Edith, page 3
Edith knows this invented engagement on behalf of their cousins from the castle is a deferral tactic. Her brother is behaving like a twelve-year-old whose pocket money has been withheld for smashing a pane of greenhouse glass.
Her face sinks into her hands. And to think she imagined that scene with Mattie Dwyer was the worst the day could throw at her. By and by, she rallies and rings the bell for Philomena.
‘Was that the colonel I saw going out without his coffee, Miss Edith? It’s not like him.’
‘We’re skipping coffee today, Philomena. You may clear the table now.’
Edith leaves her to it. In need of fresh air, she throws on a battered old hat and jacket – her Skibbereen clothes are too good for the bluebell woods – and stands on the back step, whistling. An answering commotion, and her fox terrier bolts up. Tongue panting, he wags his tail, spraying water in all directions.
‘Were you paddling in the horses’ water trough again, Dooley?’
She marches along, Dooley trotting at her heels. As she walks, she swipes at clumps of thistles and dandelions with her ivory-handled walking stick. It belonged to her grandfather, Master of Drishane when she was growing up. The Big Master, he was called. Cameron is right. From the outset, she was Grandpapa’s pet. He used to hold her hand taking prayers every morning – staff, family and guests alike assembled for the ritual. It was then she began to feel she occupied a privileged position within the family. Edith could never hope to inherit, despite being the firstborn – too many brothers ahead of her in the pecking order – but she felt herself charged with the role of guardian. A sense of responsibility for Drishane House and the Somerville position in Castletownshend was bred into her.
Cameron, however, is willing to sell the family seat for a song – see it turned into a rest home for Roman Catholic priests, she shouldn’t wonder. Four full-time staff out of a job, never mind the occasional workers. As for Edith, she’d be forced to make her home among dull English people – worthy, granted, but lacking any joy in life’s quirks.
Even the servants in Ireland have more poetry in them than her own sort in England. Only yesterday, Nora Treacy, who helps Mrs O’Shea with the rough work, told her she’d never marry. Edith took it with a pinch of salt since Nora was all of nineteen. Still, she was impressed by the scullery maid’s reasoning. ‘I had this off my Granny, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Two things every woman should keep from a man: a corner in her pocket and a corner in her heart. If you have to love, let you not do it extravagantly. But to my mind, if you’re not going to do it with a heart and a half, you’d best not do it at all. So I’m planning to stay single. Same as yourself, ma’am.’
Edith finds such conversations invigorating. It’s their subtlety, unexpectedness, and the confidential nature of these exchanges. And, yes, the meeting of equals. Drishane’s servants always retain something of their independence despite the economic relationship.
A swipe at a clump of nettles. Mrs O’Shea swears by nettle soup. Says there’s nothing to beat it for taste. So far, they haven’t had to stoop to adding it to the Drishane menu but anything is possible. For decades, it’s been a struggle to balance the books, but robbing Peter to pay Paul or sending out an SOS to their brothers in England won’t be sufficient this time, judging by Cameron’s gloomy prognosis.
How disappointed Papa would be in Cameron. She feels a burst of compassion for her brother. Drishane is his birthright. But he didn’t ask for it – it was just landed on him. And he’s out of his depth.
‘We have to find a new income stream, Dooley,’ she tells the foxhound.
He yips, acknowledging that she’s addressing him but too distracted by a variety of scents near a tree root to spare her his full attention. Sometimes, that’s exactly how her brothers treat her.
A breeze whips against her legs. A blackbird opens its bill, a songburst in yellow. ‘All shall be well,’ said Martin, in their last automatic-writing session. And maybe it will. Meantime, bills take no account of cash flow. There was a time when writing a shilling shocker with Martin was all it took to rustle up the readies. Those were the days. An Enthusiast, her latest, is racking up only modest sales. Does she even have another novel in her? ‘Would Longman’s bother to publish it?’ she asks Dooley. Low in his throat, he growls. Perhaps he’s picked up the scent of a woodland animal. He’s a demon for chasing hedgehogs, never learns how much damage they can do.
Generally, exercise eases her mind. But today, the outdoors can’t soothe her. Uphill she labours, ignoring the ache which causes one leg to drag on the slope. If Martin was with her, she’d say something to make Edith giggle, forgetting the pain. Martin is always with you, she reminds herself. Even so, there are days when her presence is not as vivid as Edith would like.
