She passed poor children without shoes playing on the street. They had filled a tobacco tin with sand and drawn a hopscotch pattern on the ground with a stone. They laughed, jumped and played together. She wondered if she’d have been better off to accept that life, courted John Colman, the footman at the Cliff House, when he’d asked her to go for a walk with him on a Sunday afternoon. But back then she’d been young and foolish and only had eyes for the young master of the house.
John had married Betty, the scullery maid, a few years later, and they lived somewhere around there with their large family. She saw him now and again down in town – he worked in the post office now – and he always greeted her with a smile. Perhaps if she’d not had such notions of her own importance, she would have married a decent man from her own class and been happy. But as her mother was fond of saying, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
She held her head high as she passed the women on their steps watching their children play, barely acknowledging them with a slight incline of her head. She knew they found her stuck-up and aloof, thought she had ideas above her station, and they were right, but it was how one survived. Being among the ordinary people, her own kind, meant questions, and she had no answers.
The Protestant church was picture-perfect with its limestone walls and beautiful Gothic stained-glass windows. It stood on a high bluff with the churchyard all around it, where the generations of dead members of the gentry rested peacefully. Headstones stood at odd angles, tipped over slightly with time. Several of the more prominent families had large tombs. Even though the whole layout was higgledy-piggledy, there was an odd symmetry to the disorder. Rose preferred it to the more angular Catholic cemetery, with the dead-straight lines of evenly spaced graves.
She grasped the heavy wrought-iron gate and pushed hard against it. Years of wind and rain, combined with the salt from the sea air, had rusted the hinges, and moss and lichen clung to the granite pillars either side of the gate. With one hard shove, the gate opened, creaking and scraping as it moved over the uneven stone.
Suddenly a thought struck her. Would Harp have been able to open that gate all by herself? She doubted it. Harp was small for her age and certainly not physically strong. But if she wasn’t there, then where was she? Rose didn’t allow the panic to rise in her chest. Harp had to be there.
She exhaled in relief as she came around the corner of the church. There Harp was, sitting beside the grave, her arms around her knees, her head resting on them. She looked tiny and so much younger than twelve. Rose walked to her and sat beside her on the grass.
‘I’m sorry I ran away from school, Mammy,’ Harp said, looking up at her, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun.
Rose’s heart broke at her daughter’s tear-stained face.
‘They were throwing things at me and then they said things about…about Mr Devereaux and you, and I just… And I said I was a Devereaux…’ The tears welled in her eyes again.
‘It’s all right, Harp. It’s all right, my love.’ She put her arm around her daughter and pulled her thin frame towards her.
‘What are we going to do, Mammy?’ she heard Harp whisper, and there was no mistaking the despair there.
‘I don’t know yet, but don’t you worry, my love. I’ll think of something.’
Chapter 7
Harp and her mother sat down to a meal of boiled eggs and toast. A hot pot of tea and a jug of milk sat on the table beside them. They’d walked back from the graveyard together, and Harp had shown her mother the gap in the churchyard wall where she’d got in.
They let themselves into the house and began preparing, neither commenting on how there was now no need for a tray. Every meal they’d ever made together, they set the table for two in the kitchen and prepared a tray for Mr Devereaux.
‘Why did he always eat alone?’ Harp asked in the silence.
Rose looked at her. It broke her heart how like Henry she was; it was funny how she’d never really noticed before. She used to think that she wasn’t like Ralph and that was all that mattered. She remembered the relief seeing her hair fine and fair, not thick and dark like his was, her delicate features nothing like his strong, handsome face.
‘Years ago, when his mother and father were alive, they were served in the dining room. Then as she got older and less able, Mrs Devereaux ate in her room, remember? And Henry did the same.’
‘Do you think he might have wanted to come down here, to have the company?’ Harp persisted.
Rose shook her head. ‘No, he was happy in his rooms, you know that. He didn’t like to leave them.’
‘Why did he never go out, Mammy?’
‘I think he just preferred his own company. I also suppose his heart was never strong and Queenstown is all hills no matter which way you go, so walking probably wasn’t an option for him.’
A frown appeared on her daughter’s face. ‘Was he frightened to go out, do you think?’
Rose considered the question and tried to answer as she always did, taking her seriously, weighing up the answer, never dismissing her as childish. She wanted her to remember Henry as he was to her, to remain forever in her heart as her friend, but the truth was that Henry was a complicated man. And she owed her daughter the truth now, at long last. ‘I’m not sure frightened is the word. But he was unique. He was very clever, as you know, and he liked to work on complicated mathematical problems or translating old languages – he could do things nobody else could. But then things that we can do easily, like having a normal conversation, doing a job, even shaking someone’s hand, he found that incredibly hard and so he didn’t do it.’
‘The boys at school call him the quare hawk,’ Harp said sadly.
‘I know they do, and you know what, Harp? Mr Devereaux was strange to other people. He was different – his dress, his long hair, his way of being – and so he was a quare hawk as those children say. That’s what the outside world saw on the rare occasions they did see him. But what nobody knows is that he was also kind and interesting and he trusted us and we were very fond of him. And that you and he were friends. We had a nice life here, the three of us, and we must remember him with love.’
