The Secret of the Irish Castle

by Santa Montefiore

  By the time Cesare got up to leave, Badger could scarcely walk, Paddy was singing in a loud, tuneless voice, missing out the consonants altogether and whistling the notes he couldn’t reach, and Jack was singing too, an entirely different song to Paddy, about a girl with titian hair. Cesare watched them leave then sauntered up to the bar where Mrs. O’Donovan was with her daughter putting away the glasses. He placed crisp notes on the bar, more than enough to pay for every drink in the house, and smiled at Niamh. He could feel the tension grow hot between them and could see the rise and fall of her breasts as her heart accelerated beneath them. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure, and her eyes shone with lust and the curl in her lips told him that she’d be his if only he’d ask. But Mrs. O’Donovan was watching them like a cat with a pair of mice and Cesare could only communicate his desire with the intensity of his gaze. “It has been an entertaining evening,” he said, looking directly at Niamh. “You have the best house in the whole of county Cork.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mrs. O’Donovan replied tersely. “Niamh, you can finish now. Off to bed. I’ll close up.” Cesare put on his coat and hat and left the pub reluctantly. Once outside he looked up to the windows, which were all dark except for one, glowing softly with the warmth of a single light. He stood in the street staring up at it, knowing that Niamh was inside. Knowing that she knew he was outside, waiting for her. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the damp air. He waited, but he didn’t have to wait long. She appeared, silhouetted against the thin curtains, a fulsome profile unbuttoning her blouse and slipping it over her shoulders. He inhaled, and the tip of his cigarette glowed scarlet. She turned to the window and slowly opened the curtains. She stood in her camisole top and looked out into the night. He could make out her breasts beneath the delicate fabric, and his loins ached with desire. He wanted to scale the wall and climb into her bedroom and take her there. She dropped her gaze and grinned at him, lifting her hand to unpin her hair so that it tumbled about her in tawny waves. Then the lights of the pub went out and Cesare imagined Mrs. O’Donovan climbing the stairs, her tread heavy on the steps. Niamh glanced over her shoulder. She gave one final toss of her hair before closing the curtains. She stood for a moment with her back to the window then moved away. Cesare dropped his cigarette onto the ground and walked to his car. He was as lustful as a bull. Perhaps he’d make love to his wife tonight after all, he thought. If nothing else presented itself there was always Bridie. Sweet, submissive Bridie.

  As he drove up the road toward the castle he resolved that he would have Niamh O’Donovan one way or another. It was simply a matter of time.

  Chapter 10

  It was raining when Martha and Mrs. Goodwin arrived in Ballinakelly, and very late. Dark clouds obscured the stars, and a blustery gale blew in off the ocean, but Martha didn’t mind; she was close to JP and nothing else mattered. She sighed with pleasure for they had arrived at last after a long and tiring journey from London and the next day she would surprise JP. She had thought of nothing else since boarding the train at Paddington. Holding down their hats the two women hurried into the inn.

  They were met in the small hall by a stout woman in a pair of thick spectacles. Behind the glass her eyes looked large and owlish, but her smile was friendly and she greeted them with motherly concern. “Ye must be perished, ladies,” she said, and her soft Irish brogue curled around her vowels as if they too needed warming up. “I’ve lit a fire in your room so it should be nice and cozy now. Come in out of the rain. It’s been at it all day, cats and dogs and everything else besides. My name is Mrs. O’Sullivan and you must be Miss Wallace and Mrs. Goodwin. I thought you’d be hungry, so I’ve put some supper on the table, nothing grand, just soda bread and corned beef, but it will keep the wolf from the door. Come, let’s not dally a moment longer. Let me show you to your room and we can talk all we like on the morrow.” Mrs. O’Sullivan led them up the narrow staircase, her slippers treading softly on the wood, her stockings gathering in rings at her ankles. When she reached the landing she put her hand on her chest; she had all but lost her breath and paused a moment to find it.

