The Seeing

Chapter Seventeen

The last guests and mourners departed Easter Hill later that afternoon, with only Eric and Maud Griffith and Angus Ryan staying on in the library with Jessica, a quiet group seated at the glowing fireplace.

The household staff had found a therapy for their grief during the long day by caring for friends and visitors who stopped by to pay respects, setting out sliced cold meats, preserves, and custards on the sideboard of the dining room and passing drinks and sherries on silver trays to those in the great hall and drawing room.

The tones of the library were soft in the fading spring sunshine, the carved arms of chairs and sofas and the leather bindings of books catching golden reflections from the shining bay windows.

Eric found himself comfortably at home here, relaxed in a huge leather chair with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a view of meadows and trees stretching off to the sea. He liked the look of the books reaching to the dark timbered ceilings and savored the perfection of his Waterford goblet, the smokey taste of the Irish wiskey.

What a blissful, relaxing change from the haste and confusion of the last few days. After the first televised reports of Andrew Dalworth’s death, they had scrambled frantically to get their tickets and pack for the trip to Ireland, with Tony Saxe haggling over money and Maud being her usual pain-in-the-derriere, matching silk scarves to tweed suits, and pearls to black silks — a petulant, time-wasting process — all of that plus the last detour on the way to the crowded airport, the cab ride to the dingy shop off Front Street to bargain with the bald old man about the silly trinket till they almost missed the plane.

With the taste of sour copper in his mouth, the nerve-frazzling Customs at Shannon, the disorientation of jet lag, the expensive rented car and driving on the wrong side of the curving country roads — well, it was good to stretch out his legs and sip a whiskey and feel at home.

Maud was making herself agreeable to Jessica and Angus Ryan, something she was proficient at when such efforts coincided with her own interests. Jessica told her about Windkin, her studies at school, and her stamp and coin collections, while Eric allowed Angus Ryan to ramble on in his boring brogue about the industrial expansion in southern Ireland and the present offerings at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin.

Eric’s mood was ambivalent. He relished these graceful surroundings, so subtly speaking of privilege and class, yet the knowledge that they belonged, not to him, but to his solemn and haughty little niece was stirring resentments in him.

Mrs. Kiernan, the stout old biddy from the kitchen, had sniffed in disapproval when he had gone to the sideboard for this last whiskey. He knew from experience how long a nose house-staff had for money: they peeked at labels in jackets, they heard the gossip behind your back when you were gone, and if you happened to be out of a job or overdrawn, it was like wearing a leper’s bell around the neck. Even the lumbering brute of a collie (Fluter, was it?) had taken a dislike to Eric, growling and baring his teeth when he only so much as poked his head into Dalworth’s private study, a teak-pannelled room connected to the library and fitted with files and phones, a desk, and a display of antique hand-guns.

Angus Ryan pulled an old-fashioned gold watch from his vest pocket. “Well, I’d best be thinking about my train.” With a smile at Jessica, he said, “Lass, shouldn’t you be wanting a little rest?”

“I’m all right, sir. I think I’d prefer to go down to the stables to talk with Windkin for a few minutes. But I’ll wait till you’re off to the station.”

I’d prefer this, I’d prefer that, Eric thought moodily. Such a high-toned little miss with her fine manners and Dalworth’s millions, and not toddling off obediently with a swift smack on her behind if there were any complaints about it. That was very likely what she needed, spoiled rotten by an indulgent old sugar daddy, the same as the staff in the kitchen, who could also use a reminder about who were the servants and who were the masters here.

Maud said, “Eric, we’ve got to be leaving, too, but first I want to show you this view from the bay windows...” Taking the glass from his hand, she put it on a table and led him to the far end of the library where she pointed out over the fields and spoke to him in a low, angry voice, “Goddamn it, get your mind onto why we’re here. Stop swilling whiskey and playing the lord of the manor.”

“I’ve got as much right here as anybody,” Eric said sullenly.

“Talk to the old fool, talk to him now.” Smiling and raising her voice, she said, “The sun on the hills is just breathtaking.”

“Simply marvelous,” Eric turned and joined Angus Ryan who had stood to examine a fine woodcut in a hand-carved frame.

“Mr. Ryan, could I have a word with you?”

