Kitty’s heart lifted at the expansive view of rocky peaks and grassy slopes and the noise of crashing waves below grounded her in the present so that for a magical moment her mind stilled and she was aware only of her senses. Then the grim grey walls of the MacCartains’ castle came into view and Kitty was dragged out of her reverie as once again she questioned how on earth her sister could live in such an unattractive place.
Dunderry Castle was not at all like Castle Deverill. It looked more like a fortress than a palace. The windows were small like mean little eyes on the face of a bitter old man who had long forgotten to smile. There were no gardens to soften it, only soggy grass and rocks, and even the ivy, with its voracious appetite for climbing walls, had recoiled from those slippery stones, leaving them bare and severe. As Kitty approached, big black crows cawed assertively from the turrets, frightening away the more gentle robins and wrens, so that the only sound was their forbidding banter. She decided that Elspeth must love Peter very much to put up with living there.
Kitty rode her horse round to the stable block at the back to find Peter and Elspeth on the cobbles talking to Mr Browne, the head groom. They were looking at a sturdy grey mare with worried expressions on their faces. When Elspeth saw Kitty, she pulled away from the group to greet her. ‘Jezebel is lame,’ she announced.
‘Oh dear,’ said Kitty, dismounting. ‘Is it serious?’
‘I hope not. She’s been lame for a couple of days. I’ve called the vet.’
Kitty’s breath caught in her throat. ‘The vet?’ she repeated. Surely not Jack, she thought.
‘Yes, he’s on his way. She was only shod a couple of days ago so Mr Browne suspects the farrier’s done a rum job!’ she added crossly. ‘Mr O’Leary will know what to do.’
Kitty felt a rising panic in her chest. ‘Well, I can see that you’re busy,’ she said, leading her horse away. ‘I’ll come back later.’
Elspeth laughed. ‘Don’t be silly!’ she said, frowning. ‘He’ll only be a minute.’
‘I have things to do,’ Kitty blurted, knowing that Elspeth was thinking her behaviour irrational.
‘Kitty!’ But as Kitty was about to mount her horse the rattling sound of a car distracted them both and they turned to see a black Ford Model T making its way towards them. Inside, at the wheel, was the unmistakable face of Jack O’Leary.
Kitty walked her horse out of the way to let him pass as he turned the car into the stable yard. As she did so she caught his eye. He seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. They stared at each other and as they did so the blood rushed into Kitty’s face to burn her cheeks. Her lips parted and she gazed helplessly as Jack’s expression hardened, and it wasn’t the face of the man she remembered but the face of the man she had left behind in the cottage, the man whose spirit she had broken, and she was overcome by a wave of remorse.
The car drew to a halt, the door opened and Jack climbed out. Kitty had no choice but to stay. She observed him from a distance and as she did so she suffered a searing sense of loss. This man whose skin had once felt as familiar as her own was now a stranger to her. There was a rigidity to him that had never been there before and she longed to wrap her arms around him and soften him with kisses. But she doubted her kisses would penetrate the hurt she had inflicted. He had a wife who kissed him now. She remembered the way he had wound his arm around Emer’s waist and bent his head to listen to what she had to say and she felt her stomach cramp with jealousy. But Kitty only had herself to blame. She remained close to her horse, watching him warily, knowing that his rejection was exactly what she deserved.
Elspeth greeted him warmly. ‘You remember my sister, don’t you, Mr O’Leary?’ she said innocently, for Kitty had never confided in her. Jack didn’t look at Kitty directly but nodded and doffed his cap. Kitty nodded back and mumbled a salutation. Elspeth might have noticed her sister’s embarrassment had she not already been making her way to her horse. With the horse Jack was himself again: confident, assertive and wise. He seemed to forget that Kitty was a few yards away, gazing at him with yearning. He bent down and ran his capable hands over the horse’s leg – those hands that she had once known so well. How often they had caressed her body, bringing her to great heights of pleasure. How often she had thought of that in the years following his departure to America. Sometimes, when she and Robert made love, she would find herself drifting into her memories and the intensity of her pleasure would be increased because of Robert’s hands being substituted for Jack’s. She put her fingers to her lips and stroked the skin there absent-mindedly.
Jack lifted the horse’s leg to examine the hoof. He was completely absorbed in his work and Kitty remembered how she used to watch him. He had a special way with animals for they responded to his gentleness with trust and submission. He had always been kind, even to the ugly spider. There was not a single one of God’s creatures that Jack didn’t treat with respect, only the human. The War of Independence had shown Kitty that.
