They turned into the corridor of the museum containing her collection of French Impressionists, just as the Ulster sun made an unusual appearance.
"Feel the sun," she said. "Why don't we sit in the courtyard and save the best for last? The light will be beautiful in there in about ten minutes."
"Right you are," Roger answered.
They reached the inner court through one of the massive bronzed doors to a voluminous fountain taken from a defunct Lombardy castle and remodeled into a series of reflecting pools in gold and silver mosaic. The garden was laced with immaculately cast copies of Greek statuary.
The fountain was for wistfulness. Roger divided his time, fascinated by its gyrations, and studying the handsome chestnut-haired creature near him on a marble bench. Roger would be pressing on to Daars tomorrow, to see his father. If he intended making an opening gambit, he thought, he'd best get on with it.
"See here, Caroline," he said, "I've studied your financial statement and no doubt you've studied mine. I'm certain we're mutually impressed Should we encourage anything further between us, or drop it?"
"Living with Freddie, I'm quite used to abruptness," Caroline answered. "To bring you up on the latest, Freddie is more impressed with you than I am."
"Temporarily, I hope. You know you are damned intimidating. Do you make all men feel inept?"
"Nearly all," she answered bluntly.
"A sport with you, I gather."
He clasped his hands behind him and walked down the series of pools. Caroline realized she was about to run him off like all the others. She hadn't found him terribly interesting or exciting, yet she didn't want to run him off. It would be wrong to anguish Freddie. On paper, Roger was the best possible match . . . only . . . oh, Lord, he needed so much work. Only a gamble of marriage would really tell if he were capable. She walked up behind him.
"I'm glad you came," she said, "and I'd like to encourage your friendship."
Roger accepted it as unmeaningful politeness. "Caroline," he said, "I've a problem with this situation. I haven't the slightest notion of how to go about charming you." His hands shoveled his sandy hair back and he threw his arms apart in a gesture of frustration. "You see," he continued, "most of my thirty-two years has been spent in boys' schools, on men's teams, male clubs, the regiment. I'm not a homosexual, mind you, but with tenure in all those smelly changing rooms, I've lived under an axiom that hard sport and a cold shower take care of one's erection. My experience with women to date has been limited and in rather bawdy situations."
"What a charming confession," Caroline said.
"It's not that I won't be able to acquit myself, not at all, I assure you. When the proper time comes, I'll do my job quite well, thank you. You see, Caroline, to be blunt, I've not given sex a great deal of consideration until I met you. What I mean to say is, I gather it is rather important to you."
"Just what do you mean, Roger?"
"Well, er, you have dabbled in it now and then?"
"I was married once for a short period and have otherwise been well attended to and, in turn, have returned that attention. There have been rumors, of course. What would you like to know, Roger?"
"Well, one hears about a certain penchant you have for . . . foreigners."
"The rumors are well founded and quite true," she said.
Roger reddened and sputtered.
"Just how important is sex to you?" she said.
"I should think," he said with rising voice, "it will be quite important once one gets the gist of it. You see, since I left the regiment I've been in a horrible crush getting business matters in order."
Caroline was amused by his candor. She took his hand and led him back to the museum and into the gallery of French Impressionists, stopping for a short, instant education before each new artist.
Roger stared at the small oil bearing the plate, "The English Lady," looking from her to the painting several times as though it was his unique discovery. "Remarkable, utterly beautiful. Who is this Renoir chap?"
"A dear friend. Roger, just what have you heard about my penchant for foreigners?"
"Not much, really. One would gather you have had several lovers . . . Frenchmen . . . artists."
"Do you consider that vulgar?"
"No. One's past is one's own business. If you want to know the truth, I've always envied my father and his mistress."
"Clara Townsend-Trowbridge?"
"Yes, Clara."
"What attracts you?"
"Her being an actress. Their living in a kind of sin. And she does have an exquisite bosom. I like their bang-up relationship filled with all sorts of hush-hush nuances. They excite each other. It's lovely to watch."
