The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘I have three. All grown-up now, of course. Rose, Edwina and Walter. They’ll be astonished when I tell them what I’ve discovered here. That their grandmother was an aristocrat living in a castle. They simply won’t believe it.’ I laugh and imagine their reactions in turn. Rose who’ll be curious. Edwina nonchalant but secretly riveted and Walter, the actor, who will put on an English accent and go into character, entertaining us with his comedy.

  ‘Why don’t you come and dine with us tonight?’ Kitty asks. ‘I will ask my parents to join us. I know my father will want to meet his niece. He’s not going to believe it when I tell him you’re here.’

  I’m excited at the thought of meeting my uncle. My mother’s brother. ‘I’d love to,’ I reply eagerly. ‘I know my mother had two brothers. Does the other one live here too?’

  Kitty shakes her head. ‘Sadly, Uncle Rupert died in the Great War.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry.’

  ‘He was a real character. My brother Harry died in the last war, so we are not complete, but those of us who remain are very close. I have two sisters, one who lives here and one who lives in England and they have children and grandchildren. As I said, we are many. I know my father will welcome you into the family.’ She laughs and then adds with a shake of the head, ‘He is, after all, quite used to the odd long-lost relation appearing out of the blue.’

  I frown, but she does not elaborate. I sense this family has more secrets than most.

  ‘It will be nice to learn about her childhood,’ I say. ‘Your father must have lots of stories about her. I never expected to meet any of her relations. I thought they were all dead.’

  ‘I think that’s what she wanted you to think,’ says Kitty. She is right, of course, but I can’t imagine why. All those years we thought of her as an orphan of the Irish famine she had an aristocratic family who lived in a castle. It seems absurd now, sitting opposite her niece.

  ‘I went to the church here in Ballinakelly and lit a candle for her. I wish she were alive so I could ask her why she left and never came back.’

  ‘Which church did you go to?’ Kitty asks, sipping her tea.

  ‘The Catholic church.’

  ‘I thought so. I don’t suppose Arethusa told you that she wasn’t Catholic, Faye.’ Her voice is gentle. ‘She was Protestant, like all Deverills.’

  ‘Protestant!’ I am shocked that my mother chose to lie about her religion. I am so appalled by this news that I begin to make excuses for her. ‘Well, my father was Catholic, so I guess she converted. She was very devout, you know. A very devout and dedicated Catholic.’

  Kitty looks doubtful and I hear how thin my justifications must sound to her. She doesn’t say that her grandparents would turn in their graves if they knew that their daughter had converted to Catholicism, which is the sort of thing Logan would say; she doesn’t have to. I know it. I know enough about Irish history to appreciate what converting to Catholicism would mean to a Deverill. It would be considered traitorous at the very least.

  I am so consumed by my mother’s secrets, emerging now into the light, that I have forgotten about the diary in my handbag. Remembering it suddenly, I reach down and lift it out. I look at it and run my hand over the worn leather cover. ‘This was her diary,’ I tell Kitty. ‘She left it to me in her will. The trouble is, it’s written in code so I can’t read it. I don’t even know why I brought it to show you. Probably because I hoped you’d be able to decipher it for me. Silly, really. Maybe your father knows the code she wrote in.’

  ‘Let me have a look,’ says Kitty, putting out her hand. She smiles at me sympathetically, aware perhaps that I have received a few too many shocks for one day. ‘I don’t believe things happen for no reason, Faye. You brought it to me because you were prompted to bring it.’

  I look at her, unsure whether or not she’s joking. She sounds like Temperance and has the same airy-fairy look on her face, which is always a signal for me to change the subject. Kitty opens the book and looks at the first page. ‘You were right to bring it to me,’ she says, a touch of triumph in her voice. ‘It’s mirror writing.’

  ‘Mirror writing?’

  ‘Of course. Did you know that Leonardo da Vinci wrote in mirror writing? It’s written backwards, so you have to hold it up to a mirror.’

  ‘Really? And you can tell just by looking at it?’ I’m amazed and slightly uneasy now, because I’ll be able to read it – and perhaps answer my questions for myself. I’m not sure that I want to know the answers.

  ‘Absolutely sure. Look.’ She stands up and holds the book open in front of the mirror which hangs above the fireplace. I follow her and gaze into the mirror with a mixture of fear and fascination. It is as if Mother is speaking from beyond the grave.

