Voice of the Heart

What if she won an Oscar! This prospect was at once so stunning, so electrifying, so dazzling, Katharine felt momentarily dizzy. And because she had that most unique of all talents, the talent for believing in herself, the idea that she had a chance of winning was not at all beyond the realms of possibility in her mind. But even if she did not win an Oscar, Katharine did not doubt that she would be a star when the picture was released. And her success would not only bring her fame on a grand scale, but money, lots of money, a very special kind of power.

A faint white shadow glanced across Katharine’s face, tinging it with unfamiliar bitterness and dislodging the joy which had previously rested there.

Soon, very soon, she would be able to make her moves, put her final plan into operation, and execute it with the sure knowledge that she would be triumphant. A tiny fluttering sigh escaped Katharine’s lips. It was too late to save her mother, but not too late to save her brother, Ryan. Her dearest Ryan. Lost to her for so long. This desire had been one of the prime motivations behind many of Katharine’s actions for the past few years, and just as she was unremittingly driven to succeed in her career, so too was she driven to rescue Ryan from their father’s domination, from his contaminating influence. Sometimes, when she thought of Ryan, panic moved through Katharine and she quivered with fear for him. Ryan was nearly nineteen, and she often wondered to what degree his soul had been poisoned by that man. Had Ryan inevitably become their father’s creature, partially if not wholly? This idea was so repugnant to her, so unacceptable, and so terrifying, she pushed it away fiercely, denying it with silent vehemence; but her resolution to get her brother away from Chicago and to keep him with her wherever she was living, was reinforced more strongly than ever.

Katharine thought about Ryan, and the daunting expression slowly lifted from her face; her features grew soft, the hardness tempered by love and tenderness. But as always when she contemplated him, other images intruded. Her hands tightened in her lap and she sat staring into space fixedly, without moving, her body as immobile as a statue. Surrounding Ryan like a fateful nimbus was that brooding grotesque house where they had grown up, and where Ryan still lived, that awful mausoleum of a place, that dubious tribute to her father’s wealth and position and his terrible power. She had always loathed that house with its dusky hallways and winding staircases and dolorous rooms stuffed to overflowing with expensive ugly antiques, all manner of bric-a-brac and undistinguished paintings. It was a masterpiece of ostentation, reeking of bad taste, new money and suffocating unhappiness. To Katharine it was also a house of deprivation. Oh, they had had expensive clothes and the best food and cars and servants, for their father was a millionaire many times over. But it was, to Katharine, still a deprived house, for there had been so little genuine love in it. She shuddered involuntarily. She had not set foot in that house for six years, and on the day she had left it she had vowed she would never darken its doors again.

Katharine’s thoughts rushed to her father, and although she consistently obliterated his image in her mind’s eye, today she did not even attempt to extinguish it. She saw him quite vividly, as if he stood before her, Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke, with his handsome saturnine face and ebony-black hair, eyes as blue as sapphires and as hard as that stone they so closely resembled. He was a dreadful man, and she realized suddenly that she had always understood this, even when she had been a very small child. She had simply not known the words to properly describe him then. Today she had them at the tip of her tongue. He was exigent, rapacious and ruthless, a venal man who had made money his mistress and power his God. The world did not know Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke as she knew him. He was a monumental anachronism: the charming, laughing, entertaining, silver-tongued Irishman in public, the stern, glowering and dictatorial tyrant in his own home. Katharine hated him. Just as he hated her. Gooseflesh speckled her arms and she pulled her robe closer around her. She recalled, with the most sharp and awful clarity, the day she had first recognized her father’s virulent hatred for her. It had been in August 1947. She had been twelve years old.

On that day, nearly nine years ago, Katharine had been her happiest in many months, this state engendered by her mother’s unexpected presence at lunch. Rosalie O’Rourke was feeling so much better she had decided to join her children at their noonday meal. Katharine had been singularly overjoyed to see her mother looking practically like her old self; and if Rosalie was not brimming with the vitality which had once been such an essential and natural part of her personality, she seemed lighthearted, almost carefree. Her eyes, widely set and a clear tourmaline green, sparkled with laughter, and her abundant red hair, crackling with life, was a burnished bronze helmet above her heart-shaped face, which was free of pain today, and had lost some of its waxen pallor. She was wearing a pale green silk-shantung dress with long sleeves and a full skirt, and its style disguised her thin body, so tragically wasted by illness. A choker of lustrous pearls encircled her neck, and there were matching pearl studs in her ears; her tapering fingers glittered with beautiful rings set with diamonds and emeralds.

