Sterrin could almost see the iron tracks disappearing through the door in his wake. Railroad, indeed! But it would seem that Sir Jocelyn had arranged for a special train to convey the entire house-party to his mansion on the River Nore for a five o’clock dinner the next afternoon.
Sterrin was the first downstairs next afternoon. The rest were still titivating in an atmosphere of sublimated woman, urinated hand-lotion, singed hair and rice powder.
‘Sterrin,’ her hostess called, ‘will you run back up and hurry them down? We shall be leaving in ten minutes. Yes,’ she went on in a lower tone that was not low enough, ‘she is lovely but a bit flat in the bust. Gentlemen like a well-turned figure. Still, she has plenty of time to fill out.’ Sterrin decided that she had only ten minutes to fill out.
She slipped behind the screen that concealed the more intimate pieces of toilet ware and pushed a small cushion down her neck. The strain brought a protest from her grandfather’s breeches that burst the underarm seam. She tried her heart-shaped pincushion. It produced a curve that was gentle but lopsided. Over the screen she spotted a perfect little velvet apple for holding pins; right in front of Belle Delaney. ‘Hurry down. Belle! You are holding up everyone,’ including me.
But Belle, holding a big red geranium to her nostrils was furtively absorbed in her own brand of artifice. As if we didn’t know, thought Sterrin, purloining the cushion from under the geranium-covered nose, that she lost her sense of smell after the famine fever and is only trying to dab a bit of colour on her cheeks!
She forced the green velvet apple down inside her gown. It balanced in bulk, not in shape, the heart-shaped pincushion, but the combined effect was more mature and it seemed to be working. During dinner, Sir Jocelyn’s gaze kept wandering towards her as she sat in profile from him down the table. The apple-shaped side was turned towards him and he marvelled at its sculptured roundness.
When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies he came straight to her. She had been on thorns listening to the older ladies discussing who was entertaining who, and who, behind their fans, was rumoured to be that way! And the younger ones discussing the prices of Jumping Frog Brown walking gowns and North Pole Blue evening gowns. And Sterrin’s self refused a few yards of velvet by a tradesman!
‘Sir Jocelyn,’ she cried eagerly, ‘Mamma has told me about your aviary of silver birds. She said it was beautiful beyond words. Would you please permit me to have a peep?’
He bowed. ‘My dear, I shall be honoured to have you view my collection. Perhaps some of the others would like to come—you see, er—it is in quite another part of the house.’ And delectable as it would be, one might not indulge oneself in her unchaperoned company. But Sterrin was on her feet. ‘I should never forgive myself if I did not avail of this opportunity,’ she said with complete truth. ‘Come, there is no time to delay.’ Her eyes and smile diffused the incense of flattery. He forgot his other guests; forgot everything except this sheath of springtime that was awakening responses he had long thought dead.
As they walked down the room he saw their reflected images in a convex wall mirror. No lady, he thought, had befitted his squiring like this tall, graceful, exquisitely shaped girl.
The spectacle of the aviary startled her from her strategy. On ornamental trees of ebonised mahogany and on branches of palest sycamore perched silver birds of every species, all with shimmering eyes formed from priceless gems. At the base of the trees, on a low platform, ranged the glory of the collection, large peacocks of solid silver, their great tails tipped with gold and encrusted with emeralds and rubies.
She moved from tree to tree, touching each bird with reverent fingers, then dropped to her knees to examine the peacocks.
‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘I have heard Mamma speak of them but I did not dream of anything so glorious.’
He looked down at her gazing up at him, her hands extended to the length of the bird she held from gold tipped tail to jewelled beak. Neither have I ever dreamed of anything so glorious, he thought. What was it she reminded him of—the young kneeling figure, the rapt expression, the hands extended holding the ornamental bird. Was it of some virgin to the Temple holding out her offering of doves?
Suddenly she remembered that there was no silver metal and costly jewels to weight the wings of the time she was wasting. She replaced the bird and rose swiftly to her knees before he could assist her. ‘It will soon be time to catch the train,’ she said.
He shrugged the idea. ‘The train can wait. It is specially ordered for my guests.’
