Margot’s stomach twisted. ‘I don’t think he’d want to do that.’
Mr Dukelow rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘He might when he hears how much she’ll pay him. He would be a big draw. Lord Deverill himself, speaking about his family’s history in the very castle where it all took place.’
‘You can certainly ask him.’ Margot reminded herself that JP was not her responsibility. Who was she to say whether or not he would agree to work for Mrs de Lisle?
‘I will. Mrs de Lisle has asked me to.’
‘And if he declines, you could always invite the Countess.’ She gave a playful smile.
‘The Countess is already giving speeches for free.’
‘Angling for a job, perhaps?’
Mrs Dukelow did not look amused. ‘Of course not. That would be beneath her,’ he replied.
‘At least she looks like the real McCoy, even if she isn’t really.’
‘I did mention her to Mrs de Lisle, but she slammed me down,’ said Mr Dukelow.
‘I’m sure she did. From what I know of the formidable Mrs de Lisle, she likes things to be authentic. Leopoldo is not a Deverill and he only lived in the castle for fourteen years. I’m afraid, your guests would feel short changed if he, or his wife, were to give after-dinner speeches. If you’re going to do it at all, it has to be a Deverill.’
‘Or you,’ he added, raising his eyebrows as if he had only just thought of it.
‘I might have a good understanding of the family’s history, but if there’s a choice, I would definitely go for Lord Deverill. I think he would be a massive draw.’
‘How is your book going, by the way?’
‘I’ve nearly finished my research.’
He rubbed his chin a moment. ‘Perhaps, Miss Hart, seeing as you’re now such a good friend of Lord Deverill’s, you could ask him about being an after-dinner speaker.’
Margot laughed. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Dukelow. If you want him to work for you, you need to ask him yourself.’
* * *
Margot was about to take the stairs to her bedroom when she changed her mind and wandered into the drawing room instead. Lured by the dark magnetism of Tarquin Deverill, she stood beneath the portrait and stared into it with a macabre fascination. Now that she’d read his wife’s letters, the man was no longer a flat interpretation in oil but a person, living and breathing with veins full of blood and an energy that radiated into the room, giving her a strong sense of his menacing personality. As she was drawn deeper into the picture, he seemed to slowly turn his face and look her dead in the eye. The cold, resentful stare of a man who does not like to be scrutinized. She caught her breath and stared back in shock. She blinked. Then blinked again. It was scary how powerful the imagination could be, she thought, as the portrait reverted back to its original state. Now he was no longer looking at her, his gaze was fixed on some object beyond the frame, or perhaps lost in some unpleasant thought. For there he was, full of arrogance and show, his chest puffed out, his chin up, his lips set in a sneer, as if nothing pleased him. She wondered how a person became so dissatisfied with life to descend into cruelty, for a satisfied person could never be cruel. Happy people are by their very natures kind and generous-spirited. She thought of Frances and Gabriel and wondered once more about justice. Tarquin Deverill had died peacefully in his bed at the age of seventy-eight. That didn’t seem fair.
She went up to her bedroom and looked out of the window. She put her hands on the stone sill and wondered whether Gabriel had put his little hands there too and watched the seasons change through the glass. What had he made of it all?
* * *
When Margot returned to the Hunting Lodge it was late afternoon and almost dark. She parked her car and let herself in. She was immediately struck by a stark change in the atmosphere. The house felt warmer, not just in temperature but in energy. Classical music floated down the corridor, like blood coursing through veins, restoring the place to life. JP and Colm were not in the library, but sitting in the drawing room, in their riding clothes. The fire was lit, the curtains drawn. Their faces were flushed from the wind, their spirits high.
‘Margot!’ JP exclaimed. ‘Come and join us.’
‘We’ve had a grand afternoon riding out on the hills,’ said Colm, reminding her of their kiss at the stone circle in the conspiracy of his smile.
‘And here you are, using this beautiful room,’ Margot said, enjoying the rousing music coming out of the speakers in the bookcase. She assumed there was a record player hidden in the cupboard below.
