Now Bridie grew more interested. ‘He didn’t love her back?’
‘He did,’ said Mrs Maddox.
‘So why the broken heart?’
Both women looked at her expectantly. The secret balanced precariously on the older woman’s tongue. It was true that happiness had made her garrulous. She had been only too eager to throw off the constraints imposed upon her by her position as nanny in the Wallace household, discretion being one of them. Indeed, since marrying John Maddox she had become something of a gossip.
‘They were both broken-hearted,’ Mrs Maddox said carefully. ‘I do believe they intended to marry.’
Bridie’s eyes widened. ‘But what stopped them?’ she asked.
‘They . . .’ Mrs Maddox hesitated. But just before she spilled the details of Martha and JP’s parentage, she stopped herself. ‘The Deverills forbade it,’ she said instead, which was still a revelation to the two women who were now staring at her with their mouths open. ‘They prohibited it on account of Martha’s parentage.’ There, she thought, that’s not exactly an untruth. ‘Martha was forced to leave. But your hat did much to raise her spirits,’ she added and took a bite of cake.
As Bridie expected, Mrs Maddox had come to appeal for money for a charity she was hoping to set up through the Catholic and Protestant churches to unite children of both religions, but Bridie wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about her son JP, and wondering about his broken heart. The thought of him suffering made another tear in her already ragged heart and she had to concentrate very hard on what Mrs Maddox was saying in order to stop her emotions from showing.
Bridie had heard from Emer O’Leary that JP was home. She had told Bridie how he had come looking for Jack but had asked very kindly after Alana. Not only was he handsome to look at, Emer had said, but he had lovely manners too. ‘Those Deverills have all the charm,’ she told Bridie with unconcealed admiration.
‘But they don’t have their castle,’ Bridie had replied.
Emer, who had heard all about the castle’s history from her mother-in-law, had smiled and said nothing. According to Jack’s mother, the land the castle was built on should still belong to the O’Learys.
Leopoldo was only thirteen, but he was taller than his mother and almost as tall as his father. He was spoilt and unpleasant and feared by everyone, from his tutors to his cousins. He had no friends, for his parents had brought him up to believe that as a prince he was superior to everyone else. Consequently, he was lonely and unhappy and his unhappiness made him mean. He seemed to find pleasure only in hurting creatures weaker than himself. The one creature he was unable to dominate was the horse and as a result he was terrified of it.
Cesare insisted he learn to ride so that he could hunt and play polo, but the boy’s fear prevented him from mastering the beast that seemed to sense not only his terror but his disagreeable nature and responded by bucking and bolting and generally acting up. His riding instructor despaired, not least because the Count would not listen to reason and allow the boy to quit. He wanted Leopoldo to be a finer version of himself and was infuriated that he did not have all the qualities to make him proud. ‘A prince does not fear anything!’ he would shout and his ears would go red with fury and his lips would glisten with spittle. ‘You are to be a prince of princes! The duty of a son is to exceed his father but you are a disappointment, Leopoldo.’ Leopoldo would retaliate with equal vitriol, calling his father a tyrant and a bully; if he was a disappointment it was only because his father had made him so. The two of them would stare at each other and snort like a pair of bulls in a ring but Leopoldo was now too big for Cesare to smack so the Count would lower himself to use the only threat he knew had any impact. ‘If you don’t master the horse I will cut you off and you will be penniless and I will leave the castle to one of your cousins!’ Leopoldo knew that there was no point appealing to his mother because his father held the financial strings. So he had no choice but to learn to ride because he enjoyed too much his material comforts and the promise of a future lording it up in the castle. There were times when his father shouted at his mother that Leopoldo wished he was dead.
A few days after Mrs Maddox had visited the Countess (and managed to leave with the promise of money and support for her charity) Leopoldo found his mother sobbing on her bed. In her hand she held a piece of paper. She was crying so loudly that she didn’t notice him come in. By the time she did he had taken the letter out of her hand and was reading it. Leopoldo went white. ‘You shouldn’t have seen that, Leo,’ Bridie said, sitting up and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. ‘It doesn’t involve you.’
