Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  “I suppose it was only to be expected,” she said, “but I must say I do think you’re both ridiculously young to be parents.”

  It was Drummond who saved the situation. He kissed Kerry and said he was sure everyone was going to be very pleased. He was wise enough not to offer me his hand to shake, but he congratulated me with a smile, and fortunately before my mother could speak again John and the girls came racing downstairs for a succession of joyous reunions. Kerry was diverted, and turning once more to my mother, I opened my mouth to tell her what I thought of her welcome.

  It was only then that I noticed she was wearing black. It didn’t suit her. The color made her skin look sallow.

  “Ned, how lovely to see you again!” cried Eleanor, taking me by surprise as she flung her arms around me.

  I hugged her. I had just realized that she too was wearing black when Jane danced up to me.

  “Neddy, do you know what happened? Ozymandias and Percival had another family, and I’ve christened the kittens after the colors in my paintbox. Their names are Azure, Cobalt and Lapis-Lazuli, and they’re all white with orange paws.”

  Jane wore a little black smocked dress, and as she jumped up and down in front of me I saw her petticoats fluttering above her black stockings.

  Everyone was wearing black.

  “Ned dearest,” said my mother, “come into the morning room for a moment. There’s something I must say to you alone.”

  We went into the morning room. I was quite calm. When I asked her where Uncle David was my voice was steady and untroubled.

  “Oh, Ned …” Her face crumpled. Harsh ugly lines disfigured her features as her eyes filled with tears.

  “Where is he?” I repeated, still perfectly calm. “What’s happened to him?”

  “Ned, he … he …” But she couldn’t say it

  “He died.” I looked around the room as if I expected to find an explanation written on the walls. When I found none I looked at her again, but there was nothing in her face except grief.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, he died.” And then she clung to me as if she had no one else to turn to and wept as if the grief were beyond all her powers to endure.

  Chapter Eight

  I

  MY MOTHER BEGAN TO talk in a low, uneven voice.

  “He arrived two weeks ago and complained of feeling unwell almost at once—an intestinal disorder. Well, you know David’s digestion has always been weak. I thought nothing of it, and then he said he was better. But a day later he fell ill again—a pain in his right side, he told me. Unfortunately, Dr. Cahill was away—he had left the previous day for Dublin—but Madeleine came. When I told her the symptoms she said it sounded like peritonitis, a severe infection resulting from inflammation of the appendix. Dr. Cahill confirmed the diagnosis later. David had had one or two previous attacks, apparently, and a London specialist had even recommended an operation, but of course operations are always so unpleasant and risky. David had decided that he would try a prescribed diet before resorting to an operation.”

  I asked about the funeral.

  “It was last Monday. The body was taken back to Surrey and Madeleine left to be with his wife. We sent a telegram to Thomas. It was too late to send one to you because you’d already left. We were going to wait till you came home, but … his wife didn’t want the funeral delayed, too much strain and sadness. I said you would understand. I wanted to go myself, but the shock … It made me ill. I kept thinking of Marguerite. I still think of her day and night. She was so very fond of David. He was such a dear little boy.”

  “There was no doubt at all about the diagnosis?”

  “No, darling. None at all.”

  II

  “There was no doubt about the diagnosis, was there, Aunt Madeleine?”

  “No, my dear,” said Aunt Madeleine, who had just returned from Surrey. “None at all. I told Dr. Cahill there had been a recent history of illness that had been diagnosed as an inflammation of the appendix.”

  “Did Uncle David actually mention this to you himself, Aunt Madeleine?”

  She hesitated for one full second. But no more. Her eyes were very light and clear and blue. “Yes, dear, he did.”

  “I see. Forgive me. It was only that it seemed something of a coincidence, my father and Uncle David dying of somewhat similar symptoms.”

  “No, one can’t compare the two cases. They were quite different.”

  There was a silence. Aunt Madeleine’s eyes never changed their expression.

  “Aunt Madeleine …”

  “Yes, Ned?”

  “Did Dr. Cahill suggest an autopsy?”

  “No, dear. In the circumstances I told him I really didn’t think it was necessary. Of course, when Thomas comes home he may insist upon one. I don’t know. But that must be his decision, not mine.”

  “But—”

  “We must wait till Thomas comes home,” said Aunt Madeleine. “I have written to him to suggest he return immediately. Now, my dear, there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Thomas and I will attend to everything as soon as he comes back, and until then there’s nothing further that either of us can do.”

  After a moment I said, “You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what? My dear child, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about! I only know that it’s no concern of yours. There’s no need for you to worry. All will be well in time.”

  “Aunt Madeleine, there’s no need to treat me as if I was still in the nursery!”

  “Ned, I’m treating you as a very dear nephew who is only seventeen years old, yet has all kinds of worries and responsibilities that most seventeen-year-olds either don’t have or haven’t even heard of. You have enough to cope with. Leave this, please, to me and Thomas.”

  “But—”

  “There is nothing else to say.”

  “I want to talk to you, Aunt Madeleine.”

  “Later, dear. When Thomas is home. But not now.”

  I went away.

