Martha was wringing her hands nervously until Mrs. Goodwin stopped her by placing her own hand on top. “You don’t need to be nervous, my dear. Stephen speaks highly of Lady Gershaw.”
“I’m not nervous about her, Goodwin, but about what she might tell me.”
Just as Mrs. Goodwin was about to reassure her again, a short, rotund woman of about sixty, with a cheerful round face, bright green eyes and a wide, confident smile strode into the room in a pair of sensible brown lace-up shoes and a tweed suit, followed by three small fox terriers. “How lovely!” she exclaimed, putting out a hand. “You must be Stephen’s sister,” she said, looking directly at Mrs. Goodwin.
“Yes, I am,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, shaking her soft, pudgy hand. “And this is Martha Wallace, my charge from Connecticut.”
“Welcome, my dear,” said Lady Gershaw fruitily. “Please, do sit down. Amy is going to bring us tea. I hope you like tea?” She turned to Martha and raised her eyebrows.
“Oh yes, I do, Lady Gershaw, thank you.” Martha waited for Mrs. Goodwin to sit down on the sofa before taking the place beside her. Lady Gershaw chose one of the armchairs, and the terriers, after sniffing the two guests with prodding, curious snouts, settled on the rug at their mistress’s feet.
“I don’t suppose Stephen has told you why we are friends?” Lady Gershaw said with a mischievous smile. “Well, let me tell you. I wrote to him out of the blue, because I adore his work. You see, I’m an avid reader and history is my passion. I’m an admirer. That’s how we met!” She shook her gray curls. “Isn’t that funny? I bet you couldn’t have guessed.”
“No,” said Mrs. Goodwin, genuinely surprised. “I would never have guessed.”
“Professor Partridge wrote back to me. So sweet of him to bother, and I wasted no time in responding. You see, I’m a persistent woman,” Lady Gershaw said with a coquettish grin. “And I usually get what I want. In this case, I invited the Professor to tea, rather like we are meeting today, and, bless him, he came. I gather he is something of a recluse, but I did write an extraordinarily good letter. We discussed his work for much of the morning, and that is how our friendship began. He is the teacher and I am the pupil and he is so fascinating, I could listen to him for days! I only wish I was able to drag him away from his books more often, but if I did, I would be the loser, for I’d have to wait even longer to read his work.” Martha controlled the smile that was about to break out on her face for it was clear that Lady Gershaw was in love with Mrs. Goodwin’s brother. Martha was certain that her ardor was not reciprocated. Professor Partridge did not seem like a man much interested in women. He seemed like a man who was interested only in books.
“So, you are his sister, Mrs. Goodwin. Do tell me what it was like growing up with Stephen. Have you always been close?” Mrs. Goodwin satisfied their hostess with stories from her childhood, while they sipped the tea the maid had brought in and ate the biscuits without noticing the three pairs of eyes that watched them greedily from the rug at Lady Gershaw’s feet.
Martha wondered whether they would ever get around to finding out whether Lady Gershaw knew of Lady Rowan-Hampton. Lady Gershaw was so gripped by Mrs. Goodwin’s stories it was as if Martha was not in the room. At last, when the old lady drew breath, Lady Gershaw turned to Martha.
“My dear, how long will you be staying in London?”
“I’m really not sure. I’d like to see as much of it as I can,” she said vaguely.
“You must go to the theater, and the museums are wonderful. London is a treasure chest of delights. I only wish the sun would shine for you.”
“Lady Gershaw,” Mrs. Goodwin interrupted, aware of Martha’s growing impatience. “I have a favor to ask you.”
Lady Gershaw was so enjoying talking to Professor Partridge’s sister that she was prepared to do anything Mrs. Goodwin requested of her. “Please, tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Many years ago I worked for a family who introduced me to a certain Lady Rowan-Hampton, Grace Rowan-Hampton. She gave me something of value, and now that I’m in England I would very much like to give it back to her. Might you know who she is and where I might find her?”
