'But here I am, thanks to God and Paddy Conor. Now, that's th' Doric-style columns that's holdin' up the ceilin' there--and a good thing it is, as th' two floors above need all th' holdin' up they can get.'
'Is that an engraving?' On a pane of glass in a window near the front door, something chiseled--a date, very likely. He walked over and looked, stooped, adjusted his glasses.
My dearest love
Always and forever
Evelyn
He glanced at Seamus, who appeared abstracted.
'Mrs. Conor scratched that in as a young bride, with the diamond Mr. Riley gave her. He was very pleased--they say. You'll see the drawing room and dining room at drinks and lunch, so if you'll come this way, I'll show you the kitchen.'
They walked along the stair hall, lined with display cases of mounted fish, and turned left into what he reckoned may be Catharmore's crown jewel.
'Paddy put a bob or two in th' kitchen, as you see. 't was the oul' kitchen and maids' quarters they combined into one.'
A wall of windows looking out to the ruined garden; decorative tile work surrounding a blue Aga; limestone floors, a coved ceiling, an enormous iron rack hung with copperware. Impressive.
'Paddy was after letting guests dine in th' kitchen, he said, th' way they do in th' States. They would pay a deal more for th' privilege, he said, an' cover the cost of a roof altogether.'
The cooking smells could stand against any at Broughadoon. He realized he was ravenous.
'I'm hoping to meet Paddy. Will he be with us?'
'Paddy's after doing some business or other, haven't seen much of him in several days. Make yourself comfortable, now, I'll just stir up the pot.'
Seamus took an apron from a hook, tied it on, lifted the pot lid, looked in, replaced the lid. 'I hope you don't mind being treated like family, Tim.'
'I'm honored to be treated like family.'
Seamus opened the oven door. 'I hope I didn't overstep my bounds bringin' you into the kitchen.'
'Not in the least.'
Seamus used a long fork to poke whatever was in the oven; by the smell, roast lamb.
'This will be the end of the tour, as the old scullery has been turned over to Mrs. Conor and the paneled library to Paddy, for there's no livin' a'tall on the upper floors. As for me, I'm in the laundry which I've fitted out quite snug, if you don't mind th' washer cyclin' as you watch th' telly.'
'How about the basement? I believe O'Donnell's surgery was located there.'
''t was, yes, but we never go below unless at gunpoint; 't is a calamity with the risin' damp. On occasion, Paddy's forced to do something about th' plumbing or such, and then we're in for it, 't is like openin' a hole to China and pourin' in euro by th' washtub.'
'I have one of those holes myself,' he said. Their new heating and cooling system had cost twice a year's salary in his first parish. 'Have you read O'Donnell's journal?'
'I've made a stab at it, but my eyes are unfit for th' faded ink and he goes on too long about th' least thing. My da inherited a journal from his grandfather. Wind rising, it might say. Figs ripe. Annie bilious. Farrelly ploughing.' Seamus laughed. 'That would be my style of a journal.'
'Is the doctor's old cabin standing?'
'A pile of rubble in the sheep meadow, they say.' Seamus removed his apron, hung it on the hook, buttoned his jacket. 'Well, then. Everything's under control; the rolls will pop in after the other guests arrive. I hope you've an appetite.'
'You can count on it.'
'Drinks will go for a half hour or so, you could probably do with a nibble.' Seamus cut a slice from a round of cheese on a platter. 'Our own sheep. Very fine.'
The cheese was proffered on the blade of a knife, the way his father had done years ago.
He bit into the cheese--aged, mildly tart beneath a mellow sweetness. 'Hits the spot. There's a lot to be said for being treated like family.'
Seamus gave him a paper napkin. 'A taste of Irish to wash it down?'
'No, no, thanks.'
'Liam says you're light on th' drink--a good thing. Thirst after the drink, m' father said, sorrow after th' money.'
'I was never much for spirits. A glass of burgundy or Bordeaux, a sherry now and then.'
