The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘God, that’s terrible,’ said Margot, envisaging the little boy’s face full of horror and disbelief.

  ‘I knew next to nothing about sex, but I knew what they were up to all right.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ran for it. I hid in my room and sobbed my heart out.’

  ‘Oh Colm, that’s awful. And you never told anyone?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  ‘Rosie never mentioned it?’

  ‘She couldn’t look me in the eye after that, and Dad just pretended nothing had happened.’

  ‘How did your mother find out?’

  ‘She grew suspicious. Small things at first, I think. Like the smell of Rosie’s perfume on Dad’s clothes. Then she looked out for it and, when you look out for something with that sort of dedication, you usually find it. Mum caught them kissing. Rosie was dismissed. I think she went to live in Canada. We never heard from her again. I was hurt. She never said goodbye, not to any of us.’

  ‘So, you lost the woman you trusted, all because of your father’s carelessness.’

  ‘That’s putting it politely.’

  ‘And then the marriage broke up and you lost your family too.’

  ‘Mum went to live in America. Aisling and Cara chose to go with her. I stayed here, with my grandparents. I didn’t want to live with Dad. He was already drinking heavily and turning mean.’

  ‘I bet he was mean because he felt guilty that you saw him like that. You were just a boy.’

  ‘I blamed him for everything. It’s only now, as a man, that I can judge him with more perspective. Still, the sense of betrayal and hurt remains.’

  ‘You told him that?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he was sorry. He was sad and sorry. We should have talked about it before. It makes a big difference to hear those words, especially when they’re sincere.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he found comfort in Rosie?’

  ‘Yes. As I’ve learned, there are many different ways of looking at the same thing. We human beings are a complicated lot.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Your father’s drinking stems from a severe dislike of himself, Colm. That dislike probably goes right back to that moment when you found him and Rosie together. JP is a decent, honourable man. It must have killed him to have been exposed as dishonourable. Because that’s not who he really is. He was driven to it by unhappiness. But he let himself down as well as everyone else. I’m sure you’ve put him on the road to recovery by talking about it.’ He nodded. She put her hand to his cheek and ran her thumb over his cleft chin. ‘And you needed to talk about it too, Colm. The little boy in you needed to let it out and let it go.’

  ‘Life’s a battle and we’re all left scarred by it, in one way or another,’ he said, winding his fingers around her neck, beneath her hair. He breathed in, his thoughts turning to more present matters.

  ‘You should be a writer too,’ she chuckled, noticing the change in his expression and feeling once again a flutter of nervous anticipation in her stomach.

  He inclined his head, his blue eyes intense and full of purpose. ‘I’m not sure that was very original, but it sounded good.’ He smiled and kissed her again.

  * * *

  When they returned to the Hunting Lodge, JP was in the garden, shovelling manure into the border. His cheeks were pink from the cold and exertion and he seemed to be working with a new vigour, as if each strenuous movement of the spade was a deliberate step in the direction of recovery. Margot’s spirits lifted when she saw him. He had the backbone her father had lacked. A strong willpower and determination to make a change in his life that Jonathan Hart couldn’t find. Where he had given Margot a sense of helplessness, JP gave her a sense of optimism. She knew the best way to get better was to keep busy, preferably outside in nature. He would need their support more in the evenings, when the habit of sinking into his armchair by the fire would make him want to reach for the whiskey decanter. She and Colm would have to take it in turns to stay with him. It wouldn’t be fair to leave him on his own. She glanced at Colm as they strode across the grass towards JP and envisaged the three of them playing cards in the library. Strangely, that image was not an unpleasant one.

  ‘I suppose I’d better get back to work,’ said Colm, putting his hands in his pockets and smiling at his father.

  JP stuck his spade into the earth and smiled back. ‘All right, son. I’ll see you later, perhaps?’

  ‘You will. Margot and I are going to be around a lot to keep an eye on you and to give you support. You’re going to get pretty sick of us, I’m afraid.’

  JP laughed. ‘I’ll never get sick of the two of you.’

  ‘I’m going to work a bit here, then head back to the hotel at teatime,’ Margot added. ‘I need to show my face around there or I’ll be sent back to England in disgrace.’

  They set off up the lawn, leaving JP to his toil. Colm’s Land Rover was parked on the gravel at the front of the house. He took her hand and pulled her behind it. ‘We can’t be seen by Dad, or Mrs B, for that matter.’

  ‘Or your mother,’ Margot added with a grin. ‘In fact, we can’t be seen by anybody.’

  ‘God, it’s like being a teenager again.’ He slid his hands around her neck, beneath her hair.

  ‘There’s more at stake than being grounded,’ she reminded him.

  He laughed. ‘Better not take any risks.’ He pressed his lips to hers and for a moment they were both distracted. Margot felt her body grow warm and wished they could sneak up and use one of the bedrooms in the Lodge.

  Colm read her thoughts. ‘I want to make love to you, Margot,’ he mumbled into her ear.

  ‘I want you to,’ she whispered back. The very thought of it made her catch her breath.

