Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  After lunch everyone opened their gifts. The room filled with smoke as the men lit cigars and the women cigarettes. Edith seemed unhappy with all of her gifts. She was determined to ruin everyone’s day, even if it meant making hers considerably worse. When Joan gave her an exquisite sewing basket with miniature cotton reels tucked into their own little slots she threw it on the floor and folded her arms. ‘I hate sewing,’ she snapped. ‘That’s the sort of thing Martha would like.’

  Pam noticed her mother-in-law’s appalled face and hurried to reprimand her child. ‘If you cannot behave you might as well leave the room,’ she said, although it pained her to raise her voice at Edith.

  Edith, humiliated in front of the entire family, ran out of the room in tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pam with a heavy sigh. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her today.’

  ‘Come here, Pam,’ said Larry, patting the sofa beside him. ‘She’ll grow out of it. She’s just going through a difficult stage.’

  ‘This difficult stage has been going on for some time,’ said Diana drily. ‘I suggest you employ a strict English governess. Goodwin is much too gentle. It’s time she retired, don’t you think?’

  ‘Mother has a point,’ said Larry, puffing on his cigar.

  ‘Martha will be terribly upset to lose Goodwin,’ said Pam.

  ‘Then why not send the two of them to London together. Martha should see a bit of the world. She should go on a tour.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mother. Europe looks like it’s sliding back into another war.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Larry. There’s not going to be another war. No one wants a repeat of the Great War. They’ll do anything they can to avoid it. Life must go on. Really, I was in Paris in the fall and I felt quite safe.’

  Ted, who was standing in front of the fireplace with Stephen and Charles, joined in the conversation. ‘The threat to peace is from dictatorships,’ he said emphatically, puffing on his cigar. ‘We Americans might be neutral but we need to be more involved in Europe in order to avoid another war . . .’

  Joan wandered into the hall. She heard snivelling coming from the top of the stairs. There, sitting on the landing, was Edith. Joan carried her ashtray up the stairs and sat beside her niece. She put the cigarette between her scarlet lips and inhaled. Edith stopped crying and looked at Joan suspiciously. ‘I’m sorry I gave you a sewing basket. I thought it was darling.’ She looked down at the child’s tear-stained face. ‘But it isn’t really about the sewing basket, is it? What’s it about then?’

  ‘Mother made me wear this horrible dress.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s ugly.’

  ‘Ma gave it to you so you had to wear it whether you liked it or not. You know, when I was a child, I never had any say over what I wore. Right up until I was sixteen. My mother chose everything and I obeyed. Children were more obedient in those days.’

  ‘Mother hates me,’ said Edith. She started crying again.

  Joan flicked ash into the little tray. Her nails were very long and painted a glossy scarlet like her lips. ‘Your mother doesn’t hate you, Edith. That’s absurd.’

  ‘She does. She prefers Martha. Martha does everything right and never gets into trouble. Martha is perfect.’

  ‘Well, she certainly behaves well.’

  ‘Mother prefers her to me.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘It is. If she loved me she wouldn’t have made me wear this horrid dress.’

  ‘Love has nothing to do with dresses, Edith. She had to make you wear it otherwise she would have upset Ma, who bought it for you.’

  ‘Mother doesn’t want me. She only wants Martha,’ said Edith, realizing that with Aunt Joan self-pity would guarantee her lots of attention.

  ‘Your mother wanted you so badly,’ said Joan. ‘She longed for you from the moment she married your father, but you took a long time in coming.’

  ‘She had Martha,’ said Edith bitterly.

  ‘But she wanted you.’

  Edith frowned. ‘She didn’t know me, Aunt Joan.’

  Joan examined her nails and considered the secret she was about to spill. She knew she shouldn’t and she was well aware that if she was caught she would be in a great deal of trouble, but the child was gazing up at her with big shiny eyes and there was something inside Joan that wanted to help her – at the expense of Martha, who was so perfect and beloved and irritating. ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ she said. Edith sniffed the gravity of this secret like a hound sniffing blood and stopped crying. She gazed at her aunt, barely daring to breathe. She nodded. ‘But you have to promise not to tell anyone, ever. This is between you and me, Edith.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Edith, who at that point would have promised the world.

