The dark place that Tara had held in her mind’s eye for years – no longer existed.
The room William Fitzgerald had drunkenly crept into and then raped her had nothing to do with this empty, echoing room. She walked across to the window, the heels of her Italian shoes tapping on the bare floor. She looked down into the overgrown garden again – and felt nothing. Then she turned, and stared round the room one last time.
Then, Tara Flynn smiled. A little smile – but a real smile nonetheless.
She had put many months and many miles between herself and that unfortunate incident. She had grown up in between. A whole lifetime separated the girl from the woman.
The ghosts of Ballygrace House had been laid to rest.
* * *
Tara accepted John Costelloe’s offer of a lift to the gates at the bottom of the drive. Mick was not due to pick her up for another quarter of an hour. She would enjoy a walk out in the fresh air, and meet him somewhere along the road.
John opened the passenger door for her.
“Thank you,” she said, “you’ve been very helpful.” The car interior was hot and stuffy, so she removed her hat and let her russet locks tumble down freely.
“Your hair,” he suddenly blurted out, “if you don’t mind me saying – is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Tara replied, with the distracted manner of a woman well used to receiving compliments.
The engine had just roared into life, when they heard another vehicle coming up the drive.
“Your lift, I presume,” John Costelloe said, letting the handbrake off.
“No . . .” Tara craned her neck. “I don’t think so.” Mick’s car was not nearly as big, and anyway, he drove much more slowly than the car that was coming towards them.
“Jesus!” John Costelloe suddenly exclaimed, “Look at the English registration – it must be the boss man himself.”
“Who?” Tara said, her heart starting to thud against her chest.
“Fitzgerald.” The young auctioneer’s voice was suddenlylow, and less confident. “Mr Gabriel Fitzgerald.” He opened the car door.
Tara’s heart was racing now, and her whole body shaking. What on earth was he doing here? And what possible reason could she give for her presence at Ballygrace House?
Gabriel brought the car to a halt with a screech. Then, he jumped out, and came striding towards the car.
There was nothing else for it. Tara opened the door and, as elegantly as she could, stepped from the car, gripping the hat tightly. She stood up, her legs like jelly. Then, her mind still working on an excuse, she squared her shoulders.
“Good afternoon, to you,” John Costelloe called to his boss, attempting to sound casual. “I’ve been showing a client round the house.” He motioned towards the car. “This is Miss Flynn. She’s come to view the property. She’s come all the way over from England.”
John Costelloe might as well have not been there, as the owner of Ballygrace House and the woman from England stared at each other.
“Tara,” Gabriel said. “I was afraid I might have missed you . . .”
Tara’s hand flew to the brooch on the collar of her coat. “I have Madeleine’s jewellery . . . thank you . . . but it was too much.”
Gabriel turned to his employee. “It’s all right, John – I’ll see to things here. You can go now.”
They both stood watching until the car disappeared down the drive.
Then there was a silence.
Gabriel suddenly moved forward and put his hands on her forearms. “Tara . . . I had to come and see you . . . to try to explain . . .”
Tara looked up at him. “Explain what?” she asked quietly.
He gave a deep, weary sigh. “Everything . . . all the things I should have explained to you years ago. The mistakes I should have apologised for.” His hands gripped her tighter. “But I was young and I didn’t have a clue about women or life.”
Tara felt a tightness in her chest and throat. “What are you saying, Gabriel?”
“I’m saying that I should have had the guts to speak out against my parents. I should have had the guts to tell you about my feelings before it was all too late.”
Tara shook her head. “Don’t, Gabriel . . . please don’t!”
“I may be making the biggest mistake of my life – but I don’t care. Tara,” he said hoarsely, looking deep into her eyes, “I love you – and I want you. I always have.”
Tara’s heart lurched, her emotions doing somersaults at his touch, Then, reason took over, and tears sprung into her eyes. “No, Gabriel – no!” she protested, pulling out of his grip. “This is wrong . . . I won’t have anything to do with a married man.”
Gabriel’s brow deepened in confusion. “Married? But I’m not married.”
“I know you were married a few years ago,” she almost shouted. How could yet another man think she was such an innocent fool? “The secretary in your office in Tullamore told me.”
