by Faith Hogan
SECRETS WE KEEP
Faith Hogan
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About Secrets We Keep
Two distant relatives, drawn together in companionship are forced to confront their pasts and learn that some people are good at keeping secrets and some secrets are never meant to be kept.
The beautiful old Bath House in Ballytokeep has lain empty and abandoned for decades. For devoted pensioners Archie and Iris, it holds too many conflicting memories of their adolescent dalliances and tragic consequences – sometimes it’s better to leave the past where it belongs.
For highflying, top London divorce lawyer Kate Hunt, it’s a fresh start – maybe even her future. On a winter visit to see her estranged Aunt Iris she falls in love with the Bath House. Inspired, she moves to Ballytokeep leaving her past heartache 600 miles away – but can you ever escape your past or your destiny?
This book is dedicated to you, James Hogan – always.
It turns out, ‘what if?’ is even better than we could have ever wished for.
Burns Family tree
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
About Secrets We Keep
Dedication
Burns Family tree
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About Faith Hogan
Also by Faith Hogan
Preview
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
Prologue
Dublin – 1988
It was Kate’s most vivid memory from childhood, maybe her happiest. Her father, coming home, rain on his coat, the smell of cold from him, and in a small box he left by the fire, a dog already named; Patch. ‘For you,’ he said and she ran to look inside.
In the background, she could hear her mother’s voice, low and gin-tainted. ‘It is nowhere for a dog.’ Kate did not care. Her very own puppy, a black and brown sheepdog. ‘He’s too big for the city,’ the words were whispered on the far side of the kitchen. Kate stroked his shivering woolly-haired coat and brown eyes stared vulnerable and watery at her. His nose was wet, his tongue was soft and warm against her face. For a moment, Kate was oblivious to the conversation at her back. ‘Typical, you just never think, Crispin, that’s what’s got us into the mess we’re in. Thanks to your gambling, we can hardly afford food for the table, and you bring home every waif and stray you come across.’ Her red lips turned down and Kate often thought how lovely her mother would be if only they turned up instead.
‘Adaline, please. Not now.’ Her father stood wearily at the table, Kate heard him unscrew the gin that sat there. ‘What’s done is done. I’ve brought you here, to this house, away from the debt collectors, let me be.’
‘Yes, this house.’ Adaline’s words were spiteful jabs, ‘living off your grandmother, even your own family don’t want to know us now.’ She sipped her gin noiselessly, she wore her bitterness close to her, malice spiked every interaction. ‘You’re a bad lot, that’s what they produced; however they managed it between them.’
The smell of damp and faded wallpaper, ornaments her mother wouldn’t choose and a pervading silence that both muffled and incised at once, this was Kate’s childhood. They lived in St. Kiernan’s, a faded Georgian pile on the wrong side of Dublin city; it was all they had. Bequeathed in a long forgotten will that the great-grandmother they didn’t know had written. She had bypassed her daughters, Pamela and Iris – perhaps she knew that he’d need it more than them; she left the lot to her only grandchild; Crispin. They moved, Kate and her parents, to St Kiernan’s when she was five. It was for the best; they were on the brink of divorce and financial ruin. They hoped Dublin was far enough away from where her father’s gambling debts might find them. It was not far enough to mend the damage done. Her home was silent, the time for words had passed, and mostly, apart from that final night, with the dog her new companion, she spent her time alone. An only child. A lonely child. At the time, they thought it for the best. ‘Not in front of the child,’ her mother said more often than anything. ‘Kate, go to your room.’
She held the puppy close as she padded up the stairs, the world better now than it was before. Beneath her, the sounds of their voices, vicious and low, rose as she ascended each step, until she closed the door of her room. They argued for hours, but the thick Georgian walls drowned them out so Kate did not hear their final words. Instead, she snuggled her face close to the soft coat in her hands and felt the comforting warmth of him in her arms. This was a night she’d remember for many years – the arrival of that little dog gave her something to love that would love her in return, unconditionally.
It was a starless night, the night her father left them. Before he went, he kissed her on her nose. She remembered that still, how it felt, warm and soft and light. She remembered the sweetened scent of brandy and green Irish tweed, as he stayed before her eyes for just one second. Perhaps he knew this was goodbye forever. There had never been a bond, not really. Not the way you expect with your father. Perhaps that’s why she remembered him leaving so vividly, it was because he kissed her goodbye and it was something he’d never done before or since. He didn’t kiss her mother. She slammed the door behind him and volleyed up the thick-carpeted steps of the house on Parnell Square. A second door slammed and Kate watched her father get into a Dublin cab in the street far below, from the silent house.
1
Iris, 1956
It was a sunny spring morning in 1956, when their worlds would take an unexpected turn. Iris was making her way down O’Connell Street to buy a pound of imported coffee from Bewley’s for the guesthouse. The city was heaving with its own self-conscious weight and, occasionally, Iris caught a glimpse of her purposeful movement in the shop windows. She was a young woman, tall and well-proportioned, her auburn hair caught flecks of sunshine in its glossy length, so its shine was more than arresting against her ivory skin. She cut a striking figure in her powder blue skirt and the matching coat Mrs Muldoon had made for her Christmas gift. Black fur, taken from a pelt long forgotten in the attic of St. Kiernan’s, hugged her neck. Warm and soft, it collared the simple wool coat. She felt like a movie star and perhaps there was a passing resemblance to a precocious Lauren Bacall.
