‘And what are you writing?’ he asked.
‘A history of the Deverill family,’ she replied, holding his gaze and watching it intensify with interest.
‘Are you now,’ he mused and a small smile curled his lips. ‘Well, there’s more than enough to fill a book. Indeed, I’d say you could write a trilogy.’
Margot sensed that for some reason the idea of a book about the Deverills amused him. ‘I need to speak to people like you who knew them in the early part of this century,’ she added. It was worth a shot.
Jack chuckled. ‘Aye, I knew them well enough and I’ve had my fingers burnt in the process. Now that our families are interlinked, for better or for worse, I’ll not be speaking about the Deverills to anyone. But there are those that will. You only have to ask around. There are plenty that would shed light onto those dark and secret places.’
‘Our daughter was married to JP Deverill,’ said Emer. She sighed regretfully. ‘We thought it a good match. But people change over time and often they don’t change together or in the same way. They drift apart.’
‘But you have three lovely grandchildren from that marriage,’ interjected Dorothy, who sensed a heaviness pervading the room and decided to lift it. ‘And Colm lives right here in Ballinakelly. How lovely for you to see him so often.’
‘Yes, we’re very lucky, for sure.’ Emer smiled. She turned to Margot. ‘Our grandson is a vet like Jack was, Margot. We’re lucky he chose to remain in Ireland. His sisters followed their mother to America. But Colm’s like his grandfather. His roots are embedded deep in Irish soil. He’ll not be leaving it.’
Jack went into the kitchen, his loyal mongrel trotting eagerly after him. Margot took a breath and felt her whole body relax. It was as if Jack had taken his oppressive energy with him, restoring the sitting room to its original cosiness. But as much as Margot listened to the two women’s conversation, her attention had followed Jack as well. She was drawn to that dark charisma, sensing a story there if only she could get him to tell it.
At length Dorothy pushed herself to her feet and declared that she had taken up enough of Emer’s time. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But I’ll be back shortly.’ She turned to Margot. ‘When my husband died I decided I’d treat myself and come to Ballinakelly as often as I wanted. You have to do all the things you want to do, in the time you’re given, and no one knows how long that will be. So I’ll be back very soon. I’m already looking forward to it.’
Emer showed them to the door. She embraced her friend with affection and shook Margot’s hand. ‘It was very nice meeting you,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoy the castle. I’m sure the de Lisles have done a good job in restoring it.’
‘It’s certainly luxurious,’ Margot replied.
Emer nodded sadly. ‘It was luxurious when JP inherited it.’ She sighed. ‘The trouble is an apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.’
Margot wasn’t sure what she meant by that but she nodded as if she did. ‘Thank you for welcoming me into your home,’ she said, then stepped into the cold and made her way briskly to the car. Dorothy lingered, exchanging a few words with Emer. At last she climbed in beside Margot and rolled down her window to wave.
The car set off up the narrow lane. Margot did not expect anyone to be coming the other way for the road ended at the O’Learys’ house, so she let her concentration lapse. Her mind wandered to Jack O’Leary, wondering where he had disappeared to and why he hadn’t appeared to say goodbye. She failed to slow down as she approached the bend. Suddenly, a muddy Land Rover roared round the corner, clearly not expecting anyone to be coming the other way either. Dorothy gave a cry of panic. Margot slammed on the brakes. The driver of the Land Rover skidded to a halt. They missed colliding by only a few feet.
‘Good Lord!’ Margot exclaimed. ‘You okay, Dorothy?’
‘I’m still alive,’ Dorothy replied shakily. ‘But I think I jumped out of my skin.’
The two drivers entered into a stand-off, neither wanting to give way to the other. But Margot soon realized that the Land Rover could hardly reverse back round a blind corner without endangering an oncoming vehicle. With a sigh of irritation she decided that she was going to have to be the one to move. Reluctantly, she reversed her car into a small lay-by and waited for the Land Rover to pass. As it did so she found herself staring stupidly at the surprisingly handsome man in the driver’s seat who was raising his hand in gratitude and smiling at her without the slightest hint of annoyance. He drove slowly, careful not to scrape her car, and Margot’s impatience evaporated in the disarming appeal of his smile. No doubt he was wondering who she was and why she was there. Then he recognized Dorothy and his smile broadened. He doffed his flat cap and Margot noticed the dark hair that curled beneath it.
‘That’s Colm,’ said Dorothy, watching the Land Rover pass. ‘Emer and Jack’s grandson. He’s the local vet? He’s so like his grandfather.’ Margot drove back into the lane. ‘There, your first sighting of a Deverill. I’m going to be sorry to leave tomorrow. I’m curious to know how you get on. You might have to call me and keep me up to date with your progress.’
‘How old is he, do you think?’ Margot asked, injected suddenly with enthusiasm.
‘I can tell you exactly. Aisling must be thirty-one, which makes Colm twenty-nine and his younger sister Cara twenty-seven.’
‘And he’s the local vet,’ she mused.
‘Yes, but one day he’ll inherit the title. Sadly, he won’t have a castle to inherit. I doubt he’ll use the title. Sounds a bit silly being Lord Deverill, the vet!’
