Dr. Cahill began to call twice a week from the dispensary and told me that not only must I rest as much as I could but in no circumstances must I consider any form of travel. It was soon after he gave me this advice that MacGowan declared Nanny should take the children away from the valley until after Eviction Day.
Ireland had been in a ferment all summer since Parnell’s release in May and the assassinations in Phoenix Park. The assassinations had shaken even MacGowan, and after the deaths of the new Chief Secretary for Ireland and his Under-Secretary not even Parnell’s denial of all knowledge of the deeds could make us feel secure again. At Westminster the government had tried to clamp down on Irish unrest, but Ireland was like the proverbial pot of water boiling on the hearth; the longer one clamped down the lid, the more likely the lid was to blow off. In the valley the tenants had refused en masse to part with their rent money, and MacGowan had ordered the wrecking machine and a detachment of soldiers from Letterturk to begin evictions on the first of September.
I had not seen MacGowan since Patrick had discovered I was pregnant, and I did not see him now. He merely told Patrick that although he didn’t anticipate serious trouble at Cashelmara, there was no harm in taking sensible precautions in regard to the children. That month we had all been horribly shocked by the “Maumtrasna murders,” the massacre of an entire family, and MacGowan’s suggestion was his way of admitting that the days were past when he had been the only one of us in danger of murder.
“You’ll want to go with the children, I suppose,” said Patrick to me uneasily.
“Of course I do,” I said dryly, “but I can’t, even if Hugh were to permit it.”
“I expect he would let you go to stay with Edith at Clara’s.”
“Patrick, I can’t travel anywhere. Have you forgotten?”
He had. He had been drinking more than ever in recent weeks and often did not remember what was said to him.
The children departed with Nanny and Nurse to spend a month by the seaside at Salthill, and without them the house seemed like a morgue. I tried to occupy myself with sewing new dresses for the baby and planning how I could alter my winter wardrobe, but time passed slowly, particularly since I was confined to the chaise longue.
Dr. Cahill continued to call, and once a week Madeleine managed to accompany him. She had increased her visits to me as soon as I had become unwell.
“I’m glad the children have been sent away, Sarah,” she said on the thirty-first of August. “There’s bound to be trouble tomorrow when the evictions begin, and although I’m sure there’ll be no damage to Cashelmara there might be an unpleasant demonstration that would be bad for the children. Patrick will be here with you, of course?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Good, then there’s no need for you to worry.”
The first of September dawned. It was a clear day, and as soon as I awoke I knew it was going to be hot. Hot weather didn’t suit me because of my ankles, so I knew I would have to stay indoors in an attempt to keep as cool as possible.
I was still lying in bed and forcing myself to eat some breakfast when Patrick tapped on the door and looked in to inquire how I was. I immediately suspected that Madeleine had harangued him about my state of health, for he would never normally have sought me out in that fashion.
In response to his inquiry I told him shortly that I felt much the same.
“Oh.” He tried to think of something else to say, and in the silence that followed I could almost hear Madeleine declare sternly, “Sarah must be treated with the greatest possible consideration.” At last he said awkwardly, “Would you like me to bring you some flowers?”
I couldn’t have cared less about flowers, but I was as anxious as he was to provide an excuse for his escape. “Yes, please,” I said. “That would be very nice.”
He wandered off in relief and reappeared an hour later with an enormous bouquet and two large vases.
“Shall I arrange them for you?”
“I’d be grateful if you would. I’m not supposed to stand, and it’s so trying to arrange flowers when one’s sitting down.”
It was the longest conversation we had had with each other for some time. It took such an enormous effort to be calm and polite. My head was already aching with the strain of it.
He began to arrange the flowers with great attention to detail, and as I watched him I sensed we were both thinking of MacGowan.
“I wish I could go down to Clonareen to help,” Patrick said at last, trimming the stalks of the gladioli, “but Hugh told me very firmly that I should keep out of the way.”
