The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  An hour later, after Finbarr had examined her, stitched the worst laceration, and given her appropriate injections, Selina wouldn’t have recognized the creature. Catriona was feeding her judicious handfuls of a bran mash, for she was almost too weak to raise her head to the manger in the small stable. The worst of the mud had been removed in order to assess her injuries. To Selina’s astonishment, honey had been applied liberally to the minor cuts.

  “Best thing in the world for healing, Selina,” Michael said cheerfully, washing his sticky fingers under the yard tap. “Rarely leaves scars and almost never changes the hair color over a wound. That’s the real benefit.” He stroked the pathetically thin rump, his final pat the barest caress so as not to unbalance the little thing.

  “Will she make it, Michael?”

  “We’ll know tomorrow. If we’ve caught her in time, she should pick up noticeably. Johnny was right, you know. She’s well bred.”

  The filly turned her head slowly, as if she knew she was under discussion, and regarded them with patient, questioning, slightly furrowed eyes, deep hollows in the brow exaggerated by her emaciation. Her ears twitched, managed a more alert stance, and then fell back loppedly as if the effort of holding them pricked was too great. She turned back to lip up Catriona’s palmful of bran.

  “Just as if she were being polite,” Selina murmured, her breath catching in her throat at the valiant courtesy of the little horse.

  Michael crouched, running a light, knowing hand down the tendons of her forelegs, shaking his head and sighing.

  “She’s a tough little thing, though, and the tendons are tight. Luck, pure luck.”

  “Pure luck for her that that tinker talked you into taking her off his hands,” Selina remarked sardonically.

  Michael grinned and gestured for her to precede him out of the small stable.

  “We’ll see. I’ve been lucky with Johnny’s offerings before now, and I’ve an idea about her. But first I’ll check in with the Gardái. Trina, that’s enough bran for now. We’ll let her rest. Can I rely on you to nurse her?”

  “Oh, yes, Daddy!”

  “Then you’re to keep track of how much she’s drinking, how much she’s eating, and she’s to get little feeds at three-hour intervals.” He glanced at his watch. “Another at five o’clock. God, where has the day gone?”

  “Any way I can help?” Selina heard herself asking to relieve his frown of exasperation.

  “You only signed on to show Charlie for me, Selina,” he said, eyeing her. “I have no intention of imposing on your good nature.”

  She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “I enjoy riding in this yard, Michael, and”—she let her voice fall into a social drawl—”it’s ever so much more interesting than my usual routine.”

  “Hmmm.” Now there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Yes, well, all to the good. Mine.”

  “So what have you in mind?” At that he gave her such an outrageously roguish grin that she said hastily, “The horse, that is.”

  Another grin, and he reverted to his professional self. “I’ve that gelding of Morton’s to work, and I’d completely forgot that Artie’s still in at the show. I need a light rider. Are you game? He’s too stupid to have any vices yet.”

  “Artie?”

  “Don’t be cheeky with me, missus, or I’ll make you ride with no stirrups.”

  “Oh, fate worse than death!” she replied, holding up both hands to ward it off.

  “Well, he’s a far cry from Charlie,” she said an hour later, trying to mop her sweaty face with a soggy handkerchief. Michael dipped one of his own in the trough and, wringing it out, gave it to her, an unpenitent grin on his face.

  “C’mon, I’ll buy you a cup of tea.”

  She was more than willing. Michael was an exacting trainer, but one with incredible patience for a stupid horse like the brown gelding. Unlike Charlie or Teasle, the brown horse had not yet developed any sense of balance with a rider on his back and had a choppy, unrhythmic trot, all of which made him an uncomfortable ride. She had had moments of regret that she had agreed to help but remained determined to see it through.

  At the end of the session, she actually could feel an improvement: his trot had achieved some basic rhythm, and he was beginning to engage his hocks, lightening a bit on the forehand and acquiring a modicum of balance. The session had also shown her a new dimension of Michael. It was relatively simple to get a willing, intelligent horse to do what you wanted: horses generally had an innate desire to please. But to school a stupid, unresponsive horse took considerably more skill and a firm determination to make it submit. As Michael had.

