She raked through the shelves and pounced on a favorite, Jane Austin’s
Persuasion,
taking it to her room. She thought she’d soon be immersed in nineteenth-century English society, but found she kept reading the same lines over and over again, as her mind drifted. She had hoped leaving Ireland would put the past year out of her mind.
So far it hadn’t.
Caitlin found herself leaning back in her rocker like Whistler’s Mother, dwelling on the past, and with it came the familiar, grinding sense of fear.
She never knew her father. He died when she was a baby and her mother brought her up alone. She was a great single parent, and Caitlin never felt she was missing out on anything the other school children had. But when she was seventeen, her mother began to have problems with her sight and co-ordination and learned she had developed Multiple Sclerosis. It took all Caitlin’s spare time and energy to care for her. Her mother wasn’t one of the luckier ones who went into remission or managed to live a fairly comfortable life. She went downhill very quickly and died when Caitlin was nineteen, leaving her the money she’d saved for her to go to teacher’s college. Caitlin had been determined not to let her mother down and, ignoring the dating experiences of friends and fellow students, she worked hard to realize the dream her mother had for her, which at that time, she felt sure was her dream too. She remembered graduating with both a feeling of achievement and a great sense of loss.
With the proceeds from the sale of their small cottage, she bought a flat and took up a teaching position in Dublin. Her future seemed mapped out for her, but she felt increasingly restless and lonely. Looking back, she saw she was vulnerable when she went to a local pub for Christmas drinks with a teacher friend and met Maxwell Haughton.
Maxwell was English, but his roots were in Ireland. Tall, slim and fair-haired, he dressed more formally than the other young men she’d met, always with a designer jacket and a silk tie, although the only work he did was from home, writing articles and book reviews for the
Dublin Times
. He was well educated, having gone to Eaton and Cambridge, and had an English sense of humor, which had a crueler edge to it than the Irish.
Max was different from anyone she’d ever known. Much of his character was attributable, she suspected, to his ancestry, which lent him an aristocratic profligacy that she’d found romantic. He was careless about money, probably because he’d never been without it. She was surprised to find his family seldom came to Ireland to stay in their ancient mansion on the coast, south of Dublin. She was quickly learning that these people lived by a different set of rules.
Looking back, had she been older and wiser, she might have heard the warning bells ring when he revealed an unpredictable moodiness in his character. But she had no model on which to base their relationship—no father or brothers to advise and protect her, and she fell headlong in love with him.
Max made no such declarations. He simply claimed her as his own and their lives began to conform to a pattern. He mixed with an avant-garde crowd of Dubliners who gathered at a pub near Trinity College every Friday evening. They, with their slick, malicious repartee, politely included Caitlin as part of their set, but she was seldom more than an observer. She failed her first important test when asked which of the three colleges she’d attended. She was from the north, they from the south, polar opposites it seemed, destined never to gain any real level of understanding, although she did try hard, at first.
Six months after she and Max began dating, he took her down to his family home, Mowat Manor for the weekend. They drove to Wexford in his Austin Healey with the top down. After traveling for an hour, the wind, laden with icy condensation off the sea, caused her nose to run and she had to fumble for a hanky.
She never felt calm when driving with Max. He always drove too fast for comfort. They raced through the old seaside town of Howth, with its small, square houses clustered around a bay. Their grey, slate roofs and fresh, whitewashed walls looked like the sea wind had washed them clean. A fishing boat had just returned with its catch and the gulls had settled in a discordant group along the rock seawall, rising shrilly as they drove by.
They began to climb, the road winding around the edge of the cliff-face, passing a charming, ancient church she would have loved to explore, but she knew Max was intent on reaching Mowat and wouldn’t stop, so she didn’t ask.
As they progressed, the road narrowed. Only a few meters from the car, the ground dropped steeply away. Far below, slippery, lichen-covered rocks took the brunt of the restless Irish Sea.
“Your nose is red,” Max said, turning to look at her.
“Please watch the road.”
“Are you afraid?”
“A little,” she answered then bit her lip.
His eyebrows rose. “You have a right to be afraid.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Max.”
