“Mr. Fitzroy, we can adjourn—”
“Don’t try that fancy talk on me!” Fitzroy rubbed his chest with one thick, reddened hand. “We’ll go nowhere till this is sorted out, and it’s best that all know what sort of a fucking bastard lives with ’em.”
“That’s enough of that kind of language, Fitzroy.”
“It’s enough of fucking about, is what it is, Carradyne.” Fists clenched, the farmer took two steps toward Owen before Michael stepped in his way, the barrel of the shotgun now aimed straight at Fitzroy’s chest. “That bastard has got my Cathleen with child!”
Selina saw the incredulous expression in Owen’s eyes, and then his face cleared. His whole body relaxed, and he shot Philip a malicious grin.
“Cathleen?” he said with a snort of amusement. “You’ll be looking at half the county in that case, Fitzroy.”
With an inarticulate cry of rage, Fitzroy flung himself toward Owen and was intercepted just short of his goal by the concerted actions of Philip, Michael, and Mick. It was Mick’s pitchfork, pressed remorselessly into the man’s waistcoat, that finally constrained him. He was mouthing obscenities, eyes narrowed to slits in his weather-worn face as he tried to avoid the prongs of the fork and reach Owen.
Once assured that Fitzroy was restrained, Michael opened the door of the Wolsley and pulled the weeping, protesting girl out of the car.
“Now, miss, to his face, accuse my nephew of violating you!”
The girl turned as far from her father and Owen as Michael’s grasp would let her. In doing so, the thickening of her waist became apparent.
“How far along are you?” Michael asked, in a firm but kind voice.
“Bastard, for shaming a girl so,” Fitzroy shouted. “How would an innocent girl like my Cathleen know such a thing?”
“If Owen is to blame, surely you remember when, Cathleen,” Michael said, ignoring the farmer. His tone was conciliatory, even kind, but with an undertone that made Selina shiver. Catriona’s eyes were huge in a face gone deadly pale, her expression one of horrified recognition. She had seen Cathleen Fitzroy before. Patricia, on the other hand, was absolutely fascinated by the scene. “Speak, girl, when was it?”
But Cathleen could only blubber. Whatever prettiness might have been hers in happier times was now blurred by puffy eyes and a swollen, bruised cheek bearing the imprint of an openhanded slap.
“Answer, girl!” roared her father, and she gave a shriek of terror, crowding now against Michael for protection.
“February. February fourteenth, it was. After the disco.”
There was a fleeting but satisfied grin on Owen’s face, and Philip looked immensely relieved. Michael dropped Cathleen’s wrist, his expression more disgusted than scornful. “Then I know you’re mistaken about Owen, Cathleen,” he said, “because on that weekend Owen and I returned two mares to the Allargard Stud in Waterford. I can have Mr. Alford verify that if you like.”
Michael broke the shotgun, removed the shells, and handed it butt first to Fitzroy, then gestured pointedly to the Wolsley.
“You’ve shamed us all, Carradyne,” Fitzroy said, his eyes pig stubborn, his jaw set. He grabbed his daughter by the arm and propelled her toward the car with a vicious shove. “I’ll get ya for it. I’ll get y’all for it, and God is my witness!”
Cathleen slid into the rear of the Wolsley, as far from her father as possible. He gunned the engine and the car bounded out of the court.
“Owen, a word with you before you leave for work,” Michael said, striding to the house. “The rest of you go on about your business.” He gestured peremptorily to the yard personnel.
Eithne caught Owen by the arm as he followed his uncle. “Did you molest that girl, Owen Carradyne?” she demanded.
“No more than anyone else in North Wicklow, Mother.”
“She’s got a name for it, Auntie Eithne,” Philip said, nodding. He put a gentle arm about his aunt and guided her away from Michael and her son, in the direction of the kitchen. “Come along, now, I think we could all do with a cuppa.” Selina, Catriona, and Patricia agreed and followed on his heels.
“Oh, Pip, I never thought it would come to this,” Eithne said, her hands twitching restlessly. “How could he?”
