The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

by Marguerite Kaye

  The shutters had been left open from the piano tuner’s visit, allowing the moonlight in, enough to let her avoid the various grey lumps of furniture and make her way to the instrument. Estelle opened the top and sat down on the stool flexing her fingers. Closing her eyes, she began to play. She played the old songs. Not only the ones that Bridget had sung to them, but other ballads, English ones and Scots ones, that she had taught herself from a book, a gift from her mother not to her, but to Diarmuid, who had begged for it on her behalf. One song led to another. She didn’t sing, but in her head she could hear the words. She played until her tears were spent, until she came back around again to ‘Mo Ghile Mear’, and then she did sing, softly and in English this time, ‘My Gallant Lad’, for her long-departed little brother.

  Drained, exhausted but calmer she closed the lid of the piano and opened her eyes to find Aidan standing a few feet away, putting her immediately on the defensive. ‘I had no idea that your wife had a soft spot for that particular song, and I certainly wouldn’t have sung it if I’d known that she had played it here, at your wedding party.’

  ‘Finn told you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s not confided any more of your deep dark secrets, he’s as loyal as the woman in the song was to Bonnie Prince Charlie.’

  ‘I’m sorry you heard it from Finn. I came looking for you in order to explain.’

  ‘Then why did you walk away from me?’

  ‘To prevent me from making a fool of myself in front of everyone by getting upset. I’ve never heard that song sung so beautifully. When I heard you sing tonight, I wasn’t comparing you, and I wasn’t seeing ghosts. I was looking at you and I was thinking, this woman is my wife, and I was thinking of the first time I heard you play in the church in Florence, and how you’d played from the heart. You breathed life into me when I thought I was an empty husk. I don’t want to lose you, Estelle. The very thought of it makes me feel ill.’

  She sat back down on the piano stool. ‘That song was my brother’s favourite. That’s why I sang it. For Diarmuid. He drowned, you see. He was on his way to school in England. My parents were escorting him. The ship went down and all three of them were lost at sea.’

  Aidan sat down beside her looking stricken. ‘So what Clodagh told you this morning must have seemed like a horrible coincidence.’

  ‘We decided, Phoebe and I, that Diarmuid wasn’t dead, that he’d been washed up on some remote beach, and it was just a case of waiting for him to be found. We knew in our hearts that it was a fantasy, but we kept it going for ages between us, imagining him eating strange fruits and catching fish and getting his skin burnt in the sun. We decided it was a desert island that he was on, you know like the castaway in the story?’ She smiled weakly. ‘Even though the ship went down in the Irish Sea. I’ve not played many of those songs since. I’m surprised I remember the half of them.’

  ‘Was your brother musical?’

  ‘Not a bit, but he loved to sit by me at the piano, right from when he was a toddler. I tried to teach him, but he’d no patience and no ear, and when I look back on it, I’d little patience with him. I wanted the piano to myself. I was always scooting him away. It was one of the things I regretted, when we’d finally accepted he wasn’t coming back, that I’d not had more time for him.’

  ‘So Clodagh conjured up more than one ghost this morning?’

  ‘I miss my little brother, and I wish I’d made more of the time we had with him, but he doesn’t haunt me, Aidan.’

  ‘Aoife doesn’t haunt me, not in the way you’re imagining.’ Aidan gave a ragged smile. ‘You see, it seems I can say her name.’

  He pushed himself to his feet and prowled over to the window, opening it up to the night and the distant sounds of the dying embers of the party. ‘You wanted to know what she looked like? She was beautiful. She had black hair, huge big blue eyes, skin like buttermilk. She barely came up to my shoulder, one of those gossamer, fairy-like women that seemed only just tethered to the ground. One of those women who drew every eye when she walked into the room.’

  Another bittersweet coincidence. ‘That’s what Papa always said of my mother. That the conversation stopped when she entered a room. Not,’ Estelle added hastily, ‘that I mean to draw any other comparison. My parents’ marriage was...’

