O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [56]
When Horace closed the door behind him, he leaned against the wall and wiped the perspiration from his upper lip, then scrambled to get a cigar going. Its aroma followed him out of the seldom-visited north wing.
He found his way to his upstairs parlor, slumped into his leather armchair, and one more time sailed through the litany of justifications.
No one could accuse him of being an unloving or indifferent father. Emily was his firstborn. She had come at a splendid time, although, truth be known, and he never showed it openly, he was miffed that the firstborn had been a girl. No damned way to start a dynasty, but what the hell, this was only the beginning of child siring.
Horace was a jolly father, joker, bearer of gifts for Emily. Dinners were pleasant, as were social engagements. The family, bumblers though they were, could be great fun.
When did the drift begin? With Daisy? With Emily? Horace and Daisy were an exemplary couple, altogether civilized, settling into both married life and times apart, in the traditional mold. They continued to share a bed, and soon enough, Daisy was pregnant again.
She lost that one, and another, before his prince was born. A male was on the scene and the Kerr name secure.
Yet sweet Emily was a precious child to be fussed over. However, it was soon apparent that she would be exceedingly plain and even dull-witted. The Kerrs were all handsome people, sturdy blond Scottish Celts. There was mumbo jumbo in the Blanton line. Yes, Daisy’s mother and grandmother were rather plain women. That would certainly account for Emily.
Emily’s plainness seemed to express itself by a growing shyness. The more shy she became, hiding behind the skirts, the more shovels full of attention she required. It was a bottomless pit, with attention barely soothing her hurt of the moment.
Horace grew fidgety over the whole business and tried to bully his way through to her, while Daisy heaped on the art of coquetry, obedience, and awareness of the splendor of her family and heritage. Emily played the piano fairly well, her only smidgen of talent. The one place she could communicate as the center of the family was at a sing-along.
But Horace Kerr wanted more lively songs and not all those Stephen Foster moanings about ‘tater fields and dead massahs.
Emily’s fingers began to strike off notes, which never failed to bring a remark of displeasure. “God, child, you’ve played it a thousand times. You’d think you’d be getting it right.”
Sing-alongs about the piano, no matter how well intended the participants, always ended now with sour notes. With each new endeavor, the girl felt it was going to end in failure . . .
As when Emily fell off her pony three times in the practice ring and Horace slammed her back into the saddle and only stopped when Laveda Fancy carried off the child, who was screaming hysterically, while Daisy said nothing.
. . . And Emily’s tutoring went slowly, nerve-rackingly. She developed a stutter, triggered most often by her finger-pointing father.
Daisy remained passive and compliant, even as she knew her daughter was going to be a limp limb on that proud family tree.
Daisy created a daily routine that would satisfy Horace, mainly through permitting him to avoid Emily. When Emily’s weeping and Horace’s outward frustrations had been dulled, one and all made themselves believe that Inverness was in shipshape.
Required to attend a minimum of social events, the girl used calculated loneliness as a shield from all that bouncing business out there beyond her apartment and beyond Inverness. Loneliness meant peace among dolls who could not talk back.
When Emily’s fifteenth birthday clicked on past, Daisy Kerr came face-to-face with the unpleasant truth: In another year, her daughter’s cotillion was coming up. It would be no easy task to obtain an escort of note or rank, or any escort, for that matter.
Nonetheless, the cotillion had strong meaning, far beyond the walls of Inverness, and Daisy, in order to save unbearable