The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  After dinner, while the men are passing the port, a ridiculous British tradition of men remaining in the dining room to drink, smoke cigars and talk politics (apparently, we women are not up to talking politics. Wyatt would fit right in!), I manage to get Alana on her own. We sit on the club fender in the chilly, smoky drawing room, with the feeble heat of the turf fire on our backs. I tell her that I would like to go to Mass the following morning but assume that Kitty and the rest of her family will go to the Protestant church. ‘You must come with us,’ she suggests. ‘JP is Protestant by birth but he has chosen to bring the children up in my faith, so we go to Mass together.’

  That is just what I wanted to hear. ‘I’d like that, thank you.’

  ‘JP’s mother was Catholic, you know,’ she adds.

  At this I am confused. I look at Maud, beautiful, icy Maud, who is sitting on the sofa talking with one of the other women, and frown, for surely Uncle Bertie is Protestant. ‘Aunt Maud is Catholic?’ I say.

  Alana puts her hand on her mouth and laughs. ‘Goodness no! Maud is very Church of England.’ Then she mimics an English accent. ‘God forbid she ever hears you suggest she’s a Left Footer!’

  ‘But isn’t she JP’s mother?’ I ask.

  Alana leans closer and lowers her voice. ‘No. JP’s mother was a maid at the castle, called Bridie Doyle, who bore Bertie twins. One of those children was JP. Bridie was only young, and single, so JP was given to Kitty who brought him up as her own, while Bridie went to live in America. It’s a very sad story and was scandalous at the time. I can’t imagine her pain, having to give up her children and her life.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Well, she came back a very wealthy woman and bought the castle. She never told JP that she was his mother, to protect him. He was very settled with Kitty and Robert by then, you see. Bridie was a selfless, godly person. How she must have suffered to have lived only a few miles from her son yet knowing she could never tell him the truth. Anyhow, she died eight years ago. But she left a letter for JP explaining the true circumstances of his birth.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so sad.’

  ‘Yes, he never knew her. She left him Castle Deverill, though, and he built a memorial garden for her. Next time you come to the castle, I’ll show it to you. It’s a very peaceful little garden, with a bench, and it’s always full of birds, even in winter.’

  ‘What happened to JP’s twin?’

  ‘Well, they grew up not knowing the other existed. Martha, that’s his twin, was adopted by an American family and raised in Connecticut. When she was about seventeen she discovered, quite by chance, that she was adopted and set out to find her birth mother. She was quite a detective, I can tell you. It can’t have been easy to track Bridie down. The convent where Martha and JP were born had kept no records. But she met JP in Dublin, by coincidence, which makes me believe in Fate, and wound up here, in Ballinakelly.’

  ‘Did she find her mother?’

  ‘They met, but neither knew they were related. She found her twin brother, and that was miraculous. But she only discovered who her mother was in a letter, after Bridie had died.’

  I am so moved, I don’t know what to say. I’m also astonished that Alana has no qualms about sharing this very personal story. Then I remember Kitty saying that her father is quite used to long-lost relations turning up out of the blue and I imagine she must have been thinking of Martha. ‘Does she live in Ireland now?’

  ‘No, she returned to America and married an American, but she keeps in touch. She’s family now. One thing you’ll learn about the Deverills is they’re very tribal. They stick together and look out for each other. Martha and JP are twins. They’ll always be close even if they’re hundreds of miles apart.’

  ‘So, Kitty is like a mother to JP?’

  ‘Yes, but they are, in fact, half-siblings.’

  ‘They look very similar.’

  ‘They’re similar in every way.’ She smiles with tenderness and I feel the love she has for her husband and envy it. I wonder whether I ever smiled like that about Wyatt. If I ever did, I don’t anymore.

  The men return to the drawing room and the women move to accommodate them. As we get up off the fender, I say to Alana, ‘Are there any more family secrets I should know about?’

  She puts a hand on my arm and lowers her voice. ‘Many more secrets,’ she says with emphasis. ‘But most are irrelevant now and buried deep. The secrets we’re all keen to know are contained in your mother’s diary.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the diary,’ I say, promising myself that I will start reading it again when I get back to Kitty’s house.

