Secrets of the Lighthouse

by Santa Montefiore

  Madeline begins to cry just as it starts to rain. She wanders slowly up the pavement, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, her hair falling flat and wet about her face. Like a stricken animal in search of a private place to lie down and lick her wounds, she staggers off the main street, down dark alleys and narrow roads, until she finds a bench. She sits down on the watery seat and puts her head in her hands. Her sobbing shakes her whole body. I wonder what she is thinking. As I focus hard, I think I can tell.

  I should feel compassion. But all I feel is a sense of triumph because now she will go to Ireland and bring Ellen back. She will take her daughter away from Conor and once again my husband will belong to me. I don’t imagine the girl will fight her mother. I have seen Madeline at her most formidable and she is a force to be reckoned with. Ellen will marry William. He is the right man for her, after all. Ireland will be reduced to a bittersweet memory. Did she really think she would fit in there?

  I watch Madeline grow soggier and soggier, until her sobbing dwindles to the occasional sniff and shudder. She remains there for a long time, in the drizzle, staring ahead as if her memories are being played out in front of her. She is lost in thought, far, far away, and I am trying to discern what she is seeing. But the strange thing is, as she sits there with her hair sodden and her make-up run, she looks like Ellen. Beneath the immaculate Lady Trawton is a young woman whose spirit is broken. I imagine this is what Ellen will look like when Conor turns away from her and she is plunged into the shadows along with all the other wrecks he has abandoned.

  Strangely, I feel a sickness in my soul. It rises up from somewhere and fills me with sadness. I know it is compassion and I despise myself for my weakness. Compassion will not get me what I want. Compassion will lose me everything I treasure. I focus on my purpose and after a while I sense the familiar darkness surrounding me like a cloak as the compassion is forced away by my complete and utter loathing for Ellen.

  Suddenly a Bentley turns the corner and the headlights shine on the bedraggled woman sitting alone on the bench. It pulls up beside her. Madeline snaps out of her trance and takes a deep breath. Her face registers her surprise as she recognizes the car. The door is flung open and Anthony steps out in a heavy coat, gloves and hat. He throws a blanket around her shoulders and helps her to her feet. She does not resist. I watch her climb into the car and think how much she looks like a child, being cared for by a patient, long-suffering father.

  She rests her head against his shoulder as the chauffeur drives back to Eaton Court. No one speaks. For a while she was back in Ireland, sitting there on that bench, but now she has returned to the life she chose thirty-three years ago, in the arms of the man she preferred over Dylan. She has stared into the pit of her past, but I know it will only strengthen her resolve.

  Chapter 26

  Ellen now felt as if she had always lived in Ballymaldoon with Aunt Peg. Although she had only been there just over two weeks, the place felt like home. She had become a familiar face about town. The locals greeted her as she went to buy groceries for her aunt or sat in the Pot of Gold with Johnny and Joe, or Dylan. People no longer stared at her as if she were an alien, but accepted her as a Byrne. Her uncles had seen to that, forming a thick, protective wall around her, sending out a very clear message to the community that she was one of them.

  She enjoyed helping Alanna in her shop. There weren’t many customers, but friends and family stopped by from time to time for a ‘chinwag’ and she was never bored. Besides, she enjoyed Alanna’s company. Her aunt was an uncomplicated woman with a dry sense of humour and a generous spirit, and was full of local gossip which she was only too ready to share. The two of them whiled away the hours chatting over endless cups of tea.

  In the evenings, when she wasn’t jamming with Dylan, she was playing chess with Oswald, or making up a four at the bridge table with Oswald, Peg and Joe. The days were punctuated with visits to the Pot of Gold, where she would always find her uncles and cousins and where Dylan would be waiting for her with a new idea for a song.

  By Friday, her ache for Conor was almost unbearable. They spoke and texted but she missed his physical presence dreadfully. William and her mother had been relegated to the very back of her mind and she no longer worried about them. Conor filled every spare thought and he was so dominant there was little room for anyone else.

