The Last Secret of the Deverills

by Santa Montefiore

  Bertie shook his head. ‘Doesn’t she have to go to London?’ he asked, referring to Martha Wallace.

  ‘I don’t know when . . .’

  ‘Why don’t you see how today goes, eh? You might find you don’t like her as much as you thought you did,’ he said. JP knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  When at last it was time to leave, JP had read every word of the Irish Times, twice. He placed his hat upon his head, threw his coat over his jacket and straightened his tie in the mirror that hung in the hotel lobby. It was cold outside and misty. The trees in St Stephen’s Green looked thin and miserable in the fog, the birds earthbound and hungry, pecking the sodden ground for worms. Yet, nestled in the grass, were the emerging shoots of snowdrops, ready to bloom as soon as the winter sun shone.

  JP walked through the Green with his hands in his coat pockets, whistling a merry tune. But as he neared the hotel his nerves began to get the better of him. What if she wasn’t there? What if she didn’t want to see him? What if he had imagined her interest? Doubts flooded his mind and he stopped whistling and slowed his pace. Was it arrogant of him to assume that his feelings were reciprocated? Perhaps she had smiled at him only out of politeness. Perhaps his ardour had blinded him to that fact. He kicked a stone across the path and sighed. Then with his usual optimism he reasoned that he wouldn’t know until he saw her and if she declined his invitation he would simply return home on the evening train having learnt a valuable lesson in restraint.

  He arrived at the hotel and strode in. He ran his eyes around the small lobby but saw only a couple of old ladies in hats and coats sitting expectantly with their handbags on their knees. But he was a little early so it was no surprise that she hadn’t come down. After all, it was unseemly for a lady to be seen waiting for a gentleman.

  He stood by the window, pulled out his gold cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket and flicked it open with his thumb. He popped a cigarette between his lips and lit it. Then he waited, trying not to let his nervousness show.

  Suddenly he felt the air in the lobby change and turned round. There, standing at the reception desk in a pretty blue dress and hat, her coat draped over her arm, was Martha Wallace. Hastily JP stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to greet her. When she saw him she smiled and her cheeks flushed, which he took as a good sign. He recognized attraction when he saw it and he was relieved. ‘I’m so pleased you decided to come,’ he said, believing her even lovelier than she had been the day before in the Shelbourne.

  ‘I couldn’t very well refuse after you delivered such a beautiful bouquet of roses,’ she replied and she was surprised at how calm her voice sounded when on the inside she was trembling like a young fawn.

  ‘I’m glad you liked them,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I did, very much. Thank you.’ Just then Mrs Goodwin stepped round the corner in her coat and hat, a pair of gloves loose in her hand.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Goodwin,’ said JP, a little disappointed that Martha’s companion had decided to join them. He had hoped they might be given some time alone together. ‘Well, shall we get going? There’s a lot to see. I thought we could start with Trinity College and then wander up to the General Post Office. How much do you know of Irish history?’ he asked as they walked to the door.

  ‘I know nothing,’ Martha replied.

  ‘Then allow me to be your guide and tutor,’ said JP importantly, taking Martha’s coat and helping her into it. ‘But don’t worry, I won’t test you over lunch.’

  JP offered to take a taxi to Trinity College, an offer which Mrs Goodwin would have accepted with gratitude for it was a damp and foggy morning and her legs were still aching from the day before. But Martha wanted to walk through the Green as much as JP did and they set off beneath the trees. The elderly nanny walked a discreet distance behind, hoping that they might stop for a cup of tea once they got to the College.

  It wasn’t long before JP and Martha shed their nervousness and settled into an easy conversation. He asked her about her home in Connecticut and she asked him about Ballinakelly and both omitted to reveal the truth about their parentage. Martha’s omission was more deliberate because of her recent discovery, the subject being too raw to broach, whereas JP was so used to the unusual circumstances of his birth that he didn’t think them worth mentioning.

  Talking about all the positive things in her life came to Martha as a welcome respite. She didn’t mention that she and Mrs Goodwin were as fugitives on the run. Instead she told JP that her parents wanted her to see a little of the world and where better to start than in Ireland where her mother was born, which was partly true, for Pam Wallace’s family, the Tobins, came from Clonakilty.

