by Karen Swan
‘When were you talking to him?’ Ottie asked in astonishment. She had only brought him in here the one time, after their shopping trip.
‘Ben? Just a short while ago.’
‘What does that mean, Taigh – two days? Last week?’ she prompted, urgency in her voice.
Taigh laughed. ‘No, about twenty minutes ago.’
‘He’s still here?’
Taigh looked bemused by her response. ‘. . . Yeah. He’s got a room upstairs.’
Ben was here-here? Ottie looked up at the ceiling in disbelief. She’d thought he’d gone straight back to Dublin, ready for his flight tomorrow afternoon. There were more places to stay there – hotels with lifts . . . How the hell had he managed these stairs? She’d been up gentler ladders.
‘Is everything okay, Ottie?’
‘Yes, I . . .’ But she felt like she was underwater, everything muffled and slow.
‘D’you want a drink? You look a wee bit pale. I think Joe’s gone to the cellar to get this fabled bottle of Teeling he’s forever preaching about. I personally will believe it when I see it.’
‘Uh . . . no. No.’ She bit her lip. ‘There’s something I’ve got to do first.’
He looked back at her in puzzlement. ‘Okay then.’
‘I’ll not be long.’ She went to walk away but remembered something. ‘Oh, but Taigh . . .’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Pip’s hurt her hand.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘Look, Ottie, I’m sorry but I’ll pass, if it’s all the same. I’ve learned—’
‘Please. I think she might have broken it but she’s trying to hide it from me. You know what she’s like. And if she doesn’t get it seen to fast, like—’
He frowned. ‘What did she do to bust her hand up?’
‘She uh . . . uh . . .’ Oh God, what could she say? ‘Someone accidentally walked into it.’
Taigh stared at her, his ready-smile already bouncing in his eyes. ‘Someone . . .?’
‘Someone deserving.’
Taigh laughed. ‘Oh jeesht,’ he cried, shaking his head, his eyes alighting on her little sister sitting by the bar. He frowned. ‘Is she in her pyjamas?’
‘Another long story.’
‘It always is with her,’ he said, pulling his hands down over his face before giving a resigned sigh and walking over to her. ‘Honestly, what’s that crazy-arse girl done now?’
Ottie watched him go up to Pip and tap her on the shoulder. She saw how Pip jumped at the sight of him, then her head tilted to the side slightly as she saw her little sister swallow and deny and resist and protest, the way she always did when she felt vulnerable. Her eyes widened in amazement as she saw the way Pip looked at him as he examined her hand.
Taigh? . . . Really?
Ottie knocked at the door, stepping back into the hallway as though she might change her mind at any moment and need to run in one direction or the other. But as the door opened and those penetrating eyes fastened upon her, she knew she wouldn’t be running anywhere.
‘Ottie.’
She wet her lips, feeling nervous and suddenly realizing she had no idea whatsoever what to say. ‘. . . Hi.’
He stared at her, his eyes sweeping over her and taking in the details of her pale face and limp hair that told an entirely different story to the red dress. Instantly, she knew he knew. He stepped back, holding the door wider. ‘You’d better come in.’
She walked hesitantly into the bedroom. It was pleasingly decorated – a blue-green tweed chair by the window, a double bed made up with sheets and covered with a wool blanket. Antique lamps, some oils of Dingle Bay that she recognized as the work of Molly McCabe, another local amateur artist. In the corner was his North Face duffel bag, stuffed full, the parka they’d bought together draped over it. Ready to go.
‘This is nice,’ she mumbled, turning to face him, seeing how he still limped, but already less noticeably than when she’d seen him last.
Had that really only been last night? When she’d run in from the wash block in the middle of the night and made the wrong call, their argument still festering between them, feelings hurt and brittle? It felt like her world had ended between now and then.
She knew there was no point in making small talk. She sank onto the end of the bed, noticing how he kept a distance between them. ‘I thought you’d left for Dublin.’