  “Here we are,” she said at length, and opened the door. “I hope you will find it comfortable. The bathroom is at the end of the corridor.” She handed them the key. Mrs. Goodwin and Martha walked into the room, which was very small. A wooden cross hung on the white wall above the chest of drawers, and a tatty Bible had been placed on the table between the beds. A turf fire threw smoke into the room but gave out little warmth. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mrs. O’Sullivan said. “I hope you sleep well.” She disappeared, and a moment later a stubbly young man in a cap arrived with their suitcases. There was barely enough space in there for the three of them, so he dropped the cases onto the rug and left, mumbling something neither woman understood.

  Martha went to the window and opened the curtains. She looked through the glass at the glistening street below. The headlights of a car distracted her. It was a grand car, not the sort one would expect to see in a rural Irish town like Ballinakelly. She watched it pass slowly beneath her window. For all she knew, Lord Deverill was inside with JP, and her heart gave a sudden leap of excitement. “Tomorrow I might find my mother,” she said aloud. “And tomorrow I might see JP.” She closed the curtains and swung around to face Mrs. Goodwin, who was already rummaging in the suitcases for their nightgowns. “I can’t wait for tomorrow!” she said with a sigh. “I’m too excited to sleep. I’ll just lie awake, dreaming of tomorrow.”

  When tomorrow eventually arrived, Martha was up and dressed at first light. Mrs. Goodwin was aching all over from their journey, but she knew she couldn’t lie in bed all day and leave Martha to wander the county on her own, so she too got up and dressed and went downstairs to fortify herself with breakfast.

  They had decided that they would find JP first and ask him to help them find Lady Rowan-Hampton. It wouldn’t be seemly to appear on Lady Rowan-Hampton’s doorstep without an invitation. They hoped JP would provide them with one.

  “JP Deverill?” said Mrs. O’Sullivan when Mrs. Goodwin asked after his address. “Of course I can tell you how to get to the White House. Now, he should, by rights, live up at the castle.” She pursed her lips and shook her head, pouring tea from a big brass teapot into their cups. “That castle belonged to the Deverills for nearly three hundred years. The first Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly would turn in his grave if he could see who lives there now. But I’m not one to gossip. JP Deverill lives with his half sister Mrs. Trench.”

  “Shouldn’t we write and let them know that we are here?” said Mrs. Goodwin, who was rather old-fashioned and did not believe in turning up without prior warning.

  Martha laughed. “We’ll write a note and leave it with the housekeeper if he’s not there,” she said. “It’s a sunny morning; we can walk.”

  Mrs. Goodwin sighed. She didn’t feel like walking anywhere. “Is it far?” she asked anxiously.

  “I tell you what, let’s go by cab and walk back. How’s that for an idea, Goodwin?” Martha suggested. If she could have had her way she would have run there.

  And so it was, with excitement rising in her chest, that Martha climbed into the cab and sat down beside Mrs. Goodwin. She had taken great trouble with her appearance. Her hair curled over her shoulders in shiny waves, her hat was placed at a witty angle on her head and her plum-colored lipstick contrasted prettily with her white skin. She wore her blue floral dress beneath a thick coat with a fur trim, and kid gloves. Although it was sunny, the wind had a chilly edge to it. She looked out the window as the cab pulled away from the curb and set off up the street.

  As they left the town and headed off up a narrow lane that wound its way into the countryside, Martha was ready to be enchanted. The sun shone brightly upon the rocky hills that rolled on and on until they plunged sharply into the sea. Heather and woodbine grew in abundance among wild grasses and clover, black-faced sheep grazed in woolly groups and little whitewashed cottages with gray-tiled
roofs gleamed cheerfully in the morning light. The quaintness of it appealed to Martha’s heart, and she sighed with happiness. This was where she belonged. She could feel it in her blood. Every inch of her seemed to respond to a silent call that came from deep within the land, and she smiled with happiness because she knew she had come home.