  By the time they reached Trinity College Mrs Goodwin was pink in the face and panting. ‘I really must sit down,’ she said, relieved to see a little restaurant on the corner. Then, noticing Martha’s expression, she added, ‘Why don’t you two go on without me? I’ll settle into a nice chair and have a rest while you look around the College. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be perfectly fine with a cup of tea. Nothing like a cup of tea to restore one’s energy.’ JP didn’t forget his manners and escorted her inside, making sure she was given a table by the window.

  He sauntered out of the restaurant with a bounce in his step. Now he was alone with Martha and the feeling was intoxicating. She felt it too and her laughter came more readily. ‘Goodwin has been with my family since I was a baby,’ she told him. ‘She’s been my nanny and my friend and I’m so grateful to her for everything she has done for me. But I can’t help feeling a little thankful that the walk tired her out.’ She grinned and her freckles spread across her nose in the same way that JP’s did. ‘It makes me self-conscious to feel that I’m being watched.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ said JP. ‘Now I can be myself.’

  Martha raised her eyebrows. ‘And what is that exactly?’

  ‘A scoundrel and a reprobate!’ he teased.

  She laughed. ‘Your face is too gentle to be either of those things.’

  ‘A rascal?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not that either.’

  ‘A rogue?’

  She laughed and walked on.

  Then he took her hand. ‘A romantic?’

  Martha caught her breath and froze. No man besides her father had ever held her hand before. Her lips parted and she gazed at him in alarm then glanced over her shoulder, fearful that Mrs Goodwin might have changed her mind and followed them after all. In a second she came to her senses and pulled her hand away. Her skin seemed to burn beneath the glove. ‘Really, JP, you are forward.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have,’ he muttered. ‘Kitty used to tell me off as a boy for not knowing when I’d gone too far.’

  ‘Please don’t be sorry,’ she said, suddenly feeling bad for having overreacted. ‘We were having such a nice time. I don’t want to spoil it.’ She laughed at her own foolishness. ‘After all, you were only teasing.’

  ‘I can’t pretend I don’t want to hold your hand,’ he said seriously.

  ‘But I shall pretend that I don’t want you to. Isn’t that the way a lady should behave?’

  ‘Indeed it is. You are absolutely right. I shall give it time and then try again.’

  ‘Perhaps next time you will be more successful,’ she said coyly, astonished to find that she was flirting.

  ‘I can live in hope,’ he said, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets and walking on. ‘Now let me show you around the College where I shall be attending lectures this coming September.’

  Her face lit up with admiration. ‘Really? You’re going to study in this beautiful place?’

  ‘I am,’ he said proudly.

  As they wandered around the College Martha noticed that JP drew the attention of females everywhere. Young girls glanced at him and then glanced at him again. Ordinary women watched him admiringly, some even quite brazenly, while grand ladies in fur coats stole the odd peek from beneath the brims of
their hats. He had a charming, mischievous smile and sparkling grey eyes, but it was his charisma that attracted them, as if he somehow shone a little brighter than everyone else. Martha felt good being in his company, for a little of his light shone on her, giving her the confidence to be a bit more extrovert. She was no longer under the scrutiny of her mother. She could allow herself a freedom of movement and speech that she had never been permitted before. At first it was unsettling, for her patterns of behaviour were so ingrained and her reserve second nature. But as JP made her laugh she realized that, with him, she could be a truer version of herself.

  By the time they returned to the restaurant to find Mrs Goodwin they were chatting away as if they were old friends. Mrs Goodwin was restored and ready to join them on their visit to the General Post Office, which had been at the very centre of the Easter Rising in 1916. However, of much more interest to her as they walked up the street was the remarkable change in Martha. The girl seemed to have become another person in the hour that she had spent with Mr Deverill. In fact, they had settled into each other’s company like a perfectly harmonious melody. This wasn’t meant to happen, Mrs Goodwin thought to herself. They had come all the way from America to complete a mission and this was very distracting. Mrs Goodwin had hoped that they would find her mother as soon as possible so that Martha could return home to the Wallaces, who were no doubt worried sick at their daughter’s sudden disappearance. But now Martha had seemingly fallen for Mr Deverill, what was she going to do?

