Dorothy Eden (15 page)

“But Willie and I find—” Katharine stopped, thinking angrily that Anna must mind her own business. “I won’t have Anna discussing my marriage.”

“Quite right. But ill health is a refuge that only weak-minded women take.”

Katharine, about to deny indignantly such a suggestion, abruptly closed her mouth. Silence was wisest. Aunt Ben subjected her to another close scrutiny, as if something puzzled her. But, to Katharine’s relief, she dismissed the matter by suggesting that they wrap up warmly and take a short walk on the terrace. Then perhaps Katharine would be kind enough to unravel her knitting which had got into a terrible muddle. If anyone were to ask for her opinion, Katharine had overtired herself by all that sudden intense interest in politics.

“It’s supposed to be Willie, not you, who’s the politician.”

“That’s true. But Willie and Mr. Parnell have decided that I might be useful as an intermediary between them and Mr. Gladstone. I’ve written to Mr. Gladstone asking if I may see him.”

Aunt Ben gave her a long look.

“Well, that’s something a bit different to winding wool for an old woman.”

February turned into March. Snowdrops in the garden at Wonersh Lodge and one deep disappointment. There was to be no baby. And an answer had come from Mr. Gladstone at last.

Non-committal, it said simply that Mr. Gladstone would see Mrs. O’Shea at Downing Street on Wednesday afternoon at four o’clock.

A fire burned in the well-polished grate, its reflection flickering in the panelled walls. Mr. Gladstone stood in front of it. Katharine crossed the red turkey carpet to let him take her gloved hand. He bowed over it for a moment, then lifted his head to subject her to an intense scrutiny. She had dressed with the greatest care. She had had no new clothes for some time, but her dark green coat and skirt with its neatly fitting waist and fashionable bustle was still smart, and she wore her fur-trimmed cloak and small fur hat. It was a costume Charles had admired her in. He said it made her look exceptionally handsome, and Mr. Gladstone’s assessment suggested that he had reached the same conclusion, for he smiled and his deepset penetrating eyes actually twinkled.

“How do you do, Mrs. O’Shea. Your letter intrigued me. I must confess I wondered what kind of a woman to expect.”

She relaxed. The interview was going to be a success.

“I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“It’s the matter of your visit that may or may not disappoint me. Can you hold your tongue?”

“Indeed I can.”

“Then you’re a remarkable woman. Sit down. Over here by the fire.” He watched her settle herself in one of the leather armchairs, then sat opposite her. “Now tell me what the Irish party means to you. I never saw anyone look more English than you do, if I may say so.”

“But you must know that my husband is Irish, and the member for County Clare.”

“Oh, aye.” Mr. Gladstone leaned forward, never removing his disconcertingly sharp gaze from her face. He was like a fierce old eagle with his crest of white hair, his hooded eyes and his tremendous nose. “But it isn’t your husband who sent you to me.”

“Mr. Parnell asked me to come,” she replied calmly. “He believes you have sympathy with his aims.”

Mr. Gladstone grunted.

“He’s an extraordinarily troublesome fellow. But he’s right that we’re all heartily sick of the Irish question. It will have to be settled one way or another. There must be some meeting point. Has he got one to suggest?”

Katharine took the papers from her bag.

“He’s been working on his formula for Home Rule. He thought you might like to study his proposals at your leisure.”

“He’s a bit impatient, isn’t he? We haven’t got the Land Bill settled yet.”

“He’s looking beyond that.”

Mr. Gladstone took the papers, muttering, “It takes time to roll this stone uphill. I’ve begun to think of Ireland as a great stone that’s likely to roll back and crush anyone who tries to move it. Tell Mr. Parnell that the first thing he must do is stop his policy of obstruction. It’s serving no purpose except to make us all lose our tempers. A deplorable and undignified situation.” He tossed the papers on to his desk. “Very well, I’ll have a look at these when I get some time. I don’t promise anything. This kind of dealing may get us nowhere. When are you seeing Parnell again?”

She could not stop herself saying, “Is the danger of his arrest over?”

The dark sunken eyes sparked beneath ferocious brows. Mr. Gladstone’s fingers paused on the bell he had been going to ring.

“That will depend on the activities of your friend.”

