The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  I follow her in silence, lost in thought. Once again she has given me a glimpse of her past, then closed the door.

  At last we walk our horses down a farm track and come upon a modest white house with a grey slate roof. It is sheltered in the basin of the hill with a wide view of the ocean. Around the house are fields enclosed by those dry-stone walls Cormac was telling me about. I smile as I discover that he is also a farmer, as I suspected. There are sheep, donkeys and little birds everywhere, pecking at the seed he puts out for them.

  We tie the horses to an old cart that lies discarded by the house and wander round to ring the bell. But of course, there is no bell, only our knuckles. Kitty uses hers to great effect. The door opens and Cormac is surprised to see us.

  I’m embarrassed to call on him without invitation or prior warning, but he seems not to mind. He smiles with pleasure and opens the door wide. I get the feeling that people here are used to dropping in on each other like this. ‘You’re a farmer too,’ I say as I step into a small hall with a low ceiling and tiled floor.

  ‘As I said, Jack of all trades, master of none.’ He looks at me and I feel dizzy beneath his gaze. His blue eyes seem to see through me, right into my heart, and I’m sure he knows what I’m hiding in there. I follow Kitty into the kitchen. There is a wooden table with spindle-back chairs, colourful rugs on the wooden floor, a bookcase cluttered with books and walls adorned with photographs and paintings. It is a cosy home, made all the more so by his dog Kite who presses her nose against my knees, asking to be petted. I stroke her and she gazes at me with large, shiny eyes and I wonder whether she knows how I feel about her master.

  Kitty and Cormac chat with the ease of old, old friends. He ‘wets’ the tea, as they say here, and pours us all mugs of Barry’s, which is an Irish brew. I take a chair and Kite sits beside me with her head on my lap as I stroke her. ‘She’ll never leave you alone now,’ says Cormac.

  ‘I’m glad,’ I reply. ‘She’s very cute.’

  Kitty is by the bookcase, browsing through the titles. She laughs. ‘Do you have enough bird books?’ she says, running her finger along the spines.

  ‘There’s always room for more,’ he replies, putting the mugs on the table along with a wooden board of soda bread.

  ‘You have a lovely house,’ I say. ‘It’s very homey.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with me,’ he replies and I assume he’s referring to his wife.

  ‘It does have a woman’s touch,’ I agree.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that. Decoration is not one of the many trades I’m Jack of.’ His eyes twinkle at me then. I laugh, enjoying the joke that is ours alone.

  We settle into an easy conversation while Kitty remains by the bookcase, pulling books off the shelves and opening them. I wonder whether she is deliberately leaving us to talk. After our chat in the cabin yesterday I feel a closeness to him. I feel that I can tell him anything and I want to tell him about Jonas, but Kitty is here so I keep it to myself, although it is a heavy weight I am longing to share.

  Cormac and I chat away amiably and yet it feels like a charade. A show, perhaps, for Kitty. There’s an intimacy in our eyes that I find almost too much to bear. It is as if we are suddenly seeing too much of each other; as if we are naked. I cannot hold his gaze for long and I slip mine away, to the dog, to the tea, to the bread, to the room, anything for a respite. It’s not just the way his eyes penetrate mine, but the way mine penetrate his. I’m drawn inside them as if there is a magnetic pull and I can’t resist it. I want his eyes to swallow me whole but at the same time I’m afraid to let go. And all the while we are chatting, our eyes are having a decisive conversation of their own.

  It is then that something gives. I know he knows and I can only assume that he knows I know. Our feelings are laid bare and we both turn away, embarrassed; our eyes have said too much.

  ‘Kitty, your tea is getting cold,’ he says, turning to her.

  ‘Your bookcase says a lot about you,’ she tells him gaily, pulling out the chair next to his and sitting down. ‘Animals, birds especially, Irish history, no surprise there, and spy novels.’

  He laughs and arches an eyebrow. ‘I think you know me, Kitty, without having to go through my books.’

  ‘I was hoping I’d find something astonishing.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Romance novels or something.’

  ‘If you find any of those, they won’t be mine.’

