by Dorothy Eden
She paused to look again out of the long windows over the darkening countryside. There was a misshapen tree just beyond the garden. One side must have been cut off by lightning, and now it thrust out one leafless crooked bough which was loaded to breaking-point with the crows Patsy had mentioned. They were fighting and croaking and flying in black circles as one by one they were dislodged by their jostling fellows. The air was full of their hoarse conversation.
Crows, not cats. Birds, not babies.
I’ve got to be happy here, Cathleen thought desperately. I’ve got to be amused and lifted out of myself, but I must stand apart. I mustn’t get involved with this crazy family. I must go back to Ronald saying that his idea was splendid, I had a stimulating and unique summer, did a good job on the O’Riordan book, and now am a whole person again.
Liam isn’t like Jonathon… Jonathon never loved me in the true and complete sense of being loved… It’s only Debby I grieve for…
CHAPTER THREE
“HAVE I TO CALL YOU Mrs. Lamb?”
That was Liam coming towards her as she went into the library. Apart from the log fire smouldering in the enormous fireplace, there was almost no light, and again Cathleen had the illusion of Jonathon in Liam’s quiet deliberate voice and the way he held his head.
It was wishful thinking, of course. Or was it? Did she really want Jonathon with his unknowably tormenting qualities back?
“You can call me what you like, I expect. My name is Cathleen.”
“That’s a good Irish name. Can I get you a drink? What will you have? There’s just about everything here except poteen, and I’m sure Patsy could lay his hands on some of that.”
“Patsy’s the little man in the tweed cap?”
“That’s him. He’s a soft-tongued rascal. But then we all are.” Liam gave her his gentle slightly tilted smile. His eyes were very blue, a deep exciting blue, and set rather close and deep, so that they had a look of intensity. They were a contradiction to the quietness of his voice.
“Don’t trust us when we start telling you old tales,” he said. “Especially Aunt Tilly. That book of hers will have to be carefully censored, and even then there’ll be a risk of lawsuits. Well, what’s it to be?”
Cathleen saw that his hand was hovering over the array of bottles on the sideboard.
“Sherry, thank you.”
“Wise girl. You intend to keep your head. You’ll need to. I wonder if we can get through dinner without a squabble.”
“Who squabbles?”
“Aunt Tilly and Rory, mostly. Sometimes I join in and Kitty comes to my defence. Poor little Kitty. You’ve probably noticed she’s the dogsbody around here.”
“What makes her lame?” Cathleen asked.
“She was born like that. Some defect in her hip.”
“Couldn’t it have been operated on?”
“Probably. But we live in medieval times here, hadn’t you noticed? My father would have been too busy getting ready for the next fight with the British, and my mother—” Liam stopped, seeming not to want to say more.
Cathleen said uncomfortably, “Kitty could be attractive if she tried. It’s a pity she’s lost interest.”
“She never had interest. But don’t worry about her. She isn’t your problem. I hope you’ll like being here. I’ll give you a tip. Let Aunt Tilly’s tantrums fly over your head. They blow themselves out like a storm. She’s forgotten them in five minutes.”
Cathleen smiled. “There was someone in Dublin who got a taste of the storm.”
Liam’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Was there? Did you see this happen?”
“No. It was over the telephone. Something about the orphanage. I gather insults passed.”
Liam laughed. “Trust Aunt Tilly. She was probably haggling over the price of a nail. But tell me about yourself.”
“Me? Oh, I’m only your aunt’s secretary, or her ghost, if you like. I can spell and I’m literate.”
“A ghost couldn’t be a more inaccurate description,” he said softly and admiringly.
Cathleen turned to the fire. Don’t try to make me one of the family, she wanted to say. Again something was warning her that this would be dangerous.
“I’m only here for the summer,” she said.
“You’re a widow, Aunt Tilly says.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Cathleen. That was bad luck.”
She didn’t look at him. She was afraid his eyes would hold too much sympathy. She was tired, even one glass of the golden sherry was making her lose a little of her stern self-control, and she didn’t want to make this soft-voiced Irishman her confidante after five minutes acquaintance.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said.