  He hesitated a moment, deliberating. ‘Come this evening,’ he said. ‘We can have dinner with Dad and then… I don’t know, send him to bed early.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ she agreed and watched him climb into the Land Rover and drive off.

  After the morning she’d had, Margot wasn’t sure she’d be able to concentrate on her work, but she went to the games room all the same. Mrs B had lit a fire. Outside, the sun had come out and was flooding the lawn with light. She could hear the birdsong and it made her think of spring, bluebells and daffodils, longer evenings and lighter mornings. She looked at the piles of ledgers and papers neatly stacked on the carpet and recalled their game of rabbits. In her mind’s eye she saw Colm racing around the table, his face full of laughter and his wavy hair falling over his forehead.

  She was disturbed by a knock on the door. It was Mrs B. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Hart?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d love one, Mrs B, thank you so much.’

  There was a pause while Mrs B lingered in the doorway. ‘It’s good to see Master Colm about the house,’ she said at length. ‘Good that the two of them are talking.’ Margot nodded in agreement and smiled. ‘You’re a bold girl, Margot,’ the old housekeeper added suddenly and her gentle eyes were full of gratitude. ‘You have a rare gift.’ Margot didn’t know what to say, but Mrs B did not need a reply. ‘I’ll go and wet the tea,’ she said and softly closed the door.

  * * *

  Margot settled down to work. She opened the final box. It was the smallest of the lot, which was why she had left it until last. Inside was a miniature crimson chest made out of wood. It looked old, early nineteenth century, she guessed. She carefully lifted it out and attempted to open it. To her frustration, it was locked. The little keyhole begged for a key and yet, on further inspection inside the box, there was none to be found. She gave it a shake. It rattled. There were things inside – treasures, she hoped. Reluctantly, she put it to one side. She’d ask Colm to help her later. It was just the sort of thing he’d probably be able to do with one of his veterinary instruments.

  She pulled out a pile of letters instead, bound together with a blue silk ribbon. She’d gon
e through loads of letters already. Some were of interest, others just satisfied her curiosity but would not serve for the book.

  She gently untied the ribbon and pulled out the first letter. It was written in neat, slanted handwriting, the ink faded to a light brown but still legible. The envelope was addressed to a Mrs Jane Chadwick in Lancashire, England. Margot wondered who this Jane Chadwick was and why letters addressed to her should find their way into the Deverill archives. She pulled out another one. To her astonishment it was addressed to the same woman. As Margot flicked through all the envelopes she realized that each one was addressed to Jane. Her interest piqued, she opened the first letter and scanned the page until she found the signature at the bottom. Now she was truly intrigued. The letter was signed Your loving sister, Frances. Hurriedly and with mounting excitement she turned the page over in search of the date. 12 July 1821. Frances was none other than Frances Wilson, married to Tarquin Deverill.

  Margot curled up in the armchair beside the fire and began to read. The letters, besides being full of mundane news, were full of love for Frances’s disabled little boy, Gabriel. Frances had five other children – Peregrine being the eldest and heir – who were robust and healthy, and she had lost three in infancy. Gabriel was her youngest and a source of great worry to her. The letters were increasingly about him. Not only was he born with a twisted spine, which made one leg shorter than the other, but he was mentally retarded. Frances described him as ‘loving’, ‘full of laughter’, ‘uncommonly affectionate’ and ‘slow’. He will always be a child, I fear, even as he grows. His father cannot abide him and will not have him in his sight, but has him hidden away in the tower so as not to embarrass him. It breaks my heart to see him treated in this way. Tarquin gives more affection to the dogs. Margot wondered whether this poor child was kept in her tower. She lifted her eyes off the page a moment and envisaged Gabriel gazing out of the window onto the lawn below where his siblings played on the grass, perhaps even with their father, while he had to remain isolated and imprisoned in his bedroom. With a heart racing with indignation, she read on.

  Tarquin referred to his son as ‘a monster’, ‘a freak of nature’ and ‘a beast’. He refused to have him educated with his other sons, so that his mother had to teach him to read herself, which was almost impossible due to his retarded mental development. So great was Tarquin’s dislike for the boy that in public he claimed only to have five children. Once, when Frances reminded him of the sixth, he struck her face with the back of his hand, tearing her skin with his signet ring. She never dared do that again.

  Mrs B came in with a pot of tea and some cake but Margot barely stirred from her chair, except to mumble a quiet ‘thank you’ before returning to the letters. More than once did Frances fear for the boy’s life. My husband’s loathing for the child is such that I am filled with terror at what he might do while my boy sleeps. I have taken to climbing into bed with him in the night to keep him safe. And then the letters reached their terrible climax. Frances’s handwriting became more erratic. Margot sensed her distress in the fitful striking of the quill across the page. Tarquin had done an extraordinary thing. He’d taken the child into the garden on his birthday to show him the flowers. This he had never done before. Frances was consumed with anxiety. She knew her husband and what he was capable of. And then the unthinkable happened. The boy, Tarquin claimed, was reaching for the fish in the ornamental pond and fell in. By the time his father reached him, he had drowned.

