An inquest found he may have slipped into the canal and that his death was accidental. Both Violet and I know George would not have ended up in that water if he had not intended to. He was also an excellent swimmer.
Violet never said anything to me. I lost quite a bit of contact with her and concentrated on my work. By the time I took silk I was the highest earner at the Bar. There was speculation in the newspapers on the next High Court appointments and sure enough I was summoned to Violet’s house in Drumcondra.
She was polite and civil, the house the same as before, though more faded and worn-looking. She put a proposal to me that I was unable to refuse or, rather, not brave enough to turn down.
She had in her possession the letters I had written to her husband, which confirmed the existence of a homosexual relationship between us. I will never forget her words: “They won’t put a man on the bench who has committed such a dreadful crime. You won’t get around that, Martin Moran.” She threatened to go to the worst British newspaper, which would be delighted to print the scandal about me.
I should have walked out of her house and told her to go to hell. I will regret my inaction far beyond my dying day.
She told me she had reliably heard I was in line to get on the bench, but government ministers were worried I was not married. I had no reason to doubt what she said. I knew she had quite a lot of contacts at a high level. She said the worry was that there was something wrong with me, that I had not married. She, of course, offered a solution – Grace. If I provided nicely for Violet – a sum of £130 a month and allowed her her own quarters wherever I lived with Grace – she said her silence would be secured.
She was vicious in her choice of words: “We were rowing about you, when George stormed off, probably to go to you. We all know he did not fall in that river. He jumped, and you with your carry-on and love letters as much as killed him. My husband was never a homosexual, but you made him that way. I will make sure the world knows that. However, you have my silence for as long as you and Grace remain married and the monthly sum is paid.”
I knew I had to have a wife to be in line for the job on the bench and that part of me pushed me to sign a contract that Violet had conveniently drawn up. It tied me to her for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, what it did as well was lock poor Grace into this plot.
She was a beautiful young woman and I loved her, but in a different way. If she had not met Dr Fernandes, we might have been able reach a reasonable accommodation, but she fell in love. In truth, I was jealous of her love, but only because it reminded me of my own sweet love for George.
Violet dominated our lives, even though I insisted she live in separate quarters. I knew Grace was taken with Dr Fernandes, but I hoped it would fizzle out. When she said she was pregnant, there was nothing I could do. I knew Violet would expose me and we would all be ruined. The biggest mistake I made was trusting Violet when she told me Grace was behaving like a madwoman who was steeped in depression after the birth. The doctors in the mental hospital told me the same lies. They had been bought by Violet. By the time Violet died, it was too late for Grace. She had perished in a fire at the asylum.
I have behaved badly and put my career, status and good name above everything. In the process, I allowed a wicked woman to have a hold on me and for a beautiful young woman to lose out on what should have been a good life.
If it is any consolation, this whole thing has left me a broken man in every way. I am thankful every day for our partnership, Andrew. It is truly one of the best things to come out of this sorry life of mine.
Andrew’s voice was shaking, but he continued.
My regrets are huge and weigh me down. I want Emma to know I have always loved her and I sincerely apologise for not being a good father. I sincerely apologise to Vikram Fernandes and his daughter and to my lovely Grace, who was cursed the day I walked into her life.
I won’t ask for forgiveness. I merely offer an explanation.
Yours,
Martin
Emma did not say anything, but she shifted on the chair, noticing a little girl hovering near the piano, hoping to push one of the keys, a stylish lady hissing at a man in the grey suit, and a waitress, bored and buffing up her nails.
“That is it, then?”
Andrew did not need to answer. They sat, each lost in their own thoughts. Emma watched the little girl, remembering when Aunt Violet used to bring her to the Gresham every Sunday for tea. It should have been an outing to look forward to, but Emma hated every minute of it. It nearly always started badly, with Violet insisting she wear white gloves. Once, Emma managed to strip them off and conveniently forgot them. Violet frogmarched her back up the hill to the house and stood over her while she fitted the gloves back on.
A pot of tea and two ham sandwiches was the order, but never biscuits. The Hendersons from Mountjoy Square were always there on a Sunday. Maggie Henderson was allowed a meringue with a cream filling.
Violet would knock back a few glasses of sherry and have to lean on the young girl during the journey home. It was at these times that she berated the child the most, giving out too about the stupid father who had not knocked any sense into her. As they turned the last corner up into the square, Violet demanded they stop and look the height of No. 19.
“Aren’t we the lucky ones? We have the luxury life living in the judge’s house.” Violet chuckled at her own private joke, like she always did.
Andrew called the waitress for the bill. Reaching over, he took Emma’s hand. “Please keep in touch. Someday, I hope you will ask me for that fine painting Martin did of yourself and that other beautiful study of Grace in her gold dress. When you do, I will rush over and even hang them for you.”
“You would give me the painting of Grace?”
“It is yours. You just tell me when you are ready.”
After he had slipped a twenty-pound note to the waitress inside the leather bill binder, he shyly kissed Emma on the cheek as he left.