Not Mr. Parnell. Your friend.

“But—”

She was showing too much anxiety. His fierce expression relaxed subtly.

“We are not barbarians, Mrs. O’Shea.” The bell pinged. A door behind them opened. Mr. Gladstone rose.

“Good day to you, Mrs. O’Shea.”

She duly wrote a long letter reporting this interview and at the end of March, there was a reply postmarked Galway. “Can you meet me at Prior’s Hotel in Bloomsbury at six p.m. or thereabouts on Thursday? Ask for Mr. Preston.”

She had liked Mr. Preston, she thought radiantly. He had been delightful to her at the Westminster Palace Hotel on a previous occasion. She was impatient all day with Aunt Ben, the children, the train that was unbearably slow, the cabman who seemed unable to bring himself to give his horse the slightest flick of the whip.

Then she was too early, and Charles was late, and she had an hour to spend in a dismally dark and chilly lounge. She had taken pains with her appearance, and looked much too smart and fashionable to be in such a place. She pretended to read a magazine, and wondered how long Charles intended to be in England, would he be able to return with her to Wonersh Lodge, would she be able to bear it if he couldn’t? Could they ever recapture the ecstasy of that stolen fortnight? This dismal place, with people giving her suspicious looks, was a most unlikely place for a lover-like mood.

Her apprehension proved correct, although it didn’t seem as if Charles noticed the prevailing gloom. He was preoccupied, abstracted. He was delighted to see her, but still too near to whatever he had been doing in Ireland to throw off its memory.

“Katie, I had to see you. But I have only an hour.”

“An hour!”

“I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I’ve called a meeting which is likely to go on until the small hours, and first thing in the morning I’m off to Liverpool to speak to Irish workers there, and then back to Ireland. Don’t look at me like that.”

“How should I look?” she asked stiffly.

“At least as if you’re pleased to see me. Even this was most difficult to arrange. I was travelling with Dillon and Kenny. I had to make an excuse to get rid of them.”

Her face was rigid.

“This is the first time we have met since—”

“Do I need to be reminded?”

“I don’t know.”

“Kate! Kate! This is the way it is. If you hate it you must let me call a cab to take you home.” Suddenly his eyes shone with tears. “But don’t please!”

It might be wrong, it might be weak, but she knew she was never going to be able to resist him when he pleaded. She took his hand, saying warmly, “I haven’t the least intention of doing such a sensible thing. Have you time for tea, at least—Mr. Preston?”

“If you will pour it for me—Mrs. Preston.”

As quickly as that the coldness and disappointment had gone. When the waiter brought tea to a table in a quiet corner even the dark dreary lounge seemed cheerful.

“But you will be in London again soon?”

“Very soon. And when the debate on the Land Bill begins I will be here constantly.”

“Is it safe for you now?”

“In the meantime. I’m going about quite openly. We all feel as if we’re sitting on a powder barrel, but that has its stimulating moments, too. How did you get on with Gladstone?”

“I wrote and told you.”

“I know, but I want to hear it from your own lips. Did you find him a very intimidating old gentleman?”

She smiled, thinking of that almost cosy chat by the fire.

“I’m sure he could be intimidating, but he wasn’t to me.”

“So Mrs. O’Shea can do what the Queen can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tame the old eagle. You’re a wonderful woman, Katharine.”

Looking at her like that with his own special tenderness, he made this snatched meeting worthwhile after all. There were so many things she wanted to talk about, but in the end they said very little. They drank the tea, and she studied his face closely for signs of fatigue or ill-health, was fairly reassured by what she saw, and was quietly conscious of the extraordinary happiness of just being in his company, even discreetly, with a table between them and the eyes of strangers on them.

Then it was the end of April and Willie was home from Spain. He was leaving almost immediately for Ireland. The trouble about Parnell’s arrest had blown over, but no one knew for how long. The man wasn’t idle, and if his speeches weren’t seditious they were dangerously near it. Willie would be seeing him, so if she had a message for him, she had better say what it was. Katharine looked at him sharply, guiltily.

“He wrote and told me you had seen Gladstone. You didn’t tell me this.”

“You have only been home an hour.”

Willie acknowledged this impatiently.

“Well, tell me what happened.”

