The Made Marriage Page 2

  But Kate, as she climbed the narrow twisting stairs that led up to the two minute bedrooms under the eaves, was filled with desolation. Margot might be perfectly satisfied with her arrangements, but she herself knew that there could be no future for her in the red brick villa that was to be her cousin’s new home. It would not be long before Kenneth’s antagonism came fully into the open and made life completely unendurable. No, to become one of the Millbanke household was out of the question, yet where was she to go? What was she to do?

  Later that night a storm sprang up, lashing the diamond-paned windows and making the old timbered rooms creak like a ship at sea Kate woke up with a start as the casement window in her room slashed open letting in a spray of rain. She got out of bed and crossing the floor gazed out for a moment before refastening the window. Below her the rainswept street was deserted. The sign of the Four-inHand groaned and squeaked as it swung on its ironwork stanchion. The narrow street and old coaching house must have looked very similar in days gone by when carriages rattled into its courtyard. It was a scene familiar to her since she had first come to stay with her cousin, and now it came home to her with devastating clarity that soon her days at The Trinket Box would be but a memory.

  She fastened the window with a little shiver that was only partly due to the chill air and slipped into her dressing-gown. She would go down to the living-room and make herself coffee. It might help to straighten out her jumbled thoughts and banish the gloom that had settled or. her usually ebullient spirits.

  Quietly she tiptoed past Margot’s room, trying to avoid the squeaking board. When Kate reached the sitting-room Bedsocks awoke from her slumbers on the rag rug with a little murmur of pleasure at her mistress’s appearance and rubbed her head affectionately against her leg.

  It was while she was waiting for the coffee pot to boil that Kate noticed a little guiltily that the piece of newspaper in which the exiled Irishman had wrapped his heirloom had been carefully stowed in the wastepaper basket. Margot, as usual tidy and methodical in her habits, must have removed it from the counter. From the heading Kate could see it was an Irish newspaper and a little curiously she picked it up. It mentioned places and events that to her ears sounded strange and remote and even faintly incredible: farmer from Ballinahasset arrested for making poteen in his outhouse; a tinker whose donkey was found wandering in Coolnagreana: a hurling match was announced at Killmacoo. With growing interest she passed to a page of advertisements: to let, grazing, fifty acres of grass limed and slagged: for sale, eight hundred bales of barley straw: wanted, day-old chicks. Her eyes strayed to a column headed ‘Matrimonial’. Underneath she read, ‘Lonely farmer seeks bride. Applicant need not be pretty, witty, or even possess dowry, but good-nature essential and ability to establish warm domestic atmosphere. Please enclose recent photograph with first letter.’

  Still holding the paper, Kate sank into an armchair and once more scanned the words, ‘warm domestic atmosphere’. They had a kind of homely poetry. Chin in hand, she stared into the heart of the dying embers and tried to visualise the kind of man who had composed the advertisement. Obviously he was living up to the Irish reputation for whimsicality, yet home-loving and unavaricious. In spite of his being Irish she pictured him as sandy-haired with knobby good-natured features.

  She was aware that she herself was no beauty. The photographs Margot had taken of her outside the shop a few months previously had made that fact only too clear. Not of course that she would ever consider answering such an advertisement! It was not by this method that she wished to obtain a husband.

  She had always imagined that one day the bell above the door of The Trinket Box would ring and, looking up, she would find herself staring into the eyes of a young and handsome man who would, of course, fall instantly in love with her. It wouldn’t really matter a lot if he weren’t rich as long as they were very much in love. She realised however that it was extremely unlikely her dream would materialise. Margot, after all, had the proper outlook and no doubt, in the long run, she would find a lasting contentment to recompense her for the loss of the ecstatic happiness which she had been denied.

  With a sigh Kate squeezed the sheet of paper into a tight ball and tossed it towards the fire: her aim, however, was not good and it rolled back on to the hearth where Bedsocks pounced on it with glee. As Kate bent and gently disentangled the cat’s sharp claws an idea smote her: after all, this Irishman and herself were two lonely people. Perhaps his letters, if he should reply, would help to make endurable the dreary days ahead as Margot and herself wound up the affairs of The Trinket Box and their little world came to an end.

  Carefully she smoothed out the page and folding it placed it in her dressing-gown pocket. They need go no further than exchanging letters: it was not, she told herself firmly, that she would be foolish enough to play with fire.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WITH a little thud a small pile of letters popped through the letterbox and Margot, watching her young cousin closely, saw with renewed misgiving how quickly she laid down the feather duster with which she had been dreamily flicking the window display and, picking up the bundle, hastily extracted an envelope and almost covertly slid it into her pocket. Frowning, Margot returned to her task of making out tiny tickets for the coming sale.

  It had been Kenneth who had suggested that the best and quickest way to dispose of the stock was to mark it down drastically. The practical side that was strong in Margot recognised that in this Kenneth was showing business acumen, yet it was with a sense of sadness that she went about her task. It was a sort of betrayal to part with her treasures at such miserable prices.

  Kate, too, when she had first heard of the coming sale, had been vociferous in her indignation and had been strongly resentful when her favourite, a carved ivory mandarin, had suffered the indignity of having a sales ticket tucked behind his fan. Lately, however, Kate’s attitude had changed: it was as though she had lost all interest in the fate of The Trinket Box and was dreamily absorbed in a world of her own.