She beamed. ‘How wonderful it must be to have one’s own train. We have not even a railway line.’
‘I must say I thought it singularly unenterprising of the landlords not to have availed of the opportunity of connecting when the main line was laid.’ Her smile shortened a little. Papa had been one of the unenterprising landlords.
‘Most of the landlords concerned were preoccupied with post-famine conditions,’ she observed.
‘Ah yes,’ he answered gently, ‘and with the forlorn cause of Repeal.’
Her smile vanished. He hastened to recover from his maladroitness. Her father’s death, of course, had been one of the final blights in that dwindling movement. For a moment he thought of offering her one of his precious birds.
But she rallied. Disdain would not meet the mortgage; nor Lubey’s account. ‘A railway line would bring prosperity to the farmers. They have such a limited market for their produce.’
He fingered the replica of a pheasant that he had made rise for three successive seasons without shooting. The young farmer who had subsequently poached it was now happily out of range. There were no preserves in the convict settlements of Botany Bay.
‘It is touching to see one so young take such an interest in the people. Are there no responsible people to sponsor a railway development without letting a lovely lady like you concern her beautiful head with such mundane matters? Come! Look at this parakeet. Its eyes are fire opals. Don’t they give the impression of life and movement?’
‘Yes, don’t they,’ said Sterrin. ‘You see, there is no one who could really guarantee the line since Lord Templetown sold out.’
‘Ah, it is a question of guaranty! Now, see this bluebird. It is the only specimen where I have used a substance other than jewels. I introduced lapis lazuli for the wings.’
She stroked the blue wing. ‘I think this is the prettiest of them all. You know, in the last year the district nearest the railway sent out six thousand firkins of butter over a period that exported only that many hundred before it became linked up with the railway.’
He stopped in the act of reaching for another bird. Butter firkins! Why was this exquisite creature talking like a dairymaid while she was being privileged to view one of the rarest collections in the world?
‘Perhaps, my dear, you would prefer if I were to show you over my poultry yard?’
The lapis lazuli dulled somewhat under the blue flash of her eyes. She drew herself taller.
‘Yes, it might be interesting to see what laid the eggs that hatched out such birds as these.’ She flicked a dismissing finger towards the priceless species.
He drew her hand inside his arm, but made no move to escort her hence. ‘Forgive me, my dear. It is not everyone who is privileged to view my aviary.’ He placed his finger under her chin and held her face close to his own. ‘Why are you concerned about this railway?’
‘I... it would be wonderful to be connected with the outside world. We are so shut off. It has been so exciting coming here today in your marvellous train. You have no idea. I’m afraid my mind has been full of it.’
But of course! He had travelled too far in life and the world to realise that the novelty of a rail journey meant more to this fresh young mind than the sight of a connoisseur’s collection of ornaments.
His silver birds turned to lead as he looked into the intense blue of her eyes set in the white glow of her skin and he marvelled anew at the contrast of jet black brows under t
he gold-bronze hair. He touched the soft cheek and his trembling was two-fold for the delicious thrill of delight and the fear that his touch might harden her cheek into the Midas texture of his treasure trove. ‘And it only needs a guarantor,’ he murmured, ‘to hack an iron path to the fortress where you have been too long turreted.’
She gazed up with lips parted and eyes more wide and rapt than when they gazed upon the peacock. ‘Would you like me to guarantee the railroad?’ She sighed with relief. It had been hard work among the silver mummies!
‘Would you?’ She breathed it like a holy supplication.
His smile was indulgent. Why not! A few miles of iron rails would not cost as much as a few of these birds and there were always the naive butter firkins to repay with dividends. ‘And if I give you your railroad, my dear, what do I get?’
He hastened to retrench. He noticed the altered look in her eyes, but he did not know it came from the queer crawling in her spine. ‘There, my dear. We’ll see about this railway.’ He brushed her forehead with his lips and his pat on her shoulder was paternal.
Then Dominic opened the door. ‘Sterrin,’ he said bleakly, ‘my breeches!’ He was holding both hands over his seat.