‘Of course it involves me, Mama,’ he snapped. ‘If Papa wants to divorce you then he wants to rid himself of both of us.’
Bridie started to cry again. She put a hand to her mouth in an effort to stop herself but the tears tumbled down her cheeks all the same. She couldn’t begin to explain to a thirteen-year-old boy that she had feared this moment for years. She had known Cesare was bored in Ballinakelly. In spite of her efforts to divert him he hadn’t found the place or the people amusing. And what was worse, she knew she bored him. She had bored him from the moment they set foot in Ireland. ‘We should never have left America,’ she said regretfully. ‘We were happy there.’ And I was lively and fun and entertaining.
‘Then why did you?’ Leopoldo asked, an accusatory tone in his voice.
‘Because I wanted to come home. I wanted to buy this castle and make a home for us.’ And I wanted to wreak revenge on the Deverills who had ruined my life.
‘Where is he?’ Leopoldo demanded.
‘He didn’t come home last night. I found this when I woke up. He must have put it on my pillow while I slept, then crept away.’
‘How cowardly not to tell you himself.’
‘I expect he didn’t want a scene.’
‘Well, he’s going to get one now! I’m going to find him.’
‘No, Leo, please—’
‘He’s probably spent the night in one of those inns in Ballinakelly.’ Bridie watched as he marched out of the room. She lay on her bed and cried into her pillow. She wished she’d taken Beaumont Williams’ advice and kept control of her money. Everything was lost. Everything. But she wasn’t thinking of herself because she knew what it was to be lowly. My poor Leo, she thought. My poor, poor Leo.
Leopoldo marched to the stables. He was going to master the horse now if it killed him, he decided, and gallop into Ballinakelly to find his father. So furious was he that he shoved aside his fear and saddled his father’s grey mare. The grooms watched in bewilderment as the boy who was terrified of horses threw the saddle onto the horse’s back and pulled the girth tightly round its belly. When they offered to help he barked. I’m not going to be a coward like my father, he thought to himself as he put on the bridle. I’m going to show him just how fearless I can be. He mounted with ease and, suppressing a moment’s doubt, trotted out of the stable yard.
As he accelerated into a gallop across the field towards the hills he began to gain more confidence. The horse did not play up, nor did it try to buck him off. Leopoldo held the reins firmly and gritted his teeth, repeating to himself, I am master of this horse. I am master of this horse. He wondered whether the animal sensed the transformation in him, that he had changed from a frightened child into a furious young man, determined to confront his father and shame him into withdrawing his threat of divorce, for his mother’s sake. He wondered whether the horse knew that he was boss.
Leopoldo arrived in Ballinakelly and went from inn to inn in search of his father. No one had seen him. When he entered O’Donovan’s he found Mr O’Donovan talking to Father Quinn in a low voice. They stopped talking when he entered and in the silence Leopoldo was sure he could hear a woman sobbing upstairs. He asked whether they had seen the Count and they both shook their heads. ‘He hasn’t been in here for a few days,’ said Mr O’Donovan and Leopoldo left because there was obviously a crisis going on in the O�
�Donovan household and he had one of his own to settle.
By the time he rode out of town his anger had abated. He was disappointed that he hadn’t found his father. Disappointed that he hadn’t shown him how masterful he was on a horse. He made his way slowly up the road then turned off into the field that led to the hills. He no longer felt afraid and wondered why he had allowed horses to terrorize him. He realized now that it was simply a question of showing them who was master.
In spite of the dramas playing out beneath it the sun shone heartily in a cornflower-blue sky. The green hills glistened vibrantly beneath it and Leopoldo began to enjoy himself. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and set off at a canter. The wind raked his hair and the sensation of speed lifted his spirits. If Papa could see me now, he thought triumphantly.
