His words felt distant, as though he were addressing a stranger. He didn’t know what else to say. After all their years of marriage, there was no subject they could broach which failed to evoke memories of desperate sadness. There was not a single holiday, Christmas, ball, birthday or event he could refer to without its being marked by the progression of a hopeful pregnancy or a funeral procession of despair. He could feel the pain in the room and he knew it would always be like this. It will never leave us and she will always blame me.
Isobel turned her head to look at him.
‘Hello Charles, it’s nice to have you home,’ she said.
Charles was stunned. This was not what he had expected. His wife had torn at his skin, beat him with the fire irons, spat and sworn at him, but not since the death of his last son had she greeted him. Maybe this was why McKinnon had been so keen for him to return, to see the improvement for himself.
‘Yes, it is nice to be back at Ballyford,’ Charles replied. ‘Is there anything I can get for you? Mrs McKinnon is bringing some tea just now, she should be here any minute.’
‘I don’t need anything, Charles. What I need you cannot give me.’ Her voice was almost pleading and Charles felt his heart slip. ‘I just need to see my babies and they need me.’
Charles remained silent. She had raised his spirits and then dashed them on the rocks of disappointment. How could he say the only thing that was true? That there were no babies.
Isobel turned back to the fire and continued. ‘Charles, they miss me, they are only babies, they always needed me. They are so cold in the crypt. You feel that, don’t you? You must feel it too?’ She whispered her words with an intensity that suggested they had been on her lips for weeks, just waiting for him to return.
Charles wondered if they would ever have a normal conversation again.
Welcome home, Charles. We have missed you. How is business?
Tears threatened to flood his eyes. Her words, her grief, the mention of the crypt, all of it. His sons had been put to the back of his mind when he was in Liverpool, they were part of a life from which he had detached himself. The things he ran from, the memories, were now crowding in, making it difficult for him to breathe.
We have you now. You are trapped, the ghosts of Ballyford whispered.
He imagined the voices of his ancestors calling out to him from the crypt, chiding him for not visiting his sons. He had sworn he would never, ever visit again until he himself was laid to rest. Since the day he had laid the small coffin of his last dead son on the cold, Kerry slate slab, he had sworn that was his last. Now, he wanted to run out of the nursery door, down the stairs and all the way to Dublin, to catch the next boat back to Liverpool where there was no one who knew. To a life of pretence, free from the pain. Where he didn’t have to be Lord Charles of Ballyford, father of five dead sons and husband to a wife driven mad with grief.
Was his life to be devoid of normality for as long as he lived? Was he to be trapped within this circle of despair forever? He remembered how Isobel had run at him with a fire poker in her hand because she believed he had had her babies poisoned, just one of the many phases she had passed through. There had been others. She had alternatively blamed the maids, McKinnon, Amy, a witch, his father and grandfather. There had been so many phases of anger and blame, remorse and despair, that Charles had lost count.
There had been a time when he and Isobel were happy. When they spoke of their future. When they both cried with joy at the birth of their firstborn.
He had wanted to fill Ballyford with children and she loved his ideas of breaking with convention. Not for him the stuffiness of her English peers. Isobel needed no persuading to be a real mother. Many of their friends thought she had lost her mind. Well, thought Charles, if she hadn’t then, she certainly has now.
He had no answer at hand to respond to the madness contained within her words. As they sat there in silence, Mrs McKinnon walked in with the tea tray, followed by Ruby, who moved straight to the fire and threw half a dozen blocks of peat onto the dying flames. The normality of the familiar sound of Mrs McKinnon pouring tea through the silver strainer into the china cups was a welcome relief. Charles needed both the tea and a diversion.
‘You have a letter, Isobel,’ he commented, to break the heavy silence. ‘Is it from anyone I know?’
Isobel picked up the letter that lay on her lap and instead of handing it to him, as he thought she would, she slowly folded the envelope and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt.
‘No, Charles, not from anyone you know.’