  As JP and Martha laughed and teased each other as if she wasn’t there, Mrs Goodwin kept her reservations to herself. She was grateful that she was no longer in the employ of the Wallaces for she doubted Mrs Wallace would think very highly of this budding romance, even though Mr Deverill’s father was a lord, which might go some way towards pacifying her. They certainly wouldn’t thank her for having witnessed it and done nothing to prevent it. On the other hand, Mrs Goodwin knew that Mrs Wallace was highly competitive with her two sisters-in-law so Martha bagging a future lord, if the boy was indeed the eldest son, could trump them all.

  As Martha and Mrs Goodwin had already had tea at Bewley’s the day before, JP invited them to the Gresham for lunch. JP was not partial to the formality of the place but his father liked to go there and all JP had to do was sign the bill. Mrs Goodwin had intended to leave them alone while she went and browsed the shelves in Brown Thomas, but she was so enjoying herself that she quite forgot and the two young people had to include her in their conversation when they would have much preferred to talk to each other.

  While Mrs Goodwin gabbled on, Martha and JP communicated their amusement in surreptitious looks that passed silently between them. Although Martha felt marginally guilty for allowing her beloved nanny to become a figure of fun, she relished this wordless conversation that was more like the secret communication of long-standing conspirators than the frustrated glances of two people who had only recently met. By the time lunch was over they truly felt bonded.

  Neither JP nor Martha wanted the day to end. But the sky grew dark above them and the wind blew damp and cold through the streets of the city. The yellow glow of electric light blazed through the thickening fog, reflecting on the wet pavements like spilt gold. Mrs Goodwin was keen to return to the hotel, reminding Martha that they had to pack their suitcases in order to leave promptly for London the following morning, but Martha was in no hurry to draw to a close probably the most wonderful day she had ever had. ‘Why don’t you go back in a cab, Goodwin, and I’ll follow shortly,’ she suggested.

  ‘Allow me to pay for the cab,’ interjected JP who was disappointed that he too would have to leave for home. ‘You look weary and I give you my word that I will see that Martha is back at the hotel by five. I have to be at the Shelbourne at half past to meet my father, so I will drop her off on the way.’ He smiled his most charming smile and added, ‘I will look after her, Mrs Goodwin. I promise.’

  Mrs Goodwin’s legs ached and her feet were sore. If she hadn’t been so tired she might have declined his offer and stuck it out until the very last, but as it was she was barely able to climb into the cab. She hoped to God that JP was a man of honour.

  As they watched her cab disappear around the corner JP turned to Martha, a sudden sorrow flooding his heart. It was as if he was about to lose something enormously precious. ‘There’s one more thing I want to show you,’ he said.

  He led her up the streets to the River Liffey that glistened like a black serpent sliding through the mist. Straddling the bridge that crossed it were two iron arches crowned with lamps that shone weakly through the fog. It was a beautiful sight and a lump lodged itself in JP’s throat at the thought of having to leave her. ‘This is Ha’penny Bridge,’ he said softly. ‘It’s tradition to toss in a coin for luck.’

  They walked to the middle then stood gazing into the glossy darkness below. JP put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a couple of pennies. ‘Make a wish,’ he told her, handing her a penny.

  Martha frowned. ‘Can I have two wishes?’

  ‘No, you’re only allowed one,’ he replied.

  ‘But I have two,’ she protested, smiling feebly because she really did have two and she couldn’t choose between them.

  ‘Well, I have only one,’ he said firmly, tossing his coin into the water below. They listened for the plop but nothing came. It simply dissolved into the mist. He closed his eyes and made his wish: I wish that I will see Martha Wallace again. As he spoke those words inside his head he realized how passionately he meant them. ‘Your turn,’ he said, leaning on the iron railing and looking at her with an intensity that made something inside her stomach flutter.

  ‘All right,’ she said. She squeezed her eyes shut and wondered how she could get two wishes into one without it being disqualified. She remained a moment thinking very hard. At last it came to her. I wish that I find my mother and she leads me back to JP.