Jack inspected every inch of the horse, his face frowning with concentration as he checked for heat and swelling. At length he patted the horse’s neck and Kitty could see from his expression that the problem was nothing serious. Elspeth, Peter and Mr Browne laughed at something he said then Elspeth came running over to Kitty. ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘Jezebel just needs rest and poultices. Mr O’Leary is going to make her better. Sadly, I won’t be taking her out for a while.’
‘That’s a shame, but at least she’s going to get well,’ said Kitty, trying to focus on her sister’s earnest face and not to let her gaze wander back to Jack.
‘Come inside. It’s cold out here. Let’s have a cup of tea. How’s Florence? I hope she’s recovered from her cold?’
‘It was nothing,’ Kitty replied distractedly.
A groom strode over to take Kitty’s horse and she suddenly felt exposed without the warm body of the animal beside her. She hesitated a moment, wringing her hands, reluctant to follow Elspeth inside. She knew Jack didn’t wish to speak to her. She wouldn’t know what to say to him anyhow. He’d had enough of her apologies. She’d let him down too many times now to ever win back his trust. But she wasn’t sure when she’d see him again and the anxiety of losing an opportunity began to suffocate her. She remained rooted to the spot, staring at him powerlessly, knowing that if she didn’t move soon she’d arouse suspicion and anger him further.
‘Are you coming, Kitty?’ said Elspeth.
At that moment Jack looked at her again. He understood her too well not to read the desperation in her eyes. He knew exactly how she was feeling, and yet he remained coldly unresponsive and Kitty turned away and followed after her sister, nursing her wounded pride.
Emer had just put Liam to bed when Jack arrived home from O’Donovan’s. She could smell the stout on him as he walked into the kitchen, pulled her against him and kissed her neck. She laughed and brushed him off, aware of the little eyes watching them from the kitchen table. Alana jumped up, abandoning her mug of hot milk, and embraced her father. Jack bent over to kiss the top of her head, finding comfort in the sweet smell of her hair. There was nothing like the love of a child to restore the broken spirit.
‘How are you, my little Alana?’ he asked.
‘School was boring,’ she replied.
‘School is always boring,’ Jack chuckled. ‘If you listen you might learn something.’
‘It was such a beautiful day. I wanted to escape into the hills again.’
‘You’ll be doing none of that,’ said Jack, an uneasiness creeping over him as he thought of her running into JP Deverill again.
She grinned up at him, her cheeks glowing. ‘I’ll get lost just so that JP can find me.’
Jack shook his head. ‘You stay away from those Deverills,’ he warned tersely. ‘They’re bad news.’
Emer smiled at her daughter indulgently. ‘He was handsome, I grant you that.’
‘Handsome?’ Jack exclaimed. ‘Alana is ten years old. She s
houldn’t have an opinion about whether or not a man is handsome! I don’t want to hear another word about JP Deverill, Alana. I’m going to say goodnight to Liam. Might he still be awake?’
‘I’m sure he’s waiting for you,’ said Emer softly. ‘Kiss Aileen, she’ll feel it in her sleep.’
Jack left the room and climbed the stairs to the bedroom Liam shared with Alana. The boy’s eyes could be seen glinting in the darkness. Jack smiled and sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his son’s forehead tenderly. ‘You have a good day, Liam?’
‘Yes, Da,’ the child replied.
‘You been good for your ma?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
‘How was your day, Da?’ the boy asked and Jack was touched. Alana never thought of anyone but herself while Liam, who was only seven, was always concerned about those around him.
‘Mag Keohane’s dog Didleen swallowed a sock,’ Jack told him.
‘Did it die?’ Liam asked.
‘No, it didn’t die. But I don’t think Mag will want the sock back when it finally comes out, do you?’ The little boy giggled. ‘Badger Hanratty’s goat has got a cough.’
‘I didn’t know animals got coughs.’
‘They get coughs and colds just like us,’ Jack told him.
‘Will it die?’
‘No, it will be fine. Then I went to see Mrs MacCartain’s horse.’
‘What did that have?’
‘A sprain.’
‘It won’t die then?’
Jack gently pinched the boy’s nose. ‘What’s all this about dying, Liam?’
‘Everything dies in the end,’ he said fearfully.
