All Desires Known

By Malcolm Macdonald

When this book was first published by St Martin's Press in New Your and Headline in London, in 1993, it attracted the following notices:
* If lavish romantic page-turners set your heart pounding, [this book] could be just the thing to fire up a chilly winter's evening — Irish Voice
* A most entertaining romantic read [with] the added interest of its Irish setting. [Macdonald] is an acknowledged expert on the history of the last [=19th] century. It shows in the authentic nature of his writing about old Dublin and environs — Irish Press
* ... combines strong characters and a brisk narrative full of trenchant observations about life, love, and the eternal communications problems between the sexes — Publishers Weekly
* Talk-talk-talk and much of it bright and appealing — though, overall, the whole is a shade less lively than Macdonald's feisty-lady portraits or the gossipy Hell Hath No Fury — Kirkus

And, of the writer himself:
* He is every bit as bad as Dickens – Martin Seymour-Smith

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malcolm Macdonald
• Release date: Dec 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311506566

Malcolm Macdonald

Malcolm Macdonald is the Vicar of St Mary's Church in Loughton, England and has seen the church grow significantly in his time there. His heart is to see revival, growth and freedom in the UK church. He regularly teaches at conferences in England.

Book preview

Chapter 1

LUCY HAD NEVER SUNK SO LOW in all her life. Imagine! The Honourable Lucinda Raven, youngest daughter of Lord Mountstephen… the brightest and most talked-about young hostess in Dublin society… to have to stoop to this ! Michael would only kill her if he ever found out.

She drew a deep breath and – praying that her veil was ten times more impenetrable from the outside than it seemed to her from within – turned to face the man with whom she had to do this awful, terrifying, monstrous thing.

I’ve… er, that is… I never did this before, she stammered.

He peered at her dispassionately over his half-moon glasses. Thank heavens the light in here was dim. Those eyes had seen everything, every variety of human depravity. Her fall from grace was a drop in the ocean to him. There’s a first time for everyone, my dear, he said mildly. Let’s have a look at what you’ve got, shall we? He stretched his hand toward her.

Instinctively she shrank from him. Was he allowed to call her ‘my dear’?

Well, I can’t compel you, he continued in those unshockable tones – and turned to the woman behind her.

But the woman behind her, an old Dublin shawlie who could sniff a hard case three streets away, nudged Lucy in the back and said, Gwan, love! May you never tread a worse step than that. Your man has a heart of sugar, so he has. She craned forward to see what Lucy had half unwrapped and then wrapped up again. The chamois-leather alone would have been worth three dinners to her and her family.

Lucy made the most of her slender figure, pressing herself tight against the counter and bending forward to shield her treasures from inquisitive eyes. But there were mirrors everywhere, and glass cabinets – dozens of surfaces to reflect the image of those sparkling jewels and fetch gasps of wonder, not alone from the old shawlie but from the other two customers, as well – a respectably dressed young woman waiting to pop a portable gramophone and four records, and an old man about to part with his teeth.

Such humble transactions gave point to the pawnbroker’s next words. Clamping a jeweller’s lens between his eyebrow and his cheek, he carried Lucy’s offering to the window. I’m afraid, Madam, he said – she was ‘Madam’ now – that these are far above my usual class of trade. I could offer you no more than a fraction of their value…

Sure you’re a-a-all heart! put in the shawlie, quite happy to contradict her previous assertion.

May I suggest that you try these people, instead? He wrote Webb & Co on a piece of paper and turned it to face her. They would surely know the value to a pound.

They’d surely recognize them, too, she said.

Ah! He pondered whether he should tell her how to handle old Webb and come away without too much loss of dignity.

Before he reached any conclusion, however, Lucy scooped up the jewelry, stuffed it hastily in the chamois pouch, and turned from him. I’ve made a mistake, she said. I’ll come back.

Why did she add that last promise? she wondered as she fled from the shop. All the dragoons in Dublin would never force her back there. Now, in her confusion she turned the wrong way down Eustace Street – though she failed to notice the fact until she was almost at the bottom, near the corner with Temple Bar. She had never been in this disreputable part of the city before and was amazed that she could feel so lost and alien; she was, after all, only a couple of hundred yards from Dame Street, which she knew so well. And its shops… too well.

She hesitated, not knowing which way to turn now. Somewhere to her right – less than half a mile – was Westmoreland Street, dear, familiar territory, too. The same was true of Parliament Street, which was to her left and probably even closer. But Dame Street, behind her, was closest of all. So, even though it meant passing that unspeakable shop again, she turned about and began to retrace her steps.

To her left was a house that resembled a tavern, though it had no name over the entrance and no sign hung out over the foot pavement. A respectable-looking man appeared at the side-door and stood there a moment, wiping his beard with a little flick of his knuckles – a gesture that was disconcertingly familiar to her, though she could not immediately place it.

Even when he gazed directly at her she did not at once recognize him; all she saw was a man who looked as if he’d just risen after two hours at a groaning table – a man in search of nothing more than a quiet place where he might enjoy a good snooze.