Martha’s heart was beating very loudly now, pounding against her rib cage like a drumstick. She began to pick her nails and bite her lower lip, but Lady Gershaw was not looking at her. She was looking at Mrs. Goodwin with a wide smile, delighted that she was in a position to help Professor Partridge’s sister—delighted that she could boast of her wide and illustrious connections. “My dear Mrs. Goodwin,” she gushed. “I know Grace Rowan-Hampton very well. She lives not far from here. However, she is not in London at present. She spends most of her time in Ireland.”
“Ireland?” repeated Mrs. Goodwin. Martha’s cheeks glowed red.
“Yes, she and her husband, Sir Ronald, have a house in county Cork. Ronald travels so much, but Grace prefers to be there. She has a lovely house in a small town called Ballinakelly.” At the mention of JP’s hometown Martha’s whole face flushed. She stared at Lady Gershaw over her teacup, afraid to put it down in case she dropped it.
“How very strange,” said Mrs. Goodwin, with forced calmness. “We were only just in Dublin and met a man and his son who live in Ballinakelly.”
“And who might they be? I bet I know them,” said Lady Gershaw, and it was clear to Martha that this was a woman who made it her business to know everyone.
“Lord Deverill,” Mrs. Goodwin replied.
“Bertie Deverill,” Lady Gershaw exclaimed happily. “What a coincidence! Whyever did you not ask him?”
“I didn’t think of it,” said Mrs. Goodwin truthfully. “I never thought for one moment that they would know each other. I never imagined that Lady Rowan-Hampton would live in Ireland.”
“Know each other? Why, they are the very best of friends.” She pulled a face to suggest that she was keeping a monumental secret and that it was all she could do not to divulge it. “Very best of friends,” she repeated with emphasis. Martha realized that her jaw was hanging open and swiftly closed it. “Would you like me to arrange for you to meet her?” Lady Gershaw asked.
Mrs. Goodwin glanced at Martha, who was staring at Lady Gershaw with eyes so wide it was alarming. “No, really, you’re much too kind. Next time I am in Ireland I will pay her a visit.”
“She will be in London in the spring. She always returns for the Season and to see her sons, of course. You know all three are married with children?”
“No, I didn’t know she had children,” said Mrs. Goodwin.
“They don’t much like Ireland. Ever since the Troubles they have lived here. I imagine the company is more exciting for young people in a vibrant, cosmopolitan city like London.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Goodwin agreed.
“Do allow me to invite you all for dinner,” Lady Gershaw said in a sudden flourish of inspiration. “I know Stephen rarely goes out, but really, he should be more generous with his brilliant mind and share it with us lesser-gifted folk. Allow me to host a dinner for you. How about next week. What do you say?”
Mrs. Goodwin was a little embarrassed. It didn’t seem correct that an aristocratic lady such as Lady Gershaw should host a dinner for a woman who was of no social standing, even if she happened to be the sister of someone Lady Gershaw so greatly admired. But Mrs. Goodwin had no choice but to accept. “We’d be honored, Lady Gershaw,” she replied.
“Good, that’s settled then,” said Lady Gershaw with satisfaction. “I will put together a small group of people you will like. Martha dear, how old are you?”
“Seventeen,” she replied.
Lady Gershaw narrowed her eyes. “I might recruit a couple of young gentlemen for you. Tell me, what does your father do?”
Mrs. Goodwin was so relieved that Lady Gershaw had asked a question to which the answer was going to be entirely to her approval that she jumped in and spoke on Martha’s behalf. “Mr. Wallace is in the Foreign Service. He’s one of the most well-connected men in
Connecticut. Of course, the Wallace family is a very respectable, very distinguished old family . . .” Martha squirmed uneasily on the sofa, but Lady Gershaw’s eyes were gleaming.
As they left the house half an hour later, Lady Gershaw stood at the top of the steps and waved. When they were safely out of earshot Martha exploded. “Goodwin, my mother is in Ireland. She lives in Ballinakelly, near the Deverills. Can you believe the coincidence? It’s too much! We should have mentioned her to JP and saved ourselves the trouble of traveling all the way to London.”
