Chapter Thirteen Back to Previous Chapter Kellynch had that terrible atmosphere Walter always noticed in a house of sickness: voices artificially hushed, hasty footsteps gently placed, the ineffectual light of a few candles casting long, distorted shadows. His profession had accustomed him to such a mood, but tonight Kellynch seemed haunted; whether by the ghosts of his long-dead ancestors, or the fading spirit of Sir Bernard, or by the shade of his own hopes was impossible to tell. The housekeeper took his hat and led him up to Sir Bernard's bedchamber. Eileen was there, her father's hand wrapped within her own. Mr. Maxwell, the local apothecary, stood nearby, dripping something into a glass of water and stirring it. Eileen rose as Walter approached, whispering, "Dad, here's Mr. Musgrove." When she turned toward Walter, the strain in her expression, her eyes enormous in her pale face, were like a knife in his chest. In front of the apothecary, he could only take her hand and press it as they exchanged silent, speaking glances before she passed from the room. The apothecary stopped to tell Walter in a low voice, "There is no immediate danger, but do not allow him to become overly excited." Walter nodded, and Maxwell left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Walter took the chair that Eileen had vacated. Sir Bernard's face was as pale as the sheet upon which he lay. His hair seemed whiter than Walter remembered. His breathing was laboured. His eyes, however, still had all their customary sharpness; the "spell," as the groom had called it, had weakened his body, but it had not impaired his mind. "Mr. Musgrove," he said. He expelled his words convulsively, spitting them in batches with each laboured breath. "I might not--see--the morning--and there--is much--I would--say--to you." "The apothecary seems to disagree with your diagnosis, sir," Walter replied with a smile. "The apothecary," Sir Bernard said, "is not Irish." He began to laugh, which brought on a coughing fit that alarmed Walter somewhat until the older man regained his breath. He spoke again, his words more disjointed than ever as he fought for air. "What are--your intentions--toward--my daughter?" Walter had expected anything but that question; startled into frankness, he responded, "I mean to marry her, if she'll have me." Sir Bernard closed his eyes and nodded. After a moment he looked up at Walter. "That is well. You look after her." "I will, sir." "And Michael?" "Of course. Michael is already like a brother to me. I'll see him through Cambridge if you cannot." The older man smiled. "I thought so. I had to ask. I thank you." Walter nodded, unable to think of a proper response. "You're the man for my Eibhlín. I knew it the first time I saw you together. Look after my girl." He closed his eyes again for a moment. "And Michael. He'll take my passing hard." "There's no need for such talk, sir. Would you like me to pray with you?" Sir Bernard waved a hand dismissively. "An old sinner like me is past prayers." "With respect, sir, I do not believe that." He shook his head, but said nothing; the only sound was his struggle for breath. "I'll fetch Mr. Maxwell then," said Walter. Sir Bernard nodded weakly. Walter stepped out of the bedchamber and held the door for the apothecary. Eileen tried to follow Maxwell into the room, but Walter gently prevented her. "Let Mr. Maxwell tend to him," he said softly. She closed her eyes, and a single tear squeezed out and ran down her cheek. Walter reached up with his thumb to brush it away; he then opened his arms, and she sank against his chest. He cradled her against him, stroking her back in a gentle, soothing rhythm; she did not weep, but allowed him to hold her. Her hair tickled his nose, but he would not have moved for the world. She allowed herself a long moment of indulgence; then she placed her hands against his chest and resolutely pushed away, and was again brisk and businesslike. She would not look at him. "I have not yet thanked you for coming out here in the middle of the night," she said. "Pray do not mention it," he said. "I hope that you know that I am always at your family's service." "Have you seen Michael?" she asked him. "My father would not allow him in the bedchamber, and he went off to sulk." "No, I have not seen him." "He is probably in the library. Will you go and talk to him?" "Of course. Send a servant to fetch me if you need me." "I will." She took his hand and pressed it. "Thank you again, Mr. Musgrove." Walter made his way to the library and, as Eileen had predicted, found Michael within, sprawled in a chair, his expression rebellious. He looked around as Walter entered, and rose hastily. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you were Eileen." "I see that your manners toward your sister have not improved in any event. Why are you not upstairs?" "No point, is there? Dad won't let me be in the room with him." He turned away, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his thin shoulders rounded, as though he built a wall surrounding him, protecting him against an assault from without. "He did the same thing when my mother was sick. ‘Keep the boy away. Don't let him see.' I could hear her asking for me, and he wouldn't let me see her. Not till she lay dead in her coffin." Michael's face was twisted and pinched. "I never had a chance to say goodbye. Everyone knew she was dying and I never had a chance to say goodbye. It'll be the same with my dad, because he's a stubborn old man who still thinks I'm five years old!" Surprise mingled with compassion in Walter's heart. Michael's light-hearted demeanour had never before revealed such depths of emotion. His mother's death had never seemed to weigh upon him much, but it was clear that somewhere deep within him was a wound that had never completely healed. "I will try to persuade your father to see you," he said. "The apothecary is of the opinion that he is not in immediate danger." Michael looked around at this. "Truly?" "I would not lie to you about such a matter, Michael. You are no longer a boy, and you should not be treated as one." "Tell my dad that!" "I will, if you will take care to act like an adult to deserve it. Now come upstairs and see to your sister. She needs you nearby, and your sulking does not help her." Michael nodded and followed Walter upstairs. Eileen was pacing the passage, and Michael went to her immediately and embraced her. "Sorry," he mumbled into her hair. "I didn't mean to worry you, Eileen." Walter smiled and scratched at the door to Sir Bernard's bedchamber. The apothecary's voice came from within: "Enter." Sir Bernard's breathing was less laboured, but he was still pale and weak. Walter went to his side and said, "Michael would like to see you, sir." "No, no," said the older man weakly. "The boy should not see me like this." "With all due respect, sir, there are some things that no one can protect him from. Do not shut him out now. He needs to see you, and I dare say you need to see him." Sir Bernard closed his eyes for a long moment; Walter wondered if he'd drifted off to sleep. Then the older man said, "Very well. Let him in." Walter went to the door and beckoned Michael in. The young man crept over to his father's bed, and said, "How are you, Dad?" Several forceful expulsions of breath indicated that Sir Bernard had found his son's artless question amusing. "Well enough, son, well enough." Michael knelt by the bed. "Please don't send me away again, sir." His head dropped down and came to rest upon his father's shoulder. Sir Bernard weakly caressed his son's hair. "No, lad." Eileen turned to Walter and said softly, "And now I have something else to thank you for." "As I said, I am at your family's service, Miss Gilbride--and yours." Her hand brushed his, and he grasped it, lacing his fingers through hers. She did not pull away. At first, there was hope for Sir Bernard's recovery. He had a brief rally a week or so after his first attack, but as the long summer days passed in their turn, hope faded. He became weaker and paler, a mere shell of the man whose laugh had rung through the halls and whose personality could barely be contained within the big house. By the end of August he found it nearly impossible to talk, having to use much of his energy to breathe, but liked to have his family around him. He stopped taking nourishment, a circumstance that made them all understand that the end was near, for never had a man enjoyed his victuals like Sir Bernard Gilbride. Walter spent hours reading to Sir Bernard, which gave Eileen some reprieve from her constant attendance upon her father. Sometimes Sir Bernard would motion him to stop reading, and they would converse briefly; usually a rather one-sided affair, as the older man's breathing difficulties did not permit much conversation. One afternoon he said to Walter, "Eibhlín--she gives--difficulty?" Walter understood his meaning. "Under the circumstances, sir, I have not pressed my suit." Truth be told, they were all so worn down with care and concern that there had been no thought to spare for romance. Eileen always seemed grateful for his presence, and that was enough. "Stubborn," the old man muttered. "Redheaded--headstrong--stubborn. Mother--same." He reached out and seized Walter's hand. "You--try. You--try." "I have not given up, sir," said Walter with a smile. Sir Bernard gave a breathless hoot of laughter and whispered, "Good. Good. Do--not. Worth