The Kilternan Legacy (14 page)

“They’re not relatives?” asked Snow, hopefully but suspiciously.

“Not at all!” He rocked back and forth in his chair. “No, they’re devotees of Gilbert and Sullivan. I believe that they encouraged your aunt when she was first considering a stage career. I know that she always sent them tickets to the Rathmines-Rathgar G-and-S shows, said they’d been going since Gilbert first met Sullivan. For them
not
to see their annual operettas would mean that the end of the world had at last come. Irene Teasey inaugurated the trust under my father. I believe she discovered that they were existing on the produce of their garden patch and tinned cat food.”

“But—but—” Snow was sputtering with indignation. “What about welfare?”

“The Brandel Ladies dispensed charity, Miss Stanford, they didn’t receive it.” You could see that he was repeating someone else’s gently intoned dictum.

“But old-age assistance isn’t charity.”

“In their book, the same thing.” He gave a very gentle shudder at such a degrading notion. Mr. Noonan was unfolding as a very interesting personality. “Such Old World principles are very much alive in Ireland, Miss Stanford. There’s never a winter goes by but some elderly person is discovered dead of starvation, too proud to appeal to the agencies set up to help.”

“And my aunt helped?” I asked.

“Subtly. She unearthed a distant cousin. That was necessary, because there’s nothing stupid about the Ladies Maud and Mary Brandel.”

“It would be Maud and Mary,” said Snow, with an appreciative giggle. “And are they really ‘ladies’?”

“Oh, indeed they are. They consulted the family Bible,” Mr. Noonan continued, “to see if there was indeed a Robert Esquith Brandel. Of course, there was, because Irene had done her research first. He had just died. Without a will, too. So Irene Teasey and my father connived to set up a fund, allegedly the estate of this deceased cousin. The monies came from several sources, actually, all masterminded by Miss Teasey: benefit performances, their legal old-age pension, which my father applied for without their knowledge, and some”—he gave that sly grin again—“windfalls which Miss Teasey contributed.”

“And they’ve never caught on?” asked Snow. “I like that. I think I’d’ve loved my Great-great-aunt Irene, Mother.”

“Me too.”

“It is a grave shame you never met,” said Mr. Noonan, and then rattled his papers as if he’d said too much.

“Can we meet the Brandels?” I asked, as much to rescue him as to divert my returned sense of guilt.

“I do wish you would. In fact, you should, as you now administer the trust. However, you must never reveal that.”

“Will Aunt Alice spill the beans?” asked Snow, horrified.

“I’m inclined to doubt that she is received by the Ladies Brandel,” said Mr. Noonan blandly. “Miss Teasey, of course, had the excuse of long acquaintanceship and a mutual interest in G and S.”

“Mother sang G and S in the States,” said Snow with the air of one springing a tremendous surprise.

“Yes, I know.”

“You do?” Snow was utterly downed.

“Miss Teasey told me. And, as her heiress and also someone keen on G and S, it would be quite normal for you to pay them a call. Incidentally, the G and S Society here is very good. They give a season every year in December.”

“Mom, think of the effect if Irene Teasey appeared again.” Snow’s eyes went round in anticipation of the reaction.

“For mercy’s sake, Snow, we won’t be here in December. But, Mr. Noonan, suppose they do contest the will…”

“Let’s worry about that if they do, Mrs. Teasey.” Just then is phone rang. “Yes, please, tell them I’ll be with them shortly.” he turned back to me. “They might try to contest the will but succeeding is another matter entirely.”

“How long would probate take?”

“A month or two more, with luck.”

“Good heavens. That long?”

“In Ireland, the only thing that moves quickly is the weather.” He shook my hand, very warmly, and Snow’s, with a grin, and Simon’s, man-to-man. “Don’t hesitate to ring me if you’ve anything else that puzzles you about the way we do things in Ireland.”

“Where do the Ladies Brandel live?” asked Simon. Mr. Noonan grinned. “In Stepaside, in a cottage called Innisfree. It’s rose-covered, with a blue gate set in a yew hedge.” There followed a rather complicated set of directions, ending with the usual “You can’t miss it.”

I could and did. As Simon pointed out the third time we retraced the route, if we’d been walking we’d’ve seen the neat little gate, but in a car, zip, turn your head, and you’re past.