Mrs O’Rourke had instructed Annie, the housekeeper, to serve luncheon in the breakfast room, one of the few cheerful spots in the dim and shadowy house, and which Rosalie herself had personally decorated. It had a lovely aura of airy lightness, was brushstroked throughout in a pretty mélange of crisp white and sharp lemon yellow, rafts of these refreshing colours appearing everywhere. It was furnished, in the main, with white wicker furniture, unusual handsome pieces from the Victorian era, and there were colourful prints of exotic birds and rare orchids on the walls and an abundance of tall green plants. Decorated in the same charming manner as Rosalie’s suite of rooms on the second floor, it was refined and gracious, yet without being at all stylized in appearance.

As she had sat gazing adoringly at her mother across the table, Katharine had thought how distinguished and elegant she looked, perfectly groomed and smelling faintly of lilies of the valley as she invariably did. To Katharine her mother was, and always would be, the epitome of beauty and feminine grace, and she idolized her. Katharine, at this moment, was filled with renewed hope for her mother, who seemed to be on the way to recovering from the mysterious illness which had afflicted her for the past two years, an illness no one really discussed, except in whispers.

Since it was a weekday, Patrick O’Rourke had not been present, and in consequence, the tension which generally accompanied their meals was fortunately missing. Ryan had chattered like a magpie, had kept them entertained, and they had laughed a lot and enjoyed themselves. Katharine had felt secure, basking in her mother’s love. It was a love given unstintingly and with all of Rosalie’s tender and caring heart.

Only one thing marred this joyful occasion for Katharine, and this was her mother’s poor appetite, and she had watched with growing dismay as Rosalie had picked at her food desultorily, leaving untouched most of the delicious and tempting dishes their housekeeper Annie had prepared. After lunch, Ryan had disappeared, intent on some boyish escapade. When her mother had asked Katharine to spend another hour with her, she had delightedly accepted. Nothing pleased the twelve-year-old girl more than to be alone with her mother in the cool secluded suite she occupied. Katharine loved the comfortable rooms with their pastel colour schemes and delicate fabrics, French Provincial furniture and lovely paintings, so unlike the rest of the house which bore her father’s vulgar stamp. The sitting room, in particular, was Katharine’s favourite, and most especially on cold days. Then the fire blazed and crackled in the hearth and they sat before its roaring flames in that special twilight hour, toasting their toes and chatting cosily about books and music and the theatre, or relaxing in silence, always in perfect harmony, for there was a deep understanding and abiding love between them. That afternoon they had seated themselves by the window overlooking Lake Michigan, not talking very much, content to be sharing this time. It had been a long while since they had had an opportunity to spend an afternoon with each other because of Rosalie’s precarious health.

At thirty-two Rosalie O’Rourke had made her peace with herself and her God, and this new-found tranquillity showed in her face, which, despite her illness, was still lovely. Today it had an ethereal quality lightly overshadowed by a faint wistfulness, and her eyes were soft and filled with the tenderest of lights as she sat gazing out over the lake, endeavouring to gather her strength. The lunch had vitiated her energies, but she did not wish this to show, wanted Katharine to be reassured about her condition. Rosalie had not experienced much joy in her life after her marriage, except through her children, mostly Katharine, whom she adored. She had quickly discovered she was no match for Patrick, with his rampant virility and quick Irish temper, his lust for life in all its aspects, and his hunger for money and power, which was insatiable. Her refinement and delicacy, her fragility and artistic nature had inevitably isolated her from her husband, and her gentle soul continually shrank from his blatant masculinity and voracious appetites. Despite her love for him, curiously undiminished, she had come to regret the union, recognizing the unsuitability of their temperaments. Few knew the real Patrick, for he was adept at concealment, cloaking his true nature behind an austere and dignified façade; and he was a past master at the art of dissimulation, adroit, and persuasive of tongue.