But then she recognized him.

Panic seized her. She forgot she was wearing a veil so impenetrable it plunged this rather bright March afternoon into a deep twilight – which must also explain why she had not recognized him at once. She forgot she was wearing clothes that no one on God’s earth – and certainly no one in Dublin – would associate with her. She forgot it was a good ten years since they had last met. All she knew was that she must get as far away from him as she could – and waste no time about it.

It was the worst possible decision, for – naturally – the sudden quickening of her pace and her general agitation drew his attention at once. She hadn’t gone two steps beyond him before he said – in tones whose incredulity matched hers – Lucy?

She hastened onward without turning.

Is it yourself? he continued, raising his voice as the distance between them increased.

She trotted as fast as the hobble of her skirt allowed. A moment later she heard him running to catch her up. Whoever you are, he called as he drew near, this bracelet is far too valuable to leave lying on the pavement.

No other words could have halted her so swiftly. She turned and saw him holding one of her bracelets flat in the palm of his gloved hand. She had not even heard it fall.

Ah… why … she mumbled incoherently as she reached for it… and then withdrew her hand without taking it. She could not touch him.

Even at the time the turbulence of her feelings struck her as strange. She and he had, in fact, parted the best of friends. A little sadly, perhaps, a little sentimentally, but in a friendly fashion for all that. He had said things like, ‘The best man won’. And she had said something stupid like she hoped they’d all have another life, and then the balance would tip in his favour – the sort of thing one says at awkward partings like that.

So why was she now behaving as if he were some sort of unexploded shell?

It was silly. She must stop it this minute.

"It is Lucy, isn’t it," he said, still holding forth her bracelet.

She smiled ruefully and nodded – though, of course, he could see nothing of her expression through her veil.

His eyes twinkled and she knew he was about to say something outrageous. I knew it, the moment you went past me. There’s no other woman in Dublin whose walk is quite so exciting as yours, Lucy.

Dazzler O’Dea! she exclaimed, taking the bracelet at last. You’re a thundering disgrace, so you are! You never change. How pleasingly calm her voice sounded, she thought, despite all the turmoil.

No, he replied, a sad light creeping into his eyes, I never changed.

Only then did she realize what a cunning thing he had done. By coming out with one of his famous ‘outrageous’ remarks, he had allowed her to respond with that sort of half-amused asperity which women are supposed to use on such occasions, when they know the fella means no harm. First he had calmed the emotional waters into which this chance encounter had thrown them. And then – the touch of a master – he tossed after it this little pebble of regret, whose ripples were now just reaching her, ripples she would never have noticed had he not first made all so smooth. "Sure why should you change, she said, determined not to let him get away with it, when all the world adores you as you are! I’m sure they still do – don’t they?"

He brushed the jibe aside with a smile, though she could see he was not very amused. Why did you hurry on by? he asked. He did not add: ‘You surely knew it was me’. But the accusation hung between them nonetheless.

Her flight had brought her to within a few paces of the pawnbroker’s; from his point of view, the dark shopfront framed her, with the three gilded balls suspended menacingly above her. She watched his eyes making all the right connections, finishing with the chamois-leather bag, which she now clutched tighter than ever in her hand. Ah, he said.

There was no detectable emotion in his tone at all – neither sadness nor (as there might well have been) a grim sort of satisfaction. It was a very workmanlike ‘Ah’, which suggested he was already thinking on her behalf. He concluded by pulling out his watch and saying, "Teatime! There’s a very good little café up in Dame Street." He raised his eyebrows.

Oh, I don’t know that I ought… she protested feebly.

What? he cajoled. We haven’t met in… eight? nine? years, and you…

Ten years, she interrupted. A fraction of a second later it struck her that he had misstated the interval deliberately – to see if she would correct him.

His smile confirmed it. How time flies when one is having fun, he said bleakly. "But surely you can’t just say ta-ta – nice to have seen you. We must do it again in another ten years. Has it really been ten years, Lucy?"

I’ve just had a wedding anniversary to remind me, she replied, partly to excuse her precision and partly to remind him of… the way it was now.

He stared at her coldly and then said, Yes. Of course.

And you? she asked brightly.

He shook his head, but then immediately made his denial ambiguous by saying, If we’re going to catch up on each other’s news – which I really would rather like to do, Luce – we can’t stand about out here, in this street of all streets.

She looked about her, reassessing their surroundings in the wake of this condemnation. Why? she asked. Is it especially… you know?

He laughed. "Oh, Luce! You always wanted to know everything!"

No one’s called me Luce for… ten years. It wasn’t true, actually, but it flattered him.

Well – shall we share this pot of tea or shan’t we?

She came to him smiling and took his arm; for some reason all her worries had evaporated. Dazzler had always been able to work that magic, somehow. He’d find a way out of this present mess, too – and without doing anything crass like offering to take her jewels in pawn to himself. Dazzler O’Dea! she said. I thought you were in Cork.

