Last Port of Call: The Queenstown Series

by Jean Grainger

  The dining room had to be supplemented with other tables and chairs gathered from the rest of the house to ensure seating for all the guests, and while they were not matching in design or height, Harp and her mother agreed that when the tables were all covered in their signature yellow gingham tablecloths and the seat pads all covered in yellow serge, one almost forgot that all the furniture was mismatched. They had, with Mr Quinn and Brian’s help, dragged a large sideboard from the drawing room to the dining room to be used as a serving table for breakfast and to store the condiments and cutlery. The windows of the dining room overlooked the bay, and so it would surely delight guests to watch the comings and goings of the harbour as they enjoyed their breakfast.

  The hens were installed in a pen behind the house; Harp hated them with their beady eyes and the way they rushed at her when she went to collect the eggs.

  The drawing room looked lovely now too, Harp thought, and had almost completely lost the musty smell that she’d associated with it for her entire life. Under the white dust sheets, the furniture had fared reasonably well over the years, though it had broken their hearts to burn a beautiful writing bureau. But Mr Quinn pointed out that it was riddled with woodworm that would spread to everything if they didn’t destroy it. They discovered the attic full of furniture and rugs and even two full Royal Doulton dinner services, and everything they found was pressed into commission.

  The huge fireplace with its red Cork marble mantelpiece and carved lions either side of the hearth was a focal point around which they’d placed four Queen Anne chairs, each upholstered in royal-blue velvet, and several mahogany and walnut side tables, and it made a welcoming place for guests to read or relax. The sofas were horribly uncomfortable, upholstered in gold brocade and stuffed with horsehair, but they looked nice.

  Mr Devereaux’s study was now a suite, with a bedroom and a sitting room attached, for which they had already had several bookings, so they’d removed the gramophone and the harp and placed them in the drawing room on the ground floor for guests to enjoy in the evenings. Harp had spent a lovely afternoon curating a library and placing an eclectic selection of books on a bookshelf for guests to peruse. She was careful not to include any of her favourites, though, for fear someone would try to take them. She enjoyed those kinds of jobs so much more than polishing or sanding, but she tried her best to be helpful to her mother nonetheless. They had a more extensive library upstairs, but they had decided to keep that closed for now.

  ‘After you.’ Rose smiled as Harp climbed the stairs to go to bed.

  The whole house smelled lovely, clean and welcoming, and the grounds were neat and clipped, with a few pots of colourful flowers dotted here and there. It felt so strange to know that the next night there would be five strangers sleeping under their roof.

  In addition to Mr Devereaux’s suite, there were three bedrooms on the second floor, one with twin beds and two with doubles. One room had a settle that could be pulled out to make another bed should a family wish to stay together. The beds were old but perfectly functional, and Rose and Harp had dragged the mattresses outside one by one to beat them of any dust and to air them after decades of neglect. They had found lots of woollen blankets in a chest in the attic, incredibly only partially nibbled by moths or mice.

  ‘Remember the inhabitants of this room?’ Rose asked, opening the large double in the front.

  Harp shuddered. Though the entire house played host to mice, the largest of the rooms had been particularly infested. Mr Quinn had very kindly put down poison, and they had only to clean up the evidence. It was the worst of all the jobs. She’d tried so hard to visualise the protagonist in Dorothy Kilner’s The Life and Perambulations of a Mouse, embarking on exciting adventures while all the time outwitting enemies to prove itself valiant and honourable. But when she spotted a fast scurry out of the corner of her eye, or swept the droppings into a pile for brushing onto a shovel, their home invaders felt much less like small, brave, noble creatures than terrifyingly disgusting rodents.

  ‘They’re gone now anyway, and it was just mice, not rats,’ Rose reassured her, checking under the bed to be sure.

  Harp shuddered. ‘St Francis of Assisi loved all animals but he saw mice and rats as the devil’s agents,’ she said darkly, and her mother chuckled.

  ‘He could be right,’ Rose whispered as she shut the door. ‘Maybe we should get a cat.’

