The Secret of Eveline House

by Sheila Forsey

  Emily was reading an article in the local Draheen Post about the upcoming service for Violet Ward that evening when her doorbell rang. It was very early. She had the sign up and she had to keep reminding herself that it was a business now as well as a home. She needed to get an intercom and new gates. There was endless stuff she needed to do. But it was so early it was bound to be Jack who she had begged to go out and get her some croissants. There was a new shop and deli that had opened, and it sold the most divine croissants she had ever tasted. Jack had obviously forgotten his keys, not for the first time.

  When she answered the door a man with tanned skin, chestnut hair and blue-green eyes was on the doorstep.

  ‘Sorry to bother you. But I am Max Bradford. I am a friend of Sylvia Ward. I’m sorry – I should have called first. But I just arrived into the town for the service tonight.’ He had a soft American accent.

  Emily could barely speak. She knew she must look a fright, and she could feel him staring at her. For the first time in years she felt what she could only describe as something strange. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way. He was a bit taller than her and possibly about her age. But it was his eyes that she could not take her own eyes off.

  ‘You’d better come on in,’ she replied.

  She wished she had at least tied up her hair or had a decent-looking robe on. She had a big fluffy flowery thing on that made her look at least a stone heavier. With big slippers that were ancient and fluffy ankle socks. Her hair was wet from her shower and she had not a scrap of make-up on.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were Jack.’

  ‘Oh, your husband?’

  ‘No, my brother. I’m not married.’ She could have kicked herself. Why did she say that to a perfect stranger? She might as well have asked him if he was available. ‘Would you like some coffee? Or tea?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice normal.

  ‘Love some. Coffee, please. The house is so like Sylvia described it from the outside. I see you have a business here? It looks cool. I think Sylvia would approve. I gather you are Emily O’Connor. The designer on the sign outside?’

  Emily loved the way his eyes crinkled up. He had a very open face if there was such a thing.

  ‘Yes, just starting up. How is Sylvia?’

  ‘Miss Sylvia is okay, I suppose. Perhaps more at peace.’

  ‘Miss Sylvia? She never married?’ Emily asked.

  ‘I have always called her that. It’s not that she would ever want to be addressed like that, but she was so secretive when she first arrived at Cape Cod that we could never find out her surname and my dad began calling her Miss Sylvia. It stuck. Everyone in Chatham calls her that now. She is the closest person I have to family. I think I am to her too, to be honest. I have known Sylvia over thirty years but never knew about her past. I hated leaving her, but she was insistent that I came. I am glad now. I think it is easier for her knowing that she has sent me. She is so strong really. I am so glad they have found her mother. At least she can find some sort of closure now.’

  Jack arrived in with a bag of croissants. She introduced them and ran to change.

  She found herself really fussing over what she wore. Discarding clothes like a teenager, eventually settling on a long flowy skirt and a sweater in a soft pink that really flattered her. She blow-dried her hair and tied it to the side, put on some make-up and went a bit overboard spraying some Chanel Allure. Even Jack did a bit of a double take when she arrived down.

  They had more coffee and Emily tried to stop looking right into Max’s eyes, but there was something so attractive about him.

  Jack asked her to go over something before the carpenter arrived and Max went outside to see the garden Sylvia had told him about.

  ‘You okay, sis? You’re a bit distracted,’ Jack said with a smirk.

  ‘Sorry, yes, I have a lot on my mind.’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s nothing to do with a handsome American who can’t seem to take his eyes off you or you him by the way?’ Jack grinned.

  ‘What? No way!’

  ‘I might as well not be here.’

  ‘Oh gosh, I can’t really concentrate on anything for a few minutes,’ Emily admitted.

  ‘Go on – I’ll talk to you later. Your head is not really in the right place for designing cabinets right now!’ Jack said, smiling.

  ‘Is this outfit okay on me? I’m just not sure,’ Emily said worriedly.

