‘What he would least like to hear.’ Again the slight hint of movement at the corners of Lady Ardmore’s lips. ‘What do you think that might be?’

  ‘I’m better at charades than riddles, your ladyship,’ said Theresa, barely maintaining her pretence of humouring her. Her cheeks were burning as she formed a clear presentiment of what Lady Ardmore meant. ‘I don’t think,’ she added caustically, ‘that he’s ever likely to think that of me.’

  ‘He is not unaware of his brother’s attractiveness to the sex, Mrs Barr. I fail to see why such a lie would be so very terrible. You could claim to be fleeing from an impulse which would otherwise …’ She paused and raised her ringed hands in an ambiguous gesture, suggesting that Theresa’s profession should leave her well versed in the sort of lines to be written. ‘No blame need attach to Lord Ardmore if you claim all the odium for yourself.’

  With a twinge of fear Theresa rose and glanced back apprehensively at Lady Ardmore. Impossible that she could suspect anything. Impossible; yet why that unfathomable assurance in her eyes? As Theresa moved towards the door, Lady Ardmore murmured:

  ‘Another indisposition, Mrs Barr?’ she leant forward in her chair with a suddenly contrite expression. ‘Please … you must forgive me. I never dreamed that I could shock a woman whose experience of life’s vicissitudes must have …’ She paused and looked rapidly at Theresa, as if frightened that she was still offending her. ‘You see what an innocent my lonely life has made me; always thinking people worse or better than they are, not knowing whether directness will seem indelicate, or a desire to help unpardonable interference. And now I’ve made an enemy of the one person I could least afford to offend …’ She broke off and got up awkwardly, dropping her cane, and moving hesitantly towards Theresa with outstretched hands. ‘Don’t make him hate me … please don’t do that. I ask nothing else.’ Her anxiety was so real in appearance that Theresa could hardly believe that moments before, the same face had expressed sly mockery and domineering confidence.

  ‘I shan’t say anything,’ she said slowly, hearing her own voice with surprise; reassured by its normality. The fear she had felt seemed unreal now, as if she had been tricked by a skilful illusionist. All along she had had the power and had failed to see it. Or was this merely what she was intended to believe?

  *

  Looking at his brother’s pale chiselled face in the lamp-lit dining room across the dead sea surface of mahogany between them, Clinton tried to shake off the oppressive no-man’s-land of consciousness which had engulfed him ever since he had left the stables. His brother’s presence made him feel both guilt and anger. How could he be so complacent and spineless as to let the woman play with him? To save him from such obvious self-delusion would almost be a kindness. Yet neither flippancy nor false detachment, removed Clinton’s itch of shame.

  When Esmond began to talk about the sale of Markenfield, Clinton welcomed the chance it offered him to escape his present dilemma and vent his resentment in another form. Yet as soon as Esmond had outlined the terms offered by the mortgagees, there was no pretence about Clinton’s involvement.

  ‘Five thousand pounds … only that?’ he cried, bringing down a clenched fist on the table, making the glasses tinkle and ring. Ignoring the violence of this gesture, Esmond fingered his watch-chain and then picked up a cigar cutter.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting the balance payable on completion of the sale?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘I can’t complete for three years, until the end of the lease. What the hell do I do in the meantime?’

  Esmond shrugged his shoulders and chose a cigar from the box beside the decanter in front of him.

  ‘Make the best of the five thousand. Frankly since the mortgagees won’t press you to redeem any of the mortgages before completion, I think they’re being remarkably helpful offering this sort of deposit so far in advance of gaining possession.’ Cutting the end from his cigar, Esmond leant forward and lit it from the nearest candlebrum. Puffing slowly to make sure it burned evenly, he looked entirely unconcerned. ‘I have to admit,’ he went on, ‘being rather puzzled by your surprise. The situation was perfectly clear before you turned down Miss Lucas.’

  ‘We never discussed selling Markenfield then. Of course I thought I’d get more on agreeing a sale.’

  ‘I hope you’re not blaming me for not warning you.’