'I seem to remember a bottle of sherry at the back of the cabinet; it may have aged a good deal.'
'All the better.'
'I feel the need of a pipe, m'self. Would you step out with me? We've a bit of time before I show you to the drawing room. You might have to stick it out with Herself--ah, sorry, Tim, please forgive that--with Mrs. Conor--'til the rest of the party show up.'
The rain-soaked terrace was bare, save for a huddle of plastic chairs stacked together and anchored with a rock. 'Th' wind carried off th' good stuff long ago. Probably somewhere in Easkey, on the porch of a stout fisherman and his wife.'
They stood well back of the rain pouring in a sheet from the terrace roof. Ever the earnest home owner, he suspected leaking gutters or none at all.
Seamus lit his pipe, puffed, kept the match to it, puffed, flicked the match. The scent of tobacco curled into the damp air.
'I should warn you, Tim, if Liam didn't. She'll be after trimmin' your sails.'
Seamus drew on his pipe. 'She came up grin-din' poor in a mud cabin in Collooney with four brothers and two sisters, all dead now--two passing with their mother in a most tragic manner. And there were certain other . . . matters, as well. She's been takin' th' hurt out on th' rest of th' world for many a year.'
A loud buzzing in the kitchen.
'There she is.' Seamus checked his watch. 'Five 'til one.'
In the kitchen, Seamus pressed a button near the Aga. 'Yes, mum.'
'Show our guest into the drawing room, I'll be along directly.'
'Yes, mum.'
'Well, then.' Seamus took out his comb, looked at it a moment, doleful. 'She likes it groomed,' he said of his mustache.
At the drawing room door, Seamus shook his hand gravely, as if seeing him off on a coffin ship.
Thirteen
It was a beautiful room, graceful in proportion, though smelling of stale cigarette smoke, mild damp, dogs. A fire simmered on the hearth.
A table in front of a large window, its view to the lake obscured by rain. Framed photographs. Bottles. Glasses. A vase with roses. Behind the sofa, a game table and four chairs--where the blood would be let, he reckoned. Much furniture in the room; a massive ottoman stacked with books, stationed on the medallion of a worn Aubusson. Dog beds in a far corner.
He glanced up, then, and drew in his breath. The portrait above the mantel was stunning in the true sense of the word.
A slender, dark-haired young woman of uncommon beauty looked directly at the observer. Penetrating brown eyes, a necklace of pearls, a gown of aquamarine satin, a pale arm draped casually over the upholstered arm of the French chair in which she was sitting . . .
He approached the portrait, examined it closely. It had the finesse and style of a Sargent, but surely no Sargent would be hanging in these remote regions.
He couldn't take his eyes off hers; there was a palpable sense of the sitter's presence; something of iron resolve, something, too, of anger or remorse. As if loath to invade her privacy or stare too brazenly, he stepped away.
The insistent gaze drew him back. Look here, I have something that must be said.
In the strong cheekbones, the chiseled nose, the anxious brow, he saw Liam.
He moved to the fire and turned his back to the soft blaze. August, and the warmth felt good to him.
Above the double doorway, another portrait--Riley Conor, he presumed. Short, portly, muscular, bemused. Wearing boots and jodhpurs, a tweed jacket--holding what appeared to be a small prayer book and leaning on the back of a leather chair before shelves of books rendered carefully by the brush. His brown eyes squinted, as if set to the task of puzzling out a riddle.
He walked to the ottoman at the center of the room; looked again above the mantel and again ab
ove the doorway. The subjects of the portraits coolly assessed each other across the divide.
Look here, I have something that . . .
The doors opened, his hostess entered. He felt the odd fear and excitement of a child who imagines a monster living beneath his bed.
'Missus Evelyn McGuiness Conor,' boomed Seamus, 'the Reverend Timothy Andrew Kav'na.'
The heavy doors were closed behind her.
She was petite, erect, severe, with the piercing gaze of the portrait nearly intact. He bowed. It was a completely involuntary gesture, and very slight, but she recognized it at once; it had been a good thing to do.