She waited a while before she got up to leave. As she made for the main doors, the footman offered to flag her down a taxi, and she accepted, for some reason anxious to get home to Parnell Square.
35
Dublin, Ireland, May 1984
Vikram waited until Rosa was fully rested and looking her old self.
“Rosa, I need to talk to you about something important.”
She had her back to him, clipping on her gold jewellery at the dressing table. “Can’t we talk at dinner, Uncle? I am starving.”
He wanted to agree but knew that once he told her she may not like being in such a public place.
When he did not answer immediately, she swung around, her face anxious. “Uncle, what is the matter?”
Vikram shifted on his seat, his fingers fiddling with the lace curtain.
“You are having second thoughts about this whole trip?”
He laughed, but he saw irritation rise in her, so he blurted it out. “Darling Rosa, hear me out, please: I am your father, Grace is your mother and you have a twin sister.”
He was so angry at himself for the vulgarity of the delivery, his heart breaking when he saw Rosa’s face change from relaxed and happy to bewildered. He reached her in a stride, grabbing both her hands.
“I have been selfish and uncaring in the way I have told you. I was only thinking of myself. Forgive me, dear Rosa.”
Rosa jerked her hand away. “What do you mean, twin sister?”
“I am your father, Rosa.”
“What talk is this?” Rosa’s face was contorted in pain.
Vikram searched for her hand again, but she pulled away from him. “Rosa, listen to me. I brought you from Ireland all those years ago. I was told Grace had died and that they could not keep you because of the colour of your skin. I only found out recently you were one of twins.”
“But what about Mama?”
“Grace gave birth to you, but it is Rhya who has been a mother to you, Rosa.”
“Where is this t
win sister? Is she brown or does she fit in more with this landscape?”
“I only found out in a letter from the judge sent on after his death by the solicitor. Your twin’s name is Emma and I imagine she is white.”
“Twins?”
“Yes, Rosa.”
“Lucky for me they got rid of me to India, where I could feel at home.”
“I am glad that I at least had you, and that you, Rosa, grew up with a loving mother.”
Rosa stopped, tears replacing the indignation. “Mama knew this.”
Vikram ran his hand along Rosa’s face. “Rhya has been the best mother to you.”
“When was she going to tell me? On her deathbed?”
“Rosa, if you are angry at anybody, it has to be me.”
“This is all rot.”
“It now appears that your twin sister survived and was brought up by Martin Moran.”
Rosa flopped on the bed, tears coursing through her thick make-up, making her mascara smudge under her eyes. “Vik, this is really too much to take on, too much. Mama would not approve of you telling me.”
“I will have to worry about that another time. Rosa, please don’t turn your back on me. We can get through it together.”
“Am I going to meet this twin sister?”
“I sincerely hope so. I left a note for her in Parnell Square.”
Rosa stood up. “I would like to go for dinner now.”
Vikram nodded, and he waited while she fixed her make-up, letting her go out of the hotel room first, which she did with an angry swish of her sari pallu.
At first they said nothing over dinner and ate little, but they sat side by side, each deep in thought.
It was Rosa who broke the silence.
“I am sorry Vik, this must be so hard on you. I just don’t want to lose my best friend when I gain a father. You are too important to me.”
He squeezed her hand. “Never, darling Rosa, never.”
*
Emma rushed in the door of the hotel, not altogether sure what she was going to face. The handwritten note from Vikram Fernandes had been brief and polite, informing her he would like to see her and could she call down to the Gresham at her convenience.
Angie had come in on top of her, holding the note aloft, once she got out of the taxi on Parnell Square. “Don’t take off your coat, I think you will want to read this,” she said, gabbing on about the polite Indian man who had nearly collapsed on the steps.
Emma set down the street straight away. She rushed, sweat forming on her temples. Why did a journey so short now seem so long? What would she say to this man who was her father? She opened the belt of her coat, running her hands along the turquoise linen dress she had decided to wear that morning. It was one of Grace’s dresses. She had picked it because she liked the swing of the skirt, the softness of the linen and the way it kicked out from under the tweed coat, which was also her mother’s.
Emma asked the receptionist to call his room, but there was no answer. The woman behind the desk smiled and beckoned to an Indian woman buying postcards.
“This is his niece, she will be able to help you.”
Rosa, dressed in a royal-blue sari with a red and gold border, came over to her. “Can I help you? You are looking for Mr Fernandes?” Rosa took the woman in: the soft grey eyes, the auburn hair curling around her neck. So like Grace in the photograph she had seen.
“I am Emma Moran.”
“Grace was your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Vikram will be so glad to meet you. You look like her.”
