The Made Marriage (3 page)

Without giving herself time to consider the wisdom of such a move, she reached under her pillow and produced Owen’s letter. As she handed it to her cousin she said quickly, ‘Read it first and I’ll explain things afterwards.’ With growing apprehension, Margot’s eyes travelled along the lines. So it was this Owen Lawlor, whoever he was, who now absorbed all her young cousin’s interest and whose letters she looked forward to with such feverish anticipation. She laid down the pages with a trembling hand. ‘But who is this—this Owen Lawlor? I don’t understand. He makes it plain you’ve never even met, yet he speaks of your going to Ireland to meet him.’

Kate drew a deep breath. It was beginning to dawn on her how extraordinary and alarming her conduct must appear to Margot. She herself, since Owen’s letters had begun to arrive, had almost lost sight of the fact that her initial introduction to him had been through, of all things, a matrimonial column. But how would Margot take his explanation? With belated caution she decided that it would perhaps be best if she approached it obliquely. ‘Do you remember the old man who brought the teapot?’ she began cautiously.

‘I do indeed
,’
Margot returned with feeling.

‘Well, it was wrapped in a piece of newspaper. It was an Irish one. I expect it was sent on to him by his Irish relatives,’ she added hastily.

‘No doubt,’ Margot replied impatiently, ‘but I fail to see the connection.’

‘I happened to glance through it,’ Kate rushed on, anxious now to get the worst over, ‘and I saw it had a matrimonial column. An Irishman was advertising for a bride and—and—just for fun I wrote and enclosed a photograph, the one you took of me on the steps, and—’ She trailed off weakly as she saw the expression on her cousin’s face.

‘You mean you actually replied to an unknown man
w
ho
was looking for a wife in a newspaper?’ Margot asked in stupefaction. ‘But what on earth possessed you? I mean, it’s not as if you could consider such a proposition. I simply can’t believe you’d do such an appallingly foolish thing!’

‘I suppose it was foolish,’ Kate replied miserably, ‘but you see I didn’t quite realise how things would
s
ort of—of snowball. It is a nice letter, isn’t it?’ she added appealingly.

Margot gazed at her cousin in helpless exasperation. Under the loop of honey-coloured hair, the grey eyes were wide and questioning and held an appeal that only added to her irritation. ‘You sound like a star-struck schoolgirl,’ she said angrily. ‘Don’t you realise this man is completely unknown to you, yet he’s had the cheek to ask you to pay him a visit somewhere in the wilds of Ireland?’

‘But his Aunt Florrie will be there,’ Kate pointed out eagerly.

‘I don’t care if his Aunt Jemima is there!’ Margot almost shouted. ‘The whole idea is completely cock-eyed, but I suspect you’ve been besotted by the blarney he’s dishing you in large dollops. I know the Irish have the custom of what they call “made matches”, but although the couple may meet only a few times before the actual wedding ceremony, at least they come of the same way of life. Do you really see yourself as the wife of a farmer; feeding the poultry and calves, making bread, and all the other jobs that have to be done?’

Kate’s eyes grew dreamy. ‘He says the lambs are in the fields just now, and it really does sound lovely, Margot. The house is thatched and whitewashed and set in green fields near a range of mountains.’

‘But you don’t love him,’ Margot pointed out.

‘Nor do you really love Kenneth Mi
l
lbanke, although you intend to marry him.’

For a moment Margot looked nonplussed. ‘But I respect him. And anyway, I’ve known him for years. There’s very little about Kenneth Millbanke’s character that will come as a surprise to me.’

‘Perhaps that’s what’s wrong between you and Kenneth,’ Kate said shrewdly. ‘Anyway, Margot, Owen has only suggested I
s
hould come on a sort of holiday. What possible harm can it do?’

Margot shook her head in sudden uncertainty. After all, as Kate had pointed out, what harm could result from a holiday in Ireland, and Owen Lawlor sounded gay and lighthearted, just the type of company that would suit her young cousin’s ebullient temperament.