“I’m astonished,” Mrs. Goodwin agreed. “It’s extraordinary.”
“We must go to Ireland at once.”
“Not before we have dinner with Lady Gershaw.”
“But that’s next week! Do we really have to?” Martha complained.
“My dear, we owe her everything. Thanks to her you might be reunited with your mother, after all.”
“She has three sons,” said Martha thoughtfully. “Do you think she might be pleased to discover that she also has a daughter?”
“I don’t know. She might not welcome you turning up out of the past. Remember she is married and has a family. She’s a respectable member of the aristocracy. She’ll have a reputation to uphold. Until we meet her there’s no telling what sort of woman she is.”
“I think she’s going to be happy, Goodwin. I can feel it,” said Martha with a shiver of excitement. “And to think I’m going to see JP again! It’s too wonderful. Come, let’s not take the bus. Let’s walk through the park and find somewhere nice to have lunch. I don’t care that it’s raining. Everything is going to turn out well. I just know it is.”
Mrs. Goodwin followed after her, wondering how she was going to break it to her brother that he was going to have to have dinner with Lady Gershaw.
Chapter 6
Ballinakelly
Old Mrs. Nagle was buried in the graveyard outside the Catholic church of All Saints, and Sean and Rosetta moved into the east wing of the castle with their five children. As one era ended, another was beginning. Bridie was grateful for Rosetta’s company because Cesare spent little time at home. She didn’t know where he went, and she knew not to ask. The first time she had asked, not long after their wedding, he had answered that he had business to see to; although what business it was she couldn’t imagine, for Cesare was a pleasure-seeker with little money of his own and no interest in commerce. The second time she had inquired, he had snapped impatiently, “Does a man have to explain where he goes to his wife?” and Bridie had been stung for he had never spoken to her like that before they were married. He had looked at her with an imperious expression, and his beautiful green eyes had darkened with indignation and Bridie had been cowed. She hadn’t seen that side of his character before, and it had alarmed her.
Contrary to her expectations Cesare never took her to Buenos Aires as he had promised, and she had never met his family. When she asked him about it he waved his hands in the air as if trying to clear away an unpleasant smell. “My treasure, there is time enough for everything. I will introduce you to my family when the time is right.” But it never was.
Over the years that followed, Cesare had revealed himself to be a masterful, domineering and selfish husband, but Bridie loved him in spite of his faults. The very qualities that might have repelled another woman drew Bridie closer to him because his authority made her feel safe.
Rosetta, on the other hand, was more circumspect, and she was not blinded, as Bridie was, by love. Yes, Cesare was undoubtedly blessed with beauty, and his charm, when he chose to be charming, was irresistible, but very quickly after meeting him Rosetta suspected that the man behind the mask was simply another man wearing a mask. There was something unknowable about him, as if he was made of many elaborate layers, and yet each seemingly substantial layer was paper thin and might at any moment disintegrate if touched. There was also something sly, which revealed itself in the moments when his face fell into repose, when he thought no one was looking, when he ceased to play a part. Then shadows would distort his features, that fine nose would look pointy, the full mouth petulant and his charm would fall away like fairy dust. He avoided going into any detail about his childhood in Italy, and he avoided talking to Rosetta in their native tongue. However, the few sentences she had prized out of him had revealed something in the vowels that was neither Spanish nor Italian. It was something else besides, but Rosetta couldn’t put her finger on what exactly it was. She was certain of one thing, however: she would never share her suspicions with Bridie because Bridie was blissfully happy in ignorance.
“Can I speak to you plainly?” said Bridie to Rosetta one afternoon not long after her Italian friend had moved into the castle. They were upstairs in Bridie’s sitting room, which was situated next to her bedroom with an interconnecting door. It wasn’t large and imposing like the reception rooms downstairs with their elaborate and extravagant decoration, nor was it masculine like the library, where Cesare liked to sit and smoke. It was small with two sofas and two armchairs arranged around a fireplace. Tall windows looked out over the garden and were framed by green-and-pink curtains that broke onto the rug, matching the green-and-pink floral wallpaper. It was the only room in the entire castle where Bridie felt comfortable. The rest of the place made her uneasy. It was much too grand and held too many memories she would rather not confront.
