Eve left the sign on the front door. The last thing she wanted was the likes of Mary McGuane pushing her way in. She could not face the chit-chat of any customers today and particularly the likes of Mary “Tell the World” McGuane.
Settling in the sitting room, Eve reached for the button box. Prising open the lid, she knew the buttons she was looking for: two white pearls left over from when she made her wedding dress. Digging her hands into the box, she shoved the buttons aside impatiently, letting them fall over her hands until she spied the pearl buttons. They were her most treasured buttons at one time, but now she no longer wanted to keep them. How many times had she held them, transported back to the wedding day, when he had danced her across the polished wooden floor of a London hotel as almost one hundred guests looked on.
Pressing the lid back on the box, she snatched the pearl buttons tight. Walking across to the window, she opened it enough so she could throw them out, letting them drop down on the rose bushes to the wet earth below.
There was a new determination in Eve. Having previously baulked at cutting up her wedding dress for the Ludlow memory quilt, she pulled her shears from the drawer. With a whip of her shoulders, she trudged upstairs to where the wedding dress was hanging at the back of the wardrobe, wrapped in an old sheet. She had made it herself from a McCall pattern. Long panels in a soft crepe, it was a snug fit with generous sleeves pulled into a lace cuff, the prim round collar trimmed in lace. The pearl buttons in a row down the bodice glinted in the light; many at the wedding had said it matched the happy sparkle in her eyes. In off-white, the dress skimmed her lovely figure, kicking out in pleats at her knees as she walked, a cape of white lace and a train adding a beautiful flow to the outfit. She loved the dress, remembering she had carried a simple posy of roses to match the rose she had clipped to one side of her head.
Tears streamed down Eve’s face as she ran her hands along the crepe, thinking of the way Arnold held her, waltzing her across that floor, calling out to his friends, everybody laughing. Had he ever loved her? She hoped so. Otherwise their whole union was a sham, and she did not want to believe that.
She had loved him for a long time, blaming herself when he became cold and distant after James passed away. She could forgive him for buckling under his bank debts, but to have a second family and not allow his son into his life: how could she ever forgive that?
Draping the dress over her arm, she headed downstairs and laid it carefully on the sitting room couch. So many memories were contained in those crepe folds: the day she picked the pattern and yards of soft crepe. She had spent almost a whole month’s wages on it all and the pearl buttons for the bodice, with three on each sleeve, where she had gathered the fabric with a loose machine stitch, so when she raised her hand for Arnold to place the wedding ring on her finger, the buttons glistened in the light. The heavy-duty train, crepe overlaid with Irish lace from her aunt’s friends in Cork, was almost a work of art.
Taking her shears, she sliced from the widest point to the waist, where the train was attached with two buttons and loops. The sleeves next: she nicked the cuffs and pulled along the grain, the fabric shrieking as loud as the pain in her heart. Gripping the shears tight, she cut in a straight line from the bottom of the dress through the waistline and bodice to finish at the neck. Flattening out the fabric, out of habit she cut two squares, in case she ever wanted to put the crepe into a patchwork quilt. The rest of the mangled dress she balled up into a bundle, ramming it into the bin.
Not wanting to think how Arnold had flitted from one life to the other, she got her coat. Stopping at the mirror in the hall, she rubbed a little foundation into her face and dabbed on some pink lipstick in an effort to brighten herself up. Afraid she might lose the courage to walk up the street, she stepped quickly out the front door, banging it behind her in her hurry.
It was still early in the morning, so there were few out and about. The butcher looked at her oddly before dipping his head as she came closer, so she did not have to get drawn into a conversation.
Michael Conway’s shop was open: there was a delivery of milk not yet taken in and a stack of newspapers still where they had landed when the van slowed down, so they could be thrown from the side door.
Faltering in her resolve, she thought he might not be there. What would she do then?
Her heart skipped when, as she got closer, she saw him in the doorway, bending down to collect the milk and bring it into the shop. He disappeared from view for a few moments and she knew he was placing the milk in the fridge by the door. Her heart thumping, she saw him reappear to pick up the stack of newspapers with his two hands. When he saw Eve, he stopped.
