The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  I avoid answering directly. ‘I feel different, Kitty.’

  ‘That is because you’re happy,’ she says.

  As I walk into the house, anticipating my husband’s telephone call, I wonder whether Wyatt will notice.

  Wyatt telephones just before supper. I have only been away for eight days and yet his voice already sounds strangely unfamiliar. The line crackles and he shouts down it. ‘Faye? Is that you?’ he asks. It has an instant effect. The person I have been for the last week swiftly retreats like the head of a tortoise into its shell. The demanding tone of his voice sucks me back into my marriage and I become the person I used to be. The person I no longer want to be.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, darling. How are you?’ There is a long delay.

  ‘All very well here,’ he replies. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you, but you’re always out.’

  ‘I’ve been seeing the sights of Co. Cork. It’s beautiful,’ I tell him. There is another long delay. It is awkward and unnatural to speak like this. I find talking to him unrewarding. It pulls me down and makes me irritable. I want the call to be over. I want to forget that I am married.

  ‘We’re all missing you here,’ he says after another long pause. He must be missing me very much to articulate it. The way we left each other was quite hostile. I didn’t think he’d miss me at all. To hear him say it sounds very out of character. But then I have never been away like this before. Perhaps, in my absence, he is beginning to appreciate me.

  I ask him about the children. I don’t want him asking me about Ireland. I don’t want to share it. So I keep it to myself. It is my treasure and I am guarding it fiercely. The call is expensive, being long distance. We don’t speak for long.

  ‘Have you found your mother’s roots?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, I have found her family. Turns out she has lots of relations. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.’

  ‘Good. I’m curious to know.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ I say, which is unusual for me. When Wyatt telephones me it is he who always chooses when to hang up.

  ‘Oh, right, sure. You go. I’ll call you again in a few days’ time.’

  I want to tell him not to bother. But I can’t. ‘Sure,’ I reply instead. ‘Speak to you soon and send my love to the kids.’

  We hang up and it is a relief.

  Wyatt’s call has made me feel out of sorts. As if I’ve been all shaken up and my insides have landed in the wrong place. I go upstairs to have a bath before supper. I lie in the warm water and think of Cormac. I recall our walk over the hills, the sensation of his hand in mine, the feeling of his lips kissing me, of his beard scratching my skin, of the solidity of his body as we lie together on the sand, the intimacy of falling asleep in the sun, the gentle rise and fall of his chest against my ear as he breathes, the sound of happiness, all around me, everywhere, and the sense of tranquillity returns. Wyatt retreats. America retreats. I’m in Ireland and Cormac is beneath the same sky, beside the same sea, and tomorrow we shall be together again.

  Chapter 32

  I sit on a stool in Cormac’s kitchen with the dawn light tumbling in through the windows and Kite at my feet watching her master, who is sitting on a chair behind me, his hands on mine as he guides my fingers over the keys. The accordian is strapped over my shoulders, pressed securely against my chest and resting on my knees. It’s a heavy, strange-looking instrument. Part bellows, part keyboard. I laugh because I know I am never going to make this thing sound like it’s supposed to.

  ‘I don’t understand how you manage to get it to sing,’ I say, leaning back against him and nuzzling my face beneath his chin. ‘It’s an impossible instrument.’

  He covers my hands with his and nuzzles me back. ‘You’re going to get a note out of this if it takes us all day, Faye Deverill!’

  ‘You won’t last all day, Cormac O’Farrell, and neither will I.’

  ‘I’m a patient man.’

  ‘And I will exhaust your patience as well as my own. I didn’t realize it would be so hard.’

  ‘You can’t give up now. You’ve only just begun and I’m determined to get a few notes out of you. Just a few. Look at the hope in Kite’s eyes. You don’t want to disappoint her, do you? She’s waiting for a song.’

  ‘For one of your songs. If I sing she’ll howl with pain and leave the room.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s heard worse.’

  ‘Not in this kitchen.’

