The Kilternan Legacy Read online

  THE KILTERNAN LEGACY

  ANNE MCCAFFREY

  THE KILTERNAN LEGACY

  Copyright 1972 by Anne McCaffrey. All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Wildside Press

  P.O. Box 301

  Holicong, PA 18928-0301

  www.wildsidepress.com

  ALSO BY ANNE McCAFFREY

  Cooking Out of This World

  An Exchange of Gifts

  The Mark of Merlin

  Ring of Fear

  This story is admiringly dedicated to my Irish “Fairy” Godmother, Hilda Whitton, Who made my fondest wish come true in Mr. Ed.

  Chapter 1

  AUNT IRENE TEASEY, great aunt Teasey, solved my problem: She died. She died in Ireland, and left all that she died possessed of to me.

  “Good heavens,” my mother said when I phoned her to see if there was anything to be possessed, “I don’t know. Your father used to say that Irene was the only smart female the Teaseys ever produced. Although why she’d leave you everything when she’d all those relatives … hmmm. Maybe that’s why.”

  “Why what?” I asked—patiently, because Mother’s thought processes had driven Father to an early grave, although he had once admitted to me in utter confusion that he found my mother’s conclusions fascinatingly accurate.

  “Why she did. I named you after her because your father liked her so much, and I had run out of interesting girl names” [I’ve four sisters] “and the one time I met Irene, I quite liked the old girl. Very independent sort, you know. Never married.”

  I wasn’t certain from Mother’s tone whether it was because of her independence that Irene had not married, or whether she’d developed the habit because she’d remained single.

  “Well, is she likely to have left anything?”

  “Quite possibly. Doesn’t the lawyer man give you any inkling?”

  “No precise figures. I must establish my identity as Miss Teasey’s great-niece first, and I’m executrix of the will, and there’re death duties to pay, and—”

  “You’d better go there, then. Always does to be on the spot, especially with lawyers—no, barristers—no, they plead cases before the bar, don’t they? Solicitors is what you’d have to deal with. But she does solve your problem, Rene.”

  “By having to go to Ireland to consort with bewigged men?”

  “Men, dear, is the relevant word.”

  “Oh, Mother!”

  “Oh, Daughter! You were complaining only the other day that you didn’t know who stood where in relation to you or Teddie-boy since the divorce. Why bother to find out? The ones who’ll stay by you are too dull, or married and don’t have the contacts you need, and the ones who side with Teddie you don’t want to know.”

  She was, of course, massively correct.

  “Besides, I read somewhere recently that a removal from the marital area is often a very constructive step. If taken in the proper direction.”

  I could tell that Mother now considered Ireland, of all places, to be the proper direction.

  “There’re men there,” she said, again darkly suggestive.

  “There’re men everywhere, Mother.”

  “Not what I’d call men.”

  “Mother!”

  “Nonsense, dear. Besides, think how broadening it would be for the twins!”

  I gulped. “The twins are quite broadened enough.”

  “I don’t mean precocious, love. I mean, broad in outlook and culture.”

  “You ought to know Teddie’s opinion of Ireland by now.”

  “And I thank God that the jet set hasn’t discovered Ireland yet. They do have good schools, and no drug problem.”

  “True, but they do have a minor religious war.”

  “Darling, it isn’t religious. It’s socioeconomic, hidden under clerical skirts, I read somewhere … And besides, you’d be in the south.”

  “Mother, I’m not certain that I want to go anywhere right now.”

  “What? Another six months in your lair licking your wounds, dear?” Mother can be disconcertingly acute at times. “Consult the twins.”

  I did. I’ll never figure out how she got to them before I did. After all, they were in school in Westfield, and she was in New York City. Their reaction was so affirmative that Simon was booking flights while Snow listed the clothes I had to bring. As she was constantly garbed in sweaters, shirts, and pants, her packing posed no mental exertions.

