When Shadows Fall (9 page)

The Bowen familial home was situated south of the bay, a few miles outside Dublin City, on a narrow spit of land in Dalkey where they owned a three-storey Georgian house on a partially wooded acre with an orchard and a terraced garden sloping downwards to the beach. In summer the view stretched right over the harbour, a vista of sunlit waves and bobbing pleasure boats, though in winter, when storms came howling across the Irish Sea, it could be a vastly different experience.

The Bowens were of Anglo-Irish stock, having been in Ireland ever since their ancestor Phineas Bowen travelled with his family from Cornwall to Dublin in 1753 to set up an import-export concern, back when Ireland had been a decent place to do business in—peaceful, prosperous, and Protestant. Phineas Bowen’s original residence still stood in Wicklow, still in Bowen ownership, but it became a ruin after it was burned by Fenians in the rebellion of 1867, and subsequent generations of Bowens had turned their backs on it. Before that, in the good times, it was called Bowen Hall.

Phineas’s enterprises had thrived with the wars against the French and Indians in America. His sons and grandsons diversified into manufacturing, shipbuilding, and whaling in the North Sea. Their progeny in turn became amongst the most powerful of Ireland’s merchant classes. Adam’s father, Hunter Bowen, had been a solicitor before his death, and likewise his three sons were despatched to Trinity College to study law, though the onset of Boche belligerence led to Adam—gladly—abandoning his exams.

Quentin drove the Ford Model T carefully up the gravel driveway, laurel hedging on one side and the cliffs on the other. A freshening breeze drove white-capped rollers onto the beach below, and as Adam watched a seal appeared momentarily on the rocks, craning its neck, before sliding back beneath the foamy surface.

“So how does it feel?” Quentin asked him, manoeuvring the car into a narrow space beside the rockery. “Nervous, eh? Not to worry, you’re back with family now.”

“I know,” Adam chuckled. “That’s what has me nervous.”

“Nonsense. You’re where you belong. We ought to celebrate.”

“Well, keep it civil. I know how violent you get after a glass of sherry.”

Quentin ignored the sarcasm and retrieved his door key. Two grandiose Grecian pillars led through a porch filled with potted crocus, pansies, and viola. The foyer had recently been re-floored with oak and smelled of wood polish, and their shoes made a disproportionate noise in the silence.

“Your brothers won’t have arrived yet,” Quentin told him. “But your mother’s probably in the drawing room. Shall we go through?”

“No time like the present.” Adam brushed off his jacket and straightened his tie.

The drawing room faced north over the bay and was something of a shrine to old Victorian tastes. A plethora of tapestries, oil paintings, and ornamental furniture lined the walls and cluttered the floor, and beyond by the hearth, where a well-stacked fire blazed, Adam’s mother sat on an embroidered armchair with her hands on her lap.

At fifty-one years of age, Marjorie Bowen was as slim as a dancer but aged in face, though her high cheekbones and strawberry blond hair still hinted at the beauty that she must once have possessed. The eyes retained their haughtiness, however, that air of supercilious disdain that she always seemed to project towards anyone who crossed her path, including family. When she saw her husband and son enter the room, she tilted an eyebrow ever so slightly and murmured, “You’re late, Quentin. I had expected you an hour ago.”

Quentin coughed sheepishly. “
Ahem
, slight delay encountered, m’dear. But look who I found.”

Adam stepped into the light and smiled. “Hello, Mother. Good to see you.”

Rising from the chair, she seemed to float in her lace and muslin. “Adam.” She presented her hand to be kissed, for Marjorie Bowen did not embrace. “Dear me, but you look dreadful. Truly you do. As thin as a rake.”

To be greeted in this fashion after such a long absence was not in the least bit surprising to Adam. It was in fact proof that life had gone on as normal. He stooped to kiss her hand. “I know, Mother. But it wasn’t exactly haute cuisine in the trenches.”

“How do you feel?”

“Excellent,” he said truthfully, three pints of Guinness in his belly.

“Hmm.” She cast her eyes over his frame. “We shall have to feed you up again. Can’t have you returning to society like a half-starved beggar.”

“Certainly not, Mother.”

“You must rest now and recover. You will be tired after your boat journey.” Marjorie was naturally ready with instruction, chronically short on affection. “Once you’re rested, our other guests will come.”

“Other guests?”

“Your brothers, of course. Duncan and Allister will be most anxious to see you.” Only Marjorie could have described her children as the
other guests
.

Adam sighed. “Today? I mean, I really am quite tired.” A stiff, formal family occasion was about the most unpalatable thing he could think of right now.

“As I said, you will rest first.” She sat back on her chair. “Quentin, tell Lizzie to see that Adam’s old room is made up. You may while away a few hours, Adam, and later we’ll sit down to dinner. The whole family.”

He nodded in resignation. “When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

Sleep was not forthcoming, lying in the warm afternoon light on silken pillows and a feather mattress. The quietness and comfort was utterly unnatural; he almost wished for frozen duckboards and the whistling of artillery shells overhead to set him at ease.

A little before six, Quentin knocked gently and suggested that he might like to wash and dress before dinner. Lizzie, the housemaid, had filled the bathtub with hot water, and while he attended to his toiletries she laid out a new suit, shirt, and waistcoat on his bed.

There was a hum of chatter from the drawing room. With his cheeks freshly shaven he slapped on some Old Spice aftershave—it was like rubbing flames into his skin—and ran oil through his hair to tame the unruly spikes. Lastly he put on his tie and fastened the laces on his shoes.