  When he arrived on Friday afternoon, he picked her up at Peg’s as before, but instead of driving her to Reedmace House, he stopped in front of the castle.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ she asked, excited at the prospect of being admitted into this inner sanctum she had assumed to be off limits.

  ‘I brought Mam and the children down. But I thought, you’re my girl and this is my house. There’s little furniture but I could see no reason why we shouldn’t use it.’ He slipped his hand beneath her hair and wound it around her neck. ‘And here we get total privacy.’

  Ellen wanted to mention that she thought it was haunted, but kept quiet. He was gazing at her with smiling eyes and his mouth was grinning with the lascivious thoughts now careering through his mind, so she was soon distracted from the ghost of his wife. ‘I want to sweep you upstairs and make love to you,’ he said, leaning over to brush her lips with his. His kiss grew hot and passionate and for a while they forgot the castle and the bed that awaited them upstairs. Ellen closed her eyes, inhaled the familiar smell of him as if he were a drug and she a hopeless addict, and sank happily into the moment.

  Reluctantly, he pulled away. ‘Let’s get out of here before I go too far and give Joe and Johnny a show they’ll never forget!’ Ellen laughed and climbed out of the car, following him at a run to the front door. He put the key in the lock and turned it. The big door opened easily and they stepped into the hall. Conor closed it behind them and bolted it from the inside. It was dim in the hall but the portrait of Caitlin seemed to catch the little light that came in through the windows and glistened eerily. Conor didn’t dwell there, but took her by the hand and led her quickly up the wide staircase. Ellen wondered why he hadn’t taken the picture down. If Caitlin had tormented him so much, why was she still hanging on the wall to torment him further?

  Her thoughts were diverted by the charm of this beautiful old building. Although the furniture and other paintings had been taken away, the scarlet carpets were still covering the floors and the old cornicing and panelling were still as they were when the castle had been built half a millennium before. The building had beautiful bones, like a lovely woman who needs little adornment to enhance her natural splendour. Ellen could imagine how magnificent it must have been when it was a home.

  Conor didn’t linger but hurried down a long corridor, across a landing and down another red-carpeted corridor, until he opened a little wooden door at the end, so low that he had to stoop. On the other side was a steep and narrow staircase. The wooden steps were worn in the middle by centuries of treading feet.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, enchanted by the eccentricity of the place.

  ‘To the tower, where I’m going to keep you prisoner and do whatever depravity takes my fancy.’

  ‘Lord, I can hardly wait!’ She laughed, following him up the stairs. At the top a little landing was lit by a narrow, latticed window.

  Conor opened another door. ‘And here, my princess, is your prison.’

  Ellen stepped into a round bedroom cluttered with Conor’s things. There was a four-poster bed swathed with blue silk embroidered drapes, fringed in scarlet. Persian rugs covered the floorboards, a desk was piled with books and papers, an old wardrobe stood against the wall and she noticed it had been especially crafted to fit against the natural curve of the room. There were paintings on the walls, two windows, deep wooden-panelled window seats for reading in natural light and heavy silk curtains to keep out the cold. Next door was a pretty little bathroom. It was as if he had always lived up here, in this secret tower.

  He pulled her into his arms. ‘Do you like it?’


  ‘I love it. How often do you come here?’

  ‘Whenever I need to be alone.’ He kissed her temple. ‘You’re the only woman I have ever invited up here. This is as far into my private world as you can possibly get. I want to share it with you.’

  ‘Oh, Conor . . . I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then don’t say anything.’ He lifted her chin with a finger. ‘Just let me enjoy you. I’ve been waiting all week for this.’

  Making love in this isolated tower was more romantic than Reedmace House. Here, no one could find them. They were totally alone. It was as if she had crawled beneath his skin and burrowed into his soul. The vibrations were saturated with emotion; whether grief, fury, happiness or love, she imagined Conor had sought refuge here from every onslaught.