  “But, children, you don’t want to leave all your friends …”

  “Why not?” asked Snow, her gorgeous big light-green eyes very adult in expression. “Everyone will be away for vacations in a week. It’d be great. You’ll have to get some dresses, Mother. These are just too much!”

  Snow was conventionally christened Sara Virginia, after Mother and my mother-in-law. At the party after the baptismal double-header, one of her uncles had observed the sleeping child, all lacy in the family christening gown, her wealth of curly black hair escaping the cap, and renamed her Snow White. She was only a half-hour younger than her brother, but the difference might have been two separate pregnancies. Simon was dark too, but not as dramatically so. His skin was ruddy, not white, and his eyes more gray than green. Curiously enough, their personalities belied their looks, for Simon tended to be the dreamer, and Snow had a fine sense of everyday expediencies. Teddie had complained that she was revoltingly precocious. She was. He had made her so by showing off his “fairy-tale princess” to bored sophisticates.

  It was when Teddie began to … well, never mind. That sort of consideration was behind me now. And, fortunately, behind Snow. Yes, going to Ireland would solve many of my problems, all right. And pose others.

  One of them was Teddie’s reaction to having his children removed from his sphere of influence. Neither he nor that expensive and indolent lawyer of his had put any clause in the divorce papers restricting me to be domiciled exclusively in Westfield, New Jersey, or the continental U.S.A. I could not put the children in a boarding school, but that was the only restriction.

  “What about my visitation rights?” Teddie had shouted.

  “You haven’t exercised those rights in three weeks!”

  “Now see here, Irene, you can’t just snatch my kids from under my nose without my permission—”

  “I don’t need your permission, and I’m courteously informing you of my summer plans. I’m going to Ireland for a month at the longest, and the children are going with me. I’m just telling you, and that’s that.”

  Then, before I could become embroiled in one of those impossible arguments in which I always end up being wrong, ineffective, stupid or ludicrous, I hung up on him. It had taken me six months of divorced bliss to achieve such decisiveness. I’d always had the feeling that if only Teddie would really listen to my side of an argument, we might be able to patch up our faltering marriage. Only, my rebuttals had lacked the ingenuity of his ad-agency-trained responses, and I always lost.

  Fortunately his lawyer had not discarded an iota of his laziness, and Simon and Snow overrode my hesitation, so we were on the plane to Ireland in ten days’ time, the passport photos barely dry under the stamps. My lawyer had walked them through Immigration. I suppose Hank had had a notion of what Teddie might do if he were really as annoyed as he said he was about my taking his children from him. An injunction restraining me from removing Simon Richard and Sara Virginia Stanford from the continental U.S.A. was issued the day after we left. Had I known of it beforehand, I couldn’t even have applied for passports for Snow and Simon. Later I wondered whether the children’s efficiency had been prompted by a “get Mother moving” campaign or an inside knowledge of their father’s reactions.

  We were in Dublin at 11, and in a
taxi to the hotel by 11:30. We’d been booked into the Hotel Montrose, typical Americana, but comfortable. I phoned the solicitor, Mr. Noonan, and was informed that he was in court.

  “I thought he was a solicitor.”

  “He is indeed, but he’s attending a client in court.”

  That didn’t make much sense to me, but I was in no shape to pursue the subject. “Please tell him that Irene Teasey is at the Hotel Montrose, and I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

  “Mrs. Teasey?” There was a startled squeak in the girl’s soft voice.

  “The American one. The great-niece.” Silence. “I’m to see him about inheriting my great-aunt’s property at Kilternan.” Silence. “This is Noonan, Turner, and Pearsall’s office, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, it certainly is.”

  “Then please give Mr. Noonan my message and say that I’m anxious to see him as soon as possible.” Again the rather stunned silence. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no. Of course not, ma’am.”

  Well, I was too tired to chew that over.

  So the twins thought, too, because Snow took the phone out of my hand, replaced it, and pushed me back onto the bed, and Simon shook a coverlet over me.

  “You rest.”