  “Well, he’ll be no more than an adequate hunter,” Michael was saying, “which, fortunately, is all Morton wants of him. Sometimes, though, the doting horse owner exceeds his steed’s native ability.” He grimaced. “You know that dapple gray? Well, Connolly is certain that he has placed the successor to Morning Light in my keeping. Bridie, is the tea wet?” He poked his head into the kitchen.

  “In here, Michael,” cried Eithne, coming to the door of the lounge and beckoning to them. “Bridie’s only just brought it in.”

  As Selina entered the lounge she paused, staring about her. There was a subtle change in the room, and she saw that Michael was aware of it, too. Catriona, seated on the couch and stroking the marmalade cat, grinned.

  “Isn’t it marvelous? Auntie Eithne and Bridget have been at it hammer and tongs since the uncles left, Daddy, and everything’s all bright and airy.”

  “Well, as I told Bridie, we really need Bridget to come in more,” Eithne began, looking embarrassedly pleased. “Those drapes haven’t been cleaned in donkey’s years. And those old chintz ones are really most suitable for summer.”

  The windows were open to the spring afternoon, and the floral curtains billowed in the breeze, lightly caressing the half-moon table now standing between the windows. On it was a huge old jardiniere, filled with weigela branches, some showing the pink and red of the blossoms. There was another vase on the heavy old refectory table, sporting some late tulips, and Eithne had resurrected pillows covered in the same chintz as the curtains.

  “Isn’t that table a Sheraton?” Selina asked, pointing to the half-moon table with its slender legs and delicate inlay.

  “Yes, and in excellent condition,” Eithne replied.

  “And is that bowl Staffordshire?”

  “Yes, but I had to turn a chip to the wall so it’s not noticeable.” Eithne looked gratified by Selina’s implied compliment.

  “It’s ever so much cozier now,” Catriona said, pushing two pillows behind her back since she was not quite long enough in the thigh to sit comfortably on the deep couch.

  “Are you interested in antiques, Eithne?” Selina asked.

  “She knows who made everything in this house, and when,” Catriona said, quite willing to put her aunt in the best possible light to Selina. “She gets books and books out of the library at Greystones and studies antiques.”

  “Michael regarded his sister-in-law with verled surprise. He had often seen her with her nose buried in large awkward volumes, but he’d never noticed their titles. He was intrigued when Eithne blushed a bit and became very intent on pouring tea for Selina.

  “Well, yes, I’ve become more interested over the last few years, especially when I took a closer look at some of the things stored in the garret. Did you know that there is a Peninsula chest up there, Michael? It’s initialed MCC.”

  “Another Michael Carradyne,” he replied, taking the cup she offered him. “One of the military ones.” He addressed Selina. “Carradynes have three professions open to them: horses, army, and Church. There’s rarely been a generation of Carradynes without sons in all three.”

  “That’s more English than Irish, Michael,” Selina teased. “Some of the best Wicklow families are more English than Irish.”

  The dining room clock struck four loudly.

  “Oh, I’d no idea how late it was. I’ve got t
o run.” Selina drained her cup, thanked Eithne, complimented her again on the room, and, with a smile for both Michael and Catriona, departed.

  When Selina turned into her drive, she had to jam on the brakes: the gravel courtyard was well tenanted. She recognized the blue BMW, which belonged to Declan Murray, and grimaced. The 220 gray Mercedes was unfamiliar to her, but it bore Dublin plates. The Ford Cortina belonged to David’s accountant, and the other Jag bore northern plates. Somewhat relieved, for the accountant would not have been present at a social occasion, she squeezed the Lancia up on the lawn, being careful to leave plenty of space for the larger cars to maneuver.

  Fortunately the men were all in the dining room. She could hear their voices and see the cigar smoke billowing a blue haze into the hallway. David would not be pleased that she hadn’t been home when he arrived, although how she could have guessed his early return was moot, but she’d change first.

