When Mrs Goodwin told Martha that she had been dismissed in favour of a governess who was coming to look after Edith in February, and that she would shortly be leaving for England, Martha’s reaction took the old nanny by surprise. She didn’t sob and beg her to stay as she had expected; she gazed into the nanny’s sad face and declared that she was going with her. ‘But, my dear, your place is here with your family,’ she protested.
‘I will not rest until I have found my mother,’ Martha replied, and the determination in her voice told Mrs Goodwin that she had made up her mind and nothing would change it.
‘But what will your parents say?’ Mrs Goodwin asked anxiously.
‘I will leave them a letter explaining what I plan to do. If I tell them they will try to stop me. I have thought of nothing else since our conversation in the nursery.’
‘But where are you going to look?
‘I found my birth certificate, Goodwin, in Mother’s bathroom cupboard, and discovered that my mother’s name is Grace, Lady Rowan-Hampton.’
Mrs Goodwin’s eyes widened. ‘Fancy that,’ she said, impressed. ‘You’re a lady.’
‘I intend to travel to Dublin, to the convent where I was born. Surely they will have records.’
‘I’m sure they will.’ Mrs Goodwin looked perplexed. ‘I don’t have much money, Martha,’ she warned. ‘But I will help as much as I can.’
‘I came into some money on my sixteenth birthday,’ Martha explained. ‘And I have saved a little over the years. It will certainly pay for my passage to Ireland and, if I live modestly, it will enable me to manage once I’m there.’ She took Mrs Goodwin’s hands. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘To Ireland?’
‘To Dublin. Oh please, say you will. It will be an adventure. I’m afraid to go on my own. I’ve never been anywhere. But you, you’ve travelled. You’re wise and experienced. I know I can do it if you come with me.’
‘Well, I do know a little more of the world than you do.’ The nanny smiled tenderly. ‘If you want me to, of course I will. But you have to promise me one thing.’
‘What?’ Martha asked nervously.
‘That you make it right with your parents when you get back.’
‘I will,’ she replied.
‘They love you dearly, Martha. This is going to make them very unhappy.’
‘I cannot help that. Now I know the truth I cannot unknow it and I cannot let it go. My mother is out there somewhere. Perhaps she longs for me. Maybe she doesn’t, but I have to know. I’m not the girl I thought I was, Goodwin. I have to find out who I really am.’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Goodwin briskly. ‘Leave everything to me.’
And from her place in Spirit Adeline smiled with satisfaction at a job well done.
Back in New York Bridie read the letter from Michael: Old Mrs Nagle was dying and her mother was asking for her. As her eyes filled with tears she realized that she couldn’t avoid her destiny any longer. She had bought the castle out of revenge but perhaps her deepest desire lay in the land on which it was built. In spite of her fears about confronting the people she loathed, she harboured a longing for those she loved that called her back to her roots. She put the letter on the table and gazed out of the window. The sky was a pale blue, the winter sun shining weakly onto the frozen earth. A robin hopped about on the snowy lawn, its red breast bright against the white flakes. Finding nothing for it there it spread its wings and flew away, and Bridie wished that she had wings too so she could fly away. Fly away home. This time for good.
Jack had spent the last seven and a half years in Buenos Aires. He had used some of the money Maranzano had given him to open an Irish pub in a neighbourhood north-east of the city called Retiro, and bought a small apartment in a Parisian-style building close by. Both he and Emer had tried very hard to love their new home. After all, Buenos Aires was a beautiful city of tree-lined avenues, sun-dappled squares and leafy parks, but the prosperity it had enjoyed in the twenties had collapsed with the Great Depression and the atmosphere was now tense and uncertain. It was not the time to be running a new business. But Jack had had no option but to hide. He didn’t think Luciano and Siegel would look for him there. However, every knock on the door gave his heart a jolt and every lingering glance in the street raised his suspicion. He slept with his gun beneath his pillow and he feared for his children every time they left the house. Emer was patient and calm but even she was beginning to tire of his constant wariness.
Rosaleen was now ten, Liam was nearly seven and Emer had given birth to Aileen the year before. He worried for their safety and he worried about their future. He didn’t see himself living out the rest of his days in this country where he struggled to speak the language and strove without success to find a sense of belonging. His pub had few customers, the Irish community in Buenos Aires was small and Argentines didn’t appreciate Irish music or Irish stout. He had made a few bad investments and was losing money fast. He looked out of his bedroom window one morning and made a decision. It was time to go home.
Nearly eight years had passed since he had run from the Mafia; he didn’t imagine they were looking for him now. He believed he’d feel safe in Ballinakelly. He trusted his children would have a better quality of life there and a better future. He wanted to put away his gun, dust off his veterinary bag and live a quiet life without looking over his shoulder and mistrusting every stranger. He tried not to think of Kitty. He tried to focus on what he had, not on what he had lost. He loved Emer. She was his present; he had no reason to fear the past.
