The Irish who sailed with her aboard the Scotia had freed themselves from landlords who had held them in servitude, but it seemed that their battle for a dignified existence was still not won. Now, if what the messenger-boy said was true, they were unleashing their fears and insecurities on the only section of society inferior to them, and in doing so were exacerbating anti-Irish prejudice.
Maura looked at the mansions on either side of the avenue. New York was very different from Dublin. There was vast wealth in New York. Wealth that could be put to the immigrants’advantage. It would be easy with Karolyis money to provide decent housing and education for the newly arrived Irish. In a generation ignorance would be behind them. There would be Irish policemen, Irish judges, perhaps even Irish senators. What there wouldn’t be, God willing, were Irish so afraid of losing what little they had that they took to the streets lynching those who threatened to take from them.
The Karolyis mansion loomed up on their right-hand side and the carriage turned off the avenue and rolled between the gilded gates. As yet she had never spoken to Alexander about her plans for her fellow Irish. Now, while they were in New York, would be a good time to do so.
‘Mr Karolyis is waiting for you in the Chinese drawing-room, madam,’ Haines said to her with frigid courtesy as she entered the house.
Maura looked around her. On her first visit, the yellow marble of the domed entrance-hall had reminded her of a mausoleum and it still did so. Neither did she like the huge stained-glass window depicting Henry VIII of England and King Francis I of France on the Field of the Cloth of Gold any better than when she had first seen it. There was nothing remotely welcoming about the grandiose décor; nor was there anything remotely welcoming in Haines’s frosty demeanour.
She looked at him consideringly. He had been a witness to the terrible scene that had taken place between Alexander and Victor. He knew at first hand from Victor Karolyis that she had been born peasant-Irish, that she was Roman Catholic and illegitimate, and it was obvious that he consequently held her in the same contempt as his master had done. At Tarna the household staff had immediately and unequivocally accorded her the respect due to her as Alexander’s wife. Haines showed every intention of not doing so and where Haines led, the rest of the household staff would follow. Knowing that he was now hoping that she would not be able to remember her way to the drawing-room and that she would be nervously flustered, she said crisply, ‘Then take me to him.’
Blanching slightly at being given orders by an immigrant, he did so. ‘Mrs Karolyis, sir,’ he announced as footmen opened the drawing-room’s heavily carved double doors.
Alexander had been deep in conversation with Lyall Kingston. He broke off immediately, striding across the room towards her, his lean dark face alight with such naked pleasure that even Haines’s composure was shaken.
‘Thank God you’re here, sweetheart! What the hell I was thinking of to leave Tarna without you, I can’t imagine.’
His arms slid around her and uncaring of Kingston’s presence he lowered his head, his mouth closing on hers in passionate need.
As her arms circled his waist, joy surged through her. What did it matter if the Karolyis family home was a monstrosity? If the household staff were hostile? All that mattered was that she and Alexander were together again.
When at last he raised his head Haines discreetly disappeared and Lyall Kingston was staring studiously out of a window.
‘It was damned odd sleeping without you last night,’ he said huskily, a smile crooking the corner of his mouth.
She flushed rosily. Since the night he had entered her bedroom at Tarna, they had never spent a night apart. She squeezed him tightly before reluctantly releasing him, wishing that Lyall Kingston wasn’t in the room, wishing that she could tell him about the baby.
He turned with her towards Kingston, one arm still around her waist. ‘Pa’s will won’t be read till after the funeral but Kingston has been going over the main body of his requests with me.’
Lyall Kingston turned away from the window to face them, pondering again the enigma that was Mrs Alexander Karolyis. Victor had told him in no uncertain terms both who she was and what she was. ‘An illegitimate, gold-digger and whore,’ he had spat forcefully. ‘And Irish and Catholic into the bargain.’
He had offered no explanation for Alexander bizarrely marrying such a girl, but Lyall knew enough of Victor’s affairs, and of Alexander’s long-standing relationship with Genevre Hudson, to have strong suspicions as to what they had been.