I was, he replied, giving his hat a tip as he caught sight of himself in the pawnshop window. But I’m back in Dublin now – for good, I hope.

You look a lot more prosperous than when you left, I must say.

"Anyone can look prosperous, Luce." He nudged her to show he didn’t mean it unkindly.

Ha ha, she said in a tone she hoped would dissuade him from further humour of that kind.

They had reached the corner with Dame Street. She paused and looked back into that alien world. "Is it very disreputable, Dazzler?" she wondered.

Out with it, he said. The question you’re dying to ask.

She rose to his challenge – as ever: "Was that one of those houses you came out of?"

It was, he replied evenly.

Oh. She felt herself blush and was grateful, once again, for the veil.

Hit the nail home, he continued. What good is a single tap?

She cleared her throat awkwardly. It’s none of my business, I’m sure.

It wasn’t, he agreed. Until you made it so. Not that I mind – not in the least. But you’ve left the furrow half-turned.

After a brief silence she said, Because the field seems to have an Irish bull in it as large as the Lucan tram! She laughed, hoping her wit would close the subject, for she fervently wished she had let his challenge lie.

I’ll tell you, then, he said, taking her arm and guiding her down the hill toward Parliament Street where – presumably – this café of his was to be found. I was collecting the rents for my Uncle Ebenezer. You remember Uncle Ebenezer?

I remember your Uncle Ebenezer, she said fervently. I doubt he ever forgave me.

He forgot it the next day, O’Dea assured her. Don’t give yourself airs. He’s the ground landlord for every building on that side of the street. If I hadn’t met you, I’d be calling at every single one of them now.

It was a polished performance, but she remembered that debauched glint in his eye, before he knew who she was. How is your Uncle? she asked.

Not too well, I’m afraid. I’m his leg-man now. He can’t get out as much as he once did.

I heard he’s in a sedan chair now?

Yes. Very sudden. Dazzler was awkward, wanting to move off the subject. But he has a good nurse. A strong colleen, up from the country. Perfectly suited to him.

Lucy wondered what sort of woman at all could be ‘perfectly suited’ to that ogre.

Then Dazzler told her. "She looks like the flaming-red-haired temptress beloved of three-volume novelists. But she’s the Ice Maiden, herself. No breath of passion has ever melted the frost that rimes her heart."

"My, my, Dazzler – there’s passion of some kind in that judgement!"

Tcha! He began to parody his distress. I give myself away at every turn! Still, she suits Uncle Ebenezer, and that’s all that really matters.

As they passed the Empire Theatre he paused to read the notices. And Lucy seized the chance to take stock of him. His mock grievance – that he gave himself away at every turn – was still in her ears. And all at once she realized it was true. He was no longer very good at hiding things to do with himself. Or had the intervening years taught her to pick them up a lot quicker? That was probably it. After all she had been a mere girl of seventeen, hardly out of the nursery, when they’d last met. And that was now more than ten years ago, in fact, for she was now twenty-eight. Twenty-eight years and ten days.

Sorry, he said as they resumed their stroll – something he would never have done in the old days. Then he had considered his passion for the music hall to be the most natural thing in the world. He probably still did – except that he now realized it was something to say ‘sorry’ about, too.

You were the last fellow to take me through those doors, she told him. D’you remember the fuss my father made?

Fuss, is it? he said drily. He ate me a mile off. The last straw, he called it.

It had been the last straw, too, though neither of them said as much now.

"All those … things!" she said vaguely.

Things?

Life-and-death things. We thought they were so important.

He made no reply to that.

And what’s important now? she asked glumly. Keeping our heads above water. It’s all dwindled down to that!

He held open the door of the café, arching his eyebrows to prepare her for his next question, or the closest he dared get to it: Michael must be doing well, surely? Consultant general surgeon at Eli’s… and his practice in Fitzwilliam Square… He helped her into her chair.

"You have kept yourself informed!"

My dear Luce, one cannot open a newspaper without seeing either your name or… His voice tailed off as she lifted her veil at last. His jaw dropped and all he could do was stare at her.

But not my photograph, obviously, she said in some embarrassment.

I’m sorry. He breathed in deeply and pulled himself together. I’d forgotten. Your eyes… I’d forgotten. Where were we? Oh yes – you seem to be on every worthy committee going, one or other of you. The Dublin Season has little to do with the Castle these days, they say. It begins when Mrs Michael Raven gives a select little dinner in Clyde Road…

Would you stop that! She waved away his blarney with a laugh.

…and it ends with a magnificent ball at that same address. Am I wrong?

The waitress came and took their order, which gave time for her amusement to expire.

Then, like a true devotee of the theatre, he gave her the cue he must have known she needed. He reached forward and tapped the chamois-leather bag. "Does all that expensive grandeur explain this little expedition?"

She slumped in her seat and nodded. "D’you know, Dazzler, if I’d met you in Dame Street on my way to that awful… mont de piété…"

Ah! he mused, how much more civilized it sounds in French!

