by Karen Swan
The moment simmered, steadily bubbling up to a boil as their gazes locked, until Willow burst out laughing first, helped along by the copious amount of wine she had drunk. Pip couldn’t help herself – she chuckled too. And Ottie. And Pip felt that thing happen that had always used to happen to them as little girls, as they laughed when they shouldn’t, the giggles coming on like a rash, covering them, unstoppable . . .
People turned to look, heads swivelling as the three daughters of the last Knight stood in a huddle, laughing as one, tears streaming down their cheeks. Pip wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying. Maybe both, for she didn’t think they were just laughing about the wisecrack now: grief, shock, childhood mischief, togetherness, amusement, hysteria – pick one. But she knew their father would have approved. He had always laughed at funerals, and they were their father’s daughters after all.
Chapter Four
Wednesday, 4 December
The library fire crackled drowsily, spitting out stray embers every now and again and making Mabel startle; she was stretched out on the rug, oblivious to the leaden mood that permeated the room. They were all gathered together, the three of them and their mother, who had been coaxed from her bed, having retreated there again for days after the funeral.
Willow cast an agitated eye around the room trying not to think about the last time she had been in here, that fateful afternoon three years ago. Like the rest of the castle, it looked exactly the same: loden velvet curtains, mahogany panelling, three-metre-high bookshelves laden with antique leather-bound books interspersed with her father’s orange-spined collections of first-edition P. G. Wodehouse and Ian Fleming paperbacks.
She kept expecting him to burst through the doors at any moment. This had been his domain and although the room had never been off-limits per se, she had rarely come in here as a child. It was where the adult things happened: paperwork, the difficult conversations, hushed or harried phone calls. It was where secrets were kept – and sometimes revealed. It was where their father had kept his desk and liked to take his morning tea, as well as his early evening dram. Routine was king in this space – the newspaper would always be left by Mrs Mac on the small table beside the orange leather reading chair; the crystal decanter kept forever half-full on the butler’s tray; his pair of ox-blood leather slippers set beside the fire even in the summer. Looking at them now, they were tokens of a life interrupted.
A quick rap at the door announced the family lawyer’s arrival and she looked up to see Mrs Mac leading him through with her usual comfortingly brisk efficiency; though she returned to her own cottage in the village every night, she was always in the kitchen by the time they came down in the mornings, porridge already in the simmering oven, and didn’t leave again till they’d all been fed at night.
Thomas O’Leary, bespectacled and as tall and lean as a punting pole, entered with a quick stride and impassive expression, and they all struggled to their feet. Willow wasn’t sure she had ever seen him in anything other than a dark suit; she had known him her entire life but it was almost impossible to imagine him in chinos or jeans or swimming shorts. Dark tailoring defined him – strict, precise, formal, a stickler for the small details.
‘Serena, how are you bearing up?’ he asked, clasping their mother’s hand in his own, as though holding her upright. Willow thought that was rather self-evident. Her mother’s hair was unwashed and unbrushed and she wore no make-up; she easily looked a decade older than the stylish woman who had nuzzled in the crook of her adoring husband’s arm only last week.
Serena nodded rather than replied, her eyes swimming with yet more tears and O’Leary’s face became even more sombre. ‘I know,’ he said gravely. ‘Come. Sit.’
They all sat again, as though this was his office and not their home. Even though they had arranged the chairs to fan around the far side of the desk, as he set his briefcase down and sat in their father’s chair, Willow saw Pip wince. She caught Ottie’s startled gaze too – they had never seen anyone sit there but her father, and it felt now like catching someone wearing his pyjamas.
They watched in suspended silence as he pulled out files and papers, before setting his case on the floor, inhaling deeply and pressing his palms down on the green leather desktop. ‘Let me begin by saying how terribly sorry I am for your loss. Declan was an absolute tour de force of a man and it was a great privilege to have worked so closely with him for all these years. Everyone in the firm wishes to extend to you their sincere condolences. He shall be deeply and sorely missed.’