‘You were supposed to.’
She looked back at him, caught short by his bluntness. ‘And that’s okay? You just left without saying goodbye?’
‘I felt we’d said everything there was to be said between us.’
She frowned. ‘Did you?’
The air thickened between them and it was his turn to look away. ‘I don’t want you to think I wasn’t grateful for everything you did for me.’
‘Grateful,’ she echoed.
‘Sure.’ She watched as he walked over to the window and drew the curtains closed. He was wearing the jeans they’d bought together, one of the T-shirts too.
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well, don’t be grateful to me, Ben. You know I’m the reason you ended up in that position in the first place.’
‘No. Bertie should have put the signs out, whatever else he was doing. He should never have let you shoulder the blame.’
‘Look, I am no longer his greatest fan – as you might have heard,’ she said lightly, not quite able to meet his eyes. ‘But it really wasn’t entirely his fault. You would never have gone down that path if I’d been at my post.’
‘You weren’t on your post?’ He frowned.
She swallowed, mortified she had to keep admitting to this. ‘. . . I needed to pee. Really badly. So I had gone further around the headland to hide.’
He was quiet for a long moment. ‘So – just to be clear – you’re telling me that I incurred a ruptured ACL, broken arm, three broken ribs and a concussion – all so you wouldn’t get caught pulling a moony?’
She inhaled – and held the breath, not quite sure whether he was about to shout at her or— ‘Why are you smiling?’ she asked.
‘Because it’s funny.’
‘You could have died.’
He gave a shrug. ‘That would have been a lot less funny.’
God, that dry humour; she’d missed it even in the space of a day. She cracked a small grin. ‘So you don’t hate me then?’
‘No,’ he sighed, his smile fading, looking away again. ‘Already tried that.’
‘When I asked you to drop the case?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You should hate me for asking that.’
‘I know.’
She watched him, seeing now the invisible wall that surrounded him. ‘If it’s any consolation, I hate myself.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t do that. If there’s one thing I do know it’s that people will do anything for the one they love, and you’re in love with him.’ He shrugged, but she saw how his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, his shoulders inching imperceptibly higher.
‘Except . . .’ Her throat felt dry. ‘I’m not.’
Ben gave a small snort of disbelief. ‘Oh, you are.’
‘No.’
She let the word hang between them like a full stop, forcing him to look back at her.
‘I thought I was. I went to that party tonight to tell everyone about us. I was tired of waiting. I wanted my Red Dress life,’ she faltered, pinching at the fabric of the beautiful dress and seeing how his eyes skimmed over her, his breath catching.
‘I know. And then you found out he’d cheated on you too,’ he finished for her. ‘It was around the pub in minutes. “The Bertie Flanagan scandal”.’
‘Exactly. And you know what?’
He tipped his head, questioningly.
‘It was precisely what I wanted to hear. It was a huge shock, I won’t deny it, but it was also the most curious thing: it woke me up. Suddenly it was as if I could see myself from the outside – as if I’d climbed out of my own skin and all these confused fe
elings I had – and I could just see the whole sad, sorry mess of it. Like you did.’
His jaw clenched, as he remembered their argument.
‘And I felt sick. With myself, with what I’d done to others – to Shula, to my parents, my family.’ She looked directly at him. ‘And most of all, to you.’
‘Ottie—’
She got up and took a step towards him. ‘There’s that saying, isn’t there. Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it. Well, that was me tonight. Even before it came out about Lorna, as I was standing in there, I was realizing that I didn’t want him. I was trying to make myself do it, but I couldn’t. And it was so confusing, because he was all I’d thought I wanted for so long.’ She stared into space, remembering the crowded room, the sight of Shula coming through the crowd and the feeling of panic that she might actually leave her husband and let her have him. ‘And when it did all come out, what I mostly felt was relief. And what probably should have been this devastating loss wasn’t that at all – because that was what I’d felt when you’d gone.’
