She only stopped running when she reached the safety of the forest. When she was certain that she was alone she sank to the ground at the foot of a tree. Her body shook with nervous laughter. It amused her to think that she had not only bewitched Lord Deverill but snatched his heart as well. He has taken our land so I vow to take his heart and crush the life out of it with my own hands, she thought, picking a little blue gentian and twirling it between her finger and thumb. Having felt impotent for so long she now had a sense of purpose and an exciting plan.
Like a predator Maggie stalked Lord Deverill. She lurked outside the castle gates and watched him when he left and when he returned. She even dared sneak right up to the castle walls to peer in through the windows on dark nights when the rooms blazed with candlelight. She marvelled at the luxury, she wondered at his privilege, but she didn’t expect to grow fond of the man.
From her hiding place at the window she watched him pace the rooms, his forehead furrowed with worry. She watched him playing cards with his friends by the large, vivacious fire and she sensed that his laughter was only for show, for when he knocked back the wine she noticed sorrow in the careless way he did it. What could he have to be sad about? she wondered. How could he be unhappy in a magnificent castle with such a beautiful view to please him? But there was a sadness in him that caught her off guard. She had expected him to be grandiose and pompous but what she saw was a sensitive man with troubles on his mind and she found herself wanting to unfurrow his brow with her fingers and kiss those lips that so rarely smiled.
Sometimes he’d disappear for months and the candlelight glowed cheerlessly in only a few of the rooms in Castle Deverill as the servants looked after the place in his absence. Maggie suspected he’d gone back to London and wondered whether he had a wife there and how he spent his days. She imagined him dining with the King, which gave her a frisson of pleasure, but when she thought of his wife she grew jealous.
Years passed. Maggie knew not how many. She imparted messages from the dead and her name grew infamous in Co. Cork. They said she was a witch and those who visited did not stay long, but she didn’t care. It was her duty to be a medium between this world and the next. She didn’t think much about the curse she had put on Lord Deverill. It was long ago now and Lord Deverill had grown into such a large presence in her life that she had almost forgotten her plan to crush his heart because a tenderness had arisen and attached itself to his name.
Then one day in late summer she was in the forest when she heard the rumbling of hooves and the sound of the huntsman’s horn. Birds took to the air and small creatures dived for cover. Maggie saw a stag on a grassy knoll, a majestic, noble creature standing benign and pure. Then she saw the pointed barrel of Lord Deverill’s musket and her horror at the thought of that splendid creature’s destruction compelled her to act. Hitching her dress to her knees she hurried up the knoll and, as the stag leapt lithely away, the clouds parted and a beam of sunlight shone down upon her, as if some higher power was grateful for her intervention. Lord Deverill lowered the barrel and stared at her in amazement. The apples of his cheeks flushed and his lips parted and to her surprise her heart began to pound against her ribcage with desire as if it, too, had forgotten that he was the enemy who had stolen her land.
She lowered her hood and gazed back at him. Their eyes met and the forest fell silent around them like an invisible veil, hiding them from the world. Lord Deverill dismounted and threw the reins around a branch. As he walked purposefully towards her, Maggie hastened down the back of the knoll, knowing that he would follow; hoping that he would. She turned to see him on the top of the hill and smiled, inviting him to catch up with her while at the same time quickening her pace.
Deeper and deeper into the forest they went. The trees grew thicker, knitting their branches into a dark canopy above them. The birds ceased to twitter and only thin watery beams of light managed to make it through the small gaps in the leaves to illuminate their way.
Then he was upon her. He swung her round and pushed her against the trunk of an oak and pressed his lips to hers. She allowed his tongue to slide between her teeth and explore her mouth with an urgency that enthralled her. This was the first time she had ever been kissed and it aroused feelings in her that she had never experienced before. She felt a hot and aching sensation between her legs and a strong desire for him to touch her there. He was breathing heavily through his nose, like a horse who has galloped a great distance, and he fumbled with her laces to undo her shift. At last it came undone and he let it drop at her waist. Her breasts, now exposed, were white and soft and he cupped them with his hands and the sensation in her abdomen grew so strong as to be almost unbearable. He buried his face in her neck and licked her skin and Maggie let out a low moan from the bottom of her throat as the feeling of his thumbs grazing her nipples sent quivers of enjoyment like hot arrows into her belly. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes as his fingers found their way beneath her skirt into the dark centre of her longing. His touch was gentle and slippery and rhythmic and the aching intensified until she lost control of her actions and of the thoughts in her mind and was only aware of this pleasure, tormenting her and pleasing her in equal measure, building and building.
At last he unbuttoned his trousers and released himself. He lifted Maggie’s leg and slid inside her where it was hot and wet. With a groan he began to move like a beast and the excruciating feeling in Maggie’s belly began to build once again until she was aware only of that and the need to reach some sort of peak. Lord Deverill moved faster now and Maggie moved with him, then she gasped, as if the glorious sensation now spreading through her body was some kind of miracle, and let out a sharp cry. Every nerve seemed flooded with heat and she shuddered as Lord Deverill expelled his seed inside her. Slowly they came back to their senses, dazed and flushed, hearts pounding against the bones that separated them. They were drenched in sweat and bathed in bliss. Weak in the knees they sank onto the soft forest floor.