His clearly rehearsed words sank into the air like a lap dog on a velvet cushion. ‘That’s so very kind,’ their mother said after a moment with one of her gracious nods.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Ottie murmured, stepping up as the second-in-command.
Willow said nothing. She just wanted to get the hell out of here – not just out of this room, not just out of the castle, but Lorne itself. She wanted to be back in Dublin in her tiny flat with Caz where the most she had to think about was what scent of candle to burn that day and the most she had to feel was the pounding of her hangover. She wanted to be back to pretending again. It was easier than this. She stared at her hands, feeling sick.
O’Leary allowed for another beat of respectful silence – or perhaps dramatic licence – and then it was down to business. ‘Well, I know, Serena, you were bewildered that I’ve called you all together for the reading of the will. It’s not standard practice in this day and age but you don’t need me to tell you, nothing about Lorne is standard. The estate is an unwieldy beast, its sheer age meaning there are numerous arcane laws to navigate. I’m happy to report, however, that Declan took his responsibilities as the 29th Knight very seriously and was thorough to the point of meticulous in managing his affairs. As an executor, I have rarely come across such thorough forward planning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘However, not everything can be planned for in life, and there has been a development since my last meeting with him that was unanticipated.’
Willow frowned, glancing up. What development?
‘But before I get to that, I must first give you some context for Declan’s actions. As you’re no doubt all aware –’ Willow watched his gaze sweep straight over to her, having been three years absent – ‘the estate has been struggling for a while. Your income streams derive from four sources: Declan’s army pension, the rents paid to you by the tenant farmers, the takings from the campsite, and the pony-trekking business. These are modest income flows, however, and in the latter two instances, also largely seasonal.’
Both Ottie and Pip – whose businesses they were – bristled slightly, shifting in their chairs.
‘The problem is, that income will largely be swallowed up by the inheritance tax, income tax and capital gains tax now due, not to mention the need to settle up with any outstanding creditors. In fact, breaking even would be a very good result.’
They were effectively broke? Willow looked at the others: Pip, as ever, looked furious. Her mother just looked numb. But Ottie – she looked like she was about to burst into tears, her cheeks flushed and eyes burning brightly, hands blanched white in her lap; Willow knew just how hard she’d thrown herself into trying to get the estate to turn a profit.
‘But . . . my trust,’ Serena stammered after a pause, trying to draw herself straighter, as though deportment alone would get them out of this hole. ‘When we were married, I had a trust. Several million.’
O’Leary gave her both an apologetic grimace and a concerned look. ‘You may recall the tax problem several years ago now, Serena? Declan had to access it to satisfy Revenue’s demands. You signed a consent form at the time.’
‘Oh . . . yes. Yes,’ she murmured vaguely, sinking back and looking bewildered. Defeated.
‘Declan was only too aware of the scale of the problems facing the estate upon his death. Everything I’m telling you now, he already knew and he tried his best to safeguard your interests. He did everything he could to boost profitability, streaml
ine the estate and trim running costs, but I’m afraid it was a losing battle. We met frequently in Dublin and managed to establish the subsistence-level business model that has kept the estate ticking over – allowing you to keep some of the ground staff and set up the smaller peripheral estate businesses. But he knew it was just treading water and that there would be inescapable problems when he died – that the death duties and taxes would eat up what capital you had left. So when he got his diagnosis back in April, he set about investigating several options he thought might reduce the burden upon you as his beneficiaries – one of them including selling the estate.’
Pip gasped. ‘He did not!’
‘Dad? Sell Lorne?’ Ottie gasped harder.
Willow felt her heart rate accelerate into a gallop. In spite of everything she felt about this place now – her own desperate need to get as far away from it as she could – it was impossible to imagine the Lornes without . . . Lorne.
‘There was an interested party earlier in the year and negotiations were quite far advanced when the deal fell through,’ O’Leary said calmly.
