Dorothy Eden (33 page)

He agreed to write a letter to Willie.

“My dear sir,

I have seen Mrs. O’Shea and laid before her your wishes. She most indignantly and emphatically denies that you have or ever had the least ground for the very unworthy suspicions you have chosen to affix to her credit. The particular friend you alluded to has been a rare visitor to her house, and he only became a friend of the family on your introduction and by your wish. She must decline to peremptorily close her doors on the few visits this friend is ever likely to make …”

Somehow the storm blew over. Probably it was because Willie had no fancy to leave London and reside permanently in the cold draughty neglected much-mortgaged and tumbledown mansion on his estate in County Limerick. Besides it would not even be safe. He was one of the hated absentee landlords, more English than Irish. He might have been murdered in his bed. It was better to condone his wife’s infidelity than face that dismal prospect.

A
UNT BEN HAD SENT
for her solicitor, Mr. Pym, to come down. There were one or two changes she wanted to make in her will. Katharine imagined they were to be legacies to the servants and thought no more about it. Although later she did remember that Aunt Ben had already made gifts to the servants who had been with her the longest. She had bought a cottage for old James, the gardener and coachman, and had distributed some pieces of jewellery among the women in the house.

Mr. Pym and his clerk, William Buck, were closeted with her a long time. Then young Mr. Buck came out requesting that two of the servants should be sent in to write their names as witnesses. Sarah, the cook, and Maryann, one of the housemaids, did this. Maryann came out wiping her eyes. Wills always upset her, they were as good as a death warrant. Katharine, walking restlessly up and down the tapestry room, could not laugh at this superstition, for Aunt Ben was like a puff of thistledown waiting for the first breeze to carry her away.

Katharine was wiping her own eyes when Mr. Pym came briskly out, carrying his brief-case.

“Your aunt would like you now, Mrs. O’Shea.”

“How is she?”

“Good gracious, as lively as a cricket. In my experience making a will gives the old a new lease of life. It’s one of their few remaining pleasures. A compulsion, like taking to drink. How are you getting on yourself? Did your husband accept that letter I wrote for you?”

“In the meantime, yes.”

Mr. Pym patted his bag, seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. Had it been going to be about the new will? Was there something in that that would change the position? Perhaps Aunt Ben would tell her.

But the old lady said nothing. She had got up and dressed for Mr. Pym’s visit, and now sat erect wearing her best lace cap, her jet beads, and the large gold mourning brooch that held a lock of her husband’s hair. She said she was not at all tired, and would take a short walk along the terrace if Katharine would take her arm.

On the terrace Katharine looked down at the tiny creature on her arm.

“I don’t know what you’ve just done, Aunt Ben, but I’d like to say now how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me already.” She felt the warning tightening of the grip on her arm, and went on determinedly, “I must say it now because the time will come when I can’t.”

With all her feeble strength the old lady thumped her stick on the ground.

“I don’t want your gratitude, my dear one. I only want your happiness. How that is to be accomplished, I’m not sure, but I have done what I can. I hope you won’t mention this subject to me again.”

Happiness … It came and went. It seemed as if they no sooner entered a peaceful time when all seemed well than another shock came to remind them that there could be little prolonged peace for two people leading lives such as theirs.

Charles had come down to Eltham for the weekend. It was springtime and exceptionally warm for early April. Too nice to stay in London even though his house did have a view of the park.

He was having his breakfast on Monday morning, preparatory to leaving for London, when Katharine casually opened
The Times
newspaper and saw the headlines.

It wasn’t another murder although at first it appeared to be one. The article was headed “Parnell and Phoenix Park Murders” and appeared, from Katharine’s quick scanning of it, to be accusing Mr. Parnell of having been secretly involved in them. A letter had come into the possession of
The Times
. It was signed “Chas. S. Parnell” in the handwriting that Katharine knew so well. The contents of the letter were quite damning.

“15th May, 1882.