Not sure what to do, Michael did nothing.
She took him in: his face grey, pale and tired-looking, his clothes creased, the pile of newspapers heavy in his hands so that she worried he might keel over. A fear peppered through Eve they wouldn’t be able to salvage anything, that she had pushed him too far. When he ducked back into the shop, she wondered whether to turn away.
The postman, about to cross over the street, shoved a letter into her hand, telling her to give it to Michael. She did not let on her discomfort and made her way inside the shop.
Michael, wavering at the counter, pushing newspapers about, saw her come in. He kept his head down, not knowing what to do. He took her in as she fumbled with her handbag. Her face was blotched from crying. She had put on lipstick, but this highlighted the pallor, he thought, the strain around her eyes, the frown lines embedded across her forehead.
“Michael, we need to talk.”
“Eve, you don’t look well.”
“Can you get Richie up to the shop?”
“He is in Dublin today. Maybe Derek can keep an eye. Let me find out.”
She stood fiddling with the corner of a magazine on a shelf as she watched him walk across to the butcher’s.
When he came back, he stood wringing his hands.
“He has a lad in on work experience: he is trustworthy and Derek will send him over. I will just have to show him how to use my till. Do you want to wait in the back?”
She nodded and he showed her into the small kitchen, where she sat listening to him patiently coach the teenager on the cash till.
When, after ten minutes, Michael came into the kitchen, he looked nervous.
“We might be better getting out of here. Will we go for a drive?” he said.
She stood up and followed him to the car, her head down in case anybody spotted something was wrong.
“Is there anywhere you want to go?” he asked quietly.
“Could we go to Ludlow, walk around the lake? Connie won’t mind.”
He turned the car, gliding down the hill, turning in at the gates of Ludlow Hall.
“I will park at the hazel trees,” he said.
She did not answer, but he got out of the car and opened the passenger door for her.
They started to walk across the grass, their footprints embedded in the sodden ground.
“You have no shoes for this type of terrain. Are you sure you want to continue?” Michael asked.
“Ludlow is the right place to be, for what I have to say.”
Not another word was uttered between the two as they walked side by side, sometimes leaning close to each other, each afraid of what was to come.
Crossing in front of the house, they quickened their step, both anxious not to be spotted slipping into the yew walk. Michael, walking two steps ahead, headed for the bench he had put in place almost twenty years before, so she could sit and enjoy the cherry blossom and rhododendron in bloom under the yew trees’ arc of shelter. Brushing the bench lightly with his hand to scrape off any loose dirt, along with the brown soupy petals of faded wilted blooms, he motioned to Eve to sit.
“We can talk, if you feel up to it,” he said gently.
She sat down and he joined her at the other end of the bench, waiting for her to speak. They listened to the new sounds of Ludlow Hall: men beginning a day at work kitting out the barn, shuffling, coughing, the hammering and pounding of nails, the odd shout, loud music in the air.
“I need to know, Eve, where we are at.”
She did not answer immediately, but reached out and took his hand.
“I love you.”
She spoke so gently he could barely hear her.
He turned to her, his face puckered in tears.
“There is a ‘but’, isn’t there?”
“I wronged you, I jumped to a conclusion about you, I blamed you, I never gave you a chance to explain. I am sorry.”
“Eve, I know it hurts, but I only had suspicions, the rumours of a small town, the habits of the father to go on. I could not risk making you so unhappy when I had no hard facts. All I could do was watch out for you. I have tried my best to do that.”
“Do you think Arnold loved me, ever?”
“I am sure he did.”
Michael stood up, plodding across the soft, damp ground.
“There is something else I have to tell you, Eve. I am not sure how you are going to take it.”
She stiffened, afraid of what he was going to say.
“Is this something I need to know, Michael? There has been so much heartbreak.”
She looked old, he thought, shivering even though she was wearing her big coat, tears beginning to inch down her face.
“You are the last person on this earth I want to hurt, but I don’t want any more secrets between us. I have to tell you this: it is for you to decide what you want to do with it.”
Pain flared through her; she steeled herself for his words. He cleared his throat before continuing.
“Arnold was my half-brother. I don’t know if he knew. I never knew it, until my mother died.”