I didn’t answer. I was thinking how MacGowan had been avoiding me since Patrick had learned of my pregnancy, and I was picturing him not only nauseated by the news but maddened when he realized there was nothing whatsoever he could do about it. The image of MacGowan enraged yet powerless was so pleasing to me that I smiled.
“… and I do wish the Irish wouldn’t be so difficult,” Patrick was saying. “Heaven knows I don’t want to evict anyone, but what else can one do with people who don’t pay their rent? If I were rich and had other sources of income I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’ve simply got to have my rents, and anyway it’s not as if the tenants can’t afford to pay. That would be different. But why should I suffer just because they decide to withhold their rent for political reasons? I can’t help the way the land’s distributed in Ireland! That was all arranged centuries before I was born, and how can I alter it and still make both ends meet?”
“I’m sure Mr. Parnell could give you an answer,” I said. By this time my thoughts were dwelling again on the distant prospect of revenge, even though I still had no idea how my revenge would be achieved. I smiled again.
“Parnell!” Patrick was exclaiming. “An Anglo-Irish Protestant landowner, just like me! My God, the fellow’s a traitor to his class.” He rearranged the last sprig of greenery and added as he left the room, “I do wonder how Hugh’s getting on.”
It was a long time before I saw him again.
In the afternoon I slept for two hours, and when I awoke I rang for tea. I had sent my maid on a shopping expedition to Galway to buy the materials I needed for two winter day dresses, and Flannigan had accompanied her in order to inspect the account books of the wine merchants who sent us such unbelievable bills. When no servant appeared in response to my bedroom bell I immediately thought: With Flannigan away they’ve all gone to the nearest wake, and I realized with a sigh how much I had come to rely on Flannigan with his heavy breathing and tiptoeing walk.
Since I was unable to summon help I had no choice but to go downstairs and find out what was happening. That took an effort, but I was feeling well after my rest and my ankles were hardly swollen at all. Finding some slippers, I wrapped a peignoir tightly around myself and went downstairs to the hall.
There was no one to be seen.
“Terence!” I called. “Gerald!” But no footman answered, and at last I moved reluctantly down the back passage to the green baize door.
The kitchens were deserted. They should have been full of people preparing dinner, but there was no one there. I stood transfixed, remembering how Marguerite and I had found the kitchens abandoned in the famine of ’79. Abandoned kitchens meant disaster. Turning abruptly, I walked out the back door into the kitchen yard and moved past the privies, past the small vegetable garden and through the orchard to Patrick’s beautiful lawn.
“Patrick!” I called. “Patrick, where are you?”
There was no reply. The sun shone and all his flowers swayed in the breeze. I didn’t want to walk far, for my slippers were too flimsy and Dr. Cahill had strictly forbidden exercise, but I couldn’t go back to the house without finding Patrick.
I called his name again, and when no one answered I looked in the glasshouses, struggled up the path to the Italian Garden and peered through the windows of the unfinished teahouse. I would have gone up the Azalea Walk, but that was too far, and anyway I could think of no reas
on why he might have gone to the chapel. My ankles were starting to swell again. Knowing I had to rest, I returned to the house and went to the library in the hope that he was dozing on the couch.
The library was empty, but there was a note beneath the paperweight on the desk. I sat down and read it. “Sarah, I’ve gone to Clonareen after all. I couldn’t stand waiting here and wondering if Hugh was safe. See you later. P.”
I stared at the note for a long time. At last when I felt stronger I returned to the kitchens, bolted the back door and locked the side door that led into the garden. Then I went back to the library, sat down on the window seat and began my long wait for Patrick’s return.
IV
After a while I felt dizzy, so I lay down for an hour on the couch. I wanted to lock the library door, but there was no key, and as I rested I kept hearing small noises, probably the mice pattering in the wainscoting. The mice were such a nuisance. I would have to get more arsenic from Madeleine.
