The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  The sobs came now, and she flung her arms about her father’s neck, clinging to him as if never to let him go.

  “What’s going on?” demanded a sleepy Philip. “I wanted a lie-in.”

  “Your mother died this morning, Philip.”

  “Oh, my God!” Philip sat down by his father. “How? Why? She wasn’t that ill, surely?”

  Catriona barely heard what her father said, for all she could think of was the door that she had not opened. She cried the harder. She was still crying when her father carried her downstairs to the kitchen, where Philip made tea. Bridie was there, weeping and moaning, alternately using her apron to dry her face and smoothing its wet splotched surface over her hips. She kept repeating, “Oh, the poor dear, the poor darling,” as if it were a litany.

  Catriona managed to choke down the tea, but she couldn’t eat the porridge Bridie set before her. It had lumps, and Catriona pushed her spoon around in it, knowing she couldn’t get them past the lumps in her throat. By then Mick had arrived, looking extremely ill at ease and clearing his throat constantly. He patted Catriona’s shoulder in awkward sympathy. Then he finished a cup of tea so quickly she knew he burned his mouth.

  “The horses,” he said cryptically, and got out of the kitchen.

  He’d need some help, Catriona thought, for Sunday was Artie’s day off.

  “And where are you going, Catriona Mary?” Bridie demanded as she slipped off her chair to follow Mick.

  “To help Mick feed.”

  “Feed horses?” Bridie’s words came out in a screech. “And your poor mother not even cold?”

  “Bridie, for Christ’s sake!” Philip shouted.

  “If you’d been a proper daughter and done as your mother wished,” Bridie went on, shaking her fist at Catriona, “she’d be alive this morning!”

  Catriona stared at Bridie for one long, horror-stricken moment. Then she spun out the door and up to her room. Bridie knew! Bridie had said it aloud! Catriona had killed her mother.

  She flung herself into her bed, writhing. If only she’d opened the door. Why hadn’t she opened the door? She pounded at the bedclothes and pillows, wanting to tear them, howling and twisting. A hard hand connected with her cheek, and stunned, she lay there, panting, hiccuping over the sobs building up in her throat, staring up at her brother. Philip’s face was pale and grim, the tears wet on his unshaven cheeks.

  “Catriona Mary Virginia, you had nothing to do with Mother’s death. Bridie’s grief-stricken. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. I thought it was wonderful of you to remember that Mick would need help today.”

  Philip gathered her up in his arms, patting her and pushing back her tangled hair. “I’m sorry I had to slap you,” he said, “but you’d gone hysterical.”

  “I should have opened my door, Pip, I should have. She wouldn’t have collapsed like that. If she hadn’t collapsed, she wouldn’t have had to go to hospital. If she hadn’t gone to hospital, she wouldn’t have died. People die in hospitals.”

  Philip took a corner of her sheet to mop her face, and then his. “Catriona, Mother wasn’t well. You did not cause her death!”

  “But I didn’t see her after. She didn’t want me to come to see her.”

  “She wasn’t seeing anyone, pet. Not just you. Not even Grandmother got to see her. The doctor said she had to have complete rest and quiet for a few days, remember?”

  Neither heard the quick steps on the stairs, then Sybil erupted into Catriona’s room. Seeing her sister, Catriona broke into fresh sobs.

  “Thank God, you’re here, Syb,” Philip said. “I can’t say anything to comfort her. She thinks she’s responsible for Mother’s death.”

  “How on earth can she think that?” Sybil eased her sister into her arms.

  “Because I didn’t open the door. I couldn’t open the door. Oh, Sybil!”

  “There now, Trina, there now, baby. Cry. We’ll all cry together.”

  But Catriona couldn’t stop. Finally, in desperation, Sybil phoned Dr. Standish, and he attended the limp and sobbing girl.

  “I’ve given her a mild sedative,” he said when he emerged from the room. “She’ll sleep. Let her. It’s the best way to ease the shock she’s had. You’ve all had.” He put his hand on Michael’s arm, shaking his head. “While Isabel had seriously debilitated her system, there was absolutely no indication of serious heart or circulatory problems. There was nothing that would lead us to believe there would be complications. We now suspect an embolism. The autopsy will provide conclusive proof. All that lying in bed, no exercise.” He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Michael, truly sorry.”

