The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  Robert takes my suitcase downstairs, Wyatt carries his own. We stand in the hall, ready to say our goodbyes. I feel desperate, like a cornered animal with nowhere to run. I am surprised when Cormac’s Jeep appears outside the house and parks on the gravel. I look out of the window in alarm, then at Kitty in confusion. ‘I’m afraid I can’t take you,’ she explains, feigning disappointment. ‘I have a charity meeting this evening. But Cormac O’Farrell is a good driver and will make sure you get to the airport safely.’

  I frown. Wyatt, oblivious of the game she’s playing, thanks her and shakes Robert’s hand. ‘It’s been real fun,’ he says. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. If you ever come State side you must allow us to entertain you. Perhaps a week in Nantucket.’

  Kitty embraces me. I feel feverish, as if I’m coming down with something. I want to ask her what she thinks she’s doing, but I don’t need to. I know what she’s doing. I know the game she’s playing. Except it isn’t a game. It’s my life and she seems to understand me better than I understand myself. ‘Goodbye, Faye,’ she says. ‘And remember you’re always welcome here. You’re family, after all.’

  Cormac greets me as if he barely knows me. Wyatt treats him like he would treat any taxi driver, dismissively. Wyatt doesn’t think he has to be polite to those he considers working class. Whether it’s waiters or hotel staff, he says they are there to provide a service, not to befriend. He lets Cormac put the suitcases in the back of the Jeep then opens the back door for me. I climb in and sit next to the window, directly behind the driver’s seat. I look out at Kitty in desperation. She stares at me, her face serious. She’s not playing a game, she’s trying to make it easy for me. But she’s just making it harder.

  Wyatt gets in beside me and Cormac turns on the ignition. I can smell Kite. I can also smell Cormac. I think of all the times I’ve sat in the front seat of this vehicle. The amount of times we’ve reached for each other’s hand across the gear stick. The lingering looks, the laughter, the teasing and the fun. Now it is vibrating with sadness and I want to put my hand into the gap between Cormac’s seat and the door and touch him. He is so close. I can see his greying hair curling beneath his cap and the curve of his shoulders. That word resonating all around him as if his thoughts are manifesting into sounds and letters: Stay.

  It is a long and agonizing drive to the airport. Cormac says very little. Wyatt exchanges a few pleasantries and then we fall into silence. I think of Cormac’s history. His involvement in the War of Independence, his capture, his torture and his escape and I feel sad for Wyatt because he misses so much by being prejudiced. He views Cormac as a taxi driver, not as a man. If he could only ask the man about himself he’d discover that he’s not just a man, but a hero. My eyes fill with tears and I turn to the green hills passing swiftly by my window. He’s my hero.

  Wyatt reaches for my hand. It sits limply in his as he tries to squeeze it back to life. He knows I’m sad to leave Ireland, but he doesn’t know I’m sad to leave Cormac. He pulls a sympathetic smile, but Wyatt has never been very good at sympathy. He finds it awkward to show emotion and has little empathy. He’s doing his best. I wonder why he’s doing his best.

  I catch Cormac’s eye in the rear-view mirror. His gaze takes me by surprise. I look away and let go of Wyatt’s hand guiltily. I cannot bear to see the pain in Cormac’s eyes. Those lapis eyes which are usually twinkling with mirth. I cannot bear to see them sad. I wish he would play the radio. The silence is insufferable.

  I sense Cormac is angry with me. He wants me to stay, but I can’t. He wants me to be strong, but I’m not. I bite the skin around my thumbnail and wish I was more like Kitty. But even Kitty shied at the final hurdle. Am I going to regret my cowardice for the rest of my life? Am I going to be like Kitty, loving from afar, lamenting the choice I made, wishing I had done things differently? That is no way to live. That is not life; that’s loss.

  We arrive at the airport and Cormac stops the Jeep at the kerb. He hesitates before he climbs out. Perhaps hoping that Wyatt will get out first so he’ll have a moment alone with me. But I open the door and step out before either of them. When Cormac walks round to the boot, I am standing there with Wyatt. He avoids my eyes and lifts out the suitcases.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Wyatt, not even remembering Cormac’s name. ‘Come on, Faye. We’re in good time.’ He sets off towards the doors into the airport.

