The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  On a practical level, it was hard keeping their relationship secret. They spent so much time in JP’s company and it was difficult not to reach out and touch one another, to avoid jokes only the two of them understood, impossible to hide the intimacy in the way they looked at each other. But for Margot the fact that no one knew about it gave her breathing space. For a woman shy of commitment, the secret prevented her from feeling penned in. For Colm, the secret nature of their relationship was frustrating. He was falling in love and he wanted to tell everyone about it.

  Their moments together were snatched. Late at night after JP had gone to bed. In the afternoons, when Colm was able to take time off work and spirit her into his house on the edge of the town, and at the Fairy Ring when they rode out together, stealing kisses behind the giant stones where they were certain no one would find them. Ballinakelly was a small community. Gossip spread like fire through straw. They couldn’t afford for JP to find out or, for that matter, Colm’s grandparents Jack and Emer for they would tell Alana. Margot stopped going to O’Donovan’s. She didn’t want to bump into Seamus and have to explain her absence. She didn’t feel good about the way she had treated him, but she’d left countless disappointed hearts in her wake over the years. Seamus’s was just one more.

  And what of Colm’s heart? Margot knew he was different. She knew because of the way she felt when she was with him, and she knew because of the way she felt when they were apart. She just knew, and the knowing frightened her. In the early hours of the morning, when the dawn chorus stirred her from sleep and she opened her eyes to find that he wasn’t there, she felt a sense of loneliness that she had never experienced before. It was that feeling that frightened her the most; the feeling of loss before she had lost.

  * * *

  ‘I want to wake up with you in the morning, Colm,’ she told him one night when they lay entwined on the sofa in the library, long after JP had retired to bed. The antique clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace showed 2 a.m. The fire had burnt down to an orange glow. ‘I want to open my eyes and your face to be the first thing I see.’

  Colm smiled at her tenderly. That was the most romantic thing she had ever said. His heart swelled with affection. ‘I want your face to be the first thing I see every morning,’ he said, curling her hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t want to have to hide away like this.’

  ‘How long are you going to sleep here, in your father’s house?’

  ‘For as long as Dad needs me to.’

  ‘He’s doing well, though, isn’t he?’

  ‘I never believed I’d get my father back, but I have. Miracles sometimes do happen.’

  ‘Don’t you think he can be left on his own now? He has Mrs B to look after him.’

  ‘I’m not worried that he’ll go back to the drink if I’m not here. I worry that he’ll be lonely. He’s used to me now.’

  ‘I want to be used to you, too, Colm.’ Margot smiled at him, tracing his jawline with her fingers. ‘I want to have you for the whole night, not just the beginning. I don’t want to creep away like a thief in the small hours.’ I’ve done that enough in my life to know that I don’t want it anymore, she thought to herself. If only he knew what a momentous thing it was for her to want her lover to stay.

  ‘Soon,’ he told her. ‘Soon the whole night will be ours.’

  * * *

  Mrs B felt revived as well. She picked daffodils and placed them in a jug on the kitchen table. They brightened up the room and gave her pleasure while she cooked. The music resonated from the radio, lifting her spirits and making her smile. In fact, from time to time she caught herself staring into the half-distance, a small smile playing about her lips, as the music transported her to a happy time in her childhood before the civil war had snatched her joy. But it wasn’t just the music and the arrival of spring that had put a bounce in her step, it was the atmosphere in the house. It, too, had shaken off its winter chill, a chill that had covered it in a layer of invisible ice for the best part of nine years. Lord Deverill was a different man. Mrs B had grown so used to the morose and sombre soul who had lurked in a shadowland of his misery that she had forgotten how jovial and charming he used to be. She was reminded now because he stood before her once more, not as young or handsome as he had once been, but with the old twinkle in his eyes and the playful, witty remark. He was good-natured again, laughing with abandon, seeing the beauty in the world and appreciating it with joy expressed in superlatives. Master Colm seemed to have moved back in and Margot was a frequent visitor. They were like a happy family, the three of them. Mrs B did worry, however, about Master Colm’s growing attachment to Margot. How would Lord Deverill feel were he to find out? she wondered. Mrs B knew that he was old enough to be her father – Lord Deverill knew that too – but the heart feels what the heart feels and there’s no helping it.