  ‘Let’s shake on it, then.’ Joan held out her hand. Edith shook it. Joan stubbed out her cigarette. The rumble of voices from the drawing room downstairs receded as Joan leaned in closer to her niece. ‘Martha is adopted,’ she said. There, it was done. Those words had been released and they could never be recovered. Edith stared up at her in amazement. ‘It’s true. Your parents couldn’t have children so they went to Ireland and bought one. You see, they wanted a baby very badly. So badly that they were willing to buy someone else’s. Then, years later, by some miracle, God granted them one of their own and you were born. You see, my darling, you might think they don’t love you as much as Martha, but the truth is they love you more than her because you belong to them in a way that she never will.’

  At that moment their conversation was cut short by Pam who appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘There you are,’ she said, throwing her gaze onto the landing where Edith and Joan sat huddled together like a pair of conspirators. Edith, so overwhelmed by the secret, ran down the steps and into her mother’s arms. ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I promise to be good from now on,’ she said and Pam frowned up at Joan. Joan shrugged and pulled a face, feigning ignorance. Relieved that Edith had cheered up Pam mouthed a ‘Thank you’ at Joan and took Edith back into the drawing room.

  The transformation in Edith was instant. She was polite, charming and obedient. Pam was astounded and asked Joan what she had said to her at the top of the stairs, but Joan pretended that she had simply told her that life was easier if one did as one was told. For the first time since joining the Wallace family Pam felt warmly towards her sister-in-law. ‘You have a magic touch,’ she said.

  ‘Really, it was nothing. She’s a good girl at heart,’ Joan replied, which made Pam even more grateful. But Edith was bursting to tell the secret. She returned home at the end of the day with a smug smile on her face and a feeling of the deepest satisfaction in her heart. Every time she looked at her sister she could barely contain the information that was making her feel so superior and had to bite her tongue to stop it from slipping off. But slip off it did, because Edith was not only bad at keeping secrets, as are most ten-year-olds, but wanting to wound. The darkness in her nature, born out of a sense of inadequacy, compelled her to continually search for the higher ground, and when it came to Martha, the only way to achieve any advantage was by pulling her sister down. Edith had no idea how far down the secret would drag her.

  It didn’t take long for Martha to strike the match that started the fire. Edith goaded her on purpose until Martha rolled her eyes and snapped at her at which point Edith raised herself to her full height and out it came. Gleeful, Edith told Martha that she didn’t really belong to their mother because she was adopted. At first Martha didn’t believe her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Edith,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and find something to do instead of picking fights with me.’

  ‘Oh it’s true,’ Edith insisted. ‘Aunt Joan told me.’

  That got Martha’s attention. ‘Aunt Joan told you?’ she asked, suddenly feeling less secure.

  ‘Yes, she did, and she made me promise not to tell anyone.’

  ‘So why have you told me?�
��

  ‘Because you should know. Mother and Father aren’t really yours. They’re mine though. Aunt Joan told me that they wanted me so badly and were so sad that they couldn’t have me that they bought you. Then they had me. It was a miracle,’ she said with delight. ‘I was a miracle.’

  Martha’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You’re making all this up.’

  ‘No, I’m not. You came from a shop.’

  Martha shook her head and left the room, fighting tears. She ran into the snowy garden and sat on the bench beneath a cherry tree where she could cry alone. If it was true and she was adopted why hadn’t her parents ever told her? Why did Aunt Joan decide to tell Edith? Why would anybody confide in a ten-year-old? If it wasn’t true why would Aunt Joan say such a spiteful thing? Martha sat on the bench and explored all the alternatives. She tried to take herself back into her childhood and remember anything that might corroborate Edith’s tale but there was nothing that gave her adoption away. She knew she looked like her mother, everyone said so, and neither parent had ever made her feel less important than Edith. There was only one person she could ask.

