The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

She nods again. ‘He was my father.’

  So, I was right. ‘He taught you to play the banjo.’

  ‘He did, and he taught your mother too.’

  ‘Please tell me how you came to work for her?’

  Temperance lifts her chin and smiles. She has been waiting to tell me. I can tell, she has been biding her time, knowing I would eventually come to her and ask this very question. ‘The first I heard of Arethusa Deverill was when I was eight years old and my father was dying.’

  ‘Was he ill?’ I ask.

  ‘No, he wasn’t ill. He was stabbed by a white man who felt my father was getting above himself.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’

  ‘He had been travelling around Europe and had acquired a reputation for himself. He was a success. There were many that didn’t like a black man to be a success in a white world.’ She looks at me sadly. ‘There are many that still don’t.’

  ‘Where did the stabbing happen? In New York?’

  ‘My father made his name as an entertainer in New York, but he was from the South. From South Carolina. My father was stabbed on his way home one night from a rehearsal. It was a busy street but no one saw nothing. They all had their eyes closed that night. As he lay dying in hospital, he whispered to me. “Temperance,” he said, holding my hand. “There’s a little book of poetry I need you to find. It was given to me by an Englishwoman called Arethusa Deverill. There are some letters too, with the book. Keep them safe. They’re very special to me. Don’t worry your mamma about it. It’s between you and me. Just you and me, you understand?” So, I found the book and those letters and I kept them safe, just like he told me to. I didn’t read them because at that time I didn’t know how important they were, and how important they would become for me. Mamma died six years later. She just gave up on life, I suppose. Her heart stopped ticking and I was left alone in the world. I was fourteen years old.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I turned to my uncle George. He was all I had left. Since my father died Uncle George had fallen on hard times and only had eyes for the bottle. He lost his mind in a pool of moonshine and in the end, you could say he drowned in it. I asked him about Arethusa Deverill and he told me that my father had received letters from her right up until he died. Well, I had to find out for myself. I untied the letters which were bound in a bundle and read them. Every one. My heart bled to think of my mamma grieving for a man who loved another woman. The last letter she wrote him was dated 1898 She was married to Mr Clayton and was going to live in New York.’

  ‘So, you tracked her down?’

  She shrugs. ‘I had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. I found Miss Arethusa and I told her who I was and I gave her the poetry book and the letters. You should have seen the look on her face. It was like I was the Second Coming. Then I told her that my father had died. She didn’t take it too good. She sank into a chair and went as white as snow and that’s when I knew she had loved my father more than she loved anyone.’ Temperance shakes her head and looks at me with sheep’s eyes. ‘I wanted to hate her, Miss Faye. I wanted to hate this woman who had stolen my daddy’s heart from my mamma, but I couldn’t. She took my hands in hers and said I was a blessing. That Fate had brought me to her. That I was the part of Jonas she was able to hold on to and her eyes filled with tears and she asked me to stay. You were a little suckling of two and Logan, why, he was nine, a couple of years younger than me. I took the job with both hands and reached out to the only part of my father that I could hold on to, and that was your mamma. I didn’t hate her after that. I loved her, and I still do.’

  ‘You were the only one, besides my father, who knew Mother’s history,’ I say, marvelling at her ability to keep secrets.

  ‘I swore I would never tell, so I never did. She told me everything.’

  ‘She left me her diary and a request that we scatter her ashes in Ireland.’

  ‘She wanted you and Logan to know the truth, Miss Faye. She wanted Logan to know where he came from. She didn’t want him to go through life denying his people as she had denied hers. All her life she missed her home. She missed Ireland and her family. But she was too proud to go back. The only way she could return was in death. Now it’s up to you to see that she is laid to rest at Castle Deverill. She must be reunited with her past.’

  ‘Logan is in denial,’ I tell her gravely. ‘It’s come as an awful shock.’

  ‘He just needs time,’ she says wisely.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll ever accept it.’

  ‘He has the right to do whatever he chooses,’ she says. ‘He’s a proud man, just like his mother.’ In which case, I am not optimistic.

  ‘There is something else I want to know. Whatever happened to Charlotte?’