‘It was my grandparents’ favourite room,’ Colm told her. ‘They lived in here, playing cards and entertaining friends. It’s about time it was restored to its former glory.’
‘One more room for poor Mrs B to clean,’ said JP.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Mrs B, walking in. ‘The house is happy when all the rooms are in use, is it not? No house wants to languish under dust sheets and in silence. Isn’t the music grand, Miss Hart? I do love to listen to music.’ She stopped a moment and smiled. ‘Just grand.’
Margot sat down on one of the sofas.
‘I’ve been going through my old records,’ said JP. ‘I have quite a collection, you know. This is Richard Strauss.’ He lifted his hand and moved to the rhythm as if conducting a small orchestra. ‘Doesn’t it make one feel good?’
‘How was your afternoon?’ Colm asked. The way he looked at Margot now was intimate, reminding her of the depth of his kiss and the touch of his hand. How quickly the energy changes between two people whose mutual attraction has been laid bare, she thought, and averted her eyes for fear of betraying her feelings to JP.
‘I want to show you something,’ she said, getting up. She left the room, returning a moment later with the locked chest. ‘I opened the last box this morning and found this.’
Colm held out his hand. ‘What is it?’
She gave it to him. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Ah, and no key.’
‘Can you pick it?’
He laughed. ‘What do you take me for? I’m a vet not a thief.’
‘I bet you have something in that vet’s bag of yours that will unlock it.’
‘I don’t have my bag with me, I’m afraid. But I think I can do better than that.’ He pulled a penknife out of his pocket. ‘All good Boy Scouts carry one of these.’
‘Are you a good Boy Scout, Colm?’ she asked.
‘Never was, but this penknife has come in handy many times.’
‘Who did that chest belong to?’ JP asked. ‘Do you have any idea?’
‘I think it might have belonged to Frances Deverill, Tarquin’s wife. It was in the same box as letters she wrote to her sister,’ Margot replied.
Colm used the tiny pair of scissors to pick the lock. ‘Are they interesting, the letters?’
‘Very. Their disabled son died by drowning and she blamed her husband.’
Colm looked up from his work, horrified. ‘Really?’
‘He drowned in the ornamental pond on his tenth birthday. His father turned a blind eye. Tarquin was a brutal man.’
‘That’s a terrible story, Margot,’ said Colm, moving the scissors carefully in the hope of turning the lock.
‘I’m afraid it is. I’m hoping that chest contains something interesting.’
‘All these treasures, locked away for over a hundred years, and I never thought to look at them,’ said JP in wonder.
‘Why?’ Margot asked. ‘Why would you not be curious about your own ancestors?’
‘I don’t know,’ JP replied with a shrug. ‘I suppose it’s like living in a city full of culture, you don’t bother visiting the museums because you take them for granted. I’ve never been interested in my family’s history, until now.’
‘I’m glad I’ve inspired you.’
‘Ah,’ said Colm. ‘I’ve done it!’
Margot hurried to his side. He handed her the chest. ‘Go on, you see what’s inside.’
She h
eld her breath. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside was a simple wooden cross and an oval object. She took out the oval object and turned it over. When she saw what it was, she was injected with excitement. It was a miniature portrait of a mother and son, set in a gold-and-glass case. ‘It must be Frances and Gabriel,’ she whispered. ‘What a find!’ The woman’s face was full of tenderness and love as she held her little boy against her bosom. ‘She was so pretty,’ Margot exclaimed, taking in her long flaxen hair and gentle brown gaze. ‘And look at little Gabriel. Blond, like his mother, with big, curious brown eyes. What a shame to die the way he did.’ She handed the miniature to JP. ‘You must read the letters,’ she said to both men. ‘Then you’ll know the whole story. They were sent to someone in the castle, I imagine, so that the truth would come out. But I don’t think it ever did because Tarquin was never accused of neglecting his son.’
‘It’s a miracle they weren’t destroyed,’ said Colm.