“He’s done no real harm, believe me,” Philip replied soothingly. “Cathleen’s been twitching her skirts at everything wearing pants. God knows who the father is. I doubt if she does. So stop worrying.” He held out a chair for his aunt at the kitchen table.
“Well, are you satisfied now, missus, to ruin the reputation of Cornanagh all over the county?” demanded a fierce Bridie, pouncing on Eithne.
“Bridie, for God’s sake!” Philip cried. “Put the kettle on, and if I hear any more from you, today or any day, I’ll boot you out of Cornanagh myself!”
Everyone stared in utter amazement at Philip’s fury and forcefulness. He made quick gestures to his sister and his cousin to get cups and nodded at Selina to sit beside his aunt and comfort her.
“Did I make myself plain, Bridie Doolin?”
She was still staring at him, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. Of a sudden, she collected herself, gave her apron a swipe, and flounced about to plug the kettle in. “The colonel to the spit of him,” she muttered.
“Pip!” Catriona murmured wonderingly.
“Well, she’s not the conscience of this house,” he said, his eyes flashing with righteous anger. “There now, Auntie Eithne. Owen’s only been acting the boyo.” He patted his aunt’s shoulder encouragingly. “And it’s not the first time someone’s tried to plant an indiscretion at Cornanagh.”
He caught his aunt’s attention with that. “Whatever do you mean?”
He pointed surreptitiously at Bridie, who was listening to every word. “You remember, don’t you, Bridie,” he said cheerfully, “when old Mr. Kirwan tried to blame my sainted brother Jack?”
Bridie whirled, her face white. “You never heard that!”
“I did indeed,” Philip said brightly. “Look, I’ve got to rush or I’ll be late. And thus ends yet another melodramatic scene at Cornanagh. See you, Selina.” With an impish grin, he waved to everyone, gave his still distraught aunt another pat on the shoulder, and left.
“You know,” Patricia said matter-of-factly, “she didn’t look six months gone to me.”
“Patricia!” cried Selina.
“Well, she didn’t.”
“There will be no further discussion of this episode,” Michael said, entering the kitchen. In the hush that fell, every eye was on him, and he held every gaze just long enough to impress the order on them all. “Is the tea made, Bridie?”
She hurried to the table with the pot and without another word poured tea for everyone.
27
MICHAEL said no more about the episode in the courtyard. He gave the fretting Eithne a reassuring nod and a pat on the shoulder, much as his son had done, and spooned sugar into the tea Bridie had poured.
But the Cornanagh melodrama, as Philip had called it, was not over for the day. As if taking a cue from the still tense atmosphere in the yard, all the horses turned unexpectedly nappy. Temper was almost impossible to control. Michael hung grimly on to his patience, and Selina admired him the more for it. But the gelding shed Artie three times in a row, the last almost as soon as he felt the boy’s weight in the saddle. It was obvious to Michael and Mick that Artie, while game, had been too badly shaken by the last toss to be useful.
“He plain doesn’t like men,” Mick told his employer.
“He plain has to learn,” was the captain’s response. “Give me a leg up!”
“Aw, now, Captain dear, I seen you limping.”
“Mick!”
Shrugging, Mick complied. Temper sagged briefly against the unexpected weight on his back. It gave Michael time to find the irons, set himself in the saddle, bridge the reins and grab a judicious hunk of mane, before Temper took off. The gelding plunged up and straight forward, fighting to get his head. Wh
en he couldn’t budge Michael’s iron grip, he reared and took such a clout from Michael’s fist between his ears that he staggered, his knees momentarily buckling. He backed and found spurs in his ribs, requiring him to go forward. He spurted ahead then, evading the pain, still trying to dislodge his rider. But there wasn’t enough room in the cramped confines of the menage to run, and the bit in his mouth and the implacable hand on the rein forced him to circle to his right, and circle and circle until his nose was almost touching his own flank. Trembling with rage and impotence, Temper balked completely, refusing to move.
Michael eased the bit slightly in his mouth, allowing him to straighten. Temper stood there, shaking, the sweat pouring off his neck and shoulders. The spurs pricked. He shifted his feet. A second prompting and he reared again. And again a terrific clout on his poll rewarded this attempt. So he continued to stand, shaking and blowing.