When he had travelled to Tarna with news of Victor’s death he had been curious as to what he would find there. Tarna turned into a brothel, perhaps. Or Alexander living moodily alone, the gold-digger and whore having tired of country life. What he hadn’t expected to find was an obviously ordered household. His glimpse of Mrs Karolyis had been only brief but it had been enough for him to realize that Victor’s assessment of her had been widely wrong. She might very well be Irish and Catholic and illegitimate, she might even be a gold-digger, though he doubted it. What she most certainly wasn’t was a whore.
Looking at the two of them together he also no longer believed the marriage to be bizarre. They complemented each other as perfectly as he romantically imagined Abélard and Héloïse, Cleopatra and Anthony, Heathcliff and Cathy, had done. The generous fullness of her mouth indicated a warm and giving nature; a nature that would offset the famous Karolyis selfishness. There was a vivacity about her, too, which served as a perfect foil to Alexander’s dark and saturnine handsomeness.
Wishing that Alexander would be a little more circumspect about the delicate nature of the conversation they had been holding, but applauding the obvious openness and trust with which he had spoken to his wife, Lyall said carefully, ‘I have merely been assuring Mr Karolyis that there is nothing in his father’s will to cause concern.’
Maura had not given a thought to Victor Karolyis’s will. She was rather surprised that Alexander had, but then, remembering the unpleasant surprises Lord Clanmar’s will had held for herself and for Isabel, she realized that Alexander’s concern was only sensible and to be expected.
She smiled, acknowledging his good manners in putting her in the picture, and remained silent. Victor Karolyis’s will was no concern of hers.
Lyall Kingston was deeply relieved to have all his assumptions about her confirmed. She was not a gold-digger. A gold-digger would have been unable to refrain from asking as to the extent of the Karolyis fortune and whether or not Alexander was to be the main beneficiary. As it was, there was not the faintest gleam of mercenary curiosity in Mrs Karolyis’s eyes. Victor Karolyis had been a shrewd man who rarely came to a wrong judgement where people were concerned. He had, however, come to a very wrong judgement about his daughter-in-law. Lyall thought it a pity. He had a feeling that if Victor had lived he would have come to admire her highly.
‘You’ve told me all I need to know, Lyall,’ Alexander said with a warmth of manner that Lyall was unaccustomed to when dealing with a Karolyis. ‘The formal reading will take place here, immediately after the funeral.’
Lyall nodded assent and removed his top hat from a side-table. He was now quite obviously de trop, but it was a pity. He would have liked to stay longer in Mrs Karolyis’s company. He was curious to know if there was an obvious Irish inflection in her voice; if her speaking manner was as seductive as her appearance.
When he had taken his leave of them Alexander said with vast relief, ‘Pa didn’t cut me out of his will. Charlie was sure he had done, and he had certainly threatened to.’ He grinned, pulling her again into his arms. ‘I wonder what held the old buzzard back? Perhaps he thought he was immortal and his will irrelevant.’
Despite his irreverence she smiled. He was holding her so close against him that she could hear his heart beating. She said, not looking at him, her face pressed lovingly against his chest, ‘I’ve something to tell you. Something I’ve been wanting to tell you for days now.’
His lip
s brushed her hair, his mind still on the incredibility of his father’s will. Why on earth hadn’t he disinherited him? He had been humiliated; shamed; had all his dearest dreams shattered. Yet when it had come to the crunch he had not sought retribution. Alexander could scarcely believe it. Retribution was part and parcel of the Karolyis psyche. His grandfather had never been known to allow any slight to go unanswered and Victor’s capacity for ruthless revenge was a byword among those who had fallen foul of him.
Yet he had not sought revenge on being presented with what he believed was the most disastrous daughter-in-law imaginable. Was it because he had felt guilty over Genevre’s lonely death? Was it because he knew that he would have acted similarly if his own father had treated him in such a manner? There was no way Alexander could tell. All he could be was grateful. The Karolyis millions were safely his. He was a man without a problem in the world.