  She still had her eyes shut when she felt his hand take hers. She opened them and looked down to see her glove in his. She gazed at him and he gazed at her and the realization that they would soon be parted stole their breath.

  Slowly and deliberately Martha took off her glove. Understanding immediately, JP took off his. Smiling shyly, she gave him her hand. It was delicate and warm with long fingers that tapered prettily. As he touched her she felt a frisson ripple across her entire body as if he hadn’t just taken her hand, but her whole being.

  ‘I will write to you in Ballinakelly,’ she said, no longer feeling the need for caution.

  ‘You must let me know where I can write to you,’ he replied.

  She didn’t want to think about returning to America. She didn’t want to think of anything that would take her from this man who had slipped so easily into her heart. It was as if he had always been there. ‘I will find a way,’ she replied.

  Reluctantly they set off back down the bridge, hand in hand. JP would return to Ballinakelly on the evening train with his father and Martha would travel to London in the hope of finding her birth mother. But both knew that their chance meeting at the Shelbourne had changed everything.

  Chapter 3

  Ballinakelly

  In the dim light of the Doyles’ farmhouse, Old Mrs Nagle lay dying. She had been expiring for days now, seeming to resist the call with a ferocity of will astonishing in such a minute and feeble woman. Her family, weary of the long-drawn-out wait, stood around her bedside, anticipating her final breath.

  There was her daughter, Mariah Doyle, who pushed the well-worn beads of her rosary through fingers coarsened from having known only toil and hard winters. Her face had been set into a scowl for thirty years now, ever since her husband had been murdered by a tinker, and her only comfort was her religion and its promise of eternal rest. There were her grandsons, Michael and Sean, two very different men in both looks and character. Michael was tall and broad with thick curly hair as black as his eyes and a powerful charisma that repelled and attracted in equal measure, while h
is younger brother Sean was fairer of hair and lighter of skin with kind hazel eyes and a smile that was full of all the charm his brother lacked. Rosetta, Sean’s wife, and mother of their five children ranging in age from four to thirteen, had grown fat and slothful and her beauty had faded. But there was sunshine in her melodious Italian vowels and a sweetness in her nature that ensured her husband’s eye never strayed, and if on occasion it wandered that it always came back. Rosetta stood by Old Mrs Nagle’s bed and prayed for her soul – and hoped that God would take pity on them all and release them from this daily vigil so that they could leave this uncomfortable little farmhouse and go and live up at the castle with Sean’s sister Bridie, who, to everyone’s surprise except Rosetta’s, was its new owner.

  The wind rattled the window panes and the rain clattered against the glass and the February skies hung low and heavy and dark. The cows were restless in the cowsheds, their breath rising into the damp air to create a fog as dense inside as it was outside and the gulls huddled together against the rocks as the winter gales battered the shore. Yet, as Bridie was driven down the valley towards the farmhouse where she had grown up, she felt only nostalgia, which came in waves, sweeping in memories she had so far managed to ignore. She had been in Ballinakelly a week now and every day, when she came to visit her grandmother, she found she retrieved a little bit more of herself.

  Old Mrs Nagle turned her head to the door as her youngest grandchild walked in. Her raisin eyes lit up with intent and her mouth, a black cavern of toothless gums, opened and closed like a fish as she tried, and failed, to speak. She attempted to lift her hand and Bridie pushed past her brothers and knelt beside her, taking her bony fingers in her hands as if cradling a little bird. Old Mrs Nagle gazed into her granddaughter’s eyes and Bridie longed to tell her what she had been through. That she hadn’t left Ballinakelly all those years ago because she’d been offered a better life in America but because she had been seduced by Lord Deverill at the castle, forced to give birth in a convent in Dublin and persuaded to leave forever so that Bertie Deverill could pretend that the tawdry affair had never happened. She wanted her grandmother to know that she had had to endure the agony of losing her son not once but twice, because her brother Michael had stolen the child from the convent and left him on Kitty Deverill’s doorstep in order that she, the baby’s half-sister, could raise him as her own. When Bridie had returned some years later to Ballinakelly and discovered that her boy was in Kitty’s care she had been forced to accept that she had lost him all over again.