  ‘We’re all fascinated by Arethusa Deverill’s story. I think we’re going to find that our tales pale in the light of hers.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I fear you may be disappointed.’

  With that she laughs. ‘Oh no, trust me, the Deverills never disappoint,’ she says. ‘If there’s one thing you’ll learn about your mother’s family, it’s that.’

  By the time I get back to Kitty’s house it is too late to start reading Mother’s diary. I get into bed and put my head on the pillow and the moment I do my thoughts are hijacked by Cormac O’Farrell. I’m excited that I’m going to see him at Mass in the morning. I don’t imagine for one minute that he won’t be there. Where I come from, everyone goes to church on Sunday. I don’t believe it is any different here. I’ve heard the Irish are very religious.

  The following morning JP and Alana pick me up and drive me into Ballinakelly. They have brought their three children with them: two boys and a girl, all under ten, who look at me with curiosity. Alana squeezes onto the back seat and lifts her daughter onto her knee, and I sit in the front. I have dressed up. I brought an elegant outfit for Mass, at least.

  I am nervous. I know I am going to see Cormac. I’m anxious that I won’t get to speak to him. That I’ll see him from a distance only. That I’ll leave disappointed. As we chat in the car, and the children ask me questions, being outspoken and inquisitive as children are, I try to work out how to engineer a meeting. If he doesn’t come up to me, what excuse can I make to go up to him? Is there something I can pretend to ask him? Then I fear he might not be there. What if he doesn’t go to Mass? Or perhaps he goes to a later one? This is my fifth day in Ballinakelly, I’m almost through the first week; what if I don’t manage to see him again? I don’t think I can wait for the following Friday folk night!

  JP parks the car and we walk up the street to the church. It seems like the whole town is going to Mass. They are all dressed in their Sunday best, many of the women in small hats or headscarves, the men in jackets and ties. Some of the locals I met at Ma Murphy’s smile at me and I smile back, grateful for their kindness. I notice an old woman in a moth-eaten fur coat, her grey hair is pulled off a coarse face which might once have been beautiful but is now over-painted with badly applied make-up. She is walking unsteadily beside a rough-looking man with shaggy, greying black hair and a thick black beard. He is tall and broad, she is slight and fragile and dwarfed by his bulk. They look at no one and no one greets them or gives them a wave. They are isolated and there is a dark energy about them, as if they are enveloped by cloud. I keep an eye out for Cormac O’Farrell, but I don’t see him. Jack and Emer O’Leary are there, and we choose a pew and sit with them. The church is large and glowing in the light of many candles.

  The priest starts the service and I feel deflated, because I haven’t seen Cormac. I’m not even sure he’s here. Every time I look around, I catch someone’s eye and they smile, or nod, thrilled to be acknowledged. I guess I am a bit of a celebrity, after all. I try to concentrate on the Mass, but I’m not very religious. Mother was, she went to Mass every morning. It was the first thing she did, and sometimes on Sundays she went twice. My mind drifts to her childhood, when she was Protestant, attending the church of St Patrick. I wonder what made her change her religion. Perhaps it was meeting my father, for he was a staunch Catholic. It wouldn’t surprise me if
she pretended she was Catholic, just for him. Certainly, there was never any mention of having ever been Protestant. I suppose she had the opportunity to reinvent herself when she arrived in America. It crosses my mind that she did it to spite her family. I don’t imagine Greville, her grandfather, or Hubert, her father, would have approved of her changing her religion. If she fell out with them all, then she might well have done it to hurt them. I resolve to read the diary tonight. I tell myself that Cormac must not distract me from the purpose of this trip. But then, as I think of it, I know that learning about my mother’s past isn’t the only reason I came to Co. Cork. Perhaps it’s not the reason at all, just covering for the real reason, which is to find myself. And if that is the truth, the bare and honest truth which I haven’t, until now, been able to admit, then Cormac isn’t a distraction at all.