  I look at Cormac. But there is nothing to say. He looks at me.

  Stay.

  I turn and follow my husband into the airport.

  We check in and head to passport control. If Wyatt notices my tears, he ignores them. We stand in line in silence. Together but miles apart. What are we to each other now? Husband and wife are two words and in our case they have little meaning. Labels, that’s all they are, thin, dispassionate words that can be peeled off like stickers. Do I want to spend the rest of my life being the submissive wife to a husband who doesn’t really see me? He sees the label, that’s all.

  My children’s faces float then into my mind and hover there, causing me to falter. What will they think if I leave their father? How will they judge me? Will I lose them? Will they ever forgive me? Will they be forced to take sides? Will I hurt them irrevocably and regret it for the rest of my life? But I hear Rose’s voice, as clear as if she were standing beside me, whispering into my ear, ‘Thank you, Mom, for trusting me.’ And I know I have to trust them. I have to trust them to love me enough to understand; I just have to trust them to love me.

  ‘Wyatt,’ I say. He looks at me. He chooses not to see my distress. His eyes are weary, with a glint of impatience. We are on our way home now. I don’t think there will be any more hand holding. Could it be that he sensed I was drifting away? ‘I’m not coming with you.’ Those words give me a strange feeling of empowerment and I lift my chin.

  Wyatt stares at me as if I’ve gone crazy. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m not coming.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not coming?’ His eyes flicker to the other people in the line. He puts a hand on my upper arm and moves me briskly to the side. ‘What’s going on, Faye?’ he asks, lowering his voice.

  ‘I don’t want to be married to you anymore. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Christ, Faye!’

  ‘I’m in love with another man.’

  ‘Who? Who are you in love with?’ He is so stunned, he can barely get the words out.

  ‘Cormac O’Farrell.’

  ‘Cormac who?’

  ‘The man who drove us to the airport.’

  ‘The taxi driver?’ He spits out the words in disgust.

  ‘He’s a musician too,’ I add.

  ‘And you think you’re in love with him?’ His face is now crimson.

  ‘I know I am.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘When I came here the first time.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind, Faye. Don’t be stupid. You need to remember who you are.’

  ‘I know who I am,’ I reply. ‘I’m a Clayton and a Deverill. I don’t want to be a Langton anymore.’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Wyatt. This is the first and only time in my life I’m going to be totally selfish.’

  Wyatt is aghast. ‘You’ll come to your senses and realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life!’ he hisses. Even in his anger he is aware of strangers listening. ‘You do know that, don’t you? You’ll wake up from this ridiculous infatuation you have with Ireland and you’ll come running home, begging for forgiveness. He’s a taxi driver, Faye. A taxi driver. Christ!’

  I walk away. I don’t look back, but I can feel his bewilderment and his fury as if they have feet and are following me out of the airport.

  I am swept out of the building on a wave of exhilaration. I cannot run fast enough. I don’t expect to see the Jeep, but it is still there. Cormac is inside, staring out of the window in desolation.

  I open the passenger door and climb in.

  He looks at me in ama
zement. ‘Faye?’

  I smile through my tears. ‘Ask me again,’ I say.

  He looks at me askance. Then he gets it. ‘Stay.’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’ I wipe my face with the back of my hand. ‘Yes, Cormac, I’ll stay.’

  Chapter 37

  More than a year has passed. Autumn has come around again, ushering in shorter days and blustery gales. The air is warm and damp, mist clings to the valleys and the woodlands are set aflame with yellow and orange and red. I stand with Uncle Bertie, JP and Kitty on the land they have given for the Arethusa Deverill Home for Single Mothers. The rest of the family are here too: Aunt Maud, Elspeth and Peter, Alana, Robert and their children. Kitty and Robert’s daughter Florence has flown over from England with Celia, Kitty’s cousin, and her husband Boysie. The townspeople have all turned out to celebrate this moment of laying the foundation stone. I notice Dermot McLoughlin among them. He knows why Mom has given this home to the town, he just doesn’t know who his child is. He must surely know by now that it is not me. I am not old enough to be his child.