  ‘Come on. Listen and concentrate.’ He pats my hands and they respond, finding the position they were in and waiting to be guided once more.

  I think of my mother and how easy it must have been to fall in love with Jonas as he showed her where to put her fingers and how to strum the chords. It is an intimate and peaceful relationship between teacher and pupil. But I have little patience to learn. I don’t really want to know how to play this thing. I’d rather listen to Cormac sing those old Irish ballads about the war, because when he does, his eyes mist and his voice falters and those old hurts resurface to cut him again like bones unearthed from a river bed. He moves me and I feel his wistfulness as if I too were up on those hills, fighting for freedom, for a country I loved so dearly.

  ‘I want to you to play for me,’ I tell him. His hands stop guiding my fingers and caress my wrists instead, and I can tell that he doesn’t care whether or not I learn to play a note, that he just wants to be close to me.

  ‘On one condition,’ he says. ‘That you sing with me.’

  ‘And if Kite starts to howl?’

  ‘She’ll be joining in, that’s all.’ He lifts the straps off my shoulders. ‘It’ll be a compliment.’

  And so Cormac sings for me and me alone and I don’t take my eyes off his face, but watch transfixed as my heart swells with love until it not only fills the cavity of my chest but my whole being and eventually the entire room. I feel I have enough love to light up the world.

  I wipe away a tear and feel such immense gratitude for this wonderful man who has stepped into my life at this late stage. I thought I was too old for this kind of magic to ever happen to me, or too unworthy. But he’s gazing into my eyes and singing just for me and a voice in my head tells me that I deserve him, that it’s right, that it’s simply meant to be.

  We sing ‘Danny Boy’ together, because that is my favourite. Kite doesn’t howl, but cocks her head and wags her tail as if she is finding our duet amusing. My voice is nothing special but it is not bad either. With Cormac’s rich voice to guide me I lose my inhibitions and let myself go as if I am Ella Fitzgerald herself. And as we fill the kitchen with music I don’t think of home, or Wyatt or my children. In that blessed moment I exist only here, in Cormac’s house, and nothing exists outside of it.

  And yet time is running out. Soon I will have to go back to America. I turn the other way and hope that by ignoring it it will never happen. It takes Kitty two days to read the diary. While she is distracted, I spend the time with Cormac. We walk on the hills, we picnic on the beach, we make love and talk and the hours pass slowly as if the universe is colluding to give our love time to take root.

  The children surface in my mind every now and then and I push them out because they and only they have the power to make me feel guilty, and I can’t bear it. I know I have a right to be happy – I don’t feel bad about loving another man, I should, of course I should, but I don’t – however, it goes against the grain to feel happiness at the expense of my children. My love for them is unconditional and my sense of duty as a mother is unwavering, even though they are grown-up and need me less. I know I have to go back, for them, and I have to stay married to my husband, for them. While I am here I can ignore them, but as my departure date shifts into focus, the reality of my situation begins to shift into focus too and the pink haze of blissful romance starts to evaporate. I am a mother before I am a wife. I am a lover last and that cannot be helped.

  Then Kitty tells me she has finished the diary and we walk around the garden to discuss it. It is
evening, the shadows are long, creeping over the lawn which has recently been mown. I can smell the viburnum and wild woodbine, they saturate the air with their sweet perfume, and the light twittering of birds is gentle as they settle down in the branches of the horse chestnut trees to roost. It is a peaceful evening. The light is golden and filled with promise for the long summer days stretch out before us and autumn is a long way away.