He laughed. “I can drive this road blindfolded.”
“Please don’t try with me in the car.”
The wind blew off her orange scarf and ripped it from her stiffening fingers. It sailed over the edge of the cliff, the only spot of color to be seen in the grey landscape.
“I’ll buy you a new one. French silk.” Max said, managing to spoil his generous offer by denigrating the one she had lost. Her hair began to whip about, stinging her cold face. She tried to hold it back as the car sped around another, alarming bend. Overhead, gulls soared, filling the air with their mournful cries, like a sad dirge.
Max followed the curve of a high, stone wall around another hairpin bend. Relieved, Caitlin saw a set of imposing, wrought iron gates come into view, standing open. Barely reducing speed, Max drove into a driveway. He skidded to avoid potholes. Gnarled, twisted trees eerily stretched out their skeletal branches, as if in appeal. Another bend surrounded by overgrown gardens and a Georgian manor house came into view.
Mowat
.
Max stamped on the brake and skidded with a spray of gravel, pulling up right in front of the imposing front entrance. He jumped out without opening the door, and came to open hers before getting their bags from the boot.
She climbed out slowly, taking stock. Mowat’s windows blankly mirrored the grey sky. Creeper covered its entire front façade. The woodwork needed paint, in fact, the whole place cried out for attention. What a lovely house it must once have been and could still be.
“Well, what do you think?” Caitlin detected the note of pride in Max’s voice before he retreated behind his mask of indifference.
From the top step she turned and took in the slate-colored sea dotted with white caps. Out on the horizon a sea fog was closing in.
“It’s sensational.”
“You really think so?”
He sounded so boyish she hid a smile. “I do. Why don’t you come down here more often?”
“The lack of mod cons, mostly. Come inside.”
He unlocked the door and led her into a large hall with a grand staircase. Aged Persian rugs covered the oak floors.
“Samuel and Brigitte live in a cottage at the back. I’ll let them know we’ve arrived.”
Caitlin followed him through a series of chilly, under-furnished rooms until they came to a smaller and much more livable one. Two floral, upholstered chairs sat in front of a fireplace where a fire had been laid. Max took out his cigarette lighter and crouched down. Very soon flames burst forth and Caitlin moved closer, eager for warmth.
“This is the morning room. I’ll arrange for Brigitte to bring us tea.”
She sank into the down-filled cushions covered with faded, pink damask roses.
Max was gone quite awhile. Curiosity got the better of her and she rose and walked out onto a terrace, finding herself in a walled garden. It was sheltered here and charming. A black bird washed itself in a birdbath on the smooth, emerald lawn. Roses scented the air.
“How lovely,” she said aloud.
“Caitlin?” she turned. Max stood at the doorway frowning. “Don’t wander off by yourself.”
“I have no intention of doing so. Not when tea is at hand.” She smiled at the woman placing a tray on the coffee table.
“Brigitte, this is my fiancee, Caitlin Fitzgerald.”
The woman looked at Caitlin in surprise as she tried to hide her own amazement. She and Max had never discussed marriage. Brigitte unloaded the tray. A flowery teapot and cups, matching milk jug and sugar bowl, a plate of sandwiches and another loaded with thick slabs of iced cake.
Congratulations to you both,” Brigitte said her brown eyes serious. “It’s very nice to meet you, Caitlin. I’ll leave you both to enjoy your tea.”
When the door shut, Caitlin turned to Max. “You’ve shocked her. And me. What’s this about our engagement?”
“I decided we should get married.”
“You don’t think you should have asked me first?”
“I probably should have, but seeing you here … you will, won’t you?”
Caitlin waited for a feeling of joy of being loved and desired, their future ahead of them. But instead she felt troubled. Max was a complex man. His strange moods veering from insecurity to arrogance should have warned her from the first, but instead it drew her to him. She thought she could help him. She had confided in a friend at school who had shook her head and said, “You’re a rescuer, Caitlin. That seldom works.”
“I need to think about this, Max,” she said gently, aware that she could hurt him. He turned and stared into the fire. Illuminated by its glow, his face closed down. Minutes passed. He seemed hardly aware of her now.
