Kilpara Page 14

  I walked her to Mother’s room and then retired to my own room after asking one of the staff to serve my dinner there. The news about Purcenell’s indifference stirred anger in me again and I knew I would confront him—try to reason with him. Offer him handsome compensation if that would convince him. After eating, I was too restless to sleep, so I sat down at the plain walnut desk by the window and wrote two letters, one to Astelle and one to Dan and Mark.

  I left the hotel around mid-morning to walk along the sea-front which, today, bustled with activity. Small boats bobbed in the harbor announcing the arrival of fishermen and their first catch. Fish, of all kinds, were displayed on makeshift stalls as vendors called out prices to groups of people milling around. Women in bright cloaks arrived with empty baskets and left with them full of carelessly wrapped fish. I watched these curiously dressed vendors at work. They wore tall, wide-brimmed hats, knee breeches, and shoes that appeared to be made from cowhide with the hair left on. Many of them had features I began to recognize as Irish: Bright ruddy faces and quick smiles that reached their eyes.

  Upon my return to the hotel, I walked through the courtyard to the stables in back. Finding a stable hand whilst pitching hay into the stalls, I inquired about Brazonhead's whereabouts.

  “Your horse is in good hands,” he assured me. “Gone to the convent, he has. They’ll take care of him there. They’ll be bringing back the carriage this evening for the morning’s journey. Mother Superior’s orders.”

  The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough. With the help of the hotel staff, we got Mother into her wheelchair and covering her with blankets, we took her into the hotel gardens. She and Aunt Sadie chatted about childhood memories, with one exception, neither seemed willing to talk about their parents.

  In the afternoon, while both women rested, I sat in the saloon and amused myself with a game of solitaire. The lounge was empty except for the clinking of glasses being placed on shelves by the barkeep. The outer Tea Room was also empty, the ladies from the previous day nowhere in sight.

  Suddenly loud voices broke the silence and a group of men barged into the saloon, cheering loudly. They thundered up to the bar. One man demanded, “Drinks for my friends here.” The barkeep immediately went to work filling glasses of black foamy beer that were then passed down the line of men.

  The two men of the previous day came in but weren’t cheering like the rest.

  The man leading the celebration turned from the bar and greeted them. “Charlie, Henry, will you join me in a victory drink?” Neither Charlie nor Henry answered. The man guffawed loudly and turned back to his admirers.

  The tall thin newcomer with the mustache, the one addressed as Charlie, turned to his companion and said, “How could this Pandora have beaten Black Knight? He’s the best racing horse in Great Britain. It’s simply not possible.”

  I now presumed the short portly man was Henry. “Arthur Purcenell wasn’t bragging this time,” he said. “Pandora is good.”

  Charlie frowned back.

  “Black Knight is the better horse for sure,” Henry added to soothe his friend. “He had a bad race, that’s all. Unfortunate, most unfortunate.”

  The two men moved back as more men pushed their way toward the bar. Amid the jostling, Charlie bumped against my table, causing the cards to spill onto the floor.

  He turned as I reached down to retrieve them. “I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “How dreadfully clumsy of me.”

  “No harm done,” I said, picking up the spilled cards.

  “Sir Charles Sloane,” he said, holding out his hand. “And this is Lord Henry Ligham.” The portly man bowed stiffly. “You're new here. Up from Dublin for the race?”

  “No,” I shouted, above roars of hip-hip-hurray that erupted from the celebrants. “I just arrived from America. The name’s Ellis O’Donovan.”

  “Mr. Ellis you say? From America?” Sloane reiterated above the din.

  “Yes,” I said. I started to correct the stranger, but then remembered Aunt Sadie’s words that Purcenell would never hear a plea from an O'Donovan. Sloane’s mistaking my name gave me the sudden idea to remain anonymous. Under an assumed name, I’d have a better opportunity to get closer to Purcenell, to observe his weaknesses and use this to my advantage when I approached him.

  “I should've guessed you were American, Mr. Ellis,” Sloane said, observing my suit made of broadcloth that stood out among the tweeds worn by the native Irish. “Will you be staying in Ireland long?”

