The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  JP lifted his chin and watched it. Little by little, the tension eased in his jaw and he too was drawn out of himself and into the light. He took a deep, involuntary breath. ‘Ireland is in a class of its own when it comes to beauty. I don’t know what it is, but it’s magical.’

  ‘I imagine all the immigrants must have taken visions like this with them when they started their new lives in America and wherever else they settled. They must have missed it with all their hearts.’

  ‘I’m sure they did, and still do. I wonder whether Alana ever pines for home. She loved Ireland as much as I do.’

  ‘She didn’t have to leave.’

  ‘She did if she wanted to get as far away from me as possible.’

  ‘Interesting that Colm didn’t go with her to America, that he stayed with you.’

  ‘Correction, he stayed with his grandparents. He couldn’t bear the sight of me. He blamed me entirely for the divorce.’

  ‘How’s your relationship with Aisling and Cara?’

  ‘They were less judgemental than their brother. When they were teenagers they used to come and stay during the school holidays. I used to see a lot more of them. Our relationship was good. They didn’t take sides and their mother didn’t try to make them. I give her credit for that. For not trying to turn them against me. Now they’re grown-up with husbands and children of their own it’s harder for them to find the time to come over. The irony is that I see much more of Colm and he’s always been the child who has resented me the most.’

  ‘Isn’t that typical of sons, though? They side with their mothers. They feel, being men, they need to protect them.’

  ‘I don’t know. Our story is probably one big cliché. Divorce seems to be the same in most cases, doesn’t it? But nothing is ever black and white. There are always two sides to every story, and both husband and wife believe themselves the victim of wrongdoing.’

  ‘I only know your side of the story.’

  JP looked across at her and grinned. ‘If you cosy up to Alana, you might get her to tell you hers.’

  ‘That would make me feel less like a writer and more like a family therapist!’

  ‘I think you’d easily qualify as a therapist.’

  ‘Well, I’ve read enough self-help books to be quite knowledgeable about human nature.’

  He looked surprised. ‘You? Self-help books? Why would you of all people need those?’

  Margot dismissed his question with a shake of the head. She couldn’t even begin to answer it. ‘Come on, let’s gallop. I’m getting cold up here and the horses are restless.’

  His face brightened. ‘I’ll race you.’

  She laughed at the challenge and squeezed her horse’s flanks. ‘Catch me if you can!’

  * * *

  Colm had had a busy morning. The practice had been full of animals that needed treatment, among them a limping Labrador, a cat with an upset stomach and a terrier that had eaten a sock. He took a break over lunch and closed his office door, leaving his partner to hold the fort. While he sat at his desk eating a sandwich, he opened Margot’s book that he had bought that morning. He was curious to see how she wrote. He hoped it would give him some indication of how she was going to write about them. He had been determined not to like her, but now he realized how foolish that had been, to judge someone without knowing them. The fact that she was researching a book on his family didn’t make her a bad person. He had been wrong to dismiss her so swiftly. After all, if he wasn’t a Deverill he’d have found her likeable from the start. The truth was his intentions had been shattered by her charm, which was unexpectedly winning. Sure, she was lovely to look at, but so were many other girls in Ballinakelly. What Margot had was different. She had warmth, an independent spirit, intelligence and a sharp wit. On top of that she was elusive. She never talked about herself. It was as if she wanted to keep people at arm’s length. As if she didn’t want to get close to anyone. That quality only made him want to get closer. He began to read the first page and, as he did so, he could hear her voice as if she were reading it aloud to him in his head. He wasn’t in the least interested in Eva Perón, but he found, as he turned the page, that he was becoming increasingly interested in Margot Hart.

  * * *

  That afternoon when Margot returned to the hotel she noticed at once a change in the atmosphere. It was electrified. The staff stood to attention like soldiers, backs straight, shoulders square, faces alert, as if at any moment their colonel-in-chief might bellow a command. No one loitered, or chatted, or lingered. They moved with purpose and energy, as if the entire place had been given some sort of shock. Therefore, it came as no surprise to Margot to find a handwritten invitation waiting for her in her room, requesting her company for a drink in the private sitting room at six. The formidable Mrs de Lisle was in residence.