Charles thought this was odd, but he was distracted by Ruby who had stretched across and picked up the fire tongs to push the peat blocks further back into place.
Watching Ruby brought the Ballyford secret to the forefront of his mind. He and Ruby were sitting in the very room from which his father had banished her mother, Iona, from Ballyford forever, when he and Iona were children. It felt like only yesterday. It was the shame of Ballyford and Ruby would never know.
His grandfather perfectly understood the nature of his son, Charles’s father. He had summoned Charles to his bedside and made him promise that Ballyford would always be responsible for Iona and that Charles would care for her.
‘Put right whatever your father will do wrong once I have gone,’ his grandfather had whispered. ‘Protect her.’
Charles had failed, but at least he had found her daughter.
Only days old, Iona had arrived at Ballyford one cold winter’s morning, wrapped in rags, with a note pinned to her shawl. She had been carried into the kitchen to the cook and the note and the child were promptly delivered to Charles’s grandfather. The note was chilling. It claimed the child belonged to Ballyford and that in order for an old and dreadful wrong to be put right, she should be taken in and become Ballyford’s own. The note struck the fear of God into Charles’s grandfather. He had heard the story himself, from his own father and from the moment the lonely man laid eyes on Iona’s face, he had taken her into his heart, the castle and his will. He had sent out to the cottages for the local apothecary, Miss McAndrew to come to his study. She knew things about Ballyford that others did not, as had all the McAndrews before her. Whatever they discussed on that morning was never repeated to anyone. He had been unable to help himself from showing the child adoring affection, the only baby girl to arrive at Ballyford for many generations. He also saw caring for her as the way to absolution. A man of many mistresses, he knew he had sinned often in his lifetime and the death of his wife had brought home to him his own mortality. All he had left in his old age were his disagreeable son, his adored grandson, Charles, and the beautiful baby girl, Iona, found in the stables.
Young as he was, Charles knew that his grandfather’s death wish was wasted. He had no power to force his father to honour the words of a dying man. What then happened was catastrophic and Charles knew that the people in the cottages whispered of the girl from the famine to this day, and claimed that here was history repeating itself.
But now, having failed in his promise to protect Iona, here was her daughter kneeling before him, stoking a fire. The sight of her lifted his heart and he slowly warmed inside as he watched her at the stone hearth. She must never know and yet he wanted to know her more. He closed his eyes, remembering Iona with her red hair.
‘Your tea, Lord Charles.’
Charles started and saw that Mrs McKinnon was placing a shawl around the shoulders of Lady Isobel and leading her out of the room. It was Ruby who held his tea.
‘Your tea, Lord Charles.’
Ruby said it again and as he reached up, he noticed her hair escaping in red tendrils from under her cap. He realized he must have drifted off to sleep for just a few seconds.
He knew that hair, and those eyes. Those same green eyes had belonged to her mother. Iona would have still been young. She had been his only company as a child and his closest friend. She had shared his nursery and Mrs McKinnon had looked after them both with equal
care. Although she had been older, he had loved Iona and the loneliness he felt at her loss when she was taken away had never left him. Thoughts of guilt and self-hatred for not being able to save her were never far from the surface. Despite his pleas and screams of despair he had failed to persuade his father to protect her. His mother, who lived her own life in the London house, neither know nor cared. The whispers were that Iona was dead. Kidnapped. Disposed of. He heard them around corners of stairs and in the midst of huddled servants who fell silent as he approached. He knew they were untrue. It was wild cottage gossip. He could feel she was alive and what was more, she was nearby. Of late, thoughts of Iona had haunted him. She was always there, hovering on the edge. Entering his dreams and forming his nightmares. Iona had plagued him. Renewing his search for her yet again, it was no surprise to discover she was dead. He had known. He had felt it. He woke on the night of the storm and he had shivered at the eerie emptiness that filled the castle and he knew, wherever she had been taken, now she was gone.
The sound of the cup rattling on the saucer brought him to his senses and he noticed as he reached for it, that Ruby’s own, thin and delicate hand trembled in response.