  “But I can’t leave you two alone in—”

  “Why not? The natives sound friendly.”

  “And I’m hungry,” added Snow.

  “There’s a grill downstairs, and a bank.”

  I’d given them each some money, American and Irish.

  “You sleep!” said Simon in a stern, masculine voice.

  I didn’t really expect to, and was therefore more than a little annoyed to be roused from a very deep slumber by the insistent burring of a phone by my ear. Sleepily I grabbed at it to shut it up.

  “Would I be speaking to Irene Teasey?”

  “Yes!” I wasn’t too sure myself, but the tone of the male voice implied that I’d better be Irene Teasey.

  “I understand that Hillside Lodge is for sale,” the man said.

  “Hillside Lodge?” Where was that? Where was I? “Who is this speaking?”

  “I’m Brian Kelley, of T K & B, and I’ve a client who’s making a firm offer of—”

  “Now, wait just a minute. I just got to Dublin this morning, and I haven’t seen the place.”

  “Well, Miss Teasey, then I can be of service to you in several ways—by helping you wind up your business quickly, selling at a profit, and you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy some sightseeing before you go back.” The man had spoken with a wheedling pseudo-charm which I knew all too well.

  “Mr. Kelley, you are rushing things.”

  “Why now, and I thought you Americans liked a direct approach.”

  Not when I’m half asleep I don’t. “I have just had a tiring journey from the States, and I’m in no mood to discuss business at this moment. I suggest—”

  “It’s just evening now,” he said with a conciliatory smoothness, and I glanced hurriedly at my watch, which read 3:30. “Let me welcome you to Ireland with a few jars. Say around nine? It would be worth your while, I assure you. Shall I ring your room?”

  I stammered out an affirmative and then, when I realized that I had been guided into agreeing, I tried to retract and found the phone had gone dead.

  Good Lord! I’d hardly expected such a problem, and I did wish that the solicitor had been in. I didn’t have a clue as to whether I should even listen to offers. Grab the first sucker, or hang out for top development prices? Did they develop in Ireland? Ah, yes, I did recall rows of identical semidetached houses on the way from the airport.

  Three-thirty is evening in Ireland? I rose, washed my face, put on eyebrows and lips, and decided that if this was evening in Ireland, there might be tea—preferably coffee—served somewhere. And where were my children?

  That proved easiest to establish. They had gone out, the sweet-voiced receptionist told me, and gave me the impression that Snow and Simon had been laying on the charm right, left, and center. Good. There had to be some fringe benefits of life with Teddie … like public-relations-minded children. “Preserve the Image!”

  Yes, I could have tea or coffee served in the lounge bar. So I had coffee and thin sandwiches while browsing through the Irish Times. A large section of the paper was devoted to real estate. The intelligence slowly penetrated my brain that “auctioneers” were also agents for selling and renting houses. T K & B translated into Thomas, Keogh, and Brennan, evidently a large and active firm, so friend Brian Kelley was a sharp operator, moving in quickly on a prime prospect. But wasn’t it a shade too quickly? There seemed to be no dearth of houses in Dublin, or south Dublin. I did some hasty pounds-into-dollars conversions and found that many of the houses advertised were about $25,000. Not that that helped me, because, obviously, location had something to do with price, as did the age of the house. The range was all the way from £3,000 to £12,000.

  And how had Brian Kelley known that Irene Teasey was in Dublin? And here only for the purpose of selling? Something Irene Teasey hadn’t even decided.

  After all, the only person who’d known I was here was … ah, was that why the girl in the solicitor’s office had been so silent? Had she been tipped to report my arrival to “interested parties”? Surely Hillside Lodge couldn’t be so valuable as to require such cloak-and-dagger tactics!

