The Secret of the Irish Castle

by Santa Montefiore

  “They are not dissimilar to his own,” said Martha.

  “Something else you have in common.”

  “I know, isn’t it funny? It’s as if we’re destined to be together.” Martha grinned at Mrs. Goodwin. “You’re not regretting you came?”

  “On the contrary, my dear. It’s an adventure. Who at my age has the opportunity to live another life? I thought my retirement would be an end, not a beginning.”

  “What will you do when this is all over?”

  Mrs. Goodwin looked down at her hands, neatly knitted in her lap. “I don’t know, Martha. I think I shall be very sad. They say every old stocking finds its shoe, but not me by all accounts.”

  The cab drew up outside the Hunting Lodge, which looked forbidding in the eerie light of the moon. Its pointed gables appeared to stab the sky, scattering it with a million twinkling stars. A butler in a black tailcoat opened the front door, throwing light onto the ground as the two women trod across it and mounted the steps. They heard the sound of voices coming from inside as they took off their coats. A sudden peal of laughter rose above the rumble, and Martha glanced nervously at Mrs. Goodwin. Mrs. Goodwin took the lead and lifted her chin. It was always best, she thought, to appear more confident than one was.

  The butler announced their arrival, and everyone in the room fell silent. Martha’s heart stalled as she felt momentarily assailed by the numerous pairs of eyes that scrutinized her curiously. But Lord Deverill leapt to his polished feet and welcomed them enthusiastically. “Why, my dear Mrs. Goodwin and Miss Wallace, what a pleasure to see you again.” He shook their hands keenly, engaging them with his pale gray eyes and charming smile. “Now, let me see. You already know my daughter, Mrs. Trench.” Kitty, resplendent in a floor-length blue dress with her hair pinned up and adorned with a black feather, stepped forward to greet them warmly. “Now, you don’t know my aunts, Miss Laurel Swanton and Miss Hazel Swanton.” He chuckled as two birdlike ladies waved from the sofa. They must have been in their eighties, Martha thought, and looked very much alike with sweet smiles and sparkling eyes and white hair carefully curled onto the top of their heads and held with small diamond clasps. “And this is Lord Hunt,” Bertie continued, waving forward a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with thick silver hair, intelligent brown eyes and a tidy moustache set over a sensual mouth.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, taking their hands and lifting them to his lips.

  “My daughter’s husband, Mr. Trench.” Martha was surprised that this diffident man, who seemed somehow less brilliant than everyone else, was Kitty’s husband. Martha had expected someone with a more powerful personality, someone more like Kitty herself. Robert stepped forward and shook their hands formally. Martha noticed that he walked with a limp, but he was classically handsome with chiselled features, a long straight nose and intelligent, kind eyes looking through a pair of small round spectacles.

  “Let’s not forget Reverend Maddox,” said Bertie, and a portly, pink-faced man of about sixty stepped forward. Martha could tell by his cheerful expression that this was a man with a good sense of humor who enjoyed his wine and his food. When he shook her hand she was not surprised to find his skin warm and his handshake firm yet fleshy.

  “Welcome to Ballinakelly,” he said to Martha. “And welcome to the heart of Ballinakelly, for surely it is right here in Lord Deverill’s home that it beats the loudest.” Everyone laughed, except Mrs. Goodwin. She was staring at Reverend Maddox with her mouth slightly parted, her cheeks flushing and her breath catching in her throat. Indeed, she could barely breathe at all.

  “And welcome, Mrs. Goodwin,” said Reverend Maddox, taking her hand. Then he stalled. He looked closer. “Hermione?” he uttered hoarsely, disbelief draining his face of its pink glow.

  “John,” she said shyly, and the room seemed to still around her.

  “Is it really you?” Reverend Maddox’s voice had changed completely. It was no longer boisterous but gentle with a tenderness that only Mrs. Goodwin recognized.

  “Do you two know each other?” said Bertie, breaking the silence.

  “We do,” said the rector, without dropping Mrs. Goodwin’s hand. “From a long time ago.”

  “Well, isn’t that a coincidence!” Bertie exclaimed happily.

  Martha watched in amazement as Mrs. Goodwin and Reverend Maddox continued to stare at each other.

