The Kilternan Legacy (10 page)

“You got Brian Boru, and Conchobuir’s there.”

“Which one’s Cuchulain?”

“So you know your Irish legends?”

“Some of them. Is the Red Queen Deirdre of the Sorrows?”

“Indeed and she is, and the white one’s Maeve.”

As I passed them from the box to the board, glancing at each pawn and major piece, I realized that they had quite distinct faces and expressions. Maeve, of course, was positively malevolent, and looked about to weep. Cuchulain was a knight with a sort of Steve McQueenish visage; I wondered if Cuchulain would have ridden a motorbike instead of a chariot. His opposite red number bore a marked resemblance to John Wayne.

“Cuchulain
could
have looked like Steve McQueen,” began Snow thoughtfully.

“You mean the other way round, don’t you? Cuchulain came first,” said Simon, “by a couple of thousand years.”

“Who knows?” said Kieron. “There’re only so many basic facial types, and, certain temperaments are attracted to certain occupations. And then, temperament stamps a face with distinctive lines: the blandness of the politician, the alertness of the competitive businessman, the stance of the professional athlete, the jowls of a singer, the—”

“The long hair of the singer, you mean.” Simon grinned.

“Not pop,
trained
singer.”

“You mean, you don’t
like
rock and roll?” Snow began to bristle.

“I said ‘trained singer,’ and that’s what I meant, so don’t be bold, pet. Most rock and roll singers, until they get very good, don’t bother to protect their biggest asset. By the time half of them are thirty, they won’t be able to sing a note because they’ve misused their voices.”

“You aren’t a trained singer yourself, are you?” I asked.

Kieron turned to me, his eyes laughing, his lips twitching the corner of his beard. “No, but your aunt was.”

“Aunt Irene? Sang?” Was that part of the unconventionality that had annoyed her relatives?

“You didn’t know?” Kieron frowned.

“No. I told you that I didn’t know anything about her. Look, my mother met Aunt Irene once, when she was abroad before the war. She liked her. I’ve four older sisters, and a brother, all married now, with bundles of kids. Mother came from a large family, and so did my father, and I can’t keep
them
straight. So when I came along, Mother’d run out of interesting names and thought it fun to name me after my great-aunt Irene.” I flushed, because my initials had made me an IT girl, a plaguey nuisance in high school. “That’s why I was so dumbfounded when she left everything to me.” I stood up. “Oh, I’ll just turn it over to—”

There were shocked cries of “Mother!” “You couldn’t!” and Kieron Thornton leaned forward to grab my hand, and pulled me, rather hard, back into the chair.

“That’s enough foolishness. Irene had very sound reasons for doing as she did. I’ve no right to fault you for not knowing about her, and I don’t. But I was surprised that you didn’t know of her career. That’s how she was able to buy this land and keep it.”

“What did she sing? Opera?” asked Snow.

Kieron’s eyes twinkled. “Guess again.” He looked at me.

Then suddenly, I remembered what Mother had said.

“Good Lord, she sang Gilbert and Sullivan. At Covent Garden!”

“Bang on!” And Kieron laughed at the shock on the twins’ faces.

“She didn’t?”

“She did,” Kieron and I said together.

Snow and Simon both turned to stare at me, mouths slightly agape.

“Mother sang G and S, too, before we arrived.”

“I know,” said Kieron blithely. “Check,” he added, having caught Simon’s king in a well-laid trap.

“Hey!”

“I’ll give you the chance to beat me again,” Kieron said, standing up. “I’d like to make it now, but I’ve an engagement at half nine.”

We hastily thanked him for the hospitality, the gossip, and the game, and walked back up the slight rise to the Lodge. I was even beginning to think of it as home.

“Nine thirty and the sun’s still up,” Simon said. “Crazy country! Crazy country!”

WE WERE ENJOYING a nice leisurely breakfast when there was a knock at the back door, which Simon answered.

“Come on in, Mrs. Purdee.”

She gave him a very solemn greeting and then came straight to me, holding out a small cardboard box and a key.

“You were out yesterday when I came by, Mrs. Teasey. And I know the tax appraisers have been here, so it’s safe to give you these now. This,” and she put the box on the table, “is the missing carburetor”—she pronounced it with a different accent, so that at first I didn’t know what she meant—“for the Mercedes,” and she nodded toward the garage. “And this is the key to the boot. We put the silver tea service and flatware there.”