He dared to speak, although he didn’t trust his own voice. ‘Are you quite settled at Ballyford?’
‘Oh yes, Lord Charles, I really am,’ she responded with genuine enthusiasm. ‘I do love it here.’
Charles raised his eyebrows and smiled. He had expected a polite ‘yes, thank you’. He had hardly ever managed to extract a word from any of the maids. They were either too shy or Mrs McKinnon trained them never to answer him, he wasn’t sure which. If this one had been trained, she was paying no attention.
‘And my wife. Have you, er, managed well?’
‘Oh, yes, no trouble at all. We get along just fine now, Lady Isobel and me. She loves Rufus, you know. I bring him in here every morning now and she likes to stroke him and tickle his belly. Rufus is becoming very fond of the lady, too.’
‘You manage better than I do, then,’ he said, leaning forward to stir the tea again.
‘I am just her maid,’ Ruby replied. ‘She expects nothing more than that from me. It is only hard when she becomes excited. It takes Mr and Mrs McKinnon to help, then. I can’t manage on my own.’
They both heard the nursery door click then and saw Mrs McKinnon returning with Lady Isobel.
Lady Isobel looked coldly at Charles.
‘Lord Charles has some news, don’t you?’ Mrs McKinnon nodded furiously at Charles.
‘Oh, I’m very sure my husband has news, don’t you Charles? Is it news from Liverpool?’
Charles looked at Mrs McKinnon with a confused expression. ‘Do I? Do I have news?’
‘Mr McKinnon tells me you are thinking of resurrecting the Ballyford Ball again soon, aren’t you?’
Charles felt his heart sink. It had seemed like a good suggestion at the time.
‘I hadn’t thought much about the detail, Mrs McKinnon,’ he replied. ‘I had planned to work with Mr McKinnon on the estate. I’m only here for a few weeks or so before I have to return to Liverpool.’
‘Yes, but as you know, the doctor thought it would be an excellent idea. He said Lady Isobel must return to what she knew and was familiar with. He said that would be the best medicine.’
Charles knew at once that this was a trap. Mrs McKinnon was always one step ahead of him. She wanted him to stay for longer and this was her way of making it happen.
‘The doctor is a man, Mrs McKinnon, with six living healthy children. The Ballyford Ball hardly sounds like a prescription he would have learned in medical school.’
Charles sounded exasperated even to his own ears. He saw Mrs McKinnon’s disappointment and he hated himself.
He looked at Lady Isobel and she met his gaze without animosity. Her look puzzled him, for a fleeting moment he saw a total clarity of thought in her eyes and she had looked amused. As though she too knew what Mrs McKinnon was up to.
‘However, it seems to me that I am ill qualified to disagree with the experts. What do you think, Isobel? Shall I invite some of our friends over for a ball? Shall we let our neighbours know that all is well at Ballyford? We could have a day’s fishing and you could spend some time with your old friends.’
To everyone’s utter amazement Isobel replied, ‘Well, maybe the doctor is right. I think it might be good for me to see people again.’
For a moment the only noise in the room was that of the teapot gently simmering on the silver tea-light stand.
Charles found himself turning to Ruby. ‘What do you think? Is it a good idea?’
But this time Ruby did not reply and looked down at her clasped hands in embarrassment.
Charles instantly realized his faux pas in having addressed a servant with such a personal question and turned to Mrs McKinnon.
‘Sorry, I have been up since dawn and the journey is always exhausting. Is this a good idea, Mrs McKinnon? Could you, Amy and the rest of the staff cope?’
Mrs McKinnon’s back straightened in indignation.
‘Was it not me speaking just now? Did I not say that I thought the doctor was right? He charges enough, so he should be.’
Mrs McKinnon bent down and stroked Lady Isobel’s hands as though soothing a small child.
‘Wouldn’t that be something for us all to look forward to? We could go through your ball gowns together, you and I and we could alter one down to fit you, now that you are so much slimmer. I will write out the invitations and Ruby will help, as she has a good hand. It would be no trouble for you Lady Isobel.’