  ‘Is that all you’re worried about?’ shouted Clinton. ‘The only point in selling the place is to give me enough money to survive on till the trust’s wound up. I need three years. That money won’t even cover mortgage interest for half that time. With my other expenses, the result’s clear as day. I’ll have to pledge every penny of my trust money to get by. Then where will I be in three years?’

  Esmond watched the ascending coils of his cigar smoke and frowned.

  ‘How large a deposit did you think you’d get?’

  ‘Ten thousand at least.’

  Esmond poured himself more port and sighed.

  ‘I’m very sorry. Of course you could talk to the mortgagees yourself but I can’t see anything coming of it.’ He paused and sucked thoughtfully at his cigar. ‘I know the idea won’t appeal to you, but if you went cap in hand to your uncle, he might be prepared to help.’

  ‘We tried hard enough there when father died and much good did it do us. My only long-term hope of solvency is inheriting from him. Do you think I’d jeopardize that to get through a few years? Better the debtors’ prison than that.’

  ‘I have a feeling,’ murmured Esmond, ‘that Uncle Richard would hardly appreciate his heir …’

  ‘So help me, Esmond,’ burst out Clinton, jumping to his feet, ‘if you don’t make me a loan secured against the final balance on Markenfield, I’ll wring every last farthing of arrears owing on this estate, and no power on earth can stop me.’

  ‘A Fenian bullet might when you start evicting.’

  Clinton sat down on the edge of the table and looked down at his brother with a mocking smile.

  ‘Shall I go to mother now, and tell her what I intend to do and why? Explain that I’m forced to make her life a misery because her sweet Esmond won’t show me the same favour he’d grant to any mangy manufacturer with a wallet of dog-eared bills?’

  Flicking some ash from the silk lapel of his evening coat, Esmond looked at him through half-closed eyes.

  ‘I’d never expected blackmail from you, Clinton.’

  ‘Surprises give life much of its relish.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ murmured Esmond, with a smile which Clinton did not like. ‘Apart from those threats of yours, can you think of a single reason why I should be willing to help you?’

  Clinton looked at him candidly.

  ‘Because you enjoy having a financial hold over me.’

  ‘I think you flatter yourself,’ Esmond remarked coolly.

  ‘Not at all. In your place I’d enjoy it too. I’d find it wonderfully satisfying to toss largesse to someone who began life with most of the advantages I thought should have belonged to me.’

  ‘Like throwing twigs to a drowning man?’ asked Esmond, with strait-faced interest. Clinton smiled wryly.

  ‘I’d hoped for something a little larger. I’m sure you’d agree, there’s no more fun to be had from a man’s struggles when he’s gone down for the last time.’

  Esmond folded his arms and regarded his brother with the patient sufferance of a disappointed schoolmaster.

  ‘I intend to help you, Clinton … in spite of your insults. Not because I’ve the smallest desire to hold you under any obligation. You made your point very clearly this-afternoon and I don’t mean to let you have any excuse for distressing mother like that again. And frankly, as you’re well aware, it wouldn’t help my reputation in the city if you found your way into the Bankruptcy Commissioner’s Court.’

  ‘May I ask what I can expect?’

  ‘Indeed you may.’ Esmond inclined his head and then looked up abruptly. ‘Nothing … unless your expenditure remains at last year’s level for the next six months. If it does, I’ll accommodate you when the deposit’s exhausted. Perhaps you’d like this in writing?’

  ‘Your word will do very well, Esmond.’

  ‘You have it,’ replied Esmond curtly, leaning across the table to take his brother’s hand.

  *

  Leaving the room, Clinton realised very clearly the price he would now have to pay for any indiscretion on Theresa’s part. One thing was certain anyway—that little escapade would go no further. A kiss, he thought bitterly; only the touch of a woman’s lips. Enough perhaps to turn an adolescent’s head but hardly a cause for much repining to a man of the world. But self-mockery did not salve his pride, or the stinging resentment he felt. The wisest course would be to leave without another word to her. A coward’s exit: leaving her to think what she chose. He imagined himself penning a note begging her to forgive his ungentlemanly ‘insult’, and to forget an incident he now deplored. To hell with that too. She deserved an honest explanation and would get one.