‘What on earth have you done?’ she demanded, though she was never so glad to see him, torn breeches and all.
‘I couldn’t help it, Sterrin, honestly! I was stooping over the gold fish pond. Now I’ll have to go back into petticoats again.’ His little fair face was stricken.
‘Nonsense,’ said Sir Jocelyn. ‘Your nurse will put you into fresh breeches.’
‘But I have not got another pair of breeches and there’s no more velvet to mend these because the rest of grandfather’s breeches was put on Sterrin’s gown.’
The gaping tear in the seat of Dominic’s breeches ventilated light and knowledge straight into Sir Jocelyn’s mind. So that explained the sweet little railroad project and all the tender concern for the farmers! The son and daughter of the castle were reduced to sharing their grandfather’s trousers! This sweet ingenue was like all the other women whose fingers, in his company, turned into claws that clutched for his gold.
He turned to the child. ‘Return to your nurse, Sir Dominic. Your sister will attend to you in a moment.’
Sterrin felt as though she had been plunged suddenly into a torrent. Her body was engulfed. She tried to cry out, but her lips were sealed with some breathing pressure that she gradually realised was a kiss. Like the memory flash of drowning people she recalled other kisses; Papa’s, Cousin Maurice’s, Young Thomas’s parting kiss that had been like a benediction; none of them like this strange kiss—so queerly, intimately male. She struggled, but her arms were pinioned against her chest. They hurt excruciatingly as though they were being prodded by a hundred pins.
She was released with a quick, angry exclamation. Sir Jocelyn was rubbing his wrists that seemed to be covered with blood. Automatically she rubbed her own stinging forearms without looking at the rash of angry pricks. She was too intent on looking at the face in front of her. It had become quite different; cold and contemptuous; so had the voice that was accusing her of dreadful things. ‘You have not omitted one single trick,’ it was saying. ‘You must be experienced in such overtures to be able to defend yourself so readily with the sordid hatpin trick.’
Rage swept the blood from her face. It choked the words that surged inside her. Damn you, they roared, are you accusing me. Me! of jabbing with a hatpin like a totsie from Love Lane warding off a drunken soldier?
But only her own kind of language escaped from the surge; simple and direct, like the words that she had heard herself say to Reverend Mother on that last morning when she had wanted to hurl forth high-minded phrases about hypocrisy. Curious, he watched her put her hand down her bodice, and as though she were drawing forth a tenderly guarded billet-doux, she produced a velvet apple. Heavens; she thought, it is full of pins.
‘This is not a weapon,’ she said coldly. ‘It is my pincushion.’ She was too proudly angry to offer an embarrassed excuse about its presence. ‘As your guest I did not think it would become necessary for me to defend myself from my host.’
The admiration was back in his face. There was something gallant about her standing there, her depleted figure restored—in part—to its almost boyish lissomness; the velvet apple naively outstretched.
‘My dear child,’ he said, all courtly and benign, ‘you have been playing a part that was not worthy of you. And I, in turn, played back to you. I acted towards the wanton you would have me believe that you are as I should not dream of behaving towards the true and gracious lady that I know you to be.’ He offered his arm. ‘Come, my dear. The whole incident has been a make-believe.’
She did not accept his arm. There had been nothing make-believe about that kiss.
That night she could not sleep for thinking of it. When she did sleep she dreamt that she was struggling in a swirling torrent and when she tried to scream a face came over hers, and lips hard as iron clamped down on her cries. She sat up gasping. Guilt more fearful than she had ever known encompassed her. What wicked things had she done? That kiss! Its atmosphere was all about her now. Its queer man maleness! Was this the way girls became Fallen? Driven from home to die in the snow; with a bundle in their arms? She jumped from the bed and ran to the door, tearing at the knob. Panic beat in her brain. She tore down the stairs not thinking where. In the grip of sleep and fear all she knew was that she had been overtaken by the fate that caused girls to drown themselves.
