The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Jack is clearly upset,” Michael told Eithne, who was still waiting anxiously beside him, “but there’s nothing I can do for him that his religion can’t do better. He hasn’t received my letter, and our telegrams didn’t reach him until June.”

  “Oh, Michael!”

  He heard the quaver in Eithne’s voice and looked down at her.

  “Now, Eithne, you’re too kind-hearted. Jack’s a big boy. His decision to join the priesthood made his mother proud and happy.”

  “Not bad news, Michael?” Selina asked as she joined him, noticing that Eithne was weeping as she read the letter.

  He shook his head. “My son Jack. The mail from Latin America is rather slow.”

  Selina’s expression also mirrored her compassion, and Michael was inexplicably annoyed with Jack for producing this effect in a woman he had never met. The letter’s arrival depressed him, not as it did Eithne, but because it reminded him, through Jack’s words and the personality behind them, of Isabel.

  “Forgive me, Selina, but I think we’ll call it quits now.” He smiled at her, then turned back to his sister-in-law. “C’mon, Eithne pet, you need a cuppa. And Bridie will doubtless be wanting to hear Jack’s letter, too.” He put a comforting arm about Eithne’s shoulders and led her back to the house.

  When he returned from the kitchen, he heard Selina’s laugh issuing from the garage and found her busy helping Catriona and Patricia stitch tail hanks to lengths of old tail bandages.

  “Y’see, Unk, some of the young stock don’t have enough to sew onto,” Patricia explained. “We did a tail count to see who’s okay.”

  “Ingenious!” Selina said, grinning broadly as she held up a nearly completed tail swatch.

  “We’ve got five more done, Daddy,” Catriona said, “and they’re so relieved to be able to switch off flies!”

  “Well, you must be sure not to tie the bandages too tightly or circulation will be cut off,” Michael cautioned them.

  “Gotcha, Unk,” Patricia replied, holding aloft her finished work. “Paleface counts coup!”

  Selina was making her adieux when they all heard the throaty and familiar growl of Bob Doherty’s Mercedes coming up the drive. He pulled into the courtyard, smiled briefly in greeting, and beckoned to Michael.

  “How’s Sean coming along?” Michael asked, bending down to the car window.

  “Oh, he’s well enough,” Bob replied, his gaze shifting beyond Michael to the girls. “That the niece who’s been showing the Prince for us?”

  “Yes, and she qualified him for the RDS at Mount Armstrong. I phoned Aisling and told her.”

  “Hmmm.” Bob frowned a bit. “Then what happened at the Galloping Green show? A friend of mine said the pony went very badly. Fifteen faults, and he said it was rider error.”

  “It certainly was,” Michael agreed amiably. “The ground was rock hard, and I’d told Patricia to make it an easy round. She kept the pony on such a tight rein he lost his rhythm and stride. But she realized what she was doing and flew the last six fences.”

  “But the Prince is still qualified for the RDS?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Well. I guess that’s all right, then.”

  “If you’ve another rider you’d prefer on the Prince, you’ve only to say so,” Michael remarked.

  “Oh, no, no. Wouldn’t think of it.”

  Michael merely smiled. “Good to see you, Bob. My regards to Aisling and Sean.” He tapped the roof of the Mercedes and stepped back, allowing Bob to reverse and make his way out of the courtyard.

  As soon as the Mercedes was out of sight, Catriona and Patricia came running up to him.

  “What’s the matter, Unk? Have I lost my ride?” Patricia demanded.

  Catriona looked so anxious that Michael quickly told them exactly what Bob Doherty had said. He wondered about Catriona’s almost comical relief. She sagged against him, hooking her fingers in his belt as she used to do. He put a reassuring arm about her.

  “How’d he hear all that so soon?” Patricia asked.

  “Ireland’s a small country. It’s hard to keep secrets.”

  “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t hear about the tails! C’mon, Cat, we gotta get back to work.” She hauled her cousin away from Michael and back to the garage.

  “Michael?” Selina asked, standing in the open door of the Lancia.

  “No trouble,” he said. “I merely said that if he had another rider in mind . . . ”

  “And spiked his guns neatly.”