Maggie knelt and pushed down her skirts but she left her shift still hanging around her waist and her breasts exposed. She gazed at him, holding him in her thrall for a long moment. He stared up at her and his expression was of a man lost to love and lust and she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. ‘Has Lord Deverill given me his heart?’ she teased and he frowned because he didn’t understand her native tongue. Her laugh alarmed him and he brought his left hand to his chest, where a gold band gleamed on his third finger. At the sight of the wedding band Maggie’s anger grew inside her like a maddened creature, reminding her of her curse and her vow and she pulled a knife out of her skirt and pressed it to his throat. She could end it all now, she thought. She could destroy the thief who had stolen her land. She could murder the man who had taken her but was married to another. But the fear that darkened his face made her lose courage and she pulled the knife away, laughing at her own foolishness; bewildered by her cowardice. It wasn’t compassion that prevented her from taking his life, but love.
Scared that he might turn the knife on her, she bolted into the forest.
PART TWO
Chapter 14
Ballinakelly, summer 1939
If Bridie had wanted her summer ball to be the most spectacular that Ballinakelly had ever seen she had succeeded. The driveway was lined with enormous flares and the rhododendrons were at their most magnificent. The lawn was strewn with lavender that gave off its sweet perfume as the guests walked over it, and the trees and bushes had been lit from beneath so that, as the sun set, they glowed with a golden radiance. At dusk the castle was illuminated with so many lights it was a wonder that the ESB powerhouse in Cork had not collapsed under the demand for electricity. Inside the castle, the displays of lilies and roses were larger and more beautiful than anyone had previously seen. The ballroom mirrors glittered with the reflection of five thousand candles and the great chandeliers, which had been polished until the glass pieces shone like diamonds, dominated in all their glory. Servants in livery attended
to the guests’ every need, refilling the crystal flutes with the finest champagne and taking around silver trays of the most exquisite little canapés anyone had ever tasted. But Bridie had had very little to do with the arrangements. Grace had suggested she hire the famous Violet Adair, who organized the most lavish parties in London, and insisted that Bridie leave everything to her, explaining that Mrs Adair was a woman of exceptional taste and, when unrestrained by miserly budgets, could create an earthly paradise that would dazzle even the most hardened party-goers. This elegant woman with a brisk, efficient manner and a perfectionist’s eye had exceeded Bridie’s expectations. And Cesare, with his hunger to be bigger and better than everyone else, had to admit that even he had never seen anything quite so impressive.
‘My darling, you have made me the proudest man in the whole world,’ he told Bridie, kissing her temple as they enjoyed one of the few moments they would have together in the entire evening. ‘Our guests will be talking about this night for many years to come.’
She swelled with pleasure. Pleasing her husband had now become something of a vocation for Bridie who was aware that Ballinakelly had little to offer a cosmopolitan man like Cesare. The only thing he seemed to relish was the castle and playing cards in O’Donovan’s. Bridie was grateful to Grace for inviting the guests and relieved that they had agreed to come. Grace had not doubted they would, they were curious to see who had bought the castle, she had told Bridie, as well as unable to resist the allure of money and a glamorous title. Well, if that’s what it took to entertain her husband, Bridie was prepared to flaunt both her title and her fortune without restraint. She noticed that Cesare was running his eyes over the guests who were drinking champagne on the lawn. If she was aware that they lingered on the faces of the pretty young women, she chose to ignore it. Her husband had to be happy and that was all there was to it, regardless of the cost to herself or her purse.
With a deep breath, Bridie, in a green silk dress with a red rose in her hair, waded into the sea of strangers on the arm of her husband. She shook hands and smiled graciously, keen for Cesare to see that she was all that a hostess should be, and everyone smiled back with deference as if she were royalty, taking in the diamond earrings and the three-bees diamond brooch that embellished her dress. But soon Cesare had moved away, wandering deeper into the crowd, and she only saw his sleek black head rising above the rest as he introduced himself to the ladies. Without her husband at her side Bridie felt a sudden sense of drowning, of being out of her depth, and she searched anxiously for her brothers Michael and Sean, who were somewhere in the throng. She was sure that these new people who scrutinized her saw her for what she really was, the grubby-faced and shoeless daughter of a simple farmer and the castle’s cook, and she felt exposed as a fraud. As long as she was in Ballinakelly she would never be free of her past – for she saw it reflected in the eyes of everyone who looked at her.