‘Sometimes he used to tell me where he was while I was at school.’
‘I remember.’ Rose smiled.
‘Every day he would go somewhere different, like to Machu Picchu, or the Andes, or to Prince Edward Island. He went there through his books and he let me read them and I would feel like I’d been there too.’
The faraway grief-filled voice of her child tore at Rose’s heart. Henry Devereaux and Harp had a connection that nobody else in the world knew about or could understand. It was as if they saw a kindred spirit in each other, and the fact that she was a twelve-year-old girl and he was a fifty-two-year-old man didn’t bother either of them.
This house was her connection to him, to her life, her childhood, but they would have to close the door on it and say goodbye – not just to their home, but to him. She’d assured Harp she would solve it, but she had no idea how. Each day was one step closer to eviction, destitution.
They tidied up and went to bed early, ending another worry-filled day. Rose kissed Harp’s forehead, reassuring her once more that she would think of something. She hoped the words didn’t sound as hollow to Harp as they rang in her own ears.
She tossed and turned. The bed seemed hard and lumpy, something she’d never noticed before. Why did she not insist Mrs Devereaux make provision for Harp before she died? She might have done it to avoid scandal. If she had, Rose would at least be able to keep a roof over their heads. Why did she never speak to Henry about what would happen if he died? Why did she not save every penny she earned instead of spending it on school fees and shoes and clothes for her daughter and herself, making them up to look better than the poor people they were? Round and round in her head every night since Henry died, the same admonishment, the same relentless regrets, tied up with pain and loss and frustration and fear.
Her
thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her bedroom door opening, and there stood Harp, in her long white nightie, her hair falling around her heart-shaped face, her dark-grey eyes failing to mask the pain in her heart.
‘Harp, are you all right?’ Rose asked, sitting up.
‘I’m scared.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘Can…can I come in with you?’
‘Of course you can.’ Rose threw the cover back and moved over, making way for her child. Together they curled up and managed to give each other wordless comfort.
The next morning Harp was up and dressed for school before Rose woke. It was the first of May, and there was to be a procession and the decorating of the May altar. They would sing ‘Queen of the May’, and each day of the month, one child had to bring flowers for the special table with the statue of the Virgin Mary. Harp hoped she would be picked soon, before the daffodils that grew all around the Cliff House were gone. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise dull and pain-filled day. She’d learned over time to try to find one nice thing in each day to focus on; it made not having any friends and being bullied by Emmet bearable.
Before Mr Devereaux’s death it had been easy. She would picture what activity she would do in his study that afternoon. She could research something, or read a story, or look at a picture of a famous painting, or play the harp… The possibilities were endless, and being in that room made her feel like school was a necessary interruption to her real life, the one that happened at the Cliff House. His books, the gramophone, the harp – they were all still there, but without him, she just couldn’t go in there. She had not been in the study since the day he gave her the pen, the day he died.
Harp was sitting at the table eating a bowl of porridge, and her heart ached when she saw her mother come into the kitchen. Her mother’s hair was neatly brushed and pinned, but her face was pale. The skin beneath her eyes looked almost translucent.
‘It’s a nice day today, Harp,’ Rose said as she boiled the kettle to make herself a cup of tea.
‘It is.’
‘How about you take a day off? We could cut the lawn and maybe weed the flowerbed in the side garden, and perhaps if the rain stays off, we could have our tea out there in the pergola.’
Harp’s eyes brightened at the prospect. ‘But what about school?’ she asked. Her mother never let her take a day off, even if she was sick.
‘I think you’ve learned all you can learn in Star of the Sea, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Harp’s brow furrowed.
‘Remember, I explained – I can’t afford the fees. The term is almost over now anyway and you won’t be going back in September, so maybe it’s best to just stop going now. Besides, myself and Sister Regina had words yesterday, so I’m not sure you’d be particularly welcome.’
Harp knew her mother was trying to inject confidence in her voice, tried to make her feel like this was all part of the master plan, but it wasn’t and Harp knew it. There was no plan, just a dark abyss of a future. The depth of pain in her mother’s eyes seemed unfathomable.
‘Will I change into my old dress then?’ Harp asked, looking down at her yellow cotton school dress, lovingly handstitched by Rose.
Rose nodded. ‘We don’t want to get that one all dirty in the garden.’ She tried to smile, but Harp saw it die on her mother’s lips as she turned and trudged back upstairs.
Chapter 8
Later that morning, dressed in an old smock and pinafore, Harp turned as she heard the crunch of motor car wheels on the gravel behind her. A motor car was a rarity in Queenstown. The priest had one and Doctor Lane, and of course the Protestants all had one, but they still attracted attention.
She’d been half-heartedly weeding the side bed. Her mother had filled it with French marigolds back in the spring, and their cheery orange heads were being obscured by the dock leaves and nettles growing in between the plants.
Thomas Jefferson was wrong, she thought irritably, when he said no occupation is as delightful ‘as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden’. Give me a book any day. All weeds did was come right back again after they were pulled, whereas knowledge stayed in one’s head forever. Besides, if they were going to have to leave, Harp had no idea why they were bothering. Let Ralph Devereaux weed his own flower beds.