"Then you don't look on my sisterhood as tarnished and damaged merchandise."
"On the contrary, indeed. I can't think of anything more depressing than getting involved with a virgin, either of body or mind. The problem is, how does a chap fresh out of the regiment cope with a woman capable of tying him into knots?" He continued to look at the painting with his hands in motion and rocking off his toes and heels. "Did you know these' chaps well?"
"Very. From time to time I was the only one about who could afford to keep them in canvas and oils."
"They must have adored you as a model."
"They said they loved my lithe English body. Would you like to see it?"
"Your body?"
"Some paintings."
Roger clasped his hands behind him and showed teeth. "I suppose that would be quite proper."
"Come along."
Roger Hubble had never seen or smelled a room so deliciously white and sensuous, a marble cloudlike setting broken in transparencies of voile and mirrored walls. Within view of the boudoir, an open-laced tile grille screen of tiny blue Persian mosaics peered into a sunken tub alive with oils and scents. He mumbled something about what a lovely place to take a bath and his eyes came to rest on a wall of nudes done by a man of talent who was obviously much in love with the model. The poses were unabashed, a luring panorama of carnality.
"Do you like them?"
"Hardly a fitting description. They're smashing."
"Claude Moreau," she said.
"Did you love him very much?"
"He was a loathsome bastard."
Roger stepped close, nearly touching the pictures, then turned to her as she stood in the center of the room in willowy magnificence. Her fingers drew the drawstring of her blouse and she undid the buttons, with deliberate pain.
"Perhaps you'd like to see for yourself if Moreau got a proper likeness."
Roger lowered his eyes and fluttered his hands helplessly. "You're mocking me, Caroline. You know I can't handle you and you're making sport. You've no right to do that."
"Lift your eyes, Roger, and tell me what you see?"
He did. She was naked to the waist.
"Would you like to touch me?"
"I may not be as roaring a lover as your Frenchman, but I'm not your fool. I won't be treated like an uncoordinated puppy. If and when I want you it will be in my own middling manner."
Caroline smirked to squash the put-down. "Oh, for God's sake," she said, "go take your cold shower."
*
Sir Frederick insisted Roger continue to Kinsale in his private car, a gesture with unmistakable connotations. They agreed to meet six weeks hence at Hubble Manor to take part in Londonderry's Apprentice Boys celebrations. Sir Frederick would bring his new minister to deliver the service at the Protestant Cathedral. The time would be well used to further explore matters of mutual interest.
The private car was precisely what one would expect of Frederick Weed. Modeled somewhat after George Pullman's own in America, its appointments made it a rolling extension of Rathweed Hall. Aside from the main brocaded parlor and dining areas, the car held a small office, two bedroom suites, a kitchen and a separated "opera box" for the privacy of the ladies aboard.
Roger pouted alone, lost in the splendor after a back thumping
farewell from Sir Frederick. Although Roger was pleased with the way things were going with Weed, he found himself dejected over Caroline. He had never allowed himself to be taken in by a woman, never painfully desired- any particular woman or even craved a short affair with a woman he could not dominate. He was properly perplexed.
"There you are, Roger."
He assembled himself into an air of indifference as Caroline entered from the far end of the car. "Do you mind a passenger as far as Dublin? I've a shopping list a yard long."
Roger's impulse to seize her in his arms was contained. It would be just what she would expect and she would play him for an idiot. He made a gesture which denoted that it was her daddy's train.
In a moment her luggage was aboard and the train inched out of Victoria Station into the garishness of southwest Belfast. After a brief stop at Lisburn, it angled toward the coast.
"I could be induced to come to Kinsale with you," Caroline said at last.
Roger stifled his surprise and pleasure, then countered with a deliberately cold tack. "Damn the luck," he said, feigning sympathy and futility, "but I have someone joining me at Daars. Quite frankly, I would have preferred you. Perhaps you'll visit Hubble Manor with Sir Frederick in August."