  ‘You look great. Beautiful actually. Nice perfume by the way. Are you sure you sprayed enough on? Hope he is not asthmatic.’

  Emily threw a cushion at him and got up to go into the garden but not before checking her make-up and hair in the hall mirror. She grabbed a jacket from the coat-stand and went out.

  She had done nothing in the garden yet except bring up her mother’s big marmalade cat, Lucky, who had had taken to the garden as if she had always lived there. Striker seemed to be happy with the new addition to the garden.

  ‘The garden is gorgeous,’ Max said, admiring it.

  It was warm for December. There was a chill, but a winter sun shone down.

  ‘Yes, I hope to tackle it in the spring. It’s wild but so beautiful I agree. Look, there are some gorgeous Christmas roses in bloom. There are some really pungent wildflowers there too. Can you get the aroma?’

  ‘Yes, I can. I know that this house meant so much to Sylvia. She told me about the garden and the wildflowers, would you believe?’

  ‘Can you tell me about Sylvia?’

  ‘Oh, she is a really special lady. Unique and incredibly artistic. I am just a bit heartbroken that all this happened to her in the past and I never knew all these years.’

  ‘I guess you know that my mother was Peggy. The girl who witnessed what happened?’ Emily said warily.

  ‘Yes, Sylvia told me about her. She told me that the housekeeper Betsy had often mentioned her over the years and wondered if she was alright. For what it’s worth Sylvia is not the type of person to hold any ill feeling towards your mother. I know that Ireland of 1950 was a very different place to now.’

  He told her what he knew, and Emily could see how deeply he cared about the woman. He told her about his writing, and they ended up talking for over an hour. Back in the house, she showed him the personal belongings the family had left behind. She told him that there was a heritage house in Draheen which might be glad to display the memorabilia of a famous playwright. However, the wonderful painting of Violet and the photographs would stay in place in the house – unless Sylvia wanted them of course. And she would not evict the dolls from their home but now felt that perhaps they should go back to Sylvia.

  Max smiled at this and nodded. ‘Or at least the one called Petite Suzanne. She has talked to me about her.’

  Then Emily realised she had better get dressed, as Jenny Wright was coming for a fitting.

  ‘I am sorry, but I have a client coming and she is due soon.’

  ‘Look, can I take you to lunch later? I am going to go now to Blythe Wood and the church. Pay my respects to the last places where she was.’

  ‘I would love that,’ Emily replied. ‘Can I ask if you know what happened to her father and the housekeeper?’

  ‘I am not sure. They are both dead, that is all I know. I think Sylvia has been living in Chatham for about thirty years. So, I think they are dead a long time.’

  They arranged to meet at one o’clock.

  ***

  Jenny Wright arrived with her three bridesmaids again and her mother and this time her wedding planner.

  Emily had a design created. She had the fabric samples and a mock-up of what the dress would look like. It was just the way she worked. But she was very unsure of what Jenny’s reaction would be. She had tried to incorporate what Jenny wanted but tried to stay true to herself too. So, she turned to Hollywood yet again and the golden era. The pearl-white Carrickmacross lace dress-design was fitted but flared into a chapel-length train. It had quite a revealing halter neck and plunged back. Emily thought
it was a complete showstopper but a throwback to the glamour of the golden era of cinema. It was different to what Jenny had shown her in her pictures but it did incorporate some of her requests.

  She had a sample of luxurious Swarovski Crystals that would adorn the dress. It was bling, showstopping, sexy, luxurious and was going to cost a fortune. She liked to imagine who would have worn such a dress if it did exist in the golden era of Hollywood and looking out the window watching Jenny get out of her BMW it came to her. She could picture Joan Crawford in her heyday in such a dress.

  She opened the door to let Jenny and company in.

  ‘Cool house,’ Jenny remarked.

  ‘Thank you, come on in. I have the mock-up ready for you to try.’