  I considered his question for a moment. “It depends, I’m here on business,” I finally answered.

  Sloane leaned over the table. “Horses or cattle?”

  “Neither.” I pointed to two chairs. “Please—join me?”

  “Are you staying in Galway?” Ligham asked.

  I hesitated. “I'm a guest at St. Bridget’s Convent.”

  “You're a seminarian then?”

  “No, I’m not a priest.”

  Ligham pointed to the cards. “A gambling man perhaps?”

  “Just a pastime,” I said.

  Sloane got the attention of one of the extra barkeeps that had appeared to help with the crowd. He ordered drinks for all three of us.

  “You're at St. Bridget's, so you must be here to acquire the marble quarry,” he said. “I'm afraid you've made the long journey for nothing. There's a fortune to be made there, but the clergy will never sell.”

  Another wrong assumption, yet I managed to look interested.

  “The quarry belongs to the Catholic Church—acquired with the grounds long ago,” he continued. “They bicker over the selling price and can’t agree on anything. They entertain bids from time to time, including one from yours truly. But they've turned down every single one of them. They sell the marble locally, and cheaply, but there's a bigger market out there. It'd be better off in the hands of a businessman. Clergy should stick to what they know best. Saving souls.”

  “I agree,” I said, running my fingers along the ridges of the cards fanning them accordion style as they folded into a neat pile.

  “We should play sometime,” Ligham suggested watching closely.

  “Be glad to,” I said.

  The man who was the center of attention pushed his way back from the bar and came over to our table, downing half his glass of black beer.

  “What did I tell you, Charlie old chap,” he said waving his glass at Sloane. “There’s no beating her, I said. And there wasn’t, now was there? Of course not. Proved the doubters among us wrong, now didn’t I?”

  “To be sure,” Ligham admitted.

  “Sheer luck,” Sloane said frostily. “Black Knight had a bad day.”

  “No such thing,” the stranger said. “If the race was run a hundred times over, Pandora would win every time. You didn’t back her, did you? You’d be happy to see me go broke and have me hand my daughter over to you. Well, not this time, Charlie old chap, Pandora saw to that.” He laughed loudly and when his laugh began to die, and his heavy stomach stopped shaking, he noticed me.

  “And you are?”

  “Mr. Ellis from America,” Sloane announced, introducing me.

  “Arthur Purcenell.” The newcomer gripped my hand.

  I looked into Purcenell’s bright excited eyes and assessed the man behind them. His round glutton face flushed red from the thrill of winning was accentuated by his heavy build, balding black hair and a split between his teeth that made his words whistle when he spoke. He showed obvious satisfaction at having the upper hand over the other two men in what appeared to be some kind of contest among the three of them.

  “Americans love horses—sure they do,” Purcenell said. “They ride them all over the place in America. My horse, Pandora, is the fastest in all of Great Britain. You agree, don’t you, Charlie?” He guffawed as he turned to Sloane. “She proved that today when she beat the best champion there is.”

  “She may be the best in Ireland,” Sloane said, an edge in his voice. “But you can't claim the
title for all of Great Britain.”

  “Sure, I can,” Purcenell said stubbornly. “Pandora’ll beat any horse. There’s none better than her anywhere in the world.”

  “Righto,” Sloane said. I sensed he was baiting Purcenell, but Purcenell was too pumped up to notice. Sloane stroked his mustache. “No doubt, you’ve heard of Guardian?”

  “No—” Purcenell was more cautious now.

  “He’s the best there is,” Sloane said. “I could arrange a competition, if the wager is right.”

  Other horse enthusiasts came over and slapped Purcenell on the back. “Nice race, Arthur,” they said in turn.

  Purcenell beamed, and after the men left he said, “Who owns this Guardian?”

  “Sir Geoffrey Thornton, the Royal physician.”

  Purcenell was visibly impressed and said almost gleefully, “I stand by what I said. Pandora can beat any horse.”

  “He’s coming to Ireland in a fortnight for a visit. I’m sure he’d be delighted to have some amusement while he’s here.” A sly smile twisted around Sloane’s mouth. “I’ll see him next week in London. Shall I arrange the contest?”

