‘Maybe,’ Margot conceded. ‘But it can’t be the book, can it, now that it’s gone.’
‘Give her time to get used to you. It wasn’t so long ago that she was upset about you writing it. She mistrusted you and now you’re in a relationship with her son. It’ll take time. That’s all it is. It’ll be just grand. Don’t you worry.’
But Margot did worry. Alana couldn’t suspect her anymore of inveigling her way into Colm’s heart in order to research the book. So, if it wasn’t that, what could it be?
* * *
The days gradually shortened and the leaves began to fall from the trees. A blustery wind whistled through the branches, damp and cold, and in October the first frost turned the garden white. The fires were lit once more in the drawing room and the library, and the place smelled yet again of woodsmoke. The house no longer resonated with the desolate emptiness of before, however. JP invited friends for dinner and the house vibrated with the sound of cheerful voices and laughter as they dined and played cards. It was just like old times, when Bertie and Maud Deverill had entertained the county. JP hired a couple of local girls to help Mrs B with the catering, but there was no question of Mrs B retiring. The Hunting Lodge was her home and Lord Deverill her master, and the only way she was ever going to leave was feet first. She had made that very clear.
Margot worked hard at her physiotherapy, determined to restore her body to its former strength and agility, and Colm was ready to give her encouragement every time her resolve faltered. She hobbled about on crutches and enjoyed the simple pleasures of reading, playing cards and board games, and listening to JP’s music. Most of all she enjoyed being outside, in nature, watching the landscape slowly change as each day passed. Colm drove her to the pub in the evenings and occasionally, when the weather was fine, to the beach. They sat among the dunes, sheltered from the wind, and talked about everything and nothing, and kissed and laughed and teased. When the light was at its most tender, Margot gazed out over the far distant horizon and thought of Dorothy – and then she thought of her lost book and tried hard to feel nothing but gratitude for being alive and with Colm.
One rainy afternoon she hobbled into the games room. It was cold in there. The fire hadn’t been lit in months. It was a long time since anyone had played billiards. She was surprised to see the boxes of research still piled up at the end of the room and was assaulted by the familiar pang of loss. All those hours working through those diaries and letters and ledgers that she’d never get back. The pages of notes written and organized into box files that had been destroyed in the flames. The time she had spent working out how to word things tactfully so as not to cause hurt to family members still living, JP and Alana in particular. She’d done a good job of it, she thought, but now she would never know. She wasn’t sure she would ever muster up the energy to write another book. Perhaps all her willpower was being diverted into getting better and that was the reason she felt so uninspired. Maybe when her bones had healed she’d come up with something else to write. But she couldn’t think of another subject that inspired her like the Deverills had. Her mind was as infertile as barren scrubland where nothing grew but the odd intrepid weed.
* * *
In early December Margot moved into Colm’s house. She put her toiletries in the bathroom and her clothes in the cupboard and it didn’t cause her anxiety to see her shoes lined up beside his. In fact, it gave her a warm sense of belonging. She hadn’t felt that in a very long time.
To keep her busy, Colm started taking her on house visits to see patients who were too big, or too sick, to bring into his practice. Margot loved animals and she enjoyed watching Colm tending to them. He was sensitive and wise and the more she watched him at work the more attractive he grew in her eyes. She also enjoyed getting to know the locals and realized that, having written off Ballinakelly as a small provincial town of little interest, she’d been wrong. It was a vibrant community full of good people who looked out for each other. After Colm healed a sick pig, the owner, an eccentric old lady with a penchant for poitín, brought him round a dish of soda-bread pudding to thank him. As Margot tucked into it at teatime, she realized that she’d never been part of a community before. For the first time in her life she really wanted to be. She decided then that she’d become more involved. The only thing she was particularly good at was writing. So, she offered her services to the local newspaper and began searching for stories. Since the fire she hadn’t felt so much as a spark of inspiration, but now the anticipation of writing again ignited a small flame in the place where dwelt her resolve and her creativity. She bought a typewriter and set up at the kitchen table. Then she poured herself a glass of wine, sat back in her chair, and wondered what she was going to write about.