“Just one step forward, boy. Just one.”
The voice was calm but commanding. Temper shifted his feet in place, trying to get more slack on the reins and ease the metal that pressed hard against the bars of his mouth. But Michael held him too firmly, with too much understanding of what the horse might do next. Temper continued to stand, though the spurs became urgent on his sides.
“Just one step forward, boy, and we’ll end the day’s lesson.” Michael’s voice was inexorable. “The lunge whip, Mick. Try flicking first. He’s got to go forward.”
Temper felt the switch on his flank and quivered. The spurs reinforced the message, the weight on his back seemed to urge him to take that forward step. He shifted his hind legs away from the lash, but perversely kept his front feet firmly planted in the sand of the menage.
“Give him a good one, Mick. He’s got the devil’s own will. And I haven’t got all day to spend on one tantrum.”
The lash curled harshly about Temper’s rump and he squealed, scattering on all four feet. The spurs dug into his tender flank, prodding the sore points. He danced in place, fighting to get his head, fighting to get away from the lash and the spur, fighting to win.
“Again, Mick.”
Spur and lash struck again and, frantic, Temper leaped high and with a massive effort, twisted to the left. Without success. Defeated and exhausted, the gelding trotted forward, refusing to halt on Michael’s signal and breaking into a disunited half trot, half canter of rebellion.
“Now that you’ve got him going forward, Captain dear, will he ever stop?” Mick said, loud enough to be heard over the erratic hoofbeats.
“He’ll drop before I do,” Michael Carradyne vowed. The next instant, Temper dug both front feet in and slithered to a stop by the barred exit where Selina Healey was standing. The momentum of that stop combined with Michael’s sudden loss of balance in the saddle was sufficient to make him dismount. On his feet, to be sure, but not what he had intended.
“I am impressed,” she said, her smile mocking him gently. “So gallant. Poor Temper,” she said, patting the gelding, who was heaving with his exertions.
Michael was blowing almost as badly as the gelding and his leg ached abominably from the strains put on it. “Spare some sympathy for Artie,” he suggested, pointing to the corner where Artie slouched, arms lapping his ribs. “Are you all right, there, Artie?”
Mustering a grin, Artie pushed himself upright. “I’ll be grand in a tic, captain. That was a great ride, sir. A great ride.” But as Artie approached and made to take the reins from the captain, Temper reacted in a flash, lashing out at the boy, the hind hoof almost catching him in the belly. Selina, standing at Temper’s head, hauled him painfully down by the bit and clouted him across the neck: instant retaliation for his bad manners.
As they headed back to the yard, Michael decided he felt depressed, as he had not been in some time. He longed to take Selina in his arms. Over the weekend he had missed her far more than he had any right to. So many times he had wanted to point out something that he knew would interest or amuse her. He needed to talk to her just for the pleasure of her company, the sparkle in her eyes as she listened, and her often droll responses.
“Look, Michael, it’s been a brute of a day on top of an awful weekend for me,” Selina said in a rush. “David’s away North again. I’d love a few drinks this evening to unwind. Say, the Castle again, eightish?”
Michael tried not to let his relief show as he agreed.
Suddenly the day was not quite so bleak.
As Michael turned down the seacoast road to the Castle that evening, he was slightly bemused by his present circumstances. The incident with Owen that morning had unearthed a host of memories . . . old Paddy Kirwan charging up to Jack at Cornanagh, shotgun in one hand, weeping daughter in the other . . . Isabel at his side, keening, unable to believe her precious son—a boy destined for the priesthood—had been capable of “doing that.” Isabel . . . He remembered, too, a conversation he’d had with his father, shortly after he had announced his intention of marrying Isabel Marshall. Tyler Carradyne had tried to impart some wisdom about Isabel, but Michael had failed to recognize the meat of the caution. It had been wartime, and every one of his comrades had been caught up in the hysteria, the never voiced, always understood possibility that one might not return. At nineteen, he was certain that he could endure every hardship and challenge, surmount any obstacle, if only he had Love to come home to.
