The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  Just when I think we are making progress, we are dealt a terrible blow. Logan and I meet with Mother’s attorney, Frank Wilks, who comes to the house to read her will. He is a small, wiry man with a white moustache, bald head and high colour, which reminds me of the lobsters we used to catch and boil when we were kids. We take our seats in the dining room, at one end of the polished cherry-wood table, and make small talk while Mr Wilks opens his briefcase and lifts out a file, placing it in front of him with an air of solemnity and self-importance. He has looked after my parents’ affairs for thirty-five years and is genuinely saddened by our mother’s passing. Temperance brings in a tray of coffee, then leaves the room and closes the door behind her. Mr Wilks smiles as I pour him a cup, but it is not an easy smile. I guess that Mom has made some awkward requests. After all, she was difficult in life, why would she not be difficult in death?

  Mr Wilks opens the document, inhales through his nostrils and informs us that Mother has stipulated in her will that she wants to be cremated. This is a shock, to say the least. Our father is buried in the Catholic church of the Holy Cross and it has always been assumed that Mother, who was also Catholic, would be laid to rest beside him. Ted Clayton did not believe in cremation. He made that clear, as he made everything clear (his dinner-table lectures were infamous and patiently endured in the same way that one endures sermons from the pulpit). When Judgement Day arrives, Ted Clayton will be complete in body and ready to rise again. No one doubts he will. If anyone can defy death and burst out of the earth it’s Ted Clayton. But he did not think it possible to forge a body out of ash, however potent the power of resurrection. It is therefore unthinkable that Mother has chosen cremation over burial. We can’t even argue that she was mad because she was of very sound mind when she rewrote her will, a few months before her stroke. Indeed, she hosted a fundraiser the day before she was struck down and everyone commented on her vitality and her charm. Therefore, as hard as it is to accept, cremation was her sane choice, but still we cannot fathom why.

  ‘This is outrageous!’ Logan exclaims. His face, still boyishly handsome, reddens with indignation. ‘I won’t accept it. Dad would turn in his grave if he knew.’ He looks at me sternly. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I reply.

  He folds his arms and sits back in his chair. ‘Ridiculous,’ he scoffs, hoping that by dismissing her request in this way her wish will not be taken seriously. ‘No wonder she didn’t tell us when she was alive. She knew very well how we’d feel.’ He shakes his head, still luxuriously covered with wavy chocolate-brown hair, greying only slightly at the temples. ‘Why would she want to be cremated? She was a devout woman. It goes against her faith. It simply doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It’s about to,’ says Mr Wilks, pushing his glasses up his nose. We turn our attention back to the diminutive man who clears his throat and taps the page with his middle finger like a bird tapping wood with its beak. ‘That is not all she has requested,’ he adds.

  ‘Go on,’ Logan urges, dropping his gaze to the document in front of Mr Wilks. ‘What else does it say?’

  ‘She has requested that her ashes be scattered in Ireland.’ Mr Wilks ignores another collective gasp and continues. ‘To be precise, and her will is indeed very precise, she wants them scattered . . .’ He leans over the page and reads what is written there. ‘On the hills above Castle Deverill, with both a view of the castle and the ocean. Let the wind take me and the soft rain settle me into the Irish soil from where I came. And may my sins be forgiven.’

  At this point I feel as if I have just had the wind knocked out of me. The mention of the castle is an extraordinary coincidence. I put my hand to my chest and take a breath. I cannot share my dream with my brother, he is a sensible, pragmatic man and would think I had lost my mind. Goodness, I’m not even sure I can tell Temperance, only because she will read too much into it and I’m afraid of what she might say. I’m afraid of my dream. I’m now scared to sleep in case it comes again. I’m scared of facing myself there by the fireplace and of waking up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding against my ribcage and not knowing why I am so frightened.

