Dedication
To my darling uncle and godfather Chris,
with love
Epigraph
Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum.
A DEVERILL’S CASTLE is his kingdom.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Family Trees
Maggie O’Leary
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Maggie O’Leary
Part Two
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Maggie O’Leary
Part Three
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Read On
Also by Santa Montefiore
Copyright
About the Publisher
Family Trees
Maggie O’Leary
Some said she was born on the feast of Samhna, when the people of Ballinakelly celebrated the harvest with a feast, but others said she was born after sunset and before dawn, when the malevolent pookas, banshees and fairies joined the spirits of the dead to roam freely among the living during the hours of darkness. Whichever the case, the reality was that Maggie O’Leary came into the world on the first day of November 1640, when a dense mist gathered in the valleys and a light drizzle dampened the air and the wind smelled of heather and grass and brine.
There was a restlessness about the O’Leary farm that night. The cows mooed and stamped their hooves, and the horses snorted agitatedly and tossed their manes. Inky black crows gathered on the roof of the farmhouse where Órlagh Ni Laoghaire paced her bedroom with her hands on the small of her back, anticipating the impending arrival of her sixth child with more than the usual apprehension. She was as restless as the animals, moaning and suffering with the extent of her labor, for the first five children had arrived easily and in haste. Every now and then she glanced out of the window, searching for the flush of dawn in the eastern sky. She hoped her baby would hold on until All Saints Day and not arrive during these dark and haunted hours.
Not far away Órlagh’s children were enjoying the feast with the rest of the community in a large barn in the heart of the village. The doors and windows of every dwelling had been flung open to allow both the ghouls and the friendly spirits to wander freely, and the fires had been quenched. Outside the golden glow of bonfires warmed the air, which was cold with the presence of those malevolent beings who wreaked havoc in the darkness.
It was not a night to come into the world, but Maggie came anyway.
Just before dawn, after a difficult labor, Órlagh was delivered of a healthy baby whose shrill cries tore a hole in the sky, releasing the first ray of light. But with the birth of a new life came the death of an old one. Órlagh was carried into the beyond, but not before she whispered weakly to the babe in her arms, “Céad míle fáilte, Peig,” a hundred thousand welcomes—thus giving her child a name and blessing her with a kiss.
Maggie was a child whose beauty was strange and arresting. Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, her eyes were a bewitching shade of green and her lips were full and sensual and curled with knowing. Maggie was uncommon in many ways, but nothing separated her more surely from her family and community than her unusual gift: Maggie saw visions of dead people, sometimes even before they were dead.
Such was Maggie’s gift that her brothers and sister teased her for being a witch until their father told them in a low and trembling voice what became of witches. Father Brennan, the local priest, crossed himself whenever he saw her and tried to coerce her into confessing that the things she claimed to see were invented in order to get attention; the people of Ballinakelly stared at her with wide and frightened eyes, believing her to be under the influence of the ghosts who had been present at her birth, and the old women muttered, “That child has been here before, as true as God is my judge.” Even Maggie’s grandmother said that if she hadn’t seen her slither out of Órlagh’s body with her own eyes she would have believed her to be a changeling sent by an old pooka to bring misfortune into the house.
But misfortune came anyway, whether or not Maggie was a changeling.
For Maggie, however, there was nothing unusual about seeing the dead or predicting death. For as long as she could remember, she had seen things that were beyond the senses of other people. And she wasn’t wicked. She knew that. Her gift was God-given. So she escaped to the hills where she could be at one with all creation. With the wind in her hair and her skin damp with drizzle, she enjoyed striding through the wild grasses toward the edge of the earth where the sea rolled onto the sand in glistening waves. Beneath the wheeling gulls she’d wrap her shawl about her shoulders and throw her gaze across the water, and occasionally she’d spy the sails of a vessel on the distant horizon and wonder at the vastness and mystery of the world far from her shores. But it was high up on the cliffs, in the ancient stone circle known as the Fairy Ring, that she played with the nature spirits no one else could see, for there, in that magical place, no one feared her or judged her or castigated her: there was only God and the secret pagan world that He permitted her to see in all its wonder.