…and if you’d said something like you said just now – about Michael doing pretty well – sure I’d have laughed and said never better!

"But ye cot me unawares,

a-bending on the stairs…" He half-sang it like a snatch of music-hall song – and then said – yet again – Sorry! He smiled sympathetically. You hardly need distress yourself with an explanation, Luce, he went on. It’s obvious to anyone that keeping up a position in society cannot be done on bread and cheese and kisses.

It was so easy in the beginning, she said.

Before the children came along – what is it now? Four?

She eyed him askance. Dear God! I’ll bet you know their names, too!

He made an arch of his hands and rested his chin there. He did know their names, she could tell; he was merely wondering whether or not to admit it.

Alice, Charley, Tarquin, and Portia? he said. At least he had the grace to make a slight question of it. Then, out of the blue, he added, What ever possessed you to go to a dingy little back-street pawnbroker like that, Luce?

What else should I do? she challenged. "Take them back to Webb? Say, ‘We gave you eight hundred for these – how much d’you want to take them back?’ I might as well put an announcement in the Irish Times."

Not at all! He laughed at her naïvete. You always were the extremist – all or nothing! Why not do what Lady Ardilaun herself would do…

Well, she’s certainly not hard up!

Precisely! Would you ever just listen! Do what Lady Ardilaun would do. Go back to Webb and say how unfashionable these baubles are and how tired you are of seeing yourself in them, and…

She cut him short. But he’d never offer more than four hundred.

His eyebrows shot up. You’ve tried already, then?

Of course not. But I know those jewellers. Webb wouldn’t give his own mother more than half what she paid.

Even so, four hundred is not to be sneezed at.

"It’s the other four hundred that would hurt."

You could call it the price of keeping up appearances?

She stared at him in something close to disgust. It’s easy for some to be so high and mighty, she said. May we talk about something else?

Surely! The smile never left his lips. Shall we talk about where you might get… what shall we say? Six hundred and fifty for them – and the chance to redeem them when needed?

It was bait, and she knew it – bait of the most flagrant kind. Also it showed her a new side to this man, new since the days when she had known him so well. It was hardly surprising that he should change in ten years, even a man as flamboyant and outgoing as Dazzler, but it made her wonder how well she knew him now – or even whether she knew him at all. The similarities between the man who now sat facing her and the gay blade she had once loved so dearly might be all on the surface – the looks, the clothes, the mannerisms… the shared memories. Inside, he might be… anybody.

For all her caution, however, she was too desperate to pass his offer by. Who? she asked in a whisper. Where?

He shrugged, as if he now wished to imply he had not been quite so positive. My Uncle Ebenezer? he suggested.

Chapter 2

UNCLE EBENEZER LIVED in one of the few remaining private houses in Sackville Street, just beyond the General Post Office; on those mornings when the sun shone, the shadow of Nelson, high on his pillar, laid a dark finger over the façade of the house, which Uncle Ebenezer took as his signal to rise. But he was up betimes on that first Thursday in March, when the Hon. Lucinda Raven was expected to call on a matter of some delicacy. In any case, no sun shone – not for Nelson, not for Lucy – as she stood on the far side of the street, peering at the place through the leafless branches of the trees that grew all down the central island. The cold breeze whipped around her while she fought a powerful urge to turn and flee. Even then, before she so much as set eyes on the old man, she had an intimation that this next hour of her life would change it forever – if she went through with this meeting at all.

On the face of it she would be doing nothing more than hundreds of others did every day. Old men pawned their teeth for pennies, just to stay alive; big magnates borrowed in the tens of thousands, to become bigger still – on the security of their existing assets. What was that but a respectable kind of pawning? Her own case, she decided, lay somewhere in between.

There was no doubt that six hundred-odd pounds would see her through the summer and make it another glorious season for Mr and Mrs Michael Raven. And where else might she lay hands on such a sum? Her father was in as parlous a state as she herself. The banks were losing patience…

Pardon me, ma’am, but are you lost? May I direct you? The gentleman, a Dubliner by his speech, took her unawares.

Oh, no thank you, sir. She smiled gratefully. I’m to meet a friend here. I’m a little early for her, that’s all. She thought she knew him vaguely, but, of course, in this city, where she knew hundreds by name, she knew thousands by sight.

Still he hesitated. Then, with a swift glance across the street, he tipped his hat and went his way. Was that a knowing grin on his face? Had he actually looked at Uncle Ebenezer’s – and leaped to the obvious conclusion? Guilty conscience fanned the fire of her doubts.

