The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Thank you, Mrs. Comyn.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Catriona, and you are welcome to come to me anytime you’ve got a problem. It always helps to talk matters over.”

  Mrs. Comyn smiled, and Catriona thought there wasn’t quite so much sadness in her eyes today.

  “Will you be happy here at Cornanagh?”

  Mrs. Comyn gave a little start of surprise and turned to look at Catriona. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought you looked sad, but I suppose that’s logical, having to leave your home and all. That’s much harder than watching people leave you. I know I couldn’t ever leave Cornanagh.”

  Mrs. Comyn gave her a very odd look, one eyebrow quirked.

  “We’ll hope you don’t have to. You know, your cousin’s been searching for you.”

  Catriona grimaced. “I love Pat, but sometimes she’s a bit much. Do you like her?”

  “To be sure, she’s very much a product of her culture, but she’s got a good disposition and a quick mind.”

  As they opened the door of Philip’s room, they could hear the phone ringing.

  “I’d better answer that,” Mrs. Comyn said, hurrying down the stairs.

  Catriona felt much better after her talk with Mrs. Comyn, and at teatime she made every effort to join in discussions about the wedding and travel arrangements. Then Sybil arrived, winking and grinning at Catriona and pointing surreptitiously to the car. In all the excitement, Catriona was able to get the parceled portrait up to her room unnoticed.

  Once there, she unwrapped it carefully but with trembling fingers. What if it hadn’t turned out right? But no, she could trust Sybil.

  The narrow black frame and off-white matte gave a new, almost professional dimension to the portrait, and Catriona sighed in relief and delight. Yes, it was the Tulip. Even if she hadn’t quite gotten her father’s shoulder right, the eye traveled first to the Tulip’s elegant, classic head and then to the fact that this dignified animal was accepting her father’s outstretched hand as homage. Yes, the pose was what she had seen in her mind when she started it. As Catriona lovingly replaced the wrappings, she could barely contain her anticipation. This was the most original birthday present she had ever given her father. She hid it by the side of her wardrobe, concealing it with her school coat.

  When she reached the steps, she heard her sister and her aunt talking softly in the hall below. Sybil sounded angry, Auntie Eithne distressed.

  “But how could he?” Auntie Eithne exclaimed. “She’s a lady.”

  “That never makes a difference, believe me,” Sybil said acidly. “But would you object to her taking over the mews after you and Davis leave? She may not need to, but sometimes knowing you have a safe place to go can make a difference. I wanted to ask you first.”

  “Of course, Sybil, of course. Though it’s really up to your father, you know. But I’m sure she would always be welcome here.”

  “Good! I knew I could count on you, Auntie Eithne. Damn,” Sybil added as the phone rang yet again. “Cornanagh!” she said briskly, answering the call. “Yes, I’ll get him.”

  Somehow, though no names had been mentioned, Catriona knew that they had been talking about Selina. Would she be coming to live in Auntie Eithne’s little house? Selina at Cornanagh all the time, every day, would, Catriona felt, make up for a lot of the uncertainty and unhappiness of the last few weeks. With a considerably lighter heart, Catriona came down the stairs just as her father picked up the receiver. He winked at her.

  “Yes, Angus, good of you to ring . . . . Well, actually, if you happened to have a big ringed snaffle—those German eggbutts are a bit heavy for a gelding I’m schooling . . . . Grand! I’ll be down later. Thanks, Angus.”

  In the lounge, all sorts of plans were being made and almost as quickly revised. Davis had originally thought that he and Eithne could be married by the American ambassador or consul, but that wasn’t permitted under Irish law. And a register office marriage—the most expeditious kind of ceremony—required that a notice of intent be placed in newspapers twice within a week. Davis decided to publish the first notice the very next day, and the wedding was set tentatively for the following week. Eithne was flushed and fluttered a good bit, but Davis, and Owen, were eager to arrange matters as quickly as possible.

  Suddenly Tory’s raucous barking cut through the cheerful maze of suggestions and plans. A moment later Mrs. Comyn entered the lounge.

  “There’s a traveling person to see you, Captain,” she said.