“Why?”

Mrs. Purdee eyed me very solemnly, as one does an idiot. “Sure, the silver’s worth a small fortune, Mrs. Teasey, which your great-auntie didn’t want to give the government. And Kieron told ‘em the car wouldn’t go for want of a carburetor and that part not available, but perhaps the new owner could sell it for parts.”

Simon began to whoop and clap, appreciating the subterfuge, but I (they say I am occasionally square) was aghast.

“Your auntie wanted us to do it—
before
they came to lock up the house. And before the
others
got here.”

Tax officials came off with a slightly better odor than my relatives if I correctly interpreted her pronouns; she plainly had little use for either.

“Will that Mercedes run if the carburetor’s put back?” Simon asked.

“Oh, it will so.” Her slight smile was tinged with a bit of malice. “There were only about three hundred made of that particular model, you see, and your auntie kept it in super condition. Kieron’ll fix it for you if you want him to. You’re to say that you ordered the part from the States.” Then she started toward the door.

“Is your baby better?”

“My baby?” She whirled, startled.

“Yes, Kieron said it was teething the other night. I’d heard a child crying, you see.”

“Oh, yes, well, you know how it is and all. She’s easy now.” She couldn’t get out of the house fast enough, and Simon and Snow both noticed it. I hadn’t told them what Kieron had said about Ann being beaten by her husband, so I distracted their questions by suggesting we all go find our treasure.

And treasure it was! A superb tea service, complete with an immense tray, and an enormous box of tableware: place settings for twelve, and the most confusing array of forks, spoons, knives that I’ve ever seen.

The intelligence that the Mercedes was operable was very good news, and before we unloaded the silver from the boot, we took a closer look at the car.

It was curiously modern for a car built in 1956, and, to again rearrange my mental picture of Great-aunt Irene, it was a sports coupe, undoubtedly very dashing when it first came out. There wasn’t a blemish on the leather upholstery—under the dust—and only signs of key-scratch on the dashboard. There seemed to be more dial faces than were familiar, but Simon told me—nonchalantly preserving his own image—that there were tachometers and things that measure motor revolutions per minute for rally driving and …

“If it runs, that’s the only important thing,” I told him, and banged at the neatly stored tires.

We were wondering where to store all the silver when Simon discovered that the center portion of the buffet obviously accommodated the silver chest. So in it went. The silver tea service could repose importantly on the buffet top, and suddenly the rather drab room took on elegance.

“Now, Mother,” said Snow in her let’s-get-down-to-brass-tacks voice, “if this room were, say, a soft Wedgwood green …”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” I agreed, with unsimulated enthusiasm, and ran an experimental hand along the wallpaper. It was old and brittle. A good steaming ought to lift it.

An odd rasping sound penetrated my concentration. Snow looked up from her arrangement of the tea and coffee pots … they must be Georgian … and then her face cleared. “It’s the doorbell, Mother!”

“Kelley?” I groaned.

“Simon, we need you,” said Snow. “Who else would be calling at eleven thirty?”

As I marched to the door I took a deep breath to support my anger, and exhaled it hastily in the face of a shortish woman wearing one of those matronly knit combinations in a deadly blue, which did not compliment her frizzy blondish hair and florid complexion. Her eyes, a faded green, missed nothing, giving my tunic-slack outfit a quick and disapproving once-over. She arranged her mouth in a smile, which her eyes didn’t echo.

“I’d know you anywhere. You’re so obviously Michael’s child.”

“Michael’s grandchild,” I replied, correcting her because she was the sort of person you have to correct, want to correct. “And you are… ?”

“My dear, I’m your … ah … Auntie Imelda,” and she shifted her feet for a forward movement.

“Oh, you left your card yesterday.”

“Indeed and I did, because I’d only just learned that my dear dead sister’s namesake was actually here in Ireland.” She looked reproachfully at me. I found her sorrowful “dear dead sister” routine to be overdone.

“I’m pleased to meet you, but I’m afraid we’re in such a mess inside … unpacking, you know …”

“Not to worry in the least, my dear Irene,” and with that she brushed by me into the small hall.

It wasn’t entirely the surprise of encountering the twins which halted her forward motion. I knew that she’d never been in this house before. Score #1. The coup obscurely pleased me.