‘Which is why I doubt Tarquin ever read them,’ Margot replied.
‘Then who did?’ JP asked.
‘That’s a mystery we’ll never solve,’ said Margot. ‘But someone put them in this box for safekeeping. They were meant to be read and Tarquin’s crime was meant to come out. Well, it will now. A hundred and sixty years late!’
While JP studied the portrait, Colm ran his fingers over the skin on Margot’s forearm. She remained there a moment, not wanting him to stop, and yet, at the same time, mindful that they were not alone.
‘An intriguing find,’ said JP, holding out the miniature. Colm withdrew his hand. Margot took the portrait and put it back in the chest.
She stood up. ‘I’ll go and fetch the letters, JP. They make heartbreaking reading,’ she said and left the room.
She returned to the games room feeling aroused. She put a hand to her cheek. Colm’s touch had been enough to cover her face in blushes. She took a breath and mentally told herself to calm down. He had only touched her arm. She leaned back against the billiard table and waited for her heartbeat to slow down. The fire had nearly died, leaving only grey ash and the afterglow of warmth. The curtains were closed, her research neatly stacked in piles on the floor. She had finished going through the boxes. It was now time to start writing the book.
Suddenly, Colm strode into the room. He closed the door softly behind him. Then, with a look of purpose, he went straight up to her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She returned his kiss with urgency, running her hands through his hair that smelled of horse dust and the salty wind. ‘Dad’s gone upstairs to bath and change,’ he said, answering her unspoken question before pressing his lips to hers and kissing her again. His hands slipped beneath her sweater and shirt and found the soft skin of her back. Margot felt herself growing hot. Her whole body ached for him. He lifted her onto the table.
‘Let’s make love, Colm,’ she murmured.
‘And get caught by Mrs B? That’s not a good idea, Margot,’ he laughed.
She cupped his face and held his gaze with hers. ‘This is driving me mad, Colm. We’re adults.’
‘With a duty to Dad,’ he reminded her.
She rested her forehead against his and sighed. ‘Later then. Once he’s gone to bed.’
‘You enjoy taking risks, don’t you?’
‘I just know what I want, Colm.’
‘So do I,’ he replied seriously. ‘And that’s you, as soon as possible.’
* * *
After dinner, Mrs B cleared the table and washed up, then went upstairs to her bedroom. She took the radio with her because she liked to listen to music as she lay beneath the covers and read before going to sleep. There was always something nice to listen to. Now Lord Deverill was playing his old records, the house had at last shaken off its shroud of silence and vibrated with life once again. Even the grandfather clock seemed to have a spring in its chime. It was as if everything in the house had changed colour, from a dull grey to a vibrant palette of pretty shades. Indeed, when the sun had spilled in through the drawing-room windows today the whole room had been bathed in a beautiful amber pink.
She was grateful to Master Colm and Margot. The two of them had inspired Lord Deverill to change and, to give him his due, because it was very hard to change one’s ways as he was doing, he had been ready and willing, which is half the battle, or so she’d been told. She sensed something brewing between the two young people, however. Not that Lord Deverill had noticed. He was much too busy fighting his cravings to catch the subtle little signs they gave to one another. But she had noticed. Women tended to be more observant, she believed. It was in the way they looked at each other and spoke to each other. There was an intimacy there that hadn’t been there before, even though, God love them, they were trying very hard to conceal it. She wondered how Lord Deverill would feel were he to notice too. She knew he had a soft spot for Margot.
Mrs B struck a match and lit the little votive candles in front of the photographs of her parents, husband and brother Rafferty. She whispered her prayer and, as she gazed into her brother’s serious face, she felt the tenderness flow into the wounds in her heart where her loss would never heal. However, she felt a sense of positivity and optimism that she hadn’t felt in a long time and that certainly helped lift her out of her grief. Grief wasn’t something one got over, it was something one learned to live with. Music and laughter resounding through the house was certainly helping her live with hers.