  ‘Anyone who can play the accordion and sing like you do, Cormac, is a romantic.’ She glances at me and smiles. I try to look nonchalant. The air feels thick and sticky. I wonder whether Cormac notices it too. Is Kitty being provocative on purpose? I wonder.

  ‘Is it a difficult instrument to play?’ I ask, thinking of my mother and the banjo.

  His eyes look at me with intent. ‘I could teach you how to play, if you like?’ He holds my gaze in the same way I imagine Jonas held my mother’s.

  ‘What a good idea,’ Kitty exclaims, before I can answer for myself.

  ‘Who taught you?’ I ask him.

  ‘My da,’ he replies. ‘He was a musical man. He taught me to play the guitar as well. Once you can play one, it’s not hard to learn to play them all. The instrument I never learned was the piano. We never had one in the house. It wasn’t big enough.’

  ‘That’s the only instrument I can play,’ I tell him. ‘My father insisted that I grew up accomplished.’ I laugh at my father’s old-fashioned ideals. ‘He thought girls were only good for marriage. He was a little like the characters in Mom’s diary. You know, girls have to play the piano, sing, paint, arrange flowers, dance and curtsey – then they must marry well.’

  ‘Have you read more of the diary?’ Kitty asks, and I wish I hadn’t brought it up.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I answer, because I cannot lie.

  ‘And?’ Kitty leans forward with her elbows on the table and narrows her eyes. I’m afraid to tell her, but I must. After all, it is her right. Arethusa was her aunt. I cannot keep her to myself.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I think I’ve found out why she left Ireland.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kitty raises her eyebrows.

  ‘She fell in love with a black man, and he with her.’

  I wouldn’t imagine much could shock Kitty Deverill, but she gasps loudly and swears. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’

  Cormac is also surprised, but he’s watching me carefully. I blush. The colour floods my cheeks because Cormac is looking at me with such a serious expression, as if he really cares about my feelings. ‘At least she didn’t leave because she was expecting Dermot McLoughlin’s baby, which is what Eily Barry told me,’ I say and laugh to show him that my feelings are fine. ‘I can’t imagine the romance went very far.’

  ‘That would have been quite a scandal in those days,’ says Cormac.

  ‘I don’t think it ever got out,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve just got to the part where he plays the banjo at a ball and they meet and she is smitten.’ I don’t tell them that she had banjo lessons with him because Cormac has offered to teach me the accordion and the parallel would embarrass me. ‘I imagined all sorts of scenarios, but I could never have predicted this.’

  ‘My grandfather would have been outraged by his daughter falling in love with a black man,’ says Kitty, shaking her head incredulously. ‘He was very prejudiced, as most of them were in those days. He hated Catholics too.’

  ‘Would Adeline have been appalled as well, do you think?’ I ask.

  Kitty is not sure. ‘In her heart she judged all men as equal, whatever their colour or creed, but she was a woman of her time and she would have had to stand by her husband. I imagine, if there was a row, she would have taken Grandpa’s side.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep after reading about it. I just felt so sorry for them.’ I stare into my empty mug.

  Kitty agrees. ‘It was an impossible situation. I feel sorry for them too.’

  I look at her steadily. ‘Do you think your
father will be appalled?’

  She smiles. ‘You’re speaking about a man who has had many surprises in his life. I think this will just be another.’

  ‘When I finish it, I’ll give the diary to you, Kitty. You and Uncle Bertie can read it in your own time. I’d rather you read her account of it than heard it from me. It’s easier to understand her if you read her own words.’

  Cormac drains his mug. He looks at me and there is that intent in his eyes again, it’s unmistakable. ‘You’re not just here to find your mother’s roots, Faye, but to see a bit of Ireland. How would you like a guided tour by the best guide in Co. Cork?’

  ‘A guide too?’ I quip, lightening the atmosphere and happy to change the subject.

  ‘Brilliant idea,’ enthuses Kitty. ‘Cormac knows where all the elephants lie buried. There is no better guide than he.’ She stands up. ‘Come on, Faye, the horses will be getting restless and Robert will want us to join him for breakfast.’

  I thank Cormac for the tea.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at eleven,’ he says.

