I breakfast in the dining room downstairs. Nora Maloney has heard the story and I imagine the whole of Ballinakelly knows too, for she pulls out a chair and joins me at my table without being invited. I am too polite to tell her I would rather be left alone, and I don’t have a newspaper to hide behind. She wouldn’t be so forward if Wyatt were here. But I’d rather have Nora Maloney’s company than Wyatt’s. It is strange, but when I think of my husband he is a small, indistinct figure in a faraway land. He is not part of Ireland. He does not belong here either physically or in my imagination. I think of him only occasionally and even then, he is a blur.
As for Rose, a part of me wishes she were here to share this with me. All my children have Deverill blood, but Rose is the only one who would really be interested in her Deverill roots and the only one who would understand why I’m so interested. She would love discussing all the characters from last night’s dinner. I can see her face now, pink-cheeked and full of light, relishing the unfolding mysteries just like I do. But she’s not here. It’s probably for the best, after all she’s busy with her young family. Still, I like to think of her. Somehow, I know she’s thinking of me too.
‘I could have guessed you were a Deverill,’ says Nora, interrupting my thoughts. She puts her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands. She smiles and I notice she has lipstick on her teeth. ‘With that red hair and those grey eyes,’ she says. ‘You caused quite a stir yesterday. The old people thought you were Adeline, Lady Deverill that was, come to life.’ She laughs. ‘Indeed, they thought you were a ghost. I thought you were a ghost, when I first saw you. The young thought you were Mrs Trench. Then the two of you together, like sisters. It wasn’t a surprise at all when I heard that your mother was Arethusa Deverill.’ When she says my mother’s name her eyes widen and her face glows, as if she is articulating something deliciously forbidden. ‘Arethusa Deverill,’ she repeats. ‘After all these years. I don’t imagine the Deverills thought they’d hear from her again.’ She barely draws breath and I listen to her in the hope that she might shed light on why my mother went away. There must have been rumours and, as the saying goes: there’s no smoke without fire.
‘What do you know of Arethusa Deverill?’ I smile with encouragement. I feel I have a certain power in this place, being a Deverill. The way Nora is looking at me, with a mixture of awe, fascination and deference, gives me confidence.
‘I only know what my nan told me. Your mam was the talk of the town once upon a time. My nan said your mam was a saint. I kid you not. She said she was a saint. She cared about people.’
‘Did your grandmother know my mother?’
‘She worked at the castle when your mam was young. Your mam brought food and medicine to her family and other families besides. They were as poor as tinkers in those days and your mam took care of them. My nan thought she was an angel.’
‘Might I meet your grandmother, Nora? Would that be possible?’
Nora’s eyes widen further. She is literally trembling with excitement. ‘She’d be honoured to meet Arethusa Deverill’s daughter. Wait till I tell her who’s coming to see her. She’ll be beside herself with excitement. Can you come this afternoon? I knock off round five. If you come to the lobby, I’ll take you to mam’s house myself.’
‘If it’s no trouble, I’d love to.’
I’m excited too. I don’t know why I think that Nora Maloney’s grandmother should know more than Arethusa’s own family, but I want to meet everyone who knew her. I want to retrace her steps. I want to tread where she trod. I want to talk to the people she talked to. It sounds absurd and I’m so glad Wyatt is not with me, or anyone else for that matter, because I don’t think they’d understand. My mother is a distant figure, she always was – inscrutable, unreachable, like a cloud – but here, in the place where she grew up, I have purchase. I feel as if I am putting out my hand and finding something solid to hold on to. Or the promise of something solid.
I am still at the table when Cormac appears in the dining room. He is wearing a dark grey jacket with a woollen V-neck sweater underneath, in the same shade of grey. He smiles when he sees me and his lapis eyes shine with joy. I wonder whether he is ever sad. He appears to radiate happiness that is not dependent on the outside world but the way he is on the inside. ‘Top of the morning to you,’ he says and takes off his cap. His hair is grey like his beard and sticks up in thick tufts. He runs a rough hand through it to smooth it down. ‘Did you sleep well?’