“Cesare wants me to entertain lavishly,” she said. “But I don’t know who to invite.” Bridie stood up and walked to the fireplace. She put her hand on the mantelpiece and stared into the flames. “I’m neither fish nor fowl, Rosetta.”
Rosetta frowned. “What do you mean?”
Bridie turned around with a sigh, and Rosetta saw that her eyes were glistening with tears. “I grew up in a farmhouse but I’m not that girl any longer because I’m a countess in a castle. But I’m not from that world either, the world of counts and countesses and castles. I fall somewhere between the two, but I don’t know where that is. The Anglo-Irish who used to come here in droves won’t come near me. They despise me for having bought the castle, which in their opinion should belong to a Deverill, and I’m a working-class Catholic, beneath them in every way. Then there are the upper-class Catholics, who look down their noses at me because I’m not from their world either. The working-class farmers I grew up with are now suspicious of me, and Cesare doesn’t want to mix with the likes of them because they’re ill-educated and unsophisticated and he’s right. He’s much too good for them. So, you see, I have no one to invite, and Cesare . . .” She took a staggered breath, suddenly overcome with emotion. “Cesare wants me to fill the castle with people. He wants me to entertain like Lady Deverill used to do, but he doesn’t realize that I can’t. I don’t know anyone. In New York I could be someone different. I could reinvent myself. But here I’ll always be Bridie Doyle, and the limitations imposed upon a girl like her will never change. Bridie Doyle should have married a farmer’s son and raised a family in Ballinakelly. What am I going to do?” She began to cry.
Rosetta was sympathetic. “I’m a simple girl from New York, Bridie. I don’t know what you should do either.”
Bridie sat beside her on the sofa, and her shoulders sagged in defeat. “I don’t want to be a disappointment to Cesare,” she said in a small voice, and Rosetta had to fight the fury that rose in her because Cesare had turned her friend, who had once been so courageous and bold, into a coward.
Rosetta took her hand and squeezed it fiercely. “You could never be a disappointment to anyone,” she said. “Cesare is lucky to have you; don’t ever think it is the other way around. You have a heart of gold, Bridie, and Cesare is lucky that you have given it to him. Just make sure you keep a little of it for yourself.” She had to bite her tongue to stop it from revealing what she really thought.
It wasn’t long, however, before Bridie received her first visitor. To her surprise it was none other than Lady Rowan-Hampton, the very woman who had arranged her brief stay at the convent in Dublin and he
r subsequent passage to America; the very woman whom Bridie blamed for compelling her to leave behind her baby son. Bridie was so shocked when the butler announced Grace that she kept her visitor waiting for ten minutes in the drawing room while she composed herself upstairs in her little sitting room. She wished that Rosetta hadn’t gone to visit her mother-in-law and that Cesare hadn’t gone to play cards in O’Donovan’s. She was obliged to entertain Lady Rowan-Hampton alone.
“My dear Bridie,” said Grace when Bridie appeared at last. The older woman held out her hands, and Bridie was left with no choice but to take them. She felt as if the castle didn’t belong to her at all but to this sophisticated, elegant lady who was so much more at ease than she was in this ostentatious drawing room. “It is good to see you looking so well,” she said, running her soft brown eyes over Bridie’s face. “The years have been kind to you.”
“And to you, Lady Rowan-Hampton,” Bridie replied.
“Please, call me Grace. I should like us to be friends, Bridie. The past is water under the bridge. You are now mistress of this castle and a countess. You have been shrewd. I must say, when you left for America, I never imagined you would return in such style.”
Bridie didn’t think she could ever be friends with a woman who had persuaded her to give up her child, who had arranged to send her to the other side of the world. But Cesare would be happy that she was entertaining a lady of importance, so she decided to let go her animosity and welcome Grace into her life as if she were a new friend. “Please, do sit down,” she said. “Would you like tea?”
The Secret of the Irish Castle Page 7