  Jenny tried on the mock-up dress. She stopped and looked, and Emily held her breath. It was only a mock-up but, on her body, she could see how beautiful it looked. It was certainly a showstopper and the train was quite incredible. It gave her the most fabulous curves and tiny waist. She showed her the lace and the crystals.

  ‘We have a winner! I love it!’ Jenny shrieked.

  Her bridesmaids heaved a collective sigh of relief and immediately took out a bottle of champagne and some plastic flutes.

  ‘Sorry but we have to celebrate,’ one of the bridesmaids said as she popped the cork.

  Father Nolan had put a lot of effort into the service for Violet Ward. The chapel was packed with only standing room and the portrait of Violet that hung in Eveline House was at the altar. It was not a funeral service, he said. It was Draheen’s token to remember a very talented woman who lost her life in Blythe Wood. He said any judgements were for the courts to make and reminded everyone that there was a full investigation of the tragic loss of Violet Ward going on.

  An extract from one of her plays was read and in it she spoke of Ireland and the beauty of it. A man and a woman sang ‘Ave Maria’. It was very beautiful and moving and Emily thought very fitting. Afterwards the parish had organised some refreshments in a local hotel for anyone who would like to come.

  How different Draheen was now to the Draheen her mother had described, Emily thought.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ Emily asked Max

  ‘Just a few days. I want to visit where Violet was born. Sylvia said that she often spoke of it and I promised to go there. It’s near a Lough Deeravaragh.’

  ‘I can take you.’

  ‘I would love that.’ He grinned.

  It was a beautiful Irish December day as they looked out over Lough Deeravaragh.

  ‘Miss Sylvia said that her mother used to tell her a legend and it had something to do with the lough.’

  ‘There is a legend called ‘The Children of Lir’. There was a king called Lir and his three children were turned into swans by their jealous stepmother. They swam here for three hundred years before moving to the Straits of Moyle for another three hundred years and then on to another place whose name I forget for yet another three hundred years. They did regain their human form in the end but of course they were ancient people over nine hundred years old when they did. But they were baptised as Christians before they died.’

  ‘You Irish are a melancholy lot, aren’t you?’ Max said with a grin.

  ‘I think it’s the history and the ghosts of the past. I think it has changed so much but when my mother was a child and Sylvia was a child there was nowhere in the world that seemed to live as Ireland did. A land that carried a history of coffin ships, famine and oppression. A Church that ruled with an iron fist and fear was the bread and butter given to all.’

  ‘My goodness, I thought the Irish were a merry lot and liked to drink Guinness and sing.’

  ‘Oh, we do but sometimes I think the Irish sang and drank to forget. But, as I said, that is the Ireland that Sylvia left. How can you tell her how much it has changed?’

  ‘Perhaps you might come over and visit and tell her yourself,’ Max whispered.

  ‘Is that an invitation?’

  ‘You bet.’ With that he leaned over and kissed her.

  CHAPTER 39

  Peggy knew she had one more thing to do. For the first time in all these years her dreams were not full of sadness. There was a change. Now her sleep was more peaceful, and she didn’t awaken and clutch at her heart.

  She was happy in the nursing home. She missed her house, but she could not imagine going back. She was content here and that was something she was not sure she ever was before. It was not like a lot of nursing homes that she visited. There was plenty of activity and she liked her room. It was painted in a vibrant yellow with a window that looked out into a garden. Emily had brought in all her statues to her. They were dotted all over the room. Saint Therese was on her locker. She had even brought in her picture of Daniel O’Donnel. She had her little cassette player and she often listened to her music and read the prayer books and holy magazines for hours. She had company if she wanted it. She needed help in dressing and her left leg had decided not to move after the stroke. But she had improved. She liked to sit in the little day room when Emily or Jack arrived. There was a little room converted into a place for prayer too. She liked to visit it every day.

  She could not believe the difference in Jack. He looked more like the old Jack and was constantly talking about his new plans.

  So Violet Ward’s remains had been there in Blythe Woods all these years. She prayed that finally she would be at peace.