  ‘Or a terrier?’ Harp said hopefully. She would have loved a pet but Rose had never allowed it.

  ‘A cat is as far as I’m willing to go,’ her mother replied sternly. ‘And even that’s a stretch for me.’

  There was a large shed at the back that had been a dumping ground for all manner of things going back years, and they had been tempted to investigate until they saw a rat run out of it one day. Both of them baulked. A mouse they could just about stand, but they drew the line at a rat.

  They opened each bedroom and inspected. On each nightstand there was a candle in an ornate holder, a small bud vase with a sprig of fuchsia and a bit of fern, and a pitcher of water and some glasses. There was a warm rug on the floor beside each bed on which to place feet in the morning and a wardrobe containing extra blankets. Rose was sure everything was perfect, clean and comfortable.

  There were two more rooms on the third floor, as well as their own, that they could use should the need arise, but for now, if they could fill four rooms, then that would be enough.

  Mr Quinn would collect their first guests the next day from the one o’clock train. There were two women travelling alone, a man with his fourteen-year-old boy and a single man. They had hoped for double occupancy, but the nature of the type of business they were going for meant a lot of lone travellers. Rose had researched the idea of a single occupancy supplement, and so far people didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘We’d better get to bed, Harp. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow,’ Rose said, closing the last bedroom door and smoothing a wrinkle in the curtain on the landing.

  ‘It’s going to be great, Mammy, don’t worry.’ Harp squeezed her mother’s hand.

  ‘When did you get so grown up, Miss Harp Delaney?’ Rose asked as they mounted the stairs to their own quarters, nothing as fancy as the new guest rooms but cosy and comfortable.

  ‘I was always grown up. I think I was born old but you wanted me to be little,’ Harp said seriously. ‘I certainly never felt like a child, though I’m not sure what it is to feel like a child, so perhaps I did.’

  Rose kissed her forehead and placed her hands on Harp’s shoulders, looking into her eyes. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe none of us feel like we truly fit in – I know I don’t. But I do know this – you’re turning into a very intelligent and poised young lady. I…I’m so proud of you, Harp. I would never have done this without your help.’

  ‘He would want us to stay here and be happy, Mammy. I don’t know if he’s watching over us – he didn’t believe in any of that, as you know – but sometimes I can sense him or something. But I know he’s proud of us both.’

  Rose drew her in for a hug. ‘I think he would be. Sleep well, my love. We have a lot to learn, but we can do it.’

  Chapter 11

  Rose shut her bedroom door and wearily undressed for bed. Harp slept in her own room again these nights. She brushed her long dark hair out. It fell four inches past her shoulders but nobody but Harp had seen her hair loose for years.

  She pulled her dressing gown on and stood at the window, opening it and allowing the warm night breeze to cool her, too anxious to sleep, the ache of apprehension eating away inside as it had since she embarked on this plan. What if it was a disaster? There were plenty in this town who would like to see her fail; some people didn’t like it when someone dragged themselves out of the boxes society had made for them. But she had to do this, if not for herself, then for Harp. Her daughter deserved a future. She could do something remarkable with her life if she got the chance, and nobody else would give her that chance. Henry had
opened the door; now Rose had to step through.

  The stars were out that night over the water, twinkling brightly. The metal off masts making a ‘tink, tink, tink’ sound that wafted up the hill, the gentle lapping of waves against the quay wall, the odd glimpse of a man going home from the pub on the road below, the salty smell of the sea… Her senses had become so accustomed to this place, it was hard to believe she’d grown up somewhere else, somewhere poorer, somewhere harder. Nobody from there would recognise her now, and she wondered if her parents or siblings ever thought about her, wondered how she and her child were faring. She was the eldest of the family. Her three brothers and two sisters were lost to her as well as her mother and father. She killed the thought immediately – of course they didn’t. They were shamed by her coming home in that condition and threw her out. There was a part of her that would like for them to see her now, in this fine house, damp patches and all, but that was silly. Besides, they would just see it as further proof of her fall into sin. No, this was home, Harp was her family, and she needed nothing else.

