JP resolved to write back at once, to the address stated in the letter, and tell her that he would go to London, under the pretext of visiting his uncle Harry, as soon as he received word from her that she would wait for him. He could barely conceal his impatience to see her again. He raised his eyes to the sky and noticed a thick wall of cloud making its way in over the water. Closing his eyes he could feel a light drizzle on his skin. He didn’t care about a little rain, or even a storm, for his spirit was warm with the memory of Martha’s smile and the touch of her hand in his.
Alana O’Leary was ten years old, but, being the eldest of Jack and Emer’s children, she appeared older. She was innately wise, opinionated, responsible and fiercely independent. Born in America and then raised in Argentina, where she had learned to speak Spanish like a native, Alana had been given the gifts of a broad mind and self-confidence. Her accent was hard to place, being a mixture of the three influences in her life: American-English, Irish and Spanish, and her character, shaped by years of living in two different cultures, was considered a little eccentric by the insulated children of Ballinakelly. But Alana relished being different. Where other children might have shrunk from those differences, Alana took her pleasure. Her parents had brought her up to be proud of who she was.
With her mother’s fair hair and her father’s pale blue eyes Alana was already striking. There was a vitality that shone through her features which separated her from the rest. She seemed more alert than other children, more curious and more daring, going wherever that curiosity took her, especially if it was into the unknown. The one thing she loved more than anything else, and which Co. Cork had in abundance, was countryside. Alana adored the sea, the rivers and streams, the thick forests and long grasses of Ireland and the host of creatures in it. It was all she could do to restrain herself and sit quietly at her desk in class while nature beckoned to her in whispers that were carried into the classroom on the salty breeze.
So, one morning she climbed the stone wall at the back of the schoolhouse, tearing the skirt of her blue dress on one of the flints, and ran down the narrow back streets of Ballinakelly and out towards the hills. The sky shone a cerulean blue and gulls wheeled beneath it, the tips of their white wings catching the winter sun and glinting. With her heart overflowing with joy Alana left the track and bounded along a path that cut through the heather until the schoolhouse and the nuns who taught there were far behind her. When she was sure she wasn’t going to be caught she slowed her pace to a walk. With only her cardigan to keep her warm and leather boots to keep her feet dry, she began to relish her freedom without giving a thought to the cold February air and the heavy clouds making their way slowly inland.
The path led into the hills and Alana skipped along it, gazing around her in wonder. There were sheep grazing among the rocks and birds chirruping in the bushes. She noticed a pair of tawny hares that hopped off when she tried to approach them and the flash of a fox’s tail as it disappeared behind the crest of a knoll. When she spotted a cat hunting in the long grass she followed it, straying off the path and wandering deeper into the wildness. At length she found a stream and knelt beside it, cupping her hands to drink the water there. She didn’t notice that her dress was now stained with mud and that the ribbons had fallen out of her hair, for her adventure was wholly absorbing. She delighted in the trickling sound of the rivulet and in the distant roaring of the sea and when rain began to fall lightly onto her face she delighted in that too.
It wasn’t until she began to feel cold that the adventure lost a little of its attraction. She looked for the way back to town but recognized nothing. There was no path, no track, only hills and fields and forests and the wind that was now blowing stronger as those grey clouds gathered ominously above her, darkening the sky. But Alana didn’t feel afraid, only cross with herself for having got lost. She should have kept to the path, she thought, as she began to make her way down the slope, following the stream. Didn’t all streams lead to the sea?
With Martha’s letter folded into the inside pocket of his coat, pressed against his heart, JP walked his horse over the crest of the hill he knew so well. He’d ridden across this land, which had once belonged to his family, since he was a boy, and no other place on earth, in his opinion, was as beautiful. However, it seemed even more beautiful today in the light of Martha’s letter. He glanced at the scudding clouds and blinked as the drizzle was blown onto his eyelashes, and yet there was beauty in its bleakness in spite of the darkening day. He took pleasure from the yellow gorse and large swathes of brown heather and stopped his horse to enjoy the moment. He’d bring Martha here one day, he resolved. He was certain that she’d love it like he did.