  With an eager grin, Michael shot to his feet and strode to the door, Catriona a step behind him. Outside, Mick was just closing the outraged Tory in the garage.

  “Good evenin’, Captain, sor,” Johnny said, getting out of the van and touching his cap brim. He beckoned Michael to come round with him to the back and threw open the door with a flourish. There on the load bed with a gaggle of children around it was the old hunting saddle that had been Tyler’s.

  Michael all but grabbed it, stroking it before checking that the saddle tree hadn’t been damaged. He brushed off the mud and ran a finger down the worst of the scratches, rubbing vigorously.

  “How’d it come your way, Johnny?”

  “Well, now, sor, not a half hour after you’d gone when two of those Moorhouses came to us with a tale of finding some saddles in a ditch.”

  Michael gave a snort of disbelief.

  “Now, sor, I do believe him.” Johnny held up a forefinger. “This once. He and the dummy with him had a fierce thirst on them, for we settled on a tenner.” Michael immediately began fumbling in his pocket for bank notes. “Mind you, he was asking twice that, but I pointed out how old the saddle was, sor, and the flaps thin, meaning no disrespect, Captain, sor.”

  “You did well, Johnny. D’you think he’ll be back to deal again?”

  Johnny’s face twisted into a grimace of doubt. “Sure now, sor, he’s that feckless he won’t stir himself till he’s drunk the tenner up. ‘Course, there’re the two of ’em, so it’d go faster,” Johnny added encouragingly. “Then, too, Captain, those Moorhouses are canny. They might not come back to me next time.”

  Michael sighed. “Johnny, I can’t spend all summer waiting to get my tack back piece by piece.”

  Johnny held up a hand. “Ah, now, sor, I knows that. I knows that well. Don’t you be worrying. I came with this one to give ya heart.” He winked broadly. “Not to worry, Captain, sor, not to worry. You’ll see.”

  He got back into his van and, with a final nod of his head and a finger to his cap brim, turned round and out of the courtyard.

  “I’ll take that from ye, Captain,” Mick said, his fingers caressing leather still supple from years of care. He smoothed the scratch. “Only on the surface. Come to that, Tom Berney would put new flaps on.”

  Mrs. Comyn appeared in the doorway. “Captain? A Mr. Doherty on the phone for you.”

  Michael cursed under his breath. But at least the show tack had been spared, and the Prince’s bridle had already been retrieved. He had good news for Bob Doherty.

  Unfortunately Bob Doherty did not have the same for him. “What’s this I hear about another four faults, and in the second round at Kilmac?” he demanded as soon as Michael had set his mind at rest about the show tack. “I thought you said the girl would improve.”

  “And so she did,” Michael replied, keeping his voice level. “The pony flattened.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that’s going to be good enough, Carradyne. The Horse Show’s nearly here, and I want that pony showing well.”

  “He is. Saturday is Castletown show. Why don’t you come to that? See for yourself how she handles him. You know as well as I that people tell you what they think you want to hear. Or don’t want to hear.”

  “Should I put in an insurance claim for the other saddle?”

  “Not yet. There’s a good chance that advert will do the trick.”

  “What I want to know is, how’d the theft occur? Leave th
e door unlocked?”

  Michael steeled himself against the obvious dig. “No. The thieves pulled the iron grating off that small window on the roadside. That’s why your show tack wasn’t stolen. Couldn’t get the tack trunk through the window.”

  “Oh! Must be a nuisance.”

  “It is.” Michael ended the call with obligatory regards to Aisling and cradled the receiver. He had taken one step when its shrill summons turned him back. “Cornanagh!”

  “Michael?” Selina’s voice sounded apologetic, and he realized he had allowed his irritation with Doherty to carry over. “Kathleen told me my saddle had been stolen? . . . ” And since Sybil’s visit to her had been more or less confidential, Selina listened dutifully as Michael told her the whole story—again.

  “They actually pulled the grating off? How did they manage that?”

  “With either the tractor or the Land Rover.”

  “And the Gardái?”

  “Are investigating.”

  “No one’s helping them with their inquiries?” Her voice rippled with amusement.

  “I did point them in Fitzroy’s direction. He has both tractor and Land Rover.”