  In despair, Frances wrote to her sister: I do not believe a single word of it, Jane. God forgive me for casting blame, but I believe my husband meant for my beloved boy to die in this way, on this day, to relieve him of the burden of having an imperfect child. Although my beautiful boy was no burden to anyone. Just a source of God’s light and love embodied in an innocent and crippled child. He is at peace. But I am in an eternal Hell, dear Jane. I see no release for me.

  Margot wiped away a tear and took a breath. She dropped the letter onto her lap. She knew what happened next. Shortly after, poor Frances Deverill died, Margot guessed of a broken heart.

  She presumed the letters were in the family archive because Frances’s sister wanted Tarquin to be held accountable for his crime. That never happened, of course. But somehow these letters found their way into the castle so that, at least, history would record the terrible thing that he had done. Margot gazed into the fire, at the dancing flames of golden light, and wondered what happened to souls like Tarquin’s, if there was indeed life after death. Was there such a thing as Hell for the likes of him? If justice was not carried out in his lifetime, was it carried out after?

  More than ever before Margot felt a sense of purpose in writing this book. It needed to be written for those like Frances and Gabriel whose stories had never seen the light. She rested her head against the chair and closed her eyes. She thought about the ghosts in the castle that so many people seemed to believe in and suddenly wished that she believed in them too. Countless evil people escaped justice on earth. What a consolation it would be to know that they would, in fact, be held accountable for their actions, in some dark and miserable place after death.

  She opened her eyes and looked at the small crimson chest sitting on the billiard table. She wondered what secret thing lay inside.

  Chapter 14

  Margot told JP about the letters over lunch. ‘I’m afraid some of my ancestors were not very nice people,’ he said, looking sheepish. ‘In fact, when Alana accuses me of having bad blood, I think she’s probably right.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Margot. ‘Their sins are not your sins and besides, if she accuses you of having bad blood then she accuses her children too, which I doubt she means to do. It’s just a way of making you feel guilty. But there are two sides to every story and, as far as I can see, she has as much to feel guilty about as you do.’

  JP looked at her with tenderness. ‘You’re very loyal to me, Margot, considering we haven’t really known each other for very long. Do I remind you, perhaps, of your father?’

  Margot frowned. ‘There are similarities. But to be honest, I like you for you, JP. My father was a hopeless case. You, on the other hand, fill me with hope. I know you can get better. I’m counting on you to get better.’

  He reached out and patted her hand. ‘I’m grateful to you for your belief in me. I won’t let you down.’ Then he grinned. ‘I rather look forward to showing that ex-wife of mine a new, sober me. That’ll give her something to think about.’

  Margot smiled back in surprise. Who’d have thought that the person who’d inspire JP to get better would be very person who had caused him to be unwell?

  * * *

  Margot returned to the hotel in time for tea. She was surprised to see the Countess sitting at a round table in the middle of the dining room, holding forth to a group of six enraptured American tourists. Elegant in a pussy-bow blouse, her hair swept into an elaborate up-do and large diamond earrings glittering at her lobes, she looked every inch the blue-blooded countess – at least, Margot thought, to tourists who knew no better. ‘You see, when my husband the Count lived here,’ she was saying in her thick Austrian accent, ‘this was where the family ate their meals, at a long table, served by footmen. One servant for each person, you know, standing to attention behind the chairs. That was the way it was back then. It was perfectly normal to live like that. Of course the servants had to pretend they weren’t hearing the conversations, but you can imagine, they must have heard everything. The guests were important people, nobility, politicians…’ The Countess inhaled and gave a small, self-satisfied smile. ‘Even royalty.’

  Margot rolled her eyes. She didn’t believe poor Bridie had ever breathed the same air as a member of the Royal Family. As she made her way across the hall towards the stairs she was met by Mr Dukelow, striding purposely towards her, on his face a self-satisfied smile similar to the Countess’s. ‘Hello, Miss Hart,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I have news.’

 
She waited for him to tell her that they were, at this very moment, being graced by the distinguished presence of the Countess. But he did not mention her. ‘I have been speaking to your friend, Mr Chambers,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ Margot replied, surprised.

  ‘I’ve booked him in for the first week in May. I haven’t asked for references. Your referral is all I need. I’m sure he will be thoroughly entertaining.’ He lifted his chin. ‘Although, as I’ve said many times, this castle is not haunted. Not in the slightest.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the castle ghosts he’ll be contacting.’

  Mr Dukelow frowned. ‘Then, which ghosts will he be contacting?’

  ‘The dead loved-ones of the people in the audience.’ Mr Dukelow looked horrified. ‘Have you never seen a medium at work?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. And it would not have occurred to me to invite one to the hotel if the boss hadn’t insisted.’ He gave a shrug. ‘What Mrs de Lisle wants, Mrs de Lisle gets.’

  ‘I think you’ll be surprised how many people are interested in the paranormal.’

  ‘Good. Mrs de Lisle also mentioned asking Lord Deverill to be an after-dinner speaker.’