It seemed that with each passing day, the grey of Dublin was fading from sight. Fast receding was the importance of the war. ‘If Dublin were not bombed it was only because it was hardly worth the effort,’ her mother often said. It was still a mixed honour to have a father who died for the King of England. He had not returned from the war. He died a hero, in Sicily, which was meant to be something for them all to hold onto. The new Dublin, the city of this bright morning, was one of showbands, awkward liberals and pulpits vying for domination. It was a place of opportunity and a growing optimism that there must surely be good times ahead.
Iris stopped for a moment at Cleary’s, examining the latest st
yles that were far beyond the few shillings her mother gave her each week for her work in the guesthouse. She couldn’t stand for long, but it was hard to pull herself away. The shop fascinated her with the constant stream of people milling through its doors. Cleary’s was the countryman’s store. They came from all over Ireland to shop here. It had a reputation for quality and that did not compromise the style she admired in its huge gleaming windows.
Overhead, the clock ticked unapologetically towards lunch. Iris turned away quickly only to be bowled over by a young man with piercing blue eyes. Even as she fell backwards, she found it hard to wrestle her attention from their depths. She landed in an undignified heap on the path; her abuser quickly stood and held a hand out to help her straighten herself.
‘Forgive me, it’s not every day I fall for a good-looking girl so literally.’ His eyes danced and it seemed to Iris they animated his whole character.
‘You should be looking where you’re going; you’re not on a rugby pitch now,’ Iris said crossly as she tried to unhook her coat from the man’s jacket. Indignity made her defensive. Somehow, they were stuck together by virtue of one loose hook and a flapping grey lapel on the sports jacket the man wore.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the young man said, his accent slightly clipped. ‘I didn’t see you, we were rushing to…’ His long tapered hands hovered over the hook for a moment. ‘Here, let me.’ His fingers slid gently across the hook, unfastened it with an experienced slip.
When Iris looked up into his face, she thought she never saw eyes that held so much danger in their depths. Suddenly her temper subsided, overwhelmed by something new, something she’d never felt before. She felt her cheeks redden and stepped back from the man as quickly as she could.
‘Oh, it’s…’ Iris did not finish her sentence because, when she looked to his side, there stood Sir Clive Mornington-Hunt, surly and sour and condescending. ‘It’s okay, I’m fine.’ She shook out her skirt, picked up her purse from the path. ‘It’s my fault, I wasn’t looking. Sir Clive,’ she saluted him.
‘Au contraire, it was my fault, entirely.’ The man held out his hand, his voice more confident now they had locked eyes. ‘William Keynes, at your service.’ He clicked his heels and bowed elegantly and then looked to his companion. ‘Are you going to introduce us, Clive?’
‘Of course, this is Pamela’s sister,’ Clive looked away and, for a moment, Iris wondered if he knew her name. He had been staying in room five at St Kiernan’s, her mother’s guesthouse on Parnell Square, for weeks now, but he had never once made conversation with her beyond his requests in terms of his accommodation.
‘I’m Iris Burns,’ she felt bold saying it and holding out her hand, but when William kissed the back of her glove, she felt giddy with a kind of excitement that she thought only happened in books from the library.
‘Enchanted, I’m sure.’ He looked deep into her eyes, seemed to move indecently close to her and said, ‘I can see why Clive is so fond of your sister, if she’s anything like you…’
‘Oh, I’m afraid we’re not alike, Pamela is so much more…’
‘I don’t believe it, not a word of it; she couldn’t be lovelier than you.’
‘In the name of all that’s decent, Willie, can’t you see, she’s just a child.’ Clive sounded petulant, as though he wanted to be somewhere else, and Iris suspected anywhere else would do. ‘Come on, we have to make it back to Wynn’s Hotel in less than an hour.’
‘Ah, well. Duty calls, Miss Burns.’ William did a little bow, and somehow it seemed to suit him, as though only someone as handsome and charming as William Keynes could get away with it. ‘I have no doubt we will meet again, Miss Burns, and I will look forward to it.’
And so Iris made her way to Bewley’s; her imagination filled with thoughts of William Keynes and no real expectations beyond maybe dipping into her five shillings for a Dracula ice cream on the way home.