  “By all means,” Purcenell said. “I’ll look forward to it. But it’ll be me who’s amused when Pandora wins. He turned to me. “Your friend, the American here, will be witness that Arthur Purcenell means what he says. You’ll come to the race?” I opened my mouth to speak, but he forged ahead. “Of course, you will, you're American, and Americans love horses and horse racing. Set it up, Charlie old chap, and we’ll talk about the wager.”

  Sloane pounced immediately. “The wager is your daughter's hand if you lose, and I pay five hundred pounds to you if you win.” Purcenell’s face turned red and he began trembling from head to foot. He turned and pushed his way back to the bar, mumbling something under his breath that sounded like “over my dead body.”

  Sloane didn’t seem to notice or may have chosen to ignore Purcenell's discontent as he grinned at Ligham. He rose to leave. He turned to me, reinforcing Ligham’s invitation to join in a card game. I courteously agreed. He handed me his card with an invitation to call on him. I noticed his address was Larcourt, Lough Corrib.

  When the crowd dwindled, I left the inn to walk along the beach. So much had happened since we left Stonebridge. I was no longer Ellis O’Donovan, the reluctant son bringing his mother back to Ireland to save her children the agony of watching her die, but just plain Ellis, a businessman ready to procure the marble quarry owned by Irish clergy that somehow involved St. Bridget’s Convent. Then there was the encounter with Purcenell, whose words whistled through split teeth, and whose burly figure wasn’t nearly as large as his ego. I could see why Aunt Sadie thought the situation was hopeless. It would be an overwhelming task to convince the man he should allow Mother her request when he viewed Kilpara’s former owners to be nothing more than contemptible Irish postulants. Feeling desolate, I longed for Astelle’s comforting arms.

  That evening, grooms arrived from the convent and began packing up what they hadn’t taken on their previous journey. I asked about Brazonhead and they said they had walked him several times and he was gradually adjusting.

  “Sure is spirited,” one man said.

  “More than a handful, if you ask me,” the other one added. “Must be something to watch him in his element.”

  I nodded agreement.

  The man grinned. “He seemed calmer after a bit of exercise and a good brushing down. Might even take to his new home, in time.”

  I thanked them both and went to see Mother. She had eaten most of her evening meal, the drapes having been closed to give the room a restful atmosphere. She was feeling drowsy and didn't protest when I stayed just long enough to bid her good night. Afterwards, I retired to my room and tried to occupy myself with a game of solitaire. But my mind kept creeping back over the day's events. I felt a web of circumstances was drawing me into some unforeseen showdown with Purcenell. I wondered what I could offer the man that might change his mind. I became resolved, that this time round, the Purcenells would not control my parents’ destiny as they had done once before.

  I arose before dawn and went to the kitchen in the hope of finding early morning staff from who I could pry some coffee. As I passed the Tea Room, I saw Aunt Sadie sitting by the window staring at the sun creeping over the horizon. Not wanting to disturb her, I slipped unnoticed into the hotel kitchen where a stout woman stood kneading bread dough and the delicious smell of bread and cakes baking came from big ovens.

  “Is it too early to ask for coffee?” I said.

  “Can’t sleep, eh?” she answered. “It’s the change ye know, bothers people when they cross the ocean. I’m brewing tea now, but if ye wait a bit, I’ll have ye a cup of coffee. Would ye like some warm bread with butter and marmalade and maybe a rasher or two to go with it?”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  “If ye wait in the Tea Room, I’ll bring it in.” She put the dough in a large baking pan and placed it in the oven. “You’ll settle down soon enough, so ye will.” I thanked her and went to the Tea Room where Aunt Sadie still sat in the same position. I wondered if she was praying.

  I coughed and she turned around. “Ellis, you’re up early.”

  “Uneasy, I suppose,” I said. “And you?”

  “I rise early, out of habit. I like to check on patients in the wards while everything’s quiet, comfort the ones that are restless, and afterwards spend a little time in the chapel.” I looked into her serene face wondering why she had chosen this selfless life. What gratification was there, if any, in such piety?