She whistles for Dooley, who has skulked off into the undergrowth. A series of yaps, a bustle of paws, and he reappears to rub himself against her calf, intelligence sparkling in his black eyes. She stoops to pat his smooth coat, white but for an autumn leaf patch over one eye. ‘I wouldn’t want to go to heaven if there were no dogs in it,’ she tells him, and he nuzzles her palm. Fortunately, Martin is reassuring on that score. Every pet dog she’s ever owned will be waiting to greet her when she presents herself at the Pearly Gates.
Edith straightens, pain jolting through her right knee. The nip of sciatica is a legacy from a lifetime spent riding side-saddle. Even when ladies began to ride astride, she always declined to change her habits. It felt improper. To rest her leg, she sits on a tree stump, the remnants of a diseased elm. A gardener took a saw to it on Papa’s orders. Papa hated losing trees. ‘Our job is to plant them not cut them down,’ he used to say. Grandpapa was the same. But Cameron has no money for tree-planting, and nor does she, for that matter.
Overhead, a flock of pale-bellied wild geese in wedge formation forges steadily ahead, arriving in Ireland to hibernate for the winter. The wind increases in intensity, causing the boughs above her to creak. She slides off the tree base and prepares to press on.
And then it happens. She hears a snatch of song.
In seventeen hundred and forty-four
The fifth of December – I think ’twas no more
At five in the morning by most of the clocks,
We rode for Kilruddery to try for a fox.
She closes her eyes, sensing his presence as the singer draws closer. There’s his horsey smell and the tang of fresh sweat. No Paris colognes for him. So, it was Flurry Knox there on the side of the road!
‘What’s wrong with you, gerrill? You look off colour.’
She allows herself a smile. Girl, indeed.
A sideways glance is slid at the slim figure with muscular legs next to her, in case staring might scare him away. He’s holding his bowler hat in one hand and a riding crop in the other, tucked under his armpit. His hair is slick against the outline of his head, and his eyes make you think he’s up to no good. Just as she first sketched him all those years ago. If his likeness were used for a pack of cards, he’d be the Jack of Spades.
‘Advancing years, Flurry. That’s what has me out of sorts. And a few other troubles besides.’
‘Come on out of that, gerrill. You’re a long way off from the finishing line – there’s decades in you yet. Take a stroll with me. You’ll feel the better of it. And sure, if you tell me your problems, who knows but I might be able to help? Two heads are better than one.’
Edith falls into step beside him. He replaces the bowler, defying gravity with its tilt at the back of his head, and whistles a jaunty tune. Hunting the Hare, if she’s not mistaken. She’s cheered just having him beside her. It’s impossible to be in Flurry Knox’s company without feeling optimistic.
‘So what’s eating at you, Edith?’
‘I hardly know where to begin. But it’s serious. Maybe too serious for me to fix.’
He makes no reply. All the same, she knows he’s listening. He has an intent air – the one that transfixes him when the hounds are straining at the leash, immediately before a blast from the horn.
‘Mind you, you’ve helped enormously with my finances over the years, Flurry. You patched the roof, built a glasshouse, paved the avenue and paid my taxes.’
‘Steady, now. Don’t be accusing me of doing an honest day’s work or my reputation might never recover. How did I manage such impressive toil?’
‘The Irish R.M. stories. The public lapped them up. There now, I’ll give you a fat head.’
His grin stretches from ear to ear, dislodging his bowler. He catches it gliding off and tucks it under his arm. ‘The public has excellent taste, Edith, if I say so myself.’
They reach the viewing point at the crest of the hill, the beat of the sea below them and the bay spread out as if for their particular pleasure. There’s Horse Island, and Reen Point – America is the next parish over. In the harbour, four fishing vessels bob on the choppy water. Edith sighs with contentment. She can’t imagine Flurry anywhere but here. He belongs to the barony of West Carbery. Both of them do. When she has looked her fill, she surveys her companion. In the quarter-century since she and Martin talked Florence McCarthy Knox into life, he isn’t a day older or a hair greyer. Martin is lying in St Barrahane’s churchyard and Edith’s hunting days are long behind her, but Flurry remains capable of springing onto a flighty mount at a moment’s notice and charging off in the thick of a foxhound pack.
