The Secret of the Irish Castle

by Santa Montefiore

  “She was beautiful,” said JP.

  “She was. It’s a pity you’re too young to have known her.”

  “She looks like Kitty.”

  “Yes, she does. The same red hair and pale gray eyes and the same expression. Sometimes the likeness is so uncanny I have to pinch myself. I’ll put the painting back as soon as the wall dries. Won’t waste money on repairs. I daresay the eye will be drawn away from the stain by the picture.”

  Mr. Barrett and his helper began to stagger out into the hall. “Careful now,” said Bertie again. “There’s no rush, Mr. Barrett. Take your time. Molly here will show you where to put it, won’t you, Molly? And do be careful to cover it. I don’t want it to get dusty.”

  “Yes, Lord Deverill,” said the rosy-faced maid in a white apron who had appeared in the doorway. She beckoned the men toward the library and, they hoped, to a rewarding drink afterward.

  “I tell you, JP, it’s a miracle this place is still standing,” said Bertie, sinking into an armchair and shaking his head at the sorry state of the room. “But there’s no point despairing. We’re lucky to have a roof over our heads.”

  “Perhaps the Countess will repair it,” said JP, taking the other armchair. “After all, she owns it now and you pay rent. It’s up to her to make sure it’s in good shape.”

  Bertie huffed as if he didn’t think much of the Countess. “Better not mention her to Kitty or you’ll get an earful.” He grinned. “Now, what can I do for you?” JP’s face beamed with a broad smile. “Ah, you’ve had a letter, have you?” said Bertie, watching his son pull an envelope out of his jacket pocket. “She likes you, does she?”

  “I think she does,” said JP.

  “Then you must go to London,” Bertie urged him.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” said JP with relief.

  “My dear boy, when it comes to matters of the heart one doesn’t want to waste time. Everyone else would caution you, after all, you’re only seventeen, but I say go and find her. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and a man needs to sow his wild oats before he settles down.”

  JP’s face fell. “I’m not going to sow my wild oats with Martha, Papa. She’s not that sort of girl. I intend to marry her.”

  Now Bertie looked alarmed. “You’ve only met her once,” he said.

  JP smiled. “When you know, you know,” he said with a shrug, and Bertie couldn’t argue with that.

  Chapter 8

  Professor Partridge was horrified when his sister informed him of Lady Gershaw’s dinner invitation. “We will be returning to Ireland at the earliest,” said Mrs. Goodwin, standing in the doorway of his study. “But first we are obliged to accept Lady Gershaw’s invitation. She was kind enough to give us the information we needed, so the least we can do is deliver you to her dinner table.”

  Professor Partridge took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, suspending his reading with obvious reluctance. “I don’t see how I can refuse,” he said after a while, and Mrs. Goodwin was relieved.

  “You might actually enjoy yourself, Stephen,” she added with a small smile.

  “There’s a great danger in enjoying myself,” he replied drily.

  “Danger?”

  “If I enjoy myself too much I might be tempted to stray more often from my desk. Then I’d get no work done at all.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me that women are a man’s undoing?”

  “In Lady Gershaw’s case, possibly.”

  “She’s very keen on you.”

  The Professor replaced his glasses. “When might you be leaving for Ireland?” he asked, and his sister could tell that, one, he was keen to be rid of them, and two, he was not prepared to discuss Lady Gershaw.

  “Within the week. I will make the necessary arrangements and find us somewhere to stay in Ballinakelly.”

  “Very well,” said Professor Partridge. “Now, do me a favor and ask Mrs. Hancock to put another log on the fire and close the door behind you.”

  A few days later Martha sat at Lady Gershaw’s dinner table. On her right was the elderly vicar, Reverend Peter Dyson, who was a good-humored man, a little mischievous even, with a full head of dove-gray curls and gentle eyes the color of blue topaz. On her left was Lady Gershaw’s nephew, a handsome young man called Edward Pearson, whose shiny dark hair was brushed off a wide forehead, revealing a distinctive widow’s peak and startlingly beautiful green eyes most women would swoon over. However, his sulky mouth pouted petulantly as he surveyed the table with ill-concealed boredom. He didn’t look at all happy to be there. Mrs. Goodwin was seated on the other side of the vicar with another elderly gentleman, some lord or other whose name had already escaped Martha, on her right. Lady Gershaw had placed Professor Partridge next to her and was talking to him confidentially. She didn’t look as if she had any interest in anyone else. Martha found it amusing that Lady Gershaw had gone to the trouble of inviting a party of ten, all for the purpose of having the pleasure of Professor Partridge. And what a pleasure it was, for her cheeks were flushed and her laughter came out of a very happy place.