  Temperance smiles. ‘Dear Miss Charlotte. She was your mamma’s most devoted friend, Miss Faye. Don’t you remember Miss Charlotte?’

  I frown. ‘I don’t remember a Charlotte at all.’

  ‘Well, you knew her as Aunt Lottie.’

  ‘Aunt Lottie was Charlotte?’ I exclaim, astonished. Of course I remember the gentle spinster with the long earnest face and soft voice. When I was a child she was always around the house, following my mother from room to room like a shadow.

  ‘Mom used to visit her in that old folks’ home.’ I don’t think my mother ever missed a day.

  ‘That wasn’t an old folks’ home, Miss Faye. That was a hospital. She got sick in her mind. In the end she didn’t recognize your mamma no more, but Miss Faye, she continued to visit her because she recognized her. She was loyal, your mamma. As loyal as a dog. You see, Miss Lottie was the only part of home your mamma could hold on to.’ She chuckled wistfully and shook her head. ‘We were all clinging to each other in those days, Miss Faye, clutching at remnants of those we had lost.’

  Temperance pushes herself up from the chair. ‘Come,’ she says. ‘I think it’s time I gave you the little book of poetry and the letters your mother wrote to my daddy.’

  ‘But, Tempie, they are yours,’ I say, following her into the cool darkness of the house.

  ‘I have the banjo,’ she replies, white teeth gleaming. ‘That’s all I need to remind me of him. My daddy is in here.’ She puts her long fingers on her heart. ‘With your mamma and mine. An unlikely trio, but I don’t think they’re gon’ mind where they are.’

  Chapter 34

  Logan and I follow Mr Wilks into the boardroom of his sumptuous office. It is raining outside. The light that enters the big sash windows is muted and lacking in enthusiasm, as if, like us, it has no wish to attend the meeting. There is a fireplace with a dark and empty grate and on either side are bookcases stuffed full of encyclopaedias and large, expensively bound books on law. The mahogany table is oval and highly polished and on it is a jug of water with three crystal glasses, a pile of notepads and a glass of sharpened pencils. It has an air of formality and smells of furniture polish and aged wood. Mr Wilks stands at the head and puts a blue folder on the table. He offers me the green velvet chair to his left and I sit down. Logan sits opposite me on Mr Wilks’s right. His face is thin and drawn as if the shock of being told he is not his father’s son has sucked the juice out of it. It has certainly sucked the juice out of his spirit. He has deflated like a punctured hot-air balloon. There is little small talk. It is not the time for pleasantries. We might as well get straight to the point.

  Mr Wilks opens the folder and pulls out the copy of the will. He holds it in his small hands and looks from me to Logan and back to Logan again. ‘As you know your mother requested that you travel to Ireland before the identity of the third beneficiary is revealed.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just returned,’ I begin. Mr Wilks turns to me and arches an eyebrow with interest. I am about to elaborate but Logan cuts me off briskly.

  ‘Who is it?’ he demands. He does not want to waste time. He wants to leave as quickly as he can.

  Mr Wilks sighs. I can tell Logan’s impatience aggravates him. Mr Wilks does not like being rush
ed. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘I will read what your mother wrote.’ He perches his spectacles on the end of his nose and lifts his chin. He licks his forefinger and slowly turns the page. He is not going to be rushed. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He inhales through his nose then begins. ‘The third part of Arethusa Clayton’s remaining wealth is to be used to set up a home for single mothers in Ballinakelly, Co. Cork, the Republic of Ireland. She has written as an add-on: Now that Logan knows the true circumstances of his birth, with his permission, I would like the home to be named after him. The Logan Home for Single Mothers. May it be a sanctuary for women who are not as fortunate as I was.’ Mr Wilks looks at Logan whose face is flushing with embarrassment and anger. Only I can see the hurt in his eyes, an open wound behind the fury, because I know him so well. Mr Wilks continues. ‘She has requested that you, Faye, supervise the project and see that her wish is carried out.’

