Henry was almost dancing with excitement.
Violet tried to remain calm.
‘Henry, I want to show you something.’ She took the letter in its envelope out of the pocket of her skirt. ‘Can you read this, please? I found it with Sylvia yesterday. I only discovered it just before anyone arrived last night.’ She handed him the letter.
He read it, then took off his glasses and pointed at it as if it was contaminated.
‘Where did she get this piece of filth?
‘I don’t know how it got here and that is even more worrying. I have tried to find out. Sylvia refuses to tell me if someone dropped it off or if it was in the postbox or if somehow it was shoved through the door. Betsy has tried to ask her too. She has never been outside of the house on her own so perhaps someone came to the door or saw her in the garden and gave it to her. It scares me to think that someone was here that we don’t know about. You can see Sylvia’s name is on it.’
Henry sat down and read it again. He looked up. Raw anger was evident in his blue eyes.
‘This is disgraceful. Who on earth sent it?’
‘I know it’s not a child – it’s definitely an adult. The wording on it is not from a child. It is too cruel. I know you have all sorts of plans, but that letter has just finished me. I can’t expose Sylvia to any more cruelty from these small-minded people.’
Henry stood up and came closer to Violet. ‘What are you saying?’ he said, his voice rising.
‘I am saying we need to leave, for our daughter’s sake – we need to get back to London,’ Violet replied, her calm disappearing.
Henry threw his eyes to heaven. ‘Are you quite mad? Yes, it is a vicious letter, a dirty piece of pure filth, but you are hardly going to let them get away with frightening us out of our home? That is plain lunacy!’
‘It’s not just the letter! Our daughter could not stay in school in case you have forgotten, because she was called an English bitch and daughter of a witch. I cannot walk down the street without the women of this town looking at me as if I were a harlot let loose in Draheen.’ Violet had begun to tremble.
Henry went to put his arm around her, but she shrugged it off.
She stared at her husband. ‘I am taking Sylvia back to London, Henry. She’s not safe here.’
A look flashed across his face that frightened Violet.
He banged his fist on the table. ‘This is getting beyond ridiculous! We have poured everything we have into this house and now this business. We are going nowhere. I know you are upset, but don’t get any ideas about moving. We will get used to it and they will get used to us. Maybe we should try to fit in a bit more?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Violet replied, alarmed.
‘Well, you are busy enough now – you could take a break from writing and the theatre and just concentrate on Sylvia and maybe get involved in something in the town.’
Violet felt like she had been struck. A vision of Miss Doheny came to her mind. Did she not advise her to do the same? She tried to remain calm, aware that their voices could possibly be heard by Sylvia. She looked into her husband’s eyes.
‘Well, unfortunately for you, you married me, and I am not the type of person that you have just described. The sad part is that I thought you knew that.’
She grabbed the letter to leave, but Henry caught her by the arm.
‘Violet, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m worried too but running is never the answer to bullies. I will find out who is doing this, and I will stop it. Look, forgive me for what I said. I was wrong.’
But it was too late. He had said it and the awful thing was Violet knew he did mean it.
She left the study, slamming the door behind her.
Back in the bedroom she felt that same stifling feeling she’d had when she lived in that small farmhouse when her mother and father did everything to make her fit into a community she felt alien to. She would be married off by now if she had stayed, to a suitable lad from the village, and her hands and knees would be sore from scrubbing and cleaning and kneeling for Mass. There were few options for her if they could not get her married. She would possibly be still working in the drapery store – the position that her father had secured for her. She could have trained to be a typist or a seamstress. Most from school were gone to England to work in factories. Her mother had hoped to make a priest out of at least one of her brothers. There had been a spinster aunt who had left money to help get one of them into a seminary. But, from what she remembered of her brothers, they were far too wild to be priests. Her mother had prayed and prayed that one of them would have a vocation, a call from God that he was destined to be a priest. She had said enough novenas and prayed at enough missions. But the call had not come – instead, as far as Violet knew, except for her younger brother Paul they were scattered between London and New York, all working as labourers.
She took a deep breath. She was no longer that young girl, trapped by her mother’s prayers and her father’s despair at his wayward daughter. She had felt trapped then and she felt trapped now. Her daughter was her priority and she would do all in her power to help her.
But she had to admit, even if it was only to herself, that she missed London. She missed the smell of the streets, the beauty of the galleries, the restaurants and, most of all, the friends she had there. They never questioned her for who she was, they embraced it. She missed the theatre. Although she never directed her plays, she was always there to be consulted with, and loved watching how it all came together. She missed the green room when she would meet the actors. She loved rehearsals where she saw how they interpreted her words. She was writing a new play and, if it was to be staged, there was no way she could leave Sylvia for that length of time. She would simply have to take her with her. She had moved here because she loved Henry, she wanted him to have his dream, but in doing so she had no idea how much it would hurt to leave hers in London. A doubt started to creep into her mind. Was it all to do with Sylvia, or was part of it that she knew she had made a mistake for herself and her career in coming here?