  She just hoped that if and when they decided to go public with their relationship Lord Deverill would not be badly hurt.

  * * *

  April brought cherry blossom to the castle grounds, dog violets to the meadows, the cuckoo’s call – and the Countess di Marcantonio. It seemed to Margot that she was in the castle most afternoons, dressed in her finery, entertaining lavishly and holding forth about her husband’s ‘ancestral home’. Margot took great pains to avoid her, but Mr Dukelow insisted that she spend time in view of the guests because, he reminded her, what was the point of having a Writer in Residence if no one ever saw her? It was a fair point. After all, she was paying for nothing and, as the saying went, there was no such thing as a free meal.

  It was unavoidable, therefore, that she would bump into the Countess at some point. That point came one rainy afternoon when Margot had settled herself at the desk by the window in the drawing room. The fire was lit, the lights blazing, the lawn outside dark beneath low-hanging grey clouds.

  ‘My dear Miss Hart,’ the Countess exclaimed, wafting into the drawing room in a bright red jacket worn over the black polka dot dress she had worn the first time Margot had met her. Large gold jewellery shone in every possible place, from her earlobes to her fingers, and her nails were painted a vivid crimson. She smiled enthusiastically, as if Margot were a beloved friend. ‘I’ve been thinking about you so much,’ she continued in her clipped Austrian accent. ‘Wondering how you are getting on with the book. You haven’t contacted me, so I assume that you have completed your research.’

  Margot stood up and shook the Countess’s bony hand. ‘I’m writing the book now,’ she told her. ‘The research is all done.’

  The Countess arched a thin eyebrow. ‘I do hope you took on board what we talked about, Miss Hart, and you are going to give the di Marcantonios their due importance. It is only right that the Count should be acknowledged. After all, he had to step aside and watch his half-brother steal his inheritance.’ She laughed, the kind of mirthless laugh designed to cushion her intimidation. She gave a little sniff. ‘But you are the historian, not me. Far be it from me to tell you how to write your book.’

  ‘I will include all the relevant facts,’ Margot replied cagily.

  The Countess chuckled, once again wrapping her menace in false laughter. ‘Don’t leave any of the scandal out, will you? Those are the best bits. The Deverills are a study in indiscretions and scandal.’

  ‘Trust me, the living Deverills have nothing on their ancestors.’ Margot turned her eyes to the portrait of Tarquin Deverill. ‘I’m less interested in the antics of the present Lord Deverill, to be honest. He’s much too benign to make good copy.’

  The Countess’s smile faltered and her eyes took on a steely intensity. ‘Don’t belittle my husband’s pain,’ she hissed. ‘If you knew how much the betrayal hurt him you would not use the word “benign” for JP Deverill. But…’ She paused, composing herself and her smile. ‘You’re the historian. It’s up to you which type of historian you want to be. One who tells the truth or one who doesn’t. Simple, really.’

  Margot could have told her a thing or two about t
ruth, but she refrained. It was always prudent to take the high ground and not allow oneself to be dragged down by unscrupulous people. She pretended that the Countess’s words had made no impression on her at all and, once she had left the room, returned to her work. However, she was fuming. How dare that woman threaten her like that, she thought angrily. She had previously thought her simply pretentious and narcissistic, but now she knew better: the Countess was nasty.

  * * *

  At the end of April Margot and Colm sneaked off to Dublin in Colm’s Land Rover for a weekend away together. The drive was beautiful for the weather was fine, the sunshine dazzling and the hills a vivid green after so much rain. Margot felt like a schoolgirl playing truant, nervous at first that they might get caught, then exhilarated when they didn’t. They arrived in Dublin to find it blooming with pink and white blossom, daffodils and tulips. Everywhere Margot looked there were hanging baskets and window boxes bursting with flowers. After the bleakness of winter the sight of so much colour was arresting.