  I glance at my brother. He does not want anyone to know the truth about his birth. He certainly won’t want the centre to be named after him. I know he is wishing that it would all go away. Mr Wilks takes a white envelope out of the folder. ‘Finally, she wrote a letter to you both, to be opened on this occasion. Mr Clayton . . .’

  Logan leans back in his chair and folds his arms. ‘I don’t want to have anything more to do with this ridiculous charade,’ he says and he draws his lips into a thin, defiant line.

  ‘Mrs Langton, perhaps you would like to read it then.’

  I take the envelope and pull out the letter. The sight of my mother’s handwriting causes my heart to snag. Her diaries were written in an unfamiliar hand. This letter vibrates with her energy and I can feel her as if she is right beside me. I can almost smell her tuberose perfume. I clear my throat. I cannot look at my brother. It is unbearable to see him like this, diminished and in pain.

  My darling Logan and Faye,

  I hope that you have scattered my ashes at Castle Deverill and returned me to my beloved home. I hope by now my remains are in the long grasses overlooking the castle, spreading in the wind that blows in off the ocean and sinking into the soil with the soft rain that turns the island so green. I should never have left, but if I hadn’t I would not have met Ted or enjoyed so many happy years with him. I would not have had you, Faye, and raised you and Logan together. I have been blessed in so many ways. All the negativity in my life is due to my own foolish choices and my stubbornness. I know that now. My heart was hardened by my own vengeful pride. I was never able to forgive my father for demanding that I give away my child, or my mother for standing by him. But anger is a destructive emotion that eats away at the soul. I spent years denying that anger, pretending I wasn’t hurting, making a lot of noise to convince myself that I wasn’t full of regret. But old age has made me look back over my life and the choices I made and I have learned one thing too late: love is all that matters.

  My dear, dear Logan. I didn’t have the courage to tell you about your birth when I was alive. I can only apologize that you have had to find out about it now, in this way, and I apologize to Faye, too, for having had to tell you. I am a coward. I thought I was strong and brave and nonconformist, but in my deepest depths I am afraid. I love you and can’t bear to face your anger and your pain and ultimately, perhaps, your condemnation. Maybe that is what I fear the most: your rejection. Know that I fought very hard to keep you, Logan, and in keeping you I lost everything I loved. You were worth it. If I have done one thing right in my life, it is fighting for you. I ask of you one thing, don’t waste your energy feeling angry and betrayed like I did. You are Ted’s son in everything except your blood. He was the father who loved you, raised you and nurtured you. You have never been anything other than a Clayton. However, if you wish to find Dermot McLoughlin, I’m sure he would be willing to meet you. I never told him about you, but he loved me. He was kind and funny and patient, and in my own way, I believe I loved him back. He represented Ireland, home and freedom. No one else has ever represented that. When I needed him, he was there.

  My beloved Faye, I know I haven’t been the easiest mother. I have always been selfish and temperamental – if you have met any of my relations in Ireland, I’m sure they will tell you! However, I realize that a lot of my drama was symptomatic of the hurt in my heart, which, like a stone, was always evident to remind me of the vast part of myself that I had lost. How much one learns about oneself as one grows old. I suppose the ego melts away, the end is near, one has time to review the past, to see it for what it was and oneself with some detachment and hopefully a little hard-earned wisdom. I have learned too late for me to make amends, but perhaps, by returning home in death, if there is life after as Mama so strongly believed, my family will know that I am, in my own way, asking to be forgiven and forgiving them in turn.

  I thank you both for your love and for your understanding. I hope you now know what it is to be a Deverill. A Deverill’s castle is his kingdom. I thank you for returning me to mine.

  Your mother.

  I am barely able to read the last lines for the tears in my eyes. I wipe them away and fold the letter and put it back in the envelope. Logan is still sitting with his arms crossed, a hard and unforgiving look on his face. We sit in silence for what seems like a very long time. Mr Wilks is a patient man, a man who likes to do things slowly; he is not at all concerned about the silence or the length of it. At last Logan speaks. His voice is thin, as if the ballast has gone from it and all that is left is the sound of one who feels very alone. ‘You can take her to Ireland,’ he says. ‘But I’m not coming with you. I want nothing to do with this home for single mothers and over my dead body will it be named after me. I won’t have anything to do with it. Do you understand?’