  ‘Henry, watch over us if you can, if you are somewhere. Please don’t have us make fools of ourselves with this venture.’

  She closed the window, drew the curtains and lit the candle, extracting the letters once again, reading them slowly as she did every night.

  The one from Algernon Smythe had arrived two weeks ago, saying that there had been no correspondence to his office from Mr Ralph Devereaux and that he had registered Harp’s name, albeit in trust, as the beneficiary of the Cliff House with the Land Registry in Dublin. He would forward a copy of that document once it was provided to him. He wished her well in the guest house venture; she’d written to him thanking him for his visit and informing him of their plans.

  The second letter had arrived three days ago. Her relief was short-lived. She opened the envelope, a thin wisp of paper, not the stationery of someone well-to-do, but she was probably reading too much into that. Maybe all paper in India was like that.

  Dear Rose,

  Well, it has been a long time, and I was astonished to discover your good fortune in regards to the inheritance of the Cliff House.

  I had no idea that you’d managed to beguile both Devereaux brothers – you truly are a woman of many talents. My late brother, Henry, and I share you in common if nothing else.

  Of course, this new-found prosperity of yours and your child has rather scuppered my plans, but we can discuss that in due course.

  I look forward to coming home to the fresh Irish air after the stifling oppression of the Indian sun.

  Regards,

  Ralph Devereaux

  She felt the familiar thumping in her chest. What did he mean, ‘We can discuss that in due course’? The phrase chilled her blood. He was coming to claim his house surely? The tone was unmistakable. He was accusing her of being a gold-digging jezebel who seduced not one but two Devereaux men, which was nothing approximating the truth. She’d been an innocent, a seventeen-year-old girl star-struck by the son of the house, a man who’d shamelessly used her and cast her aside. She’d been foolish and naïve but she was no harlot. Ralph Devereaux was the first and last man to touch her. As for Henry, well, she was still reeling from his letter declaring his love; she’d had no idea. She wondered if she had, would it have changed things? Perhaps. It was too late now anyway.

  The solicitor said that Henry’s affidavit claiming paternity, combined with her corroboration of that fact, should provide a robust resistance to any claim against the estate made by his brother, but she wasn’t sure. The letter certainly suggested he wasn’t going to take it lying down.

  How could a single woman and a child withstand someone like him? He was of that ruling class and this was his parents’ house, going back generations; a judge was surely never going to find in favour of a working-class Irish woman and her child over a member of the gentry, was he? She’d invented a dead husband, a father for Harp, but that story was proved untrue by Harp’s admission at school that she was a Devereaux. If Ralph chose to press that advantage, paint Rose as a devious, duplicitous woman capable of telling such lies, then surely it would not be such a leap to imagine her manipulating a vulnerable man such as Henry was perceived? He could say that Rose swindled Henry or seduced him and then pressured him into leaving her the house. That’s if he even believed Harp to be Henry’s child.

  At least the mathematics of it wouldn’t add up. Mrs Devereaux had insisted Harp’s date of birth be registered six months later than her actual birthday. How she’d managed that, Rose had no idea; she’d arranged it with some official, no doubt. Rose had been summoned one day when Harp was a baby and was informed that the child’s birthday was registered as the 14th of August, not the 3rd of March, and that was all there was to be said about it.

  She wished she had someone to talk to, anyone she could confide her worries in. Harp was such a good girl, and Rose was honest when she said she wouldn’t have done any of this without her, but she was ignorant of the ways of the world. Harp was just a girl. And men had all the power. And money and social class spoke louder than anything else.

  She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, knowing sleep was impossible. She willed herself to try – she would need to be alert and organised the next day – but round and round it all went as she imagined scenarios of humiliation. At no point in her imaginings did she ever consider the possibility that Ralph would have changed, that he would be kind or even just grudgingly accept the will. He might have been gone thirteen years, but she knew what he was and who he was, and there was not one shred of common decency in that man. Of that she was definite.