Caroline stiffened at the rebuff so carefully couched; it was impossible to tell whether he was speaking the truth or making a chess move. Whatever, she had learned what her father learned: not to underestimate the man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAARS AT KINSALE, COUNTY CORK,
JULY 1885
"Lord Arthur's carriage has just turned the bottom of the hill."
"Thank you, Cronin," Clara said, "we'll take tea in his lordship's apartment."
Clara went out to the side porch and watched as the carriage slowed on its steep ascent. Daars crested the tallest hill of Summer Cove, its gardens and grounds sloping downhill with a grand view sweeping the curve of the bay to Kinsale. From there one could see past Charles Fort to the open water, where a small fleet of billowing sails raced for the sanctuary of the harbor ahead of a blow.
In a few moments Arthur Hubble, Tenth Earl of Foyle, turned the carriage off the main road into the side entry where a pair of stable hands took the mount and assisted him down.
"You're in early," Clara said. "Did you have a good sail?"
He clasped his hands behind him, jutted a bearded jaw and tromped up the steps to the porch. "Gusty and nasty," he said, passing her.
Clara waited till he was dried out and warmed. "We got the wire, dear. Roger will be on today's Cork Mail from Dublin. He should be in in time for supper."
Arthur grunted his discomfort. Clara knew he cared for his son and Roger did make his visits infrequent, but anxiety would always rise. Arthur disliked all the business decisions. Moreover, Roger's particular visit at this time of the year meant he was coming to fetch his father and spirit him back to Hubble Manor for Apprentice Boys Day. It usually brought on a recurrence of stuttering. She was thankful that Roger was coming to Daars by himself without that dreadful bore, Glendon Rankin. The estate agent had been edged into the background since Roger left the military and got his teeth into the earldom's affairs. Although Rankin would not be coming, he had sent a distressing letter in advance of Roger that caused even more tension than usual.
Cronin set the tea service, then laid out a little stand of barbering tools and retreated. Clara pinned a bib around Arthur's neck and meticulously combed his beard, snipping and trimming him to bandbox perfection, a skill acquired during her days as an actress.
He slipped the desk drawer open and reread Rankin's epistle. It began with a torturous history of the Rankin family's devotion to the earldom which spanned a century and a half of service. Rankin did not fail to repeat the ultimate sacrifice of his uncle, Owen, who had been shot dead in the line of duty while evicting a resisting tenant. The letter. went on to say that Lord Roger had been a welcome addition to the firm. Then came the cautions in carefully chosen words, the fear that Roger's move away from land and into industrialization was becoming reckless.
The split between son and agent was deeply philosophical and widening. Roger would be bringing more ideas with him for major new investments.
The reason manufactured linen product is in such heavy demand is because cotton has not fully regained its markets from its lapse during the American Civil War. But, your lordship, cotton is gaining and the linen industry could depress overnight. I've seen it happen before. It's dangerous to keep selling off solid land for this kind of speculation.
Rankin then lamented the radical ideas of land reform that had swept Europe but insisted the condition didn't apply to Ireland. Without an overseer to tell him what to do the Catholic farmer would simply create chaos.
The letter was finished with all Rankin's valves opened and bleeding. A chilling prognosis was set down on the thesis that, the more the earldom became involved with factories, the greater the chance for total calamity. Cities were flooded with jobless Catholics living in conditions that bred epidemics and crime and fostered papist and anarchist ideologies. Cities would demand Hubble involvement in the bottomless problems for schools, hospitals, workhouses, charities. Why indeed, Rankin argued, should the earldom be dragged into an urban potato blight?
Lord Arthur groaned at the miserable prospect of the next few days as he returned the letter to the desk. Clara applied bay rhum to his face, frictioning it into his scalp, and for the instant pure pleasure outweighed pure dread. A just-so application of brilliantine over the beard to highlight it and a combing and mirror. He studied the finished result with admiration.