  Alone in the dining room Esmond imagined Clinton’s amazement were he ever to guess the real reason why he was being forced to wait six months for a loan. The plain answer was that before then Esmond did not expect to have any disposable money. In recent months Esmond’s difficulties with the Greek & Oriental Navigation Company had led him to investigate and reject a number of ways of breaking the trust. Then a sudden worsening in the shipping line’s position had unexpectedly thrown up a straightforward solution.

  Before ever contemplating trust breaking, Esmond had thought of advising the trustees to buy Greek & Oriental stock on Clinton’s behalf. But at the time he had been doubtful whether such cautious men would agree to make a very large investment in a single company. Nothing short of £20,000 would make any appreciable difference to the shipping line’s depleted reserves.

  A few days before coming to Ireland, Esmond had at last accepted that the line’s creditors would force the company to liquidate unless he publicly declared his support. Although understandably reluctant to guarantee the line’s credit, Esmond had seen that this inescapable eventuality would at least give the trustees unlimited confidence in the Greek & Oriental. When they knew that his discount house was standing surety for the company, Esmond was certain that the trustees would finally overcome their prejudice against heavy investment in a single stock, and would act on his advice to convert the greater part of Clinton’s capital into Greek & Oriental shares. The company’s problems would continue but the purchase would provide two or three months invaluable respite.

  At the end of a harrowing day, Esmond found it satisfying to reflect that when Clinton got his loan, his capital would have been largely responsible for his benefactor’s ability to lend to him. If Clinton left Kilkreen feeling that he had achieved what he had set out to, Esmond had no intention of denying him that pleasant delusion.

  10

  The following morning, wanting only to be done with his final interview with Theresa, Clinton was disappointed not to see her at breakfast. But he was comforted by the knowledge that Esmond and his mother would later be lunching at neighbouring Killaloe Park.

  Not really expecting to find Theresa alone yet, he looked into the morning room. Esmond and his mother were there. Unable to retreat quickly enough, Clinton was obliged to obey his mother’s beckoning hand.

  ‘We were talking about marriage,’ she announced firmly, as if to anticipate any argument. Clinton nodded agreeably.

  ‘The one I didn’t make?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Lady Ardmore eyed the door to see that it was closed. ‘I was thinking about Esmond.’

  ‘It’s not a subject I care to discuss with Clinton,’ remarked Esmond, shifting in his chair.

  ‘I second that,’ said Clinton, moving to the window and looking out at the heavy rain clouds. A few sparrows with puffed out feathers were hopping on the wet terrace steps. He heard his mother say calmly:

  ‘In some matters Clinton’s views are worth listening to.’

  Esmond cast his eyes upward and turned to Clinton.

  ‘In spite of her experiences with father, our dear mother still seems to believe that women need horsewhipping to make them amenable.’

  ‘They respect firmness.’ Lady Ardmore rapped on the floor with her cane. ‘Do stop staring out of the window, Clinton.’ He faced her with reluctance. ‘Well, would you think much of your chances with a woman who thought she could twist you round her little finger?’

  ‘That would depend on whether she was right.’

  ‘Quite true,’ said Esmond. ‘The French have a saying: on recule pour mieux sauter.’

  ‘Trust the French to be such fools,’ snorted his mother. ‘Start reculing and you may not be able to stop; that’s my saying.’ She looked to Clinton for approval but he merely shrugged his shoulders. Esmond looked at him gratefully.

  ‘It’s no good, mother. Clinton’s not a model of decisiveness either. Take the way he dithered over the Lucas girl.’

  ‘Stuff,’ said Lady Ardmore. ‘The girl did the dithering there … letting him blow hot and cold instead of telling him to clear off unless.’ She sniffed loudly and sat back more comfortably in her chair. ‘Anyway I’ve just been reading about a far more resourceful lady. She married her footman, got bored with him and sent him packing. A lesson to the Miss Lucases of this world.’