At that moment he saw a small figure in the distance, wandering slowly down the hill. He could see that it was a girl by her blue dress and long hair, and, by the unsteady way that she was walking, he sensed that she was in trouble. He squeezed his horse into a canter and made his way over the sodden ground towards her.
When Alana heard the sound of hooves she looked up and watched him approach. Too proud to let the stranger know that she was lost she lifted her chin and hid her relief behind a lofty gaze.
‘Hello there,’ he said, slowing down to a trot. Alana took a step back as the rider drew the horse to a halt. The horse snorted through big glistening nostrils and tossed its glossy mane. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I’m all right,’ Alana replied, sweeping her wet hair off her face with a muddy hand.
JP narrowed his eyes. He didn’t recognize the child or her accent. She clearly wasn’t from around here. ‘Are you sure?’ he persisted, for he could see that she was shivering. Suddenly aware of her appearance she glanced down at her torn and muddy dress, her waterlogged boots and dirty socks. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked and when Alana looked at him again she noticed that he was smiling at her kindly.
‘I was christened Rosaleen, but when I was little my mam called me Alana, which means “baby” in Gaelic, and everyone copied her. So I’m Alana, Alana O’Leary,’ she replied.
He smiled in amusement at her long reply and at the confident way she had delivered it. ‘Ah, you’re an O’Leary, are you?’ he said, his face creasing into a frown because she didn’t sound like one.
‘I’ve just arrived from Argentina,’ Alana explained. ‘My father used to be the veterinarian in Ballinakelly before moving to America. He’s called Jack O’Leary.’
JP nodded, for he knew of Jack O’Leary. ‘And what are you doing wandering the hills on your own? You don’t even have a coat.’
Alana pulled at her cardigan for she felt suddenly shy in front of this stranger who didn’t talk like the people she was used to. ‘I forgot it. Anyway, it was sunny when I left the school.’
‘I see,’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’ve run away from school, have you?’
Encouraged by his grin, which had more than a hint of mischief in it, she smiled and added, ‘I don’t like school.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone does. No one likes having to learn things. I was always much happier out here than inside, studying. But it’s going to rain heavily soon, look at those clouds, and you’re a long walk from Ballinakelly.’ Alana looked forlornly into the valley. ‘Do you realize you’re walking the wrong way?’ he said gently. She shook her head. ‘If you continue walking this way you’ll end up in Drimoleague.’
‘I don’t know Drimoleague.’
‘Lovely place, but not for today.’ JP dismounted and Alana was impressed by the ease with which he swung himself out of the saddle. She could see now that beneath the rim of his hat his eyes were a pale grey and very twinkly. He shrugged off his jacket. ‘Put this on before you catch cold and I’ll give you a ride home. You’ll have to show me where you live.’
‘I’m going to go on that?’ she asked, looking up at the horse as he helped her into his jacket. It was much too big for her, nearly reaching her knees, but it was warm. She realized then how cold she was and shivered a
gain.
‘Have you never ridden?’
‘No. Da rides horses but Ma is afraid of them.’
‘You don’t need to be afraid of Dervish, she’s a gentle thing.’ He put his hands beneath her arms. ‘When I say jump, jump.’ Before Alana had time to think she was being lifted into the saddle. The man handed her the reins then put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up to sit behind her. ‘Right,’ he said, putting his arms around her to take the reins. ‘You ready?’ Slowly the horse made its way back up the hill. ‘My name’s JP Deverill: J for Jack, like your father, and P for Patrick, like the patron saint of Ireland. Your family and mine have been in Co. Cork for hundreds of years. Did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘How old are you, Alana?’
‘Ten and a half,’ she replied.
‘Do you like Ireland?’