‘We’re having a baby. I became sure while Charlie was staying with us and I didn’t want to tell you then. I wanted to tell you when it was just you and me.’ She lifted her radiant face to his. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Alexander? Isn’t it the most wonderful thing ever?’
He looked down at her, the blood thundering in his ears, a score of different reactions fighting for supremacy. A baby! A baby for Chrissakes! It was wonderful. It was more than that, it was stupendous. It meant that the Karolyis dynasty was assured; that there would be purpose in ensuring that the Karolyis millions multiplied; that he would have a child of his own and a relationship with it of the same kind that his grandfather had had with him. And it meant that his marriage was binding. There could be no shrugging Maura off now; no forgetting of her existence.
A smile quirked the corners of his mouth and then widened until he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. ‘It isn’t just wonderful, sweetheart! It’s absolutely bloody marvellous!’
He didn’t care about the bonds now constraining him. He had long since abandoned any idea of paying her off and attempting to forget about her. She had achieved what he had thought impossible. She had made his life worth living again. She had made him happy.
He still thought of Genevre and he always would. Genevre had been the love of his life. She had been in his blood and in his bones. She was still in his blood and bones and he was determined she would be so until the day he died. But although he still thought of her he no longer did so every waking minute of every day. The passion and camaraderie he now shared with Maura had assuaged his grief, and he was grateful.
‘Let’s celebrate with champagne,’ he said exuberantly, uncaring of the impropriety of summoning champagne in a house where his father lay dead. ‘What on earth is Charlie going to say when we tell him? He’ll have to be a godfather.’ He rang the bell to summon a footman. ‘I’ll ask Henry Schermerhorn to be a godfather as well. What on earth are we going to call it? It will have to be something Hungarian. Vincent or Zoltan or Ferenc.’
‘What if it’s a girl?’ Maura said, her voice thick with laughter. ‘And why not an Irish name? Why not Patrick or Brendan or if it’s a girl, Bridie?’
He wasn’t listening to her. He was asking a dumbstruck footman to bring two glasses and a bottle of Moet and Chandon to the room.
The funeral was held at St Thomas’s. Alexander had determined on as private a funeral as was possible, but New York society outmanoeuvred him. Ever since Alexander’s marriage Victor had suffered snubs and humiliations from members of the Old Guard anxious that their inviolate caste should not be sullied by contact with a father-in-law to an Irish emigrant. Now he was dead they could ease their consciences by paying their respects. And they could perhaps catch a glimpse of the emigrant in question.
Maura had allowed Miriam to guide her in her choice of mourning wear. Her dress was fine black wool crêpe with long sleeves and a high neck. Her hair was swept high in a severe chignon, crowned by a small black velvet toque and veil. The sombreness of her clothes should have rendered her plain and unprovocative. Instead the stark blackness of her dress emphasized the creamy perfection of her skin and the startling gentian-blue of her eyes. Looking across at her, as they waited for Miriam to bring an ankle-length, black, sealskin coat, Alexander felt something akin to a shaft of pain. She was exquisitely beautiful. Even more beautiful than Genevre.
‘We’re ready to leave, sir,’ the funeral director said to him sotto voce.
Alexander nodded. Now that it had actually come to it, he was beginning to feel distinctly odd. It was becoming harder by the minute to remember the father he had hated and tried to destroy. All that he could remember were the good times. His father taking him to Franconi’s Hippodrome to see elephants and camels and monkeys riding ponies; tobogganing with him; swimming with him at Newport. Tears glittered on his long eyelashes. Why the devil had his father been so unreasonable about Genevre? Why, in God’s name, couldn’t they have remained friends?
The cortège seemed to take for ever to reach the church. In the hot August heat his high starched collar and stiff formal suit became more and more uncomfortable. In the carriage behind him he knew that Charlie was suffering similarly. Other Schermerhorns followed the carriage conveying Charlie and his parents. Old Henry had turned out, looking distinctly glum at being so forcibly reminded of mortality. There were distant cousins, second and third time removed. Despite his initial wish that the funeral be small, Alexander was glad of their presence. The Schermerhorn connection had meant a great deal to his father and it was gratifying that the Schermerhorns were paying their respects.