“Just give me a little time,” she urged.
They drank their tea in silence. She’d lost her appetite and could eat little. There was a lump in her throat. When she put down her cup, he stood and said, “Come and see upstairs. There’s a fine view.”
He took her hand and silently led her up the stairs. They passed too many empty rooms to count, and entered a gracious bedroom whose windows looked out over the sea.
“Oh, a four-poster,” Caitlin said brightly. “And look at the view.” She moved towards the window, feeling Max’s eyes on her.
“Come here,” he said.
She turned to find him lying on the bed.
She swallowed and came to sit beside him. He pulled her down to him. The damask swag of curtains gave off a musty smell. He kissed her, his hands cupping her breasts. She had anticipated that they would make love for the first time this weekend. Max had always pulled away from her when things went too far, despite her passion and curiosity. But what had happened downstairs now made her unsure and it was she who eased away from him.
He turned on his side studying her. “I thought you wanted to make love.”
She didn’t know what to say. What was wrong with her? “I think we should give it more time.”
“How much time do you need? It’s the natural development of a relationship between man and a woman, isn’t it?”
She could see Max interpreted her reticence as inexperience “I know. I’m just not ready, Max.”
He rolled off the bed. “Come downstairs, I’ll show the rest of the house.”
They wandered from room to room. It seemed such a waste to Caitlin that no one lived here and loved this gracious, old home. They walked through the walled garden. Max opened an ivy covered gate in the wall and they entered a formal garden with clipped box hedges and statuary.
“I’m glad these gardens are cared for,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I hate to see things die.”
He looked at her, his grey eyes thoughtful. “You’re grounded, Caitlin, strong. I’m afraid sometimes…”
“Afraid? Of what, Max?”
“We all live blindly on the edge of a precipice. If we overbalance…. “he picked a white rose and presented it to her.
She saw the drop of blood on his finger. “Oh Max look, you’ve pricked yourself.”
He shook his head dismissing it. “The thing is, Caitlin,” he went on, “
You
are one of those rare people. It would take an a lot for you to topple, and I have this feeling, this hope, that you can keep me from falling.”
She swallowed. “What on earth has made you feel this way?”
“I don’t know,” he said impatiently, running his hands through his hair. “You don’t want to marry me, do you?”
“Oh, Max. You took me by surprise that’s all. I care about you. Don’t you know that?”
“But it’s not enough!”
“I guess it’s just too soon,” she repeated. Feeling confused she wandered away down the path.
“I think we should leave now,” Max called.
She turned back to him. “Leave? I thought we were staying here for the whole weekend.”
“This place bores me. I want to get back to the city.”
Caitlin guiltily followed him inside. She’d spoiled their weekend. If only he hadn’t sprung things on her so matter-of-factly. If he’d been more romantic would she have said yes? Did she love him, or was she just in love with the idea of love? She looked out the window. The mist rolled in, obliterating everything in its wake.
“I’d like to stay and see the old house properly. Can’t we do that? Anyway, the fog makes that road too dangerous.”
“I told you, I can drive it blindfolded. You can stay here, but I’m going.”
There was nothing for it, she would have to go along with him. She picked up her overnight bag from the hall as he went to speak to Brigitte.
At least he put the hood up on the car. He turned out of the gates onto the cliff road and accelerated. The thought crossed Caitlin’s mind that perhaps he might want to fall, to slip away over the side and end this awful anguish he felt inside.
And take her with him.
Her heart began to hammer in her chest as the cliff flew by them at a dizzying speed. The sea below had disappeared in a swirling, grey blanket of fog. Damp invaded the interior of the car and clung to their clothes in ghostly tendrils. Max braked into a bend then accelerated out of it, driving so fast that the tires squealed on the road. She opened her mouth to implore him to slow down, but instinct told her it would just make things worse.
Caitlin pressed her hands between her knees and prayed, her eyes never leaving the road. A sharp bend came and they were round it, then another. She was telling herself they would make it, with luck on their side, when a truck appeared around a corner, traveling in the opposite direction. Max hit the brakes and the car slid sideways across the narrow road.