  There was a commotion in the hall as the final guest arrived. Everyone switched their attention to the door and the gust of cold wind that was sweeping through it. A moment later a woman, who was clearly not averse to making entrances, stood in the doorway. She was comely with light brown hair parted at the side and pinned with a small tiara, and falling in gentle undulations over one shoulder. Her green silk dress plunged at the front to reveal a creamy décolletage and pulled her in at the waist, falling to the floor in shiny folds. But it was her confidence that was arresting. She drew every eye in the room, which was obviously her intention. She smiled, and her charm seemed to radiate around her like heat. Martha didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone as glamorous except in the movies. Then a small, stocky man with ruddy cheeks and a balding head stepped in behind her. Even in his evening attire with the large gold signet ring shining on the little finger of his left hand he could not help but be eclipsed by his wife.

  “Ah, Grace!” exclaimed Bertie happily. “Sir Ronald, what a rare treat to see you!” Now it was Martha’s turn to be stunned. Was it possible that the woman she had crossed the Atlantic to find had just stepped into the room? Crippled by fear and uncertainty, she could do nothing but stand there mutely, watching the couple greet Lord Deverill with the affection of old friends.

  Then Lord Deverill turned to her. “May I introduce a new acquaintance,” he said, putting his hand on her arm to usher her forward. “A friend of my son JP,” he added with a grin. “Miss Wallace.”

  Grace extended her hand, and Martha took it.

  “Lady Rowan-Hampton,” said Bertie.

  “How do you do,” said Grace.

  Martha stared into the woman’s soft brown eyes, but there was no spark of recognition there. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rowan-Hampton,” she replied, astonished that the words came out so smoothly.

  At the sound of that name Mrs. Goodwin tore her gaze away from the rector and stared, open-mouthed, at Grace. Never before, in all her life, had she so badly needed the fortification of a strong drink.

  JP STOOD OUTSIDE number 10 Ormonde Gate, hat in hand, heart in throat, and rang the bell. There was a long moment before the door opened and a parlor maid looked at him inquisitively. “Good morning. I’ve come to call on Miss Wallace,” he declared, and her name sounded sweeter when said out loud.

  “I’m afraid Miss Wallace is no longer here, sir,” said the maid.

  “Oh. When will she be back?”

  “She’s not coming back, sir. She and Mrs. Goodwin left three days ago.”

  JP was stung. “Might I ask where they’ve gone?”

  The maid edged closer and lowered her voice. She wouldn’t normally be so indiscreet, but the gentleman had a certain way about him that made her want to please him—and he looked so sad. “They’ve gone to Ireland,” she whispered. “A small place called Ballina . . . Ballinakilty or something like that.”

  “Ballinakelly!”

  “Yes, sir, that’s it. They’ve gone there.”

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed, replacing his hat and giving her a grateful smile. “How strange, we even think alike.” And he set off down the road, whistling merrily. The maid watched him go. What a lucky girl she is, that Miss Wallace, she thought to herself. The luckiest girl in the world.

  Chapter 11

  I really must do something!” said Adeline anxiously, pacing the room.

  “If you continue to walk up and down like that you’re going to make us all dizzy,” Barton grumbled.

  “But I can’t remain silent. I just can’t,” she said.

 
“My darling,” Hubert interjected from where he was sitting on the sofa with his fingers knitted over his paunch. “Just because you can go anywhere you choose and witness events you really should not be privy to does not mean you should interfere. If spirits interfered all the time the world would be in an even bigger muddle!”

  Adeline glanced at him and frowned. “That Martha and JP would fall in love was never a consideration. Of all the millions of people out there they had to choose each other!” she said, pacing again.

  “Why the devil should it matter?” Egerton asked.

  Adeline stopped pacing. “Because they’re twins,” she said, her voice heavy with worry.

  Egerton and Barton were not surprised by much, but they were surprised by this. “Twins?” they exclaimed in unison.

  “They are Bertie’s illegitimate children,” Adeline said, and she glanced at Hubert, who shook his head in exasperation at his son’s folly.

  “Good Lord,” said Egerton with a grin.

  “And they have fallen in love?” said Barton.

  “They recognize themselves in each other. I suppose one could call it narcissism,” said Adeline.