Dinner later was a stifled affair but, for Sylvia’s sake, she tried to make the best of it. Herself and Henry being overly polite to each other.
Henry retired to his study for the evening.
That night she slept in the guest room. But sleep would not come. She wanted to go down and make herself a hot drink, but she could hear Henry walking around. Sleep had obviously evaded him too. Eventually she fell into a dream. She was back in her old family home, with her mother. Her mother was crying, telling her how disappointed she was. Miss Doheny was in the dream and there was a copy of Unholy Love in her hand. Miss Doherty began to shred it, tearing it into strips with her hands, and then Henry gathered up the shredded pieces, her words scattered on the flagstone floor. He opened the range and threw the strips of paper into it, making a golden glow, as Violet could hear herself silently and violently scream.
CHAPTER 8
Henry drank the second cup of tea that Betsy poured for him. He had barely slept. It was good to come into the warm kitchen. Betsy cut him a thick slice of the warm soda bread. He spread it with butter and greengage jam.
‘You will have to roll me out to do some work, Betsy. You do spoil us. Maybe you can get Sylvia to eat some of this. She’s getting very thin.’
Betsy looked at him intently.
Henry heard that Betsy had been devoted to her parents. She was a fine-looking woman and would make some man a great wife. She was still young enough. They were lucky to have her. She had become great friends with Violet and was very close to Sylvia too.
‘If only she would eat,’ Betsy replied, concerned. ‘She has me heartbroken trying to get her to eat something. Her face is as white as snow this morning. I would love to get a bit of colour into them little cheeks of hers.’
Henry decided to ask her about the letter. Betsy was solid – she would never go talk about it down the town.
‘Betsy, this letter S
ylvia got, Violet has told me about it. She also told me that you saw it.’
‘Yes, Mr Ward, I was there when we found it with Sylvia.’
‘Have you any idea who might have sent it? I need to get to the bottom of it.’
Betsy eyed him as if weighing up in her mind if she would tell him what she knew. She sat at the bottom of the table and sighed.
‘I was at morning Mass this morning and then I went into Doheny’s for some flour. Miss Doheny could hardly wait to tell me what she knew. That woman is a danger to herself.’
‘Go on, is it to do with Violet?’ Henry helped himself to another slice of bread from the plate.
Betsy got up and shut the kitchen door, then sat in a chair closer to Henry.
‘It is. I am sick with the worry.’ She shook her head.
‘Go on.’
Then in a whisper she told him her news.
‘Well, there is a certain group of women that go to Mass together most mornings. They are very involved in the upkeep of the church. All Holy Joes, of course. They have not hidden their disapproval of Mrs Ward and her plays and that is putting it mildly. They meet in the town hall a couple of times a week – for a parochial meeting. They are doing some knitting for Africa. Although Miss Doheny has a point in saying it’s far from woolly jumpers they need in the heat over there. Anyway, Miss Doheny said that at the last meeting – she is not normally at them because of the shop – but anyway she was at this one. Although it doesn’t suit her that Agnes the Cat is the ringleader of them. Even Miss Doheny is fearful of Agnes and it’s rare for Miss Doheny to be fearful of anyone. Well, she said that they got no knitting done because they could not concentrate on their work as they are too concerned about the effect Mrs Ward is having on the youth of the town. Already some of the girls are beginning to wear their hair like her and, well, she is a very handsome woman, sure she has a bit of a fan club with the young boys. Then there are the plays – Miss Doheny says that one of them is about a priest who has his way with a woman.’ Betsy’s eyes looked away in embarrassment at this.
‘Well, they have a relationship, that is true – I wouldn’t say he has his way if you get my drift,’ said Henry.
‘There are a few right auld sliveens in that group, let me tell you. I am sure one of them wrote the letter. It’s not Miss Doheny because, to be fair to her, she would say it straight to her face. But she knows. I just know it. Then she spoke to me as I was going out the door. “I’m sure her ladyship will tire of Draheen and the bright lights of London will be pulling her back. Wouldn’t be surprised if she ups and leaves. You will be out of a job then, Betsy,” she says to me, all prim and proper and looking at me as if I had crawled from beneath the rug. Oh, she is something else! As my mother used to say, a wipe of an auld rag is what she would need.’
Henry shook his head. He knew the type. Busybodies with nothing better to do.
‘Thank you, Betsy. I am going to try and put a stop to this business before my wife is on the next boat to England. But not a word of this to Violet. She is upset enough as it is.’
‘Very well, Mr Ward, I will leave it to you, but you have a fight on your hands, let me tell you. Them women are pure poison.’
She got up and went to the door.
‘I’ll see how Sylvia is,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’
Henry put on a Crombie coat and a grey hat and walked out the door. It was a mild morning for the time of year and there was a stillness in the garden as he closed the gate behind him.
