Father Quill was looking very relaxed and having some sherry. Violet was very fond of him. He was such a sensitive man. He had very dark expressive eyes, and his soft Connemara accent was soft and soothing. He looked over at her, his dark eyes gazing intently at her and she knew he sensed something was wrong. She longed to tell him. She loved how calm he always appeared but the opportunity to talk alone with him was not going to happen. She had noticed that when he smiled his brown eyes seemed to almost light up. She loved the way he listened to her. As if there was nothing in the world more important than what she was saying.
Two more guests arrived – Stephen O’Donoghue, who ran a woollen factory near the town, and his wife Sarah. Stephen had obviously taken a detour to the pub first. His face was bright red and there was a strong smell of brandy emanating from him. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit, white shirt and multi-coloured tie. Sarah was a quiet lady, dressed modestly in a simple skirt, blouse and cardigan. She looked very uncomfortable. Violet sensed that Sarah did not approve of her and suspected that her husband had persuaded her to come.
Once everyone was seated and had a drink, Henry stood up, a drink in one hand and a folded paper in the other.
‘I’d like to say a few words,’ he said, beaming.
Violet smiled. It was the New Year. For Henry’s sake she would try to make the best of tonight and put the matter of the poison-pen letter out of her mind until the morning.
‘I would like to say how happy we are to have you here tonight and I have a small announcement to make.’
Betsy had just come in with another tray of canapés but stood respectfully in the background on hearing Henry make his announcement.
Violet looked expectantly at him. Excitement was bubbling out of him. He looked at her and she smiled encouragingly. He must have received a big commission. His work was receiving wonderful recognition, especially from Irish emigrants in New York who had done well. He was getting the Ward name very well known in all the right circles.
‘Ladies and gentlemen . . . I have just bought the old bank on High Street and refurbishments begin on Monday for what will be Ward’s Goldsmith and Jewellery Shop. I have clients from London and New York and of course Dublin – and I will bring them all to Draheen!’ He was absolutely beaming.
It was as if someone had kicked Violet in the stomach. She sat motionless, staring at Henry as there were cheers and congratulations and glasses clinked.
‘Well done!’ Victor Gettings said heartily. ‘Draheen needs something like this.’
‘Good man, Henry!’ Stephen O’Donoghue said. ‘With everyone taking the boat for London and New York, it’s great to hear some good news! A toast is in order.’ He reached for the bottle of brandy and filled up his glass, to the obvious disapproval of his wife who was fidgeting and had refused any alcohol whatsoever.
‘You are a dark horse, Henry,’ Heather Gettings said. ‘What a beautiful building it is! And how wonderful that something exciting is happening in Draheen for a change.’
Victor Gettings raised a toast, and everyone clinked glasses with more congratulations.
Heather got up from the fireside chair and walked over to where Violet was sitting. She took a drag from a cigarette in a gold cigarette-holder, inhaled deeply then allowed the smoke to escape from her mouth in small circles.
‘So, you’re staying in the sticks then,’ she said as she smiled at Violet. ‘I have to say I thought the bright lights of London would be calling you back or even New York and Broadway. Well, good for Draheen!’
But Violet was staring open-mouthed at Henry and made no reply.
Henry walked over and pulled her up. He grabbed her waist and swung her around, then took both her hands and held them tightly.
‘Yes, we are staying in the sticks, Heather,’ he said. ‘It’s a surprise for Violet too.’ He looked sheepishly at his wife.
She didn’t trust her voice to speak – how could he do this? Without a word he had gone ahead and bought this building. Without ever discussing it. She knew he had plans to open a jewellery shop and workspace. They had discussed it at length. Opening it in Draheen did make sense but they had talked about having it in Dublin or even London before they moved. Henry knew how unsettled she was living here. He knew how unwelcoming most of the townspeople were to her. There was so much to discuss about it. All the money they had saved, and more, would be needed to open it. Now he had gone ahead without even consulting her, as if her opinion was of no importance.
In that moment, she felt she hardly knew her husband.
‘Henry . . .’ She tried to speak but her voice was strangled.
Betsy had put her tray down and now she came over to Violet.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Ward, but Sylvia would like to see you.’
Violet’s eyes met Betsy’s, secretly thanking her for helping her make her escape.
‘Thanks, Betsy, I will go up to her now.’ She pulled her hands from her husband’s grip.
‘Congratulations, Henry,’ she said. But it was barely a whisper.
She went out and up the stairs, her heart pounding. The congratulations and cheers below were getting louder.
She tiptoed into her daughter’s room. Sylvia was, in fact, asleep. She looked like a little fairy with creamy wisps of hair over her face, her doll Suzanne snuggled close beside her. A tug of love almost overpowered Violet. She made a vow to herself. Whatever she had to do, she would protect Sylvia. She loved her husband but if he refused to leave Draheen their marriage would be tested to its very core.
CHAPTER 5
Violet had hidden the letter that Sylvia had received in a drawer in her bedroom. She took it out now. She had not gone back down to the party. Instead she had sat beside Sylvia’s bed for a while and then quietly left her and came to sit in her own bedroom.