  III

  As soon as I arrived home from Clonareen I shut myself in my room and wrote to Uncle Thomas.

  “Please ignore Aunt Madeleine’s letter,” I said. “There’s no need for you to return home prematurely. I am quite convinced that Uncle David died a natural death—even Dr. Cahill thought an autopsy was unnecessary—and you know that I’d be the first to tell you if I thought Uncle David had been murdered.”

  I said more, but I don’t remember the other lies now. It was a muddled letter, but the message was clear. When it was finished I even rode to Leenane so that the letter would catch the earliest mail car to Galway.

  Afterward I wondered what I was doing, but all I could think was: Aunt Madeleine knows. When she talks to Uncle Thomas he’ll insist on the body being exhumed and an autopsy performed. Drummond will be accused and so will my mother, and that’ll mean I’ve spent all these months holding my tongue for nothing. I couldn’t bear that. It would be unendurable.

  Must go on protecting my mother. No choice. Must keep Uncle Thomas away for as long as possible. Buy a little more time for myself. Think what I must do.

  But I didn’t know what I could do, and after a while I could no longer bring myself to think about it.

  Uncle Thomas’s letter arrived some days later.

  “My dear Ned, first let me thank you for your kind and thoughtful letter. The news was a terrible blow to me, for David and I were very close. Indeed, I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t in the world, and now that he’s no longer here the world will seem a very different place to me.

  “Second, let me assure you that you were mistaken about the contents of Madeleine’s letter. She never breathed a word to me about murder, merely urged me to come home to console you and Sarah and make arrangements for David’s poor Harriet. However, I might have come home immediately if three things hadn’t happened to dissuade me: Harriet herself wrote to beg me not to return early on her account, as she has gone to stay with her
parents; you wrote to assure me there was absolutely no reason to suspect foul play, and Sarah wrote to say that everyone at Cashelmara was recovering from the shock and that it would be mere selfishness on her part if she asked me to rush home to be a pillar of strength to my family. After considering these letters, I have decided I should remain here until my studies are completed, but if you need my help you have only to send word and I’ll be on my way across the Atlantic.

  “In answer to your question: Yes, David did have a history of poor digestion, but I hadn’t heard that this was ever attributed to a weakness of the appendix. However, this could well be a recent diagnosis made after my departure to America, and David could have refrained from mentioning it in his letters.

  “I agree with you that it seems almost impossible that he could have been murdered despite the peculiar circumstances of his visit to Cashelmara. I simply can’t imagine Drummond being such a fool, and besides if David had really discovered important evidence I think Drummond would have been willing to reach an agreement with him—a comfortable life at Clonagh Court, for example, in exchange for his resignation as agent and your mother’s resignation as trustee. David would have been of more use to Drummond alive. To kill him would have been extraordinarily dangerous and foolhardy, and I don’t think Drummond would ever kill anyone unless he was absolutely certain of getting away with it. No, I’m sure David did die a natural death. It’s very tragic, but at least we have the consolation of knowing that neither of us could have prevented it and thus neither of us are to blame.

  “However, despite all I’ve said above I have no intention of making the same mistake twice. This time I shall insist on an autopsy, both to set our minds at rest and to satisfy my professional standards, but you need have no fear that I shall not employ the greatest possible discretion. Very fortunately, because of my experience in these matters and my personal acquaintance with those at the Home Office and Scotland Yard who sanction exhumations when foul play is suspected, I believe I can arrange not only for discretion but for absolute secrecy. I couldn’t have done this in your father’s case, because he is buried in Ireland and the appropriate Irish authorities are all quite unknown to me.

  “We can discuss this more fully when I return in September. Meanwhile, my love to you and all the family.”

  I burned the letter in the grate in my room and prodded the ashes later to make sure every scrap of writing was destroyed. Prompted by Uncle Thomas’s speculations, I wondered if I might perhaps negotiate another bargain with Drummond. No autopsy if he would resign from his post and move with my mother to Clonagh Court. But that wouldn’t do. If Drummond had killed Uncle David as well as my father, I wanted him hanged and so, I knew, would Uncle Thomas. But my mother …

  Always my mother.

  “I want to talk to you, Ned,” said my mother to me on one bright sunny May morning after the children had left the breakfast table to play in the garden. Kerry was having breakfast in bed as usual, but that day I had made the effort to join the rest of my family in the dining room. As soon as Drummond had followed the children outside, my mother had dismissed the servants and asked me to stay.

  “Please don’t make some excuse to escape,” she said in a rapid voice. “Yes, I know you’ve been trying to avoid me lately—I’m not entirely insensitive, you know—and I would so much like to talk to you about it. Please. It would mean a great deal to me.”

  “Of course, Mama,” I said. I had half risen to my feet, but now I sank down again in front of my empty teacup and waited for her to go on.

  “I’ve been behaving very foolishly,” she said, “and I want to apologize—to both you and Kerry.”