She bathed and changed into her nightdress then knelt beside her bed. One day at a time, she thought with a sigh, pressing her palms together and closing her eyes. She muttered a prayer for Lord Deverill, Master Colm and Margot, for Mrs Alana and the girls. She prayed that they’d be reunited as a family, because she knew they’d all be happier that way.
Then she climbed into bed, turned down the radio, and opened her book and began to read.
* * *
JP retired to his bedroom. It wasn’t easy abstaining from alcohol, but it made it a lot easier with Colm and Margot to distract him. They made him feel cherished. He hadn’t felt cherished in a long time. He changed into his pyjamas and went to the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. It had only been a couple of days but he already felt he was looking better. Healthier. Was that possible? Surely not.
He was determined to change. That evening in the library had been a horrible wake-up call. He hoped Margot hadn’t seen the worst of it. He cringed to think that she might have. He turned his thoughts to Colm staying in the house. It was nice having him here. Nice not to be alone. Of course Mrs B was upstairs in the attic, but that wasn’t the same as having his son around. How he regretted the past. He regretted it bitterly. Yet, shedding light onto it had dispelled some of the fear. Talking about it with Colm had started a powerful healing process. A simple idea, really, to talk something over, and yet difficult to do in practice. It had been hard to find the words. Painful, as if they were wrapped in thorns. Yet, as soon as he’d said them out loud the thorns had loosened. The more they’d talked, he and Colm, the looser they’d become.
The most powerful of all the words he’d said was sorry. What a simple little word that is, he thought. Sorry. Five letters. Yet, how hard to say with sincerity. But he really did mean it. He’d felt it fall out of his heart and to his surprise the saying of it had taken away some of the pain – for both him and Colm.
As JP slipped beneath the sheets he felt a light, happy feeling spreading through his chest. He hadn’t felt that in a long time, either.
* * *
Downstairs in the games room, Margot suggested a round of rabbits. ‘The traditional way,’ she said with a grin.
‘You know you can’t beat me,’ Colm replied. ‘You’ll be naked before I’ve even unbuttoned my shirt.’
‘We’ll see,’ she laughed, taking the black ball in her hand and positioning herself at one end of the table. ‘I’ll go first,’ she told him.
He placed the white ball in the middle of the table. ‘When you’re ready,’ he s
aid.
She aimed then pushed the ball slowly over the velvet. It sent the white ball rolling to the left. Colm quickly grabbed the black and gently let it go to graze the side of the white. Margot snatched the black ball and raced to the end of table where Colm was now deliberately blocking her from taking aim. A scuffle ensued. ‘That’s obstruction!’ she exclaimed as the white ball drew to a stop.
‘That’ll be one item of clothing, Miss Hart.’
‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘I can play dirty too.’ Slowly she unbuttoned her blouse as Colm watched her, both amused and aroused.
‘You know you could take off a shoe or a sock,’ he said.
‘I’ve never been coy.’ She undid the final button and let the blouse float to the floor.
‘I like that,’ he said. He moved towards her.
She put out her hand. ‘No touching. It’s against the rules. You can look, but you can’t touch – and the winner takes all.’
‘All of what?’ he asked.
‘The loser.’
‘I really like the sound of that.’
‘So do I.’ She laughed. ‘I’m feeling particularly greedy tonight.’
‘Very well. As you lost, I start.’ He released the black ball.
A moment later, Margot was lying across the table, blocking Colm’s view, and gently brushing the white ball with the black. ‘Ah, how embarrassing to be beaten by a woman in a bra,’ she crowed as the white ball rolled to a stop.
‘The sight is somewhat distracting,’ he said.
‘Like I said, I can play dirty too. So, how coy are you going to be, Colm?’ she goaded.
‘Like for like,’ he replied, unbuttoning his shirt. A moment later he stood naked from the waist up. She wished she hadn’t introduced the no-touch rule. His body was broad and muscular. She wanted to run her fingers through the hair on his chest and over the down on his belly.
‘My turn to start,’ she said.
The Distant Shores Page 22