  Michael grinned, wanting very much to give her a hug, too.

  “Michael, after what happened I don’t like the idea of leaving the house unoccupied in the evening while David’s away,” Selina admitted. “Kathleen heard that people three houses away were done last night. But if you felt like coffee and a liqueur, it wouldn’t surprise anyone if Captain Carradyne came to reassure Mrs. Healey.” She looked at him with eyes that sparkled with mischief. When he nodded, she murmured, “Eightish?” and then, quickly disengaging her hand, slid into the driver’s seat.

  29

  IT took the rest of the afternoon for Catriona to relax from the terror at seeing Bob Doherty pull into Cornanagh’s driveway; she’d been sure he’d come to expose her as a cheat and a deceiver in front of her father. Then, just as she’d recovered from her anxiety, she was rocked by another, totally unexpected piece of news.

  The girls were in the loo washing up before tea when the phone rang. Patricia went all tense, her lathered hands dripping into the hand basin, her head cocked, listening. Although she had been her usual self after she’d had a chat with her father, Catriona noticed that she was wary whenever the phone rang.

  “Yes, Paddy, I’ll just go fetch him,” they could hear Eithne saying. “He’s doing evening stables. There’s nothing wrong, is there?” A pause. “Well, that’s good to hear. I’ll just get Michael.”

  Catriona made to leave the loo in order to run the message for her aunt, but Patricia restrained her.

  “Let’s stay here. That way we’ll know what’s going on,” she whispered. Catriona stared at her. “Oh, don’t worry. If we’re washing our hands, it isn’t the same as eavesdropping on purpose!”

  Catriona was not all that reassured. She didn’t need to get into any more trouble. Then the girls heard the crisp tread of Michael’s boots on the parquet floor.

  “Paddy! How are you? . . . Yes, all well here, and yes, it’s been a good showing season. Old Tulip’s foals are doing us proud, and so is Pat. She’s shown tremendous improvement in her riding.” Patricia grinned at her uncle’s praise. “Yes, yes, though I’ve not mentioned it to him . . . . You have? Oh, that is splendid, Paddy, really splendid. Junior account executive—whatever that means. When can he leave? . . . Well, as to that, he’d have to hand in his notice and work out his time. But I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance . . . . Don’t be daft, man. Of course I’d miss him, but I won’t stand in his way. I really appreciate this, Paddy . . . . Well, it’s five here now. He’ll be home in the next hour. Shall I have him ring you then? . . . Yes, I’ve your office number . . . . Grand. Thanks again, and my regards to Marita.”

  Patricia opened the loo door a crack and saw her uncle’s back, head slightly bent, his left hand rubbing the back of his neck. Then he wheeled abruptly and walked out of the house and back to the yard.

  “Does he mean Owen?” Catriona asked in a careful whisper.

  “No,” Patricia said decisively. “Philip.”

  “But it’s Owen who needs to leave Cornanagh!”

  “Well, Uncle Paddy was more impressed with Philip. At least that’s what Daddy said when he got home.”

  “Philip?” Catriona sank to the toilet seat.

  “You heard the same thing I did. Frankly, I think Philip would do just great in advertising. He could charm the spots off a tiger. And they’ll love his accent.”

  “Pip doesn’t have an accent.”

  “Of course he does. Nothing broad, just a lovely lilting
way of putting words together, and, believe me, it won’t hurt him on Madison Avenue.”

  The two girls left the loo and went to lay the table for tea. Catriona decided that advice not to eavesdrop made sense after all. It was awful to know something you couldn’t talk about. Especially when it meant yet another change at Cornanagh. When would it all stop?

  When Philip arrived home, Catriona and Patricia contrived to be in full view when Michael Carradyne casually told his son that he was to phone his uncle Patrick at his office.

  “I don’t believe it, Dad,” Philip said when he had spoken to his uncle and discussed the job offer. “It’s just what I wanted, but I really don’t believe it!” Then incredulity warred with concern. “But what’ll you do about showing?”

  “Pip, you’re going,” Michael said, clasping his son’s shoulders firmly in both hands. “It’s too good a chance for you to pass up. Not the way things are going here in Ireland.”