“Of course. But you’re young, aren’t you?”
It was a question. Cathleen had no intention of telling him her age. She said lightly.
“What do your aunt and your brother quarrel about?”
Liam shrugged. “Lack of money, usually. We’re what’s known as impoverished gentry. It’s not an uncommon state in Ireland. My father took practically no interest in this estate, and then he died while we were boys, so it went on being neglected. Shamus was more interested in racing and hunting while he had it, but now it’s Rory’s and Rory is being deadly serious about getting it back into order. Damned boring, if you ask me. There’s a great shortage of ready money. Aunt Tilly wants Rory to sell off half the land. She’s tired of living like a peasant, she says. But Rory intends farming the property as it should be farmed, so all the cash is poured into dreary things like machinery and fertilizers, and Aunt Tilly has to wear her ancient sables and drive an ancient car and do her own housework, more or less.”
“I don’t understand. The estate is Rory’s, you say, yet—”
“Yet, we all expect our share? That’s true. We share the income. Actually, I have my own line. I breed horses. Hunters and steeplechasers. Most of them go to English stables. I’m hoping to breed the winner of the Grand National one day. Indeed, I think I have him in the stables now. You must come down and see him.”
He smiled charmingly, and at that moment Miss O’Riordan and Kitty came in.
Miss O’Riordan’s eyes stared piercingly at the two of them. Unable to stop herself, Cathleen stepped back a pace, and then was annoyed with herself, because it seemed as if she had been standing too close to Liam. And Miss O’Riordan hadn’t failed to notice.
“Liam, Kitty and I could bear something to drink, too.” Her voice was sharp.
Liam smiled. He seemed amused.
“What will you have, Aunt Tilly?”
“Do I ever have anything different?”
Liam poured a large measure of Irish whisky for the old lady and she swallowed it neat. Kitty took a glass of sherry, which she sipped, then put down.
“We won’t wait for Rory,” said Miss O’Riordan. “Let’s go in.”
She led the way from the library through an arched doorway into the high-ceilinged dining-room. Elaborately carved chairs stood round an immense circular table. The floor was uncovered. The faded gold curtains drawn across the long windows billowed in a draught. Over the fireplace there was a painting of a gypsy in a flat-crowned black hat, with a multi-coloured shawl draped over her magnificent shoulders. With her long nose and gleaming black eyes she could well have been an ancestor of Miss O’Riordan. But where the painted woman’s guile and cunning were plain, Aunt Tilly hid hers beneath drooped eyelids. They only showed devastatingly at the most effective moments.
A short plump woman, with a round, red, ageless face and lively eyes, brought in the food. She was no doubt Mary Kate, Patsy’s wife, who had once yearned uselessly for children. She stared with frank interest at Cathleen.
“The soup’s cold,” Miss O’Riordan snapped.
“Is it now? Would you be blaming me, when you were so late? And Mr. Rory—ah, here he is now, the poor soul.”
“And why is he a poor soul?” demanded M
iss O’Riordan.
“Working so late and all. And him in Dublin this morning and having to take a train back.”
“That will do, Mary Kate,” Miss O’Riordan said sharply. “We haven’t asked your opinion on how I spent the day. If I decided to wear something other than rags, it takes time to buy it, doesn’t it? Well, Rory.”
Rory had come in and sat down without speaking. He had put on a tweed jacket and a collar and tie, but his toilet must have been hasty for his hair was still slightly wild. His face, with its high cheekbones, and strong nose, was really quite different from Liam’s. It was a handsome insensitive face. The mouth was hard.
“It would have been polite if you’d joined us for a drink,” his aunt said.
His eyebrows twitched. He was obviously about to make an impatient rejoinder when he thought better of it, and said mildly enough,
“We just managed to finish the lower field before dark. Did you have a good journey?”
“Well enough. Mrs. Lamb is an expert driver.”
“Good.”
Rory hadn’t deigned to look at Cathleen. He already took her presence for granted. She supposed she should have been grateful, instead of slightly piqued. It was just that one didn’t care to be ignored, like a piece of furniture.