He said it in such a rush that the words came jumbling out, so she had to decipher and consider them.
“I am trying to tell you something, but I am doing it so badly.”
He stopped, shaking his head. Eve put her hands up to her ears.
“Don’t be so stupid, you are talking silly words.”
Michael gently removed her hands from her ears. When he spoke again, it was quietly but firmly.
“How do you think we have that shop in the centre of town? Edward moved my mother and I here from Cork when I was just a baby. We were near him, and it was easy to tell everybody the story of a widow left with a baby. I never knew about Edward Brannigan being my father until my mother died. In her will, she also requested that I never let on to Arnold. We never spoke about it, but I always thought Arnold knew something, because I was about the only person from the town he trusted.”
“Is that why you love Ludlow so much?”
“I have always loved Ludlow, even when I did not know about Edward.”
“You had a right to it, just like Arnold.”
“Edward left us well provided for; I have no complaints. I love Ludlow Hall, Eve. If I could have bought the place, I would, but that was not to be.”
“How can you not be bitter that Arnold ran it into the ground? Ed Carter was his son and all he wanted to do was destroy Ludlow Hall.”
“Connie’s husband? The poor man.”
“His American mother was well provided for. I have only just found out. Arnold would have nothing to do with his son.”
“Eve, all I ever wanted growing up was a father. If I am to be bitter about anything, let it be that. Similar to Ed Carter’s case, my mother gave up my right to that for a monthly stipend. The Brannigan men knew how to buy silence.”
“Arnold would have liked a brother.”
“He had one, he just didn’t realise it.”
They sat, the breeze ruffling his hair, curling around her ankles, making her shift her feet, because she was cold. A dog ran past, snuffling the ground. They both looked for the owner, but she was far away, crossing the far paddocks, not caring the dog was running loose through the gardens.
“Connie is right: some people have no respect at all,” Eve said.
“Why did you give me back the ring, Eve?” The question was asked so gently, but the force of the anguish behind it was powerful.
She followed the dog with her eyes as it scooted across the fields to its owner.
“I felt I was not good enough for you. What am I now? Only a stupid woman who has been duped by her husband.” She got up, stamping her feet to get warm. “I allowed myself to be duped. I loved Ludlow Hall so much, I was blind to everything else.” She stood directly in front of him. “Michael, at this minute I don’t care about anything. I love you. I may not deserve you, but I love you.”
He stood in front of her.
“I only want you, Eve. I would live in a makeshift house with a tin roof, if I was with you.”
She punched him playfully. “No you wouldn’t, you would use your two hands to make it into a mansion. That is the sort of man you are, Michael.”
He laughed, enveloping her in a tight hug, kissing the top of her head. “I don’t want to spend another day without you at my side, Eve.” He pulled out the jeweller’s box.
“Put it on my finger, Michael, it can be the engagement and wedding ring. We don’t need to stand in front of anyone to declare our love.”
He did as she bid, sliding the ring on the second finger of her left hand.
“Hetty will be disappointed to be deprived of a day out.” She laughed.
“There will be talk.”
“Silly talk in this day and age. What do I care?” She corrected herself. “What do we care?”
He laughed and they walked on, their arms wrapped around each other, along the yew walk and across the front paddock to the car. As they passed Ludlow Hall, Eve snuggled closer to Michael.
“Time enough to tell Connie, I think,” she said.
Date: May 18, 2013
Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY
Ludlow ladies,
We won all three prizes:
First Prize: Molly’s quilt
Second Prize: Ludlow Hall quilt
Third Prize: Rosdaniel quilt
As you all know, Hetty withdrew her entry before the competition.
There is a heck of a lot for Davoren to put in his pipe and smoke.
Seriously, I would at this stage like to extend my commiserations and those of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society to Jack Davoren, who came in fourth and runner-up with his beautiful watercolour of Ludlow Hall in the morning light.
All the entrants, including the winners, will be on display in the drawing room at Ludlow Hall.
Full steam ahead now for the Obama visit and the opportunity to show off Molly’s quilt and the Ludlow Hall quilt. So exciting!
Kathryn Rodgers,
Chairwoman