A week's worth of London Times had arrived. They read, bantering gossip back and forth, but Arthur was clearly unhappy.
"Artie."
"Yes, angel."
"Is there any way you can talk Roger out of our going up to Hubble Manor next month? You stood firm on the issue two years ago and the place didn't go to seed."
Clara having hit the real nub of his discontent, he buried his face deeper into a paper.
"It's so dreary up there," she continued, "and I really don't enjoy being locked away like the family idiot. Those people are so damned sanctimonious. You'd think you were the only member of Lords living with his mistress."
“C-C-C-C-Clara."
"Now, Artie, you don't have to stutter. I've told you that for years."
"I'm not reciting Shakespeare on the London st-st-st-stage and I can st-st-stutter if I please."
"It's the only thing we argue about. They make me feel like a whore. Hubble Manor is as dark and grim and moldy as those righteous Ulstermen and they make me feel like a whore."
"I don't want a performance, if you please."
"I shan't say another word," she said, springing to her feet. She stood several inches above him normally and more so when he sat. "I don't see why you have to dress up like a clown in that ridiculous bowler and orange collar. You look like a low comic out of a Soho music hall. Ballyutogue Total Temperance Lodge, indeed, and there you are, the Earl of Foyle with a cemented strychnine smile on your face, parading about in the company of those unwashed farmers, uncouth roughnecks and their pimply preachers."
"Have you quite f-f-finished?"
"I shan't say another word."
"That dreary, moldy, sanctimonious place happens to pay for a lot of expensive habits you've developed, my dear."
"Oh, you are boring me, Artie."
"Once a year I am called upon for a little ceremonial pomp from the place which pays our passage. This year the political situation requires my presence more than ever. Some bloody Fenian is having a go at old Walby's seat. You've simply no right to make annual warfare over something so simple."
"If it's all that simple, then why do you become a wreck every time Roger is about to arrive?"
Little Lord Hubble came out of his seat, lips aquiver and perspiration popping. He tried to speak but was unable, and walked unsteadily into the adjoining bedroom and stared unseeing do
wn to the bay. He had stood before his father once in that awful library in Hubble Manor and his father's eyes had been red and glassy and next to him a trunk filled with executed eviction orders . . .. Arthur Hubble spent a lifetime avoiding twinges of conscience about famine walls, death ships, evictions and starvation but he never allowed any such twinges to overcome his appetite for self-indulgence.
He had long resigned himself to the fact that he had no stomach for running the earldom. He became the only earl in the line not to serve in the proper regiment or do the proper civil and colonial service. Instead, he had married early and left a pregnant wife for the Navy. When his own father, Morris, had begun to fail he put everything into the hands of MacAdam Rankin and, later, Glendon Rankin.
As Roger grew up, Arthur pushed him into the responsibilities early so that he might continue the pursuit of pleasure uncluttered. What he had totally miscalculated was Roger's zeal, a zeal that matched his own father's. Roger was taking things over with near total disregard for the past binding of the earldom to the land. Now Roger was forcing him into the terrifying decisions he had so skillfully evaded.
"Artie," Clara said, coming up behind him, "I'm sorry."
"You're quite right, Clara. I'll not be bullied into going up to Ulster. I'm standing firm."
She nestled up to him to comfort him, knowing the little lord was not telling the truth but making him feel for the moment that he was brave enough.
*
Roger had hoped for a few days of sailing and blue shark fishing before getting down to business but realized that would not be possible. Arthur's one mastery over his son was at golf. When Arthur five-putted the second hole and four-putted the sixth, followed by an onslaught of stuttering, Roger knew he'd better get on with it.
A horseback ride was suggested at breakfast, which Arthur knew to be the signal for a father and son talk. His own father, Morris, used the horseback ride for their father and son talks. Now he was doing it with Roger. Only Roger was taking the role of the father and Arthur the son again. As they rode off from Daars Arthur felt he was a boy about to be given a lecture and bucking up.