  “David, I am sorry. I’d no idea you would be down this afternoon,” she said, smiling graciously when she made her appearance in the dining room five minutes later.

  Her smile wavered as she saw the overflowing ashtrays, the litter of sandwich remains and used cups of coffee, one pushed dangerously near the edge of the mahogany dining table. She rescued it, smile intact.

  “You’ve been out all morning, or so Kathleen said,” he said coldly.

  “I do apologize, gentlemen”—she ignored his tacit rebuke—“for my tardy welcome, although I see that Kathleen has managed to supply you with some refreshments.” She noted that they had gone from sandwiches and coffee to alcohol. “Let me just freshen your drinks. Yours is Scotch and soda, isn’t it, Martin?” she said, smiling at the vice-president of a merchant bank with which David had dealings. He was probably supplying David with all the cash he needed for his payrolls.

  “We’ve just about finished,” David said, sighing weightily.

  “Well, then, my timing is perfect, for I’m never any use to you when there’s business to discuss.”

  It didn’t please Selina to note that only Declan Murray caught the barb in her light words. But she went through the motions, getting more ice from the freezer, asking Kathleen to fix canapes. The woman was very relieved to see her employer, and soon the men were resettled in the lounge, drinks in their hands and hot cheese puffs to eat. Selina perched on the footstool near David’s wing chair, smiling and pretending interest in cryptic comments that apparently summarized their meeting.

  They were becoming more and more concerned at the number of troops the British were sending to Belfast. Troops could only mean trouble, and trouble meant property damage.

  “The way tempers are flaring in the North,” Martin said, “soon no one will stop to question the religion of those in their way.”

  “Ach,” said one of the northerners in his clipped, half-chewed accent, “ye kin tell a Catholic by the look of him.”

  “But not the building he owns,” Declan Murray said.

  “But you’d know by where the building was,” came the quick reply.

  Selina kept her smile in place, but she did not like sitting at the foot of her husband just then.

  The casement clock in the hallway bonged five times, and abruptly the men began to rise, straightening their suit jackets and making their farewells. They must have accomplished something, for they had the air of men who have made decisions as they shook hands with David and edged toward the front door.

  “Why on earth didn’t you let me know this morning that you’d be down?” Selina asked as David closed the door on the last of them.

  “I rang at ten-thirty, and the woman said you’d only just left. She expected you back.”

  Selina knew that Kathleen had seen her leave, dressed for riding, and she wondered why Kathleen hadn’t told David that she’d gone to Cornanagh.

  “I’d errands to do, and they took longer than I’d expected,” she replied, shrugging. “You know how it can be,” she added, seeing his frown. “But I managed. Are you in for dinner tonight? If so, I must tell Kathleen.”

  “I’m in, I’m in,” he said testily, waving at her.

  “I knew you’d be in the yard, Trina,” said Mary Evans, appearing in the open stall door. “Oh, who’s this?”

  “Oh, Mary, just look at her,” Catriona cried, oblivious to the fact that she hadn’t seen her best friend all week. The filly was nibbling the warm bran mash from Catriona’s open palm. Catriona had made Mick add an egg for strength. “Isn’t she the most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen! Come on in, easily, though I don’t think she has the energy to be scared of anything right now.”

  “Johnny Cash?” Mary asked, knowing a good deal about Cornanagh’s affairs.

  Catriona nodded. “The Baldoyle pony races.”

  “How can people be so mean?” Mary gently stroked the thin, scarred neck, smoothing a wisp of mane. “And she looks a real dote. Is your father keeping her?”

  “At least until we get her well.”

  “Can you? She looks so awful.”

  “Well”—Catriona regarded her charge dispassionately—“we’ll know tomorrow, Daddy says. She should pick up. If she’s going to. Did you bring me homework?”

  Mary’s expression changed. “Oh, Trina, we were all so shocked about your mother! The Mother Superior led a special novena on Tuesday. I wanted to come to the funeral, but Mum and Dad said that they’d represent the family. Did you see them?”

  Catriona held out another handful of the bran mash, and when the filly started to lip it up, she turned to her friend. “No. I don’t think I really saw anybody.”