‘It was never a viable option,’ her mother said, rallying to a withering tone. ‘He was a quite disgusting individual, trying to rob us with his underhand tactics. What was the term, Thomas?’
‘Gazundering.’
‘Yes, that. He tried to slash the sale price the day we were due to sign contracts. Your father was having none of it, of course. This man tried to back-pedal when he realized he’d overplayed his hand but, by then, your father wouldn’t sell to him on principle. Quite rightly.’
O’Leary, checking Serena had finished talking – it was the most determined she had sounded all week – took another of the deep breaths that Willow was beginning to recognize as the herald of yet more bad news for them. ‘Serena’s right. Declan was disillusioned by the experience of trying to sell, so he made another decision and approached An Taisce.’
Willow frowned. The National Trust for Ireland?
‘In light of the negative sale experience and given all the different pressures, he felt gifting Lorne Castle and the estate to them instead was the most viable option available – and the most desirable outcome for all of you.’
‘How? By robbing us of our home?’ Pip exploded, jumping up from her chair. Willow watched Ottie place a hand on her arm, silently imporing her to sit back down again.
‘Well, that’s the point,’ O’Leary said calmly. ‘If the estate is gifted to An Taisce, conditions can be attached so that you can all continue to live here, rent-free, for the rest of your lives, and your children too. Your grandchildren and successive generations could also live at the castle but they would be subject to a market rent.’ He paused, taking in their stunned expressions. ‘At the time of his passing, Declan was adamant this was the best solution – it would keep the family with the estate but without any of the burdens and financial pressures that come with running it.’
‘But we wouldn’t own it? It wouldn’t be ours?’ Pip cried, her bottom lifting an inch off the seat again and Ottie’s arm restraining her.
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘But Lorne has always belonged to our family – seven hundred years of us,’ Ottie said in a split voice, trying to reason with him.
‘I know.’
‘Mam, did you know about this?’ Ottie asked.
Their mother nodded, looking broken. ‘He told me just the other week. I can’t say I like it, but given the other options facing us –’
‘So we just give them the castle, is that it?’ Pip demanded, glowering back at O’Leary again.
‘Well, actually—’
‘No.’ Pip folded her arms. ‘We won’t do it.’
‘Pip, darling . . .’ her mother said, sounding tired.
‘Mam, there’s another way. I know there is. Dad tried dealing with this all on his own but he shouldn’t have. We’re adults now. We could have helped him. Ottie was helping him. Did you know about this, Otts?’
But one glance at her face was all the answer required.
‘Pip, you’ve all got your own lives. You’re busy with the stables, Ottie’s got the camping business as well as helping your dad with things, Willow’s off in Dublin. He didn’t want to burden you with these troubles.’
‘Really? I bet he would’ve bothered if we’d been boys,’ Pip said bitterly. ‘He’d have told us then. If he’d thought there was any chance of keeping the knighthood going, he’d have tried to keep the castle too. But because we’re just girls, we were useless to him; he was losing the lot anyway, so he gave up on us.’
‘Philippa, no!’ her mother said, suddenly fierce, almost herself again. ‘That is not true. You girls were everything to him.’
Willow noticed how she wasn’t the only one to recoil at those words. Ottie had flinched too. None of them believed it.
‘If I could just—’ O’Leary said apologetically, trying to butt in.
‘Loving us and believing in us are two different things, Mam. And he didn’t believe in us. He couldn’t do it so he didn’t think we could either. He wants us just to give up, give this place away . . .’
‘If I might interrupt,’ O’Leary said in a firmer voice. ‘This was the unexpected development I wanted to discuss with you today. I’m afraid it’s not quite as straightforward a matter as simply giving the estate to An Taisce.’
‘Whatever do you mean? Why not?’ Serena frowned, looking shocked.
