An Embarrassment of Riches (12 page)

‘Christ! That's a bit precipitous, isn't it?' Charlie said, sprawling on a sofa and tossing a cigar in Alexander's direction as Alexander flung himself down in an adjacent armchair.

‘My bringing up the subject of enlistment probably sparked it off,' Alexander said, lighting up and inhaling deeply. ‘That and Genevre.'

‘Ah yes,' Charlie said with genuine interest. ‘Genevre. Are you still going to marry her, come what may?'

‘Yes.'

He didn't elaborate. Much as he liked Charlie he had never talked at length to Charlie about Genevre. She had always been too special. Talking about her to Charlie would have been to put her on a par with the girls at Josie's, girls the two of them had often spent long hours discussing.

From the very moment of their meeting at Leonard Jerome's he had known that he would never discuss Genevre in such a manner. Not with Charlie. Not with anyone. Their relationship was too precious. Too sacred.

Charlie blew a smoke-ring into the air and tried to conceal his irritation. ‘Do you think she will wait for you?' he persisted. ‘Ten months is a long time and I've heard Ma remarking on the oddness of William Hudson not seeming to care that his daughter is nearly twenty and still unmarried. You can bet your life that the minute you're out of the way, William Hudson will abandon all hope of your father coming round to the idea of you and Genevre marrying and he'll be doing his darndest to snare another multi-millionaire son-in-law.'

‘Maybe,' Alexander said non-committally. ‘But he'll be wasting his time. Genevre won't marry anyone else. Only me.'

Speaking her name it was impossible not to remember their love-making. Suddenly he no longer wanted to be with Charlie. He wanted to be alone in order to remember to the full. He stubbed his barely smoked cigar out in a marble ashtray and rose to his feet. ‘I have to go, I've a lot to do before I leave.'

‘But you've only just got here!' Charlie protested, pushing himself up into a sitting position. ‘I wanted to tell you about the new girl at Josie's and about …'

With his own rapturous love-making with Genevre still filling his mind the last thing Alexander wanted to hear about was one of Charlie's sordid encounters. ‘Sorry, Charlie,' he said unequivocally. ‘I really have to go.'

Charlie tried not to look as disappointed as he felt. ‘
Bon voyage!
' he said with forced cheerfulness, knowing that he was going to miss Alexander's companionship far more than Alexander would miss his. ‘Give my love to the girls of Europe.'

‘I thought you'd already done that quite adequately yourself,' Alexander said with a sudden surge of affection and a lapse into their old, bantering camaraderie.

Charlie tried to look sheepish and failed and they both burst out laughing.

‘'Bye, Charlie,' Alexander said, giving him a playful blow on his shoulder and a quick, bearlike hug. ‘See you sometime next year.'

‘You bet,' Charlie responded enthusiastically, and this time his cheerfulness was genuine.

To Alexander's stunned surprise William Hudson refused to allow Genevre to accompany him to the docks. A pulse throbbed at the corner of his jaw as he stood on deck, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his brown velvet coat. Leaving would have been so much easier if Genevre had been there to wave him goodbye.

He turned away from the sight of other well-wishers waving from the dock-side to friends and relatives. Genevre. How was he going to survive the long months ahead without her? Why on earth had he agreed to leave?

As the
Persia
began to ease its way into the big, bright, breezy bay he gained comfort from thinking about their coming marriage. When he returned the war would be over, the victory Lincoln's; he would marry Genevre and they would live all year round at Tarna. It was an idyllic prospect. Immensely cheered he looked out over the deck-rail in the direction of Europe, a dark, handsome, lithe young man, optimistically confident of what the future held for him.

Maura knew that she would never forget the horrific carriage drive home as long as she lived. As Lord Clanmar had pitched forwards, clutching at his heart, both she and Isabel had screamed and sprung to their feet in order to help him. At the sudden noise the horses had taken fright and broken into a headlong dash and it had been long minutes before the coachman had brought them under control.

During those minutes, with the carriage rocking and swaying violently, they had dropped to their knees at either side of Lord Clanmar's prone figure.

‘Grandpapa! Grandpapa! Please don't be ill!' Isabel had sobbed hysterically. ‘Please open your eyes! Please speak to us!' There had been no movement of eyelids, no sound of reassurance.