  Martha spent the first course, which was a delicious salmon mousse, talking to the vicar. He was delightful, entertaining her with colorful stories of his parishioners, and Martha’s shyness melted away in the warmth of his humor. She liked his British accent and the gravelly texture of his voice and could have talked to him all evening. But when the second course was served and Lady Gershaw reluctantly turned to the gentleman seated on her left, Martha found herself having to turn too and face the unwelcoming man on her other side. She stared into her plate as the vicar struck up a conversation with Mrs. Goodwin and wondered helplessly how to ignite a dialogue with such a sullen-looking man.

  Edward Pearson sighed wearily and tapped his fork against the food unenthusiastically. “It’s always duck or pheasant,” he said, and Martha understood from his tone that he liked neither. “Aunt Marjorie loves heavy food with lots of sauce and potatoes. It’s all much too heavy for my taste.”

  He cut a piece off the duck breast and put it into his mouth. Martha did the same and was surprised to find that it was perfectly delicious. They chewed silently. “Aunt Marjorie tells me you’re from Connecticut,” said Edward finally.

  “Yes,” Martha replied. It was going to be a long evening, she feared.

  “What brings you to London?”

  Martha didn’t imagine he was very interested in her answer, for his gaze was drifting across the room as if searching for something more compelling to focus on. However, she answered politely because she had been brought up to be gracious. How she would have loved to turn her back on him and join in the lively conversation Goodwin was enjoying with Reverend Dyson. An uncomfortable silence ensued once again as they ate their duck. Everyone else at the table was talking animatedly, even Professor Partridge, who seemed never to be very animated about anything. Martha thought of JP and how charming he was in comparison to this petulant man, and she smiled absent-mindedly, wondering what he would make of Edward Pearson.

  “What’s so amusing?” Edward asked. “I’d be grateful if you shared it with me because I find little to amuse me here tonight.”

  Martha started to laugh. She dropped her knife and fork onto her plate and put her napkin to her mouth. Edward frowned. But Martha was unable to stop. There was something so hilariously comical about him when viewed through the eyes of JP Deverill that she saw how ridiculous he was. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, carefully wiping the corner of her eye so as not to smudge her kohl.

  “Was it something I said?” Martha began to laugh again. “It was something I said, wasn’t it?” he persisted. “But you’re laughing at me, not with me. I should apologize, I’m not in a good mood this evening.”

  Martha stopped laughing and felt ashamed. “No, I apologize. I was so nervous coming here tonight . . .”

  “Nervous? What’s there to be nervous about?”

  “I don’t know. I’m new to London. I
know no one, and Lady Gershaw is a formidable woman.”

  At this Edward’s lips curled into an incredulous smile. “She doesn’t scare you, does she? Not Aunt Marjorie.”

  “She might be Aunt Marjorie to you, but she’s Lady Gershaw to me. I’ve never met a lady before.”

  “She wasn’t born a lady, you know, and she’s not scary, just pushy.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “What would you say if I told you that her father was in trade?”

  “Trade?”

  “Yes, my great-grandfather manufactured fabric, and my grandfather opened a shop. His daughter, Marjorie, caught the eye of a rich aristocrat and that was that. His younger daughter, my mother, wasn’t so shrewd, although she didn’t do too badly in marrying my father. But I can tell you, when Aunt Marjorie sets her sights on something, she usually gets it.” He sighed theatrically. “Poor Professor Partridge; he’s like a fox with his paw in the trap.”

  “I don’t think Professor Partridge is the marrying type,” said Martha, and they both watched him from the other side of the table. “I think he’s more interested in books.”

  “Which is why Aunt Marjorie wants him so badly, because she can’t have him. It’s human nature to want what one can’t have.”

  “What happened to her husband?”

  “Died in a hunting accident in Ireland. I tell you, those Irish are as wild as snakes.”

  Martha felt as if an electric shock had passed through her. “In Ireland?”

  “Yes, a tiny place no one would ever have heard of were it not for a very colorful family with a big castle.”