He walked up into the town. He bid good morning to a few neighbours and walked up the hill. At the top of the hill there was another street. This was the main street. On the main street was Miss Doheny’s shop. He walked in and the bell rang, signalling his arrival.
Miss Doheny did a double take when she saw him and the conversation between two other women stopped in its tracks. All eyes were on him.
‘Good morning, Mr Ward.’
‘Good morning, Miss Doheny. I want a word with you, if you don’t mind.’
The other two women looked crestfallen at having to leave, but there was no excuse for them to stay to hear what Mr Ward wanted to say.
‘Close the door tightly, please,’ Miss Doheny said to them with an air of importance. ‘Now, how can I be of help, Mr Ward?’ She smiled sweetly, fixing her shop apron around her.
‘I was hoping an intelligent woman like yourself could help me. I have asked around and everyone has said that if I need any advice on a . . . delicate matter, Miss Doheny is as discreet as the day is long.’
Miss Doheny beamed and beckoned for him to come closer to the counter.
‘Well, my daughter received a letter. A very nasty letter. I am not sure if it was put in the postbox or if someone came into the garden and gave it to her. I am afraid there is someone in the town with a very poisonous mind who for some reason would prefer to see my wife and my child on the first boat to London.’ Henry examined Miss Doheny’s reaction, but her face was unreadable.
‘First let me tell you,’ she responded sharply, ‘I am not exactly surprised. Your wife has caused quite a stir here in Draheen and it’s not a good stir by any manner or means.’
Henry came closer to her and lowered his voice.
‘I am trying to be patient here, Miss Doheny, but someone sent or delivered a very vicious letter to my daughter, a threat, and I will not take it lightly.’
‘Well, perhaps it is your wife you should be talking to, Mr Ward. She is the culprit here, who is upsetting everyone. With her filthy plays. Before Father Cummins died, he did everything in his power to make sure they did not make their way here. We are a Catholic country and there are certain rules of the Church that your wife seems to be ignoring. The people of Draheen must protect the minds of their young from evil. Stop your wife from writing this filth and she might stop upsetting everyone. Father Quill is not doing his job properly, if you ask me. He should be putting a stop to it – instead I believe he is up drinking sherry in Eveline. It’s simply not acceptable in a town like this.’
‘Miss Doheny, you are a straight-talking woman and I appreciate that. But my wife is her own person. I cannot and will not tell her what to do.’
Miss Doheny looked at him as if he had lost his reason. ‘Are you not a married man, Mr Ward? Did your wife not promise in the name of God and Our Lord to obey her husband? Handle your wife properly, Mr Ward. Take control of your household if you want a peaceful life in Draheen. Ireland is a good clean Catholic country with good clean-living people who try to teach the young of the country the right way. Having your wife make a mockery of this in her filthy plays might be accepted in London, but you are not there now. You asked me for some advice and there it is. Is there anything else that I can get you, Mr Ward?’
‘There is something actually.’ He leaned in closer to her. ‘If you happen to hear who has sent that letter, or called on my daughter without my knowledge, warn them for their own sake to stop – because I will find them out if it’s the last thing I do and they will regret the day they were ever born when I do. That is a promise. I do not make empty threats, Miss Doheny, and believe me this threat is a very real one. I am not a man to be messed with. I will bid you good day.’
Henry turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Miss Doheny staring after him with her mouth open.
CHAPTER 9
Sylvia was becoming more reclusive as the days passed. She barely ate, her face became gaunt and her skin almost transparent. Her blue eyes were haunting, watching every movement, her hands clutching Suzanne the doll close to her frail body.
‘This cannot continue,’ Violet whispered to Henry as Sylvia pushed the piece of bread and butter away yet again. She had barely touched her glass of milk.
Henry put the paper that he was reading down and looked intently at his daughter. He caught her hand. ‘Sylvia, you must eat, or you will become ill. I know you are upset, but you are perfectly safe, and nobody is going to harm you or anyone else.’
Two
fat tears rolled down Sylvia’s face. ‘You don’t know that. You can’t say that for sure. I know things, I can see things. It is safe in the house. Only in the house. Only in the house.Only in the house.’ She pushed her chair back and stood up, putting her hands on her ears.
Violet knelt beside her and put her arms around her, trying to calm her down.
‘Can you tell us how you got that letter, dearest?’ she said. ‘Then Daddy can make sure it never happens again.’
But Sylvia was silent and the tears continued to flow down her pale face.
‘I am calling the doctor – he might be able to give her something,’ Henry said.
‘What can the doctor give her?’ Violet whispered.
‘I don’t know, but he can advise us at least.’
Violet looked at Sylvia. ‘Sylvia, why don’t you go upstairs and get some paints ready and I will bring some hot cocoa and a biscuit up to you – you might prefer that.’
The Secret of Eveline House Page 5
