral retreat, the clasped hands, the promise of undying devotion … It would be a Hopeless Love, of course, and Nothing Could Come of It. We would part for the last time and he would kiss me, perhaps briefly on the lips but more likely lingeringly on the brow. Heroines were always having their brows kissed. There was something very comforting about that. No sweaty embraces, no naked indignities, no stabbing pain. I waded deeper and deeper into my fantasies.
I thought I would change in the autumn when I discovered I was pregnant, but the daydreams lingered on. All winter I was confined to Cashelmara; all winter I dreamed of Drummond, until at last in the spring my second son was born to save me from the torment of Drummond’s constant presence in my mind.
We didn’t think the baby would live. He was so small and frail that he had no strength to suck milk, and after he was born he lost so much weight that he was no more than a tiny pile of skin and bones. I heard the midwife say to Madeleine, “It’s often better if they die,” and this upset me so much that I flew into a rage and banished the woman from the house. I was determined that he would live. I devoted all my time and energy to him, and in the months that followed there was certainly no time to moon after Drummond.
The servants reminded one another that Patrick and I were cousins—distant cousins, but no one bothered to remember the distance—and said that between cousins the blood often runs thin. All those old wives’ tales, all that ghoulish enjoyment of impending tragedy, all those whispers whenever my back was turned—I hated them all.
We called him John. I had wanted to call him Francis, but in the beginning when it seemed inevitable that he would die I decided to save my father’s name for a son who was as healthy as Ned, and John was one of the few names that both Patrick and I found unobjectionable.
But John didn’t die. He drank more and more milk from the tiny silver spoon that could slip into his mouth and soon he was strong enough to suck from a bottle. One day he smiled at me, and then nothing mattered, neither Cashelmara nor all our misfortunes, because my baby was thriving at last and everyone, from Nanny to the scullery maid, said that it was all due to me that he had lived.
“When will the baby be big enough to play with me?” demanded Ned on his fourth birthday in December.
“In a while,” I said, hugging him. I felt guilty because during those anxious months I had been too preoccupied with John to give Ned my usual attention. “Next spring he’ll start to walk and then he’ll be much easier to play with.”
But John was late in walking, and by the time spring came he could barely sit up. His health was still delicate, and I was plunged into anxiety every time he sneezed. But he was a lovely baby. He was dark-haired and fine-boned and his eyes were an unusual shape.
“He may not grow up quite as other children do, you know, Sarah,” said Madeleine to me when John still showed no signs of walking.
“Of course he will!” I said angrily. I felt hurt that she should make such a comment just because John wasn’t as quick as Ned had been at that age. “All he needs is enough love and care and attention.”
Madeleine never mentioned the subject to me again, but Marguerite, when she came for her summer visit with the boys, was most reassuring.
“Oh heavens!” she said. “David was so fat when he was John’s age that I thought he’d never do anything except sit on the floor, but look at him now!” So I looked at David, who was sixteen by this time, still a little stout but undeniably mobile, and felt much happier.
It was in September, when Marguerite was still at Cashelmara, that we received word from Duneden Castle that Katherine was ill with a lung inflammation and had asked to see us.
“I’m not going unless she’s dying,” said Patrick firmly. He could barely endure to be in the same room for longer than five minutes with Katherine’s husband. “I’ll stay behind with the children if you want to go with Marguerite and the boys.”
“I’m taking the children with me,” I said at once.
“Oh no, you’re not! John’s not strong enough to travel, and Ned would be bored to tears at Duneden Castle. Damn it, Sarah, why do you always try to keep the children to yourself the whole time? They’re my children as well as yours, you know! You couldn’t have had them without me!”
“More’s the pity,” I said before I could stop myself, and the next moment we were having our worst quarrel in months. As usual it was Marguerite who suggested the appropriate compromise: John stayed behind with Nanny at Cashelmara, while Patrick and Ned came with me to Duneden Castle. “For after all, Patrick,” said Marguerite sternly, “it would really look very poor if you didn’t come, and Katherine would hardly have asked to see us if she hadn’t felt very ill indeed.”
Patrick conceded gloomily that she was right, so we made our preparations to leave as quickly as possible. But we weren’t quick enough. By the time we reached Duneden Castle a distraught Lord Duneden told us that Katherine was sinking fast, and within three hours of our arrival she
was dead at the age of thirty-eight.