When he reached the cliff top he saw that the tide was out. The beach extended for miles, the pale white sand smooth and flawless in the morning light. Then he spotted a flock of birds pecking at something lying on the sand. It resembled a buoy, and seemed to attract every sort of bird from the greedy white gulls to the gannets and grebes. Leopoldo turned his horse and directed it down the path towards the beach. Perhaps something exciting had been washed up during the night, he thought, curious to see what it was.
The horse stepped onto the sand and they made their way across it towards the birds. As they approached, there was a noisy flapping of wings as the birds reluctantly took to the air. They didn’t go far, however, but hovered above like vultures, unwilling to discard such a rare and tasty feast.
Leopoldo narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t make it out. What was it? His pleasure mounted at the thought that some poor animal had been savaged and he gave the horse a kick to move it closer. Leopoldo saw then that it was a head, a human head. His horse noticed at the same time, gave a terrified whinny and reared. Leopoldo was thrown to the ground, landing with a dull thud. As he nursed his bruised hip the horse bolted up the beach in terror, leaving him alone on the sand. The sound of squawking birds grew louder as they flew closer to their meal.
Leopoldo got up and brushed himself down. He peered at the head, realizing that it belonged to a man who had been buried up to his neck. The tide must have come in and drowned him. What a horrid way to die, he thought, but fascination and a dark attraction to the macabre brought him even closer.
Suddenly Leopoldo recoiled. He cried out in panic as if the head itself had turned on him. It was his father’s.
Leopoldo fell to his knees. Unable to tear his eyes from the bloodied, bloated face of the Count, he stared at him with loathing. He hated him. He hated the world and he hated God. Most of all he hated himself because in his father’s eyes he had never been good enough, and now he never would be.
Bridie’s world imploded when the inspector informed her of her husband’s murder. The same anguish that had seized her when her father was stabbed by the tinker seized her now and she let out a desperate cry and sank to the floor. Her first thoughts were for their son. But Leopoldo’s face was as hard as stone. ‘He won’t divorce you now,’ he said as she clung to him. ‘He won’t hurt you ever again.’
However, Bridie had loved Cesare in spite of his faults – faults that had marred his character like shadows lingering about a beautiful painting. During his life Bridie had found it easy to overlook the shadows by focusing solely on the beauty, but now he was dead those shadows were relegated to the very back of her subconscious mind as if they had never been there and the beauty rose in stature like a magnificent, rearing stallion. She swiftly forgot his infidelity, which she had taken pains to ignore, and she forgot his indifference and his cold-heartedness. He grew out of all proportion in her eyes and her grief became unbearable because of the greatness and nobility of the man she had lost. Bridie was no fool but love had made a fool out of her. However, it is a happy fool who lives in ignorance of an ugly truth and Bridie believed she had been happy. The only way to go on without him was to continue being a fool.
What was inevitably a tragedy for Bridie was a triumph for Grace. Michael arrived at her door, having abandoned his virtuous intentions and with the lascivious glint restored to his eyes. Sinning is a slippery slope and as Michael had now gone and put his foot once again on that familiar incline he was quick to slide further towards Hell. He had refrained from sex for years, choosing to lead the pious life of a monk, but that kind of abstinence had ill suited him. He had returned to his old ways by arranging the murder of the Count and the thrill of wielding power over life and death gave him a profound sense of satisfaction that far exceeded the satisfaction of being moral. ‘I knew you’d come for me,’ Grace gushed hoarsely as he pushed her against her bedroom wall and lifted her skirt. He didn’t care that she was old now and that she had lost the succulence of her youth; there was still something wild and wanton about her that appealed to him, and of course the memory of the woman she had once been was real to him. He kissed her passionately, bruising her lips and stifling her breath as the full weight of his body pressed against her chest. His beard scratched her skin, his coarse hands fondled her breasts, his fingers plunged inside her as he was impatient to savour every part of her and careless with his touch, but Grace relished the vigour in him. Nothing excited her more than the rough handling of a man, and no man excited her more than Michael Doyle.