  “And motive. Well, thank you, Captain Carradyne, for informing me,” she added in an abrupt change of tone. “Do keep me posted.”

  The dial tone sounded in his ear. Michael looked at the receiver for a moment, then replaced it slowly and walked away.

  The next morning, when Selina set out for her appointment with the solicitor, she couldn’t help but notice the dark gray sedan, still parked in the street, though not in the same spot as the previous day. She was not particularly reassured when the driver started the car as she was pulling out of her courtyard. When it stayed discreetly behind her, often letting another car come between them on the busy main road into Dublin, she made a mental note of the number and jotted it down when she reached Ian Coghlan’s offices. As she waited to see the solicitor, she noted that there were several other professionals in the same house, including a gynecologist. She made a second note, smiling to herself.

  It was the last time that morning she had occasion to smile, for Sybil had not exaggerated the difficulties faced by an Irish woman wishing to separate herself from her legal spouse. Selina was appalled at how little protection she received under the law. In essence she was no more than a man’s chattel. Not even the house—which had been a wedding present from her father—was hers, for she had blithely allowed it to be registered in David’s name. He could even sell it without her consent.

  David could not, however, touch the income from Funds that had been her mother’s legacy to her. Sybil had also been correct in saying that with money of her own, she was in a far better position than many who shared her dilemma. Coghlan also rallied when he realized she had some resources. A legal separation was possible under Irish law, he explained but neither party was permitted to remarry. Furthermore, it was difficult to obtain, a lengthy and expensive process. However, when Selina mentioned that she carried dual citizenship, Coghlan brightened noticeably. An English divorce was a possibility, although Healey could contest it; but she would have to establish a legal residence in England for at least two years.

  Selina thought of two years away from Cornanagh and Catriona, away from Michael, and cringed. Coghlan misinterpreted her expression and again recommended that she think long and hard. He would, of course, be glad to assist her as much as he could.

  “Are there such things as private detectives in Ireland?” she asked Coghlan at the end of the interview.

  “Why, yes, of course there are. Why? Are you thinking of finding evidence against your husband?”

  “On the contrary, I think it’s he who wishes to find against me,” she replied, and told him about the faithful gray sedan.

  “You have the registration number?” he asked, reaching for the phone. Sure enough, Selina’s hunch proved to be correct: the gray sedan was registered to a private investigator. “An expensive one,” Coghlan declared, “but the firm is reputable.”

  “But if there is no divorce in Ireland, what good does that do him?” Selina asked, barely able to contain her fury.

  Smiling cynically, Coghlan gestured to her. “With no offense intended, you’re an attractive woman, Mrs. Healey. And Mr. Healey’s evidently a very suspicious man.”

  “Oh!”

  “I’d be careful, Mrs. Healey. I’d be very careful about everything. Including your visit to me.”

  Coghlan shook her hand courteously as she rose to leave, assuring her of his help should she decide to proceed.

  “Oh, I’ll proceed all right, Mr. Coghlan. I’ll be careful, and I’ll give this matter a great deal of thought, but never doubt for a moment that I will proceed.”

  In the vestibule, she replaced her eyeglasses and veil before she swept through the door Coghlan held open. He was careful not to be seen from the street.

  The gray sedan followed her all the way back to Dalkey.

  “Captain Carradyne phoned you again, missus,” Kathleen told her when she set her things down in the hall.

  “Maybe my tack has been returned; I’ll phone later. Has Mr. Healey called?”

  Kathleen shook her head and went back to her vacuuming. Selina wondered briefly if David was paying the woman to keep track of her whereabouts. She preferred to think that Kathleen’s first loyalty was to her. Then, with a sigh, she went upstairs to take a long, hot bath.

  As she soaked, she grew more and more incensed by her situation, by all the indignities heaped upon a woman in her circumstances. She thought of ringing her father—he always had a soothing effect on her—but she didn’t quite like to admit that she was unable to handle this problem herself. No, she decided, she’d gotten herself into this mess; she’d just have to work it out on her own.

  She was patting herself dry when the phone rang. Kathleen knocked on the door to say it was Eithne Carradyne calling.