At a table in a store room full of boots and leggings and sacks of meal, Ned Rua sat in an agony of accounts. His tongue stuck out across his cheeks. He could add any length of figures in his head without error, but all his accuracy vanished when he had to drag the figures from his brain with a stump of a pencil. ‘They don’t scoromund*—Oh, Holy Mother of God!’ He dropped the pencil and made the sign of the cross. A white-draped figure with flowing hair was wafting past the open door. Sterrin slowed at the clatter of an overturned chair. She became conscious of the cold flags under her bare feet. ‘I—I wanted some saddle soap for my boots, Ned,’ she faltered.
He was as horrified at the idea of her thinking to soil her hands as he had been when he thought she was a ghost. ‘Leave them outside your door, Miss Sterrin. I’ll collect them myself when I get these to scoromund. I know what oats we bought in and I know what money we paid out, but I can’t for the life of me make the two scoromund.’
Poor Ned Rua! He was part of her innocent past! So were the girls, she thought, looking at them sleeping so peacefully; so appealingly. Well, maybe not Belle lying on her back with her mouth open; poor Belle! It was that famine fever out in a quarry that had damaged her nose.
She dressed and went from the sleeping house. The urge towards self-destruction was slackening every second. It was that lovely pre-dawning moment when people make hundreds of plans because the young untrammelled air gave strength and hope. Birds were yawning out sleepy trills and here was she planning to—what? She placed a toe in the water. It made a dark patch on the nice green leather. Her shoes would be destroyed. Should she take them off before she—? But then she wouldn’t need shoes after... A darting movement sent vibrant alertness through her being. She dropped down on her stomach and sidled her hands beneath the water. It was a most unsporting thing to do, but a trout was a trout. Her fingers were just meeting around a scaly belly when a rattle made her look round. ‘Hell roast you, Ned Rua! You’ve made me lose a three pounder at least.’
‘Whisht, Miss Sterrin.’ Ned put down the feed bucket. ‘It’s there under that flat stone.’
‘I’ve got it. No I haven’t!’
Ned dropped on his stomach beside her. ‘There, to the left.’ He jogged her elbow and she nearly overbalanced.
‘You gomahawk!’ she hissed, grabbing his arm for support. ‘You nearly drowned me.’
Belle Delaney and Sterrin shared a chair at breakfast, and shared the trout, baked in butter on the gridiron. H
alf way through the last morsel she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to drown herself. Anyway, she had made the gesture. Reverend Mother is right, she told herself; I have a vocation for living.
* Vernacular for ‘correspond’.
40
Next afternoon Sterrin, standing at her window over the stable yard in the act of removing her bonnet, saw the Scout come galloping into the yard. He was standing astride the shafts, all pride and purpose. She was minded of the day he came on a white horse to proclaim the news of the Liberator’s arrest.
‘God save ye!’ he cried to the coachman and Mike O’Driscoll and to the inside staff who were crowding to the back door. ‘I’ve beaten Her Majesty’s newsbearer. I’ve whipped the boyo with the telegram.’ He mounted the cross board of the cart as though it were a rostrum. ‘Once again,’ he proclaimed, ‘it is my painful duty to be the bearer of ill news to this great house. I have come to inform you that, on the eve of his one hundred and tenth birthday, the great liege lord of Crannagh—’ The donkey moved towards a bale of hay and the Scout collapsed with his legs in the air. Sterrin leaned out as his head reappeared. ‘Ould Lord Cullen,’ he gasped, ‘is dead at last.’
Mrs. Stacey halted the start of a keen to ask what had his Lordship died of. The Scout mounted his rostrum. His next lines were not to be thrown away in the floor boards of an ass cart. ‘The illness that cut him off before attaining the completion of his eleventh decade was—measles. Youthful to the last, you might say.’
‘He mustn’t ’a had them an’ he a child,’ said Mrs. Stacey. ‘Perhaps, who knows,’ said the Scout stepping down for the funeral ale, ‘the illnesses of first childhood may not render one immune in one’s second childhood. It’s a thirsty day.’
Sterrin saw Mike O’Driscoll removing his straw and his hat to come in for the courtesy drink. ‘Begod,’ she heard him say as he disappeared underneath her window. ‘If he had lived another couple of years he might ’a got the chincough.’
The Big Wind Page 45