Dublin
1921
Beatrice wrote to Edwina telling her how her second son had been recognised by chance by one of his regiment in an English lunatic asylum and how she and Bertie had travelled there to bring him home. They found him in a poor physical state with no memory, parts of his reasoning functions missing, and prone to outbursts of rage, but they were glad to have him back under any circumstances and hoped he would soon be restored to his former health now that he was in familiar surroundings.
Her next-door neighbour on the other side had been burnt out during the year by rebels who claimed he was sheltering British troops there after their barracks were destroyed, she continued.
Our estate and Tyringham Park are still intact (except for your gate lodge which was uninhabited as usual, making the burning look like a token gesture), no doubt due to the influence of someone we both know high up in the organisation, not mentioning any names. One can’t be too careful these days.
Letting on she had inside information about the nationalists, as usual. Unlike Tyringham Park which had a policy of not taking on local people as servants, Beatrice and Bertie employed them exclusively on their 12,000 acres, and were supporters of Home Rule. Beatrice, particularly, was vociferous in her wish to rid Ireland of British colonial rule. Waldron called her a traitor to her class.
We seem to be at Tyringham Park a lot these days. Bertie was friendly with your brother-in-law when they were younger and their friendship has been renewed to mutual benefit – they have so much in common. Charles’s wife Harriet and I took to each other straight away. The place is so lively with three generations happily living there you’d hardly recognise it.
Was Beatrice deliberately rubbing salt into her wounds? Edwina was more annoyed than saddened to think that that might be the case.
As it so happens, last time I was there I ran into both Miss East (can never think of her married name) and Manus, who has just had his first child, a son. I think I told you in my last letter that he married a girl from the locality. Marriage must have loosened his tongue. You know how shy and unassuming he was.
Oh, God, how can I bear it? Beatrice setting herself up as an expert on Manus when she obviously knows so little about him – talking about his first child. His first? How little she knows! And Manus, when he sees the emptiness of his attachment to his local bride, must mourn the loss of what he had with me – a relationship closer than a marriage. Each day of those years, already full of interest, coloured by our rivalry, our opposing philosophies on training fought over with exhilarating intensity. How could Beatrice know anything of that, when she and Bertie saw only his superficial skills each time they dropped by to pick his brains?
Both of them asked after Charlotte. Miss East said she thinks of her every day and even little Catherine (her stepdaughter in case you’ve forgotten) can’t touch the part of her heart reserved for her. Didn’t she word that very nicely? Manus is training the colt Bryony who has the same breeding as Mandrake, and would love Charlotte to see him and perhaps take him over. They both hope she will visit her cousins and come to see them while she’s here. One can see how both of them are genuinely attached to her. I promised I would pass on their messages so that you can relay them to Charlotte.
Charlotte. Charlotte. Always Charlotte.
Beatrice ended the letter with effusive wishes for Edwina’s good health and happiness.
No mention of calling in if she ever found herself in Dublin. Four years and four Horse Shows since they’d seen each other face to face. Did Beatrice not realise she was hungry for news, especially now that women were eligible to compete in the Show? The Irish Times printed the results, but she wanted to know the inside story behind each event.
Edwina saw Charlotte approaching with her usual nervousness.
“Tell me, Charlotte, did you ever hear from Miss East since you left?”
“No, Mother.”
“Or Manus?”
“No, Mother.”
“That’s a little disappointing, don’t you think?”
Charlotte squirmed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“Well, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Charlotte was now fourteen and already tall. She moved the folder of paintings she had brought to show her mother from under her left arm to her right and looked unsure of what to do next.
“Have you brought something for me to look at?”
Charlotte nodded, and a flicker of pride showed on her face.
“Put it on the table over there and I’ll cast my eye over it later when I have time.”
“Well, what did your mother say?” asked Cormac.
“She didn’t say anything about them because she didn’t look at them. She said she’d look at them later.”
“Never mind.” Cormac could feel Charlotte’s disappointment. He realigned his easel with two sharp kicks to the base. “Perhaps she was busy.”
“Doing what? She never does anything except play bridge, and she can’t do that all day long.”
Lady Blackshaw hadn’t shown the slightest interest in Charlotte’s education all the time Cormac had been at the townhouse so it was difficult to keep a judgmental tone out of his voice.
“Perhaps she wanted to look at them when she was on her own. In fact, she’s probably looking at them right now.”
“Very likely,” said Charlotte with heavy sarcasm. She picked up her brush and made some strong slashing strokes across the canvas.
“That’s the girl!” Cormac cheered. “Don’t hold back.”
Five days afterwards, he saw Charlotte carrying the folder that enclosed her paintings.
“Well, what did your mother say?” he asked, holding his breath.
“She didn’t even look at them. They were in the exact same place . . .” Charlotte couldn’t finish the sentence. She dropped the folder, kicked it, and ran out of the room.
Cormac bent down, picked it up and opened it. “So help me God, I could swing for that woman,” he said as he spread out the work he so admired.