Isabel had been so pretty, had danced like a feather in his arms, had languished with adoring looks and sighs at him in his Guards uniform; she had seemed the perfect wife for a young lieutenant. And, miracle of miracles, she had accepted his proposal. They had been married in the imposing nuptial ceremony Mairead Marshall had insisted upon, and he had had two weeks with Isabel before the Army required him to join his unit.
If his blushing bride had been ignorant, and turned white with fear and revulsion of him, that was no more than any husband should expect of a gently reared, convent-bred girl. It would all come right, he’d assured himself, when they could spend a little more time together. Michael had never had reason to doubt his charm or virility; many girls had already succumbed to it.
It had taken him seven years to understand what his father had tried to explain—that for all her prettiness and charm, Isabel was neither demonstrative nor giving. Old Tyler was a knowing one where women were concerned; he had recognized her innate frigidity, but Michael had been helpless—it was impossible to discuss sexual matters with a woman of Isabel’s breeding.
And now Selina—just by being at Cornanagh, riding his horses, spending time with him, and sharing her self in those brief magnificent intimate moments—had showed Michael all that his original choice had lacked. Until she had come into his life, Michael had simply not been aware of the sterility of his existence: how he had permitted his love of horses to substitute for the simple human pleasures of an intimate relationship.
As he turned the Austin into the car park, he saw the red Lancia topping the rise from the opposite direction. Their timing made him smile, and he was still smiling when she brought the car to a halt beside him.
“This time I’m paying,” he told her firmly as they entered the lounge.
She gave him a quick gamine grin and settled herself in the booth as the barman came to take their orders. “I had a marvelous idea on Sunday, Michael,” she began in the determinedly bright way that told him she was uneasy. “I was thinking that if only horses were like drugs, or illegal weapons, you could make a fortune—you know, bootlegging Irish horses.”
Surprise wrung laughter out of him, which echoed in the nearly empty room and caused the barman to look their way.
She grinned. “It’s about time we Irish exported bootlegged goods.”
“Illegal horses!” Michael was still chuckling when the barman returned with their ale. “I must remember to tell that one to Philip; he’ll embroider it suitably. Would that we could invent a market in illegal horses! They’re one of the few things that are reasonably legitimate, even in Ireland.”
They r
aised their glasses in a mutual toast, then sipped at their drinks, loath to interrupt the sense of companionship that settled between then.
“Selina—”
“Michael—”
They smiled at each other.
“All right, we must talk,” Michael said, covering her hand with his and curling his fingers about it. Her lovely eyes met his, their expression ineffably sad. “Your presence at Cornanagh has become very important to me,” he continued, “personally, quite apart from your kindness and understanding of Catriona and your help in showing Charlie.”
“This weekend I thought I would die of boredom.” Her eyes widened and flashed with exasperation. “I wanted so much to be at the show with you, and the girls. The irritating thing was that there was absolutely no reason for me to be at Erinwood. It wasn’t as if David needed a partner or a hostess.” Her lips tightened. “They talked business the entire time, and the wives were left to themselves. Then this morning, when I met you on the hill, I thought that perhaps I ought to stay away from Cornanagh for a while . . . .”
His hand tightened on hers, and he shook his head. “Have I the right to ask how matters stand between you and your husband?”
“Badly, as you must certainly have noticed, when I am so willing to throw myself in your arms.”
He smiled wryly. “The vaunted Carradyne charm must be slipping if it was pique with your husband that brought you into my arms.”
She shot him a quick look, a faint smile curving her lips. “The Carradyne charm is very potent stuff, Michael. Anyone’s bed might do if it were only pique. But I’m terribly afraid it’s more than that for me with you, and I don’t know what to do about it now.”
She leaned back against the banquette, her body relaxed against his, her fingers limp, willing, in his. A surge of triumph and anxiety swept through him.
“I am old enough to be your father, Selina,” he began.
“My feelings for you are not the least bit filial, Michael Carradyne. Though it’s true that I’ve always been partial to older men.” She gave a bitter snort. “Which is why I married David Healey. My father tried to warn me, but I knew what I wanted.” She looked at Michael ruefully. “It’s awful to be so cocksure at twenty-one. It oughtn’t to be allowed.”
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