She extended her hand. 'Mister Kav'na.'
'Mrs. Conor.' So she was skipping the reverend business. 'Thank you for having me.' He pressed her hand lightly--he might have captured a small bird. 'I was just admiring your portrait.'
'Thank you for coming, Mister Kav'na. It isn't every day we can round up a fourth.' She leaned on her cane.
'I'm afraid you'll find me a very lame duck.'
'You'll make up for it with interesting conversation, I'm sure. As for the portrait, it was done in this very room, by an Irishman--after Mister Sargent's rendition of Lady Agnew of Lochnaw.'
'And very well done, indeed.'
'Mister Conor and I had lately returned to Catharmore from our honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast. I was twenty, but my waist'--she smiled thinly--'was eighteen--like your Scar-lett O'Hara, I'm told. Let us be seated, Mister Kav'na.'
He offered the smile he relied on when parishioners commented on his sermon and he realized they'd heard something entirely different from what he'd said.
Evelyn Conor walked stiffly across the room with the aid of her cane and sat in a high-backed chair by the fire; at her direction, he occupied the end of the sofa to her right. She was a woman of considerable beauty even now, though better than sixty years had passed since she sat for a painter who knew what he was about.
Her long hair was loosely bound at the back of her head and dark, still, though with a wide streak of silver above what his mother had called a 'widow's peak.' Her cheeks were palely rouged, her long-sleeved black dress simply cut; she wore no ornament. He could not imagine this woman clambering up a stepstool.
'Because of my fine nose, the painter wished to render me in profile after Mister Sargent's Madame X. But my husband and I preferred to realize our money's worth by having it done straight on.'
'A wise decision.'
'That is my late husband's portrait above the door.'
'A very agreeable-looking man. Liam speaks of him with affection.' He hadn't meant to say that.
'Liam speaks eagerly of his father, but scarcely mentions his mother. I don't suppose they've told you I'm dying?'
'They haven't.'
'They never do. It's left to me to do the telling.'
'I'm sorry to hear it.'
'No use to be sorry. We must all go sometime. ' She briefly drummed the chair arm with her fingers, gazed past him.
'But death is not important, Mister Kav'na.' She gave him a fierce look. 'It cannot frighten me, for I have been purified by suffering.'
He didn't know where to step with this.
'Doctor Feeney and Father O'Reilly will be late. I trust you have some expertise at making drinks? Our man is occupied in the kitchen.'
'Of course. What sort of drinks, Mrs. Conor?' Nothing with small umbrellas or fruit, definitely not.
'Gin and tonic for myself. Would you be up to it?'
'Absolutely,' he said, shooting from the sofa.
At the table, he adjusted his bifocals, stooped, peered at labels on the several bottles, located the gin. Two bottles, different labels. Tonic very handy, no problem. A small dish with wedges of lemon and lime. Glasses in two different sizes.
'What measurements do you prefer, Mrs. Conor?'
'Two to one, thank you.'
'Would that be two of tonic?'
'Of gin, Mister Kav'na.'
Maybe he should use the short glass.
'And what label, if I may?'
'The green label, if you please.'
The English were known to lay off the ice, but perhaps that custom didn't extend to these shores.
'Ice, Mrs. Conor?'
'No ice, Mister Kav'na. The ice is for you; I'm told Americans enjoy the curious habit of watering down perfectly good spirits.'
'Let's see. Short glass or tall?' He had expected a root canal, and he was getting it.
'Have you never done this, Mister Kav'na?'
'Not really.'
'The short glass, as you so quaintly put it.'
'Almost done--lemon or lime?'
'Lime, thank you.'
'Coming up.' He let out his breath, which he realized he'd been holding, and stirred the drink with a silver muddle.
'No stirring, if you please. It bruises the gin.'
This was no root canal, after all; it was brain surgery. He managed to deliver the thing, with a napkin.
She looked up at him, raised an eyebrow. 'Do you teetotal, Mister Kav'na?'