“Why, indeed you may, Mr. Griffith.” Angus Ryan looked steadily at Eric, a faint smile brightening his shrewd blue eyes. “And what word is it you want with me, sir?”

Eric heard (or believed he heard) a dry, pointed tone in the solicitor’s voice. And he didn’t like the way Ryan was regarding him, sharp eyes glittering beneath tangled eyebrows. Of course, this wouldn’t be a country yokel of a lawyer, not with Dalworth’s fortune to look after.

Eric glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Jessica was out of earshot. She was indeed, seated at the fire with Maud, leafing through an album of photographs.

“It’s just this, Mr. Ryan. Since you are the executor of the Dalworth estate and Jessica’s legal docent or advisor, and since Mrs. Griffith and I are the child’s only relatives, I thought it might be useful if we had a talk to discuss our mutual responsibilities.”

“If you see the need for such a meeting, of course, I am at your service. But I think you should know in advance that my responsibilities are neither flexible nor negotiable. They are spelled out precisely by the terms of Mr. Dalworth’s will.”

“Naturally, I assumed they would be,” Eric said. “However, as Jessica’s blood kin, I also have responsibilities.”

“Ah, yes.” Again the tone was honed and dry. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Griffith. I take it you and Mrs. Griffith aren’t on a rigid schedule?”

“That’s right, Mr. Ryan. We’re at the Hannibal Arms.”

“It is indeed fortunate that you have this free time coincident with Mr. Dalworth’s demise. May I suggest we meet in my offices in Dublin, say, a week from today?”

Eric smiled. “Perhaps I could give you lunch, Mr. Ryan.”

“The office will do nicely, Mr. Griffith. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

As they turned back toward the fireplace, Maud opened her handbag and removed a heart-shaped golden locket on a fine, slim chain. “I’d like you to have this, dear,” she said to Jessica.

“It’s very lovely,” Jessica said. “But I think I’m too young to wear jewelry...”

“What a sensible attitude,” Maud said with a quick smile. “But this is special, my dear, and I think you’ll enjoy having it. You see, Jessica, this locket belonged to your mother.”

For the first time in that long and painful day, there was a glint of tears in Jessica’s eyes. She took the small gold heart from Maud and impulsively threw her arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.

“Couldn’t you and Uncle Eric stay here a while with me at Easter Hill?”

“What a very sweet child you are.” Maud smiled mistily at Eric and Angus Ryan and touched a handkerchief to the corner of her eye.

Christ, it would soon be slopping over at this rate, Eric thought. Trust Maud for the maudlin... At least she hadn’t forgot to remove the price tag from the locket, which they’d bought in a Philadelphia pawn shop on their way to the airport.

In the following few days, the Griffiths settled easily into the unhurried existence at Easter Hill, with breakfast trays in the morning, luncheons on the terrace overlooking Capability Brown’s gardens, and dinners at night in the large dining room with its inlaid ceiling of harps and shamrocks and — a deference to older customs — the small choir-loft, which, Jessica had explained to them, was used only for holiday programs and pantomimes.

Eric kept a tight rein on his drinking. It required discipline to listen with attention, to stroll as a guest through rooms and gardens, which he was convinced, if there were any justice at all, belonged just as much to him as they did to his preposterously lucky little niece.

The complexity of the plans were a healthy therapy against his resentments, however, and he spent the first few days at Easter Hill unobtrusively photographing furniture and objects of art in the gardens and in the rooms of the house he had access to — the great hall, the library, the drawing room, and various of the upstairs suites.

For the benefit of the staff, he played the part of the amiable American tourist and uncle, compiling a family album, taking many shots of Jessica walking in the orchards and gardens or posed in front of statues and highboys. And late in the evening, using a night-time lens and flash, he compiled a pictorial record of French chairs and sofas, a Louis XV Bombay commode, an Ormolu-mounted tulip-wood bureau, a Henri II desk chair, a choice collection of Chinese porcelain figurines, Directoire settees, antique Aubusson tapestries and Chinese rugs, many small bronzes, animals studded with precious stones and, in the formal fruit arbor, a pair of garden seats enameled with peacocks and flowers and, at the fountain, a reclining horse in bisque-fired clay and a pair of brass and ivory dolphins.