  Kitty is moved. When she speaks her voice is soft and her eyes are full of gentleness. She holds the diary to her chest as we stroll, as if it belongs there, against her heart. ‘When I was little my grandmother rarely mentioned Aunt Tussy,’ she tells me. ‘I never really thought about it – children are so consumed with themselves, aren’t they – but now I understand why. I also understand why she was so close to me. I was the daughter she had lost, and with me she could be herself, rather than the other half of a marriage where she had to agree with and be subordinate to her husband. I shared my secrets with her and she never judged me, ever. We were like conspirators. Just the two of us, on a little island, keeping everyone else out at sea. Tussy changed her, I suspect. The Adeline I knew was very different to Tussy’s mother. As a grandmother she was unshockable. I could tell her everything, and I did. We cleaved to each other because I had such an uneasy relationship with my own mother and she had lost her daughter. I see it all now, very clearly. And it moves me, Faye. It really moves me. I would have liked to talk to her about Tussy. I think she would have liked to talk about her, but my grandfather forbade it, so her name was never mentioned. It pains me to think how much that must have hurt Grandma and how much she must have hidden that hurt.’

  ‘Rupert knew,’ I add. ‘He was good at keeping secrets.’

  ‘I adored Uncle Rupert. He was charming, funny, irreverent – and troubled. He was homosexual. I realize from having read the diary that his great love was Peregrine, Lord Penrith. But that was never going to bring him lasting happiness. He died in the Great War. It broke Grandma’s heart. It broke all our hearts.’

  ‘That’s so sad. I would love to have met Rupert,’ I say, feeling genuinely sorry. After reading my mother’s diary it is as if I know all the characters in it. ‘What happened to Poppy?’

  ‘She died before I was born. Of pneumonia.’

  I am shocked at that news. ‘Would Mother have known? Who would have told her?’

  Kitty shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You didn’t find any letters when you were clearing out her things?’

  ‘Nothing. Do you think she knew about Rupert dying in the war?’ I am bewildered as to how my mother could have cut ties with all the people she loved and known nothing of what became of them.

  ‘Possibly not. It just depends whether Grandma had an address for her.’

  ‘From the little I know I would say she didn’t.’

  We walk down the well-trodden path to the beach. The long grasses sway in the breeze and the sound of the sea gets louder as we approach. Spring is beautiful everywhere, but here, in this quiet corner of Ireland’s western coast, it is especially so. It tugs at my heart and with every gentle tug I feel myself being pulled into the earth, as if I have roots and they are taking nourishment from the soil and feeding my soul. Little by little I am beginning to feel a sense of belonging.

  ‘Are you going to tell your brother?’ Kitty asks.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to, but I do.’ I glance at her. ‘She was too cowardly to tell him herself.’

  ‘I don’t blame her. I doubt it’s going to be well received.’

  ‘No, Logan will be devastated. He takes great pride in being a Clayton.’

  ‘Your father must have been a very good man,’ she says. ‘It takes a big character to do what he did.’

  ‘And a devious one too,’ I add wryly.

  Kitty is unruffled by deviousness. ‘Sometimes it’s better to be devious. Papa had a child with one of the maids. It’s a long story, but I raised him.’

  ‘JP,’ I say. ‘Alana told me.’

  ‘Yes, JP. When Papa finally and very publicly recognized him as his own son, Mama did not take it well and she left him. The fact that they are together now still baffles me. But the point is, telling the truth isn’t always the best option. Do you have to tell Logan who his father is?’

  ‘I think Mama wants me to. That’s why she gave me the diary.’

  ‘Not necessarily. She gave you the diary so you would know where she came from and why she hid it. She also gave it to you so you would understand why she wants to come back and be buried here. I have another idea too . . .’ She glances at me and I can see her mind working behind her narrowed eyes.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I think she is ready to forgive.’

  I frown. ‘She’s dead, so how can she?’

  Kitty smiles in the knowing way that Temperance smiles when she is talking about the afterlife. ‘No, she isn’t, Faye. She’s very much alive in spirit, and she is ready to forgive. Why else would she want her remains brought home? If her heart was still hardened towards her family she would have wanted them to stay in America. No, I think she’s ready to forgive and that is why she wants to come home. And she wanted you to come home too. That’s why she gave the diary to you. She wants you and Logan to both come home, but I suspect when your brother learns that he is a McLoughlin, he won’t want to.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply ponderously. ‘Certainly, by keeping her past secret, she denied us this.’ I spread my arms wide and embrace the land and sea and sky.