He could be her son now. Is she sorry she never married and produced a flesh-and-blood son rather than this literary version? She is not. He’s more her son than Martin’s, of that she’s certain. Flurry shares her appreciation for horseflesh. His fondness for the hounds is another characteristic she embedded in him. She can’t lay claim to his financial shiftiness – she prefers paying her bills, on the whole, as did Martin. That unsteadiness blended with charm was borrowed from several of her brothers.
Her eyes linger on Flurry’s profile. What is there of Martin in him? His sense of humour, perhaps. Martin had a serious veneer but burst into hoults of laughter at the least provocation.
‘What’s bothering you, Edith? You know you can tell me anything. I’m unshockable.’
‘Money worries, Flurry.’
‘To the seventeen divils I pitch them.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘I wouldn’t let them weigh on me, indeed and I wouldn’t. Money comes and money goes. That’s just the way of it.’
‘Aren’t you the airy-fairy one, you and your Flurryisms. It’s easy to be flippant about money when you’ve no need of it.’
‘Here’s what you do. Find a decent colt, buy it for a song and sell it for a king’s ransom. That’ll take care of any cash shortages. Never fails for me.’
‘It’s not that simple any more. The horse-coping business is in a poor way, between the Troubles and the public’s taste for motor cars.’
He flashes a scandalized look. ‘The day an Irishman of any class or creed loses interest in horseflesh is the day the world stops turning.’ He scratches his leg with the riding crop. ‘You could always write another Irish R.M. book. Them’s the boys that were your crock of gold.’
‘Out of the question. I haven’t the heart for it with Martin gone. It took the two of us to catch the froth on those frolics and shape it into stories.’ She bites her lip. ‘The truth is I can’t manage it on my own.’
‘Sure where’s the good in your automatic-writing sessions with herself, the two of you colloguing together, if you can’t turn a profit from them? Rustle up a few hunting stories?’
Edith suspects a twist to his words. ‘I won’t be mocked, Flurry Knox.’ His smile is sly, and she knows she was right to doubt him.
‘I have it, Edith. Why not take some of the stories the two of you wrote together, back in the day, and give them a new lease of life? Use them as scaffolding for a play, maybe? They say there’s a fortune to be made on the stage.’
‘Adapt the Irish R.M. for theatre?’ She’s surprised. What does Flurry Knox know about the world of greasepaint and footlights?
‘Yes, for the stage. Why not?’ Grinning, Flurry slaps his hat back on his head.
Edith is seized by a burst of enthusiasm to match Flurry’s. It seems not just possible but probable. ‘Once, Martin said we should grind West Carbery’s bones to make our bread. Back when we were starting out. I can do it again, I know I can! How would you like to strut across the London stage, Florence McCarthy Knox? Are you ready for applause from a metro- politan audience?’
‘Sure I don’t mind at all if it gets you out of a hole, gerrill.’
three
A noise wakens Edith. She realizes it’s Dooley, who is standing on the bed and growling. At first, she thinks it’s just this old house disturbing him – like her, Drishane beds down for the night with snaps and groans. But then she hears a smack against gravel. Footsteps outside. A snarl rumbles from Dooley. ‘Hush, boy,’ she whispers.
Throwing back the covers, she shuffles barefoot to the window, the foxhound bristling at her ankles. Cautious, she parts the edge of a curtain. The lace of frost on windowpanes blurs the outside world. She squints past it to where moonlight floods the courtyard. Her eyes patrol the perimeters. No moving shadows.
But perhaps any trespassers are taking cover? They may have seen the curtain move. Maybe she’s being watched. She waits, shallow breathing. Her toes curl up, trying to escape the icy floor. She can no longer feel her feet. Dooley skitters over to snuffle beneath the door to the landing.
By and by, she uncoils, too. Perhaps she misheard. It might have been a night creature hunting, or the wind whipping a tree branch against a windowpane. Everyone’s nerves are stretched to breaking point, with the country in a state of lawlessness and no credible authorities to complain to about it. She might as well go back to bed.