  Logan asks Mr Wilks to pass him the will and the attorney slides it across the table. My brother reads it carefully, lips pursed, cheeks the colour of bull’s blood. ‘This is crazy!’ he exclaims. ‘Why on earth would she want her ashes scattered in Ireland? I mean, we know her maiden name was Deverill, but she never spoke of a Castle Deverill. Did she ever mention a castle to you?’ Again Logan looks at me and again I shake my head. ‘Well, we know she grew up on a farm in Co. Cork and crossed the Atlantic to seek a better life in America, but we have never heard of a castle. It is one thing to cremate her, but quite another to scatter her in a distant country which she left over sixty years ago and barely ever mentioned.’ He slides the will back to Mr Wilks with disdain. I know that Logan will want to ignore her wishes and lay her to rest here, alongside our father. Usually I would comply with his wishes. I always have, after all he is seven years older than me and I’ve never really voiced a strong opinion about anything. But for some unknown reason I feel very strongly about this.

  ‘If she wants her ashes to be scattered in Ireland, it is our duty to see that it happens,’ I say and Logan frowns irritably, surprised that I am not in accordance with him. I think of the castle in my dream and feel more certain than ever that the two are connected, perhaps even the same, and that I should be the person to take her. I don’t tell Logan what I am thinking. It is much too out of character and he’s had enough surprises for one day.

  I haven’t considered my husband. He is an obstacle too solid to contemplate right now.

  There is one final demand. Mr Wilks clears his throat and seems to brace himself. His shoulders lift, almost to his ears, as if he wants to pull in his head like a tortoise. ‘Mrs Clayton has requested that the servants’ house be lent to Temperance for her lifetime along with a gift of two hundred thousand dollars.’ Logan looks horrified. That is an enormous amount of money for a maid. Mr Wilks goes on regardless: ‘A third of her wealth she has left to you, Mrs Langton, and a third to you, Mr Clayton.’

  ‘And the other third?’ Logan is quick to ask, ignoring the house and money for Temperance. I am curious to know as well. I lean forward, elbows on the table. ‘Who else is there?’ Logan adds with an impatient shake of his head.

  Mr Wilks looks uncomfortable. Our mother has no doubt made another surprising request. ‘Mrs Clayton was very clear about this,’ he replies. ‘She has stipulated that the identity of the third party must remain anonymous until you have been to Ireland.’

  Logan looks as if he is going to burst. Even his ears go red and throb angrily. ‘Anonymous?’ He stares at me, brown eyes large and feverish, but before he can ask whether I knew of this, I reassure him that I didn’t.

  ‘I can’t imagine who it could be,’ I say quietly and I feel my own face redden with the shock of it. I am ashamed to admit that I, too, am a little put out.

  ‘A third? Who, besides her children, is entitled to a third? Was she out of her mind? What on earth was she thinking?’ Logan jumps to his feet and paces the room.

  Mr Wilks clears his throat again. ‘These are your mother’s wishes and it is your duty, Mr Clayton, to carry them out.’

  ‘What if I want to contest it?’ Logan challenges, sitting down and leaning towards Mr Wilks, dwarfing him with his wide shoulders and attempting to coerce him with his sharp, predatory eyes.

  ‘Which part of it?’ Mr Wilks replies coolly, returning his gaze without blinking.

  ‘All of it,’ says Logan.

  ‘Logan,’ I protest. ‘You can’t do that. It’s the law. These are Mother’s wishes. You can’t ignore them.’

  Logan stares at me in surprise. I have voiced an opinion and it is not what he wants to hear. ‘I will do all I can to ignore them, Faye.’

  ‘On what grounds will you contest the will?’ Mr Wilks asks sensibly. I don’t imagine Logan would
be able to build a very convincing case. I think he knows that too. He steeples his fingers as he ponders what to do. Mr Wilks catches my eye but neither of us smiles. We are both anxious to do the right thing. Logan is only thinking of himself. He only ever thinks of himself.

  ‘Very well,’ he says at length. ‘I will not fight her wish to be cremated, although it goes against our father’s wishes and the wishes of her family. As for her ashes being scattered in Ireland, I find the whole idea ridiculous. She remains here, where she belongs. As for the final part, hell will freeze over before I allow one third of Mother’s wealth to go to—’

  ‘A ghost, Logan,’ I interrupt. ‘Because until we know who it is, it might as well be a ghost.’