“Dear Sir,

I am not surprised at your friend’s anger, but he and you should know that to denounce the murders was the only course open to us. To do that promptly was plainly our best policy. But you can tell him and all others concerned that, though I regret the accident of Lord F. Cavendish’s death, I cannot refuse to admit that Burke got no more than his deserts. You are at liberty to show him this, and others whom you can trust also, but let not my address be known. He can write to the House of Commons.

Yours very truly,

Chas. S. Parnell.”

Katharine glanced quickly at the unaware face opposite her. She quietly folded the paper, and poured more coffee.

“Darling, you haven’t finished your ham and eggs. Ellen will be upset.”

“Ellen must think me to be two people, at least. What’s in the paper this morning?”

“Will you have some marmalade with your toast? No? Then at least drink your coffee.”

“Kate dear, I am more than adequately nourished. Now what are you hiding from me in the newspaper?”

Reluctantly she showed him. She watched him studying the article intently, his face showing no emotion.

Then he said quite calmly, “Wouldn’t you hide your head in shame if I were as stupid as that?”

“Then someone has made up this letter and forged your name? Who could be so wicked?”

“Oh, I have plenty of enemies. I’ve no doubt more than one has a gift for forgery.”

“How can you be so calm? This is going to harm you terribly.”

He stopped to kiss her.

“Who is going to believe it? No one in their senses.”

“But this is
The Times
!”

“My darling, that doesn’t make it the Bible. What Irishman is going to believe what is printed in an English paper?”

It was no use his being flippant, she couldn’t stop worrying.

“Will you come back tonight and tell me what has happened?”

“Of course. Ask Partridge to meet the seven-thirty. I’ll be on it without fail. And stop looking so worried. I’m not about to be assassinated.”

“I believe they would assassinate you if they could,” Katharine muttered, and he gave her a sideways look.

“Who is they?”

“I don’t know. Your enemies.”

Neither of them mentioned the name that was in both their minds. Captain O’Shea. The disappointed politician. The vindictive husband.

“I tell you, no one will take this seriously. It would take some stretch of the imagination to believe I had anything to do with those horrible murders. My own men know me better than that. Can I say goodbye to the babies?”

Katharine could not help but think this significant. Although Charles was very fond of his little daughters, he was considerably forgetful of them. His mind was always too occupied. But this morning he was particularly affectionate, kissing their rosy faces and rumpling their dark hair. Their innocence seemed to please him. He looked at them wistfully for a full minute. Then abruptly he put them aside, and was ready to leave. The copy of
The Times
protruded from his overcoat pocket. He was not as indifferent as he had pretended to its threat.

He was not on the seven-thirty that evening, nor the train that came in an hour later. Partridge arrived home with an empty brougham. He had not thought it necessary to wait any longer. Mr. Parnell must have been delayed in the House.

So there was trouble, Katharine thought worriedly. It had been a hideous day altogether, for when she had left the house to go across the park to Aunt Ben, she had found copies of
The Times
’ letter cut out and pasted to the front gate. All day there had been more sightseers than usual. The hedge was not yet tall enough or thick enough to shut out the peering eyes.

If Willie were responsible for this latest outrage she thought that she could kill him.

It was useless to go to bed. Norah sat up later than usual, making the excuse that she wanted to finish the watercolour she had begun that day. She and Carmen could not have failed to see those horrible letters pasted to the front gate. Norah didn’t mention them, but her frequent anxious glances at her mother showed that she was concerned. She was growing up, this eldest daughter, her face losing its round childishness. Less volatile than Carmen, she had deeper affections. She was intensely devoted to Clare and little Katie, and took them in her charge completely during Katharine’s absences. What she thought of either her mother’s or her father’s absences, Katharine had never asked. She would not be held on trial by her own children, much as she loved them.

“You must go to bed, Norah. It’s after ten o’clock.”

“Yes, Mamma. Are you coming up?”

“Soon, darling.”

“Mamma—”

“Yes, my darling?”

For answer Norah suddenly crossed the room and flung herself down, her head in Katharine’s lap.

“Mamma, I will always stay with you even if Carmen and Gerard don’t.”