‘Is he married?’
‘Not yet.’ Dorothy glanced at her. ‘Quite a looker, isn’t he?’
‘Very.’ Margot laughed. ‘But I’m not looking and I don’t mix business with pleasure,’ she added, because Dorothy was smiling quietly to herself.
‘I’ll remember you said that,’ she muttered.
Margot laughed. ‘Fancy some lunch?’
‘What a splendid idea,’ Dorothy replied. ‘I know the perfect place. It’s called O’Donovan’s and they do the best Irish stew.’
* * *
Jack O’Leary stood at his bedroom window and looked out over the sea. He thought of her then and something pulled at the tender place in his heart where she still dwelt. He put a hand there, but it did nothing to ease the constant ache of loss. There was something about the view of that far distant horizon – the blurred line where the sea meets the sky – which brought her back to him, as if she was there, in that place between earth and Heaven. As if she hadn’t left, but was waiting for him as she had waited in life. He stared, and as he stared two grey eyes stared back at him. He spread his fingers wide on the windowpane. He had loved Kitty Deverill his whole life and now she was gone. He pressed his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes. She was gone and this time she wasn’t ever coming back.
Kitty
Oh Jack!
I see you, searching for me at the window. Those are not your eyes staring back at you in the reflection, but mine. I have not left you. I will never leave you. If only you could understand that death is simply a moving from one dimension into another. A change, that is all. I am still me, Kitty Deverill, and I love you as I always have.
I see you, Jack, when you walk your dog on the hills. When you linger at the Fairy Ring, high up on the cliffs overlooking the sea, where my mortal remains are scattered. How often we found each other there, in the place that was ours and ours alone. Do you remember how, as children, we played among those giant stones? How we kissed, as teenagers, in their shadows. How, as adults, we argued and fought and made love, hidden by those megaliths, the guardians of our secrets. They keep our secrets still.
Do you remember how we swore that we would be true, that we would never love another? Do you remember our promises? The promises of two fools, blinded by love.
Everything was against us, wasn’t it, my beloved, as if we were cursed never to live out our dreams. We didn’t ask fo
r much. Only that we could be together, free to love openly, to share our joy with the world. But in those days we were on opposite sides of every river. You were Catholic, I was Protestant; you were Irish, I was Anglo-Irish; you were poor, I was rich; you were an O’Leary and I a Deverill. Yet love knows no boundaries. It is only human beings, with their narrow-mindedness and prejudices, who fail to realize that we are all the same. That we have the same hearts full of longing, whatever side of the river we are from.
Do you remember the secrets we kept? The notes we slipped into the stone wall of the vegetable garden up at the castle were only the beginning of years and years of deception. Time and again we found each other when we should not have. Ours was a passion that grew into something neither you nor I could control. A passion that no earthly hand could quell, not even the hands we held in front of God as we vowed to love and cherish. And together we fought for freedom. You gave me courage. I remember with pride the times I carried guns from one safe house to the next because the Tans would never think that I, a Deverill, would side with the Irish in their fight for independence. But I did. I fought for what I believed in. With you. We believed in it together.
Do you remember when you asked me to leave with you and start a new life in America? But I could not. I could not leave my home. My beloved home. I could not leave Ireland. And I lost you, Jack. You see, you are not the only one who harbours regret.
I feel your regret, but you came to that too late, after I was gone. While I was alive, your ties to your family were too strong. We were both ill-fated. If we had found happiness together it would have been built on the unhappiness of those who loved us. I am glad that I am not responsible for that. When I move on, which I hope I eventually will, I will go with a heart free of guilt. My sin has not been in loving you, Jack – there is no sin in loving. My sin is in earthly pride and vindictiveness. I know it, yet hold on to them still.
Five years I have been dead and five years you have mourned me. Yet time has no meaning where I am. I am in the In-between, still me, yet as transparent as vapour. There are very few, like me and my grandmother Adeline, who have the ability to see the fine vibrations of spirit. I watch you mourn me, Jack, and yet you do not see me, so close that were I made of matter I could press my lips softly against yours in a kiss. If only you knew how love connects us to each other. How we will be connected for ever, for eternity. I am with you, Jack, and always will be.
* * *
I am not alone in the In-between, however. There are some, like me, who cannot move on, either because they do not wish to, or because they do not realize they can. Mrs Carbery does not realize she is dead. She was the maid who worked in the castle when I was a child. She used to sit in a little room upstairs and sew. She made all my childhood dresses and those of my two sisters, Victoria and Elspeth. Of course, I did not live in the castle in those days. My grandparents Hubert and Adeline lived there and I lived with my father Bertie and mother Maud in the Hunting Lodge by the river. But I spent most of my time at the castle because I wanted to be with my grandmother Adeline, whom I loved a great deal more than my mother. In the little workroom on the first floor Mrs Carbery used to share her biscuits with me and Bridie Doyle, the cook’s daughter, who was my friend. We would hide out there while my governess searched for me high and low, and she would tell us stories while we played with the ribbon and lace. She had a wild imagination, full of leprechauns and fairies, and she’d weave wonderful tales while she sewed our dresses.