‘That one’s kissed the Blarney stone, by God he has, and not once but many times over,’ her father had said to her early in the whirlwind courtship. Her father had continued to be ambivalent about Patrick long after their marriage, never truly sure the relationship would work. In certain ways it had been successful, in others it had not, and there had been times when Rosalie had contemplated leaving Patrick. But divorce was unthinkable. She was a Catholic, as was he, and there were the children, whom she knew he would never relinquish. And she still had deep feelings for him, regardless of his faults.

Although Rosalie hardly ever acknowledged it as a fact, or dwelt upon it morbidly, she knew that she was dying. The spurts of vigour and renewed energy and remissions were quite meaningless, and they were growing increasingly infrequent. Now, as she sat with her daughter, she thought sadly: I have so little time left on this good earth, so little time to give to Katharine and Ryan, God help them.

Every day Rosalie, who was devout, gave thankful prayers to the Almighty that her daughter and her son were more like her in their basic characters, and had not inherited many of their father’s dismaying traits, at least so far as she could ascertain. She glanced at Katharine, sitting sedately in the chair, obedient and well mannered, and she marvelled at her yet again. The child looked so young and demure in her yellow cotton dress and white socks and black patent-leather strap shoes. And yet there was something oddly grownup in her demeanour, as though she had seen much of life, had encountered its pain and pitfalls and was wise and knowing. Rosalie realized this was an idiotic idea, since the girl was over-protected, had never been exposed to anything but luxury and the safety of her family and her home. But one thing which could not be denied was Katharine’s extraordinary physical appearance. She was a great beauty, even at this tender age, with her lovely features and rich chestnut hair and those liquid eyes with their curious turquoise hue. Katharine had a sweet and loving personality which echoed the sweetness in her face, but Rosalie knew this disguised a streak of wilful stubbornness. She also suspected that her daughter might have a touch of Patrick’s ruthlessness in her as well, but perhaps this was all to the good. Rosalie instinctively felt Katharine was capable of looking after herself, protecting herself against Patrick and the world at large, for she had the spirit of a fighter, and she would survive against all odds. And for this Rosalie was suddenly thankful.

Of her two children, it was Ryan whom she worried about the most. He was far too timid to effectively defend himself against Patrick, who doted on him in the most alarming way, seeing in Ryan the heir apparent who would glorify the name O’Rourke, and who was the malleable tool for Patrick’s own terrifying ambition. How Pat had longed for this son; how disappointed he had been when he had first set eyes on Katharine, a mere girl. Ryan’s birth had been perhaps the single most important occasion in Patrick’s life, and he had had his plans worked out for the boy that very day. Possibly they had been formulated years before, those high-flown grandiose plans that sickened Rosalie. Her efforts to dissuade her husband had been futile, her entreaties had fallen on stony ground, and to the sound of laughter and angry, condemning words. She was helpless. She could not prevent Patrick from putting those plans into eventual motion. She would not be alive when that day finally arrived. She could only pray that Ryan would have the strength and the willpower to stand up to his father, the inner resources to walk away from Patrick, with his integrity intact, when the time came. If he did do this, Patrick would immediately disinherit and disown him, of that she had no doubt. Ryan would be penniless. A poor young man. But he would be safe, and ultimately rich in that he would be free of his father’s domination and control. He would be his own man, not a puppet manipulated by Patrick O’Rourke.

Rosalie sighed, thinking of Patrick, and she wondered why she still had such overpowering emotions for him, when she knew him to be quite monstrous. How strange and perverse women are, she thought.

‘Is anything wrong, Mother?’ Katharine asked in a small worried voice, cutting into Rosalie’s thoughts.

Rosalie managed to force a smile onto her face, and she replied quickly, lightly, ‘No, darling, of course not. I was just thinking how neglectful I’ve been of you lately, but you know I haven’t had much strength or energy. I wish we could spend more time together, especially now that you have school vacation.’