I tried to think about the baby. I had privately named her Camille, but I was sure Patrick would hate that. We had never agreed about any name except Eleanor, and even then he became cross when I pronounced it in the American way. But I wasn’t very American any more. It was thirteen years since I had left New York, and as soon as I had arrived I had made great efforts to be thoroughly English. Marguerite had been so amusing with her stories of how hard she had found it to settle among the English, but I hadn’t found it difficult at all. Of course Marguerite’s trouble had been that her marriage to an elderly man had cut her off from people of her own age. I remembered how sorry I had always felt for her because she had married someone old. What misplaced sympathy! I tried to remember Patrick’s father, but that was difficult because I had only met him years and years before when he had visited New York. I had been so young at the time, but I could remember someone very tall, someone who had cast a long shadow, someone aloof and powerful and remote. I had been rather frightened of him for some reason, I never knew why, although sometimes I thought I could see that long shadow cast across my future, and that didn’t make sense because he was dead.
I got up once more and moved slowly to the window. The ground sloped so sharply below the house that I could look over the tops of the trees to the lough, and when I opened the window and leaned out over the sill I saw a puff of smoke far off at the other end of the valley. Did they burn the cabins after they had wrecked them? I didn’t know. I tried to imagine myself as an Irish peasant woman, eight months pregnant, with an idle husband, three children and no roof over our heads. How did such people live? What did they think about? Of course they had no expectation of a comfortable life and they had their religion for solace, but …
I thought of Parnell making speeches at Westminster in his cultured English voice. Supposing Parnell was right in his demand of Home Rule for Ireland? According to the newspapers, many Englishmen thought he was. That was what the Irish never remembered. They always thought all the English were villains and implacably opposed to any change in the government of Ireland. And I? What did I think? But politics had never interested me, and I had always found it so comforting to retreat behind the maxim that women and politics don’t mix. But this wasn’t simply politics any more. This was my husband letting his agent turn women and children out of their homes to starve; this was my household abandoning me because the servants all knew there was going to be trouble; this was me, eight months pregnant, being left entirely alone at Cashelmara.
Mustn’t think about that. Think about something else. That smoke at the end of the valley—could it possibly be Clonagh Court? No, surely not. Perhaps if I went upstairs I could see better.
It was Clonagh Court. I was sure of it. I knelt on the window seat of my bedroom and tried not to panic, tried to think sensibly about what I should do. Perhaps I could hide in the chapel. No, it was too far, all the way uphill along the Azalea Walk. I couldn’t face it. I was feeling ill again. Must find something to eat. I went downstairs, but I felt so dizzy in the hall that I had to sit down on the bottom step of the staircase and wait till the dizziness had passed. Then I returned to the library, the nearest room, and lay on the couch. I don’t know how long I lay there, but I must have slept, because when I opened my eyes again it was twilight, the long twilight of an Irish summer evening, and I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs galloping up the drive.
I ran to the window, saw who it was and rushed to open the front door.
Patrick was unhurt. He dismounted as soon as the horses were halted at the foot of the steps, but MacGowan’s coat was streaked with blood, and one arm hung uselessly at his side.
“Quickly, Sarah!” gasped Patrick. “Call Terence and Gerald and tell them—”
“The servants have gone,” I said. I leaned against the doorpost to ease the weight on my feet.
“What do you mean? Gone where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Christ Almighty! Well, don’t waste time standing there gaping at us. Get some brandy, for God’s sake!”
“Get it yourself,” I said and went to sit down again on the stairs.
Through the open door I saw him help MacGowan down from the saddle. MacGowan never made a sound, but I knew he was in pain because when they entered the hall all he did was look for the nearest chair.
“Come into the library.” They disappeared for a moment before Patrick returned to the hall.
“Damn you!” he exclaimed to me in a fury. “Won’t you even lift a finger to help a man with a bullet in his arm?”