However, as Maggie got older, the spirits grew insistent. They demanded more from her. They had messages, they said, which they wanted passed on to those they had left behind. Maggie’s father reminded her of the penalty of witchcraft, her older sister begged her to keep quiet and her grandmother predicted nothing but doom, yet still the voices did not quieten or leave Maggie in peace. She believed she had a higher purpose. She believed it was God’s will that she relieved the consciences of the dead. She was convinced that it was her duty to do so.
Times were hard, and the O’Learys were poor. Maggie’s father and four older brothers were farmers, as generations of O’Learys had been before them, keeping watch over the sheep that grazed on their land overlooking the sea; the beloved land that had been theirs for as long as anyone could remember. But there were eight mouths to feed in the O’Leary farmhouse, and food was scarce. Out of desperation Maggie’s father relented, and slowly, secretly, he began to charge for a sitting with his daughter. Maggie would pass on messages she claimed were from the dead, and he would collect the money in order that they could eat. By and by word spread, and the bereaved and troubled came in droves, like dark souls with outstretched arms, searching for the light. Those who could not pay with coin brought anything they could, be it milk, cheese, eggs—even the odd hen or hare. But the fear spread also, for surely such a gift was the Devil’s work, and Maggie grew up without a friend save the birds and beasts of the land.
Maggie was nine years old when Oliver Cromwell arrived with his army to conquer Ireland. Her brothers joined the Royalists, and even with her gift of sight she could not foresee whether she’d ever lay eyes on t
hem again. The war was vicious, and tales of Cromwell’s brutality spread throughout county Cork like the plague and famine that swept the land in its wake. The siege of Drogheda and the massacre that followed were woven into Ireland’s history in a scarlet thread of blood. Cromwell’s soldiers put thousands to the sword and burned to death those who had fled to the church to seek refuge in God’s house.
Word reached Ballinakelly that Cromwell would show no mercy to Catholics, even if they surrendered. So it was, with a mixture of outrage and fear, that Maggie’s father joined the rebels and took to the hills to fight with whatever weapons he could lay his hands on. He was brave and strong, but what was bravery and strength against the might of Cromwell’s well-armed and highly trained soldiers? King Charles II withdrew his support. He abandoned his armies in Ireland in favor of the Scots, and the defense disintegrated. The Irish were beleaguered and alone, cast aside and betrayed, left to die on the hillside like helpless sheep ravaged by wolves.
Maggie’s brothers came to her from the other side of death with messages for her sister and grandmother, standing with the other poor souls at the window to this world, recounting their deaths by fire, bludgeon and sword. Maggie’s father died in the hills, cut down like a hare in the heather, and his womenfolk were left with no one to look after them. Indeed they were as helpless as beggars. Most of their sheep had been plundered. There was no charity to be had, for the war had razed the land and the local people were starving or slowly dying of the plague. But Maggie had her gift and people continued to come knocking, with what little they had, to receive messages from their loved ones. And the O’Leary women grieved in silence because they had to remain strong for one another; because their grief would get them nowhere; because their survival depended on their resilience.
However, all was not lost. They had their land, their precious, beautiful land overlooking the sea. In spite of the violence of war, nature flourished as it always would. The heather blossomed on the hillsides, butterflies took to the air, birds twittered in trees burgeoning with bright green leaves, and the soft rain and spring sunshine gave birth to rainbows that bestrode the valley in dazzling arcs of hope. Indeed, they had their land; at least they had that.
But Barton Deverill, the first Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly, would take it from them; he would take all they had and leave them with nothing.
Part One
Chapter 1
Dublin, February 1939
Martha Wallace skipped along the path that meandered through St. Stephen’s Green. She couldn’t walk, she simply couldn’t. Her heart was too light. It lifted her body with every step, giving her a buoyant gait as if she were walking on clouds. Mrs. Goodwin hurried behind her with small, brisk steps, struggling to keep up. “My dear, you’re racing along. Why don’t we find a nice bench and sit down?” she suggested, catching her breath.