She frowned thoughtfully as she returned the letter. ‘If you’re really keen on the idea you could give it a trial, but don’t look on it as anything more than a holiday, otherwise you may find yourself sadly disillusioned. Kenneth’s house may be drably suburban in your eyes, but at least we don’t have to trim oil lamps, and I’ve a feeling,’ she added cynically, ‘that after a short spell in the charming Owen Lawlor’s country cottage you’ll be glad enough to return and settle down.’

When she had gone, Kate once again reviewed her position:
she
had the deep conviction that she would be intensely unhappy under Kenneth’s roof. It was all very well for Margot to imagine that things would go smoothly if she co-operated, but Kenneth, she realised, although he made a good pretence at hiding it, disliked her intensely, and she recognised that it was because he suspected and resented her secret amusement at his almost ludicrous self-importance.

In spite of Margot’s objections she decided that if Owen Lawlor turned out to be at all like his letters she would marry him. She would be quite capable of creating a ‘warm domestic atmosphere’ even if she should find it impossible to love him.

The train swayed past green Irish fields and broad friendly streams, clustering hamlets and solitary thatched cottages: placid shorthorn cows patched with brown and white grazed in the brilliant green grass, accompanied by staggery long-legged calves.

After an uneventful boat journey Kate had travelled across Dublin city to Heuston Station from which the south-bound trains departed. She was alone in the compartment, except for Bedsocks, who had proved herself to be a remarkable good sailor and in spite of her unaccustomed surroundings was now dozing comfortably in her wicker basket. She gave the impression of being pleasantly surprised by the turn of events: unprotesting, she had been popped into an airy wicker carrier and had set off for Ireland and Ki
l
lmageary with her mistress.

Kate’s departure had, in the end, been rather hurried: in fact, with characteristic impulsiveness, she had set off on the very day Owen’s letter had arrived announcing that his aunt was now at Laragh. It would mean that her arrival would take him rather by surprise, but there would be no doubt about the warmth of the welcome awaiting her—he had made that plain in his last letter. She had scribbled a short hasty note telling him of her departure, but it was extremely unlikely this would reach him before she appeared in person.

It was soon after passing through acres of apparently limitless bog
l
and that the train drew up at a small station. Kate stood up, and poked her head through the window: no one evidently was disembarking, but as the train was about to depart, a young woman hurried on to the platform. She looked uncertainly at the closed carriage doors and hesitated, as though resigning herself to being left behind. It was obvious that action would have to be taken before the train eased out of the station and, typically, Kate immediately involved herself.

Flinging open the door of her carriage, she beckoned excitedly to the young woman, who ran towards her and jumped in, subsiding breathlessly on the opposite seat.

‘A near shave, was it not?’ she exclaimed. ‘If it had not been that I saw you semaphoring I should have had to wait for the next train, for I do not trust myself to Nicky Fitzpatrick’s driving.’

Without vouchsafing any further explanation the girl opened a dun-coloured vanity box and began exper
tl
y to make up her face.

Now that she had time to consider her companion
cl
osely, Kate noticed that she was extraordinarily pretty and that while she spoke English perfectly she did so in a stilted manner that made her sound ‘foreign’.

She seemed completely unaware of Kate’s interested scrutiny and when she had touched up her face to her satisfaction returned the tiny plastic bottles to their compartments and snapped shut the lid of her case. ‘I’m going shopping in Limerick,’ she observed at last. ‘One becomes so bored by the rural life, and Ballyfeeny is not an interesting place.’

She did not seem to fe
el
that there was any necessity to elaborate on this: it was as though, completely wrapped up in her own affairs, she found it incomprehensible that her listener should not be fully aware of what she was talking about.

‘The Fitzpatricks are the most important people in Ballyfeeny,’ she informed Kate when
she
revealed that the name was unknown to her. ‘They own the local woollen mills and are a very old family. They
c
an trace their ancestry back to Norman days.’ She sounded casual, but Kate noticed that the girl’s small perfect features had taken on a look of shrewdness.
‘
You are not Irish, are you?’ she asked.

Kate shook her head. ‘I’m from England. I’m here only for a—a short holiday,’ she said cautiously.