As the terrified coachman reined in the horses, Maura shouted at him to whip them into a gallop. He had taken one swift look behind him and had done so with frenzied alacrity.

For the rest of the nightmare ride Maura had cradled her benefactor's head in her lap while Isabel had continued to weep.

‘He isn't dead, is he?' she had gasped between sobs. ‘Perhaps it's the heat! Should we ask the coachman to turn round and to take Grandpapa to his Dublin doctor? Should we take him to Dr Pearse in Rathdrum? Oh, what should we do, Maura?
What should we do?
'

Maura's one instinct was to get home as quickly as was humanly possible. One part of her brain had registered that Lord Clanmar had been dead even before he had hit the carriage floor, but the rest of her brain would not allow her to believe the monstrosity.

‘Tell the coachman to drive past Dr Pearse's. If he's at home we can take him with us to Ballacharmish. If he isn't, word can be left for him that he's urgently needed!'

Dr Pearse had not been at home. With the horses nearly dropping with exhaustion they had skirted the Round Tower at Glendalough and raced towards Killaree.

Maura was barely aware of the cabins and the startled gazes that followed them as they stampeded along the valley floor amid clouds of choking dust. With the horses foaming at the mouth they bore down at last on Ballacharmish's high white walls.

‘Oh, thank God!' Isabel sobbed, clasping her grandfather's hands tightly in hers. ‘We're home now, Grandpapa! Everything is going to be all right!'

Rendlesham had taken one look at Lord Clanmar's green-pallored face and had immediately spun on his heel, running for help. Seconds later a terrified footman and Ballacharmish's handyman were helping him to carry Lord Clanmar's body into the house.

It was then, as they laid him on the nearest
chaise-longue
, that Maura finally allowed herself to accept the fact that he was dead. Numbly she arranged for word to be sent to Kieron; for Isabel's maid to bring her salvolatile; for a fresh carriage to be immediately sent in search of Dr Pearse.

She waited for its return dry-eyed. She was too stupefied with shock and with grief to be able to cry. For several weeks she had suspected that he was not in the best of health but never once had it occurred to her that there was anything fatally wrong with him And now he was dead and she would never know his loving kindness or his intelligent companionship again.

In a nearby chair Isabel was crying softly. Kieron had arrived and after feeling for Lord Clanmar's pulse had been about to cover his face with a handkerchief. Rendlesham, with a meaningful look towards Isabel, had stayed his hand. After what had seemed an eternity Dr Pearse had arrived and it was he who had sombrely covered the dead man's face.

Isabel had collapsed utterly. In caring for her Maura found a measure of comfort for her own grief. They still had each other.

They were not utterly bereft. It was Kieron who sowed the first seeds of alarm in her breast.

‘Does Isabel have any idea of the terms of her grandfather's will?' he asked her quietly, the morning of the funeral.

Maura shook her head, her heart too heavy to want to be bothered with such details.

‘Then she doesn't know who he has stipulated should be her future guardian?'

Maura stared at him. ‘No. Will a guardian have been stipulated?'

It was Kieron's turn to stare. ‘Ye gods, child. Don't tell me it hasn't occurred to either of you that you can't continue living here as you've been used to! Isabel is barely sixteen – of course she will have to have a guardian.'

Tiny wings of fear began to beat in her chest. ‘But there isn't anyone. Her maternal grandmother is far too old and infirm and besides, she would never want to leave her home in Oxfordshire to live at Ballacharmish …'

As she saw the expression in Kieron's eyes her voice died away. ‘Oh God!' she said, her face whitening, realization finally dawning.

Kieron took her gently by the hand. Their conversation had taken place in the garden and he led her towards a white-painted wrought-iron garden chair, sitting her down in it.

‘I don't believe what you're implying,' she said sickly. ‘You can't mean that Isabel will have to leave Ballacharmish?'

He nodded, his strong-boned face grave. ‘And not only Isabel,' he said reluctantly. ‘Have you any idea what provision may have been made for yourself?'

She shook her head, her eyes holding his, her fear growing so that she could hardly contain it. Seeing the depth of the alarm he had aroused, he said belatedly, ‘Don't panic, sweetheart. Lord Clanmar knew how attached you and Isabel are to Ballacharmish. I'm sure he will have made suitable provision.'

‘And if he hasn't?'

