Kilpara (22 page)

We left the bedroom and moved on to the master
bedroom followed by visits to the three guestrooms. When we
returned to the staircase, the groundskeepers appeared and carried
Mother downstairs. We entered the library, the first room we came
to on the main floor. Sadie and Mother exchanged tidbits of
reminiscences as they talked about having their lessons here and
the books they enjoyed reading. Adjoining the library was a room
their father had used for his office, the place where he did his
research and wrote his theories.

“
I always loved this room,” Aunt
Sadie said, looking around. “Even after all these years, I can
almost smell the starch from Father's white smock mixed with pipe
smoke.

“
Your grandfather was a doctor,”
Mother explained to me. “He worked here and at the dispensary. On
days when he was at the dispensary, we watched for his carriage
coming down the road. Then we’d run out to meet hm. Father would
gather us up into his arms and tell us about his day. We proudly
showed him our dolls with splints on their arms or tourniquets
around their heads from nasty falls. He would admire our work and
Mother would smile.

“
Sadie likes this room because she
loved medicine as much as he did. He taught her
everything.”

“
He taught you, too,” Aunt Sadie
protested.

“
I pretended to like it because I
wanted his attention. That was the only time he noticed me after
Mother—”

I put my hand on Mother’s shoulder and was
immediately concerned by how pale she looked against the dark
background of her wheelchair. I began to worry if we should
continue. The visit was starting to adversely affect her. “Perhaps
we should leave,” I said.

Mother squeezed my hand. “Not yet. There’s one
more room I must see.”

She directed us out of the library into the
room next to it. Everything about this room contrasted with the
library’s oak walls and leather furniture. Here, cream colored
walls reflected sunlight through long French doors that opened out
onto a vast garden.

“
Looks like Mrs. McNamara kept up
the garden,” Aunt Sadie said, standing by the doors. “How mother
loved her flowers—especially red roses. She filled the world around
us with love and beauty.”

“
Your grandmother died when we were
still very young,” Mother said quietly. “She passed away in this
very room after ailing for a long time.”

“
You never told us,” I
said.

“
It was a distressful illness. I
never talked about it because it hurt too much; I never got over
missing her.”

Mother exchanged looks with Sadie. “We were so
vulnerable. I was only eleven and you were nine when it happened. I
would never have gotten through it without you.”

“
Or me you.” Aunt Sadie bent over
and stroked Mother’s cheek.

“
You had Father,” Mother
said.

“
I understood him and felt sorry
for him,” Aunt Sadie said. “He was lost without Mother. All he ever
wanted was to find a cure and reverse her illness. It consumed him,
even afterward—”

“
Nothing else mattered. We were
invisible to him after she was gone.”

Aunt Sadie sighed. “We did matter. He just
couldn’t show how he felt. He had difficulty talking about his
feelings. It was too hard for him. As long as everything seemed all
right on the surface, he managed. He did his best.”

“
Being in this house and
remembering how it was, I realize how young and dependent I was,”
Mother said. “Our lives were perfect until Mother’s illness came
along. Then everything changed. She had always been there to talk
to and to take care of us. Father took us places and told us funny
stories. He loved picnics and used to take us for rides to Headford
where we spent the day at Lough Corrib feeding ducks and swans and
picking daisies. He loved the ocean, too, and we went there to play
in the waves and make sand castles. After Mother became ill and
died, it seemed all the joy and caring went out of our lives. We
were left without any sense of direction or purpose. It took years
to get over that, if we ever did.”

“
I know,” Aunt Sadie
said.

“
Shall we go?” I asked
quietly.

“
In a moment,” Mother said. We fell
silent, her labored breathing filling the room. After an interval
she said, “All through adolescence, all I ever thought about was
the memory of watching my mother suffer and how my father detached
himself from us. I envied children who had healthy loving parents.
It’s all coming back so vivid—yet different. Looking back, I only
knew my mother’s distress and the toll her illness took on us, but
now I see there was courage and love, too. I understand Father’s
fanatical drive to find a cure and can forgive him for his neglect.
It was his tribute to her. If only I could've understood it better
back then...”