The girl smiled, showing tiny teeth as rounded and white as a baby’s. ‘That is how it is with me too. I am here what you call
au pair
to perfect my English. I like being with the Fitzpatricks: their mother is a lady of quality and the boys are amusing—especially Nicky—but one grows bored with the country at times. By the way, my name is Doretta Denzzani,’ she added, and waited with an air of interest for Kate to reciprocate.

Kate hesitated; She had an. uneasy feeling that by disclosing her name she might also divulge information she was loath to impart: she had an almost morbid fear that the girl opposite, so poised and exquisitely groomed, might break into derisive laughter should she guess the true reason for her journey to Ireland.

As Doretta raised arched eyebrows in polite enquiry, Kate swallowed and said quickly, ‘I—I’m Kate Norbert and I’ve come on a holiday to Tipperary. It’s my first visit to Ireland.’

It was at this point that Bedsocks awoke and gave a plaintive mew.

Doretta, who obviously until that moment had not noticed the basket, gave a startled glance in its direction. ‘What was that noise?’ she asked apprehensively.

‘It’s Bedsocks,’ Kate told her.

‘Bedsocks?’ Doretta echoed.

‘She’s my cat, and I brought her with me, otherwise she might pine,’ Kate explained with due seriousness.

‘
You mean you brought your cat with you from England?’ Doretta sounded incredulous. ‘I do not like animals much, although I have two poodles at home, but they’re only a responsibility and I should never, never take them with me on a journey.’

‘But Bedsocks isn’t an ordinary pet,’ Kate pursued. ‘She’s terribly affectionate and seems to know everything you’re saying.’

‘People say that sort of thing about animals. Personally, I don’t believe it,’ Doretta replied decisively.

The train had begun to slow down and Kate’s companion glanced through the window. ‘We are now at Killmageary,’ she announced, and looked up in surprise as Kate sprang to her feet in excitement.

‘Killmageary! But that’s my stop. This is where I get off.’ She reached up to the rack above the seat and pulled down her rather battered suitcase.

Doretta’s eyes widened as she glanced at the label. ‘Laragh, Killmageary,’ she repeated. ‘So you are going to stay with Owen Lawlor
?
’ She sounded shocked and incredulous, but Kate, engrossed with the difficulties of disembarking with her case and Bedsocks’s basket, had no time to interest herself in her companion’s reactions.

As
s
he stood on the platform while the train drew out, she had the vague impression that Doretta Denzzani was watching her from the carriage window, in her eyes a look of sharp suspicion.

Kate glanced around the station. A bed of golden-hearted narcissi tossed their china-white petals in the bracing spring air. The tiny ticket-office was deserted and the only sign of life was an old man with a jaunting-car in the station yard, who was regarding her small figure with dissatisfaction.

He had posted himself outside the station in the forlorn hope that an opulent passenger might alight from the Dublin train. But all that had emerged was the small figure with the shabby suitcase and lost air, not at all the kind of person who would consider it a privilege to pay handsomely for the novelty of riding on a genuine Irish side-car.

As Kate advanced towards him he had been on the point of turning his ancient horse’s head and setting out for home, as another train was not due for several hours. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as Kate gazed up at him and asked doubtfully, ‘I suppose Mr. Lawlor didn’t send you for me?’

‘Owen Lawlor?’ he replied in bewilderment.
‘
Now why should Mr. Owen do such a thing?’

‘I mean Owen Lawlor of Laragh,’ Kate told him hopefully.

‘There’s no need to tell me Owen Lawlor lives at Laragh,’ he snorted. ‘Hasn’t there been a Lawlor at Laragh for
the
last two hundred years? Why, I worked for old Terence Lawlor when I was no more than a gossoon, and a nicer-spoken gentleman you wouldn’t find in the whole length and breadth of County Tipperary.’ The old man paused and gazed out glumly between the horse’s dusty ears. ‘Though I can’t say the same for the present one! He has great notions of himself, has Master Owen, and can be mighty haughty when he has a mind to.’