  I looked at her blankly. She was wearing an elaborate blouse that did not quite succeed in hiding the lines about her neck, and as I saw those lines I realized how much she had changed since we had returned to Cashelmara. Her hair was no longer the rich brown I had loved but a flat black—no doubt dyed with the intent of making her look younger, but it had the opposite effect because the color was so unnatural. It also changed her complexion, emphasizing the olive tint so that her skin appeared sallow—although she tried to conceal the sallowness with a heavy layer of powder. The make-up, excessive and distasteful to me, made her face seem like a mask, and although I strained my eyes I couldn’t see beyond the mask to the familiar much-loved person beneath.

  “No wonder you took offense and have been behaving so coolly toward me,” she was saying, and, unlike her unnatural appearance, her voice was reassuringly awkward, filled with genuine emotion. “It was so silly of me to be upset about the baby and so wrong. You mustn’t think I don’t realize that and feel ashamed. But, darling, everything’s going to be different from now on. I’ve got used to the idea of being a grandmother, and I know I shall love the baby when it comes. I’ve always loved babies, as you know. I don’t know why I was so stupid unless it was because …” She stopped.

  “Please, Mama, there’s no need to say any more. I understand.”

  “No, you don’t. It was because I was jealous of Kerry, you see—because she’s so young and happy and has all her life before her, because she’s carrying the child of someone she loves. When you came back from America and I saw Kerry, I felt such a sadness, as if everything was finished for me and I had nothing left to give. It would have been different if I could have had another child—Maxwell’s child—but the doctor told me after Jane was born—”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t understand, but when a woman’s no longer young—I can’t describe the insecurity I feel sometimes, the absolute dread of aging, the terror that I shall lose my looks and no longer be attractive to Maxwell.”

  I stood up. My napkin fluttered to the floor.

  “Don’t turn your back on me, Ned,” she said. “I’ve been so lonely these last few weeks when you haven’t had a word to say to me.”

  I suddenly saw her long ago waiting for me to step off the boat in New York, her face strained with that painful, naked longing to see me again. Memories of other far-off times flickered through my mind, golden sunlit days in the nursery, my mother loving me as my father had loved me, staying with me during all those dark days when she had been terrified of MacGowan, making sacrifice after sacrifice until Drummond’s shadow had wrapped itself around her life. But if I no longer blamed my father for Hugh MacGowan, I could no longer blame my mother for Maxwell Drummond.

  I thought of Drummond talking of acts of God, the one explanation that allowed me to forgive both my parents, and realized dimly that for the first time for nearly five years I was again able to love my parents equally. I didn’t have to choose sides any more. The only side I had to take was my own.

  “I must apologize too, Mama,” I said, kissing her. “I didn’t realize how much I’d upset you.”

  “Then we can make a fresh start? Oh, I feel so much better! Now, don’t let’s talk about the past any more. Let’s talk about the future—about the baby! I’ve noticed how certain you both are that it’ll be a boy. What are you going to call him?”

  “We’ve no intention of being original, I’m afraid. We thought we’d follow tradition and call him Patrick Edward.”

  “I see. Well, that’s very nice. Will he be called Ned after you?”

  “No,” I said. “Patrick, after my father.”

  There was a silence. I had been drifting toward the door, but I stopped to look back.

  “Kerry wanted an Irish name,” I said at last. “So Patrick seemed particularly suitable.”

  “Ah yes,” said my mother. “Of course.”

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mama …”

  “Yes, if you wish,” she said and added, stumbling over her words, “It’ll be so nice to have a baby in the house again. You can’t imagine what a pleasure it will be for me …”

  IV

  My son was born on the twenty-eighth of June at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  I saw him soon afterward.

  I saw Ke
rry first. She had been in labor only eight hours, but she was very tired and when I saw her she was already half asleep. She said drowsily, “He’s lovely. Lovely. You’ll like him.” And then her hand relaxed in mine and her lashes fluttered against her cheek. After I had kissed her I went into the room next door, where my aunt Madeleine, Dr. Cahill, Nanny and the new nursemaid from London were huddled together in a cabal.

  As I entered the room I heard a mewing noise, like a lost kitten, and saw something minute being enveloped in a large shawl.

  “A very fine infant!” said Aunt Madeleine kindly. “Almost as fine as you were at that age. Come along! Take a look at him. He won’t bite you!”

  I edged nearer, hardly able to believe that anything so small could possibly be human.

  “A large, healthy baby,” said Dr. Cahill, beaming as if he himself were the father. “Eight pounds at least.”

  “Eight pounds two ounces, Doctor,” said Nanny, putting him in his place.

  “There!” said Aunt Madeleine. “Isn’t that a delightful infant?”

  The baby mewed again. He had a red face and his eyes were shut.

  “Oh yes,” I said. ‘Very nice.”

  “Would you like to hold him?” said Aunt Madeleine.

  “Oh, I’d better not. I might drop him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” said my aunt roundly and dumped the baby in my arms.

  The mewing had stopped. The baby had fallen asleep, and when I looked again at his small face I saw only the peace and serenity, the blind unreasoning trust that the world would be a good place for him to live in.

  My role of ostrich ended abruptly. I raised my head at last from the sand, and when I looked upon the world into which I had so casually brought my son I realized that world was now intolerable to me.