  Mrs. Goodwin rubbed her hands together. She wasn’t happy about appearing at Mrs. Trench’s house without an invitation. It seemed impolite and intrusive. But Martha, usually so reserved and prudent, seemed to have thrown all her good sense out of the window. She was in love, and Mrs. Goodwin knew that love, when it struck, obliterated all reason. She had some experience of love. Not with Mr. Goodwin, however. Indeed, Mr. Goodwin had been a measured and sensible man not taken to flights of fancy. Mrs. Goodwin had never experienced passion for him. But she had once loved another, one she couldn’t have, and that impossible love had driven her almost to madness. Oh, she most certainly knew what uncontrollable desire felt like, and she saw it in Martha. There was no point in trying to guide her or restrain her. No hope at all. She could only watch with indulgence, and if the truth be told, a little unease, as Martha hurtled toward JP like a comet racing across the sky.

  They arrived at the White House, and the cab turned into the drive and motored up the hill toward it. Positioned against a backdrop of tall trees, the house gazed out to sea through shining glass windows. Martha was now as nervous as Mrs. Goodwin. But she took a deep breath and climbed out, stepping onto the gravel with her lace-up brown suede shoes. Mrs. Goodwin followed reluctantly. She would have preferred to have waited in the cab, but loyalty to Martha propelled her on. They stood side by side in front of the door as the cabbie set off down the drive in the direction of Ballinakelly and O’Donovan’s.

  Martha smiled nervously at Mrs. Goodwin, who smiled back with encouragement. She lifted the brass knocker and banged it three times. They waited, and Martha’s heart began to thump. She was seized by a moment of doubt, wishing suddenly that she hadn’t come, had taken Goodwin’s advice and sent a note. But the door opened, and a plump maid in a black uniform with a white apron peered out.

  “Good morning,” said Martha. “My name is Miss Wallace. I’ve come to call on Mr. Deverill.”

  The maid frowned and looked uncertain. Martha wondered whether she had been brought to the wrong address. But after a second’s hesitation the maid opened the door wider and invited them in. “I’ll let the mistress know that you are here,” she said.

  “If it’s inconvenient we can leave a note,” Mrs. Goodwin suggested.

  “The mistress is at home,” replied the maid. “Please come in and I will let her know that you are here.” Mrs. Goodwin and Martha were shown into the hall and told to wait while the maid hurried off to find her mistress. Martha glanced around. There was a large fire, which had not been lit, and a polished round table laden with books. Pictures of hunting scenes hung on the walls, and a threadbare Persian rug covered the flagstone floor. Martha could see through to the sitting room on her right. On a table beside the window was a display of photographs in frames. She wondered whether JP featured in any of them, but before she could sneak in and have a look, a strikingly beautiful woman came marching down the corridor toward them in a pair of brown jodhpurs and riding boots, followed by a young black Labrador. Her red hair was loose and tumbling about her shoulders, reminding Martha of JP, for it was exactly the same color as his. But there was something else, a familiarity that Martha couldn’t put her finger on. She was certain she had never met her before, but she felt she knew her somehow.

  “Hello,” said the woman, smiling politely. “I’m Mrs. Trench. I gather you have come to see JP?” She extended her hand, and Martha and Mrs. Goodwin shook it and introduced themselves. When Martha said her name a spark of recognition lit up Kitty’s face.

  “You’re Martha Wallace?” she said.

  “Yes, I met Mr. Deverill in Dublin and—”

  “Of course you did. But JP isn’t here.”

  Martha was unable to hide her disappointment. “Oh? Is he not?” she gasped.

  “I believe he’s gone to London to find you.”

  Martha stared at Kitty in horror. “Gone to London!”

  Kitty felt sorry for the girl, who was now blushing profusely. “Why don’t you both come in and have some tea. I’ll just go and change. Agnes!” The maid appeared. “Light a fire in the sitting room and bring Mrs. Goodwin and Miss Wallace some tea. I’ll only be a minute. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  Martha wanted to cry. She followed Mrs. Goodwin into the sitting room and took off her hat, coat and gloves and gave them to Agnes. “What a fool I am,” she said in a small voice. “I should have waited for word from him. What are we going to do now?”

  “We’re going to find your mother!” said Mrs. Goodwin firmly. “That’s why we came to Ireland in the first place. By the time JP returns you will have fulfilled that part of the plan. Maybe it’s a blessing that he’s not here to distract you.”