  Between them, Michael and Philip informed everyone who would need to know. The most difficult was Mairead Marshall, who simply refused to believe that her daughter had died.

  “What do you want to bet that she phones St. Gabriel’s?” Philip asked, for he had kept his father company during that call.

  “Nothing.”

  By now it was ten o’clock, and Michael sent a telegram to his son Jack in Nicaragua. He stood for a long moment then, his hand on the phone, wondering if Eithne would be at the Coliemore Hotel. He needed her help.

  Then he heard a car in the courtyard and glanced out the window to see Selina’s red Lancia. He took a stern hold on the jump of pure pleasure he felt. Yesterday’s tranquillity belonged to the past and could not be reclaimed. But Selina might be able to sort Bridie out and console Catriona when she awoke. Just the sight of her slim figure in riding clothes heartened him.

  “Oh, Michael, it’s so awful,” she said when she heard his grim news. She embraced him gently, kissing both cheeks and resting her hand lightly on his face in sympathy. “How’s Catriona taking it?” And then Bridie set up a new crescendo of wailing. “Well, that won’t help.”

  “I tore strips out of the woman when I heard what she said to Catriona, and she hasn’t been quiet since. Do what you can, will you, Selina? The doctor’s just been and given Trina a sedative. The poor child’s shattered.”

  “Oh, she would be.” Selina gave his hand a quick reassuring pressure before she strode toward the kitchen.

  Michael decided to let all the horses out for the day, and Philip and Owen came out to help.

  Wasn’t it just like Isabel, Michael thought as he led the Tulip out to his paddock, to die two days before the Spring Show? He was appalled at the blasphemy, but he would not indulge in hypocrisies, he thought, in his own mind. Beside him, the Tulip, who usually cut shapes in the air on his way to pasture, walked with quiet dignity. He’d known when old Tyler had died and been subdued for weeks. Isabel would not at all appreciate being mourned by a horse! Michael opened the paddock gate, led the stallion through, and unclipped the lead rope. The Tulip walked on a few steps before he lowered his head to graze.

  “They know, Captain dear,” Mick said, nodding his head slowly as he came back from turning the ponies out. “They’ve a way of knowing. Sure they can do with a day out, exercise themselves.”

  He cast a sideways glance at his employer.

  “Oh, we’ll be at the show, Mick,” Michael said. “Teasle and the Prince both have Wednesday classes. And for Trina’s sake, I’m not drawing the funeral out any longer than I have to.”

  Mick made an affirmative noise deep in his throat.

  Somehow, Selina had dealt with Bridie, and there was food on the kitchen table when the men came back into the house. By noontime, all his family in Ireland had arrived at Cornanagh: his oldest son, James, with his wife; Andrew in fatigues, having obtained emergency leave from his regiment to Curragh Barracks; his son-in-law, Aidan Roche, to help Sybil. His sister, Margaret, came, saying that her husband and children would pay their respects later in the day.

  Owen had phoned his brother, Harry, but when he had tried to locate the phone number of John Gavaghan’s nearest neighbor in Longford, Michael said that there was no point in upsetting Eithne with a long drive ahead of her. She’d be back by evening, and that was soon eno
ugh to know.

  A subdued and sniffling Bridie helped Sybil, Margaret, and Selina serve the meal. Michael didn’t feel like eating, no one did. Dr. Standish phoned after dinner to say that he had been able to arrange the autopsy for Monday and agreed that there was no reason to prolong matters past Tuesday.

  Michael was speaking to his brother in the States when the cream-colored Mercedes of Robert and Mairead Marshall turned into the courtyard. He saw his mother-in-law step out, dressed all in black even to the veiled hat on her white and stylishly dressed hair.

  “The Marshalls just drove in, Eamonn,” he said quickly.

  “Christ, Mick, I don’t envy you that,” Eamonn replied. “Look, I’ll come, and I’m sure Paddy will. I’ll ring him. Save you another transatlantic call. See you tomorrow.”