Now she read the letter again, staring at the vicious words. Her party mood had certainly left her.
Almost an hour had passed when the door opened and Henry walked in.
‘Violet, you must come down now – I have a bottle of champagne ready to open.’
Violet turned her head away.
‘I won’t be coming down.’
‘Why ever not? Sylvia is asleep.’
Violet got up and walked towards her husband, staring straight at him.
‘You have absolutely no idea why I am upset. Do you, Henry?’
‘No. What do you mean “upset”? What is wrong? Is it Sylvia?’
‘Henry, why on earth did you not consult with me before you poured all that money into a building here? Did you not think I had a right to know?’
Henry looked completely taken aback. ‘I thought it would be a New Year surprise for you. It’s such a beautiful building. You will love it. Wait until you see the interior! The light through the windows, the craftsmanship of the architrave! And the wooden floors really give it class. I know it swallowed most of what we have. I did put away a bit for a rainy day, but I have had to mortgage the house. I promise you it will be worth it. I have wonderful plans. Draheen will become known as the home of the finest goldsmiths in Ireland. I thought you would be thrilled!’
He smiled and reached for her.
She stepped away.
‘Thrilled about what exactly? That you have tied us to Draheen for good by buying that building? You know that I have had huge reservations about staying here.’ She was barely able to disguise the frustration and anger she felt.
He shook his head and tried to grab her hand, but she pushed him away.
‘In time things will change,’ he said. ‘I know it has not been easy for you or Sylvia. But in time things will come right. You have already made some friends here.’
‘What about Sylvia? Will she make new friends? Is it all going to work out for her, too?’ she said, her voice rising.
‘Stop worrying so much, Sylvia will be fine. I know the school did not work out for her. But the town will accept all of us in time. It’s just their way.’
‘Rea
lly?’
‘You are overreacting here. Maybe I should have told you. But it’s done now – can we discuss this in the morning? We have people downstairs and it’s starting to look more than a bit odd that you are not down there.’
‘I’m not going down.’
‘What? You are not serious?’
‘You heard me, go down yourself. I am not going.’
Henry threw his eyes to heaven. ‘You are completely overreacting, Violet.’
‘I am not going down there and that’s final!’ she said vehemently.
‘Christ, woman, I don’t know why you are acting like this. I have had enough!’
He turned around, stormed out and banged the door shut. Violet could hear him pounding down the stairs.
Shortly after that Betsy came up, bringing her some tea and a little food, for which she was grateful. Betsy told her not to worry and that things would look better in the morning. Violet knew this was far from the truth, but she smiled and wished Betsy a Happy New Year.
As Violet drank the tea, white flakes of snow began to fall outside. She watched them as they covered the windowsill. Snow could make everything look so pure, so untouched, so innocent.
She sat there for a long time, lost in her thoughts.
Eventually she could hear the church bells in the distance, ringing in the New Year, and much jubilation downstairs. I950 had arrived. She shuddered and pulled her wrap more closely around her. She thought of other New Year’s Eves when she was a young girl, sharing a room with her sisters. Now she was shunned by all her family. She thought of her mother, busy cooking, cleaning, sewing and praying. Did she still pray for her youngest daughter?
Elsie Morton had told her that her brother Mattie was in Guildford on the buildings. She knew that if she really wanted to find him she possibly could. The Irish community was tight enough in Guildford. But the thought of him shutting the door on her stopped her.
Elsie had told her that Owen Keane from Whitewater had seen her first play while he was in London and reported that it was a sin against the Catholic Church. The news had spread like wildfire in the village. Violet’s father had said he wished she were dead, that she had brought shame to her family. Her sister Kathleen was to be married to Eamon Boyle but when his father heard about Violet he had made his son call off the wedding. Kathleen was heartbroken and had left for America. Violet could not imagine what it would be like for Kathleen who had only been as far as Dublin on a day trip in her life. Elsie said that she went to look after children in Brooklyn. She was to come back after a couple of years. At the time Violet had written yet again to tell her mother that she was so sorry for any distress she had caused. But again, there was no response.
She undressed and put on her nightdress, then went back to Sylvia’s bedroom and got into bed beside her, cuddling into her warm little body.
Eventually the guests left, and she heard Henry come up the stairs and go into their bedroom. He did not come to find her.
Tears silently flowed down her face. She would have to talk to him in the morning. But she feared that even if she showed him the letter he would shush it away as some silly kids with nothing better to do.
She was sure it was not from any child. There was pure hatred in that letter. She had not felt hatred before in Ireland. Disappointment, yes. Her family were disappointed and felt betrayed by her. But hatred was new.
She felt suffocated. She had left here over twelve years ago for the same reason. She could breathe in London, even if the air was filled with smog and toil. In Ireland the air was filled with rules that were so rigid she felt she would smother. Her curious mind had been silenced from an early age. She was not allowed to question her mother, her father, her schoolmaster and certainly not the Catholic Church. She had wished for an easier mind that would have accepted the life set out to her. Work in the local drapery shop, attend a few dances and marry a suitable boy. Then rear her children if she was blessed enough and make sure that they knew the rules set out to them. For rules were there to be abided by if you wished to live peacefully in Whitewater and those rules applied in Draheen too. She knew that in the minds of many she had broken the rules and she would have to face the consequences.