  ‘You’re right. It’s so clear.’ I read a short paragraph:

  Poor Grandpa is sick today. Really, he’s a terrible patient. Mama and I take it in turns to read to him, but he grumbles and complains and nothing is quite right. His tea is too hot, then it’s too cold and he’s furious he’s going to miss the meet tomorrow. He likes nothing more than riding out with the hounds and is more courageous, and according to Mama, more reckless, than all the men in the county. The way he’s carrying on one would have thought he was never going to ride again. But he’ll be well in a day or two, Dr Johnson says so. It is nothing more than a common cold, but Grandpa might as well be dying for the fuss he’s making . . .

  ‘How extraordinary,’ I whisper.

  ‘Well, she didn’t want anyone else to read it,’ says Kitty. ‘But now you can.’

  ‘How do you know about mirror writing?’

  ‘Because I used to write my diaries that way too.’

  ‘It must be a Deverill thing,’ I say in wonder.

  She laughs. ‘I’m not sure it is. I don’t think anyone else wrote like this.’ She hands back the diary. ‘Now you can read her story for yourself.’

  I sense she would like to read it too. But I don’t offer to share it, at least, I won’t until I have read it.

  ‘I will,’ I reply. ‘I will read it slowly. After all, I have two weeks in which to do it.’

  ‘How lovely. Two weeks to get to know us and for us to get to know you. Let me drive you back to the hotel so you can have a rest and change before dinner.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. You’re family. It’s the least I can do. I will send someone to pick you up at seven.’

  Kitty drives me back to Vickery’s Inn. The sun has now set and it is dusk. The sky is a pale luminous blue, the hills silhouetted against it dark and mysterious. It is cold now and the air is damp. It smells of new grass and rich earth and smoke from the chimneys as families light their fires and settle down for the night. Kitty and I have much to talk about and yet we fall into an easy silence. I look out of the window while she drives and neither of us speaks. It isn’t awkward. It isn’t awkward at all.

  Suddenly, I feel weary. I can’t believe I have only just arrived. That last night I was on a plane and this morning I drove from the airport with Cormac O’Farrell, who isn’t a taxi driver, apparently. I smile at that. I love Ireland already. At least, I love Ballinakelly. In spite of the fact that I understand my mother even less than I did when she was alive, I love it. It is in my blood, as it was in hers.

  When I get to my room I lie on the bed and close my eyes. I don’t have the courage to read Mom’s diary. She told so many untruths: she wasn’t Catholic, yet all the years I was alive she was more Catholic even than Daddy. She didn’t come from a poor, starving peasant family either, she came from an old, aristocratic family, and she wasn’t Irish. She was Anglo-Irish, and I know how different that is. If she lied about those three things, what else did she lie about? What would Logan think if I told him? Am I going to tell him? I don’t know. The one person I really want to tell is Rose. I can just see her lying on my bed, her grey eyes wide with astonishment, her lips curling with amusement, and asking me how I feel about i
t, if I’m okay. Always unselfish, empathetic, so typical of Rose. I smile and think of her now and feel suddenly quite alone.

  I barely have the energy to go out for dinner. Part of me wants to curl up in bed and go to sleep, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I heave myself up and bathe in the cramped bathroom. I copy Kitty and pin up my hair, leaving stray bits about my hairline. I stare at myself in the mirror, seeing something of Kitty in my reflection, but not enough to make me feel beautiful like her. I wonder what Wyatt would think of her? I think she’d frighten him. He likes a woman he can dominate. I doubt anyone could dominate Kitty Deverill.

  At seven I am picked up by one of the Deverill retainers. He is a middle-aged man with jet-black hair and dark brown eyes. He looks surprised when he sees me, but I smile and climb into the back of the car. I wonder if my uncle is going to look at me like that as well. I relax against the seat and reassure myself that it won’t be long before everyone in town knows who I am and then they’ll stop staring at me like I’m Kitty Deverill’s long-lost twin sister.

