“A little girl, Sarah,” said Madeleine, who had been nursing me faithfully. “Very pretty. Dark, like you, and not a bit like Patrick.”
I asked if she was expected to live and could hardly believe Madeleine when she said yes.
“You’re saying that to protect me,” I said, but when the infant was shown to me I saw she was a healthy pink. “How lucky,” was all I could say as I sank back on the pillows. “Always so lucky.” But I could say no more, for I was too weak.
It was not until weeks later that Madeleine told me I would never have another child. She explained it in medical terms, but I had never understood much about the feminine parts of the body, so I simply nodded and tried to look interested. At first I didn’t feel in the least disappointed, for I had no intention of ever bearing Patrick another child, but after a while the fact of my sterility weighed upon me and brought me to tears on more than one occasion when I was alone in my room. I did tell myself I had no right to complain since I had four beautiful children, but still the thought would flit through my mind that I wasn’t fully a woman any more and a great sadness would descend like a lead weight across my heart.
To raise my spirits I would think of Drummond. But a long convalescence stretched ahead of me, and I had no means of knowing when I would see him again.
The baby was christened at Christmas when I was well enough to walk. Naturally Patrick balked at the name Camille, and naturally I balked at his choice of Louisa, so we were at a complete deadlock within an hour of the clergyman’s arrival.
“Try something simple,” suggested Madeleine, stepping into Marguerite’s role of mediator. “Jane, perhaps, or Joan.”
“Not Joan,” said Patrick and I in a rare moment of unison, so the baby was christened Jane, much to the disappointment of the other children, who thought the name far too ordinary.
“Guinevere would have been nice,” said Ned, who had been reading about King Arthur.
“Buttercup,” said John, who liked flowers.
“Victoria after the dear Queen,” said Eleanor, precocious as ever, and cast a sidelong glance at her father, who said with a laugh that she was quite the cleverest little girl he had ever met.
I wondered if she would be cleverer than her sister. Poor little baby, I would think each time I kissed her, and then I would kiss her again to make sure she knew she was loved.
Poor little Jane.
Thomas and David came for the christening and spent Christmas at Cashelmara. They made no secret about how glad they were to see MacGowan gone and a new agent living in old MacGowan’s stone house, and Thomas said too how glad he was that Patrick had given up drinking.
But he hadn’t given it up. He was simply better at concealing it, for the bills from the wine merchants only lengthened and the expense became a larger and larger item in the household accounts.
I heard once from Edith, at Christmas. She had rented a house in Edinburgh, and MacGowan was living there with her. He had had trouble with his injured arm and it still wasn’t healed. However, the doctors in Edinburgh were excellent, so at least he was receiving the best treatment. Old MacGowan was also in Edinburgh but not living with them; Hugh wouldn’t have that, although he had rented some chambers for his father within half a mile of their house.
I supposed MacGowan would look for another position when his arm was better. Or perhaps he would merely continue to live on his rich wife’s income. I wanted to ask Patrick if he intended to go to Edinburgh for a visit, but I had to be very careful what I said to Patrick, and in the end I found it wiser never to mention MacGowan’s name.
January passed. I was feeling much stronger now after my ordeal and was wondering over and over again how I could see Drurnmond. I thought I might take the carriage to Clonareen and call at the dispensary; that would let him know I had fully recovered. I felt no embarrassment at the thought of seeing his wife. I had always found it difficult to connect Eileen with him, and now I found it so difficult that I simply blotted from my mind the fact that he too was married with children. Besides, it was not as if I were planning some gross impropriety. I knew I would always stop short of that to prevent him from despising me, and so I saw no harm in seeing him for a few minutes now and then.
“And when you’re well again,” Drummond had said, “I’ll come looking for you.”
But MacGowan came looking for him first. He came riding over the hills from Letterturk with a huge detachment of troops and all the police in County Galway, and before the sun had set on the valley that night the Drummond farm had been burned to the ground and Drummond himself had been flung into the county jail.