“Your children, my dear?” She was clearly astounded at the size and beauty of my offspring. Score #2.

“This way to the living room, Mrs. Maginnis,” I said, smoothly leading the way. Simon followed her, and Snow caught my nod and closed the half-open dining-room door, then brought up the rear of the procession.

“This is my son, Simon Stanford, and my daughter, Sara.”

Mrs. Imelda Maginnis was far more interested in her surroundings than in my introduction. She acknowledged them with a cursory bob of her head. She managed to look down a very short nose as if it were a Medici hook. I could see her mentally inventorying the value of the furnishings. When I urged her to take the small settee, she settled herself tentatively on the edge with an almost audible sniff, as if she expected dust to billow out. Then she asked Snow how old she was, in a condescending tone that made me want to spit.

I could see Simon closing his eyes and cringing as we both wondered how Snow was going to respond. She behaved herself, undoubtedly for some malicious purpose.

“My,” said Mrs. Maginnis in that arch tone, “you’re well grown for fourteen. And how old are you, Simon?”

“Fourteen.”

Mrs. Maginnis pursed her lips, uncertain whether she was being mocked.

“They’re twins, Mrs. Maginnis. Don’t let their looks or size fool you.”

“How very intr’usting!”

Good heavens, I wondered, didn’t “nice” people in Ireland have twins?

“Well, now, you’ve cousins the same age as yourselves who would be so glad to take you about while you’re in Dublin,” said their great-great-aunt, again insufferably patronizing. It was obvious that she felt we wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, be staying here very long.

I caught Snow’s eye warningly.

“Sure and we’d like that so very much,” said my dutiful daughter with an alarmingly Irish brogue. “We hope to do such a lot of sightseeing … while we’re here.”

“In fact, my dear,” and Mrs. Maginnis turned to me, shifting her buttocks on the slippery sofa upholstery, “my sisters and I would like to give you a little welcome party. At
my
house.”

So, her house was the best of the lot? I mumbled something appropriate and wondered how I could graciously decline. Then I realized that I was overreacting. They
were
my relations; Mrs. Maginnis was obviously trying to be hospitable, however much against her better judgment. And Aunt Irene had said that I should “do” something for the younger ones who’d been kind to her.

“It’s not proper, of course, to do much entertaining, like. With Irene gone so soon.” She sniffed pathetically as she eyed the carpet. Her nose wiggled to acquaint us with her low opinion of the thing. “Would Sunday suit? For tea?”

I was forced to say how kind she was, how thoughtful.

“We must do what we can to make you welcome while you’re in Ireland, even in such sad circumstances. And then too, my dear, you’ll need help settling and selling up the estate, won’t you?”

“Actually, Mrs. Maginnis—”

“Please, Irene—Auntie Imelda.”

I choked out the syllables as directed. “… I can’t do anything about selling until the will has been probated, you know.”

Clearly she didn’t, and her eyes went very round and dissatisfied.

“Oh, but of course,” she recovered quickly, with a nervous giggle. “Well, you’ll be able to rely on us, you know, because you’ll want to clear all the cottages of those tenants.” She managed a ladylike shudder of revulsion. “And there’re more deserving—”

“My great-aunt specifically requested me to keep on most of the present tenants.”

“She what?” Great-aunt Imelda was not pleased to learn of instructions beyond the grave. “My dear sister had suffered several strokes, you know,” and then she tapped her forehead, nodding her head significantly.

“This letter predates her illness,” I replied mendaciously.

“Well, this isn’t the time to discuss such delicate matters. And the men are not here to give you the benefit of their good advice. You’ll need it, my dear Irene. Ireland’s a man’s country!” She rose; I wasn’t quite sure if it was in deference to Ireland’s being a man’s country. There was, at any rate, a disagreeable hint of smugness in her expression as she glanced around her again, as if she were obliquely pleased by the spartan furnishings. “I can’t imagine why you’re not stopping at the Montrose. Such a nice hotel. So American.”

“That’s why we’re staying here,” Snow said.

As Mrs. Maginnis stomped to the door, her expression said plainly, “And that won’t be for long.”

Somehow Snow got between her great-great-aunt and the dining-room door. The woman undoubtedly had every intention of looking in. Foiled, she smiled sourly at me, and glanced up the stairs, which told her nothing.