  Barton laughed. “Sounds very Shakespearean!”

  “I never foresaw it,” she continued, pacing again. “I wanted Martha to come to Ballinakelly to find her roots. She’s a Deverill. She’s one of us. It was right that she should come.”

  “You made it happen,” said Hubert, and there was an accusatory tone to his voice that saddened Adeline. Hubert had never adopted such a tone in life.

  “No, my dear, Joan, her aunt, made it happen by telling Edith, and Edith told Martha. Once Martha knew, she was always going to come and find her home. She only needed a little prompting. It turned out that she hadn’t lost her sixth sense, after all. It had just lain dormant. She only needed a little prompting,” Adeline repeated. “But I could never have predicted that she and JP would meet in Dublin, let alone fall in love.”

  “There’s little you can do about it,” said Hubert.

  “Little is better than nothing,” said Adeline.

  “What do you propose?” Barton asked. He was finding the situation highly amusing. Nothing of interest went on in their limbo, so the slightest ripple in the lives of the living was entertainment enough for the dead. He only wished it were going on in the castle, then he could witness it too.

  “I propose I warn Kitty,” Adeline replied, pausing her incessant pacing again.

  “She’ll find out soon enough,” said Egerton.

  “But what if she doesn’t! What if they marry? I can’t bear to think of it!”

  “Now that would be mighty fun,” Egerton added gleefully. “It was fun here while the ridiculous Count was enjoying having his way with the maids, but now that he spends all his time away from the castle, life has become dreary. Bridie is having no fun at all, and that Rosetta has expanded like a prize cow at the Ballinakelly Fair!”

  “Bridie loves her Count in spite of his faults,” said Adeline.

  “She doesn’t see them,” said Egerton. “Women are blind when drugged by love.”

  “Love!” Barton growled. “It’s a trick, a cruel trick. Who has ever been successful in love?”

  Adeline settled her eyes tenderly on her husband. “I have,” she replied quietly. Hubert looked sheepish and smiled at her with gratitude.

  “You’re one of the rare few,” Barton added. “The rest of us can but chew on the memories of love. Like bitter leaves they are sour to taste.”

  “Will you ever share your story with us?” Adeline asked.

  “No,” said Barton, then he threw his shaggy head back and gave a belly laugh. “I’ll take the secret with me to the grave!”

  LEOPOLDO DID NOT like his cousins. He did not like them one little bit. There were five of them. The oldest three, Emilio, Mariah and Joseph, being fourteen, twelve, and nine, respectively, were too old to bully, and the six-year-old, Tomas, was too quick to complain to his father, but the little one, Eugenio, who was four, was timid and shy and easily controlled. Leopoldo liked him the least.

  Leopoldo liked pulling the legs off spiders, torturing beetles with pins, baiting dogs and slapping horses’ faces, but he enjoyed tormenting Eugenio most of all. It irritated him that the boy was sweet-natured and good, that his heart was always ready to fill up again as soon as Leopoldo had drained it with unkindness. It annoyed him that Eugenio got up when he kicked him down and that he was eager to find goodness in his cousin when Leopoldo was doing his best to show him that there was none. It really infuriated him that Eugenio was adorable. He hoped he’d grow up to be ugly.

  Leopoldo was dark-haired like his uncle Michael, but unlike Michael he wasn’t handsome. His face was long and narrow, his eyes too close together, too small and black, like little beads they were, always sliding about in search of trouble. His smile was sardonic, his humor only triggered by someone else’s misfortune or pain, and his teeth were awry. He was most proud of his eyeteeth, which resembled a wolf’s—had he been a wolf he would have had no compunction about tearing into his young cousin’s flesh. As he couldn’t very well do that, he hurt him with words instead. Drawing him into his confidence one minute, like reeling in a fish on a hook, then slapping him down with some cruelty the next. Each time, Eugenio would blink at his older cousin with glittering eyes, incredulous that he could really be so mean.