  Philip caught sight of his sister’s sorrowful expression and swooped her up in his arms, hugging her affectionately. “Now, don’t pull a long face on me, Trina. America’s not the end of the world, and I’ll get home for Christmas, sure I will! With the pots of money I’ll make as an advertising executive.”

  Catriona buried her head in his shoulder, not wanting to dampen his excitement but overwhelmed by the prospect of Cornanagh without her adored brother. Philip gave her a squeeze and released her to accept the drink his father handed him. He sat down, cuddling his sister at his side.

  Owen received the news with equanimity when he arrived; to Catriona he seemed almost indifferent. He sat down on the couch beyond her, and when Michael was busy settling Eithne with her sherry, he leaned across her to speak in low tones to Philip.

  “It’s arranged. Artie’s older brother is going to nose around at the Barking Pig to see what he can learn, and Mick’s going down to McDyer’s.”

  Having delivered this cryptic message, he assumed his usual sprawl on his end of the couch until Bridie announced that tea was ready.

  It was a lively meal because Philip made it so, and Catriona could not remain somber when her brother was such a gas character. Patricia was rolling on her chair, and even Eithne enjoyed herself.

  Afterward, while Catriona and Patricia were carrying out the dishes, the men discussed security arrangements. Everyone had “important” meetings—”Yeah, at the pub,” Patricia muttered—that would take them from Cornanagh until eleven. Even Mick would be out. So it was decided to leave Tory loose in the yard and alert Barry should his assistance be needed.

  “Not that there’ll be any reason to rouse him,” Michael assured Eithne.

  “Can we have the shotgun, Unk?” Patricia asked, her eyes dancing.

  “You may not!” Michael said, and left.

  “I was only joking,” Patricia murmured to his retreating back.

  Later, Captain Michael Carradyne called on Mrs. Selina Healey to see how she was faring after the unfortunate burglary.

  “You’ll miss him,” Selina stated after he had recounted the evening’s events.

  “Yes,” Michael said with a sigh, “I will. Whatever hope I might have had that he’d refuse this opportunity disappeared when I saw his face. He was thrilled. Mind you”—Michael accepted more coffee with a smile—“I’ll give the boy his due: he worried about who would show for me.”

  “And did you not remind him you had a candidate?” Selina pretended to be coy.

  “Selina . . . ” Michael’s tone was both chiding and wistful. “You do enough for Cornanagh. And I worry about what Healey will say when he comes back and finds out just how much time you spend at Cornanagh . . . riding for me.”

  “The more horses I show for you—and you must admit that that is a perfectly respectable pastime for David Healey’s wife if he wishes to get on with Charlie Haughey—the more credence we give the situation.”

  “I will not put your reputation at risk.”

  “You’re a pet, Michael”—she smiled warmly at him—“but my reputation is scarcely at risk if I’m busy winning show classes for you on your very well-bred beasts. Besides that, didn’t you notice Catriona this morning?”

  “What should I have noticed about her?”

  “Well, I must admit that I only realized it this morning myself—she’s put on inches! She’s nearly as tall as I am, and certainly the same height as Pat!”

  Michael shrugged. “What has that to do . . . Ah, I see. You’re conniving with Mick.”

  “Not that I know of,” Selina said, puzzled.

  “Mick has spent all winter trying to convince me that Trina’s soon going to have enough leg to ride horses.”

  “And she has. She already rides Charlie a treat.”

  “She’s thirteen!”

  “And tall. Under a hard hat and in a showing class—oh, certainly the provincial shows to start with—no one will know, and there’s no rule against it. Next year, maybe the sidesaddle class or ladies’ hack.”

  Michael allowed himself to be persuaded to accept the idea. Trina was, he admitted privately, a superb young rider, with a great deal of sympathy and feel for her mount. Lacking a bit still in strength, but skilled beyond the standard of most adults. And she loved horses and Cornanagh as much as he did. But a girl?

  “Don’t rule out the possibility that Catriona would make an admirable heir to Cornanagh, my dear,” Selina said gently, watching him. “There are changes in the wind, Michael, changes in the wind.”