  “I met Purcenell yesterday afternoon,” I announced.

  “Burly man, balding hair, with a noticeable split between his front teeth?” Aunt Sadie said.

  I nodded.

  “I saw him here at the inn,” she said. “But he was too preoccupied to notice me. I wonder what he’s doing in Galway.”

  “He was celebrating. His horse won an important race. I was introduced to him by Charles Sloane whom I met quite by accident and who misunderstood my surname to be Ellis—”

  Aunt Sadie seemed to read my mind. “You didn't correct him? Please don't do anything reckless, Ellis. It won’t help matters.”

  “I want to get closer to Purcenell. Find a way to convince him to allow Mother her request. You said yourself he won't speak to an O'Donovan. This is the only way.”

  Aunt Sadie shook her head. “Maybe I was hasty in telling you about Purcenell.” Her voice sounded worried. “I should've waited until you better understood our ways.”

  I was about to respond when the stout woman came into the Tea Room with a large pot of coffee, steaming bowls of oatmeal, large slices of warm bread, and bacon. At the sight of the food, all thoughts of Purcenell were put aside.

  “Eat this, the both of ye, while it’s hot,” the woman commanded, setting the tray down. “It’ll give ye the strength you’ll need to get through the day.” We thanked her heartily, and her ruddy face broke into a pleasant smile as she left.

  A shadowy sun, barely visible behind clouds, greeted us as we piled into the carriage. Aunt Sadie became all business, our earlier conversation forgotten as Mother became her foremost concern. She cautioned the drivers to go carefully over rough spots in the road. They agreed respectfully and the carriage rumbled its way slowly over the narrow, winding, irregular streets of Galway Town toward St. Bridget’s Convent. Along the way, Sadie pointed out where the Corrib River emptied into the harbor, an outlet for the two great lakes, Lough Mask and Lough Corrib. Here the river was a shallow, rocky, swift stream that Aunt Sadie said one could walk across it on the backs of salmon during spawning season. She pointed out familiar buildings to Mother, whose memory returned keen. Her face lit up as she recalled places of her childhood. We passed the Spanish Arch where she announced they had hidden from their governess.

  “Remember how easy it was to distract her,” Aunt Sadie said.

  “We sneaked off to market with the
coins Father gave us and spent them on trinkets,” Mother said.

  “They were treasures to us,” Aunt Sadie agreed.

  They looked at each other and an understanding passed between them. Aunt Sadie squeezed Mother’s hand.

  Before long, Mercy Hospital and Saint Bridget’s Convent loomed straight ahead, dark, dank stone buildings brightened only by patchy blue skies and green grass. They faced the west side of Galway Town, not far from the ocean, strongholds against forceful winds. Although the buildings seemed like dark fortresses that harbored the sick and dying, bright flower gardens abounded that had seen many busy hands. These were filled with color as peonies, day lilies, marigolds, foxgloves, and irises mingled in clusters near scattered chestnut trees. Mother sniffed as we passed fuchsia bushes in bloom. “There’s nothing more delightful than the smell of fuchsia mixed with ocean air,” she said.

  Aunt Sadie laughed. “I’ve never thought of the two together, but I suppose you’re right.”

  We were taken to a smaller building set apart for visiting priests and nuns. Inside, the floors were polished till they shone, and clean bright curtains hung on long windows that looked out onto cut lawns and hedges. A room had been arranged for Mother downstairs where novices in starched habits, their faces bright and wholesome, moved softly across tiled floors to assist us.

  My accommodation was immediately above, past the landing where a large statue of the Virgin Mary stood. Because these rooms were meant for visiting priests, a cross hung on the center wall of the main room, the mournful figure of Jesus looking down. Beneath was a kneeler for the worshipper to pray and meditate. One wall was covered with books, mostly religious. A divan stood in the center of the room sided by two lounging chairs, and next to the window stood a round table large enough to invite a companion for dinner. To the right was the bedroom where the bed, like everything else, was made from heavy mahogany. A wardrobe was positioned in one corner just a few feet away from the chest of drawers. A desk, a straight-back chair, and a large arm-backed chair filled up the rest of the room.