  Cesare had been very clear about Leopoldo’s superiority when Sean and Rosetta moved into the castle. Leopoldo was a prince, he reminded them, and should be treated as such. Therefore, he was served first at mealtimes, he sat in the best chair at the table and the other children had to do exactly what he wanted. Bridie should have had the wisdom to know that that kind of treatment would only raise a monster, but she was so blinkered by her love for her precious son that she couldn’t see beyond it. She certainly didn’t notice his cruelty. To Bridie Leopoldo was perfect in every way. To Cesare, who saw him much less, he was a prince of the Barberini dynasty, a descendant of Pope Urban VIII. He made sure that, like him, his son was adorned with gold bees wherever possible. At the tender age of seven he wore gold bee cuff links in his shirts and kept a gold pocket watch, engraved on the lid with the trio of Barberini bees, by his bedside. Leopoldo was very aware of his status, and the lack of status of his Doyle cousins (after all, his grandmother and uncle Michael lived in a hovel!). While Cesare and Bridie failed to see his faults, his uncle Sean saw every one of them, and so did his uncle Michael, but because they depended on their sister for so much, neither felt able to voice their concerns.

  Like all bullies, Leopoldo was a coward. Never more was that apparent than when Egerton appeared in the middle of the night to rattle the doorknobs and creak the floorboards. The boy would shiver and whimper in his bed, too terrified to get out and run to his mother. In the morning he’d complain that his bedroom was haunted, but Bridie would reassure him that there were no ghosts in Castle Deverill. He was too proud to admit his fear to his cousins. Instead, he told Eugenio about the ghosts with bravado, hoping that the child would tell him that he too was visited in the night, but Eugenio claimed to see nothing. He slept soundly. So Leopoldo thought he’d dress up as a ghost and frighten the boy himself.

  The thought of creeping into Eugenio’s bedroom and scaring the life out of him gave Leopoldo an enormous thrill. He lay in bed as the winter winds blew about the turrets, fantasizing about Eugenio’s fear. He saw the boy’s face puce with terror, his mouth wide in a scream and his knuckles white as he gripped the bedclothes. Every detail of Eugenio’s torment delighted him. In fact, it delighted him so much that he began to forget his own fear. But he didn’t know that he was being watched—that he was always being watched—by Egerton, who was determined to teach the scoundrel a lesson.

  Leopoldo’s excitement prevented him from sleeping, so when his pocket watch read midnight, he climbed out of bed and put on his dressing gown. He took a flashlight and pulled the sheet off his bed. He padded down the corri
dor to the east wing and stopped outside Eugenio’s door. The children’s bedrooms were far away from the grown-ups’, and Leopoldo was sure that they wouldn’t hear Eugenio scream—and if they did, Leopoldo would be back in his own bed before they even left their bedrooms.

  He composed himself for a moment, taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to control the excitement that made him shiver like a horse in the starting block. Then he turned the knob.

  The room was dark and quiet. Only the moaning wind could be heard outside. Heavy curtains blocked out any moonlight, but Leopoldo could just make out a small lump in the bed where Eugenio was sleeping peacefully. How Leopoldo envied his ability to sleep so serenely. Well, he was about to finish all that. After this, he didn’t imagine Eugenio would ever sleep soundly again. With that thought he put the sheet over his head so that it covered him completely and switched on his flashlight. Then in a low voice he said, “I am the ghost of Castle Deverill and I am going to kill you.”

  He heard a rustle and then a scream. It was so loud and sudden that he, the ghost, nearly jumped out of his skin. Before he had time to switch off the flashlight and make his exit, Eugenio had shot out of bed and was running in terror down the corridor.

  With a satisfied chuckle Leopoldo threw off the sheet. The bed was empty where Eugenio had been moments before. He stared at it, reliving his cousin’s fright. Then the door, which Eugenio had left open, closed with a bang. Leopoldo stopped chuckling and spun around. The air had gone very cold. He felt a shiver travel over his skin, causing it to goosebump. He caught his breath as he saw, very clearly, a shadow on the wall that was the exact shape of a man. Leopoldo shone his flashlight onto it, but it didn’t disappear. It remained as if it were a stain on the paper. At the sight of a real ghost, Leopoldo’s chest shrank with fear as he let out a wild howl.

  It seemed like minutes before Bridie came running into the room, her face ashen. Leopoldo was crying, clutching the sheet and the flashlight, staring at the wall. “What’s happened?” she asked, switching on the light then gathering him into her arms. “What’s going on? Tell me, Leopoldo, what’s going on?”