He looked up from staring at the patch on the carpet to find her walking over to him, and she saw all the vulnerability in his face that he always hid so well. His wife had broken his heart and he’d channelled his suffering into sport, made a virtue out of tolerating pain. ‘Ottie, I’m flying out tomorrow.’
It was supposed to be a defence. A reason to stop something before it began. There was no point. There was no time. But she stopped in front of him, toe-to-toe, knowing her Red Dress life when she saw it. She snaked a hand up his neck and into his hair.
‘Tell me that after you’ve kissed me.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Willow stood at the window, staring down at the sparkling silver ribbon of sea, the moon dancing over the water like a swan on a lake. The bench symmetrically positioned in the parterre immediately in front of here had always been her father’s favourite spot in the garden: set between the ancient yew hedges planted in four lover’s knots, the castle at his back, he had loved to watch the sailing boats glide past.
He had probably never envisioned a night when his beloved castle was pink, though. Or Christmas trees hung upside down from the rafters. Had she brought ‘teen spirit’ to Lorne? Had she given the grand old lady of the mount a facelift, or was this a travesty of her dignity? The party was still thumping away, various lovers walking the grounds, enjoying the moonlight.
She turned away from the window and walked around the library, the way he had done whenever he had something to ‘mull over’. It was one of the smallest rooms in the castle, and yet somehow the most important. It was the nerve centre of all Lorne operations. It was where her life had changed – and his too, for she had left the letter there knowing – sensing – he would find it one day; she had wanted him to suffer the way she did, for him to punish her mother when she couldn’t.
She stood in front of the volume of Silas Marner where her life had uncoiled. It had been an accidental happening, or perhaps a sleight of fate, for of all the books to have opened in this library, what had made her choose that one? It didn’t have any of the fancy lettering or ornate gilding of many others; it wasn’t the biggest, or the smallest, the rarest or most valuable. It had been an innocuous thing, plain and yet also deadly.
If she closed her eyes she could still see the bold, looping script – black ink, vellum paper – fragments of phrases indelibly scratched into her mind: ‘My darling Serena . . . everything I ever wanted . . . have longed for you . . . sick with love . . . give me another night . . . let me give you another life . . . deserve more than he can give you . . . I’ll leave Shula . . .’ It was the date written on it, nine months before her birth, that had revealed the whole truth.
What must her father have felt when he saw that letter? And painful though it must invariably have been, had it remotely compared to what its contents had meant for her – robbing her of her family, her identity, her legitimacy, in one fell swoop?
She pulled the book out by its spine, feeling the weight of it in her hands again. She tipped it forwards, her breath catching as she saw the envelope fall. Still there. Still bleeding poison between those pages . . . She picked up the letter – and stopped.
Her father’s handwriting. Blue paper. Her name.
She swallowed hard as she opened it, feeling a tremor through her hands, the past reaching into the present as though the wind was carrying a breath onto her neck.
May 13th, 2019
My little bird,
If you are reading this, then you are not only home, but you are here, back in the study, holding the book where you first learned the secret that made you run. That has been my hypothesis, anyway: that something happened to make you turn away from us. And I never knew what it was till I found the letter here too. Am I right?
If I am, let me start by saying I am sorry and I will be forever sorry, for I am to blame in all this, not your mother. She made a choice, forced upon her by my terrible guilt; the burden I placed upon her for a son was insufferable and it is a wonder that she ever stayed with me at all.
All my life, from the moment of my birth, I was told how lucky I was to be the 29th Knight of Lorne, how worthy, how privileged – and, of course, I was constantly told that it was my duty to provide a son to continue the line. For too many years, I believed that and I felt I had failed, for it is a terrible thing to know you shall be the break in the chain. But far worse than any of that was the shame that came over me when I learned what my selfish suffering had done: forcing my beautiful wife, your beloved mother, into an unthinkable situation; my cherished daughters growing up believing you weren’t enough, or worthy – when the truth is, I was the unworthy one.