  Mr Wilks coughs into his hand. ‘Before we bring the meeting to an end, there is one more thing.’

  Logan and I stare at him. What else can there be? Mr Wilks leans over and lifts his briefcase off the floor and places it on the table. I hold my breath as he opens the clasps and raises the lid. Inside is a brown envelope. It doesn’t look like much but I dread to know what is inside. He places it on the table with great importance, as if it contains something very valuable. Logan and I look at it, hoping that it is innocuous, that it won’t give us cause to argue.

  ‘Mrs Clayton has left specific instructions that this be left to you, Mrs Langton.’ He slides the envelope across the polished wood. Logan leans over. He wants to take it from me and open it himself, and he probably would if Mr Wilks wasn’t watching and making sure that everything is done by the book. I would like to carry it off to a private place and open it on my own, but both Logan and Mr Wilks are observing me closely, so I am left with no option but to unseal it in front of them.

  Inside is a black, leather-bound book. Without asking, Logan takes it from me and flicks through the pages. ‘It’s in some kind of code,’ he says at once, dismissing it. ‘What good is that?’ He hands it back. I open it and look closely at the writing. I can’t even tell if it is Mother’s. It does not appear to be her hand, nor is it legible.

  ‘I can’t read it,’ I comment with a sigh. But part of me is relieved. If it is anything like her list of wishes, I’m happy not knowing.

  ‘Well, at least it doesn’t have teeth,’ Logan quips mirthlessly. ‘Thank you, Mr Wilks, for coming. I will be in touch. In the meantime, Faye, Mother’s gift to this anonymous person is to remain between us. Do you understand?’ I nod. ‘Good.’

  I don’t think this is the right moment to tell him that I intend to go to Ireland.

  Chapter 2

  The cremation service takes place in a small, impersonal crematorium that lacks both charm and intimacy. I find the industrial nature of the building distasteful. It is too clinical, too cold. I begin to wish that I had given in to Logan’s demand and buried Mom beside Dad, after all. However, I put on a brave face for the sake of my children and for Temperance, who quietly sobs, dabbing her streaming eyes with a white handkerchief and gently blowing her nose. My husband Wyatt is not comfortable with emotion so I clench my jaw and try to hold back my own tears. It is Temperance who takes my hand and squeezes it. I try not to look at her. I know I will cry if I do. It is a relief when the ordeal is over and I can remember Mom in a more charming service, which takes place later the same day in the local church.

  I have not had time to grieve and here in this church, in front of my parents’ remaining friends and Dad’s family, is not the place to start. The Claytons are a tough lot and I am one of them and must be tough too. However, clearing out Mom’s things, sorting out her affairs, arranging this service and being strong for Temperance have taken their toll and I feel drained. It is no surprise that there is not a single member of Mom’s family present, but it does feel strange. Perhaps they all died in the famine. Or they moved away in search of a better life like she did, or remained to rot in their cold cottages on farms where nothing grew. It is quite possible, now I think of it, that Mom suffered a past so traumatic that it hurt too much to talk about it. Why has that never occurred to me? She was, by her own admission, a woman who wanted to live in the present. But now that she has requested her ashes be scattered in Ireland, I can’t help but turn my thoughts to the past she wanted to forget. If her heart was here, with all of us, why wouldn’t she want to remain? Why return to Ireland in death if it had meant nothing to her in life?

  My curiosity is aroused. I realize, to my shame, that I know nothing about my mother, nothing at all. It’s not that I suspect she kept secrets; it’s not that. It’s simply regret, and sadness at my lack of understanding. I feel a swell of grief building in my chest. It’s sudden and takes me by surprise. I stifle a sob and drop my gaze to the floor where I focus hard on the flaws in the stone. Yet, still the questions arise. I know nothing of Mom’s childhood, nothing of her growing up, nothing of the struggles and hardships she endured. I know nothing of her parents, her siblings and nothing of her home. Arethusa is gone. There is no one left to tell her story. I feel as if her whole family has died with her, swallowed into oblivion. There is a void now, a black hole, a nothingness in the place where my mother once was. And I regret very much that I never had the curiosity, or the courage, to ask her.

