1949 (22 page)

“I don't think he approved of your jodhpurs,” Lewis remarked
sotto voce
. “At home no one would turn a hair. Women can go anywhere in riding clothes.”

“Even to balls?” Ursula asked with wide-eyed innocence.

“Especially to balls,” he assured her. “They wear jodhpurs underneath their gowns, so if they get bored they can sneak off to the stables and have a canter in the moonlight.”

“Fliss never told me she could dance in riding boots.”

He waved a hand in the air. “They can all do it. It's a required study for Saxons.”

In response to his gesture, a waiter appeared at their table with a menu. “Would you like a glass of wine before we order?” Lewis asked Ursula.

“I think not, thank you. But I could do damage to a pint of stout.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do mean it.”

The dining room did not serve pints, the waiter informed them. Particularly not to ladies, his tight-lipped manner added. He directed them to the hotel bar next door.

The darkly paneled retreat was textured with pipe smoke. When Ursula described the late-afternoon clientele as “a bulge of bankers and a slither of solicitors,” Lewis bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Stepping up to the highly polished mahogany bar, he ordered two pints of Guinness. The exclusively male drinkers ranged along the bar turned to stare at the young woman in jodhpurs who stood beside him, carrying a bunch of roses. But no one challenged her right to be there. Her companion was too well dressed; his accent too clearly identified him as a member of the British upper class.

The Irish might be struggling out from under the yoke of colonialism but the feelings of inferiority were still there. The drinkers went back to their drink.

Lewis took one taste of Guinness, grimaced, and pushed the glass aside. “Gin and bitters,” he told the bartender.

“You don't want your Guinness, sir?”

“Don't worry,” Ursula said brightly, “it won't go to waste. I'll drink his when I finish mine.”

The stout sang in her blood like wind through the struts of the Moth.

Lewis Baines's room at the Shelbourne was actually a small suite. The sitting room was a snug, low-ceilinged chamber on the mezzanine floor, with windows looking out on Kildare Street. Traffic sounds were magnified by the canyon-like acoustics of the street until Lewis drew the heavy curtains, shutting out the twilight. “There, is that better?”

“Much.” Ursula smiled up at him.

“Since we never got around to eating in that other hotel, shall I order a meal sent up?”

She shook her head. “I'm not hungry right now. I just want to sit here and—”

“And?”

“Enjoy it, I suppose. I've never been in one of the private rooms before.”

“I'm sorry now that I didn't ask for the best suite.”

“You should always have the best,” Ursula replied dreamily.

“That is the sort of thing I should be saying to you.” Lewis sat down beside her on the couch and took her hand. “You really are the most smashing girl, you know.”

“Am I?” That same dreamy voice.
He is going to try to seduce me
.

And I am going to let him
.

They kissed. Tentatively at first, then as deeply as before. Body pressed against body. Low, wordless syllables of pleasure. Hands beginning to search and seek.

Lewis stood up. Keeping his back to her, he crossed the room to the bed and turned down the covers, then brought a towel from the adjacent bathroom to spread over the sheet. Ursula was surprised.
Are men in the throes of passion always so fastidious?

He looked at her over his shoulder. “Take off your shoes, you look as if you might bolt for the door at any minute. Are you frightened of me?”

She raised her chin. “Of course not.”

“Then come sit here beside me.” He patted the bed.

When he began to undress her, she clutched her thumbs. She had never been seen naked by anyone else.
I have good bones
, she reminded herself fiercely behind closed eyes.

Lewis praised the grace of her shoulders as he uncovered them, coping easily with the tiny buttons of her blouse. She wore her best chemise beneath. “Your breasts are whiter than the linen,” he said. Lowering his blond head, he kissed each one gently just where the swell began.

“Lie back now.”

She kept her eyes closed while he removed her jodhpurs. As the fabric slid down her body he flattered her waist, her hips, her thighs with poetic phrases.

Too poetic
, said an acerbic voice in Ursula's mind.
He's plundering Lord Byron and George Meredith and he things I won't know
. But she had gone this far out of a mixture of repressed desire and long-standing curiosity; she would go the rest of the way.

Opening her eyes, she reached toward him. “Let me help you with your shirt buttons.”

Lewis gently pushed her hand away. He removed his clothes by himself and folded them neatly on a chair. Placed his shoes side by side underneath. Rolled up his socks and thrust them into the shoes. When he rejoined Ursula on the bed he plumped the pillows before gathering her into his arms.

How dare he roll up his socks!

“Pretty girl,” Lewis said softly. “Pretty rose. You're very tense. Relax for me, my Irish rose.”

His fingers sought out the tenderest parts of her body. Patiently, expertly, until at last she felt her breath catch in her throat. Her entire being focused on what was about to happen. The most intimate of mysteries to be solved, the miracle of flesh on flesh to be experienced at last.

With consummate skill Lewis brought her nerves singing to the surface.

A great shudder ran through her body.
Electricity. Magic!