I have loved you with every fibre of my being from the very moment you were born and the letter you and I both found here didn’t change that, not one bit. You are my daughter, not his, not ever, and I will fight to the death defending that. Because I have realized a very simple truth: the desire for a son, to produce another knight, is back-to-front thinking, for what use is a knight without his queen and princesses to serve and protect? Why would you even have knights if you didn’t have them?
You are why Lorne was built and you are why Lorne still stands and I hope, as you are reading this, that I am in the next room and that you will come to me – and forgive me.
But if I am too late – and I know I am sick – then take away this: that I may be the last knight, but I shall eternally be your father and my love for you will endure longer than any castle.
Always and forever,
Daddy.
The letter trembled in her shaking hand, tears falling onto the page and splashing onto the ink, making it bleed like her heart. Because he was too late. They both were.
‘Willow?’
She turned with a gasp, finding Connor standing across the room, the door closed. How long had he been there?
She hurriedly wiped the tears away with the flats of her hands, trying to gather herself back into a cohesive shape again, but she felt undone. This night had unravelled her, stitch by stitch.
Without a word, he walked over to her and pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, patting her eyes dry and taking a moment to hide her face in the cotton square.
When she finally drew back to look at him, she saw the reservation in his face as his eyes roamed over her, pouring light into her darkest corners, finding her secrets.
‘What’s—?’ He took a step back, as if she’d slapped him. ‘. . . You’re not going to sell to me.’
She inhaled sharply and held the breath for a moment, as though weighing the answer in her body, but she already knew: ‘No. I’m sorry.’
He rolled his lips together, looking angry but not surprised. ‘. . . Can I ask why?’
‘Because this is my home. It’s where I belong.’ She folded the letter back into thirds again, closing her eyes as she pressed it to her lips. ‘I’m home again.’
He stared at her, seeing the wetness of her lashes, understanding that the letter in her hands had somehow changed things. Everything. ‘But how are you going to afford to keep it? The capital you need to reinvest in it—’
‘I know. It’s huge. But we’ve had a little luck – for once,’ she gasped, a little sob of happiness and disbelief bursting from her again. Could it really be true?
She pointed to the Tesco bag on the desk.
With a puzzled look, Connor walked over to it, pulling out a package loosely wrapped in newspaper. He pushed back the sheets, revealing an ornate gilt-carved frame, and within it, the luminous portrait. He held it up.
‘She was my great-great-great-great-great-step-grandmother – I think. Elizabeth Carr, but she was known as Black Bess.’
Connor’s eyes fell to the signature in the corner before he looked back at her in astonishment. ‘It’s a Gainsborough.’
‘Yes,’ she said, the delight fizzing like bubbles in her throat. ‘He painted her in 1752. We assumed it had been lost in a fire but she must have stolen it from the castle when her stepson, the 15th knight, evicted her after his father’s death. She was notoriously vain and must have wanted to keep it with her.’
‘It’s stunning,’ he said flatly.
‘She hid it in the roof of the Dower House, in the furthest corner. We can’t believe it’s survived but she’d put it in a small wooden crate. She was no fool, I guess.’
‘Like her great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter.’ He put the painting back down again, carefully, staring at it for a long moment, seeing everything clearly now. ‘And so you’re going to sell this.’ His voice was tense. Brittle.
‘Yes.’
He paced slowly, glancing over at her. ‘Sell it, do up this place, live happily ever after. Oh no, wait, I forgot – you don’t believe in happy ever after.’
Didn’t she? She felt the letter between her fingertips: her father’s understanding and forgiveness for what his wife had done, her mother’s sacrifice and remorse. Their love had endured in spite of the worst betrayal. They had remained happy together even after her father had learned the truth. How had her father stomached seeing Bertie, she wondered? Had they come to blows, had it out? Or had it simply been enough for him to know he had the one thing Bertie’s riches could never buy: her mother’s love?
