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Authors: Bernie McGill
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the ladies withdrew to the drawing room for restorative liqueurs (Mrs. Macky taking the opportunity to empty the bottle of Bénédictine) while the men remained, the picture now leaned against the wall. When the ladies had left the dining room, Edward later told me, and the bottle of claret been replaced by a bowl of whiskey punch, his father proposed a toast: that Gladstone choke on his breakfast porridge; that Edward and his new bride be blessed with a multitude of Catholic sons and that they all grow up in an Ireland with Home Rule. The toast was received with some variation, given the number of Episcopalians and Orange Lodge members assembled, but Lord Ormond did not seem to notice and drank heartily to his own joke. Edward, who is superstitious, did not like it that the picture had fallen.
Lord Ormond was not a fan of Mr. Gladstone. I understood this more clearly when I retired to my room later that night. In the nightstand the necessary article of china for nighttime use bore a portrait on the inside of the prime minister himself.
Edward’s mother passed away when he was only seven. There is a painting of her on the landing, fringed and crinolined, pale faced, fair haired, still. The dress is a glossy intense blue of the ferocious color that was popular then in the fifties. I found it in her wardrobe and had it cut up for Charlotte. The seamstress, a clever, harelipped woman, made three dresses out of its voluminous cone. It was a good silk, and the color suited Charlotte: common blue. Edward loved to see her in it.
Edward clung to the paraphernalia of his mother’s life like it were treasure. An appalling cup and saucer sat always on the oak server in the dining room, a pink and white creation commemorating the temperance movement and emblazoned with banner flags that sang out: SOBRIETY, DOMESTIC COMFORT, TEMPERANCE AND FREEDOM . For me, the last of these seemed very much at odds with the other three, although I knew better than to say such a thing to Edward. An eight-pointed temperance star faced away from the drinker, and along the bottom of the cup, which depicted a young man and woman, was the biggest banner of all, which read: BE THOU FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH . Each time I looked at it I felt censured from the grave. Edward said that his mother drank tea from it every afternoon and that he could clearly remember her packing it up for dispatch to the basement, where she would personally supervise the removal of tea stains with bicarbonate of soda. I never once used it. The day Gabriel and Morris lassoed the dining room chandelier it was my only regret that they avoided breaking the cup.
It is a myth that men seek marriage partners who mimic their mothers’ characters; she and I could not have been less alike. We have had but one trait in common: we have both been adored by Edward.
I was not unusual, I am sure, in wanting to put my mark on the place; every new wife who inherits a home must wish to do the same. I wanted the rooms full of light. Edward was loath to see furniture and coverings replaced. They were the pattern of his youth, he said. He murmured about the fading of the carpets and the chintzes but I had spent too long in a buttoned-up house behind heavy drapes and I craved air. I wanted as much of the outside in the house as possible. Even in February I insisted on the French windows being opened for at least part of the day. The drawing room curtains were a horror in pelmeted Byzantine gold, as if procured from a Persian harem. The Baroque plasterworkfeatured, of all things, a bunch of bananas. In one corner, Edward’s grandfather’s collection from his “grand tour” was carefully housed in mahogany and chinoiserie: an Indian dagger, an ostrich egg, a pair of Chinese slippers. Within a short time, I had replaced the garish reds and heavy greens with the palest of shades, colors that drew light to them, that made the most of the brief winter days. I had the decorators paint the gold-beaded walls
Lord Ormond was not a fan of Mr. Gladstone. I understood this more clearly when I retired to my room later that night. In the nightstand the necessary article of china for nighttime use bore a portrait on the inside of the prime minister himself.
Edward’s mother passed away when he was only seven. There is a painting of her on the landing, fringed and crinolined, pale faced, fair haired, still. The dress is a glossy intense blue of the ferocious color that was popular then in the fifties. I found it in her wardrobe and had it cut up for Charlotte. The seamstress, a clever, harelipped woman, made three dresses out of its voluminous cone. It was a good silk, and the color suited Charlotte: common blue. Edward loved to see her in it.
Edward clung to the paraphernalia of his mother’s life like it were treasure. An appalling cup and saucer sat always on the oak server in the dining room, a pink and white creation commemorating the temperance movement and emblazoned with banner flags that sang out: SOBRIETY, DOMESTIC COMFORT, TEMPERANCE AND FREEDOM . For me, the last of these seemed very much at odds with the other three, although I knew better than to say such a thing to Edward. An eight-pointed temperance star faced away from the drinker, and along the bottom of the cup, which depicted a young man and woman, was the biggest banner of all, which read: BE THOU FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH . Each time I looked at it I felt censured from the grave. Edward said that his mother drank tea from it every afternoon and that he could clearly remember her packing it up for dispatch to the basement, where she would personally supervise the removal of tea stains with bicarbonate of soda. I never once used it. The day Gabriel and Morris lassoed the dining room chandelier it was my only regret that they avoided breaking the cup.
It is a myth that men seek marriage partners who mimic their mothers’ characters; she and I could not have been less alike. We have had but one trait in common: we have both been adored by Edward.
I was not unusual, I am sure, in wanting to put my mark on the place; every new wife who inherits a home must wish to do the same. I wanted the rooms full of light. Edward was loath to see furniture and coverings replaced. They were the pattern of his youth, he said. He murmured about the fading of the carpets and the chintzes but I had spent too long in a buttoned-up house behind heavy drapes and I craved air. I wanted as much of the outside in the house as possible. Even in February I insisted on the French windows being opened for at least part of the day. The drawing room curtains were a horror in pelmeted Byzantine gold, as if procured from a Persian harem. The Baroque plasterworkfeatured, of all things, a bunch of bananas. In one corner, Edward’s grandfather’s collection from his “grand tour” was carefully housed in mahogany and chinoiserie: an Indian dagger, an ostrich egg, a pair of Chinese slippers. Within a short time, I had replaced the garish reds and heavy greens with the palest of shades, colors that drew light to them, that made the most of the brief winter days. I had the decorators paint the gold-beaded walls
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