  At first Margot had not taken any particular notice of her cousin’s abstraction. Kate, naturally talkative and extrovert, could also be irritatingly vague, but at the same time it was impossible not to notice the lack of involvement she was displaying in their future. Even the interest she had originally shown in helping to choose materials and furnishings for the home Margot would share with Kenneth had evaporated and she listened with only half an ear to discussions of the pros and cons of the various samples of carpeting and wallpaper which were now spread out over every available piece of space in the small sitting-room.

  Gradually it had become impossible to ignore the interest Kate now took in the arrival of the post and her eager scanning of the envelopes before laying them on the counter. It was her cousin’s uncharacteristic air of secrecy that troubled Margot most and it was with dismay she now saw Kate, after a few moments more of dilatory dusting, quickly leave the shop and run upstairs.

  Unaware that she had been observed, Kate, her heart thumping with excitement, crossed to her bedside table and, taking the paper-knife fashioned as a miniature Toledo sword that Margot had presented to her on her last birthday, carefully slit the envelope, extracted its contents, then sat down on the edge of her bed and with trembling fingers unfolded the pale green sheets that were now so familiar.

  At the beginning Owen had made lighthearted fun of his choice of writing material: ‘It’s green, because I’m a broth of an Irish boy’, he had written in his broad slanting script. But that had been in the early days soon after she had sent that first tentative letter and enclosed, with embarrassment, the snapshot Margot had taken of her. It had been touch-and-go whether she would get to the stage of posting it and for days had carried it around in her handbag feeling progressively more foolish before almost feverishly pushing it into the postbox. Was it really she, Kate Norbert, who was actually answering an advertisement in a matrimonial column inserted by an unknown Irish farmer, probably living in the centre of so
me almost impassable bog?—yet in spite of the fact that she should be heartily ashamed of herself she could not help feeling excitement and anticipation every time the postman arrived.

  As the days passed and there had been no reply she had felt rather relieved that her foolishness could be forgotten. Then when that first letter had arrived, with her name broadly scrawled on the green envelope, she had opened it reluctantly, almost fearful of its contents, but as her eyes had scanned the slanting strokes gradually her sense of apprehension had been dispersed, for he had assured her that, flippant as his advertisement had sounded, he was genuinely seeking a bride. He had gone on to describe his farm, a smallholding known as Laragh at a place called Killmageary in County Tipperary near the border with County Limerick close to the Galtee Mountains; the simple thatched cottage with its thick whitewashed mortared walls which were warm and snug in winter, when the wind swept down from the mountains. Then, with some of the whimsicality he had displayed in the advertisement, he had painted a picture of his daily life, ploughing, harrowing and sowing potatoes, barley and wheat: the golden summers when all the neighbours joined in and helped bring in the harvest: the children who brought tea and soda-bread to the workers as they rested in the hedgerows and the Irish reels and dances in the kitchen when the day’s work was done.

  The life he had described had been so completely different from anything she had experienced that Kate had found herself eager to hear more and in spite of her resolution not to reply had been unable to resist writing once again to the unknown Irishman. Other letters had followed and gradually she had found herself more and more involved in the life of a man hundreds of miles distant.

  Now, as Kate sat on the side of her bed, her eyes eagerly devoured the contents of Owen Lawlor’s latest letter: ‘It is lambing time here in Killmageary and at present I have a small orphan lamb wrapped in red flannel in front of the fire: it has a funny, friendly little face—a bit like your own, and I’ve decided to call it Kate. Do you mind very much? But it gives me an opportunity to talk to it at night when .the turf fire sinks to a red glow and there’s no one around for miles. I tell it all the things I would tell you: for instance, how much I long to see you in person, to see you cunning towards me across the fields with that gay shy smile and that thick hair of yours blowing in the breeze. By the way, you haven’t yet told me what colour it is. However, perhaps that is as well because it gives me the excuse to pause in the daily round of tasks to consider this question seriously. Is there any possibility that you could come for a visit so that I could see it for myself? My Aunt Florrie is due at Laragh next month and would serve as a chaperon, if you decided—’

  There was a knock at her bedroom door. Guiltily Kate pushed the letter under her pillow as Margot entered. It was surprising to see her self-contained cousin looking almost embarrassed, and Kate wondered uneasily if Margot had guessed her secret. With characteristic directness Margot plunged into the subject of her visit. ‘It seems to me, Kate, that you’re unhappy about the arrangements we’ve made. I mean, about living with us when Kenneth and I get married.’

  As Kate sat silent, unable to repudiate enthusiastically any such suggestion, Margot went on quickly, ‘I do think it would be only sensible to try things out before you make up your mind that you won’t be happy with us. After all, each of us will have a few adjustments to make.’ She hesitated and looked appealingly at her cousin, and Kate realised with a pang that Margot was distressed at her lack of enthusiasm for their future life together. She would tell Margot of her correspondence with Owen Lawlor, she decided suddenly. It would help to explain her abstraction and lack of co-operation.

  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 who 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 sort 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 Millbanke, 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 should 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 yours
elf 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 Killmageary with her mistress.