Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  In fact I was so relieved that she had given the house her stamp of approval that soon after we had settled down I decided to tell her about the bargain I had struck with Phineas.

  “Maxwell!” exclaimed Sarah, horrified.

  “Look, what choice did I have? Anyway, Ned doesn’t have to marry the girl!”

  “I should think not! I mean,” said Sarah, recovering herself, “the two younger little girls are very sweet and the eldest is well mannered, but that Kerry’s such a little miss! I don’t like the thought of being saddled with her for months.”

  “She’ll have improved by the time she comes, I shouldn’t wonder. Besides, if it means I’ll get my pardon—”

  “Yes, of course. That’s the most important thing of all. I do understand that.”

  I decided that perhaps the time wasn’t right for me to reveal the exact details of the financial arrangements, so I simply said Phineas had agreed to help pay for our return to Ireland as an extra reward for taking care of Kerry when the time came.

  “He’s being very generous,” said Sarah politely, but I knew she was still nervous at the thought of me doing deals with Phineas Gallagher.

  Soon after we had settled in our new home Sarah made arrangements for Ned to go to school. Phineas, who had offered to pay the fees, told her where all the snobs sent their sons, and presently the headmaster was falling over himself to welcome a pupil who had the word “honorable” before his name and a baron for a father. It had seemed best that Ned should take up his education again, for he had been moping around not knowing what to do with himself since we had left Newport. I’d certainly thought that school was a good idea, but Ned hated the prospect and got as cross as a flea-bitten mule.

  “Schools are like prisons,” he said, very sullen.

  “If you’d ever been in prison,” I said, “you’d laugh at yourself for saying that. Anyway, you’re not going to board. How can you feel imprisoned when you can come home every afternoon?”

  He looked more sullen than ever and turned down his mouth at the corners.

  Of course Sarah worried herself silly about this and only half believed me when I said the only reason why Ned was in such a sulk was because he had never been to school before and was scared of it. She wanted to go with him to the school on his first day, but I thought he might find that an embarrassment, so I offered to go instead. No boy of nearly thirteen likes to look as though he’s tied to his mother’s apron strings.

  He didn’t want me to come, but I walked with him to the gates before saying goodbye.

  “I’ll give you one word of advice,” I said before we parted, for indeed he did look very pale and unlike himself. “You stand up for yourself, and if anyone tries to crowd you because you’re new or because you don’t talk like an American, you give them hell. That was what I learned when I got off the boat in this country, and I’ll pass it on to you for what it’s worth. Good luck and goodbye and I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  He came home sedately some hours later and told us in a casual, offhand way that he had two new friends and an invitation to go riding at the weekend.

  “And what about the lessons, darling?” said Sarah in anxiety.

  “Oh, they’ve got some funny ideas about English history,” said Ned. “Quite backward, I’d say. And no one knows any French.”

  Sarah worried a little less about him after that, but unfortunately that didn’t mean her worries were coming to an end. She had written to her brother asking him to forward the rest of her possessions, for winter was coming on and she was already anxious for warmer clothes, and Charles, in addition to forwarding two enormous trunks, also forwarded a bunch of letters from Cashelmara.

  Only one was to her. The others were addressed to Ned.

  “I can’t let him see them,” said Sarah, panicking. “It’d be too disturbing. They would upset him.”

  “Why do you say that? When you were both in New York he received letters from his father, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but Patrick thought then that Ned would be home in the fall even if he didn’t bring me with him. Once Patrick realized we’d left New York he’d know he’d been tricked, and I’m sure Charles would have written to tell him we’d left his house.”

  “So your husband now writes and tells Ned to leave you and come home. Well, what of it?” I shuffled the letters carelessly, as if they were a pack of cards. “Ned’s not going to listen to him. During the last six months have you once heard him mention his father’s name?”

  “But Patrick will be abusing me—saying terrible things. It would confuse and hurt Ned so.”