  “But how will we find her?”

  “Leave that to me.” Mrs. Goodwin was only too happy to take back the reins of control. She strode over to the sofa and sat down with a sigh. While Agnes returned to light the fire Martha wandered around the room looking at the photographs she had spotted from the hall. There were many of JP, both as a little boy and as a young man, always smiling, always looking as if he was about to make a joke or play a prank. Her disappointment lifted when she saw his face beaming out at her. She was sure he would come home the minute he heard that she was here and they would be reunited.

  It wasn’t long before Kitty appeared in a pair of wide-legged slacks and a navy-blue sweater. She hadn’t bothered to brush her hair, and it remained in wild curls down her back. Everything about her exuded energy, Martha thought. From the way she walked, with purpose, to the way she spoke, with candor. Her vigor enlivened Martha, who, only a moment ago, had wanted to throw herself under a blanket and disappear. “Now tell me, Martha, what brings you to Ireland, besides my brother, of course?” She laughed, showing lovely white teeth, and Martha felt her embarrassment dissolve in the radiance of this charismatic woman, who looked so like JP.

  Martha told Kitty the same lie that she had told her father: that her parents had sent her to Ireland because her mother was originally from Clonakilty. “That’s very close by,” said Kitty.

  “We will be sure to visit,” said Mrs. Goodwin.

  “But you’re from England,” said Kitty, looking directly at Mrs. Goodwin with her bright gray eyes.

  “I am indeed,” said Mrs. Goodwin, and she told Kitty a little about herself as the maid returned with a tray of tea and cake.

  “Well, while you’re here why don’t you join us for supper?” Kitty suggested. “I’m dining with my father tonight and a few friends. My great-aunts will be there, and they love playing cards. Do you play?” She directed her question at Mrs. Goodwin.

  “I grew up playing cards,” said Mrs. Goodwin happily. “I haven’t played in a long time but I will readily make up a rubber of bridge.”

  “Then that’s settled. You must come. It will be an informal gathering and you’ve already met my father. I shall arrange for a cab to pick you up at seven. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Seafort House.”

  Kitty laughed. “Ah, with the garrulous Mrs. O’Sullivan. She’s quite a character. Though you must be careful; whatever you tell her will be halfway around Ballinakelly before you can blink. Like most people who claim to be paragons of discretion she’s a terrible old gossip.” Martha and Mrs. Goodwin sipped their tea, enjoying being in Kitty’s company. “I will let JP know that you are here and that I am looking after you. What a ridiculous misunderstanding.”

  “I should have waited for a letter from him,” said Martha bashfully.

  “And he should have waited for word from you. I believe you are both as impulsive as each other.”

  When Mrs. Goodwin and Martha left the White House it was
almost time for lunch. Kitty had told them of a nice place to eat on the harbor overlooking the little boats. What she didn’t tell them was that it was the only café in Ballinakelly. “I will ask her about Lady Rowan-Hampton tonight,” said Mrs. Goodwin as they set off down the drive. “We are getting close now,” she added, linking her arm through Martha’s. “And JP will be home soon. Everything is going to turn out all right. I can feel it.”

  “She’s very like JP, isn’t she?” said Martha.

  “Very,” Mrs. Goodwin agreed.

  If I marry JP I’ll be part of their family, Martha fantasized happily to herself. And with the thought of belonging to these colorful people she almost skipped down the road.

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK Martha and Mrs. Goodwin set off again in a cab, but this time they had an invitation to dine with Lord Deverill at the Hunting Lodge. Both women were excited and more than a little apprehensive. They felt they were inveigling their way into this family by dishonest means. Taking advantage of their hospitality without coming clean about the real reason they were in Ballinakelly. “I shall tell JP the truth as soon as he comes back,” said Martha, sensing that Mrs. Goodwin was thinking the same thing.

  “I think that would be prudent,” Mrs. Goodwin agreed. “With any luck you will have found Lady Rowan-Hampton by then. If he is the right man for you he won’t think any less of you for the circumstances of your birth.”