  ‘But in coming here you have discovered who you are and where you come from. It’s never too late, Faye. You’re still young.’

  ‘Never too late for what?’ I ask.

  ‘To be a Deverill.’ I know she is indirectly encouraging me to follow my heart with respect to Cormac. ‘Adeline is your grandmother too. For her there was nothing more important than family and home. I see her hand in this, Faye. In your coming here. Don’t underestimate the things they can do on the other side. I don’t expect you to understand, but you’re her granddaughter, as is Martha, who was Bridie’s other child and JP’s twin, who was adopted in America and grew up knowing nothing about where she came from. With a little help from Adeline, Martha found her way home too.’

  I laugh. She sounds like Temperance again. I’m about to make a quip to show how sceptical I am about those things, but then I remember my dream. It was Adeline at the mantelpiece. And then I recall little Aisling, JP’s daughter, in the tower, who claimed to see a woman who looked just like me – Adeline, perhaps? Are these just coincidences or is there something in it? Kitty is very sure of herself. She speaks about the paranormal as if it is as ordinary as making tea. ‘Mother hated anything to do with spirituality and metaphysics,’ I say to deflect my own cynicism. ‘She thought it all nonsense. I now know why, because her own mother was very into it. I’m sure it put her off.’

  ‘You have the same gift, Faye, only you’re afraid to use it.’

  ‘I really don’t,’ I reply, laughing uncomfortably.

  Kitty smiles again knowingly. ‘Yes, you do.’ But she is tactful enough to change the subject.

  Kitty gives the diary to Uncle Bertie. He is grateful and says he will read it immediately. Judging by the scandals of his own life, I don’t think it will shock him as much as it had shocked me. I spend a lot of time thinking about Logan and wondering how I am going to tell him. I wish he too would just read her diary, but somehow, I don’t think he is interested enough in Mother’s life to bother finding a mirror and making his way through all those pages of handwriting. He wouldn’t have the patience. I don’t imagine he reads anything but the newspaper. Therefore, I will not be able to avoid having to tell him myself. That is a curse my mother has left behind.

  I spend as much time with Cormac as I can and we grow even closer. I am used to him now. I can’t imagine leaving. I don’t want to think about it, but the day of my departure is near and I cannot ignore it. I have pretended to be a Deverill for nearly two weeks. But
I am a Langton too. I must not forget that. I’m married, unhappily, but married none the less. I must return to my family. I will persuade Logan to bring the ashes with me and lay them in view of Castle Deverill as Mother has requested. I will see Cormac again. And yet . . . it is not enough.

  The Thursday before I leave is the Corpus Christi Procession. The walls of the town have been whitewashed, the windows cleaned. The route of the procession has been tidied of anything unsightly. Statues and large holy pictures have been put on display in the shop windows of the Catholic shops, set against backgrounds of crepe paper or lace, and candles burn day and night, illuminating eerily the sombre faces of the icons. Bunting criss-crosses the streets and a flag is displayed at the upstairs window of every house. Cormac tells me that the flags are all home-made, except those bought by the grander people which are copies of the yellow papal flag depicting the Keys of the Kingdom. There are plastic flowers on little outside altars in front of pictures of Jesus. Apparently, they’re collected during the year, being given free with boxes of Persil and Rinso, which are products to wash clothes with. I find the whole thing intriguing and ask Kitty if she will take me. I cannot very well go with Cormac.

  The day of the Procession Kitty and I head into town in her car. Robert, as usual, declines to come. It is a Catholic tradition and he is not Catholic. Kitty’s excuse is that I am. However, I sense that she is excited to go, whatever the reason. She enjoys anything that allows her to mingle with the local people. She is wearing a pretty green dress and cardigan. Her hair is pinned up and her grey eyes shine with excitement. There is a youthfulness about her that belies her age. A bounce in her step that makes me think of my mother, whose bounce so irritated Augusta. Her enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself bouncing too.