it--son. Believe--me." He sank back on his pillow, pale and exhausted. One bright, warm morning in August, a note arrived at the parsonage from Eileen saying that her father had passed away in the night. The coolly polite note prepared him somewhat for his reception. Unlike the night her father had fallen ill, Eileen did not allow Walter to see her innermost emotions. She shook his hand, and thanked him for coming, as civilly as she might have welcomed him on any ordinary day. He suppressed a flush of anger, the first emotion raised by Eileen's repulsion. It was hardly a Christian reaction at such a time. He revised his plan of spending the morning at Kellynch to paying a short condolence call and making what funeral arrangements could be made; but this plan, infinitely more admirable than its predecessor, fell in its turn. Michael's grief was complete and devastating. Walter had never known such close loss; his parents were alive and well, as were his many aunts and uncles. His Musgrove grandparents had gone to their eternal rewards after long lives well-lived, and his Elliot grandfather had never had much time for him, so his death had hardly registered on a seven-year-old boy. He was shocked by the vehemence of Michael's anger, and Walter felt wholly unable to offer counsel or comfort. "It's not fair," Michael raged. "First my mum, and now my dad. Why me? Why are my parents taken away when I see so many other people live to be old? Why couldn't one of my parents live?" "We are not meant to know that," Walter said, knowing that however true his words might be, they would bring scant comfort. "You'll see your parents again one day--" "I don't care about that. I don't care, I tell you! I want them here now, with me!" He stopped and covered his face with his hands. "I want my dad here." Wrenching sobs shook his body. Walter reached out, unsure what to do; but Eileen, whom he had not known was in the room, moved around him to embrace Michael. "It's just us now, little brother," she said, so softly Walter could barely hear her. "We shall look after each other, shan't we?" He would not--he could not intrude. Walter silently departed and left them to grieve their dead. Autumn dropped her golden web over the village. The parsonage garden put off its youthful green and took on the warm yellow colours, a last desperate grasp at gaiety before the long deep slumber of winter. Michael looked up from the slate where he was working a problem in spherical trigonometry, his eager mind having advanced greatly beyond the Euclidean formulae that had given him such trouble in past times. "Do you think I'll be ready to sit the examinations for Cambridge, sir?" "I believe so. Are you certain that is the course you wish to take? You are a very wealthy young man; you'll have no need to earn your living." "I believe I shall like being a scholar," said Michael. "Besides, that's what my Dad wanted." Walter smiled. In the weeks since his father's death, Michael had taken on a becoming new maturity; a gravity, a deeper knowledge of loss, a recognition of his new role as head of the family and his sister's protector. "Eileen asked me about it this morning," Michael added as he returned to his problem. "That is why I asked you." She would not be troubled to ask me directly. He had seen little of Eileen since her father's death. "How is your sister holding up?" "Well enough, I suppose. You know Eileen." Michael was already reabsorbed into the neatly-ordered world of sines and cosines. Walter thought he had known Eileen, at least a little bit, but now she was even more shut off to him than ever. After the burial, most times that he called at Kellynch, he was told that Miss Gilbride was not at home to visitors. Walter knew that Anne was a daily visitor, so he took the hint and stayed away, though he liked it little; but he understood that he must wait for Eileen. He would not intrude upon her grief. A chill drizzle fell through the night and persisted into morning, so Walter was not surprised to hear Eileen's gig at the time that Michael was expected for his lessons; but her old habit of staying for a visit seemed forgotten. By the time he got to the door, she was already driving away. Within a few hours the rain had stopped and the sun emerged, so Walter and Michael walked in the shrubbery while they waited for Eileen to return. She was there at the appointed time, with the addition of a groom trailing behind on Michael's horse. "Ride on ahead," she told her brother. "I would speak with Mr. Musgrove." Michael looked his surprise, but obediently rode away. The groom took the horse's rein and stood waiting. Clearly Eileen did not mean to make a long stay. "Will you walk with me?" Walter