Maggie O’Leary
Ballinakelly, 1667
Maggie stared into the flames and invoked every spirit she could think of. In her fury she called upon the spirits of the wind and the spirits of the sea, those of the darkness as well as the light, and those of the earth and the eternal sky, and she commanded them to rise up against Lord Deverill for the child he had planted in her belly that would never carry his name.
The fire crackled and burned, the golden flames licked the air with pointed tongues and Maggie was mesmerized. She stretched out her hands to catch the golden sparks that flew like fireflies about the pyre but they would not be caught. They spun and twirled in tiny dances just beyond the reach of her fingertips. Maggie watched, hypnotized by these small sparks of light, as the small spark inside her grew with a light of its own.
Maggie had boldly knocked on the castle door to appeal to Lord Deverill, but he had refused to receive her. She had stood at his window as the rain soaked through her shawl and he had seen her there and turned his back. She had shouted out her despair in a language she knew he didn’t understand: I beg of you, have mercy on my child. And he had sent his men to take her away. She had done everything to get his attention but nothing had worked. Now she would strike at the very heart of his reputation and he would be forced to acknowledge what he had done to her in the woods and take responsibility for his seed.
Maggie gazed into the fire and called upon the Devil himself, for the Catholic God would not approve of her plan.
Lord Deverill left for London and Maggie roused the men of Co. Cork. It was not hard to incite a rebellion because the Irish bore a deep hatred for the British, but more powerful than their patriotic fervour was their fear; they believed Maggie to be a witch and a powerful one at that. When she demanded that they burn down the castle, which stood as a symbol of British greed and oppression, they picked up their weapons and lit their flares and marched behind Maggie in an army of five hundred men. It was a cold, damp night and Maggie imagined that from the castle walls their rabble must look like a burning snake winding its way up the lane towards it.
Maggie stood back and watched with excitement as the first flaming arrows flew over the walls of Castle Deverill. She watched the ramparts catch fire and she watched the panicked soldiers do their best to defend it when they had been caught off guard and their numbers were few. Indeed, Maggie was sure her mob would burn the castle to the ground. A handful of dozy soldiers was no match for the might of her rebel army. But then the King’s army came with their fine horses and their banners depicting the arms of the Duke of Ormonde and Maggie’s men scattered like crows.
Maggie did not resist when t
hey captured her. She wanted to be caught. She wanted to be taken before Lord Deverill and for him to see her extended belly and to know that the child she was carrying was his, growing stronger every day. It would not be long now.
Maggie was locked in a room at the bottom of the castle and because of her condition she was given every comfort. She had a bed and blankets, candles and food and was more comfortable than she was at home in the wood. While she rested she waited for Lord Deverill to return from London. Her anticipation grew because she was certain he’d come and see her now. He’d be furious with her, of course, but he’d see that she was heavy with child, his child, and his heart would soften and he would forgive her. He would no longer be able to turn away.
Yet the child came early. Maggie writhed and heaved and bellowed and cried out as her body laboured and the soldiers brought Maggie’s sister, Breda, to her side to bring the baby into the world. When at last he arrived, Maggie held him in her arms and gazed tenderly into his pink face. ‘This is Lord Deverill’s son,’ she told Breda.
Her sister blanched. ‘Lord Deverill?’ she repeated, unable to comprehend that the English nobleman on horseback had lain with her sister.
‘He took me in the wood and now he’ll take me to be his wife.’
‘But he already has a wife,’ Breda reminded her.
Maggie turned on her crossly. ‘I have given him a son!’ she retorted.
‘A bastard son,’ said Breda. ‘You think he’ll let you keep him?’
Maggie stared at her in defiance. ‘Of course he’ll let me keep him.’
‘He’ll take him away and you’ll never see him again. You think he’s going to let a child of his grow up a peasant?’
‘And what about me?’
‘You? He’ll have nothing to do with you, Maggie!’
Maggie’s eyes filled with tears. She thrust the boy at her sister. ‘Take him then. Keep him safe.’
The Last Secret of the Deverills Page 27