CHAPTER 6
Violet had a restless night. While it was still dark, she slid out of Sylvia’s bed and went to the window. The light snow had vanished and the garden gleamed under a cover of silver frost. She crept out of the room and into her own bedroom. Henry was in a deep sleep, snoring lightly. She could smell the alcohol emanating from him. She quietly washed in the adjoining washroom and then changed into a flared crimson skirt reaching to below her knees. During the war material had been scarce and clothes had reflected that. Material was never wasted. She knew her skirt would possibly receive some glares from the women of Draheen, if only for the colour, but she was past caring today. She pulled on a warm cream jumper that clung to her figure, some socks over her nylons and her walking shoes.
Downstairs, the waft of freshly baked bread met her senses. Betsy was normally off on Sundays but had insisted the previous evening that she would come in for a little while before she headed off to eleven o’clock Mass.
When Violet arrived down all remnants of the night before had vanished. Betsy had the place spotless. There was a pot of tea on the hob and she poured herself a cup and began to drink it, sitting in the comfort of the warm kitchen.
‘Happy New Year, Betsy. My goodness, you should have rested after last night. You are so very kind to come in this morning – and so early.’
‘It’s no bother at all. To be honest, I was worried about you and the little one after the letter and your husband’s announcement. I know you are unsettled here.’
‘Betsy, I am not sure what I would do without you.’
‘Sure, I am only too delighted to be here. Would you like some eggs – you ate very little yesterday. I can have them ready in a jiffy?’ She was mixing an onion-and-butter stuffing for the goose they would have for dinner.
‘No, I’m not hungry, but thank you, Betsy.’
‘I can see you didn’t sleep much.’
‘I’m afraid sleep deserted me.’
‘I know how you must be upset about that letter, but like I said there’s only a few bad eggs, remember that. Draheen might have a few nasty people who feel they run the town, but there are kind people here too.’
‘I know that. Betsy, I’m going to go out for a walk up to the woods, to clear my head. If Sylvia gets up, tell her I won’t be long. I’m cancelling my trip to London next week. I could not leave her. I’m so worried about her. I feel sick to my stomach about everything.’
‘I’ll mind her until you get back from your walk, don’t worry. It’s not my place to say but I don’t think Mr Ward meant to upset you so much. He was so pure excited last night. I think he just thought you would feel the same. Men can be strange creatures at times. He didn’t stop to think properly but I really believe he thought you would be just as thrilled as him.’
‘Thanks, Betsy – unfortunately, though, he was wrong.’
Violet put on her green woollen coat with its rich brown fur collar and tied a pink silk headscarf over her hair.
‘You might well meet the early risers coming from first Mass this morning – the ‘church ladies’ as people call them. Nelly Cooke will be there and Agnes the Cat of course. There is something about that woman that worries me. It’s as if she is the opposite to holy even though she is so involved in the care of the church. You’ll see them as you pass the church – they usually congregate at the gate to gossip.’
‘Thanks for the warning, Betsy.’
Henry Ward lit a Woodbine cigarette. He inhaled deeply, allowing his senses to be enveloped by the tobacco. There was no sign of Violet. He stretched himself and looked out of the window. It had a view of the rear garden. Even now it had a calming effect on him with its winter coat. This is what he had dreamed about those nights when he secretly cried to go back to Ireland. He could n
ever have imagined that he would be so lucky. His work as a goldsmith had gained him exceptionally well-off clients who were not afraid to spend their money for something unique. He was getting commissions that he could hardly keep up with. Some of the high society of New York were noticing the name Ward Jewellery. London society had already noticed him, and the brand was beginning to flourish in all the right circles. A bespoke piece of jewellery from Henry Ward would soon be the gift of the rich of London and New York for their society wives. He could hardly believe his luck.
He had longed to live under an Irish sky again. London’s streets were far from being paved with gold, but they had allowed his father, his brother and himself to begin again. The small farmhouse where they had lived with his father’s parents seemed to become more and more unreal in his memory as the years passed. The famine may have driven their people out in the last century, but people were still leaving in droves. The chance of a better life. The chance of an education. But the streets of London stole the souls of many who had Ireland tattooed on their heart.
The fields, beaches and roads of Wexford had been his playground. He knew every fairy fort and fairy myth, thanks to his grandmother. He knew where every battle had taken place and how grateful he should be to the men who fought for a free republic. She had told him the stories of the 1798 rebellion and how Father Murphy, a young curate, had led his people to fight the English army on Vinegar Hill. How the children with their parents went to fight, picking up shovels and pikes and anything that they could find, how valiantly they fought but were beaten and how Father Murphy was brutally executed. She had told him of the Banshee who would comb her hair and keen as a warning of death. He had often thought he could hear that dark angel as he slept in the black smog of London.
The Secret of Eveline House Page 3
