The tension has suddenly built again. The cabin is so intimate, it is almost unbearably so. His voice is a melody that is lovely to listen to. It is deep and gentle and wise. I am humbled. I only have to look at the stump where his little finger was to have an idea of how he suffered in the War of Independence and the Civil War that followed. What do I really have to be sad about? A marriage gone sour? A marriage that was never truly sweet?
‘You make me feel like a fool,’ I say quietly.
‘You’re not a fool, Faye.’
Suddenly, I want to tell him everything. This man I barely know but trust, somehow, to understand. I want to unburden my heart, because it is heavy and I can’t carry it anymore.
‘You’re right. I didn’t come here just to find my mother’s roots. I came here to discover who I am without Wyatt. I came here because I don’t want to be there anymore, with him.’ Now I’ve said it, it really wasn’t so hard. I take a deep breath to suppress the emotion that gathers in the centre of my chest like a ball of fire. ‘I don’t like who I am when I’m with him, Cormac. But I’m scared, because I don’t know how to be anyone else.’
‘You already are someone else,’ he says softly and he looks at me with those clear indigo eyes and they are deep, like a well that is full of old pain and compassion.
The rain has lessened to a drizzle, the sky brightened a little. A bird warbles merrily in a nearby bush. I want to cry but not in front of Cormac. ‘Come,’ he says gently, getting up. ‘It’s almost stopped raining.’ Kite anticipates her master setting off again and trots into the long grasses. We emerge into the light. I feel better for having unburdened myself. ‘Don’t think about the past, Faye,’ he says. ‘Don’t think about Wyatt or anything else that exists outside of the now. Just be present. Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery.’
‘I’ll try,’ I respond. He makes it sound so easy.
‘Listen to the birdsong. Feel the wind on your face, the drizzle on your skin. Enjoy the view. It’s magnificent. You’re here, so don’t be elsewhere in your mind.’
‘I like being here,’ I say. I like being with him. That I don’t say.
We return to the Jeep and Cormac takes a towel out of the back and puts it down for Kite to lie on. He pats her affectionately and dries her a bit, before shutting the door and walking round to the front. I’m already inside. It’s still drizzling. He climbs in, turns on the engine and the windscreen wipers sweep away the raindrops. ‘I’m sorry you got wet,’ he says as he drives into the lane.
‘I’m not cold, though,’ I reply. ‘And there’s something invigorating about walking in the rain. I’m soaked to the skin, but I don’t mind. In fact, I quite like it.’
‘That’s the Deverill in you speaking. You’ll be on a horse next, taking the hedges as if they’re mere trotting poles.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. I don’t have Kitty’s fearlessness.’
‘Not many do. But you have ten more days to find it in you.’
‘Nine,’ I reply.
‘Nine then. Nine more days to find it in you.’
‘To find myself,’ I reply.
‘To find the Deverill.’
‘Or the devil,’ I add laughing.
He smiles back with knowing. ‘It’s one and the same,’ he says.
Cormac drops me back at the White House and I wave goodbye. We have made no plans to see each other again and I wonder whether he’ll make an approach. We grew close out there on the hill. It was a short moment, but an intimate one, and I shared things with him that I haven’t shared with anyone. I told him about Wyatt. That I don’t want to be with him anymore. I blush at the thought. I was uncharacteristically open. Did I reveal too much?
The house is quiet. It seems both Robert and Kitty are out. Perhaps they have gone for a walk. I go upstairs and run a bath. I’m suddenly cold. I take off my sodden clothes and wrap myself in a towel. It’s raining again. The sky is grey and dark and the sea is grey and dark beneath it. I can’t stop thinking about Cormac. I remember the way he gave me the thyme and the way he relished telling me about the birds. I look out of the window and see beauty everywhere. I resolve to focus on what I have, rather than on what I don’t have, and I resolve to be grateful for my life. But I cannot remain present. I wonder when I’ll see Cormac again. That’s all I can think about. That’s both the Deverill and the devil in me.