  It was Mother’s wish that the home be called after Logan. I am sad that I am unable to fulfil her wish in the way that she wanted me to. I’m sure she intended for Logan to meet his father and in so doing reconcile them both with their past. I sense it is all part of her coming home. The scattering of her ashes, the laying of the foundation stone and the meeting between Dermot and Logan – it’s all about forgiveness and love, and yet, Logan is not here and he does not wish his parentage to be made public.

  As for me, I am almost divorced and living ‘in sin’ with Cormac. I don’t wish to remarry and neither does Cormac. We like things just the way they are. We are happy. I see him with Kite, standing beside Celia and Boysie, and he grins at me, that slightly lopsided, bashful grin that I love so much.

  Uncle Bertie takes out a piece of paper. He’s written a speech and Aunt Maud has told me it brought tears to her eyes – if it brought tears to her frosty old eyes I think there’ll be a river of tears from the rest of us. He clears his throat and sweeps his gaze over the expectant crowd. There is silence.

  A murmur of voices interrupts Uncle Bertie’s big moment and the sudden movement to our right averts our attention. I see a group of people striding across the field purposefully. I squint in the sunlight. I recognize that walk. I look harder. To my astonishment it is Logan. He has come with his wife Lucy, their children and mine. Then I spot Temperance, walking beside Rose. Yes, my eyes are not deceiving me. It is my darling Tempie, come all the way from America!

  None of them told me they were coming. I wonder if they are here to hinder the proceedings or to help.

  I whisper to Uncle Bertie, ‘That’s my family,’ and my heart is gripped with anxiety.

  None of us know what to expect. My children were not happy with my decision to divorce their father and stay here with Cormac, but they accepted it, and Rose, especially, has been typically supportive, calling me from time to time, sharing her news. But none of them has shown any willingness to come here and meet him. Yet, here they are. A formidable group, marching over the grass with intention.

  The crowd parts and Logan walks through it. He is wearing a long dark coat and fedora hat and I notice he has aged at last. Peter Pan no longer looks eternally young. The trauma of the last year has stolen his magic. I can see that he has wrestled with his soul and that he is now weary of the fight. He is mortal after all, just like the rest of us.

  He stands before me. His dark eyes are Dermot’s. He doesn’t greet me. He looks at me with a clear, unwavering gaze and says loudly for everyone to hear, ‘I want the home to be called the Logan Home, as Mother intended.’ I don’t know what to say. I am too moved to speak. I put my hand on my chest and feel a sudden wave of emotion rise inside me. ‘It’s what Mom wanted and Mom always got what she wanted,’ he adds with a wry grin.

  I smile. ‘Oh Logan,’ I manage and my vision is misted with tears.

  He looks at Uncle Bertie. ‘Don’t let me stop you. Please, carry on.’

  Uncle Bertie clears his throat again. ‘We stand here today, on Deverill land, to honour my sister Arethusa Deverill, who left Ireland in the autumn of 1894 and returned in death in the summer of 1961, where she now remains, overlooking the home she loved. Tussy, as she was affectionately known, departed as a single woman of eighteen, carrying a child. She left because she refused to give her baby up. Many girls and young women do not have the means to hold on to their children. Their suffering was in my sister’s mind when she wrote her will shortly before she died. She asked specifically that a home be built in Ballinakelly for those who fall pregnant like she did and lack the support to enable them to be delivered safely of their babies and to keep them. Society is rigid, judgemental and unforgiving. As, all too often, family can be. As we lay this stone today I want to reach out to my sister, wherever she may be in spirit, and ask that she forgive us, her family, for letting her go. We never tried to find her, we never tried to help her and we never told her we loved her. Why? Because she brought an illegitimate child into the world. If that is a crime then I too am guilty of it.’ There is a murmur of amusement and JP looks at his feet and grins. ‘Love for one’s children, legitimate or not, is the wind that fills our sails and propels us on. Without that wind I know that I, for one, would be adrift in a cold, unfriendly sea. In the laying of this stone I ask that we all forgive where forgiveness is due and love with all our hearts because life is short, much too short, and we must make the most of every moment of being together. In remembering Tussy I hold my family close and urge you all to do the same.’ I catch the eyes of my children, one by one, and Temperance, whose gaze I hold for a little longer, and they return my gaze with affection and delight because their turning up today has been the surprise they wanted it to be. Rose is smiling triumphantly and I know that it was she who engineered their coming, and perhaps Logan’s too. I smile back at her, aware that my face is wet with tears and my breath is catching in my throat with the sudden onset of sobbing. How typical of Rose, then, to slip through the crowd to take my hand. She holds it tightly and doesn’t let it go.