That decided her. Momentous, life-shattering step or no – trivial, everyday act or no – she realized she now had no choice but to go through with the whole wretched business. What was the alternative? Reduce the scale of her entertaining? Cut down on her committees and charities? She might as well hang a poster round her neck: PAUPER. A diplomatic illness might serve for a while – an attack of neurasthænia, say – but only for a day or two; she’d go insane if she had to feign some malady all summer. Besides, Michael’s practice in Fitzwilliam Square and his advancement at the Eli depended on her activity as hostess and leading light. Michael himself had said he’d lost count of the number of patients who mentioned her – her tireless work on this or that committee, her usefulness (by which they mean that she knew everybody, knew what they were up to, knew whose ear was best for bending in this or that case, knew who was presently allied with whom, and who had fallen out.) ‘An invaluable woman’, was the universal verdict. So a prostrating illness might save a little money, but it would cost them even more in lost income. In short, there was no escape from this present nightmare but forward.

She drew a deep breath and, seeing a lull in the traffic, stepped out across the street.

Uncle Ebenezer, sitting in his wheelchair, well back in the dark interior of his morning room, murmured, Good. She’s decided to burn her bridges at last.

His nurse, Diana Powers, who had just that moment entered the room, was not sure the remark had been addressed to her; but when Mr O’Dea added Eh? she replied that she wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

She’s been standing there, across the street, for the past five minutes, running over all the other possible ways out of her dilemma.

Who? Diana asked.

The lady who is about to ring the bell.

The clamour echoed faintly from the kitchen, even as he spoke.

Wheel me to the door, he said.

As the maid passed he told her to show the visitor into the drawing room and to explain that it would be two or three minutes before he could join her. He shut the morning-room door and put a finger to his lips, warning his nurse to be quiet. They hardly breathed until they heard the drawing-room door close.

The maid came to them. It’s a Mrs…

I know, he interrupted. It’s all right, Sarah. I’ll go to her in a little while. When the maid had withdrawn he added, We’ll let her stew a minute or two longer. Tell me Nurse Powers, did you ever come across a surgeon called Raven – Michael Raven?

She gave a start. Then, seeing it had pricked his interest, she confessed the barest minimum – that she had known a medical student of that name when she had trained at the Adelaide.

The answer did more then merely prick his interest. He spun his chair round and faced her, showing a surprising turn of speed for a portly, sedentary man in his sixties. Did you really? he asked. Sit down, do, and tell me more. The Michael Raven I’m referring to is also a Protestant, so we’re almost certainly thinking of the same fellow. What did they say of him in those days? You know he’s one of the principal surgeons in Dublin now, I’m sure? Did he show any sign of it then? Did people pick him out as a man who’d go far?

Diana had regained her composure by now and was well able to talk about Michael Raven without betraying the slightest emotion; in any case, only the most feeble sentimental remnant remained within her these days – enough to make her jump at the unexpected mention of his name, and then die from even that trivial exertion. There were a fair few like him, sir, she replied.

In what way? What did they have in common?

"They were determined to shine. You know that look a man gets in his eye when he means to excel? And there’s others, you know equally well, who’ll be content to live and die in some wild country practice beyond the McGillycuddy Reeks. But fair dues to Michael Raven, he was unlike the others in one respect – he’d be as friendly to you after you were of use to him as he was when he only hoped you might render him some service."

Uncle Ebenezer looked quite toadlike when he smiled. "And were you ever able to render him some service, Nurse Powers?"

She raised her eyebrows for – apart from his very first interview with her – she could not ever remember his putting a personal question to her.

I do not ask idly, he added, as you shall see if this encounter with Mrs Michael Raven goes the way I expect it to.

Is that who she is?

He nodded, not taking his eyes off her.

The Honourable Mrs Michael Raven, Diana said. And yes, I did render him some small service. I helped him grind his third-year midwifery and thoracic pathology.

The old man winced. That sounds rather painful, if I may say so.

The nurse laughed. The worst pain was no more than pins-and-needles, sir. It involved sitting on the lawn asking questions like ‘What four signs distinguish the Tetralogy of Fallot?… What, if any, are the cardiac complications of Bright’s Disease?’ And so forth.

The jargon passed Uncle Ebenezer by but he could not recall a time when he had seen such a gentle glint in the eyes of this cold young lady. And you have not met him since? he asked.

She shook her head; her long, severe plait of bright-red hair slapped audibly between her shoulderblades. Our paths have never crossed, she added, as if he had accused her of avoiding Mr Raven deliberately.

So you know nothing of Mrs Michael Raven – apart from the fact that she’s the Honourable Mrs et cetera?

"Only what all Dublin knows, sir. That she’s in. She’s thick with everyone… has her finger on the pulse… you know."

"What they call a proper little quidnunc. Yes. Of course, such a way of life cannot be kept up on halfpennies – and hardly on guineas, either, if truth were told. I suspect that poor Mister Raven has been running as hard as he can, merely to stand still these past… how many years has it been?"

Ten years or so, she told him, though she knew it was precisely eleven years and seven months.

Would you like to be present at this interview, Nurse Powers? he asked suddenly, taking her aback.

I hardly think that’s for me… she faltered.

He saw a hard little smile twitch at the corners of her lips, though she swiftly pursed them and frowned again. It was all he wished to know for the moment: Nurse Powers and the Hon. Mrs Raven would never form an alliance – and even if they did, in some quite extraordinary circumstances, neither of them would trust it much. Again, he said, I do not ask the question lightly – though I have my reasons for not wishing to explain myself to you just yet.