  I make for the door, nonchalance in my step and in the way I depart without catching his eye, and yet I know I have reached a crossroads on my path. I have already put my foot on the road that leads into the unknown. There will be no turning back.

  Chapter 20

  Kitty has instilled a recklessness in me. I can’t imagine where else it has come from. In only six days I am not the Faye Langton who left America, but someone else; I am a Deverill.

  As the clock ticks with relentless momentum and eleven o’clock approaches I feel I am being propelled towards an inevitable destiny, one that I couldn’t avoid even if I wanted to. It is written, somehow, on the planes of my subconscious, and my deepest desires are manifesting, almost without me being consciously aware of them. I am not fretful. I don’t pace the floor in agitation. I am resigned, accepting of my fate, and Wyatt and the children are hidden in a fog which I have created to suit my ends. The guilt will come later, I don’t doubt it. But now, as I listen for Cormac and anticipate his coming, I don’t feel guilty at all. I just feel excited.

  I change out of my riding clothes and put on a floral tea dress and short green cardigan. It is warm outside. Spring is colluding with me and the breeze that slips in through the window is sugar-scented. I tie my hair into a chignon, leaving a few wisps to hang loose about my face, and I wear little make-up. At home I never leave the house without a full face, but here I don’t want to be painted. I want to be me, as I am, lines and all. With Cormac I don’t feel I need to hide.

  I check myself in the long mirror which is nailed to the inside of the wardrobe. I like what I see. I feel feminine and young. I’m not slim like Kitty, with her small waist, but I am womanly with my curves and I have always had an attractive décolletage. I glance down at my wedding ring and the diamond engagement ring that was once Wyatt’s grandmother’s, and I wish I could take them off. They are a part of Wyatt, watching me like piercing eyes stabbing into my conscience.

  At last I hear the scrunch of wheels on gravel. I hastily leave my bedroom and skip down the stairs with a light, happy bounce. I am humming a tune as I run my fingers down the smooth wood of the banister. I am surprised to see Robert in the hall, looking through a pile of letters. I cease my humming and immediately subdue my bounce. When he sees me, his face softens but he does not smile. Robert is a serious man and does not smile easily. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asks.

  ‘Cormac is going to give me a guided tour of the county,’ I reply casually, as if Cormac is simply a regular guide.

  Robert does not look surprised, or if he is, he doesn’t show it. There is an impassiveness about his face that makes me wonder how much it is masking. ‘Cormac certainly knows his way around better than most,’ he says, looking at the letters again. ‘I hope you have a good time.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. Thank you,’ I reply.

  As I open the door, I’m sure I feel Robert’s eyes upon my back, but perhaps it is the guilt, already creeping in.

  Cormac is standing by the Jeep with his hands in his pockets. Kite is on the back seat, poking her nose out of the open window. Cormac smiles in that devilish way of his and the smile I give him in return seals my destiny. It leaves nothing concealed, nothing to conjecture. I have exposed my consent simply by being here, so happily and willingly, and my greeting is not as an acquaintance, but as an intimate friend. Our eyes have already stripped away any formality and politeness, and when we look at each other it is with obvious desire.

  The tension in the air between us has grown stronger with the anticipation of what we must both know will happen.

  He opens the passenger door for me and I climb in. I turn and stroke Kite’s face. She wags her tail. She is used to me now. Cormac walks round to the other side. As he opens the door Kitty appears from the garden. She is carrying a pair of secateurs and gardening gloves. She waves and wishes us a good time, but unlike her husband her face is full of encouragement, collusion even, and I suspect she knows where we’re headed and is not in the least disapproving of it.

  Cormac glances at me and grins and I put my fingers to my lips and grin too. We are like a pair of thieves making our escape with loot that no one knows we have stolen. ‘So where are we going?’ I ask, because I have to break the tension somehow and release the nerves now building in my stomach.

  ‘Surprise,’ he replies. When I pull a face, he adds, ‘If I tell you, Miss Deverill, it will ruin the fun. I have planned a full programme.’