  They took their time. There was no reason to rush. It was as if they were high up on a cloud where time could not reach them. They explored each other’s bodies as if for the first time and savoured every intense moment of discovery. The chemistry was so right that each touch seemed to unfold yet more layers of sensation and open more avenues of trust. When she looked into his eyes, Ellen saw no shadows, just the clear blue radiance of a summer sky.

  Later, they lay talking. He told her how he had begun a new project to make a movie based on an adventure novel he had loved as a child. He was excited and fired up about it. She told him about Dylan and the music they were making together. ‘You know, when we sing, something special happens with our voices.’

  ‘Like Abba,’ he teased, smiling at her fondly.

  ‘Even more magical than that,’ she replied. ‘You know, he was apparently quite well known in his day.’

  ‘I know. I probably even have one or two of his CDs.’

  ‘Oh, I stole one. Well, technically, I stole it, but I like to think that I borrowed it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just ask him to give it to you?’

  ‘No, for some reason he didn’t want me to have it. I asked and he pretended that he didn’t have any. But I knew he did because I had come across a whole pile of them when I was looking around while he was in the kitchen.’

  ‘So, what do you think of it?’

  ‘I haven’t listened to it yet.’

  ‘Do you have it on you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s still in my handbag.’

  ‘Let’s put it on now, then.’

  ‘All right. I bet it’s good. He has a beautiful voice.’

  Ellen found her handbag beneath the pile of clothes she had left on the floor, and pulled out the CD. She read the title. ‘Voice of Silence. It’s going to be sad, I can tell.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. He probably wrote the songs for your mother.’

  ‘And she doesn’t have a clue.’ She sighed with impatience at the thought of her mother and handed him the CD.

  He appraised her naked body. ‘You’re a fine figure of a woman, Ellen.’

  ‘Thank you, Conor,’ and she playfully wiggled her bottom as she walked back to the bed.

  He put the CD in the machine then dived on top of her. ‘Wiggling your bottom like that is a red rag to a bull.’

  ‘So, you’re a bull?’ She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Aren’t you flattering yourself just a little?’

  He silenced her with a kiss as the dulcet tones of the guitar resounded from the speakers. They lost themselves in each other for a while as Dylan sang of love and loss, but neither really concentrated on the words. The tunes were catchy and his voice deep and gritty, but they were too preoccupied with each other to notice the theme that ran like a thread of pain through all the tracks. It wasn’t until they lay entwined a while later, sated, that they paused to listen to the lyrics.

  Conor’s hand, which was stroking Ellen’s hair, stopped. Ellen’s body, which was limp and warm against his, stiffened and froze. Neither spoke. They just listened. The more Dylan sang, the more they became aware of the heart of his pain. At last Ellen sat up and stared at Conor. Her face was as white as the sheets. ‘He’s singing about me,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied softly.

  She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I’ve had this weird feeling for a while now, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I should have guessed.’

  ‘How could you have guessed?’

  ‘But you did. I can tell by the way you’re looking at me. You’d already worked it out, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Darling, why would your mother name you Ellen if you weren’t Dylan’s child?’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m Dylan’s child. I’m not Daddy’s.’ Her face crumpled into a frown. ‘I don’t want to belong to anyone else.’ A wave of emotion rose up from her belly and exploded into a giant sob. ‘I want to belong to Daddy, Conor!’

  Conor sat up and put his arm around her. He kissed her head tenderly. ‘I was wondering if you’d ever find out.’

  ‘Would you have told me?’

  ‘Of course not. Some things are better not known.’

  ‘Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it? I can’t pretend I don’t know. Nothing will ever be the same again.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s such a shock. I don’t know what to do.’ She sniffed and gave in to another wave of despair. ‘I look nothing like my father, do I? I mean Anthony . . .’

  Conor looked appalled. ‘Ellen, he’s your father, whether he made you or not,’ he said firmly.