He wanted her to be as surprised as possible at the proposal he was going to put to Lucy Raven – perhaps today, but more likely on some future occasion, when she was well and truly ‘softened up’, as artillery officers say. If Lucy even suspected that the nurse was already privy to the business – that he had sought her approval first – she would probably reject his plan out of hand. Judging his moment, he added, I would very much like you to be there.

She suppressed another smile and dipped her head, as if she were making a noble sacrifice of some minor scruple out of deference to him.

Then let us go, he said. Fuss over me a little. Bring me a glass of water as if it were medicine. For the next half hour I shall cease to be a mere cripple and become an invalid instead.

At the door to the drawing room he paused briefly, looked up at her, and said, If you ever wonder what really keeps me alive… He grinned and nodded in the direction of their as-yet-unseen visitor.

Chapter 3

UNCLE EBENEZER DREW A DEEP BREATH, gave a curt little nod to Nurse Powers, and reached forward to turn the drawing-room doorhandle. Lucy was standing near the window, gazing wistfully at the street, no doubt telling herself she could still back out. Apart from Dazzler’s promised word in his uncle’s ear the transaction had barely begun. Mrs Raven! the old man cried jovially the moment he saw her. How very kind of you to call after all this time. Of course, it’s only yesterday to me, but I know how long eleven years must seem to a youngster like you. And you haven’t changed a bit! He stretched forth his hands, making a sandwich of hers and shaking it warmly, a dozen times or more.

His cordiality made Lucy’s opening remark – that this was hardly a social call – seemed frostier than she had intended. But he was not in the least put out. Ah, he said pensively. How true, how sadly true. Allow me to present my nurse, Miss Diana Powers.

Lucy gave her a vacant smile and inclined her head slightly. Diana said, How d’you do, Mrs Raven, but did not proffer her hand.

Lucy sat down and said rather pointedly, It is, in fact, a matter of some delicacy, Mister O’Dea.

Uncle Ebenezer pretended not to follow, compelling her to indicate Diana by a glance. Oh, you mean Miss Powers, he said dismissively. Well, have no fear. She’s more than a nurse to me. She’s my amanuensis, my book-keeper, my conscience… in short, my recording angel – and the very soul of discretion, I do assure you.

He spoke with such finality that Lucy realized it would be fruitless to continue to press for her departure. She stared briefly at the young woman, but even so it was long enough for her to feel unnerved by her cold, almost reptilian gaze. Then, turning back to Uncle Ebenezer, said, rather off-handedly, It concerns some jewelry – a few bits and pieces I’ve grown rather tired of. They were the height of fashion, of course, when Michael bought them but now they irk me. I was on my way yesterday to see whether Mister Webb at Webb and Co. would buy them back. And then, by the merest chance, I ran across Dazzler. She smiled affectionately. After all these years! I had no idea he was back in Dublin. Anyway, he suggested you might go rather higher than Webb’s. I don’t know. I just wondered if you were at all interested?

The smile never left his face. May I be frank, Mrs Raven? he asked in his gentle, rather kindly voice.

Please, she replied, her heart already beginning to sink.

"There are no friends in business, of course. Yet I am – how shall I put it – tenderly aware of the friendship that existed at one time between you and my nephew. I feel, at the very least, that I owe it to you to say I am not in the least bit interested in buying old jewelry. Nor in advancing a payment upon its security."

Oh, Lucy said flatly. Advancing was a good word, though – so much mellower than lending. She popped it into memory.

He, meanwhile, was holding up a playful finger. But I am intensely interested in the reasons behind your desire to be rid of these… baubles.

But I told you – I’ve grown rather tired of them. I never wear them. They lie in the drawer, year after year, a standing temptation to robbers.

Uncle Ebenezer said nothing. He simply continued to stare at her with a somewhat melancholy expression.

At length Lucy felt uncomfortable enough to add, In any case, even if there were some… some more…

More urgent reason? he suggested.

"I was going to say more private reason, it hardly need concern you. Please, I don’t mean that in an offensive way."

"Of course not. I cannot imagine your being offensive, dear lady – even if you wished to be – which is also unimaginable. Oh dear! We are in something of a quicksand here. Let me be utterly, utterly frank then. The fact is, you see, that I have a business proposal in mind, but I am reluctant to put it to you openly because you might not view it in quite the same light as I do. You will not see it as I believe you ought to see it. In my opinion, you and your husband are absolutely made for the, ah, situation I have in mind. However, if the pair of you turned it down, I should – with the greatest reluctance, let me say – be forced to take my proposal to some less worthy physician. You might then see him as competition and – being forewarned – might use your considerable influence to scotch my idea and ensure its miscarriage. D’you appreciate my dilemma?"

Lucy discovered that all her misgivings and awkwardness had evaporated. With a grand upwelling of her usual confidence she replied, Indeed, I do, Mister O’Dea. But I fail to see how a closer inquiry into our circumstances might offer a way out of your difficulty.