Colm was delighted to see his parents getting along again. He was astonished that after years of acrimony and not speaking they had forgiven each other so easily. He wondered whether Jack’s death had triggered a change of heart in his mother, causing it to soften and for her to reach an understanding that before had seemed too great a breach to bridge.
Margot wanted to have a good relationship with Alana but, as she had no relationship at all with her own mother she thought that, perhaps, she just wasn’t very good with mothers in general. Colm hadn’t noticed there was a problem, for when Margot mentioned her coldness, Colm told her that she was imagining it. ‘She’s probably still sad about Grandad,’ he said, not giving the problem more than a passing glance. But Margot was a perceptive woman. She knew it wasn’t that. It was something else, but she couldn’t for the life of her imagine what.
* * *
Alana should have been happy. She had returned to Ballinakelly to live with her mother, whom she adored, in the house where she’d grown up. Her father was gone, but she’d come to terms with her grief. He’d been old, she reasoned; he’d had a good life. She focused on the golden memories and was thankful that the two of them had enjoyed such a loving and open relationship. She and JP were spending time together and the old feelings of love and attraction were blossoming once again, for they had never truly died, only hibernated during a long and hard winter. There had never really been anyone else for her besides JP Deverill. She saw much of her son, who had remained in Ireland after the divorce, and she was proud that he had grown into such an admirable and attractive man. He’d braved the fire to save Margot, even risked his own life, which was testament to the way he felt about her. If he hadn’t found her she would most likely have perished along with Dorothy Walbridge. Their relationship was romantic. He loved her, and that love, so clearly displayed in the light in his eyes, was heart-warming to see. Alana should have been happy, yet, she had done a terrible thing.
At first she thought she could ride out her guilt. She’d done something bad, but relatively speaking, it wasn’t so terrible. She could dismiss it, forget about it, and get on with her life. But the trouble with good people is that they have consciences, and Alana’s conscience was much too strong to allow her to continue as if she’d done nothing. Every time she saw Margot the claws of guilt drove a little deeper into the lining of her heart. And, as the weeks turned into months, those claws began to shred it. What would Dorothy say? she wondered. What would her father think? If her mother knew, what would she advise her to do? But Alana knew what was right, only she’d left it so long now, she wasn’t sure how to redress it. So she did nothing and kept her distance. If she didn’t see Margot, perhaps she could forget what she’d done. Or perhaps the guilt would just go away and in time the matter would no longer be important or relevant.
It was Christmas that changed her mind. Margot, who was still walking with crutches, clubbed together with Colm’s two sisters, who’d flown over from America with their husbands and children, and put up a fir tree in the drawing room of the Hunting Lodge, decorating it with tinsel, baubles and fairy lights. Cara’s small children made the gold star and her husband, Declan, tied it to the top of the tree to much applause. Margot had gone to great trouble to buy e
veryone presents, even Aisling’s and Cara’s children, whom she had just met, wrapping each carefully chosen gift in silver paper with silvery green ribbon, tucking a small piece of mistletoe into the knot of the bow. Alana was touched by the effort she had made. Margot had also arranged Christmas lunch and invited Mrs B to join them at the table and for the celebrations afterwards, as she had no family of her own with whom to celebrate. She’d even brought her a present. Mrs B was moved. She changed into a fresh white blouse and wore the gold-and-diamond brooch which had once belonged to her great-grandmother at her throat. She had only worn it once and that was on her brother’s seventeenth birthday, a few months before he died. Now she wore it again and knew that he’d be with her in spirit on this special day.
After lunch, there was music and games in the drawing room and plenty more wine. It was the best Christmas they had ever had. They were happy. Every one of them. Alana drank too much. She lay against the back of the sofa and watched JP with unfocused eyes, enjoying the feeling of tenderness that washed over her in waves of nostalgia and gratitude. She watched her children and grandchildren and thought how incredibly lucky she was to be given a second chance at family life. She was home, where she belonged, with the people she loved.