  When I arrive at the White House Lord and Lady Deverill are arriving too. Their car has pulled up and Lord Deverill is climbing out. It is dark but I can see in the light shining from the windows of the house that he is still handsome, with a wide face and grey hair swept off a broad forehead. He walks stiffly round to the door on the other side of the car, which the chauffeur is holding open. Lord Deverill bends down and puts out his hand. A gloved hand reaches out and takes it. Then one satin shoe steps onto the gravel, then another, followed by an elderly lady in a pale blue dress and glittering diamonds who I assume to be Lady Deverill. I watch in fascination as the two of them make their way to the front door, arms linked, his hand on hers. They are talking. They don’t see me in my car, waiting until they have disappeared before I get out.

  I am nervous now. My uncle is a lord and I have never met a lord before. They are both elegant. He in a jacket and bow tie, she in a long dress. I feel very shabby in mine. I wish I had brought my diamonds and my best dresses, but I never expected to be dining with aristocracy. I wonder if there is anywhere in Ballinakelly where I might purchase a gown. I doubt it.

  I am greeted at the door by a butler. He takes my coat and escorts me into the drawing room where I sat earlier with Kitty. The fire is ablaze and there are more people in the room than I expected. They turn their eyes on me as I step across the threshold, but Kitty welcomes me enthusiastically. ‘You must meet my husband, Robert,’ she says, introducing me to a stiff-looking man with thick greying hair that must have once been dark brown and a sombre face. He is handsome, but there is something bland about his features. He pales in comparison to Kitty’s effervescence. He is not what I would imagine her husband to be. Before I can dwell on him I am introduced to Kitty’s parents. ‘This is my father, Bertie, Uncle Bertie to you, Faye, and my mother, Maud.’

  Uncle Bertie’s gaze falls onto my face and seems to devour it. I know he is searching for his sister, but I look nothing like her. I look like his daughter. ‘By God, you’re the image of my mother,’ he says, and his aristocratic English accent is very pronounced.

  ‘Yes, you’re Adeline, unmistakably so,’ Aunt Maud agrees, shaking my hand with her thin, cold one. Her eyes are icy blue; beautiful, pale, wintry eyes, surrounded by heavily made-up black lashes. She has high cheekbones, a sharp determined jawline, silver hair cut into a severe bob and thin lips, and yet she is striking. I imagine she must have been a ravishing beauty in her day.

  I turn to Kitty for an explanation. Everyone is staring at me. This is what it must feel like to be an exotic animal in a zoo. Kitty laughs. ‘We didn’t get around to talking about our grandmother, Adeline. I look like her too, but you, Faye, even more so. Oh, how I would adore you two to meet.’ Kitty sighs dramatically. An exuberant man steps forward and grins. He must be Kitty’s brother, for he, too, has red hair, freckles, full lips and a cheeky and charming smile, although he looks young enough to be her son. His eyes twinkle and they are grey like mine and Kitty’s.

  ‘I’m JP Deverill,’ he says and shakes my hand. He is strong and athletic and my bones are crushed in his grip. He has the same energy as his sister, only an intensely male version of it. ‘And this is my wife, Alana,’ he says, stepping aside to give her space. His wife is sweet-looking with fair hair and eyes the colour of an Irish sky. She has an easy smile, which she now settles onto me, and it is full of warmth. I feel accepted. I have only just met these people and yet I feel as if I am one of them. As if they have been waiting all my life to meet me, and to include me.

  We are given glasses of wine and invited to sit down. I sit beside Alana on the sofa. There is a brief silence. No one knows where to start. They all have questions, Uncle Bertie more than anyone else, I imagine. This is a significant moment for me, but I haven’t until this moment considered their feelings. My mother was Uncle Bertie’s sister. She left home and never returned. Now she is dead. I look at his jovial, ruddy face and wonder how he feels about the unexpected arrival of his niece and the news that his sister is no longer alive.

  ‘I have explained why you have come to Ballinakelly,’ Kitty says at last. She looks at her father and smiles at him fondly. ‘It is of great comfort to Papa to know that Arethusa wanted to come home, in the end.’

  I feel moved. Kitty has no memory of her aunt because Arethusa left before she was born yet she appreciates what this means to her father. I imagine the family must have spoken of my mother a great deal over the years. They must have wondered about her. Where she was, what she was doing. And here I am, ready to tell them what they want to know. Only I’m not sure what I do know. Shortly, it becomes clear that they know the beginning of the story and I know the end, and yet there’s a very big middle which none of us knows. I sense it will come to light when I read her diary. I sense, too, that that is why she gave it to me, to read here, in Ireland, with her family.