V
“Oh Lord,” said Patrick glumly after we had begun to recover from the shock, “now I’m really in the soup.”
We were in our apartments before dinner. Beyond the windows a dank mist hid the flat green Irish countryside and clung to the ivy-clad walls of the castle. I was thinking so hard of Katherine that at first I didn’t hear what he said, and even when he repeated his words they made no sense to me.
“What do you mean?” I said, startled.
“I was hoping to touch Duneden for a loan, but I can hardly ask him in these circumstances, can I? It’s all deuced awkward.”
“A loan!” The word gave me such a jolt that I forgot Katherine altogether. “But, Patrick, I thought we were doing so well financially since John was born! You were even talking of taking me to America the year after next!”
“That’s true,” he agreed heavily. “I was.”
“But what’s happened?”
“Don’t get hysterical, darling.”
“I’m not hysterical! I simply want to know what the trouble is!”
“Well, it’s the beastly harvests,” said Patrick. “It was a rotten one last year and apparently it’s a rotten one this year, and the tenants can’t pay their rents and … well, I’m beginning to feel the pinch, to put it mildly. If I had another source of income there would be no difficulty, but I’m dependent now on Cashelmara for every penny I get, and Cashelmara’s not exactly the richest of Irish estates at the best of times.”
“Why can’t the tenants be made to pay their rents? They must have some money saved!”
“What little they had went after the first bad harvest, and MacGowan says it’s pointless to expect them to produce what they don’t have. Sarah, you don’t understand how poor these people are. They grow potatoes for themselves and wheat and oats for sale to pay the rent. If the crop fails they have nothing. MacGowan says I should thank God the potato hasn’t failed as well, because if it did everyone, including me, would be damn well destitute.”
“But there must be something you can do,” I said desperately. “If it’s a question of a loan, perhaps George …”
“George is just as dependent on his tenants as I am, so I’m sure these are bad times for him too. No, Duneden was my only hope. Well, perhaps after the funeral …”
It was a very awkward situation, and I didn’t in the least want to know any more about it; but after the funeral Patrick begged me to be with him when he broached the subject with his brother-in-law, and when I tried to refuse he insisted that he would have more chance of success if I was there. I was sure he was wrong, and since I had been profoundly upset by the funeral, I was in no mood for a distressing interview, but to avert another quarrel I did as he asked. We saw Lord Duneden alone on the morning we were due to leave for Cashelmara, and the interview was every bit as humiliating as I had known it would be.
“How dare you mention such a subject at such a time!” said Lord Duneden. He was an old man now, well past seventy but with great presence and dignity. “And how dare you expect to conduct such a discussion in front of your wife, who should know nothing of such matters! Have you no pride at all? It’s quite obvious you have no sense of propriety!”
Patrick stammered apologies mingled with references to the bad harvests, but Lord Duneden cut him off with an incisive movement of his hand.
“I’ve done with you,” he said. “I’ve helped you all these years for one reason and one reason only—that you were Katherine’s brother. But now Katherine’s dead no power on earth is going to make me help you again. Leave my house this instant, and never return as long as you live.”
There was nothing else to be said. I was so covered with shame that I could hardly summon the strength to leave the room, and afterward, not trusting myself to speak to Patrick, I went straight upstairs to Marguerite.
“But the solution is obvious,” she said, surprised after I had poured out my troubles to her. “You must close Cashelmara at once to save every penny you can and come to stay with me for a few months.”
“But, Marguerite,” I said, almost in tears at her generosity, “London … I don’t think we could … you know what happens to us there.”
“Well, as it happens,” she said, “I was thinking of buying a small place in the country. I’ve made a little money with my investments lately, and I’ve been thinking for some time that I’m tired of living in London all the year round. It would be nice if I found somewhere in Surrey and used the house in St. James’s Square only for the Season.”
“Surrey’s so close to London,” I said fearfully.
“I have every intention of finding a house a long way from the railway station,” said Marguerite, and so it was settled. Thomas and David were delighted with the idea, and even Patrick himself, once he had recovered from the interview with Lord Duneden, remarked buoyantly that it was an ill wind that blew no one no good. As for me, my joy at escaping from Ireland for a few months was soured only by the knowledge that we would be living on Marguerite’s charity, but since this clearly didn’t trouble Patrick I supposed it was foolish to let it trouble me.