  ‘I know. It just sounds odd now.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It’s just biology. Your father’s put in all the time, love and commitment.’

  ‘Do you think Mum deceived Dad as well? Do you think he knows? I bet he doesn’t. I mean, I’ve never ever picked up even a whiff of not being his. Never.’ She shook her head. ‘He can’t know.’

  ‘Your mother moved fast all right, if that’s the case.’

  ‘Why didn’t she marry Dylan? If I was his child, why didn’t she marry him?’

  ‘You’re going to have to ask her.’

  ‘If you knew my mother, you’d know that that’s impossible. I couldn’t bring it up. She’d die.’

  ‘She won’t die, Ellen, and you’ll learn the truth. I think you need to work on communication in your family.’

  She turned to face him. ‘She must have got pregnant with Dylan then passed it off as Dad’s. That’s why they married so quickly.’

  ‘I wonder how Dylan knew you were his.’

  ‘He received a letter from my mother after I was born, asking him to come and get her. I suppose she told him then.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He went, but when he saw her, she was so different from the girl he knew that he returned to Ireland.’

  ‘And spent the next thirty-three years remembering her as she was.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She stared at Conor, her eyes big and round and wet. ‘Conor, tell me truthfully, do you see Dylan in my face?’

  He studied her. ‘Well, I suppose you have his colouring, and your eyes? They’re his, all right.’ He grinned kindly. ‘But you’re prettier.’

  ‘God, what a mess!’

  He kissed her again. ‘Your mother did a very good job hiding it from you all these years. If you hadn’t come to Ireland you might never have known.’

  ‘That’s why she never wanted me to come. Poor Dylan. He lost his child.’

  Conor shook his head. ‘It’s bloody brutal. I’m a father and I can tell you, if my wife had run off with my baby I’d have . . . I’d have gone crazy.’

  ‘I think Dylan did go a bit crazy, from what I hear.’

  ‘Well, he poured his heart out into his songs.’

  ‘And they’re beautiful.’ She sighed sadly.

  ‘Beautiful and about you, Ellen. I imagine he pined for you more than he pined for your mother.’

  ‘No wonder I wanted to be in a band. It’s in my DNA.’ Her face livened. ‘No wonder Mum tried to stop me. She stopped me doing anything that might lead people to suspect I didn’t b
elong. She tried to make me like my sisters. Now I know why it never worked. I’m Ellen Murphy and Leonora and Lavinia are not my sisters. Deep down inside, I’m plain old Ellen Murphy!’

  ‘I prefer Ellen Murphy to Ellen Trawton,’ said Conor. ‘Ridiculous name, if you ask me.’

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him hold her tightly. ‘Thank God for you, Conor.’

  He pressed his lips onto the tender skin of her neck. ‘Thank God for you, Ellen Murphy.’

  Later, they dressed and descended the narrow staircase to the crimson-carpeted corridors. ‘I don’t want to leave you tonight, Ellen.’ He stopped on the landing and took her hand. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘I want to go and see Dylan. Will you come with me?’

  ‘Of course I will. Do you want to go now?’

  ‘I don’t think this can wait.’

  ‘All right. Let’s go.’ He took her hand. ‘We’ll sort this out together.’

  As the car motored up the drive, Ellen realized that Ireland had irrevocably changed her. There was no going back now. She had shed her skin like a snake and emerged a different person. She wasn’t Ellen Trawton any more. It was as if London were a stage and Connemara her life. Reality had been here all along, lying in wait patiently and complacently, knowing that the profound currents of life would one day carry her home; and they had. Here she felt truly herself. There was nowhere else she’d rather be.

  Conor took her hand and squeezed it. ‘You’re going to be all right, Ellen,’ he said.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be wailing and gnashing my teeth? I feel strangely calm now.’

  ‘You’re in shock.’

  ‘Perhaps. But on the other hand, Dylan has answered the most persistent question which has nagged me my whole life: Why do I feel different?’