Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

Seamus drew on his pipe. ‘She came up grin-din’ poor in a mud cabin in Collooney with four brothers and two sisters, all dead now-two passing with their mother in a most tragic manner. And there were certain other… matters, as well. She’s been takin’ th’ hurt out on th’ rest of th’ world for many a year.’

A loud buzzing in the kitchen.

‘There she is.’ Seamus checked his watch. ‘Five ’til one.’

In the kitchen, Seamus pressed a button near the Aga. ‘Yes, mum.’

‘Show our guest into the drawing room, I’ll be along directly.’

‘Yes, mum.’

‘Well, then.’ Seamus took out his comb, looked at it a moment, doleful. ‘She likes it groomed,’ he said of his mustache.

At the drawing room door, Seamus shook his hand gravely, as if seeing him off on a coffin ship.

It was a beautiful room, graceful in proportion, though smelling of stale cigarette smoke, mild damp, dogs. A fire simmered on the hearth.

A table in front of a large window, its view to the lake obscured by rain. Framed photographs. Bottles. Glasses. A vase with roses. Behind the sofa, a game table and four chairs-where the blood would be let, he reckoned. Much furniture in the room; a massive ottoman stacked with books, stationed on the medallion of a worn Aubusson. Dog beds in a far corner.

He glanced up, then, and drew in his breath. The portrait above the mantel was stunning in the true sense of the word.

A slender, dark-haired young woman of uncommon beauty looked directly at the observer. Penetrating brown eyes, a necklace of pearls, a gown of aquamarine satin, a pale arm draped casually over the upholstered arm of the French chair in which she was sitting…

He approached the portrait, examined it closely. It had the finesse and style of a Sargent, but surely no Sargent would be hanging in these remote regions.

He couldn’t take his eyes off hers; there was a palpable sense of the sitter’s presence; something of iron resolve, something, too, of anger or remorse. As if loath to invade her privacy or stare too brazenly, he stepped away.

The insistent gaze drew him back. Look here, I have something that must be said.

In the strong cheekbones, the chiseled nose, the anxious brow, he saw Liam.

He moved to the fire and turned his back to the soft blaze. August, and the warmth felt good to him.

Above the double doorway, another portrait-Riley Conor, he presumed. Short, portly, muscular, bemused. Wearing boots and jodhpurs, a tweed jacket-holding what appeared to be a small prayer book and leaning on the back of a leather chair before shelves of books rendered carefully by the brush. His brown eyes squinted, as if set to the task of puzzling out a riddle.

He walked to the ottoman at the center of the room; looked again above the mantel and again above the doorway. The subjects of the portraits coolly assessed each other across the divide.

Look here, I have something that…

The doors opened, his hostess entered. He felt the odd fear and excitement of a child who imagines a monster living beneath his bed.

‘Missus Evelyn McGuiness Conor,’ boomed Seamus, ‘the Reverend Timothy Andrew Kav’na.’

The heavy doors were closed behind her.

She was petite, erect, severe, with the piercing gaze of the portrait nearly intact. He bowed. It was a completely involuntary gesture, and very slight, but she recognized it at once; it had been a good thing to do.

She extended her hand. ‘Mister Kav’na.’

‘Mrs. Conor.’ So she was skipping the reverend business. ‘Thank you for having me.’ He pressed her hand lightly-he might have captured a small bird. ‘I was just admiring your portrait.’

‘Thank you for coming, Mister Kav’na. It isn’t every day we can round up a fourth.’ She leaned on her cane.

‘I’m afraid you’ll find me a very lame duck.’

‘You’ll make up for it with interesting conversation, I’m sure. As for the portrait, it was done in this very room, by an Irishman-after Mister Sargent’s rendition of Lady Agnew of Lochnaw.’

‘And very well done, indeed.’

‘Mister Conor and I had lately returned to Catharmore from our honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast. I was twenty, but my waist’-she smiled thinly-‘was eighteen-like your Scar-lett O’Hara, I’m told. Let us be seated, Mister Kav’na.’

He offered the smile he relied on when parishioners commented on his sermon and he realized they’d heard something entirely different from what he’d said.

Evelyn Conor walked stiffly across the room with the aid of her cane and sat in a high-backed chair by the fire; at her direction, he occupied the end of the sofa to her right. She was a woman of considerable beauty even now, though better than sixty years had passed since she sat for a painter who knew what he was about.

Her long hair was loosely bound at the back of her head and dark, still, though with a wide streak of silver above what his mother had called a ‘widow’s peak.’ Her cheeks were palely rouged, her long-sleeved black dress simply cut; she wore no ornament. He could not imagine this woman clambering up a stepstool.

‘Because of my fine nose, the painter wished to render me in profile after Mister Sargent’s Madame X. But my husband and I preferred to realize our money’s worth by having it done straight on.’

‘A wise decision.’

‘That is my late husband’s portrait above the door.’

‘A very agreeable-looking man. Liam speaks of him with affection.’ He hadn’t meant to say that.

‘Liam speaks eagerly of his father, but scarcely mentions his mother. I don’t suppose they’ve told you I’m dying?’

‘They haven’t.’

‘They never do. It’s left to me to do the telling.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

‘No use to be sorry. We must all go sometime. ’ She briefly drummed the chair arm with her fingers, gazed past him.

‘But death is not important, Mister Kav’na.’ She gave him a fierce look. ‘It cannot frighten me, for I have been purified by suffering.’

He didn’t know where to step with this.

‘Doctor Feeney and Father O’Reilly will be late. I trust you have some expertise at making drinks? Our man is occupied in the kitchen.’

‘Of course. What sort of drinks, Mrs. Conor?’ Nothing with small umbrellas or fruit, definitely not.

‘Gin and tonic for myself. Would you be up to it?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said, shooting from the sofa.

At the table, he adjusted his bifocals, stooped, peered at labels on the several bottles, located the gin. Two bottles, different labels. Tonic very handy, no problem. A small dish with wedges of lemon and lime. Glasses in two different sizes.

‘What measurements do you prefer, Mrs. Conor?’

‘Two to one, thank you.’

‘Would that be two of tonic?’

‘Of gin, Mister Kav’na.’

Maybe he should use the short glass.

‘And what label, if I may?’

‘The green label, if you please.’

The English were known to lay off the ice, but perhaps that custom didn’t extend to these shores.

‘Ice, Mrs. Conor?’

‘No ice, Mister Kav’na. The ice is for you; I’m told Americans enjoy the curious habit of watering down perfectly good spirits.’

‘Let’s see. Short glass or tall?’ He had expected a root canal, and he was getting it.

‘Have you never done this, Mister Kav’na?’

‘Not really.’

‘The short glass, as you so quaintly put it.’

‘Almost done-lemon or lime?’

‘Lime, thank you.’

‘Coming up.’ He let out his breath, which he realized he’d been holding, and stirred the drink with a silver muddle.

‘No stirring, if you please. It bruises the gin.’