asked her. "Or is it too damp for you?" "No, it is not too damp." They paced the gravel walk in silence for a moment. Finally Walter ventured, "I have missed our conversations." "As have I." "I have a notion that the last weeks have been difficult for you." "Yes." There was another silence. Time to screw your courage to the sticking-place, Musgrove. "Miss Gilbride--Eileen--I have something to ask you." She turned to him suddenly, her hand extended, her expression that of an animal cornered by a predator. "No. Wait, please, and hear what I have to say. I have come here to thank you for your many kind services to me and to my family, and to say goodbye." "Goodbye? Are you leaving Kellynch?" "Yes. Michael and I are returning to Ireland." Walter could not breathe. His heart pounded in his chest, steady beats that filled his chest. He had never felt so cold in his life. He stood on the path and stared at her, unable to speak. Eileen would not look at him. Her words came out in a rush. "I cannot stay at Kellynch by myself, especially when Michael goes off to Cambridge. It would be most improper; you must see that. A cousin in Dublin has kindly offered us a home, and--" "You could stay," Walter interrupted. "You could stay--not at Kellynch, but at Uppercross. Stay as my wife." Eileen's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though she were in great pain. "Your offer is most kind and generous, sir, but I must decline it." "Why?" He was nearly shouting. "Good God, Eileen, you must know my feelings for you! And I am persuaded that yours are not much different. Can you deny that you care for me?" "No," she said. "But it cannot be." "It can," he said, seizing her hands. She drew them back. "What of Miss Clay?" "What of her? No matter what some gossiping busybody may have told you--" "I have heard gossip, certainly; but I hope you know that I would never base my decision on such." Her eyes met his fully. "Walter, I've seen the way you look at her." "There is nothing between Miss Clay and me," he said. "There was once, yes, but it is long over." "Is it?" Her eyes glittered. "As recently as the ball at Kellynch last May, it seemed otherwise." "I was in my cups!" "In vino veritas. Do you not see? She would always be between us, a third in our marriage. I cannot live like that." "Do you not trust me?" "I trust you. I do not trust myself." He could not counter such an argument; he could only ask, "When do you leave?" in an attempt to determine how much time he had left to prevent it. "The day after tomorrow." "So soon!" he cried in dismay. "Michael said not a word." "Michael does not yet know." Astonishment was turning to anger. "He does not know? You would root up the boy from what has become his home, everything familiar, so soon after his bereavement? I had not thought you capable of such shabby dealings, Eileen. Do you hate me so much that you must punish your brother along with me?" "Hate you? I do not hate you, sir." She glanced at him and quickly looked away. "Quite the opposite. And that is why I must leave as soon as I can." She walked quickly toward the garden door. "Eileen," he cried, following her, "I ask you--I beg you--do not leave. Stay. Stay with me, please. I love you. For God's sake, don't leave me!" She raised her hand to dash away tears. "Goodbye, Mr. Musgrove." She ran out of the garden and to the gig. She snatched the reins from the groom, who barely had time to climb up behind before she drove off. Walter stood in his garden; the dry leaves that swirled around his feet were as lifeless as his very soul. The parsonage was quiet; too quiet. Walter missed Michael. He missed teaching the young man, watching his mind expand like a sponge, soaking up knowledge and brightening the house with his presence. He missed Eileen, too; missed her unannounced visits, missed seeing her digging in the garden, or perusing his library as she waited for a lesson to end. He found himself listening for the sound of her gig outside. He was listlessly writing a letter when he heard it; a carriage rolling up to the parsonage. When he saw the passenger disembark, his heart leapt within him, beating fast and heavy. He went to the door, unwilling to wait for the housekeeper to announce his guest. She stood in the doorway, her hair catching the sunlight in a warm glow. She was beautiful, and the sight of her made him smile. The housekeeper took one look at the rector and left them alone. They stood silently for a few moments, and finally she spoke. "I must beg your pardon most sincerely for the abominably rude manner of my leaving Somerset," she said. "There is no need," he assured her. "It is good to see you again, Gwen." Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.