  ‘Tussy was defiantly individual,’ says Uncle Bertie.

  ‘She was outspoken and ahead of her time,’ says Aunt Maud.

  Uncle Bertie agrees with a nod. ‘She was obsessed with the poor and used to take them baskets of food. She fought for the underdog and she rebelled against our parents’ way of life,’ he adds. ‘They sent her to London, to live with Cousins Stoke and Augusta in Mayfair. They thought it would be good for her to get away from Ireland, to do a London Season, meet new people and find other interests besides visiting the poor and sick. From what I recall, she made quite a name for herself in the few months she was there. I believe she had numerous proposals while poor Ronald Rowan-Hampton, her intended, languished over here, forgotten. Anyhow, there was a drama, raised voices and tears. The next thing we heard was that she wasn’t going to marry Ronald, after all, and that she’d run off to America in a huff. My parents never spoke of her after that. Her name was barely ever mentioned.’ He frowns. ‘I suspect my brother Rupert knew what had happened. He was very close to Tussy and went to London with her. But he never divulged anything and then he died in the Great War, taking her secrets with him.’

  ‘Tell us about her life in America,’ says Aunt Maud, placing a hand on her husband’s. He is visibly upset as the memory of his sister’s departure emerges out of the mists of the past like a ghost rising from the dead.

  I tell them about my father, that he had been Governor of Massachusetts. I tell them that Arethusa converted to Catholicism and that we all believed she was from a poor Irish family and had come to America to start a new life. They listen intently. The room is so quiet, only the crackling of the fire can be heard burning in the grate. I have their full attention, but as I tell them about the Arethusa I knew, I begin to realize that I am perpetuating what is undoubtedly a myth. I’m only adding more layers to her lies. So, I stop. ‘I don’t know who my mother was,’ I admit, and I feel my face burning with embarrassment. ‘She didn’t tell the truth about many things, I’m now suspicious about the things she did tell me – and the person she claimed to be. She wa
s a socialite. She gave extravagant dinner parties. She was the best hostess in Boston. She was beautiful and glamorous, but she was also selfish and self-obsessed. We children were not her main focus, she was. Everyone adored her, but no one knew how difficult she was to live with. She was up and down, moody, temperamental and demanding. She fell out with friends and made new ones. She could turn on a dime. But she was flamboyant and thrived on drama. My brother and I were at her bedside when she died. We thought we knew her, but after the will was read, we realized that we didn’t know her at all. I came here to discover who she really was. But meeting you has just raised more questions than it has answered. She left me her diary, which I will read over the coming few weeks.’

  ‘She gave you her diary, Faye, because she wanted you to know who she really was,’ says Kitty. ‘And she wants her ashes scattered at Castle Deverill because she wants to be laid to rest at home.’

  Uncle Bertie’s pale eyes shine. He has gone quite pink in the face. ‘You will lay her to rest here, won’t you, Faye?’

  I sigh. I think of Logan and his determination to bury her with Daddy. ‘I will do my very best,’ I reply.

  ‘A Deverill’s castle is his kingdom,’ he says and his voice cracks. Aunt Maud puts her hand on his again and squeezes it. I see a deep affection pass between them and a surprising warmth glow in Aunt Maud’s frosty blue eyes. Wyatt slips into my mind uninvited. Wyatt, who hasn’t put his hand on mine like that in thirty years. I push him out.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ says Kitty, standing up. ‘I wonder, Faye, whether you have a Deverill’s appetite!’

  Chapter 5

  Castle Deverill, Ballinakelly, Co. Cork

  The Past

  Arethusa Deverill awoke to a great commotion. She climbed off the big four-poster bed and hurried to the window. Sweeping aside the long velvet curtains she pressed her nose to the glass. There, on the gravel at the front of the castle, was a mob of unruly men in shabby black jackets and trousers, caps pulled low over furrowed foreheads, muddy boots on agitated feet. They jostled and elbowed each other, arguing among themselves. She recognized some of them from her trips into town. Husbands of the women she visited in a bid to ease their suffering with baskets of food and words of encouragement. Others were her father’s tenants, their faces gaunt and ruddy from toiling on the land in bitter winds and reaping little reward. A few she did not recognize at all, yet they all shared the same hungry, desperate look and the same seething anger. It was early morning and already a few of them were drunk.