Ah! His eyes twinkled and he seemed pleased she had made such a sagacious point. You see… But he bit off the rest of what he had intended saying and relapsed into thought. Then, with a wry little smile he went on, "This is either the moment when you stand up and storm out of my house – or we start to lay our cards on the table. So here we go: If I knew that your husband’s present practice, successful though it undoubtedly is, was not yet earning quite as much as you hoped for – and certainly less than you require – I should feel much less diffident in laying before you a proposal that would make you richer by far."

Lucy’s eyes went wide at this promise. She glanced swiftly at the nurse and was pleased to see that she was equally surprised at her employer’s words – though the woman resumed her masklike face the moment she was aware of Lucy’s attention. "It would be enough, I presume, to pay you a good return as well, Mister O’Dea?" she said.

Again the words seemed to please him. Was she saying all the correct, businesslike things? Or was it merely that she was feeding him the appropriate cues for whatever he wished to tell her next? She had no way of knowing, but he was certainly ready with an answer, every time. My interest in a continuing return, Mrs Raven, would be modest, I assure you. He smiled almost apologetically at the nurse, as if to warn her that she was about to see him in an unusual aspect. The truth is that a couple of years ago I acquired a certain property – that is to say, a chain of legal events placed it in my possession. I did not want it, but I had no choice in the matter. Unfortunately this property has proved, as I feared it would, to be something of a white elephant, and I have almost reached the decision to pull its roof off so as to avoid paying the rates, which are quite iniquitous. But I have decided to make this one last effort to use the place. I would be very happy to let it go for a peppercorn rent – even a caretaker lease – merely in the hope of increasing its capital value. There now! I have already said too much, perhaps? You must know which property I am speaking of?

Lucy frowned and shook her head. But in any case we already have a home, Mister O’Dea, she objected.

This is vastly larger than any home in Ballsbridge, Mrs Raven. He sighed and began to quantify his heavy burden: Sixty-four principal rooms. A ballroom larger than the RDS ballroom at Leinster House. Its own chapel and organ. Ten acres of landscaped garden. A hundred-and-two-acre home farm – that at least has a tenant, thanks be to God. But you see why I call it a white elephant! You can imagine the rates on such a place!

I can’t imagine which house it could be, Lucy said. I thought I knew pretty well every last place within thirty miles of Dublin – certainly every one of such grandeur as you have just described.

Killattin House, for instance? he suggested with something of a challenging air.

George and Millicent O’Brien’s place? she said at once. But that’s not empty. Nor, with all respect to them, is it quite as grand as…

I’m not saying it is. When were you last there, Mrs Raven?

Oh… heavens – years ago. I wonder if I could even find the place now. It’s out near Mount Venus, I think.

His smile suggested she was missing some vital point.

Millicent’s sister Etty is on the Dublin Day-Out committee with me, she added. Her husband died in that dreadful accident when the drain collapsed in Firhouse last year. They had to take their boy out of Clongowes and send him…

Or Porterstown House? Uncle Ebenezer interrupted again.

Philip and Margaret Flannery’s place. But they still live there, surely? Mind you, it’s a few months since last I saw them. Their little boy, Ian, had rheumatic fever just before Christmas, poor mite. Michael treated him at the Eli, but he’ll never be completely well again, I gather – and he was such an athlete. She frowned. And come to think of it, Porterstown House is also out near Mount Venus.

He nodded. His eyes twinkled merrily, and understanding dawned upon her at last. Are you talking about Mount Venus House itself? she asked. Good heavens!

Quite, he said.

But you know who built that place – or enlarged it to its present size?

He nodded. If I’m not mistaken, it was your father’s grandfather’s brother – I don’t know what that makes him to you.

"My great-great-uncle. Boniface Fitzbutler was his name. The only Roman Catholic in County Dublin they never dispossessed, so it was said. He never had to turn his coat. I always thought he must have been shamefully useful to them. You are talking about Mount Venus House –‘jewel of the Dublin Mountains’?"

He nodded. "So you’ll understand my reluctance to unroof the place – and my eagerness to see it earning a little money for a change."

But that house has bankrupted everyone who ever owned it, Mister O’Dea.

He pulled a face. I thank you for the reminder!

But it has. Boniface died in Tuscany, living on a remittance from my great-grandfather. Then a banker called Gorman acquired it – I think in default of a loan to Boniface…

Go on! Go on! Uncle Ebenezer said sarcastically. You’ll cut through to bone anon!

I’m only telling you. Gorman was forced to sell the place – within ten years, if I remember. Then there was a shipbuilder from the Clyde – Murchison, was it?

The old man was becoming fascinated despite himself. "D’you know the history of every great house in County Dublin, Mrs Raven? he asked. Or is it just that you have a particular reason to be interested in Mount Venus?"