“The orphans are to come on Saturday week.”
“Oh, God!”
“Don’t blaspheme like that. I shall want some money. Their train fares will amount to twenty pounds at least, and we must have an adequate supply of food. Of course, if you prefer the unfortunate little ones never to have a moment of pleasure, and if I can’t have one decent dinner gown after looking like a scarecrow ever since Shamus died—”
“Aunt Tilly, I’ve told you. I’m short of cash.” Rory’s voice had a controlled quietness.
“There’s no need for you to be short of cash.”
“I am, and we’ll have no argument in front of guests, if you don’t mind.”
“Rory, don’t evade the issue. Mrs. Lamb isn’t a guest, she’s my secretary, and she’s neither deaf nor dumb. She can’t live in this house without knowing what’s going on. And another thing, I’m going to give a dinner-party. We’ve been asleep in this place for long enough. There’s scarcely been a soul here since Shamus died.”
“That’s a splendid idea, Aunt Tilly,” said Liam. “Who’s to be invited?”
“Magdalene Driscoll, for one.”
Aunt Tilly seemed to know the effect that statement would have, for she sat back, her gleaming eyes going round the table. Her long nose twitched slightly. She looked predatory and wicked.
“What, have you decided to forgive her?” Liam asked.
“Perhaps we’re the ones who should be forgiven.”
“Mrs. Lamb doesn’t know what we’re talking about,” Liam said. “We’re being rude. We should explain to her that Magdalene was Shamus’s fiancée. At least, she thought she was. But we’re not a very reliable or honest family, Cathleen. Apparently Shamus already had a wife. He’d been married secretly in Dublin to a girl he wouldn’t bring to the castle.”
“She was a little nobody,” Aunt Tilly interjected. “The whole affair was unfortunate, to say the least. Magdalene was shockingly treated, thinking all the time she was going to marry Shamus. Naturally she’s bitter about it.”
“Did he mean to divorce this girl?” Cathleen asked.
Aunt Tilly’s formidable nose lifted higher.
“My dear, you’re remarkably ignorant. Divorce is a dirty word in this country.”
“Then would—”
“You mean Shamus’s wife would have to die, don’t you?” Kitty said unexpectedly. In her childish innocent voice the words sounded unnecessarily macabre.
“That would be the only way Shamus could have married Magdalene.” Aunt Tilly said repressively.
“Young people don’t die easily,” Kitty murmured. Again her innocent words seemed invested with some underlying hint.
Shamus was young, Cathleen was thinking. But he had had an accident.
What kind of accident?
Rory stood up suddenly. His face was almost as forbidding as Aunt Tilly’s.
“Have your dinner-party, if you must. Bring a hundred orphans here if you think it will get you into heaven. But stop asking me for money, Aunt Tilly. I haven’t got it. After the harvest I’ll spare as much as I can. But for now you’ll have to make do.”
Aunt Tilly, too, was standing up.
“Rory, this is important. I must have money. Your sister needs new things. There are wages to be paid. And look at the state of the carpets. They’re disgraceful. As for the heating system—”
“The wages will be paid,” said Rory coldly. “Kitty, I imagine, isn’t going without necessities. As for the carpets, they’re a great deal less important than pastures at the moment. If you’re wanting luxury, Aunt Tilly, I’m sure you’ve one or two things left that would fetch a considerable price if you sent them to London. What about the Fabergé brooch?”
“That was my grandmother’s!” Aunt Tilly screamed.
“And the thousand acres you want me to sell were my great-great-great-grandfather’s. I intend them also to be my son’s. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve more important things to do than talk of money.”
He strode through the arched doorway. His untidy black head was thrown back in a gesture of unshakeable determination.
“You see?” Liam murmured to Cathleen. “Family small talk.”
