An Embarrassment of Riches (35 page)

Receiving no answering smile from the lady in the nearby carriage Maura disregarded her and continued to think of her fellow Irish. She knew from what Lord Clanmar had told her that the Irish were no higher thought of in America than they were by the Anglo-Irish of their own country.

‘It's going to take the Irish a long time to lift themselves from the pit of poverty they are accustomed to,' he had said unhappily. ‘That they are so ignorant is the fault of landowners like myself. No education is provided for them bar the hedge-schools and then only if they are lucky. The English have a lot to answer for where the Irish are concerned.'

The Irish who sailed with her aboard the
Scotia
had freed themselves from landlords who had held them in servitude, but it seemed that their battle for a dignified existence was still not won. Now, if what the messenger-boy said was true, they were unleashing their fears and insecurities on the only section of society inferior to them, and in doing so were exacerbating anti-Irish prejudice.

Maura looked at the mansions on either side of the avenue. New York was very different from Dublin. There was vast wealth in New York. Wealth that could be put to the immigrants'advantage. It would be easy with Karolyis money to provide decent housing and education for the newly arrived Irish. In a generation ignorance would be behind them. There would be Irish policemen, Irish judges, perhaps even Irish senators. What there wouldn't be, God willing, were Irish so afraid of losing what little they had that they took to the streets lynching those who threatened to take from them.

The Karolyis mansion loomed up on their right-hand side and the carriage turned off the avenue and rolled between the gilded gates. As yet she had never spoken to Alexander about her plans for her fellow Irish. Now, while they were in New York, would be a good time to do so.

‘Mr Karolyis is waiting for you in the Chinese drawing-room, madam,' Haines said to her with frigid courtesy as she entered the house.

Maura looked around her. On her first visit, the yellow marble of the domed entrance-hall had reminded her of a mausoleum and it still did so. Neither did she like the huge stained-glass window depicting Henry VIII of England and King Francis I of France on the Field of the Cloth of Gold any better than when she had first seen it. There was nothing remotely welcoming about the grandiose décor; nor was there anything remotely welcoming in Haines's frosty demeanour.

She looked at him consideringly. He had been a witness to the terrible scene that had taken place between Alexander and Victor. He knew at first hand from Victor Karolyis that she had been born peasant-Irish, that she was Roman Catholic and illegitimate, and it was obvious that he consequently held her in the same contempt as his master had done. At Tarna the household staff had immediately and unequivocally accorded her the respect due to her as Alexander's wife. Haines showed every intention of not doing so and where Haines led, the rest of the household staff would follow. Knowing that he was now hoping that she would not be able to remember her way to the drawing-room and that she would be nervously flustered, she said crisply, ‘Then take me to him.'

Blanching slightly at being given orders by an immigrant, he did so. ‘Mrs Karolyis, sir,' he announced as footmen opened the drawing-room's heavily carved double doors.

Alexander had been deep in conversation with Lyall Kingston. He broke off immediately, striding across the room towards her, his lean dark face alight with such naked pleasure that even Haines's composure was shaken.

‘Thank God you're here, sweetheart! What the hell I was thinking of to leave Tarna without you, I can't imagine.'

His arms slid around her and uncaring of Kingston's presence he lowered his head, his mouth closing on hers in passionate need.

As her arms circled his waist, joy surged through her. What did it matter if the Karolyis family home was a monstrosity? If the household staff were hostile? All that mattered was that she and Alexander were together again.

When at last he raised his head Haines discreetly disappeared and Lyall Kingston was staring studiously out of a window.

‘It was damned odd sleeping without you last night,' he said huskily, a smile crooking the corner of his mouth.

She flushed rosily. Since the night he had entered her bedroom at Tarna, they had never spent a night apart. She squeezed him tightly before reluctantly releasing him, wishing that Lyall Kingston wasn't in the room, wishing that she could tell him about the baby.

He turned with her towards Kingston, one arm still around her waist. ‘Pa's will won't be read till after the funeral but Kingston has been going over the main body of his requests with me.'

Lyall Kingston turned away from the window to face them, pondering again the enigma that was Mrs Alexander Karolyis. Victor had told him in no uncertain terms both who she was and what she was. ‘An illegitimate, gold-digger and whore,' he had spat forcefully. ‘And Irish and Catholic into the bargain.'