  Emily had told her that there was to be a full investigation into what had happened.

  All the women that Peggy had recalled and the two men, the Bullock and Mike Dillinger, were now dead. Her regret was that it took her so long to tell what had happened. But age was a strange thing. She knew when she awoke from her stroke that she had to tell the truth. This was her last chance for that woman to be laid in a peaceful resting place and her daughter to know the truth and to have her father’s name cleared.

  She could not forgive herself for not being brave enough to tell what happened at the time. But she tried to remember that she was only a child then and somehow to at least make peace with it.

  She had asked Emily to buy her some good-quality paper. Emily said she could write a letter on her laptop and print it. But Peggy felt that the very least she could do was to write a real letter to Sylvia. Her hands were not good, but if she took her time she would manage it. Not to explain or look for forgiveness. But just to write to Sylvia Ward.

  With her hands shaking she wondered how to begin. How could she tell this woman that she had haunted her life? That not a night had gone by but she prayed for her. How she often spent hours wondering what happened to the little girl with the blond curls and the white skin. With tears in her eyes she began.

  December 14th, 2019

  Dear Sylvia,

  I cannot ask you to forgive me for not telling you about your mother. I don’t expect your forgiveness or even your understanding. But please know that I have thought and prayed for you all my life. I was just fourteen when your mother died, and I am afraid fear has ruled most of my life.

  I remember her as so very beautiful. I also remember your father and how handsome he was. I also can vividly recall the incredible pain he suffered when your mother disappeared. I only wish I had been braver and tried to let you know the truth before. I believe there will be an investigation, but I have told the story as it happened, and you have my word that is what occurred that dreadful morning.

  There is always one ringleader and the evil that emanated from her still has the power to frighten me, even knowing that she is long dead.

  In 1985 I received a letter and a locket from the solicitor of the Miss Doheny that I worked for. Inside the envelope was a note and another letter. It was a letter written by your father to your mother. He wrote it the day he left with you and Betsy and posted it to Miss Doheny.

  In her will Miss Doheny requested that it be sent to me. It was to be given to Violet Ward if she ever returned. I will make sure it is sent to you together with the lock
et.

  I am so sorry that we never met, but I feel our lives were intertwined all my life.

  I pray you are at peace.

  Peggy

  CHAPTER 40

  Sylvia drifted into the dream again.

  She was in the garden and the aroma of wildflowers was permeating the air. She could see her mother dressed in a pale-pink taffeta dress and white fur stole. Her hair pinned up. She was smiling and looking at the flowers. Betsy was there and was feeding Milky the cat.

  The dream shifted to the kitchen and there was her father. Grinning and laughing and telling Father Quill a joke he had heard in London. Father Quill was sipping sherry with his long legs resting on a footstool.

  Then the dream shifted to her bedroom and she opened the gift her mother had brought from London. It was wrapped in the prettiest pink paper. A beautiful silk coat with pearl buttons for Suzanne her beautiful doll. She knew she would adore it. Suzanne knew all her secrets. She put it on her doll, and she looked almost as beautiful as her mother. Her mother’s hair was pinned up with a comb of sparkling crystals. She found a tiny brooch similar to her mother’s ornate hair comb and placed it on Suzanne. She put her with the rest of her dolls.

  Then Sylvia awoke. The dawn was just setting in. She had left the curtain open last night. Petite Suzanne was gazing at her from where she sat at the end of the bed. Emily had sent her with Max from Ireland.

  Max had rung her while he was in Ireland and told her all about Eveline and all that had happened. The beautiful service that the priest had held for her. She was glad he had gone there.

  Part of her had wanted to go but part of her just could not go back. All these years later it was all still too painful. She had lost too much. Her life was irrevocably changed that winter. She had told him she was worried that the flight was too long. But truthfully, she knew it might be too much for her emotionally. She could never forget what happened to her at Eveline. The fact that it could return frightened her in her darkest hours.