One of the Ladies was in the garden, weeding the roses, and the other quickly appeared from the house. They were undeniably twins: Lady Maud the elder, we were soon apprised. They were tiny, coming no higher than Snow’s shoulder, with bright faces, smooth-skinned despite their advanced years, and sparkling eyes that twinkled young. Their welcome, when they discovered our identity (indeed, once the twins appeared, they seemed to assume who we must be), was ecstatic.

“But, my dear, I nearly fainted when I heard your voice … that dear familiar tone …” I think it was Lady Maud—yes, Lady Maud had been weeding …

“So like dear Irene’s. How extraordinary!” Lady Mary chimed in, her voice slightly deeper than her sister’s. “That’s why I rushed to the door. Because, although we know dear Irene has passed on,” and there was a delicate dab at her eyes, “you sounded so like her … The heart does hope …”

“We do miss her visits so much …”

Nothing would do but that we come in and take a cup of tea.

“One only needs the excuse, my dears, and I’ve done my chore for the day,” said Lady Maud, briskly stripping off her gardening gloves and placing them neatly in the wicker basket with her tools. “If you’d just drop these in the potting shed, dear,” and she handed the basket to Simon, who trotted off. “On the bench, dear boy,” she called after him, then beamed at me. “Such a nice child. So kind, so handsome.”

I caught Snow’s eyes as we entered, for I had a feeling of Brobdingnagian trespass into another era, a wonderland. Everything in the room was scaled to the size of its residents, from the diminutive Victorian sofa and chairs to the slightly lower tables with their exquisite pieces of Dresden china and silver ornaments. Even the fireplace was miniature.

As one, Snow and I moved to the sofa, which looked sturdier than the delicate chairs. A miniature Empire clock daintily chimed the half-hour. Before I could summon up a reason not to partake of their hospitality, Lady Mary and Lady Maud had each brought out a small tray, one with tea accouterments, the other with plates of bread and butter (sliced by the millimeter), fruitcake, and tiny iced lady cakes.

Simon loomed massively in the doorway and instinctively seemed to fold up his large and manly frame. I didn’t know how to warn him tactfully from the delicate furniture but then Lady Maud was having him clear one small table for the tea and place another on her right for the goodies.

Lady Maud smiled her thanks. “Such a nicely mannered young man, you must be very proud of him, Mrs. Teasey—or do we still address you as ‘Mrs. Stanford’?”

“Don’t you remember, Maud dear? Young Irene resumed her maiden name,” said Lady Mary, her smile approving. “Remember how
thrilled
Irene was.
Such
a compliment, my dear, you’ve no
idea
how
gratified
Irene was that you wanted to be Irene
Teasey
again.” Lady Mary spoke with a lilting quality.

“It’s almost as if—if you’ll pardon me, dear Mrs. Teasey—Queen Irene is dead! Long live Queen Irene!” Lady Maud’s tiny hand was raised in a regal gesture.

“Long live the queen on her queendom!” cried Simon and Snow with outrageous spontaneity, and the Sisters Brandel applauded, their small hands pattering.

“Irene was overjoyed, my dear,” said Lady Maud, her lovely eyes swimming with unshed tears, “to think that you too would occupy her queendom.”

“I’m actually very humble and embarrassed, Lady Maud,” I said, because I’d become increasingly uncomfortable in the midst of this gentle jubilation. “I mean, I’d never even met my great-aunt. And for her to leave me everything …”

“To whom else would she leave her queendom?” they demanded in indignant duet.

“To those grasping sisters?” asked Lady Maud.

“Or
their
namby-pamby daughters?” Lady Mary was appalled.

“Now, Mary, there’s that quite charming child …”

“
She’s
a granddaughter.”

“Of course, how could I forget…”

“When you’ve seen as many generations as you must have” said Snow, “it must be awfully difficult to keep them straight.”

“The two ladies beamed at my daughter; then Lady Mary leaned over and patted one of the long black curls.

“Snow White—how very, very like the illustrations in our nursery books, so many years ago.”

Snow was startled. “How did you know my nickname?”

“Oh, my dear child, we
know
so much about you.” Lady Mary’s twinkle now included Simon. “So to speak, we are
very
close despite only
meeting
today. Twins are
that
way, you
must
know.”