  “Well, there’s one way we can set your mind at rest,” I said. “We’ll open the letters and read them for ourselves.”

  Sarah didn’t want to do that either, but in the end she gave way.

  We read the letters in silence.

  “Oh God,” said Sarah when the last one had been laid to rest on the table. “Maxwell, we can’t let him see these.”

  I didn’t answer directly. “What does your own letter say?”

  It was more abusive than the other letters she had received. It began by saying he had heard—from Charles—that she was my mistress and that she had debased herself so far that she could only hope to see her other children again if she returned to him immediately. He swore she would have nothing to fear from Hugh, who was prepared to treat her with all possible respect, but if she wasn’t home by Christmas there would be no forgiveness and no possibility of her seeing the other children again. He would also take steps to remove Ned from her control. She needn’t think Ned was safe from him just because the Atlantic Ocean was three thousand miles wide. He would engage the best lawyers to fight his case, and since he was leading an exemplary life while she was flaunting an infatuation that had scandalized New York, there was no doubt whom the judge would favor. He concluded with the usual wicked tug at her heartstrings by saying the children cried themselves to sleep every night because they missed her so much.

  “Don’t listen to a word he says, Sarah,” I said at once. “The piece about the judge and the lawyers is all a lie to frighten you, for it’s certain he can never keep his sodomy concealed if the fight’s ever brought to a court of law, and sodomy’s worse than adultery, God himself said so and wrote it down in black and white in the Bible. And as for the piece about the children crying themselves to sleep every night, don’t believe a word of that either. Of course they miss you, but he’s exaggerating the story, puffing it up so you’ll be crushed with guilt.”

  “I know,” she said wearily. “I came to terms with remarks like that months ago. I expect you’re right too about the legal situation. But, Maxwell, these other letters—we can’t let Ned see them!”

  “Hm.” I picked up one of them. “My dearest Ned, I think perhaps your mother has prejudiced you unfairly against me … I have a right to ask you to return and you have a duty to obey, but, Ned, I don’t want to talk about rights and duties. I’d rather talk about love, and so I say if you love me as I know you once did, please come home and don’t listen to your mother any longer. I won’t say a word against your mother, for I know you love her too, but I know she’s fallen under the influence of a man whom I can only regard as wicked and unprincipled, a man who could never be fit company either for you or for her. I know you’re very wise and grown up, far wiser and more grown up than I was at your age, but, Ned, you’re still too young to have seen much of the world and you may not realize that this man Maxwell Drummond will stop at nothing to further his own ambitions and that he’s a man who would deal out murder and violence as casually as other men deal out a hand of cards …”

  “We’ll show the letters to Ned,” I said. “He knows me well enough by this time to see these accusations are a pack of lies.”

  “No,” said Sarah.

  We looked at each other. I laughed. “When you meet a bull face to face,” I said lightly, “grasp it by the horns.”

  “Maxwell, this isn’t a gam
e of poker.”

  “And I’m not bluffing my way out of trouble! What’s bothering you, sweetheart?”

  “Ned’s going to side with his father if he reads this letter. He’ll believe every word Patrick says. You see, he’s been brought up on the story—”

  “That I’m the devil incarnate?”

  “That you were responsible for Derry Stranahan’s murder.”

  “Oh, is it Derry Stranahan’s murder that I’m famous for!” I said, still smiling. “And me at Leenane all that day buying kelp from Tomsy Mulligan!”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know you were at Leenane.”

  “And you think I hired one of my kin to kiss the knife into Derry Stranahan’s back!”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said, very nervous, and when I laughed again she added in a rush, “I hated Derry and was glad when he died. If you arranged for his murder you can tell me so. It won’t change my love for you. Nothing could ever change that. But all the same, I’d like to know the truth. Were you responsible for Derry’s death?”

  “Sweetheart,” I said, drawing her to me and kissing her, “I swear to you on my dead mother’s grave that in all the conversations I had with my kin about Derry Stranahan, the word ‘murder’ never once passed my lips.”