  After the service we head back to the house for the reception. The congregants stroll the short walk from the church. Dressed in black they look like a flock of crows making their way slowly over the fallen leaves. They enter the house where I have hired waiters to offer them glasses of wine and girls in dark dresses to relieve them of their coats. Temperance watches from the shadows with her bottom lip out and her hands on her wide hips, guarding her mistress’s home possessively.

  I position myself by the door to greet them. I long for it to be over, for everyone to leave. I’m tired of talking, shaking hands and thanking people for their sympathy. The drawing room is stuffy, I can barely see the other end of it for the cigarette smoke, and the noise of chatter is loud and invasive. I yearn for quiet. I suddenly want very much to be left alone, to process my loss, to remember Mom in my own private way. I want to flee from the compassionate, probing looks and questions, which, although kindly intended, are an intrusion.

  I find a quiet moment by the window in the drawing room and look out over the garden where the trees are scattering scarlet and golden leaves into the wind. I love the fall. It’s my favourite season. I love the rich, contrasting colours, the soft light, the wistfulness of it as summer slowly dies and winter creeps in with its long nights and hard cold. Today its beauty soothes me.

  ‘I’m glad that’s over.’ It’s Logan, standing beside me now, swigging his glass of wine.

  ‘Me too,’ I agree with a sigh. I know he’s referring to the cremation, but I want this to be over too.

  ‘Well done with the service. It was sufficiently glamorous without being ostentatious. She would have enjoyed it.’ He smiles and I’m glad to see he’s not cross with me anymore, but slightly teasing, as he always is. I study him closely. At sixty-five his good looks have only been enhanced by the deepening of the lines around his mouth and at his temples. However, the years have not endowed his face with wisdom or character, if anything they have exposed his superficial nature and his vanity. There is something of the fading film star trying too hard to hold on to his beauty, which is oddly pitiful. In spite of his temper and his bullying I realize now that he is really rather benign. I turn my eyes back to the darkening skies and wonder why I am suddenly seeing the world and those in it in a different light.

  ‘In spite of being cremated, I believe her soul’s up there with Dad’s,’ I say. ‘With her family, too, I guess.’ I gaze up at my brother, who is very tall, and search for emotion. I wonder if her death has moved him. It doesn’t appear to have done. Besides anger, indignation and pleasure, Logan seems to be a man who does not feel things very deeply. He never shows a vulnerable side, at least not as far as I know. Perhaps he lets his guard down with Lucy, his wife. But somehow I doubt it. She’s a cold fish as well. They are both as unsentimental as e
ach other. ‘Do you ever think of her family?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘No. Why, do you?’

  ‘I haven’t until now. Have you noticed there’s no one here from her side of the family? No one at all.’

  ‘That’s no surprise.’

  ‘But don’t you find that a little sad? Not one family member to say goodbye.’

  ‘Well, they weren’t here during her life so it would be pretty odd if anyone turned up for her funeral.’

  ‘Are any of them left?’ I ask, throwing my gaze back onto the falling leaves and waning light and feeling an unbearable sense of emptiness. ‘They can’t all have died. There must be someone out there who knows her story.’

  ‘She didn’t want to remember it, otherwise she would have told us.’

  ‘Yet she wanted her ashes scattered in Ireland.’

  ‘A whim,’ he retorts dismissively. ‘Absurd.’

  ‘A very emphatic whim, Logan. She’s incredibly specific about where she wants us to scatter them. If she didn’t care about her past she would have been content to be buried beside Dad.’

  Logan does not want to think about this. His jaw hardens and his lips thin. ‘She can’t really have expected us to go all the way to Ireland,’ he says and for a moment I believe him. It is, indeed, a substantial request. I am so used to looking up to the men in my life – my overpowering father, my older, more beautiful brother and my clever, assertive husband – that for a moment I do not think to question him. Yet, something pulls at me, a nagging feeling, like an invisible hand tugging at the hem of my dress, demanding to be noticed.