  ‘Tempestuous, I think is how you described it.’ Aidan closed the window, leaning his shoulders against the frame.

  ‘Did I? They were certainly passionately in love.’

  ‘From the little you’ve told me it sounds as if they didn’t much care for each other.’

  ‘On the contrary. They cared too much for each other and not enough for anyone else. More so my father. He was obsessed with my mother.’

  ‘Obsession isn’t love, Estelle. Obsession is wanting someone or something to the exclusion of all else, regardless of the consequences.’

  ‘Wanting something or someone—such as a child, you mean? Are you saying that’s what drove Aoife to take her own life?’

  ‘Drove her?’ His voice shook. ‘Yes, she was driven to it.’

  All her instincts were to go to him, but when she moved, he shook his head, shrinking away. She was about to ask him to explain what he meant, when he pushed himself away from the window to rejoin her on the stool, taking her hand. ‘I want more than anything for us to put the past behind us.’

  What she wanted was for Aidan to put the past behind him, but it was the same thing. Aoife had killed herself because they couldn’t have a child. Aidan accepted the blame for that, so it was only a short step to him also blaming himself for her death. Estelle pressed her lips to his knuckles. ‘It wasn’t your fault, none of it was.’

  He pulled his hand from hers and got to his feet. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He took a step towards her, then stopped. ‘Everyone thought we were happy, right up to the end. We put on an excellent performance. I don’t want our marriage to be a performance, Estelle. I want our happiness to be real.’

  Her heart melted. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. ‘It will be. We’re happy now, aren’t we?’

  He put his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. ‘How could I fail to be happy when you’re in my arms, like this.’

  ‘Then any time we are unhappy, all we have to do is this.’

  ‘Kiss and make up?’

  Her smile faded as their eyes met. ‘No. That’s what my parents called it. What we are doing is reuniting.’

  ‘I like that.’

  ‘Good. I do too.’

  * * *

  Their lips met almost before she had finished speaking, and Aidan forgot everything except this, Estelle in his arms, Estelle murmuring his name. They kissed, melting into each other, and the world righted itself. His eyes drifted shut, and the world narrowed to this moment and this woman and their kisses, healing the rift between them.

  Then heating them, for they were no longer kissing for reparation but kissing for the sake of kissing. Kissing to rouse each other, her hands pushing under his coat, his own, seeking the swell of her breast, the moan she uttered making him hard, and her nipple peaking at his touch making him harder. She was saying his name again, but it was urgent now, and he wanted, ached to do what she begged him to do, to be inside her, feel her slick and wet and tight, to feel her clinging to him as she came, and then...

  He tore his mouth away, shaking his head, smiling weakly. ‘I think that’s probably enough reuniting, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re right,’ she agreed, though she looked as he felt, that he was quite wrong. ‘I think that’s more than enough of everything. It’s been a very long day. I think it’s time for bed. Onwards and upwards tomorrow?’

  ‘Onwards and upwards,’ Aidan agreed, hoping fervently that this time he would be able to deliver on his promises.

  She kissed him on the cheek and fled. The doors
creaked shut, and Aidan sat back down at the piano, idly tinkling a few of the keys randomly. Had he done enough to reassure her? There had been a moment there, when he’d been poised on the brink of confessing everything. There had been several moments when he’d felt like a liar, even though he’d tried very hard not to utter falsehoods. He longed to tell her the whole truth. It sat so ill with him not to, every passing day making him horribly aware that he was living a lie. But he couldn’t tell her the truth because he would lose her if he did.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault...none of it was,’ she’d said, so fiercely and with such certainty. How many times had he tried to tell himself the same thing? If he managed to convince himself of that, he’d long ago have resigned himself to be content with his life alone here at Cashel Duairc. He wouldn’t have gone to Florence to escape his demon, the guilt that consumed him. He wouldn’t have met Estelle.

  Ought he to have married her, having kept such a terrible secret from her? But he hadn’t told her, and they were married and he could not regret that fact. He wanted to remain married. Happily married. He wanted that more than anything.