After my bath I sit at the dressing table and open Mom’s diary to the place where I left off. I haven’t read it since I was at Vickery’s Inn. I take a deep breath, overcoming my dread. She was leaving for London and she wasn’t leaving in disgrace. Far from it. She was leaving to do the season. I would like to leave it here, at this happy place, but I know I must read on. Not just for me and my brother, but for the Deverills too. Uncle Bertie deserves to know what happened to his sister. Kitty deserves to know what happened to her aunt. I realize that my mother wanted it so. Why else would she have left me her diary?
April
Oh! It is a delight to be in London. Rupert has entertained us all the way from Ballinakelly. I think he is more excited than I am. Charlotte was overcome with sickness on the crossing – it was frightfully rough – and had to be revived with brandy and water. Rupert said she turned as green as a frog and once the sickness had passed (we had to wait at the port for an hour for it to do so) he made silly jokes, asking whether she’d change into a princess if he kissed her. She was not amused. Rupert has the charm to make anyone laugh – but evidently not Charlotte. She is determined not to crack a smile and is doing a fine job of it.
We took the train to London. It was very civilized. I looked out of the window all the way while Charlotte recovered in sleep and regained her colour. Rupert wrote rhyming couplets about her because she slept with her mouth open, like a corpse, which made me roar with laughter. Really, he is mean, and I mean to laugh with him. He needs no encouragement and should be ashamed of himself! Really, it’s very unfair of Mama to make me bring her. What am I going to do with her in London?
Stoke and Augusta have a lovely townhouse. It is in a leafy square in the heart of Mayfair, near Hyde Park. Augusta is quick to point out that it is not only pretty but fashionable too. Everyone wants to live in Mayfair, she says. They also have a country retreat in Wiltshire called Deverill Rising, which I shall visit in August. But I don’t want to go to the countryside, however lovely it is. Rupert says Augusta is notorious for her grand house parties. She invites interesting people like politicians and writers, and they entertain themselves riding, picnicking, shooting (which is excellent, according to Bertie) and dancing – well, it sounds just like Castle Deverill! I’ve spent my entire life in the countryside, doing all those things, and I’m now thoroughly bored of it. I’m excited to be in the city. The greatest city in the world! London. I have no desire to go anywhere else.
Fortunately, the house is big enough for me and Charlotte not to have to share a room. Charlotte is on the floor above (the house has six floors!). I hope she stays there! Rupert is next door. I can hear him singing through the wall as I write. There is a little desk in front of the window, which looks out onto the garden at the back, and a dressing table with a mirror. My trunk has arrived at last and a maid is unpacking it. She hangs up my dresses on hooks – I have brought day dresses, tea dresses, evening dresses, ballgowns, Augusta says in London a lady has to change four times a day at the very least. The maid lays out my silver brushes and tortoiseshell combs and I ask her to arrange water for a bath for I’m dusty after the long journey. I feel quite at home here. Unfortunately, I promised to write to Ronald. I’d rather not, but considering his threat to come and join me here in town, it is a small price to pay for freedom.
As for Dermot, I cast him a thought only because I miss his caresses. I know I shall find amusement here which will eclipse him. We have had fun, the two of us. It gives me a frisson of pleasure to think how the knowledge of it would shock Mama, and the Shrubs – even Aunt Poppy, who takes my side on most things.
Goodness, Papa would disown me! I have a feeling Grandma would understand though, not that she would approve of it becoming public knowledge, however. But I sense she has experienced something of illicit pleasure herself. Didn’t she say as much that evening by the fire?
Tonight we remain at home to recover from our journey, but tomorrow night Augusta is throwing a soirée for us. For Rupert and me, so that we can meet people. Augusta says London is such a small town everyone is bored of each other and in search of new blood. Isn’t that exciting? Tomorrow she is going to take me shopping. She says the fashion in Dublin is out of date and that I need to have frocks that show me to my best advantage. I certainly don’t want to look provincial! Rupert says she is determined to find me a husband. I told Rupert that if he’s not careful, she’ll find him a wife. He just grinned at me and said that she’s welcome to try.