Barton Deverill
Ballinakelly, Co. Cork, 1667
The day dawned grey and overcast. The air was cold and there was a hardness to the wind as if its edges had been sharpened like knives. Rooks and crows hopped about the castle walls where the fire had charred the stones to an ugly black, but Lord Deverill’s flag flew high and defiant on the western tower so that all who saw it were reminded of his triumph over his enemies and discouraged to rise again.
Lord Deverill awoke with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He climbed out of bed with a groan and called his servant to bring him wine and bread. Maggie O’Leary had dominated his thoughts since the first time he had laid eyes on her, but today the whole sorry episode would be over once and for all. Today she would die. Burned at the stake the way many witches had gone before. He hoped that with her death so too would die her image, for it plagued him day and night and, however much he tried to distract himself, she was always present, always tormenting him with the power of her allure. He could see them now, those eerie green eyes staring at him with a mixture of insolence and wonder. Today they would close forever and he would be rid of her and rid of his guilt for having given in to his desire and taken her in the woods.
He dressed and summoned his horse. The ride into Ballinakelly seemed to take longer than normal. Accompanied by a small handful of men he made his way slowly, through dense woodland and on down the valley where a little stream meandered its way idly over glistening stones and craggy rocks. The hamlet, when he reached it, was unusually quiet. There was no one to be seen at the gates and the road was empty but for a young boy running as fast as his legs could carry him for fear of arriving late and missing the spectacle. For that’s what it was, a spectacle, and the people of Ballinakelly were gathered in the square ready to be entertained.
Lord Deverill rode his horse up the road, past the modest stone cottages, the blacksmith’s forge and the inn and further into the heart of the hamlet. The closer he got the more his stomach cramped with fear. He did not want to see her. He did not want her to see him. He did not want to be reminded of his foolishness. At last he saw the crowd of people and, beyond, the pile of wood gathered to make a small hill and the stake that stuck aggressively out of it. He swallowed hard and gripped the reins to stop his hands from trembling. One or two people turned and saw him and then a ripple of whispering hissed through the crowd and a hush descended until it was so quiet that even
the babes in arms were silenced by the shock of it.
Lord Deverill caught the eye of the little boy who had only a moment ago been running up the road and summoned him with a finger. The boy hurried to his horse and looked up at him with eager eyes. Lord Deverill bent down and whispered something that only the boy could hear. The child nodded and took the small bag Lord Deverill gave him and the reward of a shining coin with grubby hands. Then he disappeared into the crowd like an agile little ferret. A moment later there was a rattling noise as a cart appeared, carrying a woman dressed in a simple white robe. Her hair was long and tangled, hanging about her like a black veil, and she was kneeling on straw with her hands tied behind her back. She said nothing but she cast her eyes about the crowd and seemed to bewitch them all for no one dared utter a sound. Even when she was on her way to her death they feared her.
She walked calmly to the stake and her hands were bound behind it. She did not try to resist. She did not fight, cry out or wail. She looked frail up there, like a child, but the nobility with which she stood was otherworldly. A priest read out her crime in a voice that echoed around the square, but Maggie seemed unmoved by it. All the while she ran her gaze over the people with her chin held high and an imperious expression on her beautiful face as if she pitied them all for their ignorance. She apparently did not fear death and the crowd sensed her bravery and were awed into a dreadful silence.
Just as the men with flares advanced to light the pyre she raised her eyes and looked directly at Lord Deverill, into his soul, and Barton’s breath was frozen in his chest. He was powerless to move. It was as if she was looking deep into his very core and he didn’t know whether the smile that curled her lips was of gratitude or defiance. He tried to look away but she held him steadily, like a snake with her prey, and as the sticks caught fire and grey smoke began to envelop her, her blazing eyes watched him still.
The flames lapped at her feet and grew higher but she remained silent and the crowd began to shuffle uneasily. Why didn’t she cry out? Why did she not feel the burning? At last she let out a low moan. Barton stared in horror as the moan escalated into a shrill, piercing cry which threatened to shatter every eardrum in the square. And then the small bag of gunpowder she held in her hands caught light and exploded with a loud bang, thus releasing her as Barton had intended. Lord Deverill realized that he hadn’t breathed and took in a giant gulp of air. The crowd staggered back as sparks flew and the fire roared like the mouth of a mighty dragon. The people shielded their eyes and their cries rose with the crackling sound of burning wood and the stench of roasting flesh. He had seen enough. He turned his horse and galloped as fast as he could out of the village.
Chapter 38
Martha and Mrs Goodwin arrived at the gates of the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven. It was a bright February day, but the grey walls looked austere and formidable and Martha immediately felt uneasy. She imagined her mother arriving here as a young woman in trouble, as Mrs Goodwin had said was the most likely scenario, and imagined her fear, for these walls looked more like a prison than a refuge.
They had telephoned ahead and booked an appointment to meet Mother Evangelist, who had sounded very kind and helpful, and Martha had felt greatly encouraged by her readiness to see her. Surely, if she had no information at all she would have told her on the telephone and saved her the trouble and cab fare. Now, however, faced with these high walls, Martha felt her hope draining away and she began to lose courage. Mrs Goodwin sensed her anxiety and smiled reassuringly. ‘God’s houses always look so forbidding, don’t they? Be they churches, cathedrals or convents, they don’t give one a warm welcome, do they?’