  It was a simple enough equation for a one-time aspiring mathematician. How long ago that seemed! All he had to do was bury his guilt so deeply it would never resurface. If he really did want Estelle more than anything—and he did—then surely he could manage that.

  Chapter Ten

  Six weeks later

  Deciding to change early for dinner and grab a bit of fresh air, Aidan opened the door of the estate office just as Finn was about to enter. ‘I’m glad I caught you.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘A potential one,’ Finn said, looking uncomfortable. ‘Something I need to make you aware of regarding Aoife.’

  Aidan’s heart sank. ‘Must you?’

  ‘Look, I’ll get straight to the point. You remember Shamus, the footman with the gob on him who used to be in service here? He was here this afternoon visiting his father, who is one of your tenants. He came up to the house to see his old partner in crime, Donal, and the pair of them were reminiscing about old times over a glass or ten. Anyway, Cook, God love her, thought that she’d be doing us all a favour by trying to sober them up by plying them with bread and cheese in the kitchen. It was she who tipped me off.’ Finn wandered over to his drawing board. ‘Is that the bridge you’re thinking of constructing? I thought you’d go for a more elaborate design.’

  ‘It’s a work in progress. I’m really not interested in hearing kitchen tittle-tattle, Finn.’

  His friend threw himself down on one of the fireside chairs. ‘And I’d rather not recount it, but the problem is Niamh, the new maid who waits on Estelle, was there when the pair of them started running off at the mouth. I’m not saying she’ll pass on what was said, but there’s a chance.’

  ‘Go on then, spit it out. What were they saying?’

  ‘That Aoife fled to the island most nights. That it was a wonder Estelle hadn’t done the same, for you’ve been married long enough to have shown your true colours by now.’

  ‘I beat my wife now, do I?’

  ‘Ah, Aidan, they didn’t quite go that far, but they implied you must have mistreated Aoife to make her behave so erratically.’

  ‘I never laid a hand on her.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that!’

  Suddenly extremely weary, Aidan sank down on the chair opposite. ‘In actual fact, for over a year, I didn’t touch her in any way.’

  It took a while for the implication to sink in. ‘But she told me—’ Finn broke off, colouring deeply. ‘She told me in confidence and swore me to secrecy. I think she was so excited by the news that she had to tell someone. Dear God, if it wasn’t you, are you telling me that there was someone else?’

  Aidan shook his head impatiently. ‘No, nothing like that, she would never have—it’s complicated. I’ve already said more than I should.’

  Finn got to his feet. ‘If the maid reports the kitchen gossip back to Estelle, I’ve no idea what she’ll make of it, though I’d bet my life that she’ll defend you to the hilt. Just in case I’m wrong, my advice is to tell her yourself first.’

  ‘Your advice couldn’t be more misguided.’

  ‘The poor woman is tiptoeing around you as if you are a volcano about to erupt at any moment, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘I do mind, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘‘Fine! It’s none of my business at the end of the day, except for the fact that you deserve to be happy, Aidan, and I believe Estelle is the perfect woman to help you achieve just that.’ Finn threw open the door. ‘Don’t muck it up. Right, I’ve said my piece, I’ll make myself scarce.’

  ‘Finn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thank you. That can’t have been easy.’

  * * *

  After he left, Aidan stared blankly once again at his bridge. Finn was right, it was an eye-wateringly boring piece of architecture. Should he talk to Estelle? There was a chance that Finn was being over-cautious, and he’d give almost anything not to bring the subject up. But he was loath to have her hear it from anyone but him, given his past record in that regard.

  The urge to tell her the whole truth behind the gossip was like a physical longing. He was finding it harder and harder to resist, ironically, the more and more he was coming to care for her. He could come clean on both accounts. That would be a hell of a confession to make, and to hear!

  Aidan groaned. Like it or not, Finn was right. He’d no option but to present Estelle with another piece of the puzzle for her to slot into place.