“I took Mr. Gladstone Mr. Parnell’s notes on Home Rule, and he agreed to study them when he had time.”

“Surely he said more to you than that.”

“Oh, yes, he asked me if I could hold my tongue.”

“Which you can do very well,” Willie said sourly. “I never knew a woman who could hold her tongue as you do. Norah and Carmen tell me that you’ve been ill. I never heard a word about that. Why wasn’t I told?”

“It wasn’t serious. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“If you go on behaving like this, the time will come when I won’t be worrying even if you’re at death’s door. I don’t know what’s come over you. You were never a cold woman once. I’ll wager old Gladstone wouldn’t have thought you were.”

Katharine’s eyes flashed angrily.

“That was scarcely what would have been in his mind on a purely business visit.”

“Don’t be an innocent. It’s in every man’s mind, all the time, when the woman is young enough and good-looking. I wouldn’t put it past being in Charlie Parnell’s mind, either. I don’t suppose the man’s a monk.”

“Let us talk of something else.”

“Oh, very well, let us talk of the garden, the weather, your aged aunt, Gerard’s school holidays, what we’re having for dinner—anything that might distract me from thinking what a damned unsatisfactory wife I have. I tell you, Kate, I won’t put up with this much longer. Don’t you know that what you’re doing is a cause for divorce. Refusal of conjugal rights. Don’t wince. You’re not as nice-minded as all that.”

“Keep your voice down,” Katharine pleaded.

“I don’t care if the whole household hears,” he shouted, growing dangerously red in the face. “I might get a little sympathy then.”

“Then perhaps you had better divorce me.”

He looked at her in outrage.

“Would you like me to do that? Is that what you’re up to? Then I’m going to disappoint you. I’ll never divorce you. You’re mine, and that’s all there is to it.” His mouth began to droop. “Damn it, Kate, you don’t hate me as much as all that?”

Her heart had been beating violently in mingled hope and fear. A divorce so that she and Charles could marry? But the scandal would ruin him. Apart from the cold disapproval in this country, the Catholic population in Ireland would hound him into obscurity, if not into his grave. No, it must never never be thought of.

She made herself touch Willie’s arm in a gesture of friendliness.

“Of course I don’t hate you. I’m very fond of you.”

“Fond of me! Like a sister!”

“Leave it now, Willie. I haven’t been well.”

“You look in the pink, if a mere husband might be permitted to say so. Well, I’ve told you before I’m not coming crawling to you. I’m off to Dublin tonight, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

April into May and May almost at an end. Carmen was still looking peaky, and since Aunt Ben was to have an old friend to stay Katherine decided to take the children for a short holiday to Brighton. She intended to go ahead of them and find a suitable place for them to stay. But before this could be done the telegram arrived from Dublin. “
Meet me at Vauxhall Bridge Station nine-thirty tonight.
”

It had always been Charing Cross before. Did Charles think the porters may have been too observant of the lonely lady waiting for her husband so had made a new meeting place? If he had thought so, he scarcely took care to protect her from observation tonight, for she was still waiting when it was time for the lights in the waiting room to be put out.

The porter was apologetic.

“It’s the rules, ma’am. But it’s cheerful in the firelight. I’ll put another shovel of coal on the fire. There’s nothing in the rules about that.” The replenished fire smouldered. The porter looked curiously at Katharine with her fur tippet and her fashionable hat. “Your party got delayed, ma’am?”

“Party?”

“The party you was waiting for, ma’am. Missed his train, perhaps?”

“Yes, I think he probably has. But he’ll come.”

And he did, almost before the fire had settled down to a good red glow. His tall form in the doorway made Katharine spring to her feet.

“Kate, why are you sitting in the dark? Are the railways so poor that they can’t provide lights?”

“The rule is that lights are to be put out at midnight. So the porter tells me.”

“It can’t be that late!”

“Look at your watch.”

He didn’t believe her until he had pulled the watch from his pocket and consulted it by the light of the fire.

“Good heavens, how can you have patience with me?”

“I suppose I know you will always come.”

“And so you wait. I would wait for you, too.” He kissed her on the mouth, careless that the porter had come in, apparently to keep a watchful eye on the fire. “Are we getting a cab home?”

Her heart leaped.

“If there’s one on the rank.”