  She leaned against me. I could see my own face in the mirror that hung on the wall, but hers was hidden from me. I could feel the shape of her breasts as her body pressed against mine. A strand of her rich dark hair brushed my cheek.

  “All the same, Maxwell,” I heard her say, “I think it might be kinder if we kept these letters from Ned at present. They can only upset him. I won’t throw them away—that would be wrong—but I’ll wait until later before I let him read them.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” I said and turned her face to mine so I could kiss her on the mouth.

  For an hour after that we forgot the letters, but when Sarah remembered them an unpleasant thought occurred to her.

  “Maxwell, supposing Patrick comes to America to bring Ned back?”

  “Jesus, Sarah,” I said, “they couldn’t even spare the money to send a tutor across the Atlantic with Ned. By the time they save the money for the fare we’ll be back in Ireland.”

  I privately had my doubts about this, but I thought it better to take this firm line to spare her sleepless nights. Meanwhile, it was I who found sleep hard to find. I hoped to God I’d hear about my pardon by Christmas.

  That night I did my own share of letter-writing. I sent Eileen some money and told her to buy Christmas presents with it, and I wrote to my favorite daughter Sally and told her to be careful of all the young Dublin men who were sure to be chasing her by that time, and I wrote to Max and Denis, promising to rescue them from the city and take them back to the land. Then I waited for their replies, the replies that never came, and at last after I’d waited many weeks I had a letter from Eileen to say that Sally had married and emigrated to England and that the boys (but not the girls) knew I was living in adultery, may God and all his saints have mercy upon my soul.

  “I hear from Father Donal’s sister that it’s the talk of Clonareen,” she wrote, “for the servants at Cashelmara say Lord de Salis does nothing but curse the pair of you all day long. Thank God at least I’m not still in that valley with everyone pitying me and the girls all put to shame by the disgrace. I hope you can get your pardon and come home to Ireland, for I wouldn’t wish exile on any Irishman, but please don’t come to this doorstep unless you come as a husband who wants a reconciliation with his wife—and even then I don’t know whether I could ever bring myself to forgive you, though I suppose a priest would tell me to try. But you won’t come, will you? You’re reaching above yourself again, just as you’ve been reaching above yourself all your life. You were never content with what you had. It wasn’t enough for you, was it, that you were a big fish in a small pond! You always wanted bigger, grander ponds to swim in, and I suppose you think now you’ve got what you wanted, but all I can say is you’d best be careful, for in those grand ponds there are fish bigger than you’ll ever be and they’ll destroy you if you poach too often on their ground. If you had any sense you’d be content with what you had instead of swimming beyond your depth in waters where you’ll never be at home.”

  I kept this letter to myself for a day or two and showed it to Sarah only when I realized she was eating her heart out with suspicion.

  “Of course she’s justified in feeling bitter,” she said afterward.

  “Why? Our love was dead long before I started loving you. It’s a dog-in-the-manger air she has, not wanting me but not wanting anyone else to have me either.”

  But I didn’t like to think of my girls put to shame and my boys not answering my letters and Eileen passing on her bitterness to whoever she chose. I wrote to her again. I said I’d respect her position as my wife and see she never wanted for anything once I was back in Ireland. I said I hadn’t wanted to hurt or shame her, but she had to realize that I couldn’t help loving Sarah the way I did. It had nothing to do with ambition. It was no good treating me as a calculating monster who loved with his head instead of his heart, and it was no good trying to explain my conduct according to reason because it was incapable of reasonable explanation.

  “It’s like an act of God,” I wrote boldly, though I knew as well as anyone that it’s the devil, not God, who locks two people together in adultery. “It’s no use talking of sin. To be sure I’d rather be living in a state of grace and going to Mass every Sunday, but since that’s not possible it’s no use talking about it. Sin’s for priests to talk about and people who have never suffered temptations no man could resist.”

