Secrets of the Lighthouse

by Santa Montefiore

  Her bedroom was quiet and smelt of the bouquet of white roses and freesias Conor had given her at breakfast. She pulled a rose to her nose and savoured the sweet, powdery smell. She could hear Finbar and Ida down the corridor with Daphne. Their peals of laughter filled the castle with joy. She paused a moment and listened, her gaze lost in the half-distance, her hand resting gently on her belly.

  Her dreaming was interrupted by the first cars motoring slowly through the tunnel of ancient oak trees and parking in the field in front of the castle. She peered out of the window from behind a curtain and watched as the wedding guests made their way across the garden to the tent. She turned to find Ida in the doorway, staring at her with wide eyes. ‘Where’s your dress?’ the little girl asked.

  ‘Do you want to help me put it on?’ Ellen suggested, and the child’s face lit up. ‘You look beautiful, Ida. Daddy is going to be so proud of you when he sees you!’ Ida squirmed with pleasure and looked down at the sparkly pink shoes Ellen had chosen for her in Dublin. ‘Right, I’d better hurry up, hadn’t I? I mustn’t keep you and Finbar waiting. Will you help me take my curlers out?’

  Conor greeted the guests enthusiastically, and Joe and three of his cousins acted as ushers, showing people to their chairs. It wasn’t long before the tent was full to capacity with people clothed in their best Sunday suits and dresses. Small bouquets of yellow roses were arranged at the end of every row of chairs and larger arrangements spilled over vases to the left and right of the altar like elaborate waterfalls, saturating the air with the sweet scent of spring. The Byrnes took up the first eight rows on the right of the aisle. Peg’s elder boys, Declan and Dermot, had come with their wives and children, and the sound of their chattering rose above the low murmur of anticipation. The English all sat together on the other side, conspicuous in their beautifully tailored morning coats.

  Anthony and Madeline Trawton sat with Leonora, Lavinia and their aristocratic husbands. Leonora and Lavinia looked as out of place in their designer dresses and Philip Treacy fascinators as they felt. They were used to the formality of churches and found this rustic improvisation at once quaint and disconcerting. As they gazed about them, they discovered, to their added distress, not a single recognizable face. In London they knew everybody – and those they didn’t know, weren’t worth knowing. Their husbands whispered to each other behind their service sheets, loftily observing the provincial-looking locals who eyed them suspiciously and a little enviously, for they had an air of privilege about which they could only dream.

  At last, the groom took his place at the end of the aisle in his perfectly pressed morning coat and shiny black shoes. He chatted nervously to the priest who had come from a neighbouring parish to wed them, occasionally glancing at his pocket watch to check the time and looking back expectantly for his bride.

  A moment later, Ellen walked down the aisle with Finbar, Ida and Conor. Ellen wore a pale-blue dress embroidered with little yellow flowers and Ida’s nails sparkled with pink glitter to match her pink satin dress. Finbar held his father’s hand and Conor smiled down at him proudly, for he looked so handsome in his long trousers and jacket. They grinned encouragingly at Oswald and took their places in the front row. Oswald’s heart began to accelerate. He could sense his bride was about to appear and fixed his eyes on the opening of the tent.

  Suddenly it opened wide and Peg appeared with Ronan. The congregation rose to its feet and turned to get its first glimpse of the bride. She stood a little self-consciously in a simple ivory dress that Ellen had helped her choose in Dublin. It was adorned with mother-of-pearl beads and each one now shone in the soft light of the tent. She took a deep breath, overwhelmed by the sight of so many people and such beautiful flowers, and threaded her arm through her son’s, looking up at him for reassurance. He bent down and whispered something in her ear, which made her cheeks flush with pleasure. Then she lifted her eyes and saw Oswald waiting for her at the end of the avenue of yellow roses, his admiration so clearly displayed in his wide and loving smile. She smiled back hesitantly before taking the first step towards him and their future.

  As Peg and Ronan walked slowly down the aisle, Dylan played a classical piano piece that Oswald had requested especially for Peg. The tent fell silent as they listened with admiration to Dylan’s accomplished rendition and watched the bride make her way towards the groom. Ronan gave his mother a kiss before handing her over to Oswald.

  ‘Hello, old girl,’ he whispered affectionately, and Peg beamed up at him, proud to be his girl and not at all worried about being old.

  The service was unconventional. Peg hadn’t wanted a religious service but she had very much wanted God to be present. They sang hymns, said prayers, Dermot and Desmond each gave a short reading and the priest gave an inspiring sermon. Finally, at the end of the service, Ronan stood in front of the congregation and unfolded a piece of paper with trembling hands. He turned to his mother and was about to speak, but seeing her there with Oswald, looking so happy, caused the words to catch in his throat. He swallowed hard and blinked back his emotion.

  ‘I would like to read a blessing, one that you all know well, but to be honest it never really meant much to me until now.’ He paused and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Then he looked steadily at his mother and his eyes sought encouragement in hers. ‘I know Ciara is with us. I know you know that too, Mam. She’s with us every day, but never more so than today. It is love that binds us together and because of that, I know she will always be with us.’ Peg wiped a tear from her cheek and held Oswald’s hand tightly as Ronan read the famous Irish blessing:

  May the road rise to meet you,

  May the wind be always at your back.