  “Dad?” Philip bounced into the hall, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  Michael handed him the receiver. “Try the Australian Marshalls again, Pip. Eamonn at least will be coming.”

  Mairead Marshall accused her son-in-law of causing her daughter’s death. He had neglected a fine woman—loyal, Christian, devout, the pillar of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association, the instigator of all good works in the community, the most devoted mother and most maligned wife, struck down in her prime, a tragedy of tremendous proportion. Michael endured it, though several times he had to catch Sybil’s or Margaret’s indignant glance as one or the other started to come to his defense. He recognized Mairead Marshall’s need to vent her sorrow and blame, and it was preferable she do it now, in the privacy of the immediate family, rather than during the funeral.

  Nothing the woman accused him of could restore life to her daughter, his wife, and he excused her to himself, knowing how close she had been to Isabel. Far too close for their marital relationship to have had any chance of improving. Isabel was—had been—very like her mother in so many ways. Michael sighed. Some very clever man had said one could see the daughter in the mother, only Michael would never have believed the truth of it during his courtship of the charming Isabel Marshall. She had been such a lovely girl. And it had seemed important for him to have her as his very own before he marched off to war. In truth, he had never had her, though she had spent thirty-three years as his wife and had borne him six children. And that was the pity of it all.

  “Michael, attend me when I’m speaking to you.” Mairead’s voice cut through his wandering thoughts.

  “I’m sorry.” He waved his hand in a helpless gesture. “It’s hard to keep my mind on anything.”

  “I asked you, Michael”—her voice had softened,—“what plans have been made.”

  Michael exhaled. “The usual. Autopsy tomorrow . . . ”

  “Autopsy? On my daughter?” Good old Mairead, defending her daughter’s sanctity and the family honor to the last. “Why, I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

  “The exact cause of death has to be established,” he said wearily. “Doctor Standish has at least been able to arrange it for tomorrow so that Isabel can be buried on Tuesday.”

  Mairead’s eyes bulged and she half rose from the straight-backed Victorian chair. “On Tuesday? That is unseemly! Are we to be given no chance to mourn our dead? Why, her brothers in Australia could scarcely get here by Wednesday.”

  “They can’t come in any case, Grandmother,” Philip said, speaking for the first time since he had entered the drawing room. “I phoned all the uncles. They send their deepest sympathy, and there’ll be Masses said for Mother.”

  “Nonetheless, Michael Carradyne, Tuesday is out of the question.”

  “Tuesday it will be, Mrs. Marshall,” Michael replied with quiet authority. “I’m not having Catriona endure more than is necessary.”

  Mairead suddenly sat even more erect than ever, glancing about her. “And just where is Catriona?”

  “Asleep, Grandmother,” Sybil said almost defiantly. “Doctor Standish gave her a sedative.”

  “I do not approve of giving sedatives to children.”

  “Neither does he,” Sybil replied, “but we all felt it was better than hysterics. Trina is inconsolable.”

  “And so she should be, losing her mother at such a critical age. I shall give her future considerable thought.”

  “And why should you do that?” Michael asked.

  Mairead Marshall fixed her son-in-law with a hard stare. “She will need sensible guidance from a mature woman over these next few months.”

  “She will have that at Cornanagh, where she shall stay.” Michael spoke emphatically. “Eithne is devoted to Catriona.”

  “So am I,” Sybil said, sitting as erect as her grandmother.

  Just then Selina appeared in the doorway, with an apologetic smile to the assembled family. “The phone, Michael. It’s Murphy’s of Bray.”

  It would be almost a relief to talk to the undertaker, Michael thought as he excused himself from the room. Once the door was closed behind him, he caught Selina’s arm. “How’s Catriona?”

  “Still asleep.”

  “Selina, do me a favor? Stay with Catriona. I’d rather she didn’t see her grandmother right now.”

  “Wise of you,” she replied, and, drying her hands on a tea towel, went softly up to Catriona’s room. She had crept up to see her before the noon meal as well, and had almost burst into tears.