Overwhelmed once more by guilt, which was now warping the joy, she began to cry. Margot, who had been careful not to get too close, gave her an anxious glance. JP went and sat beside her on the sofa. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘To be together.’
Alana nodded. Then she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Margot,’ she said. ‘Can I have a word?’
Margot looked at Colm for reassurance but he just shrugged. ‘Sure,’ she replied.
Alana got up and walked unsteadily to the games room. They’d lit a fire in there that afternoon in order to play billiards, so it was warm, although the embers had died in the grate, leaving only the residue of heat in the iron back plate. She was nervous. She leaned against the billiard table, as much to steady herself as to give her somewhere to perch. Margot stood apprehensively in front of the fireplace and wondered what Alana needed to talk to her about.
‘I have something to confess,’ Alana began. Margot listened, not sure what to say. Alana took her time. It was clearly hard for her to articulate this thing she wanted to confess, and judging by the crimson colour of her face, Margot sensed that it was obviously a terrible thing. Alana took a breath and decided to plunge in. ‘I have the manuscript of your book,’ she said.
Margot was astonished. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t find the words. Could it be possible that it wasn’t lost, after all? She barely dared hope.
‘You see, Dorothy gave it to me to read. She said I needed to see it. I wasn’t sure what she meant until I read it.’ Alana clasped her hands together. She gazed at Margot with glassy eyes, the lines on her forehead deepening with supplication. ‘I’m so sorry, Margot. Please forgive me. It was wrong of me not to tell you. To hold on to it. I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. Or selfish. Or whatever you want to call me. Basically, I’m horrible. All that work, all those words, lost. But it’s not lost. I have it.’
Margot shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it. I thought it was gone.’
‘No. Not gone. In my bedroom drawer, to be precise.’
They stared at each other; Alana, horrified by what she had done – saying the words out loud had made her deed seem all the more devious – and Margot, dumbfounded by the wonderful surprise. She wanted to throw her arms around Alana in gratitude, but the crutches prevented such a spontaneous gesture.
‘Well? What did you think of it?’ Margot imagined she must have been unhappy, for otherwise why would she not have admitted to having it in her possession? She held her breath, fearful of her response.
Alana smiled. ‘It’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘Gripping, funny, fascinating and, well, tactful. Some parts were hard to read, obviously, but I hadn’t looked at the situation from JP’s point of view and you gave me that, his point of view. It allowed me to understand him and…’ She sighed regretfully. ‘To see how much I had hurt him too.’ She put up a hand. ‘Oh no, don’t think I’m offended, I’m not. In fact, I’m grateful. You gave a very balanced account.’ Margot smiled sadly as she thought of Dorothy. ‘You were impartial,’ Alana continued. ‘Which, considering your friendship with JP, was quite miraculous, or you’re just a very good historian. You didn’t take sides. And you didn’t give too much away. You left us with our dignity.’
‘Then, why did you keep it?’
Alana swallowed. ‘Because I wasn’t sure I wanted the world to read it.’
‘And now?’
‘It’s okay. I don’t mind. Because of you, my family is together again. I should have told you before, but I didn’t know how to. I’d let too much time go by. The longer I left it, the harder it became. I almost threw the manuscript away.’
Margot gasped.
‘But I didn’t,’ Alana added quickly. ‘Something else made me hold on to it. Dorothy wrote notes in the margins in her shaky handwriting.’
Margot was astonished. ‘What did she say?’
‘She loved it. That’s why she gave it to me. She wanted me to read it because she knew it was good, but she also knew it would help. The book we all thought would tear us apart brought us together.’
A lump lodged itself in Margot’s throat. ‘I’m so happy to hear that,’ she said. She wiped away a tear. ‘You’ve made my Christmas, Alana. Thank you.’