  They stayed in a small hotel in an unfashionable street. They lunched in a little restaurant in the centre of the city, sharing a bottle of wine and taking their time, holding hands across the table, relishing the feeling of being able to show their affection for each other freely and openly, without caution. No more snatched moments, secret kisses and nervous vigilance, at least for this weekend. After lunch, they walked around St Stephen’s Green as ordinary lovers do and no one gave them a second glance, save the odd wistful old person who was reminded of their youth and the transience of such passionate young love.

  That night they ate close to the hotel then returned to their room. Their lovemaking was slow and sensual. Tonight there was no rush. No leaving like a thief in the small hours, no longing. When Margot put out her hand at dawn, Colm was there beside her. She pressed her body against his, her stomach aligned with his back, and slipped her arm beneath his. She didn’t feel lonely and she didn’t sense loss. She closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep, knowing that when she awoke in the morning he would still be there. She had never wanted that to happen before.

  Margot had always been an early riser. Colm was still sleeping when the first shaft of sunshine streamed through the gap in the curtains. She got up and showered. When she came out of the bathroom he still hadn’t stirred. She decided to go out and buy some pastries to eat in their room. It wasn’t the kind of hotel to offer room service.

  She left a note on the pillow to let him know where she’d gone, then quietly crept out. They’d passed a café the day before with a mouth-watering display of cakes and scones in the window and it was there that she went. The smell of freshly baked bread and ground coffee hijacked her senses as she opened the door. She inhaled deeply and with satisfaction, savouring the fact that here she was, in Dublin, with Colm. Just the two of them. As soon as she returned to the hotel, she’d wake him up and make love to him the entire morning.

  A man with fluffy white hair smiled at her from behind the counter and bade her good morning in a broad Dublin accent. A waitress in a pink-and-white uniform was refilling an old man’s coffee cup in the corner. He was reading the Irish Times quietly on his own. Besides him, there were no other customers. Margot went up to the counter to choose some things to eat. ‘These smell fresh,’ she said, sweeping her eyes over the rows of buttered barmbrack slices, scones and currant buns.

  ‘All freshly made at dawn,’ he told her.

  ‘How delicious! It’s quiet here this morning,’ she said, glancing at the old man. He looked dishevelled and lean, as if he hadn’t had a good meal in a long time.

  ‘He’s one of our regulars,’ the man replied in a low voice. ‘It’ll get busy in a small spell and I’ll be meeting meself coming back. They’re all enjoying a sleep-in as it’s Saturday and the Holy Marys are still at early Mass. No rest for the wicked tho’,’ he added with a grin.

  Margot chose a currant bun for herself and a scone and barmbrack for Colm. She hesitated before paying. She didn’t imagine Colm would be up for a while and the smell of ground coffee beans was too good to ignore. She ordered a cup and sat at a little round table and nibbled on the bun. Shortly, the old man in the corner folded his newspaper and got up stiffly. He waved the paper at the man behind the counter before shuffling off. Margot noticed that he had a stoop and his trousers were hanging off his hips. He might have been a sorry sight, she thought, had it not been for his smile, which was the smile of a man who required little in his life to be content.

  ‘I bet he’s been coming here for years,’ said Margot.

  ‘God knows, he’s been coming here as long as I’ve been here,’ the man replied. ‘And that’s since I was a garsún in short trousers. You’d never know he’s a count by the look of him, would you? And a famous count at that.’

  Margot froze, coffee cup poised midway between the table and her lips. She didn’t imagine there were many counts in Dublin. ‘Next, you’re going to tell me that he’s Count Leopoldo di Marcantonio,’ she said.

  ‘The very man,’ he replied and frowned. ‘In the name of God, how do you know who he is?’

  ‘I’m writing a book on the Deverills of Ballinakelly,’ she told him. ‘Leopoldo grew up at Castle Deverill.’