  Mother never had been explicit on that score, but she’d been very disquieting about lots of relations who’d be unhappy about my inheriting. I’d tried several times to nail her down to specifics, without luck. Not even I can understand Mother’s crypticisms. She’d interspersed her rambles with odd remarks and advice such as: “Her sisters were the worst—they’d greedy little clutching paws, and petty minds. Dublin’s no more than a small town. Everyone knows everyone else, and all their business. You’ll find that out. Never tell ‘em anything. That’s probably why your grandfather got out of Ireland. There was one other brother but he died. Your father often mentioned his uncle Beebee. His name was really Richard. At any rate, don’t sell a thing, a stick, until you’ve had sound legal counsel. I expect the lawyer’s good. Irene Teasey was no fool. Probably why she never married an Irishman. Or maybe because she never married an Irishman.” This distinction puzzled Mother, and interrupted that particular discourse.

  “This is, however, exactly what you need, Rene. A complete change, a new challenge. You’re only thirty-six, the one advantage in marrying young.”

  I might be only thirty-six, but I felt a hundred even after two cups of strong coffee. As for the challenge of coming to Ireland, did I really need it? I sort of sank into my chair, feeling small.

  Fortunately for my trend of thought, Snow and Simon came through the entrance, with Snow pointing at me dramatically in her “See? She’s all right!” gesture. Simon shrugged and then brandished something which turned out to be two maps, one of Dublin and one of Ireland.

  “This is Dublin proper but Kilternan doesn’t appear on it, much less Swann’s Lane,” Simon said, spreading out the map across the small lounge tables. “See, it’s down in here,” and he illustrated. “Nice country, I’m told.”

  “Who told you?” I asked, curious.

  “We did a little adroit questioning,” Snow said.

  “Where?”

  “Oh, up the road a piece is a largish shopping center,” and Simon jerked his thumb over his shoulder rightishly.

  “Not bad specialty shops, either,” added Snow.

  “How’d you get there?”

  “Walked up, bused back.” Simon flourished a bus schedule. “They’re all double-deckers!” He beamed. “Thirsty work.”

  I got the hint and signaled the waiter. Snow did some flirt-practicing, and the man responded visibly until I gave her an adroit kick. She might be only fourteen but she looked much, much older. So did Simon, I realized, seeing him against an unfamiliar background. He’d shot up to a respectable five foot ten in the last six months, and recently complained
that he had to shave. I suggested a beard, and he haughtily replied that everyone was bearded. Ergo, he couldn’t be.

  “And there’s a rental-car place.” Simon handed over another folder. “These are the rates.”

  “I should hire you as leg man,” I said, but Simon knew I was grateful.

  “They want your arm for new cars here,” Simon said, shaking his head. I knew he’d had delusions about our driving a Mercedes or a Jaguar while we were here. “All those small foreign cars cost a fortune.”

  “All those small foreign cars are native, Simple Simon,” his twin said with a remonstrating snort.

  “Now, wait a minute, children, I’m not buying a car.”

  “Who suggested?” Simon was honestly surprised. “Just compared prices, that’s all, but you will want something to get around in. This,” and he tapped the bus schedule, “is supposedly an old Irish legend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Simon snorted, and Snow giggled. “You should have heard them at the bus stop! ‘Sure now, an’ I’ve been waiting the half-hour or more!’ I mean, Mom, and there’s no route that takes us to our part of Kilternan.”

  “How do you know?” I waved at the Kilternanless map.

  “Big area map in the Hertz place. Swann’s Lane is”—and Simon walked his fingers down a road marked TO CABIN TEELY—“approximately here,” and his fingers hovered over a large rose in the carpet, five inches from the map edge.

  “Hmmm.”

  “So, we’d need a car,” Simon said.

  “And you know the one I should have?”

  “Well, you always liked Gammy’s little Renault. They have the same model … Of course, it’s right-hand drive, but you’d cope, Mother.”

  Simon has a most satisfactory way of assuming all kinds of abilities that I’m not so sure I possess until he indicates that I do, and then I do.

  “And they’ve a Renault all ready and waiting for me tomorrow?”

  Simon grinned. “Well, I didn’t see any harm in asking. And they do.”

  “Garnet red,” said Snow approvingly.