‘I love Ireland,’ she said and JP could tell from the enthusiasm in her voice that she truly did.
‘Tell me, what was it like growing up in Argentina?’
She leaned back against his warm body and sighed. ‘I lived in America first. In New York. But I was only little when I left so I don’t remember much about it. I remember our apartment and I remember the snow in winter. There was no snow in Buenos Aires and the sky was always blue. But I prefer Ireland. Do you know I saw a fox just now? Only the tail, but it was definitely a fox. I know all about animals because my father liked to tell me stories of when he was a veterinarian.’
JP let the child chatter on and was surprised by her maturity. She seemed older than her years. She wasn’t shy in telling him about her life nor was she nervous about sitting on a horse. By the time they reached the town Alana had shared many of her experiences with JP and he had listened with amused interest, for she was a lively and unusual child.
With her torn and muddy dress Alana was in no condition to go back to school, so she directed JP to the house her father was renting while he looked for somewhere to build. It was whitewashed with a grey tiled roof and situated on the outskirts of town, a short distance from the sea. JP dismounted and then helped Alana down. ‘Thank you for bringing me home,’ she said. Then remembering that she was wearing his jacket, she took it off. ‘I’m warm now,’ she added, handing it back.
‘Go and have a hot drink,’ he suggested. ‘And hope your mother doesn’t send you back to school!’
As he was about to mount again the front door opened and a fair-haired woman with the same colouring as the girl stood in the doorway with a surprised look on her face. She swept her gaze over the ripped dress and dirty boots then looked at JP in bewilderment.
JP took off his hat, revealing a mop of red hair. ‘I found your daughter wandering the hills like a fox,’ he explained and when he grinned at Alana the child felt something respond with a leap in her belly.
‘Wandering the hills?’ said Emer O’Leary. ‘Alana?’
‘I don’t like school,’ the girl responded with a shrug. ‘So I went in search of a different kind of education. Da would approve,’ she added, glancing impishly at JP, knowing that her cheek would amuse him. JP was interested to see that it amused her mother too.
The corners of Emer’s lips curled indulgently and she put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, you’d better go in and clean up, hadn’t you? I have company. Countess di Marcantonio is in the drawing room, so when you are presentable you can come and say hello.’ Then she turned to JP. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘JP Deverill,’ he said, extending his hand. Emer shook it and felt a blush flourish on her cheeks for the young man was very attractive.
‘Mrs O’Leary,’ she replied, and then felt a little silly because she was sure that Alana had already introduced herself. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? It’s cold and wet out here and we have a boisterous fire in the drawing room and a fresh pot of tea. Have you met the Countess?’
‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ JP replied. He would have enjoyed meeting the infamous Countess di Marcantonio, the woman who had turned Kitty and his father into a lather of fury, but he knew that Kitty, at least, would not wish them to socialize. ‘I really must be getting on.’ He replaced his hat.
‘You’re very kind. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
‘It was no trouble, really,’ said JP. ‘Your daughter kept me entertained with stories of Buenos Aires all the way back down the hill.’
‘I bet she did.’ Emer shook her head at the thought of her loquacious child and JP mounted his horse and then set off back down the road.
When Emer returned to the drawing room Bridie was sitting beside the fire. ‘That was Mr Deverill,’ Emer told her new friend.
Bridie blanched. ‘Mr Deverill?’
‘JP Deverill. He brought Alana down from the hills. She’d run off.’ Emer laughed and Bridie feigned amusement while inside she suffered a stab to the heart. ‘He’s a handsome young man.’
‘He is indeed,’ said Bridie in a thin voice. She recalled the moment she had tried to lure him away with her when he was a little boy and turned her face to the fire so that Emer wouldn’t see her cheeks burning with shame.
‘Are you all right, Bridie?’ Emer asked softly.
‘It’s nothing,’ Bridie replied quickly. ‘I think I might be a little hungry. Could I trouble you for a biscuit?’