  “No, I expect it was a bit much,” Mary said in quick compassion. She was a bit nervous meeting her friend; she didn’t really know what she was supposed to say. “Mum said that half of Wicklow County was there: even a representative from the president, and all the T.D.s. And the floral tributes covered just acres.”

  “The flowers smelled.” Catriona felt her backbone seized by a fierce tremor. “That’s what I remember most. The flowers.”

  “Oh, Trina,” Mary murmured, bending toward her friend and patting her awkwardly on the shoulder, “don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” And she started to weep in sympathy, leaning her head against Catriona’s, the two clinging together.

  The filly nickered, a soft querying note, and instantly Catriona recovered herself to the task at hand, brushing away her tears with a bran-smeared fist.

  “Oh, look what you’ve done,” Mary said, gulping back the last of her tears and managing a tremulous smile. “You’re all bran.”

  “Yes, and I’m supposed to get it into the filly,” Catriona said with a little laugh. “I can do something about you, alanna,” she said to the filly, and Mary just knew that her friend was being terribly brave about her loss and admired Catriona all the more.

  20

  SURPRISINGLY enough, there had been no report of the theft of an animal. Michael asked the Gardái to check with the nearby counties, for the filly could have been nicked farther afield than County Dublin. Meanwhile, care of the newly named Orphan Annie was Catriona’s first concern every morning, then Conker because, as she said, Conker was nearly better and didn’t mind all the attention she was giving his stablemate.

  “She might not have absorbed it all yet, Michael,” Eithne confided as the adults indulged in their customary evening drink. “I worry about her.”

  “A sick horse always has priority with Trina,” Philip said with a chuckle. “Johnny Cash couldn’t have picked a better time to bring a charity case into the yard.”

  Eithne nodded slowly, then began, “It was so thoughtful of Sybil to invite us all to dinner Sunday. But, if you don’t mind, Michael, I think I’ll give it a miss. That’ll give the family a chance to be together.”

  “Since when aren’t you family, Auntie Eithne?” Philip drew himself up as if affronted.

  “Oh, Philip, you know what I mean. And . . . well, I have had a long-standing invitation which I just thought I might like to
take up this Sunday.” She blushed prettily.

  “Do tell,” teased Philip.

  “Nothing, really”—Eithne was flustered—“just a collection of antiques that I rather wanted to look over. It’s the final viewing, you see, and last Sunday, of course . . . ” Her voice trailed off apologetically.

  “The secret can now be told: our Auntie Eithne’s a closet antique dealer,” Philip said.

  “You deserve a day out, Eithne,” Michael said warmly. “Don’t let these young idjits tease you.”

  Catriona came in from the dining room, a grin on her face. “A good tea and the most scrumptious pud for afters!” Then she looked guilty and hunched into her shoulders.

  “And a good pud?” Philip said, quickly bridging the awkwardness. “I’m starving of the hunger, but I’ll know better than to fill up.”

  As they were rising from the table, Michael said that he was going to the pub later to change a check. Did anyone else want some cash? “Tom’d rather take our checks than keep all that money lying around. The Gardái report a spate of robberies.”

  “There would be, wouldn’t there, with the banks shut tight,” Eithne said anxiously. “How long is this to go on, Michael?”

  “Can’t last long. The country’ll be ruined.” Owen rose on that definitive statement and left the room, his mother looking after him in helpless amazement.

  “Well, he’s right, you know,” Philip remarked amiably.

  After a depressing hour going through a pile of sympathy cards and notes, Michael felt he deserved a pint or two at the Willow Grove. As he entered the pub, he caught sight of Fiona Bernon, seated with the Mulvaneys in her usual corner. For the first time, she waved openly, even calling the Mulvaneys’ attention to the new arrival.

  Jack Garden and Robert Kelly greeted Michael warmly, their voices tinged with solicitude for his bereavement. Michael realized, with a little surprise, that every one of the regulars in the Willow Grove had been at the funeral, including Tom and Fiona.