  I stand in line for holy communion. Jack and Emer are in front of me, JP, Alana and their children behind. I am conspicuous, there in the aisle, as those who have taken holy communion file past me on their way back to their seats. I feel many eyes upon me. Without Kitty beside me I am less confident. Then I see one pair of eyes I recognize. They are a deep, indigo blue and they are smiling at me. My stomach does a flip. He is here, after all.

  Chapter 14

  My thoughts are not with Christ as I partake of His body; they are in a far less spiritual realm. I return to my seat with my chin up and my shoulders back, aware that Cormac is in the congregation and might be watching me. I am injected with excitement while at the same time incredulous that, at my age, and married, I have a crush on this man. Crushes are for teenagers, not for women in their fifties. I know I should think of Wyatt, concentrate my mind on the straight and narrow path of marriage and duty and the proper behaviour expected of a person in my position, but I can’t focus on anything but Cormac O’Farrell. Instead, I think of what I’m going to say when we talk outside the church. How can I extend it to more than a fleeting conversation? My heart beats wildly, the palms of my hands grow damp, anxiety takes hold. I am already anticipating disappointment. I have a crush on him; he has given no indication of having a crush on me.

  Mass ends and we file out into the sunshine. Birds tweet in the plane trees but I don’t hear them, I hear only the pounding of blood at my temples. I shake the priest’s hand and he welcomes me to his parish. He comments on my likeness to my cousin and I go through the motions of being amused and complimented at the same time. He is much too polite to ask why it is that I am Catholic while my mother was raised a Protestant, but I know it is what he’s thinking. As I look about me, at the many pairs of eyes that glance in my direction, I realize that they must all be thinking the same thing. But I don’t know the answer yet either. It is another of my mother’s secrets, and hopefully I will find an explanation in her diary.

  Fortunately, JP and Alana are keen to mingle. This is a time for the community to get together and there is an air of exhilaration. Their religious duty is over for the week and now they can enjoy a day off work. The Deverill children scarper with the other children and I remain with Alana as she talks to the women. I try to concentrate on what they are saying, but I am hoping Cormac will come and find me, if only to say hello. At this moment, I do not expect any more than that.

  At last I hear his familiar voice. ‘Hello, Mrs Langton,’ he says.

  I turn and try to remain calm, but my stomach is full of butterflies. ‘Oh, please call me Faye,’ I reply, and as I take him in I am surprised at how much more handsome he has become since I’ve known him. His character is revealed in every line and contour of his face and it is very attractive. ‘ “Mrs Langton” makes me feel old,’ I add.

  His lapis eyes twinkle with their usual warmth and his smile puts creases into his cheeks like his accordion. ‘Faye it is.’ He hesitates, then says what everyone is thinking. ‘I did not think you’d be Catholic.’

  ‘I did not think my mother would be Protestant,’ I reply.

  He chuckles. ‘Deverills are all Protestant, with the exception of JP, who is an honorary Catholic on account of his wife.’

  ‘My father was from a devout Catholic family so I can only assume that my mother converted when she married him.’

  ‘And sent every Deverill turning in his grave.’ He arches a black eyebrow and I laugh.

  ‘I doubt they ever knew of it,’ I tell him. ‘Kitty told me that Arethusa left Ireland and never looked back. They have no idea what happened to her.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve filled them in.’

  I sigh, revealing my frustration. ‘I wish I could. They know the beginning and I know the end, but none of us know what happened in between.’ Then I tell him about the diary. ‘It’s in mirror writing, so it’s not easy to read, but I’m hoping it will answer our questions.’

  ‘A right old mystery, then,’ he says, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘You can be sure there was a lot of drama. The Deverills are a family who attract drama.’

  ‘And make it, I should imagine,’ I add.

  ‘Indeed they do,’ he replies with a chuckle.

  I spot the woman in the moth-eaten fur coat walking out of the church. ‘Who is that, Cormac?’ I ask.

  Cormac shifts his eyes to the church door. ‘That’s Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘And behind her is Michael Doyle.’