Both-and, she replied. I could tell you the history of most of them over the last half century, I suppose. Though it’s not the houses, mind – not the bricks and mortar. It’s the people. Murchison was a crabby old fellow. My father knew him well – couldn’t shake him off, in fact. He kept pestering to be elected to the Kildare Street Club – though he knew fine well they wouldn’t let in anyone who lived within thirty-five miles of the Castle. He thought he could buy his way in. She laughed. But Mount Venus took every penny he had. He’s buried in Glasnevin and you’d walk past his grave and never give it a second glance! His wife is still alive. She’s companion to Mrs Phelan, the one who owns the big bakery in Grangegorman.

There was a short pause and then he commented, "I notice you say nothing as to the next owner of Mount Venus, Mrs Raven."

Speak no ill of the dead, she replied. Poor man! A suicide like that can’t have done much to raise the value of the estate!

Uncle Ebenezer gave a mirthless laugh and looked up at Miss Powers. If ever you think I’ve grown a little too boisterous, a touch too exuberant, Nurse, you’ll know where to apply for a remedy!

Lucy laughed and apologized. I just thought it would save my having to explain why my husband and I could not even contemplate taking a lease on the place – despite my family’s connections there, Mister O’Dea. Not even on a caretaker basis.

Ah! He became businesslike again and, making a bridge of his hands and arms, rested his chin upon it and eyed her speculatively – precisely the gesture his nephew had used yesterday. Did it run in the blood, she wondered, or was it simple mimicry? Did it ever cross your mind to consider, he asked, "why the place seems so cursed? And does it not cross your mind now, Mrs Raven, that there’s a world of difference between Mount Venus as a private house, draining the purse of owner after owner, and Mount Venus as a centre of business? As – shall we say – a very select sanatorium, where wealthy invalids are offered one of the finest views in Europe, bracing lungsfull of Dublin Bay air, soft, pure water to drink and bathe in, ten acres of landscaped gardens to wander among, and – to be sure – the very finest medical attention that money can command! And if the prospectus could also add that the whole establishment is under the discriminating management of the great-great niece of the man who built the place… ah! He smiled benignly. Do at least think it over, Mrs Raven. See what your husband has to say. And let me know of your decision in your own good time. And meanwhile – to tide you over any immediate awkwardness – and as an earnest of my good faith…" He reached behind him and drew forth a small leather bag whose contents jingled as he passed it to her.

Oh… you’ll want my jewelry then… she began.

But he waved the offer aside. It’s of no conceivable interest to me, dear lady, he said.

And you don’t want me to sign an IOU or anything?

He looked at her askance. I am not a moneylender, he said deprecatingly. I am a man of honour, and I take care to do business only with those of a like character.

She smiled. "You advance money, Mister O’Dea!"

What else can I do with it at my age? he asked.

When she had gone, he turned to Diana and said, Well, what d’you think of her? Am I being foolish? Then, answering himself at once, Of course I am. But is my folly great or small? Do sit down.

She sat where Lucy had dinted the sofa, which struck him as an odd choice when half a dozen equally congenial places were on offer. I don’t think you’re being foolish at all, Mister O’Dea, she replied.

That woman would spend the bank, he said, almost as if he were criticizing Diana for having parted with the money. That was two hundred pounds in that bag. It won’t last her the month – you’ll see.

Diana nodded. Her face remained expressionless. He wondered what it would take to make her laugh, or cry, or even smile. In that case, she said, I’m at a loss to know why you advanced it at all.

He pursed his lips and scratched his head abstractedly. Since it seems to be my day for being utterly, utterly frank, Miss Powers, let me continue with you. I have spent all my life in one pursuit – the making of money. And I have succeeded at it, I may say. I have made more money than most men dream of. It is not, however, the only thing I’ve made. I have also, for instance, made a large number of enemies – and very few friends. I’ve made several useful discoveries, too – that I cannot take my money with me, for example… and that it would be the ruination of my nephew if he were to inherit it. He is – as you have no doubt observed – a weak, shallow, amiable, good-hearted young fellow who needs the discipline of having to earn his daily bread in order to keep him a half-way acceptable member of society. To himself he mumbled, He’ll never be more than half-way acceptable, anyway. Then, to her again: Even one tenth of my wealth would be the ruin of him.

Diana, leaping to his conclusion – as she thought – said, "D’you mean you actually want Mrs Raven to… squander it all for you?"

No! He chuckled. Mind you – it would be the fireworks show of the century. But no… His voice became cheerless again. Did you know that my nephew once ‘did a line’ with Mrs Raven, as they say? That, of course, was when she was still the Honourable Lucy Fitzbutler.

Astonishment registered briefly in the nurse’s eyes but was quickly masked. What did Lord Mountstephen say to that?

No! – in a word. It broke poor Dazzler’s spirit. Even worse, it showed him that the ceiling in society is rather low for people like us. If he had married into the nobility – even the worthless fringe of it like the Fitzbutlers – he might have made something of himself. He peered at her intently. You look dubious. D’you believe people are born what they are and can never really change?

She shook her head slowly. There was