She began coughing, strangling on her breath.
This brought a worried look to Sadie’s face. It was time to leave.
I hurried into the garden to find our hostess and make our
apologies. She smiled gracefully and told me any time I wished to
visit my grandparents' house, I was welcome. I thanked her and
joined Mother and Aunt Sadie in the carriage.

Aunt Sadie sat with her arms around Mother,
stroking her hair, as we headed back to the convent. Mother,
exhausted from her experience, dozed in the comfort of her sister’s
arms. I watched the countryside lazily pass by. That’s when I saw
her again. Our carriage driver slowed to let an oncoming vehicle
pass. As the two carriages came side by side, I came face-to-face
with her gaze. She smiled. Her carriage passed and I felt a chill
spread through me when I recognized the man sitting beside her. It
was Purcenell. His eyes were averted. I caught only a side view of
his face, but there was no mistaking it was him.

Aunt Sadie saw him, too, and frowned.
“Purcenell,” she whispered.

“
The woman in the coach with him,
who is she?” I asked tersely. What if she was Purcenell’s wife? I
was certain I hadn’t seen a ring on her left hand.

“
His daughter, Morrigan,” Aunt
Sadie replied. “She spends most of the summer with her aunt at
Salthill, on the strand.”

Relief spread through me. Then fear struck me.
The woman who consumed my thoughts was Purcenell’s daughter. I was
about to enquire more about Morrigan when Mother coughed, and Aunt
Sadie’s and my concern shifted to helping her through the spell.
After she had calmed, I wanted to return to the topic of Morrigan,
but the moment had passed and bringing up the subject would make
Aunt Sadie suspicious about my interest. We rode the rest of the
way in silence.

Back at the convent, I saw Mother safely to
her room. Assured that she was resting, I went to my own room and
paced as I tried to decide what to do next. I was torn. Admittedly,
Morrigan intrigued me. Under different circumstances, I could
arrange a formal meeting. But she was Purcenell’s daughter and that
complicated matters. I couldn’t announce myself at Kilpara as an
O’Donovan. I was guaranteed to have the door slammed in my face.
Besides, I had set things in motion under an assumed name. If I was
to eliminate the barriers between us, I had to arrange a meeting
with Purcenell. I would admit my identity and make my appeal on
Mother's behalf. If he responded favorably, then I could forge
ahead and clear up all pretenses with Morrigan. A nagging thought
stuck in the back of my mind reminding me that Purcenell and
Morrigan may refuse to accept me as a visitor in my ancestral home.
I pushed the thought aside. I wanted Morrigan to know who I was and
to see her as much as she would allow. Every waking moment, if
possible.

In the end, I sat down and composed a letter.
In it, I appealed to Purcenell's sense of vanity and requested to
see his champion horse. When it came to signing my name, I
hesitated. Impulsively, I just scribbled Ellis. I paused before
sealing the envelope, wondering how I would explain my deception to
Morrigan should I find her at Kilpara. Sealing the envelope, I
hoped that situation would not arise. The following morning, I
instructed a groom to deliver the letter to Kilpara. By afternoon
he returned with a reply. I was invited to visit the following
day.

Aunt Sadie ordered Mother to continue resting.
I sat briefly by her bedside and read to her, my words mixing with
the sound of her uneven breathing. That evening, when Aunt Sadie
and I walked in the gardens, I voiced my concern. “Mother seems
worse.”

“
She’s worn out,” Aunt Sadie
replied. “Yesterday's visit may have been more of a shock to her
system than I anticipated, but it had its merit, too. It wasn’t
easy for her to endure facing the past where she was left desolate
after your grandmother’s death. They were close, those two. I was
closer to your grandfather and understood him better. We were both
devastated by our mother’s loss, but it weighed more heavily on
Ann. She didn’t understand Father’s insistence to keep us away from
the sick room during those last stages of Mother’s illness and
blamed him for failing to save her. It didn’t help matters that
afterwards he withdrew into himself and hardly knew we existed. He
couldn’t help it; he was suffering from self-guilt and grief. His
indifference severed their relationship. After yesterday, Ann more
fully understands how their fears and grief drove them apart. I
apologize for taking such risks with her health.”

