Redemption - Leon Uris [119]
“Father, I dismissed Donaldson because I felt he was spying on me.”
“If, after your previous escapades with prostitutes, I did not keep an eye on your activities, I would not be a proper father, would I?”
Will he ever get to the point? Jeremy wondered.
“Well, answer up! Would I be a proper father?”
“No, sir, I mean, yes, sir, I see why I was under scrutiny.”
“But nevertheless you converted this flat into a brothel.”
“Hardly, Father.”
Roger scanned a page. “Did you or did you not hold frequent parties of mixed company during which voluminous amounts of whiskey were consumed?”
“Yes, sir, we had parties after the rugby games and for birthday occasions—”
“I’ll bet they loved their host, good old Jeremy. Why not, with half the whores in Dublin dancing between the sheets of your bedrooms.”
“Father, I did not have prostitutes. The ladies were…girl friends…true girl friends from ascendancy families for the most part…three of the lads were secretly married and—”
“And what?”
“Needed a place…F-F-F-Father.”
“Don’t stutter, Jeremy! For God’s sake, don’t stutter!”
Now came the blasts of icy air as Roger once more entailed the story of his own father, poor stuttering Arthur Hubble. Jeremy’s grandfather had watched as his own father, the Famine Earl, signed the eviction notices and became too weak to run the earldom properly. Funny…so said Roger…how we always skip a generation. Roger had the intestinal fortitude to take over from his faltering father and run the estate when hardly more than a young man. Jeremy was the recurring curse of the Hubble line. Jeremy was stuttering Arthur, and Arthur was stuttering Jeremy.
“Are these accounts correct or not?” Roger said, shoving the report under Jeremy’s nose. Jeremy saw a listing of dates and times that his mates had held trysts in the flat.
“I suppose so. I didn’t realize the maids were on your payroll to take a dirty linen count.”
Roger flung the report on the desk. “Cohabitation with one Molly O’Rafferty, illiterate street urchin from the Dublin Liberties.”
“She is convent-educated, a novice schoolteacher, and a folk singer of public renown.”
“She sings in a bar, Jeremy. Is she or is she not a Roman Catholic?”
“Great God!” brother Christopher cried. “How could you bring this on the family? Everything we hold sacred has been profaned. Two hundred and fifty years of honorable service to the Crown has been besmirched.”
“Twelve generations of Earls of Foyle,” Roger picked up, “are now being imperiled by a trollop!”
Jeremy leapt to his feet. “I demand you show her respect!”
“Respect for what, indeed, Jeremy, respect for what!”
Jeremy fell back into his chair. His father and brother hovered over him. A step behind he saw the cruel crystal eyes of Swan gleaming hatred. W. W. Herd, in the shadows, snickered as a detective is wont to do when he has nailed his prey.
“I shall not give her up,” Jeremy croaked.
“The girl is pregnant,” Roger said hard on.
It was as Jeremy had suspected, but how did they know? “Molly?” he whimpered.
“Yes, Molly. Molly O’Rafferty, the Catholic folk singer.”
“How did you find this out, Father?”
There was a long silence.
“I don’t believe you,” Jeremy said, finding a bit of his ebbing anger.
“Her priest told us,” Herd replied.
“Her priest cannot tell you that!”
“Oh, come on, Jeremy, they’re all on the take. Besides, we’re not going to allow a few ridiculous Vatican rules to prevent the truth.”
Jeremy came to his feet. “I’m going to her,” he said.
“You will sit down and you will hear the rest of it.” Roger nodded for Herd to open the door. Two Belfast toughs whom Jeremy recognized as members of Swan’s goon squad in the shipyard escorted his classmates Mal Palmer and Cliff Coleman into the study.
Jeremy was shocked into silence. He grew faint and pale, and his stomach began to seize up.
“Tell him what you told us, Mr. Palmer.”
“Sorry about this, Jeremy, but Molly has been