Mrs Carbery passed away just after the civil war ended. I remember it well because her son was killed in the last days of that terrible war that saw brother set against brother, and she was beside herself with grief. They were buried next to each other in the graveyard of All Saints Church in Ballinakelly and I made a wreath of poppies and wild daisies and placed it at her headstone. Being intuitive, I saw spirits all through my life, but I never saw Mrs Carbery. Now that I dwell in the In-between I realize that she has always been here, a lost and lonely soul, going about her work as if she still lived. A soul who, for some reason, never found her way to the light, or didn’t trust it when she saw it, believing perhaps that it was the devil, playing tricks on her. Stuck in the In-between, she is mystified by the strange people who occupy the rooms and complains about them bitterly.
I want to encourage her to move on, because she is not here by choice. I want her to be reunited with the son she’d loved and lost. But I have to tread carefully. After all, how does one break it to a person that she is dead, when she believes herself to be very much alive?
Over the five years that I have been dead I have watched her wander about the castle, spooking those unfortunate enough to see her, unaware that she is spooking anyone. She does not trust me and does her best to avoid me. I, on the other hand, am aware of every impact I have on the world of the living. It’s astonishing how many people dismiss my hauntings with an earthly explanation. They put it down to the wind, to the natural noises of an old castle, and those who want to be haunted find evidence where there is none. It amuses me and I need amusement for there is little to entertain me here. I am even a little bored of my own malice. It is too easy to drop a vase, rattle a doorknob or dim the lights, and what is the point of causing the hotel to close if there is no Deverill waiting in the wings with the means to buy it?
And then a young woman arrives who arouses my curiosity. She intends to write a book about my family. She claims not to believe in ghosts, but I sensed her fear when I knocked over her glass of wine at dinner. I will keep an eye on her. The universe works in mysterious ways and I intuit that there is no coincidence in her coming.
Chapter 3
The following morning Margot stood at the front door of the Hunting Lodge and waited. She did not like the house. It was austere and charmless with pointed gables that stabbed the sky and dark windows that glinted like mean little eyes in a hard grey face. The energy wasn’t right, either, she thought, recalling her medium friend, Dan Chambers, because that was just the sort of thing he would say.
At length the door was unbolted and a woman’s face peered through the crack. She looked at Margot with suspicious china-blue eyes. ‘Good morning,’ said Margot, giving the woman her sweetest smile. ‘I’ve come to call on Lord Deverill.’ She found that, if she exuded confidence, people usually assumed confidence in her. ‘He’s not expecting me. I’m the Writer in Residence at the hotel and my grandfather used to be a good friend of the family.’
The housekeeper looked her up and down, unsure whether or not to invite her in. Deciding, at length, on caution being the better part of valour, she instructed Margot to wait while she went to speak with his lordship. The door was closed and Margot was left shivering on the doorstep. At least it was sunny, she mused. She pulled her coat tighter about her and lifted the collar. It might have been dry but there was a bitter wind blowing in off the sea.
It seemed like a long time before the woman reappeared and opened the door. ‘Please come in,’ she said in a gentle Irish brogue. She wore a long black skirt and white blouse, and her dove-grey hair was tied into a soft bun, leaving a few strands loose to float about her wide, solemn face. ‘Lord Deverill will see you,’ she said.
Margot was surprised and felt more than a little triumphant. She looked forward to telling Mr Dukelow how Lord Deverill had not been reclusive to her. In fact, he had invited her in without hesitation. The housekeeper took her coat and hat and hung them in a cupboard. Margot smoothed down her hair, glancing at herself in the tarnished mirror that hung on the wall above a dusty old console table. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her green eyes sparkling. She licked her lips for want of gloss. The house had a stuffy smell, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in a very long time, and an empty feeling that gave a strong impression of loneliness. ‘Come with me,’ said the housekeeper and Margot followed her across the hall and down the dimly lit corridor. The shuffle of her slippers was the only sound beside the desolate ticking of a grandfather clock.
‘It’s very nice to meet you too,’ she said, shaking his hand, which was warm and a little moist. ‘Grandpa told me so much about your family.’
‘Not all bad, I hope.’ There was a defensiveness in his eyes that suggested he was used to people thinking ill of him.
Margot smiled kindly. ‘On the contrary, Lord Deverill. He was an admirer.’
Lord Deverill seemed relieved to hear it. ‘Do sit down. Mrs B will make you a cup of tea.’ While Margot settled into a worn leather sofa, JP asked the housekeeper to bring them tea. ‘If there’s any of that porter cake, we’ll have some of that too,’ he added.
‘Very well, m’lord,’ replied Mrs B, trundling off down the corridor at a slow and stately pace. Margot didn’t imagine anyone or anything moved very fast around here, not even time.
JP groaned as he lowered himself into the armchair beside the fire, then shuffled about until he found a comfortable position. Margot noticed a book and a pair of reading glasses on the table beside him, along with a packet of Jacob’s Cheddars cheese biscuits and Marlboro cigarettes. ‘They have a Writer in Residence up at the castle now, do they?’ he said.
The Distant Shores Page 4