Smooth hands, silky sheets. The fragrance of expensive soap and shaving cream. Intimate caresses. Thought fading away. The potential for bliss lay sweetly heavy at the core of her being, waiting for a very special man…this man…

Lewis began whispering obscenities.

Like filth pouring out of a golden goblet, his beautiful voice applied the terminology of the gutter to her private parts.

Ursula went cold.

His hot breath with its freight of forbidden words continued to wash over her, but she did not feel it. She had mentally withdrawn from her body. His vulgarity could not touch her. It demeaned only him.

Absorbed in his own sensations, Lewis did not notice that she had become a detached observer.

She had expected pain. When it came, it was short, sharp, and over. Lewis supported his upper body on his elbows so Ursula did not bear his full weight. His rhythm had the smooth acceleration of an aeroplane engine. She was aware of him moving inside her, but there was none of the excitement she had felt while flying. Her heart did not race. Her body did not thrill.

The observer inside her head asked,
Is this all there is?

 

When it was over he inquired solicitously, “Did I hurt you?” as if he had stepped on her toes while dancing. The incongruity, compared with his recent vocabulary, made her burst into laughter.

He thought she was laughing for joy and took it as a compliment.

“You're very sweet,” he said.

Lewis lay for a time with one arm flung over his eyes. Then he kissed her forehead, slipped from the bed and went into the bathroom. When Ursula heard the water running she got up. Her genitals were excruciatingly sore. There was blood on the towel. She rolled it into a ball and stuffed it under the bed.

When they had both washed and dressed Lewis suggested they go down to the Georgian Bar off the lobby for a nightcap. She said she was very tired and would prefer to go home instead. He took her to Moore Street in a taxicab. Kissed her at the door. Promised to collect her in the morning after early Mass and take her to breakfast. Went back to the waiting taxi, whistling.

Ursula closed the door and stood white-lipped with anger.

 

True to his promise, Lewis appeared at her door the next morning. She accompanied him to the Gresham, where they were served a leisurely Sunday breakfast. He asked how she had slept. She assured him she slept very well, thank you. And you? Topping. Absolutely topping.

He remarked on the appointments of his suite and the comfort of his mattress. He did not mention finding a bloodstained towel. He made no allusion to her virginity.
The supposedly precious gift of my virtue
, Ursula thought.
And he didn't even notice.

Lewis Baines had made love to his first woman when he was fifteen years old. Until then his sexual experience had been limited to masturbation or the encounters common among boys in British public schools. Females had come as a revelation to him.

He loved the texture of their skin. He loved the way they smelled, the way they walked, and most of all the way they adored him. He loved women in general and in the particular. Pursuing them provided the greatest excitement in his life. Like a hunter on safari, Lewis Baines was always on the lookout for the next trophy.

His romances were real while they lasted. He was simply too fond of the whole sex to limit himself to one individual forever. But while he was with a woman he treated her with the greatest respect—except in those dark and private moments when whatever was darkest and most private in a man rose up in him and demanded its turn.

Ursula Halloran was something outside his experience. Lewis had expected an Irish girl—Catholic, and therefore fanatically virtuous—would be the most challenging of trophies. This one had practically fallen into his arms, but he was not disappointed. Although he had enjoyed her body he had not captured her. Not yet. There was an elusive quality about Ursula that intrigued him.

He had awakened thinking about her. While he shaved, he planned the next step in the courtship. Much would depend upon her, of course. Lewis had learned to follow a woman's lead after the first sexual encounter, allowing her to set the tone for the next. That way one could be certain there would be a next.

Would Ursula be shy when they met? Would there be tears bravely fought back? Or would she be a step ahead of him in the game, tantalizing him with knowing smiles? He was electric with anticipation.

The reality was not quite what he expected.

As they sat together at breakfast, Ursula chatted about aeroplanes, the weather, and her Aunt Norah's cooking. Her conversation was animated but impersonal. Not once did she refer, even obliquely, to their recent intimacy.

Lewis was perplexed. Another girl would have sought some pledge of affection. Ursula did not even ask when he was leaving. At last he had to bring up the subject up himself. “I'd planned to fly back to London in the morning but—”

“I'm sure you have important business waiting for you,” she interrupted sunnily. “We mustn't keep you.”

There was no urgent reason to return to London, but now he could not admit it. “We can spend today together, Ursula, and have dinner.”

“That would be nice,” she replied, gazing past him at something she obviously found of more interest, “but I don't have the time. I must go in to the broadcasting station for several hours.”

This was not strictly true either, but he was not to know.

“Supper then, afterwards?” he said, feeling slightly desperate.

She kept gazing past him. “I suppose,” she replied indifferently.

 

Instead of allowing Lewis to take her back to the Shelbourne that evening, Ursula suggested Mitchell's in Grafton Street, which served wholesome but unremarkable Irish food. The sort of place one might take a casual acquaintance.

Halfway through the meal she stifled a yawn. “I suspect I need an early night,” she said, laughing.