Then all four of them began one of those disjointed dialogues in what I had long ago termed “twin short-speech.” For a bit I was totally ignored, and pleased to be.

“My dear, if you had to be burdened with children,” said Lady Maud, “at least you managed the felicity of twins. In our day it was a shocking breech of etiquette for any well-born lady to produce twins.”

“
Nanny
was mortified,” said Lady Mary.

“Not half as much as Papa,” added Lady Maud, and there was a dry, almost harsh quality to her voice. She turned to me. “You must never reproach yourself, my dear, over the terms of Irene’s will. Ah, I see it has worried you.”

“I had no idea of her intentions.”

“
She
didn’t intend that
you
should, my dear Irene … if I may …” Lady Mary picked up the conversation, laying a gentle hand on mine for permission to address me familiarly. “She wanted it to be such a
surprise
. A welcome surprise. Your being
another
Irene Teasey, your children, not to
mention
the fact that you
too
had sung Gilbert and Sullivan operettas,
all
and every
single
one of these considerations served to reinforce her sense of the fitness of her bequest.”

“She’d never the least intention of any other course,” said Lady Maud, “once you were named for her.”

“That far back?” I was astounded. “But the will—”

“Pshaw!” said Lady Maud. “More tea, dear?” she asked Simon, who held out his cup.

“Irene
gave
them
all
a chance,” said Lady Mary, uncharacteristically stern. “
Such a commotion
when
she
went on the
stage
!”

“More of a commotion when she refused to live with any of them after the accident…”

“With
each
of the sisters
certain
that
all
Irene
could
do was mind
their
children …”

“She accepted our hospitality,” said Lady Maud, “when she first returned from England.” An expression of intense sorrow robbed her face of all youthfulness and joy. “Her voice”—a hand gestured with ineffable, graceful regret—“was gone.”

“Yet we
never
heard a single
word
of complaint for what she had so
tragically, needlessly
lost. That’s why it was such a
reviving
thought to her that
you
also
sang
Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“It was as if,” Lady Maud said, pausing dramatically, “her voice had not been lost, merely passed on.”

“But you see, Lady Maud, I didn’t even know she was a singer.”

“It was in your blood, my dear Irene. You couldn’t deny the promptings of your inheritance any more than you should now deny the rightfulness of inheriting.”

“I see you’ve a phonograph, Lady Maud,” said Simon quickly.

I hadn’t noticed one, and followed his glance to the shadow on the far wall: a horned, crank-type gramophone.

Lady Mary bounced to her feet. “
Indeed
we do. And we’ve
all
Irene’s records! She was
so
generous to us in that
respect
.”

“Could we hear one? Please?” begged Snow.

“Certainly,” said Lady Maud, airily gesturing her permission. “It’s so nice to have someone who can wind it, for, truth to tell, the spring is much too tight for either of us any more.”

Simon was on his feet, carefully picking his way past the small-scale furniture like a giant in a doll’s house.

“What is your favorite?” Lady Maud asked me courteously.

“My favorite of Mother’s is ‘Poor Wandr’ing One,’” said Snow, and when I hastily agreed, Lady Mary told Simon where to find that album. (Afterward Simon told me that the Ladies Brandel’s 78 albums would make a collector flip his wig. “Mom, they had Caruso imprints worth a fortune!”)

He found the right side of the heavy old record, which he handled with awed care, where Frederick is entreating “one whose homely face and had complection/have caused all hope to disappear/of ever winning man’s affection.”

“Not one!”

“Not one?” pleads Frederick.

“Yes, one,” and I gasped with shock at the voice. What one hears of one’s own voice differs from what others hear out in front. I’d thought I was accustomed enough to hearing my recorded voice. And there was “I” singing as I had always wanted to. For, to be utterly candid, I simply hadn’t the training or the great natural voice that my great-aunt had had. I could hear the difference.

I recovered enough from the shock to smile reassuringly at the delighted ladies.

“I
knew
you’d be amazed that you
sound
so
much
alike!” said Lady Mary in a hoarse whisper.

“Do listen, Mary dear,” said Lady Maud with gentle reproach.

Talk about infatuation with the sound of one’s own voice! I only wished it
were
my voice.