‘To give you some background, the Trust was originally set up to preserve important country homes that were being demolished after the wars. People couldn’t afford to run them any more, lifestyles were changing and so forth . . . But as the Trustees soon discovered, these properties needed vast funds of money to restore and maintain them. The coffers can only run so deep and the government rarely dips into its pockets to help out, unless the asset is of national historical importance – which, I’m afraid, Lorne Castle wouldn’t be. In recent years, their focus has been on acquiring land, and specifically the coastline, in order to protect the landscape from development, so on the rare occasions they do acquire a landed asset, it’s with stipulations of their own.’
‘Stipulations?’ Pip echoed suspiciously, like it was a dirty word.
‘The estate must either come as a going concern with proven profitability or else be transferred along with a significant endowment.’
‘How significant?’
‘Five or six million euros.’
‘But we don’t have anything like that!’ Serena cried, clutching the arms of her chair and looking ashen.
‘I know.’ He took another – yet another – deep breath. Willow wanted to scream, even though she knew she could barely manage a squeak. ‘Which is why, I’m afraid,’ he said, speaking at half speed, ‘they have regretfully declined your husband’s very kind offer.’
Silence exploded like a fireball in the room, singeing them all.
‘Declined it?’ Serena whispered.
O’Leary interlaced his fingers and nodded.
‘You mean to say we can’t even give this place away?’ Pip cried, indignant from the other side of the fence now.
‘Not as things stand, no.’
‘What did Declan say?’ her mother whispered. ‘I can’t begin to imagine . . .’
‘He never knew. The letter arrived the day after he died.’
Her mother gave a small sob, pressing her hand to her lips and shaking her head in distress. ‘That was a mercy then – it would have devastated him. This place was everything to him. For them to just . . . throw it back in his face like this . . .’ She began to weep.
‘He would have been more devastated by what it meant for you,’ O’Leary said gently. ‘He was very, very concerned with trying to ease the burden on you. I don’t think it occurred to him they might reject the offer.’
‘But surely you’d advised him that might be an outcome?’ Pip demanded.
‘Actually he never consulted me on it at all. He went ahead
and made the approach on the spur of the moment; apparently he met the Secretary at some golfing tournament soon after that sale went sour.’
Willow stared at the lawyer in disbelief. Her father had decided to give away his castle after a round and drinks at the nineteenth hole?
‘I only found out after the event. He felt it was the answer to all your problems.’
No one knew what to say. What could they say? They couldn’t afford to keep the castle but they couldn’t afford to give it away either? What kind of double bind was this?
‘So what are our options now then?’ Ottie asked finally, drawing herself up and trying to forge a way forward as she always did.
‘You could go back to trying to sell. That would be the most straightforward option.’
‘But then we wouldn’t . . . we wouldn’t be here at all. It would leave the Lornes for ever. There must be another alternative,’ Ottie insisted.
‘Well, if you can find an endowment—’
‘Sure,’ Pip said sarcastically. ‘We’ll all go marry the next rich blokes we see and we’ll all be saved. That’s what daughters of knights are good for, right? Marrying well?’
‘This isn’t Mr O’Leary’s fault, Philippa,’ her mother said in a tremulous voice.
Ottie shot her a warning look not to upset their mother further and Pip sat back chastened, trying to button her lip.
‘You could also examine alternative business propositions. I appreciate that is easier said than done but the economy is much improved since you tried the B&B business. Tourism is flourishing again. You could reconsider that?’
Ottie shook her head. ‘The castle isn’t what it was. It would need so much money spending on it if we were to take public bookings again. The roof is leaking almost everywhere but the quote we had to repair it was half a million!’ She gave an appalled, brittle laugh. ‘We don’t have anything like that. And it’s not like that was the only renovation project we had to let slide. There’s so much to do . . .’ A tremble in her voice made them all look over. Ottie never broke. She was the eldest, the strong one. She always knew what to do. ‘I just wouldn’t know where to begin tackling it all.’