Lady Isobel stared at Mrs McKinnon, this woman who had helped deliver her babies and been at her side throughout every ordeal. The woman she and Charles both trusted and regarded as a mother. To the relief of everyone in the room, she nodded.
‘There we go,’ said Mrs McKinnon. ‘The Ballyford Ball shall happen once more. It will be just like the old days.’
Charles dared not speak. The old days held nothing but memories of pain and loss. He could not remember the last Ballyford Ball. It was a blur. Unimportant to him, but essential to the staff, the status of Ballyford and their way of life.
‘We had better pick a date then as it will take some time to organize.’
Once again he looked at Ruby, who smiled back at him. Her smile said, Well done you, all will be well. And then, undeniably, she followed with slight narrowing of the eyes, a puzzled expression, I think I know you.
Charles was suddenly aware that the history between them both had a life of its own. He should have made more effort to find Iona earlier. Before his father had been laid to rest in the crypt, they had scoured all of Ireland from shore to shore, but it was as though she hadn’t wanted to be found. As though she had not forgiven him. And all the time he had thought how could anything good to come from Ballyford, when the wishes of his dying grandfather had been so callously ignored. The McKinnon’s thought they knew where she had been taken, but hopes were dashed when they discovered they were wrong.
Mrs McKinnon led Lady Isobel out of the room. Their hushed voices spoke of gowns and gloves and polished tiaras. Charles looked down at his hands, determined not to look at Ruby as she cleared away the china cups. The silver sugar tongs clattered as she laid them on the tray. Both of them knew that each was waiting for the other to speak.
He fought with his own instincts and neither looked away from the fire nor moved, as she left the room. He heard the door click, as the tea trolley rolled out onto the wooden floor of the gallery.
Charles let out a deep sigh. He was here, alone in Ballyford and it looked as though it could be for a month, instead of the two weeks he had originally planned. He would write to Rory. He could return to Ireland and visit his mother at Ballyford. They could deal with business at the same time. Charles felt his urge to return to Liverpool draining away. The castle called out to him, there was a reason to stay at the place he had once loved with all his heart. It was pulling at him in the familiar
way he knew all too well.
Walking over to the fire, Charles picked up a silver framed photograph of his firstborn son from the stone mantelpiece.
As always, his eyes filled with tears as they rested on the image of his son and he felt his heart contract with familiar pain. It had the same effect every time and he wanted to scream out the only word that ever came to him. Why?
He pushed his thumbs into his eyes to stem the tears as his eyes lingered. It was as though he was seeing the picture for the first time and he wondered if his pain would ever lessen.
He turned to leave the nursery and without warning felt a premonition of fear run through his veins. His skin prickled as Ruby stood silently by the door, waiting.
‘Did you want me for anything?’ she said. ‘You seem very sad. Is there something I can do to help?’
‘No, thank you. Nothing,’ he replied, walking past her. As he did so, his eyes met hers and she held his gaze. She was near enough for him to reach out with his hand and touch her face. He was overcome by an urge to push back the strand of hair that had fallen across her eye. She was trying to blink and blow it away, not wanting to raise her clasped hands. She shook her head and the wayward hair lifted and then fell to the side of her cheek and her eyes held his, unblinking, still. The air between them felt charged, alive and waiting for the past and the future to fuse and connect.
She knows. God, she already knows. How can she? he thought. He felt his own pulse, hammering in his throat and, afraid of what he might do or say, he pushed past her and strode purposefully away towards the safety of his own study.
13
Ruby and Jane had retreated to the linen room. It was the place where all gossip was exchanged, away from the eyes and ears of Mrs McKinnon and Amy, both of whom were well aware of what went on there.
‘We grew up gossiping in our mother’s kitchen and on the front step,’ said Amy to Mrs McKinnon. ‘These girls have been in service since they were children, best we make sure they can have a little gossip or they will never learn.’
Ruby Flynn Page 13