Redemption - Leon Uris [92]
Little Rachael was average in size but seemed little when her petite and willowy body stood alongside her statuesque mother. At the moment of grief, Rachael took her mother’s lap, not to be held but to comfort. They quickly became the best of friends—indeed, the girlfriend Atty had never known.
Of the three children, Emma presented a soft link. She never truly demonstrated the iron of the other four but played the game, allowing herself to fade in the background of this powerful family. Emma was dolls and girl things. Des’s death hit her the hardest, for her adoration of her father was paramount. Mom had always been something beyond her comprehension. Emma dared not come too close for fear of deterring Atty from her resolute determinations. She was a child who always felt second to the movement, and not part of it.
Atty’s mother, Lady Charlotte Royce-Moore, had not had a little girl to dote over since Atty had discovered Dublin as a teenager. She traveled immediately to Lough Clara and served as a loving and calming force, although her Anglo mentality had to be overlooked.
Lady Charlotte had been desperately lonely since the death of her husband. Seeing the family alignment for herself, she suggested to Atty that grandmother and Emma do a tour of the continent with a view that Emma might consider schooling in London.
Reality? Emma was the odd man out. Would Emma benefit more with her grandmother than she would suffer from the loss of her brother and sister, and herself? Atty thought it a good idea because her daughter favored it as well.
Aye, Atty knew Charlotte would lavish on Emma what Atty could never give her. Most possibly the girl sorely longed for it herself. She could see Emma becoming a prim and proper young lady in a social scene that better fitted her.
As for herself and Theo and Rachael, they quickly regrouped. Atty plunged into her work, this time with a powerful and devoted family unit, all whistling the same tune.
33
Ballyutogue Station
Kowi Junction, Christchurch
South Island, New Zealand
Dear Uncle Conor,
Your tragic departure turned Ballyutogue Station into a graveyard of the living dead. For the first weeks nobody smiled, much less laughed. Then your postal cards began to arrive from various ports of call.
The Squire has had the worst of it, mumbling that he should have tried harder to make you stay but at the same time mumbling that nothing could have kept you. Like six times a day I hear him say under his breath, “Fuck Ireland.”
Da looks at me, though I’m just twelve, like I’m going to catch the next ship out of New Zealand. Without speaking, his eyes say to me, “You love your Uncle Conor better than me.”
How can I tell him that it is not possible for anyone to love anyone more than they love their parents? I love you more than I knew I could love and I can say so without shame because you told me how grand it is to tell someone you love them. However, I can’t love you more than my own father, even if he was an ax murderer. Why can’t he realize that?
A fortnight back I was in Christchurch and Uncle Wally gave me the incredible box of books you sent. He slipped them to me the same way Mr. Ingram slipped them to you. The Squire won’t be fooled, but he won’t dare take them away from me. I never realized that you can get an actual feeling in the pit of your stomach by just opening the cover of a book. As you suggested, I began with The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. What a fellow that Mark Twain is! At first I struggled with the pages, but almost like magic, my eyes started getting words faster and faster and they held me like I was in a grip, clear till I fell asleep reading.
The really wondrous thing about Mr. Twain is that he knows so many things about me and what I’m thinking even though he’s never been near New Zealand. He was writing about my own family and particularly the Squire. He told me what you told