He had offered no explanation for Alexander bizarrely marrying such a girl, but Lyall knew enough of Victor's affairs, and of Alexander's long-standing relationship with Genevre Hudson, to have strong suspicions as to what they had been.

When he had travelled to Tarna with news of Victor's death he had been curious as to what he would find there. Tarna turned into a brothel, perhaps. Or Alexander living moodily alone, the gold-digger and whore having tired of country life. What he hadn't expected to find was an obviously ordered household. His glimpse of Mrs Karolyis had been only brief but it had been enough for him to realize that Victor's assessment of her had been widely wrong. She might very well be Irish and Catholic and illegitimate, she might even be a gold-digger, though he doubted it. What she most certainly wasn't was a whore.

Looking at the two of them together he also no longer believed the marriage to be bizarre. They complemented each other as perfectly as he romantically imagined Abélard and Héloïse, Cleopatra and Anthony, Heathcliff and Cathy, had done. The generous fullness of her mouth indicated a warm and giving nature; a nature that would offset the famous Karolyis selfishness. There was a vivacity about her, too, which served as a perfect foil to Alexander's dark and saturnine handsomeness.

Wishing that Alexander would be a little more circumspect about the delicate nature of the conversation they had been holding, but applauding the obvious openness and trust with which he had spoken to his wife, Lyall said carefully, ‘I have merely been assuring Mr Karolyis that there is nothing in his father's will to cause concern.'

Maura had not given a thought to Victor Karolyis's will. She was rather surprised that Alexander had, but then, remembering the unpleasant surprises Lord Clanmar's will had held for herself and for Isabel, she realized that Alexander's concern was only sensible and to be expected.

She smiled, acknowledging his good manners in putting her in the picture, and remained silent. Victor Karolyis's will was no concern of hers.

Lyall Kingston was deeply relieved to have all his assumptions about her confirmed. She was not a gold-digger. A gold-digger would have been unable to refrain from asking as to the extent of the Karolyis fortune and whether or not Alexander was to be the main beneficiary. As it was, there was not the faintest gleam of mercenary curiosity in Mrs Karolyis's eyes. Victor Karolyis had been a shrewd man who rarely came to a wrong judgement where people were concerned. He had, however, come to a very wrong judgement about his daughter-in-law. Lyall thought it a pity. He had a feeling that if Victor had lived he would have come to admire her highly.

‘You've told me all I need to know, Lyall,' Alexander said with a warmth of manner that Lyall was unaccustomed to when dealing with a Karolyis. ‘The formal reading will take place here, immediately after the funeral.'

Lyall nodded assent and removed his top hat from a side-table. He was now quite obviously
de trop
, but it was a pity. He would have liked to stay longer in Mrs Karolyis's company. He was curious to know if there was an obvious Irish inflection in her voice; if her speaking manner was as seductive as her appearance.

When he had taken his leave of them Alexander said with vast relief, ‘Pa didn't cut me out of his will. Charlie was sure he had done, and he had certainly threatened to.' He grinned, pulling her again into his arms. ‘I wonder what held the old buzzard back? Perhaps he thought he was immortal and his will irrelevant.'

Despite his irreverence she smiled. He was holding her so close against him that she could hear his heart beating. She said, not looking at him, her face pressed lovingly against his chest, ‘I've something to tell you. Something I've been wanting to tell you for days now.'

His lips brushed her hair, his mind still on the incredibility of his father's will. Why on earth hadn't he disinherited him? He had been humiliated; shamed; had all his dearest dreams shattered. Yet when it had come to the crunch he had not sought retribution. Alexander could scarcely believe it. Retribution was part and parcel of the Karolyis psyche. His grandfather had never been known to allow any slight to go unanswered and Victor's capacity for ruthless revenge was a byword among those who had fallen foul of him.

Yet he had not sought revenge on being presented with what he believed was the most disastrous daughter-in-law imaginable. Was it because he had felt guilty over Genevre's lonely death? Was it because he knew that he would have acted similarly if his own father had treated him in such a manner? There was no way Alexander could tell. All he could be was grateful. The Karolyis millions were safely his. He was a man without a problem in the world.