I smile back. His happiness is infectious. I bet he didn’t look out of his window this morning and feel disappointed by the fog. ‘I did, thank you. It’s a very nice hotel.’
‘Oh, it’s grand. Vickery’s Inn is the best in Ballinakelly.’ He is proud of his town and of this modest inn. I am used to the finest hotels in the world, but I don’t tell him that. I feel ashamed that I should even compare – that I am the sort of woman who does compare. Wyatt would turn his nose up at Vickery’s Inn. I don’t want to be like Wyatt. ‘I’ve come to drive you to the castle,’ he says.
‘How nice.’ I’m pleasantly surprised. I had expected Kitty to send her driver again, but I’d rather Cormac took me. I enjoyed talking to him in the car. There’s something very appealing about his gentle charm and enthusiasm. A strength in his quiet calmness, which I’m drawn to. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to see much of it in this weather,’ I grumble.
‘Oh, it’ll be just grand, you’ll see,’ he says. Clearly, he is used to fog and thinks nothing of it. ‘You’ll see it all right.’
I return to my room to fetch my raincoat and hat. I’m wearing corduroy trousers and a sweater so I don’t get cold. I change into lace-up shoes because my slip-ons are too delicate for this weather. I tie my hair back into a ponytail. I stand in front of the mirror and look at my reflection. I’m not a Clayton. My features are too feminine, all the Clayton women look like men. I now know that I am a Deverill through and through. The thought of belonging to this big Deverill clan makes me happy. I’m glad I came. I’m glad I stood my ground and didn’t back down. I think of Logan then, who is a Clayton to his core, and wonder whether I should let him know what I have discovered. Would he be interested? I’m not sure he would. I don’t think he is curious about our mother’s past. I decide not to tell him anything until I get back to Boston. A part of me wants to keep Kitty and Bertie, and Arethusa Deverill, to myself.
I sit in the front seat. I notice a dog in the back. It is a border collie and it is staring at me with indignation, as if I am trespassing on its territory.
‘That’s Kite,’ says Cormac. ‘She’s my constant companion. I would have brought her with me yesterday, but I wasn’t sure you liked dogs.’
‘How do you know now that I like dogs?’ I ask with a smile.
‘I just know,’ he replies.
I can’t help but laugh at his certainty. ‘You’re right, of course. I do. My husband won’t have them in the house, though.’
‘Now why would he do that?’
‘The mess, I suppose.’ Cormac shakes his head, as if banning a dog from the house for that reason is an abhorrence. ‘And he’s allergic,’ I add quickly, which isn’t true, but I don’t want him thinking badly of Wyatt.
Cormac starts the Jeep, Kite settles down on the back seat and we drive slowly out of Ballinakelly. The fog is still thick and light drizzle lands softly on the windscreen. Cormac turns on the wipers and it is swept away. ‘The Ireland of today must be very different from the Ireland you grew up in,’ I say as we leave the town and drive into the sodden countryside.
‘We fought hard for our independence,’ he replies.
‘It’s difficult to imagine. I mean, it’s so peaceful here.’
‘I thank God every day for peace. That our children can grow up without the fear and the violence that we grew up with. The twenties were a brutal time. After independence was won there was civil war. Brother set against brother.’ He shakes his head and for the first time I see real pain in his profile which t
akes me aback. I did not expect to see shadows in his radiance.
‘What was it like for the Deverills during the War of Independence?’ I ask. ‘Did they consider themselves British or Irish? And what did the Irish, people like you, think of them?’
‘Their allegiance was to Britain, and to us they were British. We wanted them out, all of them. It wasn’t about personality, but about what they represented. We wanted Ireland back. But the Deverills . . .’ He considers them a moment. ‘They were different.’
‘How so?’
‘Kitty was one of us. She fought alongside us in that war.’
‘Kitty?’
He nods and grins admiringly. ‘She’s always considered herself Irish.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She smuggled arms for us. No one was going to search a Deverill. She could walk straight past the Black and Tans with a bag full of ammo and no one would turn a hair. She was invaluable to the cause. A brave girl she was.’