  “Do tell me about them,” said Martha. Could it be possible that he was talking about the Deverills?

  “It’s a small, rather insignificant place called Ballinakelly.” Martha suddenly remembered to take a breath. “Uncle Toad—he was really called Tony, but he was big and portly with an enormous belly and a penchant for living well, so we all knew him as Toad, after—”

  “The Wind in the Willows,” Martha interrupted. “What a beautiful book that is.”

  “There was nothing beautiful about Uncle Toad, I can tell you. Anyhow, he loved to hunt, and the Ballinakelly Foxhounds is famously perilous and Lord Deverill famously generous with the port, so that was an invitation he looked forward to with more relish than any other. Of course Aunt Marjorie loves to hobnob with the grandees although she doesn’t hunt, which is lucky, because if she were as strident on a horse as she is off it, she’d be unbearable!”

  “What happened in the hunt?” asked Martha, keen to steer the conversation back to the Deverills.

  “Uncle Toad, Bertie Deverill and Bertie’s mad cousin Digby used to compete. They were all at school together as boys and great rivals. Now we’re talking twenty years ago, just after the war. Uncle Toad wasn’t as young and fit as he had once been, but he was still reckless. They set off on a particularly soggy morning, and he jumped everything in sight. Now, Uncle Toad could never compete with a Deverill in the saddle, those Deverills were born to it, you see, but Uncle Toad wanted to show that he could ride just as well as them. The silly man went for something ridiculously high and the horse decided at the last minute that he wasn’t going to attempt such a daft hurdle and shied, slipping in the mud. Uncle Toad fell off and broke his neck.”

  “That’s dreadful!” Martha exclaimed.

  “Sad for Aunt Marjorie, because she didn’t have any children so she was left on her own. She’s never married again, but she does go back to Ballinakelly every now and then.”

  “How terrible for the Deverills to have that happen to one of their guests.”

  “They’ve suffered worse, I can tell you. Their home was burned down during the Troubles.”

  “The castle?”

  “Yes, the greater part of it burned to a cinder. Hubert Deverill, Bertie’s father, was killed in the fire.” When Edward saw Martha’s shocked face he was encouraged to divulge more. “Then there was a wonderful scandal when Bertie fathered a child with one of the housemaids. His wife left Ireland in a sulk and hasn’t been back since. She lives in Belgravia and has a rich lover. It’s really quite scandalous.”

  “What happened to the child Bertie fathered with the maid?”

  “Bertie acknowledged him and brought him up. Thought nothing of it. But that’s Bertie for you. Nice chap, he is, the boy. Very Deverill, I’d say.”

  Martha averted her eyes and breathed slowly. She barely dared ask the question, but her curiosity was too much for her. “What is the boy called?”

  “JP,” Edward replied. “JP Deverill.”

  Edward continued to divert her with stories of the Deverills. Warming to his subject he told her about Celia rebuilding the castle and then being forced to sell when her husband, Archie, committed suicide after losing all his money in the Great Crash, about her father, Digby, dying of a heart attack on the golf course and Celia running away to South Africa. “How the mighty fall, eh?” said Edward as Martha was left reeling from his tales. “Someone should write a book about them,” he said with a chuckle. “It would make a gripping read.”

  Martha was disappointed when Lady Gershaw stood up and led the ladies out of the room so that the men could pass the port and discuss politics. After powdering her nose in an upstairs bathroom, she joined Mrs. Goodwin in front of the fire. “How was that good-looking young man?” Mrs. Goodwin asked quietly. “I was worried about you at the beginning, but you seemed to be holding your own by the end.”

  Martha gripped her arm. “He knows the Deverills,” she replied. “He knows JP.”

  “I told you, didn’t I? The English aristocrats all know one another.”

  Lady Gershaw plonked herself into an armchair and grinned at Martha. “So, Martha my dear, how was my nephew? He’s a delight, isn’t he?”

  LATER, WHEN MARTHA was alone with Mrs. Goodwin in her bedroom in Professor Partridge’s house, she told her nanny everything that Edward had told her. Mrs. Goodwin listened in fascination from the edge of the bed while Martha paced the room. “Well, what can I say? Those Deverills are extraordinary.”

  “I didn’t ask about Lady Rowan-Hampton. I was too scared,” Martha confessed, stopping for a moment. “I don’t want to hear anything that might change the way I think about her.”