An Indian man was watching them from across the lobby. He did not need to be told who she was. Every bit of her was Grace: the way she stood, the turquoise dress, the tweed coat. It could have been his Grace. Emma turned slightly, flicking her hair, the movement making the aurora borealis stones of her necklace glint. Vikram’s heart lunged and he could not move. The necklace had cost him a huge amount of his pay packet: the necklace Grace had adored. He could only stare at these two beautiful women, his daughters. Rosa swivelled, looking around for him, but he found himself stepping back so he would not be seen. For this moment, he wanted to be alone, so he could look upon these two women and remember his Grace. They both had so much of her, so much of the loveliness that made up the woman he adored and who he had let down so badly. Could these two ever forgive him for what he had done?
A waiter passing by saw Vikram lean against a pillar and stopped to ask him if he was all right. Vikram allowed himself to be assisted to a chair.
Emma saw him first. He noticed she half smiled and nervously tugged at her hair before tapping her sister on the shoulder, pointing across the lobby to him.
Rosa rushed across, her voice high in alarm. “Vik, what is the matter? Look who is here.”
He made to stand up, but Rosa pushed him back into the chair.
“Rest, Vik. Miss Moran will not mind.”
He took her hand, so like her mother’s, her touch soft and gentle. Emma was speaking to him, but he did not hear the words. There was something about her, the way she looked at him, her clothes, her standing. He heard his own voice, but he was not sure of what he said until she shyly called him Vikram. Rosa made to go, saying she would leave them to talk, but Vikram called her back.
“Anything I have to say is also for your ears. Please stay, dear Rosa.”
Emma looked at Rosa, who bent close to Vikram and kissed him on the cheek. Fussing, Rosa asked a waiter to push chairs together and bring tea for three. Emma took her in. Her long black hair was glossy, her skin soft brown, her eyes like her father’s. If any of the sisters was to wear the gold dress, it should be this sister who stood so straight and carried with her a dignity that could only enhance such a beautiful gown. All the times she had wished she had a sister, all the times she had wanted to turn back the clock, to rewrite history, when all along this girl was celebrating the same milestones but growing up with their father. Emma felt a stab of jealousy of this exotic woman, but before it flared deeper she sat down and asked the question that had been burning through her. Speaking slowly and firmly, she directed her question at Vikram.
“What took you so long?”
His head hanging, his shoulders down, he began to cry. “I was told Grace was dead, I never knew anything else.”
“Violet told you that.”
“She was a poisonous woman.”
“I am sorry if I sounded harsh.”
“You have every right. It does not matter what you say, there is nobody harsher on Vikram Fernandes than Vikram Fernandes.” He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “I regret every day that I did not break my way upstairs in that damned house in Parnell Square. I should not have believed them, I should have roared and shouted the place down until I got as far as Grace. I am sorry, Emma.”
He reached out and took Emma’s hand.
“I would like to get to know you, Emma. Maybe someday you will look on me as a father.” He kept his hold on her hand, while reaching for Rosa’s hand. “I swear, if I had known you existed, I would never have left you. Twins should not grow up apart.”
Emma was not sure what to do.
“We must find Grace’s grave and show her we three have at least been reunited. We have all suffered so much because of the damned lies of others,” Vikram said quietly.
Emma spoke quickly. “She is buried in Knockavanagh, Wicklow.”
Vikram squeezed his daughters’ hands tightly. “Can we go first thing?”
“Why didn’t Mama tell me all this time? Why didn’t you?” Rosa asked, tears blotting her words.
“Rhya is so afraid you will hold it against her,” said Vikram.
Emma, not sure she should be listening in, made to stand up and leave, but Vikram put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back in the seat.
“It is going to take us all time to adjust,” he said, holding out his hands again to his two daughters. They took one each. “This is a special moment, darling
Rosa and Emma. We have to get to know each other.” He placed Rosa’s hand in Emma’s. “Sisters and twins, you should never have been kept apart for this long. Now you must make up for lost time.”
They were both embarrassed, but neither pulled away. Rosa was the first to reach further, pulling her sister into a tight hug.
“I never knew you existed until today, but I would very much like to become friends.”
Emma felt the tears seep through her, but she made no attempt to stop them and let herself be taken in the warm embrace of this woman who was so like her but looked nothing like her.
Vikram watched his daughters and thought the only thing that could make him happier would be if Grace could be there to bear witness. He could not rewrite the past, but maybe from today he could help write the future with these fine women who were his daughters.
Next they sat as Vikram told the full story, with Emma filling in the gaps. At various stages, Vikram stopped to sip tea, the strain of the new information evident on his face as well as the retelling of the old scandal. Vikram, as he told his side of the story, was a gracious and kind man, very particular in his telling, fair even when Violet’s name came up in the mix.
“I believe your father did not know of Violet’s scheming.”
“He says he didn’t, but who knows? Maybe he chose to ignore it, for his own reasons,” Emma said.
“Often the good person can never see the bad and that is as damaging as the bad man intent on doing wrong. Emma, I want to travel to Knockavanagh first thing in the morning. Will you come with us? We can go together.”
She hesitated, and Vikram, knowing the women in his household, felt she was holding back on something.
The Judge's Wife Page 22