  ‘Oh, Kitty told me about them.’

  ‘Now, they’re a pair who make drama for themselves,’ he says. ‘But they’ve become harmless. They keep themselves to themselves at the Doyle farmhouse.’

  ‘They seem sad,’ I say, and I want to add ‘friendless’, but that’s conjecture and I don’t want to be unkind.

  ‘Well, Grace is neither fish nor red herring and people are still afraid of Michael Doyle. A quare pair if ever there was one.’ He looks at me and arches that eyebrow again. ‘You’re slowly learning what lies beneath the surface of this town,’ he says. ‘It’s not all pretty.’

  ‘With no help from you,’ I tease. ‘You promised you’d tell me about the Deverills, but so far I’ve only been given the odd, tantalizing scrap of information from my cousin. When are you going to give me the full story?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he says.

  ‘How much time do you need? I’m here for nine more days.’

  He shrugs and pulls a face that makes me laugh. ‘I can make a good start then.’

  Alana is now standing beside me and I realize that it’s time to go. She says hello to Cormac and asks after his dog. His affection for Kite warms his face as he talks about her, and to me he just grows more attractive. I agree that Kite is a special dog. ‘Would you like to walk her with me this afternoon?’ he asks me suddenly. ‘I’ll show you some of the sights around Ballinakelly.’

  I am taken aback by his forwardness and wonder what Alana must think. But he’s looking at me directly and I don’t want to reveal my surprise, nor my elation.

  ‘I’d love that,’ I reply, my heart leaping like a grasshopper.

  ‘Grand. I’ll come and pick you up around four.’

  I’m thrilled. ‘Grand,’ I repeat, imitating his Irish brogue, and I grin at him.

  ‘We’ll make an Irishwoman of you yet,’ he laughs and watches us walk away.

  There is a large luncheon party at the castle. JP and Alana have invited the entire family. I feel very privileged to be included. I enjoy being in the place where my mother grew up, even though little of it remains as it was in her day. I sit next to my uncle at lunch and ask him about my grandmother, Adeline. He tells me about her interest in the esoteric and how his father, Hubert, used to roll his eyes and call it ‘ballcock’. He says that she and her sisters used to hold séances in the drawing room when his father was in Dublin and summon the dead. When I ask whether the dead ever came, he looks at me askance and replies, ‘But do they ever come, Faye?’

  ‘I imagine not,’ I reply.

  ‘If you were to ask Kitty, she would tell you that she sees the deceased all the time.’
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br />   ‘Really?’ I look across the table at Kitty, who is deep in conversation with the rector.

  ‘Oh, yes. She claims that she and Adeline shared a gift which enables them to see what they call the “finer vibrations of spirit”.’

  ‘We have a maid back at home who would agree with Kitty. She claims to see those vibrations too! Mother thought it all preposterous and would get quite cross with Temperance when she went off on one of her discourses about angels and spirits.’

  ‘I dare say Tussy found Mama’s obsession with all that non-sense somewhat trying. But it was part of her charm. She loved nature and adored putting food out for the birds and watching them feed. If she chose to see leprechauns and sprites in the woods, it was her business. It didn’t bother me. In fact, I found it amusing. We teased her and she’d always laugh. She never took herself seriously. But it bothered Tussy. I think mother and daughter relationships are much more complicated than mother and son relationships. At least it’s been that way in my experience.’

  I look at Maud, who appears older in daylight, but striking nonetheless. I cannot imagine her being a mother at all. There is no maternal warmth there and I haven’t seen her talk to the children. Some women are not designed for motherhood. I may be wrong, but I think Maud is more interested in herself than in her children and grandchildren.

  ‘I wonder whether Mom ever knew that her home burnt down,’ I muse.

  ‘That I wouldn’t know,’ Uncle Bertie replies, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. ‘You see, after Tussy left for America under a heavy cloud my parents never really spoke of her again. Mama mentioned her only in passing, as if she was reluctant to erase her completely, but Papa was less forgiving. I don’t think he spoke her name right up to his death—’