‘We're having a baby. I became sure while Charlie was staying with us and I didn't want to tell you then. I wanted to tell you when it was just you and me.' She lifted her radiant face to his. ‘Isn't it wonderful, Alexander? Isn't it the most wonderful thing ever?'

He looked down at her, the blood thundering in his ears, a score of different reactions fighting for supremacy. A baby! A
baby
for Chrissakes! It
was
wonderful. It was more than that, it was stupendous. It meant that the Karolyis dynasty was assured; that there would be purpose in ensuring that the Karolyis millions multiplied; that he would have a child of his own and a relationship with it of the same kind that his grandfather had had with him. And it meant that his marriage was binding. There could be no shrugging Maura off now; no forgetting of her existence.

A smile quirked the corners of his mouth and then widened until he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. ‘It isn't just wonderful, sweetheart! It's absolutely bloody marvellous!'

He didn't care about the bonds now constraining him. He had long since abandoned any idea of paying her off and attempting to forget about her. She had achieved what he had thought impossible. She had made his life worth living again. She had made him happy.

He still thought of Genevre and he always would. Genevre had been the love of his life. She had been in his blood and in his bones. She was still in his blood and bones and he was determined she would be so until the day he died. But although he still thought of her he no longer did so every waking minute of every day. The passion and camaraderie he now shared with Maura had assuaged his grief, and he was grateful.

‘Let's celebrate with champagne,' he said exuberantly, uncaring of the impropriety of summoning champagne in a house where his father lay dead. ‘What on earth is Charlie going to say when we tell him? He'll have to be a godfather.' He rang the bell to summon a footman. ‘I'll ask Henry Schermerhorn to be a godfather as well. What on earth are we going to call it? It will have to be something Hungarian. Vincent or Zoltan or Ferenc.'

‘What if it's a girl?' Maura said, her voice thick with laughter. ‘And why not an Irish name? Why not Patrick or Brendan or if it's a girl, Bridie?'

He wasn't listening to her. He was asking a dumbstruck footman to bring two glasses and a bottle of Moet and Chandon to the room.

The funeral was held at St Thomas's. Alexander had determined on as private a funeral as was possible, but New York society outmanoeuvred him. Ever since Alexander's marriage Victor had suffered snubs and humiliations from members of the Old Guard anxious that their inviolate caste should not be sullied by contact with a father-in-law to an Irish emigrant. Now he was dead they could ease their consciences by paying their respects. And they could perhaps catch a glimpse of the emigrant in question.

Maura had allowed Miriam to guide her in her choice of mourning wear. Her dress was fine black wool crêpe with long sleeves and a high neck. Her hair was swept high in a severe chignon, crowned by a small black velvet toque and veil. The sombreness of her clothes should have rendered her plain and unprovocative. Instead the stark blackness of her dress emphasized the creamy perfection of her skin and the startling gentian-blue of her eyes. Looking across at her, as they waited for Miriam to bring an ankle-length, black, sealskin coat, Alexander felt something akin to a shaft of pain. She was exquisitely beautiful. Even more beautiful than Genevre.

‘We're ready to leave, sir,' the funeral director said to him
sotto voce.

Alexander nodded. Now that it had actually come to it, he was beginning to feel distinctly odd. It was becoming harder by the minute to remember the father he had hated and tried to destroy. All that he could remember were the good times. His father taking him to Franconi's Hippodrome to see elephants and camels and monkeys riding ponies; tobogganing with him; swimming with him at Newport. Tears glittered on his long eyelashes. Why the devil had his father been so unreasonable about Genevre? Why, in God's name, couldn't they have remained friends?

The cortège seemed to take for ever to reach the church. In the hot August heat his high starched collar and stiff formal suit became more and more uncomfortable. In the carriage behind him he knew that Charlie was suffering similarly. Other Schermerhorns followed the carriage conveying Charlie and his parents. Old Henry had turned out, looking distinctly glum at being so forcibly reminded of mortality. There were distant cousins, second and third time removed. Despite his initial wish that the funeral be small, Alexander was glad of their presence. The Schermerhorn connection had meant a great deal to his father and it was gratifying that the Schermerhorns were paying their respects.