She still couldn’t believe what her mother said, that they would have to leave. The logical part of her knew she was right, of course. A servant and her child would never be allowed to stay in such a grand house, or any house, but she’d never felt like the servant’s child here. To her, the Cliff House was home, her home, and her mother and Mr Devereaux’s home. She knew every nook and cranny, and nowhere was off limits to her. She knew it needed repair. They regularly had to empty buckets in the winter when the leaks were more like little streams, but Mammy would just laugh and say, ‘Summer will come soon enough and dry everything out.’ Mr Devereaux never even noticed. Then they’d toast bread in front of the fire for their supper, smearing home-made blackberry jam all over it, and forget all about the leaky roof or the rotten window frames. Was life not cruel enough to take Mr Devereaux from them without throwing them to the four winds as well?
Her mother had gone inside for a glass of water. Her pile of weeds was about ten times higher than Harp’s because Harp kept drifting off into her thoughts and forgetting to pull them.
The motor car was very fancy – open-topped and coloured dark brown with gold trim and shiny spoked wheels – but it wasn’t driven by a driver, as was the norm, but rather by the man inside himself. The door opened and a youngish man stepped out, dressed in a navy-blue suit and sparkling-white shirt. Around his neck he wore a splendid blue and white polka-dot silk bow tie, and from his breast pocket, a handkerchief in the same fabric spilled. His hair was oiled in a very fashionable style, a curl falling entirely intentionally over his forehead. Harp thought he was very handsome, though he looked like a dandy and she suppressed a smile.
‘Good morning, Miss. I’m looking for a Miss Harp Delaney and a Mrs Rose Delaney?’
‘I’m Harp and Mrs Delaney is my mother,’ she answered, intrigued.
The man gave her that look she was used to getting from adults who could not decide if her manner of speaking, making eye contact and annunciating clearly was impertinent or not. He smiled, so he must have decided it wasn’t.
‘It is very nice to meet you, Miss Delaney. My name is Algernon Smythe, from Carling, Ellison and Smythe Solicitors, London.’ He extended his hand and Harp took it, shaking it.
‘And how may we be of assistance?’ she asked.
‘Well, the purpose of my visit is to bring to your attention a matter in which we acted for a Mr Henry Devereaux. Unfortunately we were unaware of his passing until a few days ago. I came as soon as I heard. My condolences. I understand your mother was in his employ?’
Harp nodded. ‘Yes, my mother is the housekeeper here.’
The man nodded and grinned; he seemed pleased that all was as it should be. ‘Indeed. So I understand that Mr Devereaux had legal counsel here in Ireland pertaining to other matters, but he sought our advice and service earlier this year on a very particular matter, and that is the reason for my visit.’ His accent was clipped and very upper-class English. Nobody from around Queenstown, even the landed gentry, spoke like he did.
‘You’ll want to speak to my mother then,’ Harp responded, enjoying the novelty of someone other than her mother or Mr Devereaux speaking to her as an equal. ‘Please, follow me.’
‘Lead on, Miss Delaney,’ he said with a flourish, and Harp was sure she had never in her life encountered anyone like Algernon Smythe.
‘Mammy!’ she called as she entered. She felt like she should be calling her ‘Mother’ or ‘Mama’ or some such affectation.
Normally yelling like that would have Rose frowning in disapproval, but these were different times and she knew that to bring a stranger into the house without forewarning her mother of his presence would be
a more grievous crime. ‘There’s a gentleman here who wishes to speak to you,’ she called again, hoping her mother would appear soon.
‘As a matter of fact, Miss Delaney, it is to both of you I wish to speak. The matter concerns both your mother and you.’ He smiled and his eyes twinkled.
He looked like someone holding a delicious secret, and Harp knew the news could not be the dreaded eviction. Whatever it was, something told her it was good.
Harp was fascinated with him. He wore a gold and navy brocade waistcoat inside his jacket, and his shoes shone a gleaming tan leather. In his hand was a leather briefcase, with his initials engraved on the gold clasp. It was the exact same colour as his shoes – no coincidence, Harp was sure.
She was spared answering him by the arrival of her mother, who looked flustered.
‘Mrs Delaney, a pleasure to meet you.’ Mr Smythe offered his hand and Rose took it, glancing briefly at Harp, the unspoken question of who this was and what he wanted passing between them.
‘My sincere condolences on the recent passing of Mr Devereaux. Is there somewhere we could converse?’
‘Yes…yes, of course.’
Harp could see the vein pulsing at her mother’s temple, always a sign she was stressed.
Rose led him to the drawing room; they had recently aired the downstairs rooms in anticipation of a visit from someone official.
‘P-please, have a seat,’ Rose said. ‘Might I offer you some tea?’
Harp hated to see the terror in her mother’s eyes. She was reminded of the man in the Goya painting The Third of May 1808, who is facing a firing squad with a mixture of appeal and defiance. She had studied the painting at Mr Devereaux’s suggestion.
Last Port of Call: The Queenstown Series Page 7