  Martha found Mrs Goodwin in the nursery sitting room ironing a basket of clothes. When Mrs Goodwin saw Martha’s tear-stained face she put down the iron. Martha closed the door behind her. ‘Where’s Edith?’ Mrs Goodwin asked.

  ‘In her room I presume, where I left her.’

  ‘Are you all right, my dear? Is she being difficult again?’

  Martha stood in front of the door looking uncertain. ‘Mrs Goodwin, I need to ask you something and you must tell me the truth.’

  Mrs Goodwin felt a sinking sensation and sat down on the arm of the chair. ‘All right,’ she replied nervously. ‘I will tell you the truth.’

  ‘Am I adopted?’

  The old nanny’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. Her skin flushed and she shook her head vigorously, not to deny the statement but to get rid of it. But the secret was out and no amount of shaking her head would expunge it. ‘Martha dear, come and sit down,’ she said, aware that her eyes were stinging with tears.

  Martha began to cry. She put her hand to her mouth and choked. ‘I thought Edith was lying . . .’

  Mrs Goodwin did not wait for Martha to sit with her. She hurried and pulled her into her arms, holding her fiercely. ‘My darling child, it doesn’t mean that your parents don’t love you. In fact it means quite the opposite. It means they wanted you so badly they were prepared to travel the world to find you.’

  ‘But where’s my real mother?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where she is. She’s irrelevant. Pam is the woman who has loved you and taken care of you since you were a tiny baby. She was so happy when she found you in that convent in Ireland, they both were. It was as if they fell in love.’

  ‘She didn’t want me then? My real mother.’

  ‘Your biological mother is the woman who gave birth to you but she’s not the woman who has loved you and—’

  ‘But she obviously didn’t want me, Goodwin. She gave me away.’

  ‘You don’t know the facts. I think it’s much more likely that she was a young unmarried woman who got into trouble.’

  Martha pulled away and searched her old friend’s eyes. ‘Why has no one ever told me?’

  ‘Because it’s irrelevant. You’re a Wallace and a Tobin, Martha.’ Mrs Goodwin’s face hardened. ‘Did Edith tell you?’ Martha nodded. ‘How does she know? Surely your mother wouldn’t have told her.’

  ‘Aunt Joan told her.’

  Mrs Goodwin was horrified. ‘Now why would she go and do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Martha went and sat down on the sofa and hugged herself. ‘I feel sick, Goodwin. I think I’m going to throw up.’

  Mrs Goodwin hurried for the wash bowl. She returned a moment later and put it on Martha’s lap. ‘Breathe, darling. Take deep breaths and you’ll feel better. It’s the shock.’ Indeed, Martha had gone very white. ‘Your parents didn’t want you to know because they didn’t want you to suffer as you are suffering now. I can’t believe Joan would be so thoughtless. How can she expect a ten-year-old child to keep a secret such as this? What was she thinking? Your mother will be furious when she finds out.’

  ‘She’s not going to find out,’ said Martha quickly. ‘I’m clearly not meant to know and I don’t want to upset her or Father. Edith couldn’t have known what she was doing,’ she added and Mrs Goodwin’s heart expanded at the goodness in Martha, for even when faced with enough evidence to condemn her sister, she chose to excuse her of any blame.

  ‘Edith knew exactly what she was doing,’ said Mrs Goodwin in an uncharacteristic outburst of vitriol. ‘That’s why she told you.’

  Chapter 37

  Learning the truth about her birth had shifted something in Martha. Mrs Goodwin noticed the change even if no one else did. She was quiet, pensive and heavy-hearted. While Edith was more buoyant than ever, grabbing her parents’ attention with both hands, Martha’s solemnity was barely noticeable, but Mrs Goodwin, who knew and loved her so well, was disturbed by it. Yet unhappiness drove her deeper into herself and in that dark and silent place she found something she had lost long ago: a sense of where she came from and who she really was. She heard whispers on the wind and saw glimpses of strange lights that hovered around the snowy garden. At night when she lay crying on her pillow she had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t know who it was and, having been brought up in the Christian faith, she wondered whether it was God or an angel sent to reassure her. She thought of Ireland often and imagined her mother as a frightened young woman with nowhere to turn. She didn’t despise her for giving her away – such negativity was not part of Martha’s nature – she pined for her. Somewhere, in that distant land, there was a woman who was part of her. A woman who had lost her, and the frightened young woman of her imagination made her ache with pity.