I said nothing, and the effort of keeping silent was so intense that I had no strength left to rise to my feet. Yet the thought of the bullet was pleasing to me. I smiled as Patrick turned abruptly and went into the dining room.
“Christ, is there no more brandy?” He returned to the hall in a worse rage than before. “Where’s the key to the cellar?”
“Flannigan has one,” I said coolly. “The other is upstairs in the top drawer of my writing table.” He was already climbing the stairs when I added, “But there’s no more brandy. You drank it all.”
He looked angrier than ever and ran on upstairs to bring lint and bandages from the bathroom closet.
When he reappeared he carried not only the medical supplies but a jar of poteen that had lain hidden in some secret cache. He neither spoke to me nor looked at me, and it was hard to believe that a few hours before he had been bringing me flowers and inquiring conscientiously about my health.
He dressed MacGowan’s arm. I heard him say things like “Looks like a flesh wound. If I bind it up very tightly … Have some more poteen. Sorry, did that hurt? You must see a doctor … soon as possible.”
MacGowan spoke only once. He said, “One day I’ll ruin that bastard Maxwell Drummond,” and the ugly lowland Scots accent was so strong in his voice that he sounded a different man from the well-spoken agent who ruled Cashelmara.
I wanted to go upstairs now that I was no longer alone in the house, but after those long nerve-wracking hours of solitude I derived a curious comfort from the presence of other people—even those two people—and I was still sitting on the stairs five minutes later when I heard the murmur of sound far away.
The front door was open. As soon as I reached the threshold I saw the torches flaring downhill by the gates and heard the distant tramp of marching feet.
“There are people coming up the drive!” I ran into the library and the words tumbled from my mouth so fast that I hardly knew what I said.
Patrick went ashen. “Are you sure?”
“Look!” I dragged him to the window and pointed into the gathering dusk.
He spun around to face MacGowan. “We can ride up the Azalea Walk past the chapel and escape into the mountains. Do you think you can get back on your horse?”
MacGowan nodded and levered himself to his feet.
“You’re not leaving me,” I said to Patrick. The newspaper account of the Maumtrasna murders flashed sickeningly through my mind and made me forge
t the pride which would have forbidden me to turn to him for help. “You can’t leave. I’m alone here.”
He was busy helping MacGowan. “I’ve got to go with Hugh.”
I stared at him wordlessly.
“They’ll kill him if they find him here. I’ve got to help him get away.”
“Let him get away by himself!”
“He’s injured.”
“He’s well enough to ride!”
Patrick simply shook his head and helped MacGowan to the door.
“Patrick, you can’t leave me alone here. I’m eight months pregnant. I’m having your child. Please stay. You’ve got to stay. Please!”
“They won’t harm a pregnant woman.”
“But a savage mob, bent on violence …”
He took no notice. I went on pleading with him, I even wept, but I might not have existed. All he cared about was MacGowan.
They had barely scuttled away on horseback around the side of the house when the mob swept around the last curve of the drive and howled across the gravel sweep toward me.
I turned and ran. I was so frightened that I didn’t even stop to close the front door. I tried to barricade myself in the library by dragging a chair across the room, but the chair was too heavy for me, and when the pain shot through my body I sank in terror onto the couch. The tears were streaming down my face. I hugged the baby as if I could will it to stay in my body, and oddly enough this futile gesture gave me courage. Rage at Patrick’s desertion flooded through me, and with the rage came the familiar strength so that when I heard the front door crash open and the hoarse voices shouting in Irish I stood up, wiped the tears from my face and moved behind the huge desk before turning to face the intruders.
Someone kicked the door open. A torch flared. Noise blasted across the room, and the smell of smoke and unwashed bodies slapped me across the face. My strength abandoned me suddenly. A great sickness churned in my stomach, and even as a bearded ruffian yelled something unintelligible at me the room faded before my eyes and I slipped thankfully over the edge of consciousness into the dark.
Cashelmara Page 51