‘This is the first time I’ve ever been to a convent,’ said Martha, hoping it would be the last.
At length the door opened and a nun in a dark blue habit with a sweet face and soft grey eyes introduced herself as Sister Constance and invited them in. Martha noticed the smell at once. It wasn’t unpleasant; a mixture of wood polish, detergent and candle wax. They were taken to a waiting room where a fire burned in the grate and a candle flickered on the occasional table beside a large, leather-bound Bible, a jug of water and two glasses. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable. Mother Evangelist is expecting you. She’ll only be a few minutes. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Yes please,’ said Mrs Goodwin. ‘We’d both love one, thank you.’
Sister Constance left the room. Martha sat on the edge of the sofa and looked around. The walls were painted white and a high window gave little light. The room looked forlorn in spite of the fire. She knitted her fingers in her lap. Mrs Goodwin sat beside her and put her hand on Martha’s. ‘It’s going to be all right. They’ll have records. They must have lots of children coming to look for their mothers. I’m sure you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’
Sister Constance returned with two mugs of tea on a tray with a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk and a plate of Kimberley biscuits. She placed it on the occasional table beside the candle. ‘There,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘Have you come far?’
‘From America,’ said Martha.
Sister Constance’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Goodness, that is a long way. Well, I hope you enjoy Dublin. It’s a lovely city. If you have time you must have tea at the Shelbourne. It’s a very grand old hotel and quite lovely.’
‘Oh, we’ve heard of the Shelbourne,’ said Mrs Goodwin.
‘Of course you have, everyone’s heard of the Shelbourne,’ said Sister Constance. Her eyes were drawn to the door where Mother Evangelist was now standing. The young nun scurried out of the room and Mother Evangelist walked in with an air of authority and sat down in the armchair.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m glad Sister Constance made you cups of tea. It’s a bright day but a cold one. Now, you’ve come to find your mother,’ she said gently, looking at Martha.
‘I have,’ said Martha, pressing a hand to her heart to quieten it.
‘I would like to help you, Miss Wallace. Many young mothers come here when they get into trouble and adoption is the only option. We do our best to help them and find their children loving homes. However, it’s natural that you should want to find the woman who gave birth to you and, if it is God’s will, you will be successful. You told me you have the birth certificate.’
‘I don’t have it,’ Martha explained. ‘I found it but my adoptive mother doesn’t know so I was unable to bring it with me.’
‘Very well. What was the name of your mother and what was the date of your birth?’
‘My birthday is the 5th January 1922 and my mother’s name is Grace, Lady Rowan-Hampton. My adoptive parents are Larry and Pamela Wallace of Connecticut in America.’
Mother Evangelist nodded and wrote the details in a little book. She stood up. ‘I won’t be long. I just need to retrieve the records. Perhaps I can supply you with an address or at least something to set you on the right path. People do move around, you know, and your mother might have married and changed her name. However, let’s get the records and take it from there, shall we?’
When she was gone Mrs Goodwin patted Martha’s hand. ‘You see, it’s not so frightening after all, is it? Mother Evangelist wants to help. I’m sure they have reconciled many mothers with their children. It’s the right thing to do and Mother Evangelist seems to want to do the right thing.’
Martha nodded and picked up her mug. The tea was tepid and weak but she didn’t mind. She wondered what Lady Rowan-Hampton would think when she discovered that her daughter had come to find her. It seemed a very long while before Mother Evangelist returned. Martha began to feel nervous again, but this time she sensed something wasn’t right. ‘Why is she taking so long?’ she whispered to Mrs Goodwin.
‘There must be drawers and drawers of files,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they’re kept in a cellar somewhere. I’m sure she’ll be back shortly.’
At last Mother Evangelist appeared, but her expression had changed. She was no longer smiling. Ma
rtha watched her sit down and the anxiety seemed to creep up her leg and down her arms as if it were a creature with prickles. Mother Evangelist sighed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It appears that your records have been mislaid. I took so long because I went to ask Sister Agatha who was the Mother Superior at that time. She’s old now and her memory is going. She didn’t know why the records had been lost and has no recollection of a Lady Rowan-Hampton, but then many of the girls only stayed for a short while and this was seventeen years ago. I’m sorry to disappoint you. However, you have the name, which is a very good start. Many of the children who come back don’t even have that. It’s an unusual name and with an aristocratic title she shouldn’t be too hard to find.’
Martha wanted to cry. She felt her face flush and pursed her lips to stop them trembling. Mrs Goodwin took over the talking. She thanked Mother Evangelist, who seemed genuinely sorry not to be able to help. She showed them back down the corridor to the door. As Mother Evangelist unbolted the door Martha noticed an old nun standing in the doorway of a room further down the corridor. She was staring at her with small, intense eyes, her hard face impassive and her thin lips drawn into a mean line. Martha knew instinctively that she was Sister Agatha. She shuddered and the nun closed the door with a slam. It seemed a deliberate act of rebuke.
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