  Michael put his coffee cup down with great care. “Were you reading my mind?”

  “No.” She lifted one hand to stroke his mustache and trace the shape of his mouth. “Merely an educated guess. Sometimes you are remarkably transparent when you think. Probably due to lack of practice.”

  “I’m putting that niece of mine in quarantine. Her manners are contagious.” He pulled her into his arms, knowing the surest way to stop a conversation in which he found himself at a severe disadvantage.

  Reluctantly he left Selina’s at ten o’clock, late enough for a social call but not too late to have a quick pint at the Willow Grove. Relaxed and feeling very well within himself, he failed to mark the presence of a familiar Mini. It wasn’t until he stepped into the lower lounge of the pub and had been hailed by Jack Garden and Robert Kelly that he noticed Fiona Bernon in her usual corner with the Mulvaneys. Too late, he thought. Nodding pleasantly in her direction, he proceeded to the bar to be greeted effusively by his friends.

  “Christ, Carradyne, where have you been lately?” said Jack Garden. “Out politicking every farmer in the east?” He nudged Robert Kelly in the ribs, adding, “If that damn fool bill passes, we can blame this man entirely.”

  “When I’m only trying to put you in the way of making a few bob?” Michael pretended hurt surprise. In his estimation, Jack Garden was exactly the sort of casual horse-breeder the Board was geared to help.

  “It won’t work, Carradyne,” Jack Garden said emphatically.

  “Why not?”

  Jack regarded him in disgust. “Registering mares and foals, and keeping track of half- and three-quarter-bred stallions? Why?”

  “The European and American markets will pay good money for animals whose pedigree they know. And the foals of stallions who repeatedly produce good half-bred jumpers, like Chou Chin Chow and King of Diamonds. The passport scheme . . . ”

  Jack guffawed. “No deal is going to surrender that passport to the new owner. The breeder’s name and address’ll be on it. So your man will go straight to the breeder next time and—”he flung up his hands—”bang goes the dealer’s commission.”

  “Not all horses are bought through dealers. And foreign buyers want to know the sire and dam of animals we want them to pay top money for. It also proves a horse has been vetted, inoculated . . . ”

  “That’s another expense,” Jack broke in, jabbing his forefinger in Michael’s chest. “I tell you it’s the vets and dealers who’re going to get rich from this fancy scheme, not
me. Maybe you,” and Jack’s lopsided grin was tinged with malice, “because you’ve obviously figured out how this whole shagging scheme is going to profit Cornanagh.”

  “And being a generous sort,” Michael replied with a grin, “I’m only trying to show you the way.”

  Robert Kelly guffawed, and received a black scowl from Garden. “Michael,” Fiona Bernon said, smiling as she approached him, “we haven’t seen much of you lately.” She settled herself on the stool beside him.

  “The show-jumping season keeps me pretty busy, Fiona,” Michael replied pleasantly. He turned back to Jack, who was watching them closely, a sly gleam in his eye.

  “No trouble down your way?” Jack asked to break a rather uncomfortable silence.

  “Trouble? No, why?” Michael asked.

  “Then you didn’t hear what happened to Fitzroy?” asked Fiona.

  “No, what?”

  “Vandals!” Fiona said, her eyes alive with the gossip she had to tell. “They not only emptied all the petrol tanks, but they took the diesel out of the tractor, and the air out of every tire on the place, including the pushbike.”

  Michael cleared his throat and tried to speak casually. “Sounds more like a prank to me. No real harm was done.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d heard Fitzroy,” Jack said. “He was turning the air blue in the Barking Pig. He’s not on the phone and had to walk all the way in.”

  Michael grinned at that despite himself. “Well, we’ve had no trouble. But I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “I heard . . . ” Fiona leaned against him, making him conscious of the softness of her full breasts. He shifted slightly, hoping she’d withdraw, but she merely draped an arm across his shoulder and leaned in even closer. “I heard that his daughter has been terribly indiscreet, and he wants to find the culprit.”

  “That’s too bad,” Michael murmured, and shifted away again.