  But I didn’t think Eileen would understand this, and I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t reply.

  Eileen might not be writing, but the letters still kept coming from Ireland. Just before Christmas a package arrived from Cashelmara, and inside Sarah found some letters from her children.

  They had never written to her before.

  “DEAREST MAMA,” John had printed, putting his R’s back to front, “I CAN WRITE NOW PLEASE COME HOME I LOVE YOU JOHN.”

  Eleanor, who was only seven, wrote fluently in a fine script: “Dearest Mama, we do miss you and Ned so much and are longing to see you again. This is the second Christmas we have spent without you and Jane cannot even remember how Christmas used to be when you were here. I talk to Jane about you every day so that she does not forget you. Nanny says you are certain to come home soon to see us. When will that be? Please give Ned a kiss from me. With very best love from your devoted daughter, ELEANOR.”

  Jane sent three pictures of fat orange animals and labeled them “MY CATS.”

  De Salis completed the package with two letters, one very typical letter to Ned and one most untypical letter to Sarah, which it was clear he had written at MacGowan’s dictation.

  “… and I feel it only fair to warn you that if you fail to return by Easter I shall apply for a decree of restitution of conjugal rights which will pave the way to seeking a divorce from you on the grounds of adultery and desertion. I would of course obtain absolute custody of all the children. I am advised by Rathbone that you would have no grounds for divorcing me since, in the event of misconduct being alleged against me, I could prove that the alleged misconduct was condoned. As for my present conduct I need only say that it is exemplary and you would find it impossible to prove otherwise. I remain your devoted and affectionate husband …”

  “Maxwell,” said Sarah in terror, tears streaming down her face, “Maxwell …”

  “It’s a bluff!” I said. “How many more times do I have to tell you he’s bluffing? He’ll never go through with his threats, never!” And all the time I was thinking in a rage: MacGowan, my enemy. My nemesis.

  “But, Maxwell …”

  “If they can bluff, we can bluff,” I said. “Write and say you’re seriously thinking about returning. Make it look as if you’ll be back by Easter. I’ll talk to Phineas again abou
t my pardon.”

  But the National League attorneys were still pursuing my case, and although Parnell replied to Phineas’ letter of inquiry he had nothing to report.

  In April I said to Sarah, “Tell de Salis you’ll be home in September after Ned’s completed his year of school and you’ve spent August at Newport.”

  It was like a game of poker. I could almost see the green baize cloth and the deck of cards and the chips piling higher and higher, and across the table facing me was MacGowan, my enemy, my nemesis, pretending he had all the cards in the pack, daring me to call his bluff one more time.

  At the end of May I left the Gallagher house and ran all the way home down Marlborough Street.

  I found Sarah in a terrible state, her eyes red and swollen from crying, her hands trembling so much she could hardly show me the legal writ the de Salis attorneys had sent her to start the proceedings for the decree of restitution of conjugal rights.

  “And look at the letter Mr. Rathbone’s written me!” she sobbed. “Look at it!”

  “And look at the letter the Queen’s written me!” I yelled, waving the Lord Chancellor’s parchment above my head. “We’re going home, Sarah! We’re going home!”

  II

  It had been a rough six months.

  In the past Sarah had been the one who felt insecure, but her burden had passed to me, and during those six months it had been sitting on my shoulders like a vulture at a wake. I kept telling myself she wouldn’t leave me, but I wasn’t sure I was right. She was working herself into a state over those children and those threats, and I knew she was growing impatient, thinking I’d never win my pardon, believing I was lying to keep her at my side. We quarreled, made peace in despair and promptly quarreled again. The more afraid I became of losing her the more possessive I became, and the more she worried about losing the children the less eager she was to be possessed. I started to drink more than was good for me, and when I went about my work I would lose my temper at the slightest provocation. Sarah wept, I sulked and Ned spent as much time as he could at the Gallagher house on Beacon Hill.