  May the sun shine warm upon your face,

  The rains fall soft upon your fields.

  And until we meet again,

  May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

  May God be with you and bless you;

  May you see your children’s children.

  May you be poor in misfortune,

  Rich in blessings,

  May you know nothing but happiness

  From this day forward.

  May the road rise to meet you

  May the wind be always at your back

  May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home

  And may the hand of a friend always be near.

  May green be the grass you walk on,

  May blue be the skies above you,

  May pure be the joys that surround you,

  May true be the hearts that love you.

  Ronan’s voice thinned on the last line but he managed the final words. As he returned to his seat, Dylan’s piano-playing rose in a stirring crescendo.

  Oswald took his wife’s hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Did I tell you how beautiful you are?’ he asked.

  Peg’s eyes sparkled with happiness. ‘Oh, you old rogue,’ she laughed. ‘I’m too old for that sort of compliment.’ But Oswald could see her face light up as she smiled through her tears. They turned to the congregation who, quite unexpectedly and with great vigour, erupted into loud applause. With a spring in their step and laughter in their faces, they walked back down the aisle, grinning broadly at friends and relations as they passed.

  The congregation spilled out onto the lawn. The small children ran off to pat the donkey and ride in his little cart, supervised by their mothers. To their excitement, the donkey walked diligently around the lawn, following the carrots Ronan had placed on the grass to tempt him. The adults made for the food and wine. Ellen observed the English and the Irish with interest. At first, they remained in two separate parties: those in morning coats and those in suits, and neither dared penetrate the other. But then, as they drank champagne and ate from the sumptuous banquet laid out on the lawn, they slowly began to mingle. She was reminded of the story ‘Stone Soup’, which she read to the children at bedtime. Sharing brought them together. In this case it was the wedding feast and their mutual affection for Peg and
Oswald.

  Her gaze was drawn to Conor and Ronan, who were deep in conversation a little distance from the rest of the party, in the shade of a cedar tree. She took a gulp of elderflower cordial and watched them anxiously. Surely, on this special day, they could both find it in their hearts to forgive.

  ‘What are you looking so anxious about, Ellen Olenska?’ It was Dylan.

  ‘Over there. Ronan and Conor.’

  ‘We don’t need to wonder what they’re talking about.’

  ‘Does it look friendly to you?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Not at the moment. They look like a pair of dogs standing their ground.’

  ‘Surely, today of all days, they have to call a truce. Ronan can’t still believe that Conor killed his wife!’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t and he never did. He was just so jealous that he had to think of a reason to hate him. In his heart he knows the truth.’

  ‘That Caitlin never loved him?’

  ‘Aye, a mighty hard truth to swallow. Come, leave them to it. They’ll work it out eventually.’

  ‘I do hope so.’

  ‘Oswald has asked us to sing,’ he told her.

  She looked at him in panic. ‘You and me?’

  ‘Me and you.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘It’s about time we sang to a live audience, don’t you think? And we aren’t half bad.’ He put his arm around her waist and led her towards the tent.

  Just as she was about to step inside, she glanced back to see Conor reach out and embrace Ronan, like a father embracing a son.

  Inside, the tent was warm with body heat and fragrant from the flowers and perfume. The chairs had been placed around the edge and the middle was now left open for dancing. Oswald and Peg held court like a king and queen, surrounded by a crowd of happy courtiers. When they saw Ellen and Dylan, they called them over.

  ‘Play us one of your songs,’ said Oswald. ‘We’d like to see what you’ve been doing these past months.’

  ‘Do you have any happy ones?’ Peg asked hopefully.

  Dylan whispered to Ellen then sat at the piano and placed his fingers over the keys. ‘Ready, Ellen?’ he asked. She nodded, feeling her heart accelerate beneath the bodice of her dress. She silently prayed that she wouldn’t let him down. The music started and Ellen took a deep breath. All eyes were upon her as she stood at the piano beside Dylan, and she was thankful that they couldn’t see her legs trembling or the palms of her hands beginning to sweat with nerves. Dylan grinned up at her reassuringly and their voices broke into harmony, filling the air with its rich and magical tone. Peg looked astounded and Oswald bent down to whisper something, to which she nodded vigorously in response. Ellen began to enjoy herself. It wasn’t so embarrassing once she got going. Her eyes swam over the heads of the crowd and settled on her mother. She noticed at once that she was holding her father’s hand. She noticed, too, the proud and wistful look that made her eyes shine.

  Drawn into the tent by the sound of music came Conor and Ronan and a few other guests who had remained on the lawn. A moment later the clapping began and then Oswald pulled Peg into the centre of the room and began to swing her around in a merry dance. She laughed and blushed and kicked her legs as the clapping grew louder. Dylan then played a song they all knew and everyone joined in. Conor grabbed Ellen’s hand and led her into the throng of dancers. Even Leonora and Lavinia were being whirled about by their husbands, who had taken off their morning coats and now danced with their shirt tails hanging out of their trousers. Music united them all and no one enjoyed the dancing more than Oswald and Peg.