Bridie was relieved when at last she found Jack and Emer O’Leary and for a blessed moment she could relax and be herself again. Only Jack and her family, who had known her since childhood, made her feel comfortable in her skin, reminding her through memory of who she really was. She rested her gaze on her old friend and was suddenly gripped by an aching longing to be by the river again, hunting for frogs in the undergrowth with Kitty and Celia while Jack stood on the bank watching them with his dog at his heel and his pet hawk on his arm. Life had been simpler then when she had been sure of her place in the world. Who was she pretending to be? she asked herself. A countess in a grand castle! The very idea of it was preposterous but here she was acting the lead in the most unlikely of plays. Who was she trying to fool? Cesare? The Deverills? Herself? No amount of money could change who she really was on the inside. Bridie took a swig of champagne and laughed bitterly. But when Jack asked what she was laughing at she couldn’t tell him. How could she explain that the last twenty years had been a farce?
Once everyone was assembled on the lawn the Count positioned himself on the raised dais which had been put there for this very moment, and lifted his chin importantly as the chatter hushed and the guests turned to face him expectantly. At that moment there was a flurry of activity at the French doors behind him and Lady Rowan-Hampton, escorted by a pair of servants, appeared in a stunning silk gown of the palest duck-egg blue and stepped onto the terrace. Every eye moved from the Count to Grace, who was no stranger to theatrical entrances. ‘I’m so terribly sorry to be late,’ she said, beaming a wide and charming smile, hoping that Michael Doyle was there among the many faces to see her at her most splendid.
Cesare jumped off the dais and lifted her hand to his mouth. ‘My dear Lady Rowan-Hampton, the party was incomplete without you,’ he said smoothly, kissing her glove.
‘I interrupted your speech,’ she said.
‘Not interrupted, no,’ he replied with a grin. ‘You have introduced me perfectly. How could I have thought of beginning without you? But now you are here, I can welcome our esteemed guests to our first summer ball.’ He dropped Grace’s hand and retook his place on the dais. Grace stood to one side and pretended to be listening intently, while scanning the crowd and hoping that Michael might be close and that she’d get a chance to speak to him. As the Count spoke, enjoying the sound of his own voice and the sight of all those distinguished people listening, Grace thought how incredibly pompous he was. He puffed out his chest with great importance as he alluded to his famous Barberini ancestor and Grace sensed once again that he was a brilliant fake. After all, who would know whether or not he was related to Maffeo Barberini? Who could say whether he was a count at all? She narrowed her lovely brown eyes and wondered whether, if she could discover some hidden truth about the Count, Michael might be keen to listen to her. She recalled that it had been the plot to murder Colonel Manley in the War of Independence that had first united them: might not another plot unite them again?
Rosetta watched Bridie as the Count droned on. Her friend’s face was full of pride and admiration, and, Rosetta believed, fear: fear that he was too good for her; fear that he might run off with someone else; fear that she didn’t have him quite where she wanted him; and fear, perhaps, that she would fall short and disappoint him. Rosetta hated this new fear that had crept into Bridie’s heart. In Rosetta’s opinion Cesare was arrogant, selfish and, from what she had heard from rumours circulating the town, an incorrigible womanizer. Apparently he had seduced Niamh O’Donovan, according to Rosetta’s maid who was a delightful gossip, and plenty of other girls besides. She didn’t imagine Bridie had heard these rumours; who would tell her? But she suspected Bridie knew, after all she wasn’t a fool. And what did it matter anyway, Bridie would forgive him. In her eyes Cesare was perfect and beyond criticism. Rosetta wondered how much control Bridie had of her finances and wished Beaumont Williams, Bridie’s attorney in New York, were around to advise her. From the odd comment Bridie had made it appeared that Cesare was going through her fortune at a reckless speed. Rosetta wondered whether he had ever had any money of his own before he had married money. She very much doubted it. She was still bothered by the fact that he didn’t speak good Italian. For a man who claimed to have spent his childhood in Italy his command of the language was surprisingly poor. She wished she had the tools to do a little detective work, but she wouldn’t know where to begin. She needed someone with contacts, international contacts, to help her. She had a horrible feeling Bridie had been ill-advised in marrying this handsome adventurer. Spending all her money was one thing, robbing her of her self-respect was quite another.
Just as dinner was announced, Grace spotted Michael. He was talking to a group of men who were listening to him attentively, as if every word he said was important. Her heart gave a leap. It had been almost twenty years since those exciting days during the Troubles when they had been thrown together in their pursuit of freedom for Ireland, but he was more handsome now than he had ever been. His black curly hair was still wild, his dark eyes full of mystery and danger, his powerful presence ra
diating around him as if his very soul was too bright for his body. She felt the familiar aching in her loins as the memory of his touch caused a ripple to career over her skin. With the confidence of a woman whose beauty has ensured that she is welcomed wherever she presents herself, Grace glided over the grass to the small group. ‘Might the promise of a banquet be the only thing to tempt you from your intriguing,’ she said with a coquettish smile so delightful the men diverted their attention at once from Michael’s deliverance and gazed on her with admiration. ‘Mr Doyle, would you be kind and escort me into dinner.’ Michael, not at all astonished by Grace’s boldness, but surprised by her relentless pursuit of him, had no choice but to hold out his arm.
The Last Secret of the Deverills Page 17