  Would he come and throw them out? If he did, what could she do about it? She had no money to engage a lawyer, and even if she had, she doubted she would find one to take her case on. She couldn’t afford the fees of Algernon Smythe, she was sure, and old Mr Cotter in Cork, even if they could afford him, didn’t strike her as the type to be a courtroom viper. Besides, he was a Devereaux lawyer, not hers.

  She had to hold firm to the idea that Henry was Harp’s father. She would have to confirm that she’d almost immediately begun a relationship with him when Ralph left and became pregnant as a result. The thought of such an admission churned her stomach with anxiety and shame. People knew about the alleged relationship with Henry, and that was bad enough – what if Ralph told people that he’d had her first? Her cheeks burned in the dark night.

  She mentally pulled back from that familiar and pointless line of thought. She would have to deal with it as it happened. Henry left the house to Harp, it was hers legally, and Ralph Devereaux could do his best but she would hold on for dear life. She would hold on for Harp.

  She folded Ralph Devereaux’s letter and placed it beside the one from the solicitor, keeping, as she did every night, the letter from Henry until last. Like Harp cherished her letter, Rose treasured hers, and she was careful not to overly crease it. She would read it every night for the rest of her life, even if it was battered and torn.

  She knew it by heart now, but still it gave small comfort to see his handwriting. Her feelings for him were changing. She’d always liked him and thought him a fine man, a decent person the world didn’t understand. But she did, and Harp did too. They’d talked at night sometimes, when Harp was in bed, about this and that, and while he wasn’t a conversationalist, he was interesting and he listened, really listened. He had that ability to make one feel like they were the most fascinating person in the world, that he wanted to hear their thoughts, that he had all the time in the world for them. She wished he’d have said something sooner, because the more she thought about it, the more she realised that loving Henry Devereaux would have been a very easy thing to do. He was not the dashing rake that Ralph was, but there had been something very attractive about him, with his intense grey eyes, his sensitive hands, his full mouth. They might have been happy together, if only he’d been braver or she’d been less blind.

  Her eyes lingered over the
words.

  You were treated badly by one Devereaux brother, for which I am incredibly sorry, but you were adored by the other.

  She sighed and kissed the page, folding it carefully, and placed the envelope in the drawer of her bedside locker. She blew out the candle and tried again to sleep.

  Chapter 12

  Molly O’Brien tried to ignore the crick in her neck; she dared not look up from the prayer book she had open on her lap. If she caught anyone’s eye, they would surely read the furtive, hunted look on her face. She had tucked her unruly red hair up inside her hat and pulled the brim down as much as she dared. Bits were springing out, she could feel it, but she dared not fidget too much as that was a sign of someone up to no good. She frequently wished that she was physically smaller, but never so much as now. Tall and heavy, she took up a lot of space, and her colouring didn’t help. The last thing she could be described as was inconspicuous. A tall, broad, good-looking lad about her own age, maybe a year or two older, sat beside her, and she wished no part of her needed to touch him, but alas that was not the case. She was wedged in beside him, every part of her squeezed up to him. It was mortifying. She knew she was taking up more than her portion of the seat. Thankfully he seemed distracted and made no effort to converse.

  ‘Beef to the heel like a Mullingar heifer,’ her brothers used to tease her. Mammy had tried everything over the years – corsets, half starving her to death – but it was no good. Molly was fat.

  ‘She got it from the O’Brien side,’ her mother would mutter in frustration. ‘Sure wasn’t your father’s sister Julia the size of half a house? And his Auntie Patricia has a behind like a barn door.’

  Mammy had been terrified her daughter would never get a man, something that cost Molly not a moment’s thought. She needed a man like she needed a hole in the head, but her protests fell on her mother’s deaf ears. Mrs O’Brien would moan to her husband that a big-boned girl with flame-red hair and a round freckled face was not going to stand a chance beside the likes of Madge Donnelly with her slim ankles or Meg O’Hara with her sleek black curls, both admired by every bachelor in the parish as they went up to receive Holy Communion at Mass each Sunday.