Day two
London is a brilliant sight during the season. Augusta has flowers sent up from Deverill Rising every week, along with hot house peaches and grapes. We are living like kings. This morning we went to Rotten Row. It is where London’s most fashionable congregate, from eleven to one, to stroll, chat and watch elegant ladies in braided habits riding side-saddle in the park, escorted by dashing cavaliers in frock coats and tall silk hats. Augusta tells me that every evening, by Grosvenor Gate, people line up to see the Princess of Wales passing in her carriage. I would very much like to see her and hope that we shall go. But Augusta says we are going to be very busy. Cards are already being dropped into the house. During the season there are twelve postal deliveries a day. Fancy that! The streets are heavy with traffic! Carriages and coaches and omnibuses, horses and carts and people. The rustle and bustle of a busy city, clattering over the cobbles. It is thrilling. I have to comment, however, on the smell. It really is a very dirty place. Mud piles up on the carriageways. Of course it’s not mud at all but manure from the horses, and little boys run in between the carriages to shovel it away. I suppose the quantity of horses makes it impossible to keep the streets clean! And the sooty smog is thick too, and sticky. I cannot imagine what it must be like in winter when everyone is lighting their coal fires to keep warm. Augusta says one simply can’t wear white in the day, because it is grey by the time one returns home. There is much construction work, the skyline is a forest of scaffolding. It’s very noisy too. Augusta took me down Oxford Street in the carriage, just for the fun of it. I have never seen so many shops and so much activity. We spent all morning buying fabric and trimmings, then visited Augusta’s tailor in Piccadilly (the finest in London, according to Augusta) who is now making me some dresses and is going to restyle a few of my own to bring them up to date. If it’s new blood they want, it shall be rich and bright and dazzling.
In the afternoon we called on a friend of Augusta’s, who is so fat she makes Augusta look like a twig, and her surprisingly pretty daughter, Mary, who is a few years older than me and engaged to a very suitable man. Goodness, didn’t I tire of hearing about him. He’s the son of a baronet (like Ronald) and cousin (distant, I imagine, because there was a great deal of hand-waving and vagueness) to the Duke of Northumberland. Mary is very taken with him and clearly thrilled to have pleased her mama (who goes pink in the face, like a beetroot, whenever his name is mentioned). Mary has an older brother called Henry who is not attached. Mrs Pilkington, for that is the name of Augusta’s fat friend, looked me over like I was a prize cow at the country fair and Augusta, who has never mastered the art of subtlety, listed my accomplishments (of which there are few in comparison to those of these English girls who play the piano, speak fluent French, paint and dance and sing like wood nymphs) and those of my family – really, one would think the Deverills were the ruling family of Ireland! If Henry has inherited any of his mother’s features he will be of no interest to me. I already have an admirer who is pink, porky and pinguid! What was far more entertaining, however, was listening to them talk of ‘poor, dear Jane Rutley’(whoever she is) who has lost her heart to a man in trade. Oh the horror of a man ‘in trade’. What would they think of Dermot McLoughlin, I ask myself? I think losing one’s heart is a very dangerous thing. I will do my utmost to avoid it.
Mrs Pilkington is overexcited about the ‘Phaseolus coccineus’ as she calls girls from America who are invading London in order to hunt for titled husbands. When she explains that the ‘Phaseolus coccineus’ is an American variety of climbing runner bean I am very amused. She is beside herself with indignation. American women, she claims, are coarse, brash creatures who speak their minds, are much too independent and throw their money around. She laments that they will take the cream of our aristocracy. I dare say the impoverished aristocracy could do with their money. I wonder what Mama and Papa would think if Rupert came home with an American! Darling Rupert, I wouldn’t put it past him to do something most outrageous. I secretly hope he will.
