She had made him weep, and never in all his life until now had she made him weep. Her own rage and grief were put away resolutely. No, it wasn't fair to visit herself upon him. What he was his genes had made him. Or his God. Or Ralph's God. He was the light of her life, her son. He should not be made to suffer because of her, ever. "Dane, don't cry," she whispered, stroking the angry marks on his arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. You gave me a shock, that's all. Of course I'm glad for you, truly I am! How could 1 not be? I was shocked; I just didn't expect it, that's all." She chuckled, a little shakily. "You did rather drop it on me like a rock."
His eyes cleared, regarded her doubtfully. Why had he imagined he killed her? Those were Mum's eyes as he had always known them; full of love, very much alive. The strong young arms gathered her close, hugged her. "You're sure you don't mind?"
"Mind? A good Catholic mother mind her son becoming a priest? Impossible!" She jumped to her feet. "Brr! How cold it's got! Let's be getting back." They hadn't taken the horses, but a jeeplike LandRover; Dane climbed behind the wheel, his mother sat beside him.
"Do you know where you're going?" asked Meggie, drawing in a sobbing breath, pushing the tumbled hair out of her eyes. "Saint Patrick's College, I suppose. At least until I find my feet. Perhaps then I'll espouse an order. I'd rather like to be a Jesuit, but I'm not quite sure enough of that to go straight into the Society of Jesus." Meggie stared at the tawny grass bouncing up and down through the insect-spattered windscreen. "I have a much better idea, Dane." "Oh?" He had to concentrate on driving; the track dwindled a bit and there were always new logs across it.
"I shall send you to Rome, to Cardinal de Bricassart. You remember him, don't you?"
"Do I remember him? What a question, Mum! I don't think I could forget him in a million years. He'smy example of the perfect priest. If I could be the priest he is, I'd be very happy."
"Perfection is as perfection does!" said Meggie tartly. "But I shall give you into his charge, because I know he'll look after you for my sake. You can enter a seminary in Rome."
"Do you really mean it, Mum? Really?" Anxiety pushed the joy out of his face. "Is there enough money? It would be much cheaper if I stayed in Australia."
"Thanks to the selfsame Cardinal de Bricassart, my dear, you'll never lack money."
At the cookhouse door she pushed him inside. "Go and tell the girls and Mrs. Smith," she said. "They'll be absolutely thrilled."
One after the other she put her feet down, made them plod up the ramp to the big house, to the drawing room where Fee sat, miraculously not working but talking to Anne Mueller instead, over an afternoon tea tray. As Meggie came in they looked up, saw from her face that something serious had happened.
For eighteen years the Muellers had been visiting Drogheda, expecting that was how it always would be. But Luddie Mueller had died suddenly the preceding autumn, and Meggie had written immediately to Anne to ask her if she would like to live permanently on Drogheda. There was plenty of room, a guest cottage for privacy; she could pay board if she was too proud not to, though heaven knew there was enough money to keep a thousand permanent houseguests. Meggie saw it as a chance to reciprocate for those lonely Queensland years, and Anne saw it as salvation. Himmelhoch without Luddie was horribly lonely. Though she had put on a manager, not sold the place; when she died it would go to Justine.
"What is it, Men!" Anne asked.
Meggie sat down. "I think I've been struck by a retributory bolt of lightning."
"What?"
"You were right, both of you. You said I'd lose him. I didn't believe you, I actually thought I could beat God. But there was never a woman born who could beat God. He's a Man."
Fee poured Meggie a cup of tea. "Here, drink this," she said, as if tea had the restorative powers of brandy. "How have you lost him?" "He's going to become a priest." She began to laugh, weeping at the same time.
Anne picked up her sticks, hobbled to Meggie's chair and sat awkwardly on its arm, stroking the lovely redgold hair. "Oh, my dear! But it isn't as bad as all that."
"Do you know about Dane?" Fee asked Anne.
"I've always known," said Anne.
Meggie sobered. "It isn't as bad as all that? It's the beginning of the end, don't you see? Retribution. I stole Ralph from God, and I'm paying with my son. You told me it was stealing, Mum, don't you remember? I didn't want to believe you, but you were right, as always."
Is he going to Saint Pat's?" Fee asked practically. Meggie laughed more normally. "That's no sort of reparation, Mum. I'm going to send him to Ralph, of course. Half of him is Ralph; let Ralph finally enjoy him." She shrugged. "He's more important than Ralph, and 1 knew he'd want to go to Rome." "Did you ever tell Ralph about Dane?" asked Anne; it wasn't a subject ever discussed.
"No, and I never will. Never!"
"They're so alike he might guess."
"Who, Ralph? He'll never guess! That much I'm going to keep. I'm sending him my son, but no more than that. I'm not sending him his son." "Beware of the jealousy of the gods, Meggie," said Anne softly. "They might not have done, with you yet."
"What more can they do to me?" mourned Meggie. When Justine heard the news she was furious, though for the last three or four years she had had a sneaking suspicion it was coming. First of all, because Justine had been at school in Sydney with him, and as his confidante had listened to him talk of the things he didn't mention to his mother. Justine knew how vitally important his religion was to Dan caret .; not only God, but the mystical significance of Catholic rituals. Had he been born and brought up a Protestant, she thought, he was the type to have eventually turned to Catholicism to satisfy something in his soul. Not for Dane an austere, Calvinistic God. His God was limned in stained glass, wreathed in incense, wrapped in lace and gold embroidery, hymned in musical complexity, and worshipped in lovely Latin cadences.