‘Of course.’ Emer hurried out of the room, leaving Bridie alone with her thoughts for a blessed moment. She wished it had been she who had answered the door. She longed to see her son, to talk to him, for him to know her even though he would never know what she was to him. She wanted so very badly for him to acknowledge her existence.
Bridie stood up and went to the window. She hoped she might glimpse JP walking down the road but of course he had long gone. She stood gazing out onto the drizzle and realized that she couldn’t go on knowing that he was living only a few miles from the castle and not being able to see him. She had to do something. She had to engineer a chance meeting. She’d think of something. She’d ask the Virgin Mary to inspire her. After all, she was a mother; of all the saints, the Virgin Mary would understand the most.
Excited by the letter he’d received JP decided to pay his father a visit on his way home. Bertie was the one person JP could confide in about Martha because he had been present when they had met. He had also given him good advice. JP was sure that, when it came to matters of the heart, his father was the best qualified to advise. Of course, JP suspected Kitty knew that he had fallen in love, his half-sister was too savvy to miss that sort of thing, but he didn’t feel ready to share it with her. He hadn’t told Robert either, not because he didn’t trust him, but because he knew he would tell Kitty and then there’d be no end to her prying. He wanted to keep Martha to himself for the time being.
JP reached the Hunting Lodge, which was an austere grey house with pointed gables and dark windows where Kitty had grown up while her grandparents lived in the castle. The air was cold for a dampness rose off the river that flowed past the house towards the sea. Kitty said it was always damp there, even in summer, and made no secret of the fact that she felt no fondness for the place whatsoever. JP handed his horse to one of the grooms then strode into the house. He found his father in the drawing room with his wolfhounds at his side, giving instructions to a couple of men who were taking down the portrait of Adeline. ‘Ah, hello, young man,’ said Bertie. ‘Careful, Mr Barrett, it’s heavier than it looks.’
‘Yes, m’lord,’ said Mr Barrett, turning red with exertion.
‘Why are you taking Grandma down?’ JP asked.
‘There’s a leak, another leak, and I want to protect the painting. It’s a rather good likeness of her, I think.’
‘She was beautiful,’ said JP.
‘She was. It’s a pity you’re too young to have known her.’
‘She looks like Kitty.’
‘Yes, she does. The same red hair and pale grey eyes and the same expression. Sometimes the likeness is so uncanny I have to pinch myself. I’ll
put the painting back as soon as the wall dries. Won’t waste money on repairs. I dare say the eye will be drawn away from the stain by the picture.’
Mr Barrett and his helper began to stagger out into the hall. ‘Careful now,’ said Bertie again. ‘There’s no rush, Mr Barrett. Take your time. Molly here will show you where to put it, won’t you, Molly? And do be careful to cover it. I don’t want it to get dusty.’
‘Yes, Lord Deverill,’ said the rosy-faced maid in a white apron who had appeared in the doorway. She beckoned the men towards the library and, they hoped, to a rewarding drink afterwards.
‘I tell you, JP, it’s a miracle this place is still standing,’ said Bertie, sinking into an armchair and shaking his head at the sorry state of the room. ‘But there’s no point despairing. We’re lucky to have a roof over our heads.’
‘Perhaps the Countess will repair it,’ said JP, taking the other armchair. ‘After all, she owns it now and you pay rent. It’s up to her to make sure it’s in good shape.’
Bertie huffed as if he didn’t think much of the Countess. ‘Better not mention her to Kitty or you’ll get an earful.’ He grinned. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’ JP’s face beamed with a broad smile. ‘Ah, you’ve had a letter, have you?’ said Bertie, watching his son pull an envelope out of his jacket pocket. ‘She likes you, does she?’
‘I think she does,’ said JP.
‘Then you must go to London,’ Bertie urged him.
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said JP with relief.
The Last Secret of the Deverills Page 9