He said wryly, ‘Then the future will be an unknown for both of us.'

Her eyes widened. ‘But surely you'll remain here as land-agent? Whoever the new Lord Clanmar is, he will need a good land-agent.'

‘He may, and he may not.' He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. ‘For all we know, he may want to appoint a new land-agent – or he may want to sell the house and estate.'

Maura had made no reply to him. She had been beyond speech.

‘… and so the new Lord Clanmar is appointed Lady Dalziel's guardian,' the Dublin solicitor said, his relief at concluding the reading of the will obvious.

Isabel and Maura looked across at each other in bewilderment.

‘Is …' Isabel hesitated, not easily able to refer to her grandfather's cousin and heir by the title that had been her grandfather's. ‘Is Lord Clanmar going to take up residence here, at Ballacharmish?'

The solicitor looked uncomfortable. It was always a ticklish business reading a will when the hereditary heir was unable to be present. ‘I cannot say, Lady Dalziel. As you know, the new Lord Clanmar does not enjoy good health, hence his inability to be here today. As for yourself, his instructions are that you are to join him in London accompanied by your grandfather's friend, Miss Marlow.'

‘And Maura?' Isabel asked tremulously. ‘Is Maura to accompany me as well?'

The solicitor had carefully avoided looking at Maura and, mindful of his last conversation with the late Lord Clanmar and of the new will that he had drawn up which had remained unsigned, he continued to avoid looking at her. ‘That I cannot say, Lady Dalziel. Naturally Lord Clanmar has been informed of the circumstances that exist here … that you have a companion …'

He found himself unable to continue. Her companion was her half-sister and she did not know it. He, alone, knew of their sibling relationship. His dilemma, when he had been informed of Lord Clanmar's death, had been acute. Unless he spoke out neither girl would ever know of the blood tie that existed between them. Yet how could he speak out? He had no proof, no documentary evidence. After hours of painful reflection he had decided that his only course was to keep silent. Lord Clanmar had had many years in which to make his granddaughters'relationship known to them and to the world. He had not done so and there was an end of it. The burden had been the dead man's. It wasn't his. Recovering his composure, he continued, ‘I have not, as yet, received any instructions regarding Miss Sullivan, but I will make enquiries as to his lordship's wishes regarding Miss Sullivan.'

Later, at twilight, as they walked from the house to the small family graveyard where Lord Clanmar had been buried, Maura said bleakly, ‘Even if the new Lord Clanmar asked me to accompany you to London, I could not do so, Isabel. I could not possibly leave my mother.'

Both of them thought of Kitty and Ellen who spent so much time nursing her mother, and both of them wondered how soon that care would now come to an end. Neither of them spoke of it. They could not bear to, for when Kitty and Ellen were ordered to spend no more time with Maura's mother it would be because their old way of life was finally over. Ballacharmish would no longer be their home. Even worse, they would no longer be together.

They had taken armfuls of roses to replace the stiffly formal, wax-white lilies that had been laid on the grave that afternoon. Both of them remembered the happy, carefree days when the three of them had planted them with Kieron's help. There would be no more such days. No more discussions of Mr Darwin's theory or the progress of the American Civil War. No more companionable walks on the slopes of Mount Keadeen and Mount Lùgnaquillia. Tenderly they kissed the flowers and laid them down and then turned, walking back to Ballacharmish as the sun sank blood-red beyond the rim of Lough Suir.

‘I'm to leave in two weeks' time,' Isabel said unsteadily, reading from a letter embossed with the Clanmar coat of arms. ‘Until then Miss Marlow is to remain here with us and then she is to accompany me to London.'

She was in bed, her breakfast tray on her knees. Maura crossed to the window. She had just come in from her daily early morning ride and the hem of her skirt was damp with dew. She stared out over the meadows and paddocks, knowing what news was bound to follow, not wanting Isabel to see her eyes when the blow finally fell.

Behind her Isabel dropped the letter to her breakfast tray, saying in a stricken voice, ‘Ballacharmish is to be closed up. The new Lord Clanmar says that he is neither fit enough, nor does he have the inclination, ever to visit here.' Devastated tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I can't bear it! Why couldn't Ballacharmish be mine? Why does it have to belong to someone who has never ever seen it and who never intends seeing it? Why couldn't Grandpapa have warned us of what would happen when he died?'