‘Oh, so do I, Mother,’ Katharine exclaimed. ‘But you mustn’t worry about me. All I want is for you to get better.’ Katharine jumped down off the chair and joined Rosalie on the sofa. She took hold of her mother’s fine hand and gazed up into her face, and unexpectedly she saw something in the green eyes that frightened her. She was not sure what it was. A look of immense sadness perhaps. Or was it resignation? The girl was unable to pinpoint it accurately, but her heart clenched and her own eyes filled with sudden bright tears. ‘You will get better, won’t you, Momma?’ Katharine hesitated and her lip quivered as she whispered, ‘You’re not going to die, are you?’

Rosalie laughed and shook her burnished copper curls. ‘Of course not, you silly child! I’m going to be fine, and very soon I’ll be my old self.’ The smile widened and she continued bravely, ‘After all, I have to be around when you star in your first play. I have to see your name in lights on the marquee, and be there on opening night. You do still want to be an actress, don’t you, honey?’

Rosalie spoke with such assurance, Katharine’s fears were allayed. She blinked back her tears and instantly brightened. ‘Oh, yes, I do, Momma. I really do.’ Although her smile was watery, there was extraordinary determination in her child’s voice. Then she asked, ‘You don’t think he’ll object, do you?’

A frown touched Rosahe’s pale face and was gone. ‘Your father? I’m sure he won’t. And why should he?’ Rosalie shifted slightly on the sofa and eased herself back against the cushions, experiencing a twinge of pain. ‘You know what fathers are like. They don’t pay much attention to such things. They think their daughters should get married the moment they leave college, and then have lots of babies. I suppose he’ll simply think it’s a nice way for you to pass your time until you do get married.’

‘But I’ve no intention of getting married,’ said Katharine with unprecedented fierceness, and her eyes flared with the sharpest of blue flame. ‘I want to be a famous actress like Sarah Bernhardt and Eleanora Duse and Katharine Cornell. I intend to devote my life to the theatre. I won’t have any time for a foolishness like marriage,’ she scoffed.

Rosalie bit back a smile of amusement. ‘Well, darling, you might change your mind one day, especially when you fall in love.’

‘Oh, I know I won’t!’

Rosalie made no comment to this last remark, but continued to smile lovingly at her daughter. Eventually she said, ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t go for our usual summer visit to Aunt Lucy’s in Barrington. It would have been such a pleasant change from Chicago. It’s so hot here right now. But your father thought the trip would overtire me. You don’t mind being in the city too much, do you, Katharine?’

‘No, Momma. I like going to Barrington, but not without you. I just want to stay here and keep you company.’

That’s sweet of you.’ Rosalie pondered for a moment and then asked softly, ‘You do like your aunt, don’t you, dear?’

Katharine was surprised by this question. “Course I do, Momma. I love Aunt Lucy.’

Rosalie squeezed Katharine’s small hand. ‘She has been a great source of strength for me as long as I can remember, and my dearest friend, as well as my sister.’ Rosalie stopped. There was something else which she needed to say, but she did not want to alarm Katharine, and so she sought her words with great care. ‘Aunt Lucy loves you dearly, Katharine. You’re like the daughter she never had. And she will always be there for you, my darling. Don’t ever forget that, will you?’

Straightening up on the sofa, Katharine drew away from her mother and stared at her, her wide eyes searching that gentle face intently. But it was peaceful and her mother appeared to be untroubled. Nevertheless, Katharine murmured tensely, ‘What a funny thing to say, Momma. Why should I ever need Aunt Lucy, when I have you?’

‘We all need friends, my darling. That’s all I meant. Now, would you like to read to me for a while. A little poetry. I think something by Elizabeth Barrett Browning would be nice.’

Katharine took out the leather-bound book of poetry and seated herself in the chair; she turned the pages to the sonnets, and scanned them carefully until she came across the one she liked the most, and which she knew her mother preferred to all of them.

Her voice, as light and as clear as a crystal bell, rang out in the quiet room:

‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the end of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, – I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.’

Katharine lifted her head and looked at her mother for approval, a smile on her face. But it slipped, and she put the book down instantly, and flew to the sofa. Tears shimmered on Rosahe’s translucent cheeks and the hand that was lifted to wipe them away shook.