II
Eileen Drummond took her children to Dublin, where her parents still lived. Madeleine lent her the money. I wanted to help her too, but I didn’t dare.
“How good it is to be back!” exclaimed MacGowan, sitting down in the chair at the head of the dining-room table. “Flannigan, bring a bottle of champagne!”
Flannigan gave notice the next day.
The shock of MacGowan’s return had a curious effect on me. I felt lightheaded, and from time to time I was able to look down upon myself as if from a great distance and watch the puppetlike figure who was pretending to be the lady of the house.
“There’s absolutely no need for you to trouble yourself about the household accounts any more, Sarah,” said Edith. “Hugh wants me to do it. He says you’re too extravagant and spend too much money on clothes. You’re to have an allowance, and Hugh says you must be very careful not to exceed it.”
The other servants started to give notice, and when Edith replaced them with the humblest of the valley girls, the quality of service deteriorated. But this, I was told, would be a mere temporary inconvenience until the estate was set right and Clonagh Court rebuilt.
Meanwhile the MacGowans would remain in Cashelmara.
Ned’s tutor left, and when a new one arrived he remained less than a week. Even Nanny gave notice when Edith tried to reduce the supply of fuel for the nursery fires, and the notice was withdrawn only when I broke down in tears and begged her to stay.
Strangely enough the fright of Nanny threatening to leave had a beneficial effect on me. It shook me out of my state of shock, and once the shock was gone my rage started to burn again. I was careful to conceal it, but now I was quite clearheaded enough to realize that something would have to be done. Obviously I could do nothing but bide my time until the MacGowans had returned to Clonagh Court, but after that … The difficulties of escape haunted me again. I couldn’t leave Cashelmara without the children, yet with the children it was impossible to leave. Cashelmara, as MacGowan had once said, was so remote. Even if we took no baggage we would still need a carriage, and carriages needed horses, grooms and coachmen before they could embark on a journey. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize the commotion of departure. To sneak away hurriedly in the dead of night with four children could only end in failure, for even if we managed to leave the grounds without Patrick stopping us we wouldn’t have a chance of reaching George’s house in Letterturk. Word of our flight would reach Patrick within the hour. He would ride after us, summon MacGowan … If we were indeed lucky enough to reach Letterturk Grange, there would be nothing George could do to prevent Patrick from removing the children and taking them home. And what would happen to me? Well, no doubt MacGowan would think of some appropriate solution.
The match flared in the darkness. His eyes watched me above the single steady flame.
I felt ill. My fear and hatred of him rose in my throat like vomit until I felt I would suffocate, and my brain became so clouded that I could no longer dwell on plans for escape. Perhaps when the MacGowans had returned to Clonagh Court I would be able to think more clearly.
Patrick ordered the finest Connemara marble for his lily pond, and all through that terrible summer his garden was a brilliant mass of blooms. I can see the rhododendrons, vast, sprawling and exotic, their colors rich against the lush leaves of the trees, and all the
way along the walk to the chapel the azaleas blazed with a fire eerie in its intensity. The beds around the lakelike lawn were dense with color too, and I remember gazing day after day at the red trumpets of the flame nasturtiums, the dazzling blue of the gentians, the multicolored fantasy of a whole border of anemones, the pale perfection of the graceful lilies. The magnolia tree flowered too that year, and in the kitchen garden the peach trees drooped to the ground beneath the burden of their luscious fruit. I had never before seen such a beautiful garden. Patrick worked so hard, caring for his flowers until they seemed to have some mysterious entity of their own, while up on the hillside the altar cloth rotted in the chapel and the pews lay caked in dust.
It was in June that I learned I was to have no respite from the MacGowans. They decided they would live permanently at Cashelmara, and with that decision my desperation drove me to consider leaving Cashelmara without the children. But I knew I couldn’t leave them behind unless I had some assurance that I could get them back with legal help. If only I could consult a lawyer and find out what my legal position was! And as I wracked my brains to think how this could be done, it occurred to me that here at last was a situation where George could give me active assistance.