  I like the way he calls me ‘Miss Deverill’. I know then that he does not want to use my married name. Neither of us wants to use that. Right now, in this Jeep, with Cormac, I am not a Clayton or a Langton – I am just me.

  It is hot in the car with the sun streaming through the glass. I roll down my window and rest my elbow there, with my face in the wind. I feel carefree – and careless. ‘Then I’ll be patient,’ I reply and I turn and smile at him and he glances at me and his lapis eyes smile back.

  As he drives Cormac points out various landmarks. He knows the history of every old building, monument and hill – the War of Independence and the Civil War that came after weave like a ribbon of blood through all of them, and for Cormac and those who lived through it, the stain will never come out of the soil and stone. He tells me the history because he knows I am interested and, I realize, because he wants to remember. Brutal times they were, no question, but at the same time he must have really lived.

  I soak it all up, enjoying listening to his sonorous Irish brogue and the fact that we are alone together and have the whole day ahead of us.

  At length he turns off and drives slowly over a rough and neglected track that winds its way into the hills. I wonder where he’s taking me. I notice a weathered sign saying ‘Private Property’, but that does not put Cormac off. There are holes in the ground where winter puddles have corroded the earth. Now they are dry and filled with long grass. As we turn a corner the ocean comes glittering into view, and in the distance I see a pile of rocks silhouetted against it, out of which rises a white lighthouse. It looks forlorn there, surrounded by an aura of foam, and I can’t imagine how anyone can reach it except seabirds.

  ‘Is that what you wanted to show me?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he replies. ‘This is.’

  At that point I turn my attention inland to see stone chimneys and gables ahead of us, peeping just above the trees. ‘A ruined castle?’ I ask with rising excitement.

  ‘More of a stately home than a castle,’ he says. ‘Rosemore Court was built in the time of Cromwell and burned down during the Troubles. Home of the Carmoody family for over three hundred years but no one ever comes here now. It’s been left to nature, which is slowly devouring it,’ he says, pulling up.

  I am thrilled to visit a ruin. I can imagine what Castle Deverill must have looked like after it was razed to the ground in the same way. This building is a shell. The walls are covered in moss and ivy and other creeping plants t
hat have taken possession of it and will no doubt consume it. It may take decades, but one day there will be nothing left.

  Cormac is pleased I am happy with his plan. ‘I knew you’d like it,’ he says.

  ‘I love it,’ I tell him, touched that he took the trouble to think about what would appeal to me. Flattered that he knew. ‘I love ruins. We don’t have anything this old in America.’

  ‘Well, this isn’t old by Irish standards. I can take you to some very ancient sites which date back thousands of years. But I thought you’d enjoy the romance of this.’

  I step in beside him. ‘You’re right. It’s beautiful.’ We walk towards it. I am excited to be able to wander into the giant rooms, to imagine what it must have been like when fires burned in the grates and the family dined at a grand table, waited on by servants in red-and-gold livery. There is nothing left now but walls. No staircase, no marble floors, no distinction between upstairs and downstairs, just rows of windows that gaze blindly out to sea.

  ‘Why do ruins pull at us so?’ I ask, putting my hands on my hips and looking about in wonder.

  ‘Nostalgia,’ he replies.

  ‘No, I think it’s more than that. I think they remind us of our own mortality. That’s why they make us feel sad. Once upon a time, generations of people inhabited this place yet now they are gone, all of them, as one day we will be gone. But during their lifetime they lived lives as real and full and vibrant as ours. They didn’t imagine they’d ever die, just like we can’t imagine we’ll ever die. We think we’re immortal. They did too. But we’re not. This ruin reminds us of that. It’s like a skeleton lying neglected in an open tomb.’

  ‘Time,’ says Cormac. ‘That’s what it makes us think of. Time, and the lack of it.’

  ‘How short our lives are,’ I add as we amble into what might have been one of many drawing rooms. The chimney is still there, but the fireplace is long gone. I imagine there must have been grand portraits on the walls, rugs on the floors, sofas and chairs, perhaps big wolfhounds lying in front of the hearth. I go to the window, where the stone frame is still intact, and look out over the fields and trees. There must have been beautiful gardens once, I think, but they too have been reclaimed by the forest.