‘Yes, it does. But that’s God’s plan, son.’
‘Then what happens?’
‘We go to Heaven and meet up with all the people we love who went before us. That’s what catechism teaches us, doesn’t it.’
‘Yes,’ said Liam and his eyes began to droop. ‘I don’t want you or Mam to die.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Jack and he bent down to kiss the boy’s forehead. ‘God bless you, son.’ He watched his child sink into slumber. He remained a moment on the edge of the bed, gazing into the innocent face and wondering what life had in store for his boy. He hoped Fate would be kinder to Liam than it had been to him.
He thought of Kitty then. He saw her standing by her horse, her red hair falling in thick tendrils over her shoulders and down her back, her pale grey eyes gazing at him in defeat. He felt her sorrow and her regret as if he were inextricably tied to her by the heart and his misery flooded into his chest as it had done that day in the cottage after she had told him she wouldn’t be running away with him to America. He had allowed her to leave, training his eyes on the sea with all the might he could muster in order to stop himself from chasing after her; from falling to his knees and begging her to change her mind. It had taken all his strength to remain there by the window, and only when he was sure that she had gone had he allowed his devastation to overwhelm him. He had sobbed until there was nothing left of him. Then he had picked up his suitcase and vowed never to return to Ballinakelly. Over the years that followed, his hurt had wrapped itself around his heart like scar tissue, thick and impenetrable. He had believed himself incapable of loving anyone else and yet Emer, with her gentle patience and unrestrained devotion, had proved him wrong.
Together they had built a life in America and then, later, when he was fleeing from the Mafia, in Buenos Aires, where he had bought an Irish pub, and she had never complained about his lifestyle or the gun he always kept under his pillow. She had followed him dutifully from America to Argentina and now to Ireland and she seemed to be happy wherever she was as long as she was with him. Kitty had chosen Ireland over their love and he could never forgive her for that. Emer deserved his affection and his loyalty. She deserved his devotion too.
After kissing Aileen, who slept in a cot in the next-door bedroom, he left the room purposefully, wanting suddenly to hold his wife and thank her for her love, which was unconditional, unselfish and pure.
Cesare watched seventeen-year-old Niamh O’Donovan help her mother behind the bar. The sight of the pale, lightly freckled skin on her chest aroused him. She had large, bouncy breasts, a small waist and a plump, rounded bottom that wiggled when she walked. She wore her brown hair up, which showed off her long neck and pretty ears, as exquisite as little shells, and, in spite of her carefully applied crimson lipstick, she still looked fresh and buxom as if she had just crawled out of bed. She noticed him watching her and gave him a playful smile.
Cesare had only been in Ballinakelly a few weeks but he’d bedded enough women to ensure that the quiet Irish town did not bore him. Grace Rowan-Hampton was too old now to be of interest to him in that respect, but she was eager to make herself useful. True to her word she had come up with a list of people to invite to the summer ball. It would be a way of introducing the Count and Countess to Co. Cork, she had explained. Everyone would come out of curiosity but leave full of admiration and affection. The thought of a glittering ball full of lovely young women, ripe for seduction, appealed to Cesare who had long since tired of making love to his wife.
Cesare was sitting at a table in the corner of O’Donovan’s with Badger Hanratty, an old rascal with curly white hair and a thick white beard and big, twinkling blue eyes, brimming with mischief. He had introduced Cesare to the illegal poteen that he brewed behind a hayrick on his farm and it had nearly burned the insides of his gullet. On Badger’s left with his back to the room was Jack O’Leary, who was more of a kindred spirit to Cesare for he had lived in America and was closer to him in age. According to Bridie, Jack had played an important part in the War of Independence and killed many men along the road to freedom. Cesare didn’t doubt it. Jack had a darkness about the eyes and a suspicious glint that shone through them whenever the door opened, as if he expected his enemy to saunter into the public house at any moment. On Jack’s left was Paddy O’Scannell who owned the general store and the post office, a big-bellied, black-haired man with ruddy cheeks and a ready smile and a penchant for endless tankards of stout. Cesare enjoyed playing cards with these men, because they treated him, as king of the castle, with deference – and they provided a lot more entertainment than Sean, Rosetta and Bridie. There was a part of Cesare, a deep, intrinsic part of him, that connected with the working-class man – a part of him that, at every other time of the day, he was careful to keep hidden.