Katharine lifted the flushed, tear-stained face.

“What is this? My sensible Norah in tears? No one is going to leave me, you, Gerard or Carmen. Except, of course, to get married one day.”

Norah shook her head violently.

“I shall never get married. I don’t think it’s a very happy state.”

Katharine’s own eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, darling, have Papa and I made you feel like that? We do quarrel, it’s true. But all married people don’t. I’m sure you won’t. You’ll find the most delightful young man for a husband. Now off to bed with you. And don’t do your growing up too quickly.”

After that, she was even more alone and heavy hearted. The hours dragged. It was eleven o’clock. Then twelve. And still no sound but the falling ash in the fire.

She tried to do a little embroidery. She tried to read. Finally she just sat with her hands in her lap.

It was two-thirty before she heard the distant jingle of cab bells. Charles had told her that he had found an obliging cab driver called Sam Drury who was always prepared to drive him down to Eltham late at night. Obviously Sam had been persuaded to do the journey once more, for presently the crunching wheels came to a stop, and Katharine, wings to her feet, was at the door flinging it wide to the figure which had alighted from the cab.

“Charles, how could you have been kept so late? I’ve been out of my mind with worry.”

“Oh, I have to fight this thing.” She had never heard his voice so weary. “It’s a terrible nuisance. I’ve seen George Lewis. He’s going to get the letters from
The Times
and study the handwriting.”

“But what was said in the House?”

“You mean, what did I say? I told them it was an audacious and unblushing fabrication. There were questions asked late this evening, and I thought the sitting would never end. I got up and said that politics are coming to a pretty pass in this country when a leader of a party of eighty-six members has to stand up in the House of Commons at ten minutes past one in order to defend himself from an anonymous fabrication such as that which is contained in
The Times
this morning.”

“What else was said?”

“Among my own members? I should say they wouldn’t have the temerity to believe such a thing of me. But are we to stand on the doorstep all night? You waited up for me. You always wait, don’t you my dearest?”

She drew him in. “I have the kettle on the hob. I’ll make you a hot drink.”

“No, I’ll just go to bed if you don’t mind. I’m done. But this will blow over. Everything eventually blows over—if one lives long enough.”

The next day, under a heading “Parnellism and Crime”
The Times
published another of the obnoxious letters.

“9th January 1882.

“Dear E,

What are these fellows waiting for? This inaction is inexcusable. Our best men are in prison and nothing is being done.

“Let there be an end to this hesitency. Prompt action is called for. You undertook to make it hot for old Forster and Co. Let us have some evidence of your power to do so.

“My health is good thanks.

Yours very truly,

Chas. S. Parnell.”

The letter had a frighteningly authentic ring, especially regarding the curt comment about Charles’ health. He had never liked enquiries about it.

But after seven hours’ rest, he had recovered his composure and his sense of humour.

“I have always prided myself on my spelling. I wouldn’t have misspelt ‘hesitancy’. And I never made an ‘s’ like that since 1878.”

“Who is this addressed to? ‘E’?”

“Egan, I imagine. He was the treasurer of the Land League at that time. This is obviously meant to suggest a nice conspiracy between us. Well, nobody’s going to believe it, so why do we worry?”

“But all English people believe what’s in
The Times
. It’s so utterly respectable.”

“Not any longer, as far as I’m concerned. They’ve allowed themselves to be hoodwinked. Well, it will be a nice bit of sport getting an apology out of them.”

But it proved to be far from sport. For the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, himself believed in the authenticity of the letters. He made a speech at Swansea saying that it would be impossible, in the history of the British Government, to find another instance of a man in Mr. Gladstone’s position accepting as an ally a man “tainted with the strong presumption of conniving at assassination”. Mr. Chamberlain with every evidence of delight talked about the letters being Parnell’s death warrant.

The damning articles continued to be published, but Mr. Parnell was dissuaded from his intention of taking action. A London jury, he was told, would probably find him guilty. Certainly no English jury would be likely to find against
The Times
.