I wrote him a note. I gave it to Madeleine when she came to tea, and that was a great accomplishment for Edith watched me like a hawk and longed only for me to make some mistake that she could report to MacGowan. But I slipped the note to Madeleine after I had upset tea all over Edith’s new dress, and Edith was in such a state that she never saw Madeleine grasp the note without a change of expression and slip it into her coat sleeve.
I wrote to George: “I had resolved to remain here for the children’s sake, but matters are at such a pass now that I think it would be far worse if they remained at Cashelmara than if I took them away. However, I dare not leave openly for fear of what MacGowan might do to me if I tried. I know I am a danger to him because I can testify about his perverted behavior with Patrick, and if the matter is brought before the courts there must be at least a chance that I cannot only bring them both to ruin but also deprive Patrick of custody of the children—something which Patrick has always dreaded. Yet before I attempt to leave I must find out my exact legal position, and since I cannot escape from the valley I have no choice but to ask you if you would see an attorney on my behalf. I know it is a great deal to ask, particularly since you cannot approve of the scandal resulting from a divorce, but dearest George, I no longer care about the scandal. I’m far too desperate for that. Please, please help me. In particular be sure to ask the attorney if, by appearing to condone the situation here, I have lost my grounds for a divorce. I cannot leave only to find that the children are denied me, for I would never dare return to be with them. Words cannot express how much I fear and loathe MacGowan.
“Please believe me when I say there is no use in reasoning with Patrick. He will never, never give MacGowan up. And please, I beg of you, be very careful to destroy this letter as soon as you have read it and never breathe one word about my request for help.”
In this at least George obeyed me. He must have destroyed the letter, for no word of it reached MacGowan’s ears, but despite all I had said he could not believe Patrick would refuse to give up MacGowan once scandal threatened. I suppose George was shocked because I had put into words what he himself had long suspected, and the shock must have impaired his judgment, for he came to Cashelmara to reason with Patrick one last time.
Patrick and MacGowan saw him in the morning room, and when I had eluded Edith by saying I had a headache I waited in the shadows of the gallery in the hope of seeing the expression on George’s face when he left. I was frightened in case he betrayed I had written to him, and all I cared about was finding out whether or not I was safe.
But I never saw George again. I heard voices raised in argument and seconds later a heavy crash followed by silence.
“He fell,” said MacGowan hours afterward to Dr. Cahill. “It was very unfortunate. A stroke perhaps? A touch of apoplexy? It seemed as if he lost his balance, and before we could catch him he struck his head on the fender.”
Dr. Cahill revealed that George had long suffered from high blood pressure and diagnosed that a spasm of dizziness had caused the fall. “… and the fall against the fender killed him. Most unfortunate accident. No one in any way to blame …”
I said nothing. I didn’t know what to believe, although I was sure Dr. Cahill would have spoken up if he had suspected George’s head injury had not been caused by the fender. I wanted to believe in the possibility of an accident because I knew I would be less frightened if I did, but night after night I would dream of MacGowan’s strong arm and awake sweating with fear.
I wondered if I could send word to Thomas and David but decided I couldn’t Too dangerous, both for me and for them. Could Madeleine help? But she was so religious. She might simply tell me that, unfortunate though it was, I had a moral duty to stay with my husband in any circumstances. Perhaps Charles … No, MacGowan mailed all my letters to America, and I was sure he read them first. I could ask Madeleine to mail a letter, but did I dare risk passing a letter to Madeleine again?
By this time I had given up the idea of seeking legal advice before I took any radical step, but I still didn’t trust the law to restore the children to me if I were to leave Cashelmara on my own. I knew what the law thought of deserting wives, and I knew too that MacGowan would engage the best lawyers to discredit me and vindicate Patrick. In the circumstances I thought it would be foolish to assume that I would be automatically granted custody of the children.