Kitty Deverill rises in my thoughts like an avenging angel. She is not just beautiful, but courageous and fiercely patriotic too. No wonder people stared at me in Ballinakelly. Kitty is not just a local woman but a local heroine.
‘Many Anglo-Irish left their estates and moved back to England. Many had their castles razed to the ground. Castle Deverill wasn’t spared. It was burnt like so many others.’
I remember my dream in a sudden rush of recollection. I know the castle was burnt. I know it. How could I possibly know that, unless it is a just a coincidence, as Cormac says, so many Irish castles were set alight and destroyed.
‘I’m not proud of that,’ he continues. ‘The Deverills did not deserve to lose their home,’ he says quietly. I am surprised to see him looking regretful. His forehead is furrowed and his black eyebrows are set low over his eyes. I feel his regret.
‘But they rebuilt it?’ I say hopefully.
‘Indeed they did, Mrs Langton, in old stone, at great expense, in the late twenties.’ He glances at me. ‘But it’s no fairy tale. It’s been dogged by tragedy. Your family has had its fair share of suffering.’
‘Will you tell me about it?’
‘Aye, I’ll tell you. But it’s a long story. I’ll buy you a drink in Ma Murphy’s and tell you your family history.’
‘Do you have a wife, Mr O’Farrell?’ I ask, because I am aware that a wife might not be happy with her husband buying a drink for a strange woman in a bar. I know how Wyatt would feel, but Wyatt is not here to mind.
‘I had a wife,’ he says. ‘But she died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Do you have children?’ I don’t want to pry, but I’m curious. If his wife died, I would like to think of him having the comfort of children. But I sense there is something of the lone wolf in Cormac O’Farrell.
He shakes his head. ‘No children, just Kite.’
We fall into silence. It feels awkward because I don’t know what to say. He turns off the lane and drives up what looks like a farm track leading into the hills. The car jumps about as the wheels roll over puddles and stones. I imagined a grand driveway, not a rough track like this, with two muddy lanes for tyres and long grass growing up in between. The fog is still dense and I can’t see where we are headed. On either side of the track are grey-stone walls. The stones are piled on top of each other and there appears to be nothing to bind them. I change the subject and ask Cormac about the stones and he tells me that these walls have been around for hundreds of years, built by mountain men who were clearing the fields and building boundaries at the same time. They knew instinctively which stones would fit where and although one can see through them, for there’s no cement to fasten them, they won’t fall down. They’ll last for ever, Cormac says.
At length, he stops the Jeep. ‘Have we arrived?’ I ask, disappointed, because if this is the front drive, Castle Deverill is not the one in my dream nor in my expectation.
He grins, the mischievous grin of someone who is about to share an exciting secret. ‘Come, I want to show you something,’ he says.
I climb out and follow him up the track. Kite runs ahead as if she knows the secret and is excited too. Cormac walks at a brisk pace and I find myself out of breath and struggling to keep up. He’s very fit. I imagine he ascends these hills a lot. As we near the top, I see, to my joy, beams of sunlight shining down in shafts of gold. ‘Ah, the sun is coming out!’ I exclaim happily.
‘Just in time,’ he says. We reach the top and, as I catch my breath, the mist begins to evaporate. I put my hands on my hips and survey the sea, emerging out of the whiteness in a glittering expanse of blue. I inhale the sweet, weedy tang of the ocean and my spirits soar with pleasure. And then, to my amazement, I see towers, crenellated towers, looming out of the fog. They come and go in a tantalizing game of ‘now you see me, now you don’t’ as the cloud is carried inland on a salty wind. And then miraculously it clears, as if the sun has burnt a hole in it especially for me. I gaze in wonder as the towers grow into turrets and sturdy grey walls. It renders me speechless. Its beauty is in its magnificence and in its position, for it has a view of the ocean and at the same time is nestled in the folds of the hills, watched over by ancient trees, thick woodland and gardens. I take a deep breath. So this was Arethusa’s home. Not some cold cottage shivering in a bog, but a spectacular castle, the ancestral seat of her illustrious family, and she chose to turn her back on it. How is that possible?