Kitty’s head hung over her plate. Aunt Tilly quite calmly continued her meal, observing:
“We shall be fourteen to dinner, counting ourselves. That’s a good number. You may think I waste my time arguing with Rory, but the drip, drip, drip, drip of water does gradually wear away stone. I shall get my own way eventually, and then we’ll be able to live the way we should. When I was a young girl, Mrs. Lamb, the place was overrun with servants, and I had fifteen ball dresses. We were civilized then, not barbarians, making our own hay, dusting our own furniture! Well, Kitty. Are you going upstairs?”
“Yes, Aunt Tilly.”
“Let me know if—” she lowered her voice, but it remained perfectly audible—“things aren’t as usual. Mrs. Lamb!”
“Yes, Miss O’Riordan?”
“Do you feel able to write a few letters for me this evening? We must get this dinner-party organized.”
The fireworks were over. They probably weren’t even fireworks, but quite normal behaviour, with no sparks of hate in anybody’s eyes. Shamus’s wife, hidden away secretly in Dublin (was she a shopgirl or a factory girl who would be too overawed to live in a castle?) had been pushed easily out of memory, and Magdalene, the eligible young woman who had been so badly deceived, was to be compensated by an invitation to a dinner-party where the man she had loved would only be a ghost.
The big oak bed was very comfortable, and Cathleen tired enough to sleep through any kind of strange sounds the night might bring. The tapping of an ivy branch on the window, the call of owls, the sough of the wind.
But nothing, nothing, would ever make her sleep through a baby’s crying.
She was awake and sitting upright the moment it penetrated her consciousness.
She listened with held breath.
The sound went on in a curious wailing monotone as if the child were not only very young but also very feeble.
How could it be a baby, for there surely couldn’t be one in the castle. Whose would it be? Not poor old Mary Kate’s, despite her longing. Not forlorn Kitty’s. And neither Liam nor Rory had a wife.
But Shamus had had a wife…
Cathleen was out of bed in a flash. She knew the sound came from within the castle, yet she went to the window to make quite sure that there was no hopeful tomcat sitting on the lawn calling to the moon.
Starlight lay over the dark trees and the shadowy hills. The air was chilly. The ivy tendrils hung still. Even the sound of crying had stopped.
Cathleen stood shivering. Had it been a dream, after a
ll, one that lingered on after she was awake? Everything seemed unreal, the dark shape of the big bed, the faint dusty smell of the curtains, the cool of the floor beneath her bare feet.
She felt very alone, caught in her obsession and marooned in this house among strangers who indulged in their passionate quarrels in her presence.
Then she heard the sound again. A snuffling, and the low desolate crying coming from directly overhead.
If Miss O’Riordan and Rory had a compulsive need to quarrel, the sound of a baby crying for attention had just such an overpowering compulsion for her. Cathleen had pulled on her dressing-gown and was starting off down the corridor to find the staircase that led to the next floor before she had time to reflect that it was none of her business, and that no doubt whoever owned the baby would be both angry and indignant at her intrusion.
She found the stairs, narrower than the ones that swept grandly up from the hall, and hurried up them. It was easy enough to follow the sound of the baby. She groped for and found light switches, and left the lights burning after her heedlessly.
Here was the same corridor as on the floor beneath. It wasn’t entirely dark, because at the end a chink of light showed from a not quite closed door.
It was from that room that the sound was coming.
Cathleen tapped softly on the door, and when there was no answer except the tired whimpering, she boldly pushed open the door and went in.
It was difficult then not to make an exclamation.
There was no baby in there.
The room was dominated by a four-poster bed by which a night-light burned. In the centre of the bed, propped up by pillows, was a tiny elderly woman with tossed white hair and wide staring eyes. She held her hands, palms outwards, against her breast, as if in a state of perpetual astonishment.
She was a little like a caught animal, Cathleen thought, a bush baby, perhaps, with its look of constant helpless unfocused appeal. She must have seen Cathleen come in, and indeed was now staring at her, but she said nothing. She had stopped crying, however. Her silence encouraged Cathleen to go forward and speak.
“Is there anything the matter?”
A door at the back of the room opened. A young girl in a dressing-gown, with a freckled face and a look of guilt, came hurrying in.