  ‘So, my dear, how are you getting on with your research?’ Mrs de Lisle, in a scarlet double-breasted jacket and pencil skirt, kissed her on both cheeks, enveloping her in a cloud of Rive Gauche. ‘I hope my staff are looking after you.’

  ‘I’m being treated like a queen,’ Margot replied. ‘Your hotel is beautiful.’

  ‘I’m so pleased you like it. It’s the jewel in my crown. Come, sit down. What would you like to drink? A glass of wine perhaps? A gin and tonic?’

  Margot sat on the sofa where she had sat with the Countess di Marcantonio and took in Mrs de Lisle’s stiff red hair and glossy red nails and thought how American she looked. Englishwomen didn’t manage to attain that level of polish. ‘A glass of white wine would be lovely, thank you,’ she replied.

  Mrs de Lisle gave a flick of her hand at the member of staff hovering by the door. Heavy gold bracelets jingled at her wrist and a large diamond ring flashed on her finger. When she gave him the order she did so briskly, in the manner of someone accustomed to bossing people around, of someone who considers pleasantries a waste of time. But she could be charming when it suited her. She took a seat on one of the upholstered chairs and folded her legs tidily to one side, one ankle on top of the other, patent crimson stilettos paired. Then she looked at Margot with intelligent, gun-metal grey eyes and smiled, displaying a perfect set of dazzling white teeth. ‘Tell me, my dear, how are you getting on with your research? I’m dying to know.’

  ‘Well,’ Margot began, ‘Lord Deverill has been surprisingly helpful in allowing me to go through boxes of family records.’

  Mrs de Lisle raised thin, overplucked eyebrows. ‘That is surprising. I thought you’d encounter resistance there.’

  ‘So did I. I’m not sure the rest of his family are as enthusiastic to help.’

  ‘If you have him, you don’t need anyone else, do you?’

  ‘Well, the Countess di Marcantonio came to see me.’

  Mrs de Lisle nodded knowingly. ‘I thought she would.’

  ‘She believes that she should be mistress of this place.’

  ‘She has a point.’

  ‘And she wants me to include the drama in the book.’

  ‘And so you should. A good journalist explores every angle. Besides, you need a bit of tension, a bit of spice, if you want the book to sell.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll sell all right. There’s enough spice in that family’s history to out-spice an Indian market. Have you met Leopoldo?’ Margot asked.

  ‘No. I don’t think he’s set foot on the property in years.’

  ‘But the Countess visits from time to time?’

  ‘Yes, I think she enjoys bringing her friends here and showing off her husband’s ancestral home.’ Margot laughed at the use of the word ‘ancestral’.

  The young man reappeared with two drinks on a tray. Margot thanked him as he handed her the wine glass. Mrs de Lisle simply put out a hand.

  ‘She’s a very determined woman,’ said Margot, choosing her words carefully.

  ‘As tough as old leather,’ Mrs de Lisle added with less restraint. ‘Aristocratic men always attract ambitious, socially upwardly mobile women like her. From what I un
derstand Leopoldo was a playboy in his youth and squandered vast amounts of money gambling, entertaining lavishly and basically pleasing himself. It’s not really surprising that his mother left the castle and most of her fortune to JP Deverill. The irony is, had Leopoldo inherited it, his wife would have probably whipped him into shape and run this place with great efficiency.’

  ‘And you’d never have had the opportunity to buy it.’