As for me, there seems little chance of me being given the opportunity to do anything outrageous. There are rules by which I must abide. I must not venture down St James’s Street on account of the gentlemen’s clubs there. If I do happen to pass in a carriage I must lower my eyes. I must not stray to the north side of Piccadilly for that is where bachelors have their chambers. Burlington Arcade, a delightful shopping street, is forbidden in the afternoons because it is frequented by street walkers. At balls, I must not sit out with a young man, or dance more than three times with the same one. Really, it’s highly amusing. We girls are like fragile flowers and must be protected, watched over and guarded to ensure that we are pure on our wedding night. Well, this flower has a stain on her petals. Still, I am grateful to Mama for bringing me up in such freedom. Charlotte says English girls are not so fortunate.
I am very entertained by my mother’s account of London. It is thrilling to read about the London season – and the invasion from across the Atlantic. I find myself laughing out loud at her irreverence and her hilarious descriptions of people. What I find the most fascinating is her lack of snobbery. The Arethusa Clayton I knew was a woman of high social ambition and acute observation. With one withering look she could strip a person of their pretences and reveal their shortcomings before they had even opened their mouth. I assumed that less attractive side of her was due to her upbringing in the bogs of Ireland, parvenues are always more critical than those born into wealth, but I realize now that it couldn’t have been. I cannot imagine why she minded so much that I found a wealthy husband and Logan married a suitable girl. Those were my father’s ideals, not hers. Maybe she took them on when she married him, as she took on his religion. He was, after all, a very strong, overpowering man. Yet, reading her words, I cannot reconcile the two personalities.
Kitty knocks on my door. She pokes her head round and smiles. ‘Found anything?’ she asks.
I sigh. ‘Nothing to explain the falling-out. I haven’t got that far yet. She’s in London and it’s all wonderful.’
‘The calm before the storm,’ says Kitty.
‘I think so,’ I reply. ‘I’m being lulled into a false sense of security.’
‘Come downstairs and have some tea. Papa has brought some old photo albums to show you. I think you’ll be amused.’
‘How exciting!’ I close the diary and follow her onto the landing.
‘Did you have a nice walk with Cormac?’ she asks as we go downstairs.
‘It poured with rain and we got soaked.’
‘Oh dear. That’s Ireland for you. It comes upon you without warning.’
‘We had to take refuge in a derelict cabin.’ She glances at me and arches an eyebrow, reminding me of Cormac.
I laugh. ‘I’m a married woman,’ I exclaim in mock horror.
‘Isn’t it lucky then that your husband isn’t here.’
I am startled. I don’t know which way to take her comment. But before I have time to reply we are in the hall and heading towards the drawing room. The butler has lit a fire and there is a tray of tea and cake on the centre table. Uncle Bertie rises to his fee
t to greet me. He is alone. I don’t suppose Aunt Maud is very interested in old photograph albums, or perhaps she has seen them before. In any case, we sit down, Uncle Bertie between myself and Kitty on the sofa, and open the first album across our knees. I am riveted by the black-and-white pictures of my mother. They are formal and posed. She is a pretty young woman with a tiny waist, long dark hair and, in spite of the stiff arrangements of the photographs, she always has an amused look on her face. In fact, I comment on it because she looks mischievous. Rupert is as I imagined. Tall and broad with dark hair and eyes, and full, pouting lips. Uncle Bertie was flaxen-haired and shorter than his brother, but equally good-looking. No wonder Maud fell in love with him. After a while I find my eyes searching for Adeline on all the pages, because she looks so like me. Of course, the photographs are not in colour, but I spot her immediately in the same way I would spot myself. I especially like the ones of her sitting side-saddle on a horse, with her hair up and a veil over her eyes, her long black dress falling down the horse’s flanks. She looks elegant and confident. Kitty tells me that she used to ride side-saddle as a young woman and I imagine she must have looked very much like her grandmother too. I catch her eye and grin. I feel blessed to have found my family and blessed to have been accepted by them. How very different my life would have been had Mom not turned her back on her past.
The Secret Hours Page 20