‘Momma, Momma, what is it?’ Katharine cried, embracing her mother. ‘Why are you crying? I didn’t mean to pick a sonnet that was sad or would upset you. I thought you loved that particular one.’

‘I do, darling,’ Rosalie said, thinking sorrowfully of Patrick, but smiling through her tears. ‘I’m not sad, really I’m not. The sonnet is beautiful, and I was very moved by your voice, and the way you read it with so much meaning and emotion, Katharine. I know you’re going to be a marvellous actress.’

Katherine kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Shall I read you another one? Something more cheerful?’

Rosalie shook her head. ‘I think I’m going to he down for a while, Katharine. I’m feeling a hide tired after all.’ She leaned closer and touched Katharine’s cheek lightly with the tip of her finger. ‘You’re very special, my beautiful Katharine. And I do love you so very much.’

‘I love you too, Momma.’

Rosalie stood up, holding onto the arm of the sofa to steady herself, making a tremendous effort to hide the sudden trembling which had seized her from her daughter. ‘Will you come and see me later, dear?’

‘Yes, Momma,’ Katharine said.

Rosalie nodded, too exhausted to respond, and moved towards the bedroom.

Katharine went in search of Ryan, scouring the house for him. As she mounted the stairs to the third floor she noticed it had grown stifling hot. The air was heavy with humidity, and the house was airless and more suffocating than usual. She had grown hot on her long climb up to her old nursery, and by the time she reached the door her cotton frock was damp and clinging to her body.

She found Ryan sitting at the table, just as she had expected, and as usual he was painting. His head, with its mop of reddish-golden curls, was bent in concentration. He looked up when she came in. He was smiling.

‘Can I see?’ Katharine asked, crossing the floor to join him.

Ryan nodded. ‘Sure. I’ve just finished it. Don’t pick it up though. It’s still a bit damp.’

Katharine had been astonished by the watercolour. It was not merely good but outstanding, a landscape awash with tender spring greens and ashy pinks, faded chrome yellow and melting blues, and the misty colours and exquisite configurations gave it a dreamlike quality that was perfectly magical. It was the best painting he had ever done, and Katharine was awed, recognizing what an extraordinary talent he had. It did not seem possible that a boy of only ten years had painted this piece of art.

‘Did you copy it from a book?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder.

‘No, I didn’t!’ Ryan cried indignantly. His deep green eyes, so like their mother’s, flickered with hurt, and then he grinned. ‘Don’t you recognize it, Dopey?’

Katharine shook her head. Ryan searched around the table and produced a snapshot. ‘See. It’s Aunt Lucy’s garden at Barrington,’ he announced, pushing the photograph under her nose. ‘But you’ve made it look so much more beautiful,’ Katharine exclaimed, further impressed with his astonishing ability. ‘Why, Ryan, you’re a true artist. You’ll be famous one day, I bet, and I’ll be so proud of you.’

He grinned again, the freckles dancing around like a sprinkling of brown sugar across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. ‘Do you really think I’ll be a real artist one day, Katie? Tell me the truth and say honest injun.’

‘Honest injun, Ryan, and cross my heart and hope to die,’ she smiled.

At this moment the door flew open with such swiftness and force, both children jumped and stared at each other with startled eyes. Patrick O’Rourke was standing on the threshold. It was an unexpected and unprecedented appearance, especially at this hour of the day, and he entered the room like a hurricane. ‘So here you both are! What the hell are you doing up here, when I’ve built a perfectly good playroom downstairs? Have I wasted my money?’

Katharine felt Ryan’s thin shoulders tensing under her hand resting on them. She said slowly, ‘No, Father, you haven’t wasted your money.’ There was a slight pause. ‘We use the playroom most of the time,’ she lied quickly.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Patrick said, and seated himself in the rocking chair. He was a tall, well-built man, and the chair was a fraction too small for him, but he did not seem to notice, or care about this. He regarded them both thoughtfully for a moment, his blue eyes acute. Finally, he fixed his narrowed gaze on Ryan. ‘Have you had a nice day, son?’