'No, ma'am, not at all. I'm a sherry man.' He felt the perfect fool for saying it. A sherry man.
'Sherry,' she said with distaste. 'An English habit.'
Spanish, too, he might add.
'You're in Ireland, Mister Kav'na, you can't go about as dry as the bones of Ezekiel.'
'Cheers,' he said, terse. The morning with Anna had hardly quickened his regard for Evelyn Conor.
'Slainte!' She lifted her glass and turned to a contrivance by the mantel, pressing a button.
Seamus's voice boomed into the room. 'Yes, mum.'
'Do we have sherry in some remote quarter?'
'Oh, yes, mum, we do, indeed. Only a moment. '
Why couldn't he be like everyone else instead of standing out like a sore thumb? But he'd never been like everyone else; he'd always stood out like a sore thumb.
'I enjoyed my tour of your handsome rooms. The entrance hall is a great tribute to classical form--a privilege to see it.'
'It is an Irish house.'
'Yes.'
'Historians tell us that Catharmore was a fine school of architecture. Doctor O'Donnell had access to a few very skilled men, who tutored a legion of the unskilled. Many trades were learnt here.' She drank with evident thirst.
'Have you read O'Donnell's journal?'
'I have not. I admire him for what he accomplished, but find his ramblings tiresome. A very inward-seeming man, in my view.' She dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin. 'I trust you and your wife are enjoying your stay.' She appeared to lack interest in his reply.
'We're enjoying it very much, thank you.' He glanced at his watch--he was needing backup.
'In your Protestant religion, sir, I hear there is great distress.'
'Well, of course, we have the same religion, you and I, Catholic and Protestant--we both believe in the divinity of the Christ, the head of the Church, the one who entered into death that we might have life. As for great distress, I believe it is fully shared between Catholic and Protestant.'
The Great Distress. He would have to remember that.
'And to what do you account such disarray?'
'Disobedience, Mrs. Conor.'
'The Protestants were in disobedience against the Irish for more than seven centuries. What do you say to that, Mister Kav'na?'
'I say that we were gravely mistaken.'
'The Irish are suddenly quick to forget. I shall not forget.'
'I feel the need is not to forget, but to forgive. Where there is forgiveness, the heart of stone becomes a heart of flesh.'
'I'll thank you not to preach to me.'
'I was not preaching, Mrs. Conor, I was making an observation out of my own experience.' To be precise, out of his father's experience of unforgiveness, and the calamity it caused on all sides.
She drank, appeared abstracted. 'I dislike late arrivals.'
'The rain,' he said.
The realization ha
d begun when he took her hand, and now came all of a piece--he had known Evelyn Conor for most of his life. Nearly every parish had one, though he couldn't recall that any had been so proficient at the acid tongue. He was reminded, too, of his father's lacerating coldness, which rendered Evelyn Conor's behavior somehow familiar; the thought that they had met in other times and places, shared some sort of past, was oddly relieving.
She drew in her breath. He checked his watch.
'I had hoped to meet Paddy.'
'Paddy is in Sligo on business. You can see him in the portrait of my late husband, if you like. The spit image.'
Rain streaming onto the glistening panes. The fire smoldering. A clock ticking.
'I don't suppose anyone from Broughadoon has sent their compliments?' she asked.
'Why, yes. They did. Thank you for reminding me. Mr. William Donavan sends his compliments.' What William actually said was, 'A tip of me cap to the oul' scrape.'
'You must pass mine along to him, and to the rest of the household,' she said. 'And Mister Kav'na ...'
'Yes, Mrs. Conor?'
'I hope you won't need reminding.'
'You can count on it.'
The doors opened. Three rain-soaked dogs burst into the room, followed by James Feeney and a stout and laughing priest wearing a dark suit. Seamus and his silver tray brought up the rear.
Deo gratias.
He stood, took a deep breath, buttoned his jacket. Tonight, he would be the evening gazette.
Fourteen
Messages at Broughadoon.