They walked along the stair hall, lined with display cases of mounted fish, and turned left into what he reckoned may be Catharmore’s crown jewel.
‘Paddy put a bob or two in th’ kitchen, as you see. ’t was the oul’ kitchen and maids’ quarters they combined into one.’
A wall of windows looking out to the ruined garden; decorative tile work surrounding a blue Aga; limestone floors, a coved ceiling, an enormous iron rack hung with copperware. Impressive.
‘Paddy was after letting guests dine in th’ kitchen, he said, th’ way they do in th’ States. They would pay a deal more for th’ privilege, he said, an’ cover the cost of a roof altogether.’
The cooking smells could stand against any at Broughadoon. He realized he was ravenous.
‘I’m hoping to meet Paddy. Will he be with us?’
‘Paddy’s after doing some business or other, haven’t seen much of him in several days. Make yourself comfortable, now, I’ll just stir up the pot.’
Seamus took an apron from a hook, tied it on, lifted the pot lid, looked in, replaced the lid. ‘I hope you don’t mind being treated like family, Tim.’
‘I’m honored to be treated like family.’
Seamus opened the oven door. ‘I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds bringin’ you into the kitchen.’
‘Not in the least.’
Seamus used a long fork to poke whatever was in the oven; by the smell, roast lamb.
‘This will be the end of the tour, as the old scullery has been turned over to Mrs. Conor and the paneled library to Paddy, for there’s no livin’ a’tall on the upper floors. As for me, I’m in the laundry which I’ve fitted out quite snug, if you don’t mind th’ washer cyclin’ as you watch th’ telly.’
‘How about the basement? I believe O’Donnell’s surgery was located there.’
‘’t was, yes, but we never go below unless at gunpoint; ’t is a calamity with the risin’ damp. On occasion, Paddy’s forced to do something about th’ plumbing or such, and then we’re in for it, ’t is like openin’ a hole to China and pourin’ in euro by th’ washtub.’
‘I have one of those holes myself,’ he said. Their new heating and cooling system had cost twice a year’s salary in his first parish. ‘Have you read O’Donnell’s journal?’
‘I’ve made a stab at it, but my eyes are unfit for th’ faded ink and he goes on too long about th’ least thing. My da inherited a journal from his grandfather. Wind rising, it might say. Figs ripe. Annie bilious. Farrelly ploughing.’ Seamus laughed. ‘That would be my style of a journal.’
‘Is the doctor’s old cabin standing?’
‘A pile of rubble in the sheep meadow, they say.’ Seamus removed his apron, hung it on the hook, buttoned his jacket. ‘Well, then. Everything’s under control; the rolls will pop in after the other guests arrive. I hope you’ve an appetite.’
‘You can count on it.’
‘Drinks will go for a half hour or so, you could probably do with a nibble.’ Seamus cut a slice from a round of cheese on a platter. ‘Our own sheep. Very fine.’
The cheese was proffered on the blade of a knife, the way his father had done years ago.
He bit into the cheese-aged, mildly tart beneath a mellow sweetness. ‘Hits the spot. There’s a lot to be said for being treated like family.’
Seamus gave him a paper napkin. ‘A taste of Irish to wash it down?’
‘No, no, thanks.’
‘Liam says you’re light on th’ drink-a good thing. Thirst after the drink, m’ father said, sorrow after th’ money.’
‘I was never much for spirits. A glass of burgundy or Bordeaux, a sherry now and then.’
‘I seem to remember a bottle of sherry at the back of the cabinet; it may have aged a good deal.’
‘All the better.’
‘I feel the need of a pipe, m’self. Would you step out with me? We’ve a bit of time before I show you to the drawing room. You might have to stick it out with Herself-ah, sorry, Tim, please forgive that-with Mrs. Conor-’til the rest of the party show up.’
The rain-soaked terrace was bare, save for a huddle of plastic chairs stacked together and anchored with a rock. ‘Th’ wind carried off th’ good stuff long ago. Probably somewhere in Easkey, on the porch of a stout fisherman and his wife.’
They stood well back of the rain pouring in a sheet from the terrace roof. Ever the earnest home owner, he suspected leaking gutters or none at all.
Seamus lit his pipe, puffed, kept the match to it, puffed, flicked the match. The scent of tobacco curled into the damp air.
‘I should warn you, Tim, if Liam didn’t. She’ll be after trimmin’ your sails.’
Seamus drew on his pipe. ‘She came up grin-din’ poor in a mud cabin in Collooney with four brothers and two sisters, all dead now-two passing with their mother in a most tragic manner. And there were certain other… matters, as well. She’s been takin’ th’ hurt out on th’ rest of th’ world for many a year.’
A loud buzzing in the kitchen.
‘There she is.’ Seamus checked his watch. ‘Five ’til one.’
In the kitchen, Seamus pressed a button near the Aga. ‘Yes, mum.’
‘Show our guest into the drawing room, I’ll be along directly.’
‘Yes, mum.’
‘Well, then.’ Seamus took out his comb, looked at it a moment, doleful. ‘She likes it groomed,’ he said of his mustache.
At the drawing room door, Seamus shook his hand gravely, as if seeing him off on a coffin ship.
Thirteen
It was a beautiful room, graceful in proportion, though smelling of stale cigarette smoke, mild damp, dogs. A fire simmered on the hearth.
A table in front of a large window, its view to the lake obscured by rain. Framed photographs. Bottles. Glasses. A vase with roses. Behind the sofa, a game table and four chairs-where the blood would be let, he reckoned. Much furniture in the room; a massive ottoman stacked with books, stationed on the medallion of a worn Aubusson. Dog beds in a far corner.
He glanced up, then, and drew in his breath. The portrait above the mantel was stunning in the true sense of the word.
A slender, dark-haired young woman of uncommon beauty looked directly at the observer. Penetrating brown eyes, a necklace of pearls, a gown of aquamarine satin, a pale arm draped casually over the upholstered arm of the French chair in which she was sitting…
He approached the portrait, examined it closely. It had the finesse and style of a Sargent, but surely no Sargent would be hanging in these remote regions.
He couldn’t take his eyes off hers; there was a palpable sense of the sitter’s presence; something of iron resolve, something, too, of anger or remorse. As if loath to invade her privacy or stare too brazenly, he stepped away.
The insistent gaze drew him back. Look here, I have something that must be said.
In the strong cheekbones, the chiseled nose, the anxious brow, he saw Liam.
He moved to the fire and turned his back to the soft blaze. August, and the warmth felt good to him.
Above the double doorway, another portrait-Riley Conor, he presumed. Short, portly, muscular, bemused. Wearing boots and jodhpurs, a tweed jacket-holding what appeared to be a small prayer book and leaning on the back of a leather chair before shelves of books rendered carefully by the brush. His brown eyes squinted, as if set to the task of puzzling out a riddle.
He walked to the ottoman at the center of the room; looked again above the mantel and again above the doorway. The subjects of the portraits coolly assessed each other across the divide.
Look here, I have something that…
The doors opened, his hostess entered. He felt the odd fear and excitement of a child who imagines a monster living beneath his bed.