Alana laughed. ‘I’ve made mine too! I’ve been feeling so guilty, it’s been horrid. So we’re friends?’
‘We are,’ said Margot.
Alana reached out to embrace her. ‘I’m a little tipsy,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could have confessed had it not been for the wine. I think I’ve had a little too much.’
‘It’s very good wine,’ said Margot.
‘Shall we get some more?’
‘I think that’s a very good idea.’
‘Capital,’ said Alana. ‘That’s what JP would say. A capital idea.’ Her smiled wobbled drunkenly. ‘I do love him, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘And you love Colm, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ said Margot. She laughed because Alana really was very tipsy.
‘Good, because he loves you very much. There’s just so much love in this house I can hardly bear it.’
Chapter 23
It was a glorious July day in Ballinakelly. The sky was a gleaming, cerulean blue, the fluffy white clouds like dandelion beards wafting gently across it. The wind was warm and salty, blowing in off the sea, and all was calm and serene with summer’s blithe spirit. A honey-scented breeze rustled lightly through the horse chestnut trees and about the leaves on the shrubs and flowers that bordered the immaculately mown lawn at Castle Deverill. It had always been tradition for Lord and Lady Deverill to throw a lavish garden party in July for the hundreds of tenants and workers employed by the Deverill estate. Over the three hundred-odd years that the castle had presided over the town, this party had been the highlight of the local people’s year. Today, the party was not for the tenants and workers, but for the launch of Margot Hart’s book, A Deverill’s Castle is His Kingdom, a Biography, and it was much more lavish. Mrs de Lisle had spared no cost. The castle was the jewel in her crown, after all, and she wanted to garner as much publicity as possible, so the world would see what a unique and marvellous place Hotel Castle Deverill was.
The castle could not have looked more magnificent. The grey stone walls stood proud and defiant, having survived the fire. The towers and turrets, which for centuries had dominated the skyline and given reassurance to fishermen out at sea, now shimmered in the sunshine. Rooks cawed from the rooftops and seagulls wheeled above, their gaze fixed upon the tables of sandwiches and cakes below. The western tower had been rebuilt and the set of rooms was now called the Margot Hart Suite. Guests made their bookings months in advance, for it was the most popular set of rooms in the castle.
Mrs B stood near the tea table in a straw hat, a fresh white blouse and a long black skirt, even though it was summer and nearly thirty degrees. Initially, she hadn’t wanted to come, being a little timid of big crowds, but Margot had insisted and she had relented, as long as she didn’t have to stay all afternoon. She sipped from a pretty china teacup and let her gaze wander aimlessly over the faces. She recognized some people, for she had grown up in Ballinakelly and attended Mass every week. Mrs de Lisle seemed to have invited everyone from the town, which was a nice thing to do, Mrs B thought. The castle had always been the centre of the community.
‘How are ye, Bessie?’ Mrs B turned to see Neil O’Rourke, Tomas and Aidan’s grandfather, standing beside her with a glass of stout in his hand.
‘Well if it isn’t Neil O’ Rourke himself. I don’t ever see you at Mass.’ He’d always been tall and willowy like a bullrush, with soft brown eyes the colour of peat, but now he had a stoop and a gaunt look about the face. He grinned and Mrs B remembered the playful young man he’d once been. ‘I haven’t seen you in years,’ she said. He’d been an undergardener when she’d started working for Celia Deverill. She used to sneak slices of cake to him in the maze garden.
‘I don’t go to Mass anymore, Bessie,’ he said.
Mrs B looked at him reproachfully. ‘Almighty God, why not, Neil? You used to be a daily communicant and the backbone of the St Vincent de Paul Society.’
‘I have God in me garden, Bessie. That’s where God is. In me garden with the little birdeens as altar boys and the old fox as sacristan.’
Her face softened. ‘God knows you could be right about that. Sure isn’t God’s beauty everywhere.’
The Distant Shores Page 34