  ‘But how much did she have to settle on the footman?’ asked Esmond, plainly relieved by the change of subject.

  ‘Not a farthing. That’s the whole point. Did either of you know it’s against the law here for a Catholic priest to marry a couple if one of them’s a Protestant?’ Esmond shook his head. ‘I’m not surprised you don’t. There can’t be more than a handful of priests in the country who’d sanction a mixed marriage, whatever the law might say.’

  ‘But if she was a Protestant,’ asked Esmond, ‘how did she get a priest to do the necessary?’

  ‘How do you think? By saying she was a Catholic, of course.’

  ‘Did the footman sue when she turned him out?’

  ‘Course he did. But when she told the court she’d been a Protestant all along, the judge ruled against the marriage.’

  ‘Must have been in the dark ages,’ laughed Esmond.

  ‘Only twenty years ago.’ She turned to Clinton, who had taken no apparent interest in what had been said. ‘Perhaps you can tell us something more amusing, Clinton?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Lady Ardmore smiled reflectively.

  ‘What about the time Sir John Markham found you in his wife’s room?’

  ‘Pure hearsay.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell him you’d come to investigate a smell of burning?’

  ‘I may have done.’

  ‘I heard you left the following day.’

  Clinton looked back from the doorway.

  ‘I’d meant to. Just as I mean to leave here tomorrow … or maybe sooner. All good things come to an end.’

  He bowed respectfully to her and left the room.

  *

  Shortly after eleven o’clock with his mother and Esmond safely on their way to Killaloe, Clinton sent a maid to tell Miss Simmonds that Lord Ardmore wished to see her in the Cedar Drawing Room.

  As Theresa came in, he noticed with a familiar sinking of the heart that even in the brief interval since he had last seen her, she seemed changed to him. A difference in the light, he told himself without conviction, knowing the sensation too well to be deceived. Wasn’t it always like this? The nervous comparison of an ideal image with a real face? Her look was lightly challenging; the initiative all his. Moments before, he had known quite clearly what he would say, but already simply by her presence the context had shifted.

  ‘Because I leave tomorrow,’ he began awkwardly, ‘I had to see you to say how much I regret …’

  ‘What do you regret?’ she asked scarcely above a whisper.

  ‘My weakness.’

  ‘For encouraging a poor innocent and then overwhelming her with passion? How I struggled to save my virtue.’

  ‘Most women’s virtue comes down to cowardice or self-interest in the end.’

  ‘A consoling thought for all rejected men,’ she replied unsmiling.

  ‘It’s easy to make fun of a man who’s trying to be serious. What you choose to see as cynicism I intended as a compliment.’

  She shivered slightly and hugged her astrakhan mantle more tightly round her.

  ‘Your mother should warn her guests to bring a sack of coal with them.’ She smiled. ‘I never want to see or smell another peat fire again. Do they have coal fires at your barracks?’

  He moved towards her, his handsome face drawn and miserable.

  ‘Was it so little to you?’ he murmured. ‘Why are you acting with me?’

  ‘The best performances are often given to an audience of one.’

  ‘Tell me why you’re so angry?’

  She tossed back her hair and looked at him with sadness devoid of all pretence.

  ‘Because I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She walked across to the fireplace and picked up a poker which she tucked under her arm like a cutting-whip; then leaning back against the mantelpiece like some languid youth, she looked at him with a parody of male complacency.

  ‘Great personal respect … in any other circumstances goes without saying … but family considerations … heat of the moment don’t you know, acted like a perfect bloody fool … damned attractive woman, no denying it; pretty as a picture … no intention of raising false hopes … but no hard feelings, eh? Better cut now instead of hurting anybody later. Damn near breaks my heart … or what’s left of it. Never forget you … treasured memory.’ She broke off and dropped the poker on the carpet, resuming not in her stage parody of a silly-ass cavalry officer, but in her ordinary voice. ‘Then exit both in opposite directions, with consciences as clear as summer skies.’

  After a long silence he said stiffly:

  ‘I’m afraid I was vain enough to think that you cared a little for me.’