Aunt Sadie touched my hand comfortingly, tears
standing in her eyes. I was growing fond of this woman and was sad
to think my brothers and their families would never know
her.

“
I've been invited to visit
Purcenell tomorrow,” I said, as we walked toward the strange little
building that had become our home.

She stared at a rose bush. “Does he know who
you are?”

I shook my head.

“
I don't agree with the falsehood,
Ellis, but selfishly I'm happy you'll have this chance to talk to
him. I’ll pray that he has the generosity of heart to grant Ann's
request.”

She didn’t sound hopeful.

Gully Joyce, who I came to know as the
convent’s head groom, had the carriage ready the following morning.
At first we traveled the same road that took us to the Burke home.
Further on, we turned onto the road that curled around the
shoreline of Lough Corrib. We passed fields where workers cut brown
sod out of the ground in brick-size chunks. Aunt Sadie had
explained this was bogland where turf was taken from the soil and
used to heat homes throughout most of Ireland. We lost sight of the
lake when the road turned inland and before long we came to a high
stone wall that ran parallel to the road. Gully pointed out that
this marked the beginning of Kilpara. The wall ended at a gated
driveway that was protected by a gatehouse. Gully Joyce dismounted,
yanked the bell pull hooked on an iron rail beside the gate, the
noise bringing a man out from behind the gatehouse. He asked the
nature of our business and when the groom showed him Purcenell’s
invitation, he unlocked the gate and allowed us to
enter.

We drove up the avenue that curved round the
hill, neatly trimmed grass banks bordering each side and large oak
trees lining the way. I caught my breath when the house came into
view. It was Stonebridge! With a few minor differences; the walls
were older, more weather-beaten, but the same green ivy clung to
dark stone. The windows were longer, wider, the front doors heavier
with older steps leading up to them. When Gully pulled up in front
of the house, there was no Eileen to greet us, only a stable-hand
who came to guide the carriage to the stables.

I walked up the steps, banged the knocker on
the heavy double door. A butler answered and I stepped inside the
foyer that was fitted with the same dark green marble that adorned
Stonebridge. I presented my letter. Moments later he returned and
ushered me into the library.

“
My dear Mr. Ellis, how kind of you
to come.” Purcenell rose from behind a writing-table and came
forward smiling, displaying the prominent split between his teeth.
“You’ve come to hear the details of the race and to see Pandora? Of
course, you have. It’s in two days’ time—at Ballybrit.”

He handed me a drink and pointed to a chair. I
could have been back at Stonebridge; the room was similarly
arranged. One wall was fitted with bookshelves. The rest of the
room was arranged with comfortable chairs, a divan to sit and
repose on, a wide table with paper and pen on top for writing, and
a liqueur cabinet stocked to satisfy every taste.

“
This chap, Thornton, is already at
Larcourt with his horse,” Purcenell said, a hint of anxiety in his
voice. When I looked blank he rushed to explain. “Of course, you
don’t know Larcourt, how could you? You’re a stranger here. It’s
the estate a mile or so over the hill there, owned by Charlie
Sloane. We’ve been neighbors for years, though he does own other
properties in England and Europe and spends a good deal of time
away. I’ve known Charlie since he was a baby. His father is a good
man, but Charlie—” He paused and rubbed his chin.

“
Anyway, Charlie has arranged a
foxhunt for tomorrow to entertain Thornton. There’ll be dinner
afterwards.” He looked at me. “It’s the wrong time of year for a
foxhunt, but then Thornton is a sportsman, and Charlie wants to be
accommodating. You’ll attend? Of course, you will. You’ll want to
meet Thornton. I’m sure Charlie has already penned you an
invitation.”