  Mrs de Lisle laughed. ‘Lord Deverill did me a favour. You see, what sets this place apart is the history. That’s what people love. How many hotels can boast three hundred years of one family’s ownership? Barton Deverill built it and JP Deverill lost it. The years in between are full of scandal, tragedy, loss and love. It’s a marvellous tale and you, my dear, are going to write the most brilliant book and it’s going to sell all over the world and send people flocking here in droves.’ Her grey eyes gleamed with ambition. ‘I’ve pumped serious money into this project, Margot, because I know its potential. America loves Ireland. So many are descended from here. We have a special affection for the Irish. The hotel has only been open for five years but our reputation is solid and glowing. You see, the fact that Lord Deverill fell on hard times and had to sell up only makes people love him. He’s not the remote, heartless aristocrat who exploited his poor tenants, sending them to their graves during the famine, or across to America in coffin ships, but a man who struggled beneath the burden of his vast ancestral home and was forced to let it go. It’s a story with such pathos. His tragedy is my gain. People want to come here to taste something of the privileged life of these aristocrats and they don’t resent them, they pity them.’

  ‘I think Lord Deverill would hate to know that.’

  ‘Better than loathing him. He should embrace it. We’d love to have him come and speak to our guests. We could charge a fortune for dinners. He could stand up and tell people what life was like when he lived here. They’d be fascinated. It might make him feel better about the whole thing if he was still part of it.’

  ‘Have you ever asked him?’

  Mrs de Lisle wrinkled her nose and shook her head. ‘I don’t think he’s in any position to speak to anyone. As far as I know he’s lost himself at the bottom of his whiskey bottle. Shame, really. He could earn good money. I paid him handsomely for this place but money doesn’t last for ever. I’ll wait until he can no longer pay his bills and then I’ll strike a deal. With your book and Lord Deverill speaking at my dinner parties, I’ll be turning people away!’

  There was something distasteful about her ambition that made Margot fear for JP.

  * * *

  Alana Deverill arrived home, to the house by the sea where she had been born, with mixed emotions. Little had changed. The house itself was the same, with its grey-tiled roof and whitewashed walls, as was the bay and the glittering waves that peaked and plateaued on the surface of the water. She was reminded of the many times she had walked up and down the beach as a child, searching for crabs in the sand and urchins in the rock pools. She had laughed into the wind playing chase with her siblings and sobbed in the rain when they had fought, as all children do. However, she had sobbed the hardest when she had discovered love letters from Kitty Deverill in her father’s veterinary bag. She had vowed then that she would never forgive him for betraying her mother, only to learn later that her mother had known all along and waited patiently for the passion to die away. Alana had finally forgiven Jack, for who was she to hold a grudge when her mother held none.

  Alana had never imagined that she would be betrayed in the same way, but she had sobbed again on that beach when she had learned of JP’s affair with the governess. Unlike her mother she had not accepted it, or tolerated it, or waited for it to blow over. She had wailed and cried and flung every object within reach at his deceiving head and declared that this time, when she made a vow never to forgive, she would keep her word. It had been fourteen years since the divorce, yet now, gazing out over the sea, the unchanging sea, it could have been yesterday when she had thrown her shattered dreams onto the water.

  She sat at the kitchen table with her parents, older and frailer now, and her son Colm, who got more handsome with the years, and shared her news. When she was home Alana always felt as if she had never been away. It was so comfortably familiar. So sheltered. She wondered why she had dashed across the Atlantic to make a life there when she could have stayed in the place she knew and loved. But she couldn’t have remained in the same town as JP, fearing bumping into him every time she went to buy the groceries. Bolting to New York was what the Irish did and the Americans had certainly made her and her daughters feel welcome. Hadn’t her mother been born there and her father, for a short time, made his home there too? America was in her veins as well as Ireland. And yet, sitting now at that table, the very same table at which she had eaten, studied and gossiped for the first two decades of her life, Alana felt an unmatched sense of belonging as well as a regret for having lost it.

  The four of them enjoyed a hearty lunch of potatoes and stew. Emer had baked an apple pie for pudding, making from scratch the custard that Jack so loved. She resisted buying things in packets when she could cook them herself.

  ‘There’s something we need to tell you, Alana,’ said Emer, putting down her spoon and fork.

  Alana knew it would have something to do with JP. ‘What’s up?’ she asked, a familiar feeling of dread clamping her stomach.

  Jack polished off the rest of the custard straight out of the jug with a spoon. ‘There’s a Writer in Residence up at the castle now,’ he said. ‘And she’s writing a history of the Deverills.’