Dooley remains at his post by the bedroom door, stubby tail erect. Edith considers her little Cerberus. To be on the safe side, she should investigate downstairs. She pokes her feet into a pair of slippers, wraps a wool dressing gown around her, and lifts the torch from her bedside table. She could find her way blindfolded about this house but it seems prudent to bring it. Dooley keeps his mistress in his sights. ‘Come on, boy,’ she whispers, and he pants with excitement but knows not to bark. Since a puppy, he has always read her moods.
She eases open the door and steps into the passageway. Mrs O’Shea and Philomena sleep near her room. No sound from that direction. Short of a cavalry charge through the rose garden, nothing rouses them. Her brother is three corridors away. Should she go up to his room and knock on the door? But it’s at least thirty-five yards away. She decides to conduct her own investigation first. Back stairs or main staircase? The back stairs are a shortcut to the kitchen, directly below her bedroom, but the formal rooms are more likely to be targeted by intruders. She chooses the back stairs. Discretion is the better part of valour. Supposing there are intruders, she doesn’t want to blunder into them.
Before entering the closed-in staircase, she stands and listens. Her concentration is fixed on identifying any unfamiliar noise. Dooley quivers, inclined to bolt downstairs, but knows he needs his mistress’s permission. ‘Stay, boy.’ The house strikes her as intent. Does it hear her pattering heartbeat? A clock ticks. Mice rustle and scamper beneath the floorboards. Or rats, possibly – Cameron complained about them earlier. Usually, the dogs keep them under control but it might be time to lay poison again.
Shivering, Edith wonders if she’s overreacting to an isolated sound. These are jumpy times. She’ll manage no work tomorrow on her play if she tromps about the house at all hours. Just as she’s on the point of returning to bed, a horse whinnies. She swivels her head. Sounds like Trumpeter. She decides to check the locks.
Edith switches on her torch, knowing it would be foolhardy to tear about in the dark. She’s had her fair share of hunting spills down the years but broken bones at her age take longer to heal. Her descent follows its tapered beam, her enlarged shadow throwing up a distorted silhouette. It occurs to her she has all the components for an atmospheric painting – a woman, her shadow and a loyal fox terrier keeping her company in the fastness of night. The stairs bring her directly to the kitchen, where nothing is out of place. She plays the torchlight along the windows and back door, and is satisfied. Next, she makes her way to the morning room, where French doors open out to the lawn. That would be an easier entrance to break though than the front door. Once again, she shines the pool of light against locks. All is intact.
She and Dooley pass through the inner hall, where she flicks the torch towards the face of her parents’ grandfather clock, a wedding gift sixty-four years ago, which continues to keep perfect time. Lasting better than her, in point of fact. It’s almost two-thirty in the morning. The witching hour has passed, but the night has time left for mischief. This room leads to an outer hall dominated by a massive, nail-studded front door. She checks its bolts and hinges. Nothing appears to be tampered with. Satisfied, she flashes the torch towards the windows on either side of the doorway, which always remind her of squinting eyes framing a nose. Everything looks secure. Dooley conducts his own checks, sniffing along the lip of the door, a grumbling sound issuing from his throat. Inspection complete, he scampers through the darkness to continue his own investigations.
Edith’s mouth feels dry. A glass of water and she’ll return to bed. En route to the kitchen, she passes the glory hole, and notices its door is ajar. To be sure to be sure, as Mrs O’Shea likes to say, she sends the torchlight tiptoeing around an assortment of boots, rods, fishing baskets, umbrellas and sketching equipment. A three-year-old child would struggle to find a hiding place among such an excess of paraphernalia. Dooley reappears and barrels in, knocking over a discarded kite. She leaves him to root about.
Propping the torch on the table, she scans for matches, and finds them on a shelf on the dresser beside a pair of lamps. Soon, a yellow glow from one of the lamps reveals a shadowy kitchen. By day, it is homely – not that she often sets foot in it uninvited. The kitchen is the cook’s domain. By night, it looks stark. Barred shutters at the windows give it a barracks appearance. Her eye lands on the range used for cooking and heating. Its warmth draws her forward, and she opens the range door to the fire inside, riddling the embers. Even in the middle of the night, the kitchen is cosy compared with the draughty hallways and corridors she’s been wandering. She’ll develop a chill in her kidneys from this night’s work if she’s not careful. Perhaps she should forget about water and heat some milk.