A baffled Lewis Baines delivered her to Moore Street by ten o'clock, then returned to the Shelbourne alone.

Next morning he was winging his way east. When he looked down at the Irish Sea, it was the color of Ursula Halloran's eyes.

When Ursula arrived at 2RN on Monday morning John MacDonagh was waiting for her. “About that program of interviews with foreign correspondents,” he began. “It was a good idea and I think we should go through with it.”

Ursula stared at him.
But it was only a ruse, a way to…

MacDonagh said, “Is that fellow Baines still around?”

“I believe he's gone back to England.”
Please God he's gone back to England
.

“Pity about that. He had a wonderful voice, did he not? Do you have an address for him? Let's see if he can come back sometime soon.”

Ursula could only nod.

“You know more about the international scene than anyone else here,” MacDonagh went on. “You could present the program.”

“On air, you mean?”

“Of course on air.” MacDonagh smiled at her dumbfounded expression. “It's a wonder someone hasn't thought of it before, Ursula.”

“Dear Papa,” Ursula confided to her journal that night. “I have been put in an invidious position—and by John MacDonagh of all people. How can I refuse anything to Thomas MacDonagh's brother? And how can I refuse the only chance I may ever have to achieve something I've always wanted to do? Why is life so perverse!”

The next morning she typed a polite, businesslike letter to Lewis Baines, inviting him to return for an interview on the wireless. The letter was signed
Miss U. Halloran
, and went out in the first post.

That afternoon MacDonagh gave her a list of other foreign correspondents to contact. He was envisioning a program an hour long, with fourteen minutes allotted to each man to discuss his views of the international situation, and the remainder of the time used for introductions and a summation.

By Miss Ursula Halloran.

“It will make great radio,” MacDonagh predicted. “Don't wait for the mails. Find out how many of them are on the telephone and ring them today, will you?”

When Ursula rang the London number she had been given for Lewis Baines, a woman answered. Her voice sounded young.

Ursula steeled herself to ask, “Is this Mrs. Baines?”

“Did you wish to speak to Lewis?”

“Is he there?”

“He's in France at the moment, but we expect him back in a few days. May I take a message?”

We expect him back. We who?
Ursula hung up the receiver without replying.

Why did I do that? What dreadful manners; Madame would kill me
.

It was an omen. She was not meant to make contact with Lewis, much less see him again. He probably had a wife and a houseful of children anyway.

Perfidious Albion
, she thought angrily.
The British didn't tell Michael Collins the truth; why should I expect an English man to be honest with me?

 

A personal letter for Ursula was waiting when she got home that night. The sight of the American postage stamp lifted her spirits. Henry Mooney wrote, “This country is still deep in the throes of the Depression, but President Roosevelt is making every effort to turn things around. In a modest way I have done the same thing. At least I have been able to rehire two of my former employees. We are all trying to help one another. It reminds me of home.”

Ursula read those words with a pang.
Home. Ireland will always be home
.

“Since Kathleen Campbell's husband died I have been corresponding with her,” Henry's letter went on.

He doesn't write to anyone
, Ursula thought resignedly.

Lewis Baines, however, did write. “I shall be happy to do that programme for you, Miss Halloran. When did you have in mind?”

Eschewing the telephone, Ursula sent him another businesslike letter. She explained that there were others whose schedules must be coordinated, so the program was planned for late September.

Meanwhile there were other stories to cover. In July Belfast experienced violence on scale unknown since the partition years. An Orange Order march through the city set off a riot that expanded to leave eight dead, hundreds wounded, and 384 Catholic families driven from their homes.
¹

August saw more changes at 2RN. Frank Gallagher was appointed deputy director, and Mairead ní Ghráda left the broadcasting station.

Gallagher, a cofounder of the
Irish Bulletin
, had once worked with Henry Mooney. Ursula gave him the same warm welcome she had given to John MacDonagh.

Mairead's departure upset her. “Must you leave?” she demanded to know.

“I'm afraid so. Thanks to Ernest Blythe's influence they've kept me on here in spite of my being a married woman. I needed the work because my husband was dismissed from the civil service for political reasons when the treatyites came in. But now Fianna Fáil is reinstating him, so it's out of the question for me to remain on the government payroll as well. The law, you know. No jobs for married women.”

“But that isn't fair!”

Mairead sighed. “No, it isn't fair.”

After she left, the first of a succession of part-timers was hired to fill the position of announcer. He was a well-spoken young law student who immediately took a fancy to Ursula. She was polite, but made it plain that she was not available for anything more than a business relationship.

There's no place for a man in my life
, she reminded herself sternly.
A man only causes complications
.

Whenever she found herself thinking of Lewis Baines, she recalled his voice whispering to her in the dark. Whispering words of degradation fit only for whores.

That memory slammed the door on her emotions.

She devoted herself to preparing the program. Each of the four men would discuss a different aspect of the international situation in order to build up a rounded picture. She would have Lewis speak next to last, neither opening the program nor closing it. No preferential treatment.