  * * *

  It was pouring with rain outside, and above all, the thing Estelle loathed most was getting soaked to the skin. She had a pile of letters to answer and a stack of invitations to consider, but neither task appealed, so she had made her way once again to the attics of the west wing. She’d taken to spending a good deal of time up here in the last month, attempting to impose some order on the chaotic archives. Today, she had uncovered a bundle of plans, including the drawings Aidan’s mother had made for the planting of the walled garden, but not even this treasure trove could hold her attention.

  She was starting to wonder if her marriage had been a mistake. As each day passed, it should be getting easier for them to relax in each other’s company, when in fact it was the opposite. Aidan was in an almost permanent state of alert, waiting for something to jump out and remind him of the past, preparing himself not to allow it to overset him. And she was just as tense, watching him, walking on eggshells around him lest she inadvertently say the wrong thing.

  Far from cooling their ardour, the weeks of not kissing and not touching had turned desire into a tangible presence in the room every time they were together, a simmering, quivering creature only barely chained. She was getting to the point where it seemed the only thing that would clear the air between them was to do the very thing she had insisted they must not.

  It had been three years since Aoife died. Estelle couldn’t imagine the depths of despair a person must be in to throw themselves into a lake, but she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that in some ways it was a selfish act. Despite his best efforts to hide it from her, Aidan was still struggling with some element of guilt. He’d never said so, but a man who assumed complete responsibility for his wife’s inability to conceive would be bound to assume culpability for her taking her own life.

  It’s not your fault, she wanted to shout at him, but simply saying the words would be enough to set him off. Aoife was a deeply troubled woman, who wanted something so passionately that she didn’t care or couldn’t see what it was costing her marriage and her husband. Aidan had suffered. He was still suffering, and still blaming himself for failing. She’d seen the tension in him when he heard Hera bark, the way he held himself quite still, his fists clenched tightly by his side. She’d seen the wretched look on his face
when he’d spotted Aoife’s signature in an old book of household accounts on Estelle’s desk. And worst of all, she’d seen the look of abject despair when he looked at her, thinking her unaware of him. That look made her blood run cold. She couldn’t think of any other reason for it, save regret.

  Sometimes it seemed to her that Aidan was wilfully keeping the past in the present, deliberately allowing it to destroy their chance of happiness. She didn’t want her marriage to fail because of a ghost. She didn’t want her marriage to fail, full stop. Aidan cared for her. She suspected he might care a great deal for her. Almost as much as she cared for him.

  Shocked, she let the plans roll to the floor. She liked him, but she wasn’t in love with him. Was she?

  When she was younger, she’d taken her parents’ claim to be wildly in love with each other at face value. She’d seen and heard enough evidence of their passion, and she’d assumed that the fights, the screaming matches, were just another side of the same coin. Later, much later, when she was old enough to make sense of the things she’d overheard as a child, she’d been shocked to the core by the realisation that her mother had conducted numerous affaires, had a string of lovers, but she’d never doubted her father’s enduring and singular love for his wife. Aidan had said it was obsession not love. It was true that sometimes, when Papa had shouted very convincingly that he wished he’d never met Mama, that she tormented him mercilessly, and it had sounded closer to hate than love.

  If that wasn’t love, then what was? She loved her sisters, and Aunt Kate, she’d loved poor Diarmuid, but that was a different kind of love. It meant wanting to protect someone, even if it meant putting yourself second. It meant putting someone’s happiness before yours. That wasn’t the same as the love between a man and a woman, was it? It couldn’t be, because that would mean what she felt for Aidan was dangerously close to love.

  Estelle dropped her head on to her arms. She was twenty-five years old, why had it taken her so long to ask herself these questions? And why was she asking them now! She was married to a man so racked with guilt about his first wife’s death that he was in danger of destroying their marriage. Why did he feel so guilty when he’d done everything he could to make Aoife happy, even to the extent of making himself miserable? It didn’t make sense, but she daren’t raise the subject again for fear it would break his already fragile mental state.