  He didn’t believe in wrapping harsh truths in cotton wool.

  ‘JP has given her access to the family records,’ Emer added.

  Alana shrugged. ‘Which is his right. After all, he’s a Deverill. What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘It’ll have plenty to do with you when she gets to the last twenty years,’ said Jack.

  Colm remained silent. He felt like a traitor in their midst. He didn’t want to admit that he had not only befriended the writer, but his father too. He knew how much his mother counted on him for support. He had always taken her side. Now he wished he’d never taken sides at all.

  Alana looked at her son. ‘Have you met this woman?’

  ‘I have,’ he replied.

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Colm hesitated. He lifted his water glass and held it in front of his lips. ‘I don’t know, clever, I suppose, and—’

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Jack interrupted. ‘Beautiful and cunning as a fox. She’s got JP wrapped around her little finger.’ His gaze lingered on his grandson. ‘I suspect she’s got you wrapped around her little finger too,’ he added. ‘Men are putty in the hands of the likes of Margot Hart.’

  Alana frowned. ‘Are you telling me that JP is spilling all the family secrets?’

  Colm was quick to his father’s defence. ‘I think he’s helping her research the distant past. They were discussing Hermione Deverill last time I was there.’

  Alana’s eyes darkened. ‘If he’s going to use this book as a way of taking revenge on me, then I need to know.’

  ‘There’s no telling what he’ll do,’ said Emer.

  ‘In my experience, there’s little more dangerous than a drunk with a loose tongue and a heap of secrets,’ said Jack.

  ‘Margot’s writing a history book, not a kiss and tell,’ interjected Colm. He felt the heat prickle beneath his collar and wondered why it had suddenly got so hot in the kitchen. ‘She wrote a biography of Eva Perón. I’m reading it now and it’s good. She’s a historian not a scandalmonger.’

  Jack grinned. ‘Well, you’ve changed your opinion, Colm,’ he mused. He thought of Kitty Deverill then. Some women were just impossible to resist. He scrutinized his grandson’s face and realized, as he did so, that he’d seen that expression before – on his own face in the mirror.

  ‘I’m going to talk to JP,’ said Alana. ‘I’m going
to find out what’s going on. He can’t be allowed to speak about me, about us and our relationship, on the record. I’m not going to allow him to publicly humiliate me.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t do that,’ said Colm.

  His mother looked at him, incredulous. ‘Are you?’ she retorted. It wasn’t like Colm to defend JP. She pushed out her chair. ‘I’m going to see him now.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Colm suggested.

  ‘No, I’ll go on my own,’ she replied. ‘This is between me and your father.’ She sighed. ‘It’s always been between me and him.’

  Kitty

  Trouble is brewing in the castle and for once it has nothing to do with me. It is Mrs Carbery who is doing the haunting. Mr Dukelow has employed a new girl from Kinsale called Annie Dineen, a sweet, mousey creature with lank brown hair and dull brown eyes and a small, timid mouth out of which nothing interesting is ever said. She is unremarkable in appearance and goes about her duties making beds and cleaning rooms in a quiet, efficient manner, never drawing attention to herself. In fact, the other staff barely notice her at all. However, she is remarkable in one thing: she is an intuitive. She is one of those rare people who sense the finer vibrations of which most are unaware, but unlike my grandmother and me – who in life were very nonchalant about our gift – she is afraid of it. She blocks it out by humming to herself when she feels the temperature drop in the room, or senses a presence behind her in the hairs that lift on the back of her neck. Were I alive I would explain that there is nothing to fear. There are no evil spirits here, only gentle beings watching over their loved ones who come and go in the hotel, or those, like Mrs Carbery and me who are in the In-between, either by choice or by default. Yet, Annie knows not the difference between ghosts, earthbound spirits and spirits and I am in no position to tell her. She believes in ghosts in white sheets and headless phantoms who might do her harm. I would like to whisper in her ear that perhaps Castle Deverill is not the ideal place of work for her, but she needs the money and is willing to put up with the creaks and groans that accompany her daily duties. However, Mrs Carbery in the linen room is quite another matter.