  The man looked impressed. He put his hands on his hips and chuckled. ‘Well, ma’am, isn’t that grand, it is so. Two famous people in my café in one morning. Wait till I tell the quare one. That’s me Mrs.’

  ‘I met his wife the Countess,’ said Margot, hoping to extract more information. The man did not seem to shy from sharing the gossip.

  ‘Did you now. She never darkens the doorstep here,’ he said and pulled a face. ‘We’re not swanky enough for her.’

  ‘I think she might be on the swanky side,’ Margot agreed.

  ‘But he’s a pure gentleman, he is. No éirí in airde or airs and graces about him. No, ma’am.’

  ‘I thought they spent most of the year travelling between their luxury houses.’

  He shook his head, as if the idea was preposterous. ‘The Count is here every morning come rain or shine. Has been for years. They have a place round the corner. Nothing grand. I had to make a delivery there once. Nothing special.’

  At that moment the door opened and a couple of elderly ladies shuffled in. Margot drained her coffee cup and got up. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I think it’s the best coffee in Dublin,’ she said.

  The man grinned. ‘You wait until you taste my barmbrack!’

  * * *

  Margot returned to the hotel to find the bedroom curtains open and the bed empty. The sound of the shower and singing was coming through the bathroom door, which had been left ajar. She smiled and put the bag of goodies on the table. Hurriedly, she took off her clothes and slipped naked into the bathroom. Colm was in the shower cubicle, singing an Irish ballad that Margot had heard the band playing in O’Donovan’s. When he saw her, he stopped singing and grinned. ‘Good morning, you,’ he said, running his gaze over her appreciatively. ‘What a grand sight first thing in the morning.’

  She laughed. ‘Is there room for two?’

  ‘There most certainly is.’

  She opened the glass door and stepped inside.

  Kitty

  I am drawn to Tarquin Deverill. There is pain in his darkness that pulls at my heart, and, in spite of his rudeness, I sense that I can help him. I cannot help Mrs Carbery. I thought I could, but I cannot. Perhaps I am a fool to think that I can help Tarquin. A fool to think that I’m in any position to help anyone. I’m not even sure that I can help myself. But I am unable to resist. It is an urge so deep and insistent that it is impossible to ignore. I find myself in the Hunting Lodge more often than the castle, waiting for the music to lure him out of the shadows.

  He comes and goes and neither of us knows how he does it. He has no control over his whereabouts as I do. It is as if an invisible force is guiding him, bringing him to this place, giving him a brief respite from the miserable landscape in which he dwells.
He tells me it is a hovel. The people are nasty. There is no colour, no affection, no nature, no light. It is dark, he says. ‘Dark beyond your imagination, and barren.’

  But over the weeks that he comes I begin to notice a gradual change. At first he was resentful and mean, outraged by my presence, as if I was an intruder and had no business to be there. Then he started commenting on the music. How there was nothing of any beauty where he dwelt. How his soul yearned for beauty like a man dying of thirst yearns for water. He’d linger by the cupboard, absorbing the notes, his entire being trembling with emotion as the music touched something inside him – the tender place deep in his heart where the darkness had not reached. And that tender place began to grow. Like a seed, it began to sprout a stalk of light. Slowly and tentatively at first, but then with more momentum, it grew. The light expanded and I realized then, in a flash of inspiration, that God is love and love is beauty and, as beauty stirred his soul, it gently began to awaken the love inside him that was already there – are we not, all of us, sparks of God?

  Then, to my surprise, he shows the first signs of regret.

  ‘I suppose I could have lived my life better,’ he tells me.

  ‘How might you have done that?’ I ask.

  There’s a long pause as he circles the truth, afraid to step into it and face the monster that he is. ‘I had a son. Gabriel was his name. He was a cripple.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ I ask.

  ‘He drowned.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He drowned on his tenth birthday.’

  ‘That’s terrible. You must have been devastated.’

  His energy contracts. It becomes like a tight shell around him, hard and impenetrable. ‘I could have been kinder to my wife,’ he says grudgingly. ‘I was not very kind to my wife.’