  “You’re going to find out for yourself very soon. I will make the necessary arrangements in the morning. Lady Gershaw recommended a charming little inn in the heart of Ballinakelly. I doubt it’s very grand, but it’s inexpensive and convenient. Lady Gershaw says it overlooks the harbor, which will be nice, won’t it?”

  “I don’t mind that JP is illegitimate. So am I, really,” said Martha, who had been thinking of little else. “That’s another thing we have in common besides liking our tea milky!” She pressed her hands against her chest and sighed with longing. “I wouldn’t care if his parents were peasants! I love him just the way he is.”

  Mrs. Goodwin smiled. “You do realize that Lady Gershaw was matchmaking you with her nephew.”

  “I’m sure she wasn’t,” Martha protested.

  “I knew it from the moment I started telling her about your parents and how well-established the Wallace family is. Her little eyes were shining like a magpie spying a piece of silver. The vicar told me that Edward is a great worry to her because, as she has no children, he is her heir and so far he’s only courted the most unsuitable girls.”

  “Well, she’s going to be disappointed,” said Martha, but Mrs. Goodwin could see that she was flattered that anyone might consider her “suitable.” “My heart is elsewhere.”

  “Of course it is,” said Mrs. Goodwin, hoisting herself up from the bed. “Now, it’s time you went to bed. I think we’ve repaid Lady Gershaw for her kindness.”

  “We most certainly have,” Martha agreed. “Poor Professor, he was so reluctant to come.”

  Mrs. Goodwin narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think he’s as reluctant as you imagine. I might even go so far as to say that I think he likes Lady Gershaw.�
��

  “Really?”

  “Indeed I do. She brings him out, you see, in every way. She gets him out of his house and brings out his humor. I think he’s forgotten what it is to be young and carefree, and Lady Gershaw reminds him.” She hesitated in the doorway. “I do know that he’ll be very happy to be rid of us.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s used to having guests.”

  “I think we’re the first!” Mrs. Goodwin smiled. “Now, get some sleep. I think we’re in for an interesting ride in Ballinakelly. You’ll need all your energy for what lies ahead.”

  “Thank you, Goodwin,” said Martha.

  “Don’t mention it, my dear. I wouldn’t have missed this adventure for anything in the world.”

  MARTHA WAS TOO excited to sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about JP and the Deverills. She imagined the great castle, burned to the ground. She imagined the hunting and the parties and the glamour that Edward had told her about. Her world seemed so very conservative and dull by comparison: lunches at the golf club, tea parties in manicured gardens, polite, gracious, beautifully dressed people in beautifully decorated houses. There had been no tragic deaths, suicides, scandals or fires to add a little spice, to add a little depth, to what was perhaps a rather shallow existence. Nothing of any interest had ever happened in her life until Edith had divulged the secret Joan had told her, and suddenly, overnight, Martha’s reality had shifted, bringing with it a glimpse of an alternative existence. A glimpse of something else, something spicier. She felt that now, suddenly, she was swimming beyond the sheltered cove of her childhood, into a perilous sea of turbulent waves and treacherous creatures, and yet the danger of it thrilled her. She had never felt so excited before. She had shaken off the constraints of her youth, imposed upon her by her mother in particular, who wanted her to be something that she wasn’t, not really, not deep down: a Wallace. No, she was somebody different, and she couldn’t wait to find out who that was.

  Martha had found love, and she was going to pursue it. She didn’t know where it would take her, but she was eager because she knew that she and JP belonged together. She was certain of it. She felt as if all her life she had been waiting for him and, now that she had found him, she would never be lonely again. It was as if she had been missing some vital part of herself and had at last found it. Before meeting JP she had been half of something and then, all at once, she had become whole. Perhaps that was the sort of cliché one might hear in a badly written song, but it befitted her. It was entirely apt. Now she was going to go to Ireland and discover that she belonged in an entirely different world to the one she had known across the Atlantic. Maybe she belonged to this flamboyant Irish world that Edward had described with such gusto. She wondered whether JP had received her letter and whether he had written back. She’d leave before it arrived, of course, but she’d surprise him instead by turning up in Ballinakelly. Yes, she told herself emphatically, she’d surprise him, and the thought of seeing him again made her chest expand with happiness. She lay in bed, blinking into the darkness, visualizing the look on his face when he opened his door and saw her there.