They were waiting for him.

Lizzie had lit candles round the room and was serving predinner aperitifs. A pleasant smell of roast beef, herbs, and onions wafted from the kitchen.

“Adam!” The big man in the centre of the room, his mouth stuffed with cheese, turned in delight. “Adam, by God—come here, boyo!”

Duncan, the eldest son, was almost the same height as Adam but considerably heavier, a paunch bulging shamelessly below his waistcoat. He grabbed Adam in a bear hug, until Adam almost choked, before releasing him and thumping his shoulder. “Look at you, the Hun slayer. You look good, brother. Grand suit—a nice change from the army issue khakis, eh?”

“Yes.” Adam wiped his chin clear of the food morsels spattering from Duncan’s lips. “Quite a change all right. How’s everything with you, Duncan? Business good? I can see you’re not starving anyway.”

Duncan guffawed and patted his belly. “All my wife’s fault. She’s such a damned good cook. Where’s Sarah? Sarah! Come say hello to your brother-in-law returned from the war.”

Sarah was a dainty creature, red-haired and narrow-waisted. She rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and smiled. “Welcome home, Adam. We’re all very glad you’re safe.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

There was one more person left.

Allister approached slowly, pinched his nose, and then shook Adam’s hand. “So, you’re back, then.” Though only a year younger than Adam, he was much smaller and slighter of build, with freckled skin and red rims of hay fever round his nostrils. “You’ve been missed.”

They had never been close. Allister, perhaps because of his being born last, had grown up jealous and distrustful, a manipulator who devoted his ample powers of intellect always towards furthering his own position. If Duncan was the undisputed heir and natural successor to their father, Allister could not accept why he shouldn’t be second in command.

“Thanks, Allister. So how have you been?” Adam asked.

“Good, good. And you? How were your travels?”

My travels?
Adam blinked. “Oh, just fine. So I hear you’re working for Duncan now, Quentin tells me.” Duncan had taken over Bowen & Associates some years before, the law firm founded by Hunter Bowen.

“Working
with
Duncan, I should say,” Allister corrected. “It’s a family firm, after all. We make a good team too. Me and Duncan.”

There it was. The first warning shot fired across his bows. A subtle reminder of the order of things.

“I don’t doubt it. Well, I wish you every success,” Adam said. “Say, Quentin, any more of that fine claret going round?”

They went into dinner at six, the mahogany table set with a fine array of crystal and candelabra, everything polished and glittering. Quentin moved about with nervous energy, trying to ensure that everybody was having a good time. He pulled back Marjorie’s chair, and she lowered herself imperiously into it. He went to sit himself but then hopped up in embarrassment, realising that he had forgotten Sarah. Once Sarah was seated he again went for his own seat, but Duncan, the official head of the family, was still standing. Quentin hesitated, managing to frown, smile, and blush all in one go.

“Quentin dear, do stop prancing about,” Marjorie sighed. “Adam, will you sit next to me, please?”

Adam did as told. Allister sat next to him and blew his nose on a handkerchief. Sarah and Quentin were sitting opposite, and Quentin winked at him.

“Smell that, eh, Adam? You must have missed the smell of good, honest home-cooking.”

“Makes a change from boiled rat.”

“Adam.” Marjorie flashed him a glare.

“Only joking,” he smiled. The glass of wine on an empty stomach had made him feel light-headed and vaguely reckless. 1918 pinot noir from Burgundy, Quentin helpfully told them. Stout bodied. Notes of black cherry and lime.

“I’m starving,” Duncan grumbled.

“No need for a press advert, darling,” Sarah advised him.

Lizzie handed round the starters—mushroom soup, salad, and seasoned foie gras inside crab shells. Duncan set to it like he was leading a cavalry charge. Quentin, Marjorie, and Sarah ate with a little more decorum. Allister blew his nose once more.

“So tell us, Adam,” Duncan bit off a hunk of bread and continued to talk, “when are you going to be ready to rejoin the living?”

“When am I what?”

“I was thinking, now that you’ve left the army, you’d care to take up a position with myself and Allister.”

Allister almost spat his soup across the table. He gaped at Duncan. “But—”

“Well, it’s the obvious course, isn’t it? Adam will be at something of a loose end, and after all, his rightful place is in the family firm. Father would have wanted it that way.”

Marjorie nodded assent.

“But,” Allister stammered, “but he never passed the exams.”

“He can re-sit the curriculum, and serve out his articles with us while he does so.”

“But he has no experience!”

Adam turned his head politely to follow the conversation about him. Then he looked at Allister. “Experience,
Allie boyo
, is something I’m not short on. I can assure you.”

“I mean legal experience,” Allister blustered. “And don’t call me Allie boyo.”

“Boys, boys.” Marjorie raised a hand. “It’s merely something to consider at a later date. But for now, let’s leave business aside, shall we? This is a family celebration.”

“Hear, hear. Right as always, Mother.” Duncan guffawed round the table and helped himself to a glazed fig hors d’oeuvre.

They finished the starters, and Lizzie cleared the plates before bringing out the creamed potatoes and vegetables and the main dish, roast Angus beef, cooked in its own juices and flavoured with horseradish sauce. She laid the platter in front of Duncan. He rose.

“Now, I know it’s customary for the head of the family to carve the meat. But since it’s a special occasion, welcoming Adam home from the war, I thought he should have the honours. Adam?”

Staring at the skewer and carving knife, Adam swallowed doubtfully. “I-I don’t think so, Duncan. Not really my style.”