One Winter Weekend

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

B en was watching Sky News – Italy’s Finance Minister was caught up in some sort of scandalous affair – when a knock came at his door.

He jumped out of bed, knocking over a less-than-sturdy nightstand (and taking down a lamp with it) in the process.

He cursed mildly over his stubbed toe and hobbled over to the door to reveal an absolute shock.

“Mother …” he said, irritably.

Patricia held her expression neutral, but he noted a slight smudge in her usually impeccably applied mascara. She’d been crying.

“Ben darling,” she greeted, her voice wavering ever-so-slightly, “may I come in?”

He didn’t answer, but left the door open and headed back into the room. Patricia followed, swallowing hard.

“I’d offer you a drink,” Ben said coldly, “but I’m pretty certain you’ve already had quite enough.”

She chuckled a little. “I suppose I should’ve stopped after that first bottle of wine.”

“Mother, I don’t give a damn how much wine you drank,” he scolded her. “What you did – the way you acted – it was—”

“—unforgivable,” she finished for him, nodding. “I know, dear. I know. I was only…”

“You were only thinking about yourself,” he snapped. Patricia stayed silent and looked to the ground. “Is there something you needed?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I just – I want you to under—” she stifled a small heave in her chest before continuing, “—to understand all that comes with being the Earl of Daventry. Because it won’t be—”

“Oh for God’s sake, mother!” Ben yelled. “I don’t care about being the Earl of Daventry, or the rank, or the title, or any of that. I care about Molly! ”

He ran his fingers through his hair and paced a bit around the room. “Do you know what Caroline is doing now?” he demanded. Patricia shook her head. “She’s wandering around the streets of Rome, hoping that maybe, somehow, she’ll run into Molly, or Molly will answer her phone. And the reason I’m not out there with her is I’m afraid that seeing me will only make things worse. And you know what I have to thank for that? The damned Lord and Lady Pembrey! You, and your stuck-up, closed-minded, pretentious nonsense that makes you think that because you married Father, you’re somehow entitled to better treatment than your so-called social inferiors.”

At this, Patricia broke. She knew her son was right; he had every right and every reason to be upset with her. But more than anything else, she also knew she was right.

“Ben,” she said, choking back a sob, “I know the title means nothing to you. But it doesn’t mean nothing to everyone. In fact, it means a great deal. It imparts status and power – not for me – I grew up without it, obviously – but for your children. The only time I’ve ever invoked the title has been to help you .”

Ben looked her in the eye, his blazing fiercely. “I never asked for that, Mother,” he said darkly.

“You never had to,” she insisted. “You are my son . Perhaps… perhaps when you have children of your own, you’ll understand.”

“If I have children,” he said, “it’s going to be with Molly. I only hope she can forgive me for not standing up to you sooner.”

“Oh Ben,” Patricia remarked, “I’m not concerned with whether or not you have children with Molly or – or – bloody Princess Beatrice!”

Ben arched an eyebrow. “Wha— why would I ever have children with— what?”

Patricia shook her head. “Never mind. The point , my dear, is that you can marry whomever you want – but you must choose carefully, because what you stand to inherit affects not only you but your children and your children’s children.” She fumbled with her fingers a bit before continuing, obviously searching for the right words to convey her feelings. “Do you remember Digadoo?”

“Digadoo?” Ben chuckled. “Sounds like a really awful kids’ TV show.”

“Digadoo,” Patricia explained, “was your imaginary pony. When you were about three, you were absolutely obsessed with ponies, and you said you wanted one. When your father and I told you you’d have to wait ‘til you were older, you invented this pony of your own, Digadoo. He was your friend, your confidante – and apparently, he could fly, too.”

“Right.”

“You and Digadoo were the best of friends for about a year. You’d do everything together. You even had me set a place at the dinner table every night for him.”

“So whatever happened to him?’” Ben asked.

“Well, after about a year or so, we realised that you were still serious about this pony, so we got you riding lessons at the club.”

“I remember that ,” he said. “But I don’t remember Digadoo.”

“That’s because you don’t need to, darling,” Patricia said. “Digadoo faded into your memory the way imaginary friends are supposed to, and got replaced by reality. And the reality we were able to provide you with was far better than any fantasy you might have had.”

“I don’t recall the horse being able to fly,” Ben said softly.

“No, but do you recall the fun you had?”

He nodded. “But that’s hardly the point, Mother,” he elaborated. “Money, wealth, power – they’re all fine and well, but you can’t buy happiness. And I can’t remember, but I presume I was very happy with Digadoo.”

Patricia shrugged. “You may have been,” she admitted, “but you were three. You would have been happy with a bowl of custard and a few ladyfingers. Children can’t appreciate what their parents can offer them. It’s for the parents to provide the opportunities. And the Earlship provides more opportunities, opens more doors, than you can possibly imagine.”

“That may be, Mother,” Ben agreed, “but that doesn’t excuse how you spoke to the O’Briens. And it doesn’t excuse how you treated Molly. She’s a wonderful person, mother. If you’d only get past your own ludicrous biases, you’d see that.”

“She might be,” Patricia replied. “She could be the loveliest girl who’s ever lived. But I just don’t know that the… the societal manners she and her parents have shown is compatible with giving your children, my grandchildren, the very best of lives.”

“God, Mother!” Ben complained. “This isn’t a Jane Austen novel. Manners and discipline and polite society? It’s all nonsense. To say nothing of the fact that none of that gentry stuff even exists in Ireland. The only thing that’s important is how we treat each other. That’s what all the sermons at all the masses we attended when I was a boy said. Do unto others and all that. It doesn’t matter if Molly wanted to get married in a foreign city, or that her parents tell saucy in-jokes. They are good people. They are kind people. And they deserve far better than how you’ve treated them.” Incensed afresh, Ben rose and opened the door. “I think it’s best if you leave now.”

“Ben,” she pleaded, panic overtaking her face, “I wish you would only try to understand. I’m not against Molly or her parents. I simply want what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me, Mother,” he responded flatly, “is to be happy. And the only way that’s going to happen is if Molly comes back tonight, safe and sound, and we get married in this city tomorrow. You and Father can come or not come to the ceremony – that’s entirely up to you – but if Molly will still have me, we’re getting married tomorrow.”

Patricia nodded curtly and left the room without saying another word.

Ben closed the door behind her and collapsed against the door. He knew his mother cared – the fact that she’d remembered an imaginary friend he’d forgotten like Digadoo was proof of that – but her haughtiness and closed-mindedness were simply unforgivable.

He was startled to attention rather quickly by a brusque rapping on the door. He stood, straightened his shirt, and began opening the door. Patricia, it appeared, had more to say. “Okay, look,” he began, “I need you to hear me loud and clear: what you think at this point is imma— oh. ”

It wasn’t his mother standing in the doorway. Instead, it was a vision from heaven itself, an angel sent to guide him home. It was Molly, and she was grinning lopsidedly at her fiancee.

“Hey there, handsome,” she said in her best American drawl. “Wanna get hitched?”