  Conor pulled Ellen into his arms. ‘You’ve given Peg a beautiful wedding,’ he said, pressing his bristly cheek to hers.

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without you,’ she replied.

  She felt his skin grow hot against hers. ‘How would you like a day like this for us?’

  She lifted her chin and looked at him steadily. ‘Are you asking me to marry you, Mr Macausland?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m a traditional man at heart.’

  A small smile crept across her face. ‘Well, I think it would be appropriate if we did.’

  The meaningful way in which she said ‘appropriate’ made him frown. ‘What do you mean, Ellen?’

  ‘Well, considering . . .’ She grinned smugly and her eyes twinkled with maternal pride.

  He stopped moving to the music and stared at her. ‘You’re not saying . . .?’

  ‘I am saying.’

  ‘Jaysus, are you really?’ His smile widened with excitement. ‘I hope you’re not messing with me, Ellen Trawton.’

  ‘I’m not messing with you, darling. You’re going to be a father again.’

  ‘Jaysus, Mary and holy St Joseph.’ He laughed, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Then we’d better do the right thing before your grandmother turns again in her grave.’

  ‘She’s turned so many times she must be quite dizzy by now!’ Ellen smiled.

  ‘When can we announce it?’

  ‘Not yet. Not today. This is Aunt Peg’s day.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  He pressed his lips to her temple. ‘ To think we have every tomorrow until the end of our days.’

  ‘And if Caitlin has taught us anything, Conor, we have all the tomorrows afterwards as well.’

  Acknowledgements

  I really loved writing this book. The moment I set off on my fantasy to the west coast of Ireland, I was captivated by those wild and rugged hills, the ruined stone farmhouses inhabited only by the wind and sheep, and the cast of wonderful characters I met along the way. I fell in love with Ballymaldoon, and the hours spent in my imagination were immensely pleasurable. It didn’t feel like work. But I did need help along the way, because I didn’t want my characters to sound like they came from Chelsea! For that, I am indebted to my Irish friend, Jane Yarrow, who fell about laughing at some of things I made my characters say! Ah, we had da craic, all right! She is a great mimic and it wasn’t long before the voices of Dylan, Conor and Peg were loud and clear in my head. They sprung to life and I’m certain that, when I next travel to Connemara, I will find them.

  I’m fortunate that my agent, Sheila Crowley, is Irish. She has been a very good adviser, and one or two of the ideas she tossed my way have had a much greater impact on the book than she could ever have imagined. I’m enormously grateful to her for her expertise as an agent, but also for her inspiration and her friendship. I feel positive about the future and am very aware that I wouldn’t be in such a fortunate position now if it wasn’t for her. I’d also like to thank Katie McGowan and Rebecca Ritchie at Curtis Brown.

  Simon & Schuster have thrust me onto the bestsellers list and I’m beyond grateful for that. They are a formidable team. Dynamic, enthusiastic, full of energy and ideas, but most importantly they understand my novels and how best to present them. The covers are stunning. They are beautiful windows through which my reader can leap into my imaginary world. All writers want their covers to accurately represent the book but it’s amazing how many don’t. Thank you Team S&S for getting me.

  Therefore, it is with a rush of gratitude that I thank Suzanne Baboneau, my chief editor, Kerr MacRae, my Svengali, Clare Hey, who meticulously edited the book, line by line, and the fantastic band of hard-working professionals who lend their expertise to help produce and sell my books. They all do an incredible job. Thank you, James Horobin, Dawn Burnett, Maxine Hitchcock and Hannah Corbett.

  On the other side of the Atlantic, Simon & Schuster US are an equally impressive team, bestriding a massive territory. When I go to New York, my editor Trish Todd is the only person capable of enticing me out of Saks! I look forward to our lunches with great enthusiasm and wish only that the Atlantic wasn’t quite so big. She is a tremendous support and I feel very lucky to be in her care. I also thank my publisher Jonathan Karp, Kate Gales, Alicia Samuels, Andrea DeWerd and Molly Lindley.

  As always, I would like to thank my mother for her editing.
She gets the manuscript first and improves it enormously with her ruthless eye for ill-chosen words and bad grammar. But more than that, she is a great analyst of people and their relationships, and I think a little of that talent has rubbed off on me.

  This novel has a strong spiritual angle, which is very much part of me and my experience. I thank my father for igniting my interest all those years ago and for keeping that flame alive during our long walks through the countryside and on the many chairlifts of Klosters. The last fifteen years have been a fascinating spiritual journey for me, thanks to my dear friend and sage, Susan Dabbs; but Daddy was my very first guru.

  I thank my children, Lily and Sasha, for the gift of love, and my husband, Sebag, for his encouragement, ideas and advice. He is my champion and an inexhaustible source of joy. Because of him, I believe I’m the best I can be.