As they smoked, drank and chatted over their cards, Cesare watched Niamh with lustful eyes. The challenge of devising a way to get her on her own gave him a heady sense of excitement. Mentally he peeled back her blouse and ran his hands over her smooth breasts. He slid his hand up her skirt and she opened her legs for him, eager for his touch. He groaned at the image then brought his tankard to his lips and drained his glass. ‘Miss O’Donovan,’ he called, holding it up. Mrs O’Donovan glanced at her daughter and narrowed her beady eyes. ‘I’ll go,’ she said and to Cesare’s disappointment Niamh remained behind the bar, drying glasses with a tea towel.
Mrs O’Donovan was not naïve like her daughter. She knew men for what they were and she knew what they wanted. Count di Marcantonio had already earned a reputation in Ballinakelly for having an insatiable appetite for women. He might have counted on Irishwomen being easy on the eye but he had not counted on them being slippery of tongue. To Mrs O’Donovan, it seemed, among the less dignified of the girls, that the Count was a conquest to be proud of and they merrily shared the details of their encounters with an appalling lack of shame. She was not going to allow her daughter to fall into disrepute as they had.
Mrs O’Donovan felt sorry for poor Bridie Doyle that was. She might have married a rich man and moved into the castle where her mother had worked below stairs as the cook, but her husband was not a gentleman. Mrs O’Donovan knew a gentleman when she saw one and the Count was definitely not of that class. He had neither the dignity nor the bearing of Lord
Deverill, or his father the previous Lord Deverill. The Count was foreign, which was enough to raise her suspicions, but he was indiscreet, which confirmed them. Gentlemen kept their affairs secret: the Count did not. Mrs O’Donovan sensed that it was not going to end well. After all, wasn’t his brother-in-law the formidable Michael Doyle? Michael might be reformed and pious with high positions in the community and the Church, but he was at heart a brutal man who was not likely to tolerate the Count’s bad behaviour. Mrs O’Donovan watched the Count knock back another tankard of stout and wink at her daughter and she shook her head. Yes, she thought, it was definitely going to end very badly for the Count.
By the time Cesare got up to leave, Badger could scarcely walk, Paddy was singing in a loud, tuneless voice, missing out the consonants altogether and whistling the notes he couldn’t reach, and Jack was singing too, an entirely different song to Paddy, about a girl with Titian hair. Cesare watched them leave then sauntered up to the bar where Mrs O’Donovan was with her daughter putting away the glasses. He placed crisp notes on the bar, more than enough to pay for every drink in the house, and smiled at Niamh. He could feel the tension grow hot between them and could see the rise and fall of her breasts as her heart accelerated beneath them. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure and her eyes shone with lust and the curl in her lips told him that she’d be his if only he’d ask. But Mrs O’Donovan was watching them like a cat with a pair of mice and Cesare could only communicate his desire with the intensity of his gaze. ‘It has been an entertaining evening,’ he said, looking directly at Niamh. ‘You have the best house in the whole of Co. Cork.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Mrs O’Donovan replied tersely. ‘Niamh, you can finish now. Off to bed. I’ll close up.’ Cesare put on his coat and hat and left the pub reluctantly. Once outside he looked up to the windows which were all dark except for one, glowing softly with the warmth of a single light. He stood in the street staring up at it, knowing that Niamh was inside. Knowing that she knew he was outside, waiting for her. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the damp air. He waited, but he didn’t have to wait long. She appeared, silhouetted against the thin curtains, a fulsome profile unbuttoning her blouse and slipping it over her shoulders. He inhaled and the tip of his cigarette glowed scarlet. She turned to the window and slowly opened the curtains. She stood in her camisole top and looked out into the night. He could make out her breasts beneath the delicate fabric and his loins ached with desire. He wanted to scale the wall and climb into her bedroom and take her there. She dropped her gaze and grinned at him, lifting her hand to unpin her hair so that it tumbled about her in tawny waves. Then the lights of the pub went out and Cesare imagined Mrs O’Donovan climbing the stairs, her tread heavy on the steps. Niamh glanced over her shoulder. She gave one final toss of her hair before closing the curtains. She stood for a moment with her back to the window then moved away. Cesare dropped his cigarette onto the ground and walked to his car. He was as lustful as a bull. Perhaps he’d make love to his wife tonight after all, he thought. If nothing else presented itself there was always Bridie. Sweet, submissive Bridie.
The Last Secret of the Deverills Page 11