So I was back where I’d begun. I knew I had to escape and I knew I had to take the children with me, but I still couldn’t see how I was ever going to do it.
In July Drummond was tried in Galway and sentenced to ten years in jail.
Drummond would have helped me. If Drummond were free …
There must be some way, I thought. There must be.
In September two political prisoners escaped from a jail near Dublin, and the newspapers said the Irish National League had bribed the jailers to ensure the escape. The Irish National League was a new organization that included members of the dissolved Land League as well as all sections of the Home Rule Party. If I could somehow talk to Mr. Parnell … MacGowan and Patrick had both testified against Drummond at the trial. If I could show someone high up in the National League that Drummond’s trial, arrest and imprisonment were the result of a personal feud … But I dared not write to Mr. Parnell and I couldn’t escape to see him. I was almost as much of a prisoner as Drummond was in the county jail in Galway.
“God save you, my lady!” said Father Donal when Edith and I met him one day during a morning call on Madeleine, and suddenly I remembered Patrick talking about the Land League and old MacGowan writing sourly, “… and the priest’s in it up to the neck.”
“Good morning, Father Donal,” I said, smiling at him, and that same night I summoned all my courage and said to Patrick in front of the MacGowans, “I wonder if you could arrange for Father Donal to call here to see me? I’ve been thinking for some time about becoming a Roman Catholic and I would like to take instruction.”
I saw MacGowan look at me. But I never looked him in the eye nowadays, so I was careful not to arouse his suspicions by suddenly giving him a bold stare. I merely kept my voice low and glanced meekly at Patrick, exactly as I always did, and across the dining-room table I was aware of MacGowan relaxing in his chair, his suspicions lulled.
“But how commendable, Sarah!” he said dryly, mocking me. “And how unlike you!”
“Yes … I know.” I tried to smile, as if I were humoring him. I sometimes did that and I knew he wouldn’t think it unusual. “But ever since Jane was born I’ve been thinking more and more about my religion.” I thought this was a clever touch. After a brush with death many people take to religion with unexpected fervor.
“I dare say that could be arranged, Patrick,” said MacGowan genially.
“You can write to Father Donal for Sarah, if she wishes. Edith, perhaps you too would be interested in learning more about the Roman Church.”
Edith opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. “Well, it’ll be a diversion, I suppose,” she remarked offhandedly and gave me a pitying look.
Edith lasted four hours of instruction, during which Father Donal talked long and earnestly in his delightful Irish voice about everything under the sun except his faith, and then before his fifth visit I overheard her say to MacGowan, “Do I really have to endure any more instruction from Father Donal?”
“Aren’t you enjoying it?” he said, amused.
“On the contrary I declare he’s quite the most boring little man I’ve ever met”
“And Sarah?”
“Oh, poor thing, she’s quite in earnest. It’s absolutely pathetic.”
I felt giddy with triumph. I saw Father Donal alone at last, and as soon as I had made sure no one was eavesdropping I began to talk about the National League and political prisoners and Galway County jail.
Father Donal’s eyes grew very round, and after a while he forgot to close his mouth, and at the end he was sitting on the edge of his chair.
“God save you, my lady,” he said at last. He was so dumfounded he could think of nothing else to say. “God save you.”
“I’m sure He will if we can save Drummond first. Listen, Father, I have a plan. I want Drummond to go to New York and take a message to my brother. It’s very important both for my safety and the safety of my children, and it must be a complete secret because if word gets back to MacGowan I’ve no doubt we’ll all be murdered in our beds. If the Blackbooters or the Brotherhood or whatever they call themselves nowadays could arrange for Drummond’s escape to America …”
“My lady, there’s but one problem, but pray God you have the means to solve it. It’ll take a lot of money.”
Cashelmara Page 53