As for my dream. This is indeed the very castle, or one similar to it. My excitement mounts.
‘I wanted you to see it from here before you see it up close,’ says Cormac. ‘Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly does,’ I reply, smiling at him with gratitude.
‘The night it burnt, the whole valley turned red. It was as if the hills were on fire too. As if the fire was consuming the entire estate.’
‘It must have been devastating.’
‘It went on burning for days and then it was left to decay into the ground. It was a great sadness to see that fine building brought to its knees. It might have represented the British Crown, but it represented the heart of this town and when it was lost, we felt lost without it.’ He shakes his head. ‘Now you’ll be thinking I’m a poet as well as a taxi driver!’ He laughs and puts his hands in his trouser pockets. I laugh too. It’s impossible not to be affected by his joie de vivre.
I gaze at the castle, bathed in a pool of light, and long to go inside.
Kite nudges her master with her snout. Cormac bends down to pat her. She revels in his attention, wagging her tail and her bottom with it. We walk back down the hill to the Jeep. The fog has lifted and patches of blue sky are appearing through tears in the cloud. With the sun warm on my back, the wind in my hair and the smell of the sea in my nose, I feel carefree. I have only myself to think about. My time is my own. For two whole weeks I can do whatever I want. I don’t have to consider anyone else. If I had been nervous at the prospect of being on my own for so long, I am no longer nervous. I am elated.
Kite jumps in the back and Cormac drives us to the castle. The Jeep stops in front of big black iron gates. On top of the two pillars of stone holding up the gates are a pair of fierce-looking lions, their mouths open in silent roars. The man in the gatehouse waves at Cormac and we drive on through. I suppose everyone knows each other in a town as small as Ballinakelly. The gravel drive curves in a gentle sweep, through an avenue of tall trees and rhododendron bushes, bursting with red and pink flowers. It is a beautiful sight. We emerge out of the trees and the castle rises up before us in regal splendour and once again it steals my breath.
I see Kitty’s car parked outside the big door and my heart lifts with anticipation. I can’t believe that I am here, at the very same castle I have dreamed about, with a family I did not know existed. It is like stepping into another life, one behind a veil, which has only now been revealed to me. It is my find, my secret and I am thrilled that Logan
knows nothing about it.
Cormac leaves me at the door and I pull on the cord that hangs beside it. As I step back and wait, I notice an inscription carved above it in Latin: Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum. I tell myself not to forget to ask what it means, for I never learned Latin at school.
I don’t have to wait long. The door is unbolted. It opens and I am greeted by a young butler in a black tailcoat. ‘Good morning, Mrs Langton,’ he says, stepping aside to let me pass. ‘Mrs Deverill is expecting you in the drawing room with Mrs Trench. May I take your coat?’
I shrug off my raincoat and hand it to him. I attempt to smooth my hair with my hand, conscious that the wind on the hill has blown it into a mess. Then I cast my eyes around the sumptuous hall. I am stunned. I have been here before. It is exactly as I have seen it in my dreams. My eyes are drawn up the stairs and I wonder, if I were to walk down those corridors, whether I’d come across that narrow staircase leading up to the little room at the top. And if I were to come across it, what would I find inside?
I turn my attention back to the hall where there are faded Persian rugs on the chequerboard floor, a large marble fireplace with an empty hearth and Old Master paintings in gilt frames hanging from chains on the walls. The ceilings are high and a chandelier sparkles above me in the light that now streams in through the tall windows on either side of the door. It is opulent. I bear in mind that it was rebuilt after the fire in the twenties, so little is left of the original building. Still, it is splendid and I am impressed. It has not disappointed. Not in the least.
The butler leads me through the hall and down a corridor, into the drawing room. Kitty gets up from the sofa when she sees me and we embrace like long-lost friends. Alana takes my hand and kisses my cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come to see where your mother grew up,’ she says.
The Secret Hours Page 10