When the list was as complete as he could make it without arousing the suspicions of the maids or old Flynn, Eric excused himself on a fine, clear morning and drove into the village of Ballytone.

Lunching at the Hannibal Arms, he struck up an acquaintance with two American tourists. One of them had the ridged forehead of a prize fighter, and the other, dark-haired and swarthy, wore several bright rings on his fingers. Both men wore sport shirts and sunglasses and carried cameras. The new acquaintances stood each other rounds of Guinness at the fireplace in front of a low table which was supported by a pair of thick and wrinkled elephant hooves two feet high and trimmed with brass.

After a discussion of prices in Ireland as opposed to New Jersey and the common afflictions created by jet lag, the man with the rings cleared his throat and looked at Eric.

“When do you see Ryan?” Tony Saxe asked him.

“At the end of the week. I have an appointment with him in Dublin.” Eric took several rolls of film from his pocket and placed them on the table. “I’d like you to get those developed for our next meeting, Benny. Also, you can make the reservation at the Dorchester in London for Maud and Princess Jessica...”

“The Dorchester!” Benny Stiff grinned at Tony Saxe. “In the old days, Tony, Maud could make do with a motel and a coffee machine on the Jersey Pike.”

Eric said pleasantly, “Benny, it’s that kind of birdbrain thinking that’s made you a loser all these years.”

“Now listen, Eric, don’t—”

“I’m not interested in your comments,” Eric looked evenly from Benny Stiff to Tony Saxe. “I don’t intend to economize on accommodations for Jessica Mallory in London or for my wife, Maud, the child’s only living aunt. Have you both got that straight?”

“Well, sure, Eric,” Tony Saxe said, shrugging and glancing at Benny who nodded and looked impassively at the backs of his powerful hands.

There had been a subtle change in the relationship of these three men since they had learned what Eric had done on that sunny morning in Chester County, the small, blue car smashed and broken at the bottom of a mica pit, the rose-hip jelly blending with the blood on the windshield.

It had been the kind of absolute gesture they had not truly believed Eric was capable of. But, as was always the case in such surrenders of control or innocence, there was forever-after the ominous and constant implication that such surrenders would only be easier the next time... And it was this awareness that was evident now in Stiff’s and Saxe’s reluctant acceptance of Eric’s authority.

“Well, all Benny meant,” Tony Saxe said, “was that we should take it a little easy on the bankroll. But you’re right, we can’t be chintzy with the kid and Maud.”

“Not to worry,” Eric said, and for the benefit of the publican, Tige Wicks, he said with a wide smile, “Always good to run into one’s countrymen like this. Here, Mr. Saxe, take my number. Perhaps you’d care to come up to the house for cocktails one night.”

The following morning Eric asked Jessica to show him some of her favorite views, and while they were walking the horses in the meadows below Skyhead, Eric introduced phase three of his plan.

“Jessica, I wonder if you could do me a small but special favor...”

“What is it, Uncle Eric?”

“It’s your aunt. That is to say, it is something you can do for her. She’s been more than a bit depressed by the circumstances here. She was just a young girl herself when her own parents died.”

“She didn’t say anything about that to me...”

Eric nodded gravely, “Of course she wouldn’t, Jessica. That’s like Maud. But she needs a change; a week or two in London would be ideal. The trouble is, I can’t get away from here. There’s a Mr. Saxe, a business associate of mine from America, who’s turned up unexpectedly. And I’ve promised to help him with some breeding stock up north.”

“Would she mind awfully going alone, Uncle Eric?”

“I’m afraid she would, dear. She needs a companion. You have probably noticed, Auntie Maud is not too strong.”

“And is that the favor, Uncle Eric?” Jessica waited quietly, watching her uncle’s face thoughtfully.

“Yes. I think it would be a fine trip for both of you. But there’s just one more thing.” Eric regarded the young girl with one of his quizzical smiles, the kind that older women so many years ago had savored as ‘boyish.’ “Knowing Maud, she would be reluctant to ask you herself, Jessica. She’s quite shy and formal in some ways. So I wonder if we could just pretend it was all your idea?”

Eric sighed and raised his eyes to the towering peaks of Skyhead. The faint, salty breezes stirred his fine hair. “How proud my sister would have been of her little girl,” Eric said, the words soft and muted by the winds from the sea.