  “Oh, marvelous,” Selina said, and picked up the bedroom extension. She waited and a minute later heard the distinct click as the downstairs receiver was replaced.

  “Eithne, I hear I must wish you happy, and I’m delighted.”

  “I wish it weren’t such a rush and all, Selina. I phoned to tell you that the wedding’s set for next Tuesday, and could you possibly attend a small reception after at Cornanagh? There isn’t even time to send invitations or anything.”

  How like Eithne, Selina thought, to worry about protocol at such a time. “I think it’s all very romantic.”

  “You do?”

  “Very romantic, and you deserve every bit of happiness. Now, what can I do to help?”

  “Help? Oh, that won’t be necessary. I mean, Mrs. Comyn is just marvelous about it all. But I’ve been so concerned . . . ”

  “Don’t worry about Catriona, Eithne,” Selina said, anticipating her. “I love that child as I would my own. And I’m at Cornanagh often enough to keep an eye on her.”

  “Actually, Selina, I’m worried about you. Are you free to speak right now?”

  Selina hesitated, hearing the concern in Eithne’s voice. “Sybil told you, didn’t she.”

  “Yes . . . ”

  “Well, she’s been a positive brick, Eithne, and I’m all right, really I am. In fact, I’ll be over tomorrow, if you’d tell Michael for me. And Catriona.”

  “Oh, she will be happy. She’s missed you terribly, you know, although this morning she’s much more herself. Michael’s off right now with the Gardái about the robbery.”

  “Has the tack been recovered?”

  “Not exactly, but Sergeant Quinn found a cheekpiece in Mr. Fitzroy’s Land Rover, and Michael’s gone to the station to identify it.” Eithne sounded more upset than pleased.

  “Eithne Carradyne, are you blaming yourself for Fitzroy’s antics?”

  “Davis says I’m enjoying a needless guilt trip.”

  Selina burst out laughing at the blend of meekness and satisfaction in Eithne’s reply. “And so you are! You shou
ld be enjoying every moment right now, looking ahead, not backward.”

  Reiterating her promise to be at Cornanagh early the next morning, Selina rang off. As she began to dress, she found herself smiling—in anticipation of a trip to Cornanagh tomorrow . . . and a visit with Michael.

  When Sergeant Quinn displayed the cheekpiece, pointing to the C/c brand on the inside, Michael readily admitted ownership. It also happened to be the same cheekpiece he’d already found once, but he kept quiet on that point.

  “Do you want to press charges, Captain?” asked the sergeant.

  “I shall have to, with such evidence, Pat.”

  Sergeant Quinn shook his head. “Fitzroy denies it.”

  “I’d be exceedingly surprised if he admitted it, wouldn’t you?”

  “He’s also wanting to lay charges against you for letting his cattle into the barley.”

  “What?” Michael cried, genuinely surprised. “I’d nothing to do with that! When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.” Pat Quinn eyed him carefully.

  “Then I know no one at Cornanagh was at fault. Owen and Philip were at work and came home on time. Mick and Artie were in the yard all day, helping with the horses, and so were the girls. No, he’ll have to look to someone else for that piece of mischief. And I want to know from him where he dumped my tack!”

  Pat Quinn gave the cheekpiece a bit of a brandish. “Fitzroy can’t deny this was found in his vehicle. And he was furious.” He grinned. “But don’t worry—we’ll have your tack back, too.”

  “I sincerely hope so, Pat. I sincerely hope so.”

  Michael shook hands with Pat Quinn and left the station. On the drive home, he began to think about how much his world had changed in just a few days. There was Philip, of course. He was going to miss that boy, badly. Philip was nearest to him in personality and temperament.

  Then he began to chuckle. Sybil was a chip off the old block, too. After she’d had a little word with him about Selina’s “trouble,” he’d begun to take a less patronizing view of her association with Nualla Fennel and women’s rights. Sybil had practically demanded that he offer Selina Eithne’s mews! How he had managed to keep a straight face, he did not know. Surprise and shock, probably, that his daughter was insisting that he allow the woman he loved to move into Cornanagh! Selina, he was sure, would appreciate the irony as much as he. But however it was achieved, he wanted Selina away from Healey. More specifically, he wanted her near him—now, and always . . .