  Uncle Bertie folds up his speech. ‘I hope that this home will be a refuge for many women in need. I am proud to announce the laying of the first stone of the Logan Home for Single Mothers.’ He turns to my brother and extends his hand. Logan takes it. Then my brother pulls my uncle into his embrace. Uncle Bertie chuckles, embarrassed. Being very British he is not used to hugging. I laugh and embrace my brother too. I feel, in a way, that we have all come home.

  Hesitant at first, and then with determination, Dermot McLoughlin makes his way through the crowd. Logan sees him. Does he recognize himself in the old man’s face? Does he work out who he is from the look of resolve and curiosity in Dermot’s eyes? Does he sense sorrow, regret or longing in his gait? I don’t know. All I know is that the two men meet. They take each other’s hand and they talk. I suppose that’s all Mom wanted them to do.

  And me? I am enfolded into the bosom of my family. My old one and my new one, as Cormac and Kite come up to be introduced. They finally meet. I suppose that is all I wanted them to do.

  Last night I dreamed I was at Castle Deverill again. I wander into the great hall where there is a baronial fireplace. Flames crackle and flicker and throw dancing shadows across the walls. Everything is majestic, as if I am in a royal palace. There are paintings in gilt frames, Persian rugs on the flagstone floor, a grand staircase that leads me up into dark corridors, enticing me deeper and deeper into the castle, and I run now, because I know that I am close.

  Candlelight illuminates the darkness. I reach a gap in the wall and take the narrow staircase there. This is the core of the castle, the oldest wing, the only section to survive the fire. I climb the uneven wooden steps, each worn into a gentle hollow from centuries of treading feet. I place mine into those hollows and slowly ascend. My heart accelerates but I am not afraid. I know what to expect. I know who will be waiting for me. I am
impatient to see my grandmother. At the top there is a sturdy old door. It is blackened with age and smoke and the iron hinges and studs are from another age, when men wore plumed hats and boots and carried swords at their hips. I put my fingers on the latch and gently lift it. The door opens without protest. It is used to my coming.

  To my surprise there are two people standing with their backs to me, looking into the fire. One is slim with thick red hair falling in waves down to her waist, the other has long dark hair, a small waist and curved hips, and there is something coquettish in the way that she is standing, as if she cannot contain her excitement and is longing to turn round. They hesitate a moment, to heighten the drama, then they turn, like a pair of delighted children at a surprise party. I gasp, astonished. Adeline and Arethusa are together, their smiles full of gratitude and joy. I feel their happiness. I feel their forgiveness; and I feel their love. It radiates out of them in a bright white light and embraces me.

  I realize then that in bringing my mother’s mortal remains home I have enabled her to return home in spirit. To return home to her family, where she has always belonged.

  My gaze drifts to the mantelpiece behind them. There, in the dust, are JP’s daughter Aisling’s fingerprints, just where she left them.

  I wake to see Cormac sleeping soundly beside me. The dawn light is already breaking through the curtains and chasing away the night’s shadows. The familiar sound of the sea triggers a rush of joy. I am here. I am home. I am where I am meant to be. Where Mother and perhaps Adeline always wanted me to be.

  I turn on my side and gaze at him. My heart floods with gratitude.

  He asked me to stay; I am happy that I did.

  Acknowledgements

  I intended the Deverill Chronicles to be a trilogy and planned it as such. However, I meant to include Arethusa Deverill’s story in book two, but didn’t have the space to do it justice. Therefore, the trilogy was always unfinished business. I have now written her story and the trilogy has become a quartet! I won’t say that’s the end of the Deverills . . . I do have another idea, but right now I’m writing a very different novel. Who knows, at a later date I might revisit Castle Deverill.