*
Iris’s mother described the trade as ‘mainly commercial’. St Kiernan’s, a grand Georgian red-brick had belonged to an aunt of her mother’s, it was too large to be a family home and Mrs Burns had turned it into a respectable guesthouse while her husband had gone off to save them all from Hitler. It was true, their little guesthouse was home to a handful of ‘permanents’ – a few retired professionals who wanted to live out their days in domestic comfort without having to take on the running of a house alone. For as long as Iris could remember, Miss Peabody and Miss Chester had shared the large ground floor bedroom, facing onto Parnell Square. The two women were treated like elderly aunts. They had become part of an extended, disjointed family that shared all of the major events in the Burns family calendar. Mostly it was down to Iris to look after the permanents. Her older, more glamorous sister Pamela was front of house, booking in and dealing with ‘the commercials’. What Maureen Burns wanted more than anything was a good husband for Pamela. Not just any of the weekly commercials, but Maureen had her heart set on a professional man, a doctor or a solicitor perhaps. When Sir Clive Mornington-Hunt booked in, neither Maureen nor Pamela could believe their luck.
When Iris caught a glimpse of Sir Clive, she couldn’t quite believe Pamela was setting her cap at him. The second son of the Earl of Mayo, he was hardly five foot two and his words stuttered from him in a fury of bashful smiles and spitting consonants. The only respite seemed to be when he was engaged in discussing the finer points of rugby or the state of Europe and how things might be remedied. Unbelievably, it seemed Pamela was smitten. Maybe not as she had been by the handsome English medical rep who’d brought her to the cinema four times last year. He had made her smile for weeks after, but then cry like her heart might break. Iris heard her sob in the little single bed opposite her own. Iris had a feeling Clive would never make Pamela cry, she had a feeling he’d never make her smile in the same way the medical rep had either. Clive was enchanted immediately, most men were. Quite apart from Pamela’s silver-blonde long hair, she was blessed with eyes as bright as the Pacific Ocean and skin so smooth a baby might be envious. She managed to be demure and witty, all at once. Their mother had long ago drilled into both girls the importance of being a lady first and everything else long after.
Before very long, Clive was taking Pamela to all the major events in the city of interest to the great, the good and the seriously connected. ‘We’ll have an announcement very soon,’ her mother whispered one morning as she double-checked the dining room was set out perfectly. They announced their engagement at Christmas. Now, Pamela was furiously planning a spring wedding in Clive’s family seat in Mayo. Iris found herself promoted to the front of house; the hostess role that Pamela had once filled. Her mother was in no rush to find her a husband, she was after all not yet twenty, compared to Pamela’s twenty-two. They secured a girl to come in each day to look after the permanents, tend the fires and take on some of the heavier tasks that had once been Iris’s domain. And so it was that Iris found herself serving breakfast one early morning to William Keynes. She had thought about him often, since that day on O’Connell Street. Once or twice, she’d asked Pamela about him; her sister supplied information sparingly. ‘Clive says he’s bad news, really, Iris, you don’t want to waste your time thinking about him.’
‘I’m certainly not thinking about him or anyone else for that matter,’ Iris snapped.
‘Good, because you could do much better than the likes of Willie Keynes. Clive says that he’s from bad stock and you know what mother says.’
‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?’ Iris shook her head. It was typical of Clive to think that just because William was not a chinless pudding like himself, he must be trouble. She would put him from her mind. After all, they had only met that once and it was unlikely he’d thought of her since. An emergency at the embassy changed that, when Willie Keynes could not catch his usual tram home, Clive booked him in to St. Kiernan’s late one night.
Iris’s hand shook as she poured his tea. She only realized how nervous he ma
de her when she returned to the kitchen with a hot breakfast for Miss Chester.
‘You need to be minding your business,’ the old lady said as she prodded her poached egg meaningfully when Iris laid the plate before her. Iris wondered if old Miss Chester’s heart had ever flipped over because a young man was nearby.
‘Don’t be minding her; sure can’t we all be a bit forgetful now and then.’ It seemed to Iris that William stood unnervingly close to her, but somehow it wasn’t unpleasant. He liked her, she just knew it. She felt him watch her as she made her way around the tables earlier and she caught his eye too often not to know he felt the same. ‘Come on, we should make plans for a date,’ he said as he was leaving. It was the first time they were alone and Iris felt intoxicated by the challenge in his eyes.
‘Oh, my mother would never let me go on a date, I’m much too…’ Immediately, Iris regretted the words falling from her lips. At nineteen, other girls her age were getting married, but more often these days her mother spoke as though Iris would be staying put. Perhaps Maureen thought she’d never find another Earl or maybe that Iris would one day care for her as she had for the permanents.
‘Well, then, we better not let her know, I suppose.’ He put a finger to her lip and Iris thought she might explode with excitement. ‘What time is bedtime here?’
‘I…’ the hall was empty apart from themselves. Even still, just talking to William felt illicit, never mind that he thought she might sneak out to meet him.
‘Say, ten o’clock? I’ll meet you at the entrance to the square?’ He winked at her as he made his way out the door, ‘Don’t leave me waiting too long.’ He was gone before she could set him straight.
Iris spent the morning floating through tasks that normally took half the time. Their conversation going over and back in her head. She couldn’t possibly sneak out of the guesthouse without her mother knowing. Well, perhaps technically, she could. After all, her mother settled into her room just after eight. A decade of early mornings had set their routine in stone. The Burns household rose early and slept soundly.