He shook his head. “No . . . no. I was engaged – but we never went through with it.” He paused, struggling to find the right words. “She was only a family friend – a second best, after you.”
Tara looked up into his blue eyes, and the tears started to flow. “No – you – your family, everybody thought I wasn’t good enough. I can’t go through this charade again.”
“Tara!” Gabriel gripped her arms again, and the velvet hat dropped unnoticed on to the gravel path. “I love you! I love you with all my heart.” Tears filled his eyes now. “God’s my judge – my life has been worth nothing since you left Ireland. I knew I’d made the most dreadful mistake the minute I heard you’d gone.”
Tara started to struggle again. “It’s too late – it’s much too late!”
“No!” he yelled, his voice echoing round the overgrown garden. “Don’t say that, Tara.” His voice suddenly broke. “Is it Frank Kennedy? Is it still him?”
Tara looked away. “It has nothing to do with him – or any man. Anything between me and Frank was over a long time ago.”
Gabriel held her at arm’s length now, his confidence restored slightly. He reached a gentle finger to lift her chin. “When I met you in London, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I wanted to share the rest of my life with you.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I came back to Ireland this morning, for one reason only. To confess my feelings for you – and to find out what you feel about me. Tell me honestly, and I’ll go back to London in peace. I have to know, one way or another. Have you no feelings for me? No feelings at all?”
Tara’s eyes clouded over. She moved her head away, so that he could not look into them and see her feelings. “It’s too late, Gabriel,” she said in a dull, flat voice. “Too much has happened. We’re older and we’ve changed. You live in London and I live in Stockport – we’re miles apart. We’re miles apart in every possible way. I have my work and my life . . . You have Ballygrace House and your work in London.”
“No, Tara! No!” he persisted. “We can change it all. We’re young. We could sell up everything – we could get married and come back to live here.” He waved his arm expansively, taking in the house and the grounds. “You know the auctioneering business inside out – there’s nothing we couldn’t do together. We could make Ballygrace House a happy place again. We could get married and have children – children to fill this house with love and laughter.”
Tara’s heart was racing so fast she thought she would choke. Everything she had ever dreamed of, dangled tantalisingly in front of her eyes. “Are you mad?” she whispered.
Gabriel reached out and drew her into his arms. “I love you – I love you so much, Tara Flynn – and I want you to be my wife.” His lips came down on her closed eyelids, and then on her mouth.
Tara felt her body go limp. She swayed against him, and their lips crushed in the most beautiful, passionate kiss. The sort of kiss she had only ever experienced with Gabriel Fitzgerald. The sort of kiss
she would never find with any other man. Suddenly, the years in between fell away – and they were locked together.
“Tell me we have a future together,” he breathed into her flowing hair. “I want you, and I need you. I don’t care where it is – Ballygrace House or Timbuktu. As long as I have you – I don’t care!”
“Oh, Gabriel!” she cried. “I’m frightened. . . I want you . . . but I’m so very, very frightened.”
His lips brushed hers again. “Hush, my darling . . . my darling, darling Tara – there’s nothing to be afraid of, ever again.”
She looked up at him now, her eyes full of unconcealed love. “How could it possibly work?”
“We’ll make it work – don’t doubt that for one moment,” he told her. “We’ll do whatever you want. I’ll sell Ballygrace House and the auctioneering offices and come to Stockport . . . or we can both sell up, and move over here.” He lifted her hand and kissed it gently. “Or, we can live like gypsies . . . and go from place to place.”
Tara turned her head and looked at the badly neglected, but still gracious building. A cloud moved, and the sun suddenly shone down on Ballygrace House. For a moment, the windows sparkled and the patchy paintwork gleamed.
Her heart lifted. “Maybe,” she ventured, “we could try. We could visit each other in London or Stockport at weekends – and see what happens.”
Gabriel kissed her hand again. “There’s no rush,” he told her. “I can wait.” He looked across at the house now. “I’ll take it off the market, until you make up your mind.”
Then, as he pulled her into his arms once again, Tara Flynn knew that she had come home. As Gabriel had said, whether it was Ballygrace House or Timbuktu – as long as they were together – they would find a home.
THE END
Tara Flynn Page 57