  Martha refused to go anywhere and stayed in her room, staring out of the window, while Mrs Goodwin made excuses so as not to arouse Mr and Mrs Wallace’s suspicion that something was dreadfully wrong. Martha preferred to be alone with her thoughts. She took comfort from her inner world because the outer world had so disappointed her.

  Then one night in early January she had a strange thought. It seemed to come out of nowhere. She saw the image of a shoebox at the back of her mother’s bathroom cupboard and heard the word birth certificate very clearly as if it had been whispered into her ear. She sat up with a jolt and looked around the room. It was dark, as usual, but she sensed she was not alone. Her heartbeat accelerated and her hands grew damp with nervousness. There was somebody in her bedroom, she was sure of it. She knew, however, that if she turned on the light the being would disappear and she didn’t want it to go. She wanted very badly to see it.

  After a while she lay down again and closed her eyes. But her heart was racing and she felt more awake than ever. Then a memory floated into her mind. She remembered a brown-stone building and the fear of going up in a lift that looked like a cage. She remembered holding her mother’s hand, but she remembered also the briskness of her mother’s walk – the determination in her stride to go deeper into the building. She saw a tall man with big blue eyes bending down to inspect her as if she were an insect and her stomach clamped with panic. Then she saw a strange lamp that looked like a demonic eye and she gasped with fright. Horrified, she leaned over and switched on the light. She glanced around the room. There was no one there. No sound save the thumping in her chest. She took a deep breath and tried to recall more of the memory. The man faded, taking with him the terror, but something refused to go. She couldn’t discern what it was, only that it was there, just out of reach. She worked the muscle in her brain until it began to fatigue. The more she tried to recall it the further away it drifted. Eventually she gave up. She turned off the light and lay back down on the pillow. The vision of the shoebox must surely have been a dream, she thought, but she’d take a look the following day when her mother was out, just
in case. If she could find her birth certificate she’d know who to look for – because she was going to look. That she had already decided.

  The following day, as soon as her mother had left the house with Edith, Martha hurried into her bathroom. She crouched down to open the cupboard beneath the sink. Inside were neat bottles lined up in rows, bags of cotton wool and packets of medication. She was astonished to see the shoebox of her vision sitting in darkness at the back, just as she had envisaged it. With a trembling hand she carefully lifted it out. Barely daring to breathe she raised the lid. Inside were papers and a piece of old blanket. Burrowing beneath the piece of blanket she pulled out the documents. There, sitting in her hand, was her birth certificate. It took a moment for her to focus because her eyes had once again blurred with tears. But she blinked and her focus returned. Born on 5th January 1922 at 12.20 p.m. in Dublin at the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven. Name: Mary-Joseph. Sex: girl. Name and surname of father: unknown. Name and surname of mother: Grace, Lady Rowan-Hampton. She caught her breath. Her mother was an aristocrat. She presumed she had got pregnant out of wedlock and been forced to give her child away and her heart flooded with sympathy. She wondered whether Lady Rowan-Hampton ever thought of her and wondered how she was. Wondered whether she was happy, whether she even knew that she existed. She wondered whether she regretted giving her away or whether she had simply signed the papers and moved on with her life. Was it possible to ever forget a child you gave away? She put the box back and returned to her room where she stared at her face in the mirror and tried to imagine what Lady Rowan-Hampton looked like. Did she resemble her mother or her father, she wondered. Her father’s name was unknown, but Lady Rowan-Hampton must know who he is, she thought. If she found her mother she might be able to track down her father too. Then a horrid thought occurred to her: what if Lady Rowan-Hampton didn’t want to be found? The idea that Martha’s appearance might be unwelcome was almost enough to thwart her plan, but she dismissed that as negative. There was a fifty per cent chance that her mother would be grateful and she had to bank on that.