There were no Karolyises present. The only Karolyis was himself. For the first time in his life Alexander found himself wondering what family his grandfather had left behind in Hungary. Presumably he had other cousins, several times removed, living in and around the village his grandfather had left so long ago. It was an intriguing thought. Perhaps one day he would visit Hungary. It would be nice to erect a memorial there to his grandfather. A hospital or a school.
The purple plumes on the horses’heads bobbed in the strong sunlight as the cortège turned in the direction of St Thomas’s. He had never before pondered on the enormity of his grandfather’s and father’s achievements but he did so now, and he was awestruck by them. His grandfather had been born in utter penury in an insignificant Hungarian village. The name Karolyis had meant nothing then. Now, less than a hundred years later, it was as synonymous with wealth as the name of King Solomon.
As he followed his father’s flower-decked coffin into the church he looked around him at the vast sea of mourners. There were Schermerhorns, Brevoorts, Stuyvesants, De Peysters, Van Rensselaers, Rhinelanders, Van Cortlandts, Beekmans, Roosevelts, Jays. They were the princes of America, the equals of the Habsburgs and Hohenzollerns and Radziwills of Europe. And they were paying their respects to his father because, despite the slights he had suffered at their hands during the last few months, they could not afford to do otherwise. The Karolyis name was New York. Almost the entire city was Karolyis owned. Where real estate was concerned, only the Astors were rivals.
A hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. The rivals had put in an appearance too. The tall, distinguished figure of John Jacob Astor III was clearly visible, as was that of his younger brother, William Backhouse Astor, Junior.
William, like his own father, had married a Schermerhorn. ‘Though not one of the prettier members of our clan,’ Henry had once said to him caustically. Remembering the remark, Alexander began to think about his parents’marriage. Without it, the Karolyis name would not have acquired such rapid social acceptance. Had that been the only reason his father had married his mother? Had it been merely a marriage of convenience? If so, then it was no wonder that his father had balked when he, Alexander, had shown not the slightest intention of marrying in a like manner.
With understanding came deep, burning regret. He would not have behaved any differently if he had understood earlier. He would still have insisted on marrying Genevre. He would still have wanted revenge for the hurt done to her
. But at least he and his father could have talked. There would have been some point of contact between them.
He was so deep in his thoughts and in memories that Maura had to press his arm lightly to indicate to him that the service was over. At the graveside his eyes filled with unabashed tears. He had been wrong when he had said to Maura that he could never forgive his father. He forgave him now. And surely his father’s unaltered will indicated that his father had also forgiven him?
It was time for him to shovel the first spadeful of earth on his father’s coffin. He stepped forward, feeling more at peace with himself than he had done for months and months. When his child was born he would name him Victor, after his father. If the baby was a girl, then he would name her Victoria. He wondered if Maura would object to the name Victoria Genevre.
It was Phillip Jay who put an end to his musings. ‘Please excuse Helena and myself if we don’t return home with you, Alexander.’
Alexander looked at him, surprised. He had certainly expected the Jays to be among the mourners returning to the Fifth Avenue mansion for sherry and a cold collation. Phillip had been a long-standing friend of his father’s. ‘Under the circumstances …’ Phillip continued awkwardly. ‘Helena, you know …’
Alexander didn’t know but he wasn’t able to pursue the subject. There was a long line waiting to shake his hand and to offer condolences. They were also, to a man, offering apologies about their inability to return to the Karolyis home for the customary sherry and repast.
After it had happened a third time realization dawned on Alexander like a thunderbolt. He was being socially cut. Despite having attended his father’s funeral the mourners had no intention of coming to terms with the marriage that had so outraged them. He had been too deep in thoughts of his father to have previously noticed, but now he saw that Maura was being scarcely acknowledged. Rage suffused him. She was his wife, for Chrissakes! It was beyond belief that she should be treated with such ignorance.
An Embarrassment of Riches Page 27