  I nod.

  Mr Wilks turns to me. ‘May I make a suggestion. You could call it the Arethusa Deverill Home for Single Mothers.’

  ‘Yes, that would be appropriate,’ I say. ‘I don’t think she’ll mind.’

  ‘She won’t mind, because she’s dead,’ Logan snaps and I ignore the nasty tone in his voice because he is hurting.

  ‘Logan, I totally understand why you don’t want it named after you,’ I tell him. ‘It’s fine by me.’ I want him to know how much I feel for him, but I suppose he considers me part of the conspiracy, even though I only learned about his parentage recently and was also upset. But I’m a true Clayton and he isn’t. There’s nothing I can do about that. I stare at his features and try to find Dermot McLoughlin in them, even though I don’t know what Dermot McLoughlin looks like.

  Logan stands up. He puts his hands on his hips. ‘There’s nothing more, is there?’ he asks.

  Mr Wilks shakes his head. ‘No, we’ve covered everything, Mr Clayton.’

  ‘Good.’ Logan does not have to ask Mr Wilks to be discreet. Mr Wilks takes his job very seriously and has probably never allowed a secret to slip out in all the years he has worked here.

  The two men shake hands. I sense that Logan will not be contesting the will. He is like a lone boat on the sea, adrift, with no wind to fill his sails. There’s nothing I can say or do to comfort him. ‘You keep this,’ I say, giving him the letter.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ he replies.

  ‘You don’t want it now, but you may like to read it later. You’ve got a lot to digest.’

  ‘I’m not going to think about it ever again. I’m not going to think of Mother, either.’

  ‘That’s your choice. But please, take the letter. Put it away. Maybe you’ll never read it. But maybe one day, when you’re old and wise and looking back over your life, you may take it out and see things differently.’

  Reluctantly he takes it and slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket. We leave together, but neither of us says another word.

  When I get home I have time alone to reflect before Wyatt arrives. He has been on the golf course all day. It seems to me that he does most of his business on the golf course. I turn my mind to Cormac. I wonder whether he is thinking of me and missing me too. I cannot wait to g
o back. I long to hold Cormac with every fibre of my body. And I have the perfect excuse. It is my duty to take the ashes to Ballinakelly and to begin exploring the possibility of carrying out Mother’s wishes in building a home for single mothers there. Wyatt will just have to understand. And if he doesn’t, does it matter? Do I care? I shiver with excitement. I can go straight away and I can go alone. Logan does not want to come with me. No amount of persuasion will change his mind. I know my brother. Wyatt will have no option but to agree. Again I think of Cormac and the image of his face gives me strength. I’m going to make plans to go back to Ballinakelly, and I’m going to do it now.

  Wyatt returns home in a good mood. He is carrying a bouquet of flowers. He hasn’t brought me flowers in a very long time. I don’t deserve them. How can I deserve flowers if my heart and mind are with another man? He kisses my cheek and gives them to me with a smile. ‘No particular reason. Just because you’re beautiful,’ he says and I feel a pang of guilt. They are my favourite. White roses, lilies and peonies. I want to tell him about my plan to return to Ireland to scatter my mother’s ashes, but I know it will ruin the moment. I put the flowers in a vase and wait until supper.

  Wyatt’s face falls. ‘You’ve only just come back!’ he exclaims.

  ‘I know, but it’s my duty to lay Mom to rest.’

  ‘There’s no urgency,’ he says indignantly. ‘I mean, she’s not going to go anywhere, is she?’

  I ignore his insensitive comment. ‘She has also given money for a home for single mothers to be built in her name in Ballinakelly.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  I shrug. ‘Because she’s philanthropic?’

  ‘If she was so philanthropic, you’d have thought she’d have done it while she was alive.’ He wipes his mouth on a napkin. ‘I don’t understand these people who leave their generosity until they’re dead. Much better to give with warm hands.’

  ‘It’s complicated, Wyatt,’ I say, but I have no intention of explaining.