In fact by this time I was feeling utterly exhausted. I had identified myself strongly with Katherine in the past, and when I had looked upon her dead face it was as if for one horrifying moment I had been looking at myself. I had no choice then but to admit how terrified I was of the future, for it was so obvious that there could be no security in beauty and youth and every conceivable material advantage life could offer. Nothing saved you in the end from the passing years, from growing old and from the grave.
I was very disturbed for some days, and when Patrick pawned more silver so that MacGowan’s wages could be paid during our absence it was hard for me to make preparations for the move. But once I began I was soon so busy that I had no time to visit the dispensary, and I heard that Eileen Drummond had had a new baby only when Madeleine visited us at the end of October, three days before we were due to leave.
“At least the Drummonds don’t have to worry as much as some do about the bad harvests,” Madeleine was saying, and she embarked on some complicated explanation about a leasehold which gave them security of tenure. “And Drummond’s a shrewd farmer,” she was saying. “He’ll scrape by somehow and feed the extra mouth in the family.”
“Madeleine,” I said before I could stop myself, “I would so like to send a little gift for the baby. Perhaps if I gave you something now …”
“I’ll give it to Mrs. Drummond when I next see her,” said Madeleine approvingly. “A very good idea, Sarah.”
“You mustn’t tell Patrick. There was such trouble when I visited Mrs. Drummond once, do you remember?”
“The sins of the husband should not be visited on the wife,” said Madeleine firmly, so I went upstairs and fetched three dresses that John had worn when he was newborn. I had made them myself from the finest silk and had embroidered the smocking in blue.
Two days later I was taking John for a walk in his perambulator when Maxwell Drummond turned his donkey cart through the great iron gates of Cashelmara and came jogging steadily up the drive toward me.
VI
I was alone. Ned was helping Patrick in his final hours of gardening before the move, and Nanny was in the nurseries packing the last of the toys.
“Good day, my lady,” said Drummond as the cart halted in front of me. He jumped down from the driver’s seat, his head bare, his hair overgrown at the back, his sideburns reaching to his jaw, and in his hands were the three baby dresses I had sent to his wife.
“We’ll not be needing your charity, so I’m returning your son’s old clothes to you,” he announced, tossing the dresses over the side of the perambulator, and turned as if to climb straight back into his donkey cart.
Anger helped me find my tongue. “Mr. Drummond,” I said, surprising myself by the firmness of my voice, “I sent the dresses to your wife as a token of good will toward her, and you needn’t t
alk as if I had nothing else to do with them except throw them away. John wore the dresses so seldom that they’re as good as new.”
“They’re still as good as new,” he said, swatting flies from the donkey’s back, “for we’ve had no use for them.”
“But—”
“The baby’s dead,” he said, swinging around to face me. “Eileen was thanking you for your gift but felt she must return it.”
I was horrified by my lack of understanding. How slow and stupid he must have thought me! I swallowed and tried to speak, but he was the one who spoke first.
“It’s better this way,” he said. “I’ll have enough trouble feeding six children through the winter, and the baby wouldn’t have had enough to eat.”
I thought of Eileen and the poor dead little baby and nearly choked with rage. “How can you say such a thing?” I cried. “Babies eat so little.”
“Enough to force others to go without.”
“But—”
“You know nothing,” he said. “You don’t know what hunger means, and if it’s telling me you are that it’s better to see children die by inches than die quickly without suffering, I’ll be asking you to hold your tongue and mind your own business.”
“Mr. Drummond—”
“Ah, sure I know what you’re going to say! You’re thinking: ‘And is it complaining he is and he ten times better off than anyone else in this valley!’ But I’m kin to the O’Malleys, and there’s none so poor in all the valley as they are, and is it for me to be sitting in comfort in my snug little home while all my kin starve? And don’t be telling me I could send my wife and children to her family in Dublin, for her father won’t have her in his house since she was wed, so she’s chained here the same as the rest of us. But you! Why should you be caring? You can go to England, you can escape. Faith, I swear I can hear your husband arranging the whole beautiful scheme! It’s closing the house he’ll be, putting all the servants out of work, telling MacGowan to organize the evictions, leaving the sinking ship as fast as a pack of rats—”
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