  Catriona was curled up on her side now, sheet-white and vulnerable, one tear lingering on the long fringe of lashes, so black against the pallor of her skin. Selina thought she seemed to be sleeping more peacefully. A car drove into the courtyard, and Catriona moved restlessly at the noise. Selina heard the house door open and the low voices of people offering condolences.

  She sat down at Catriona’s desk, idly scanning the titles of the few books on the shelf, smiling that all of them were about horses. She ran a finger down the spine of National Velvet, already well used though she knew it had been a birthday gift. Idly Selina took down the Pony Club Manual next to it. The binding was broken, and the book fell open to a page much embellished by pencil sketches of horse hooves from various perspectives. Surprised and delighted, Selina riffled through and found that the beginning of each new chapter, having more white space, featured remarkably accurate line drawings of horses.

  She glanced over at the sleeping girl. Catriona sketched? And she was talented. Biting her lip against an invasion of a young girl’s private things, Selina removed the sketch pad from under the schoolbooks on the desk.

  She stifled a gasp at the drawings within, for most were of a clearly identifiable Conker: his head from many different angles, half a dozen sketches of him peering over his stall door. With an economy of line, Catriona had captured the essential inquisitiveness of the pony, the bright mischief in his eyes and his elegance. There were many more sketches of him cavorting in the fields, soaring over the gorse bush or standing at the field gate, neck outstretched for a treat. Selina felt a pang of regret when she came to blank pages and flipped through to the end. She was rewarded by two more sketches.

  These must be of Blister, for she remembered the delicate Connemara ears of the dead pony. The pencil lines were not as decisive as those of Conker. Almost as if—as if, without the model, the memory of the loving eye had faltered.

  Oh, dear Catriona, dear dear Catriona, Selina thought, pressing the sketch pad to her chest and rocking it as she would have liked to rock, and comfort, her young friend.

  Catriona began to stir, muttering and moaning a bit in her sleep. “I’ll open it. I’ll open it!” Selina rushed to Catriona’s bed. The girl sat up, staring around her with frightened, unfocused eyes.

  “Mrs. Healey?” Tears welled immediately into Catriona’s blue eyes.

  “I’m here, pet.” Selina put her arms about the thin body.

  “Mother didn’t want to see me. I never saw her again!”

  “Catriona, none of us know why people are suddenly taken from us. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense at all. But your mother is dead, and not all the tears or all the earnest
prayers of the world can bring her back to life. I didn’t know your mother well, but I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to make yourself sick with grief.”

  “She wanted me to give up horses. That’s why she was fasting.” A sob shook Catriona, and Selina hugged her more tightly.

  “Catriona Carradyne,” she said, giving the thin shoulders a little shake as she held the girl from her, “she may have, believing that she knew what was best for you. But you’re not at all like your mother. You’re your father’s child, a child of Cornanagh and all it represents. That much I do know. I also know that it is wrong to force someone into being what they are not. I’m positive that your mother would have come to recognize this in time.”

  “No, she wouldn’t have.” Catriona’s voice was sullen. “She hated horses. She didn’t understand anything about horses. She didn’t like me.”

  Selina gave her another shake. “Don’t say such things, Trina. Your mother did love you, or she wouldn’t have worried so about your future. She may not have liked horses, but she loved you. And she’d have come round. Really, she would. I would have helped there all I could. I want to help you now. And I want you to stop thinking of all the things you didn’t do and didn’t say to your mother. I want you to think of the good things and happier times you shared.”

  She caught the angry expression on Catriona’s face. “And don’t, for God’s sake, Catriona, go on blaming yourself for something you didn’t do.” Selina spoke almost sharply, remembering keenly her own feelings of remorse when her mother had died. She’d been older than Catriona was now but equally unable to deal with the loss.

  “Catriona, I’m going to ask you an unfair and difficult question. If your mother came to the door right now”—she was appalled by Catriona’s sudden rigidity—”if your mother asked you to agree never to sit on another horse as long as you lived, what would you say?”

  Catriona stared up at Selina, her eyes wide. She swallowed and slowly began to shake her head. Then she collapsed against Selina, weeping with a quiet desperation, her fingers digging into Selina’s arms. Selina rocked her slowly, stroking the fine soft black hair.