Martha swung around and began to skip backward, a few paces in front of her elderly nanny. “I don’t think I could sit, even for a minute!” She laughed with abandon. “To think I came here to find my mother, but I’ve lost my heart instead. It’s too ridiculous, don’t you think?” Martha’s American accent was in stark contrast to Mrs. Goodwin’s clipped English vowels. Her pale Irish skin was flushed on the apples of her cheeks, and her cocoa-colored eyes shone with excitement. She had taken off her hat and consequently invited the wind to play with her long brown hair. This it did with relish, pulling it from its pins, giving her a wild and reckless look. It was hard for Mrs.Goodwin to believe, watching the seventeen-year-old girl now dancing in front of her, that only a few hours before she had left the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven in tears after having been told that there were no records of her birth to be found and no information about her birth mother.
“Now let’s not get carried away, Martha dear.”
“Goodwin, you’re so serious suddenly. When you know, you know, right?”
“You’ve only just met and for no more than an hour. I’m only saying it would be prudent to be cautious.”
“He’s handsome, isn’t he? I’ve never seen such a handsome man. He has the kindest eyes. They’re the prettiest gray, and they looked at me so intensely. Am I wrong to think he liked me too?”
“Of course he liked you, Martha dear. You’re a lovely girl. He’d be blind if he didn’t see how lovely you are.”
Martha threw her arms around her old nanny, which took Mrs. Goodwin so much by surprise that she laughed. The girl’s ebullience was irresistible. “And his smile, Goodwin. His smile!” Martha gushed. “It had such mischief in it. Such charm. Really, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with such a captivating smile. He’s even more handsome than Clark Gable!”
To Mrs. Goodwin’s relief, she spotted a bench beneath a sturdy horse chestnut tree and sat down with a sigh, expanding onto the seat like a sponge pudding. “I must say, they were both very polite,” she said, recalling the boy’s father, Lord Deverill, with a rush of admiration. She was flattered that a man of his standing had treated her, a mere nanny, with such politeness and grace. She knew that he had invited them to join their table for tea on account of his son, who had clearly been taken with Martha, but Lord Deverill had extended Mrs. Goodwin every courtesy, when he hadn’t needed to, and for that the old lady was extremely grateful. “Lord Deverill is a gentleman in every sense of the word,” she added.
“I think I lost my heart the moment he came into the tearoom,” said Martha, thinking only of the boy.
“He couldn’t take his eyes off you. How fortunate that his father took the initiative, otherwise you might never have had the opportunity to meet him.”
“Oh, will I ever see him again?” Martha sighed, wringing her hands.
“Well, he knows where we’re staying and if we delay our trip to London a day, that might give him time to come calling.”
“I’m so excited I can’t stand still,” said Martha, clapping her hands together. “I don’t want to go home. I want to stay in Ireland forever.”
Mrs. Goodwin smiled at the naiveté of youth. How simple life seemed to be in the rosy glow of first love. “I don’t wish to bring you back to earth, my dear, but we have a mission, do we not?”
This gentle reminder deflated a little of Martha’s enthusiasm. She sat down beside Mrs. Goodwin and dropped her shoulders. “We do,” she replied. “You can be sure that nothing will distract me from that.”
“Perhaps JP can help us. After all, the aristocracy all seem to know one another.”
“No, I don’t want to share it with anyone. It’s too painful. I couldn’t admit that my birth mother didn’t want me and abandoned me in a convent.” Martha dropped her gaze onto the path as a red squirrel scurried across it and disappeared beneath a laurel. “I’m only just coming to terms with it myself,” she said softly, her exuberance now all but dissipated. “I won’t lie to him; I just won’t volunteer the truth. As you say, we’ve known each other no more than an hour. We can hardly expect to bare our souls.”
Mrs. Goodwin folded her gloved hands in her lap. “Very well. We’ll stay in Dublin for another day and then make our way to London. I’m sure we’ll be able to find the Rowan-Hampton family without too much difficulty. There can’t be many Lady Rowan-Hamptons, after all.” She put her hand on Martha’s and squeezed it. The fact that the name on Martha’s birth certificate was an aristocratic one made their task much easier than if it had been a common name like Mary Smith. In that case Mrs. Goodwin wouldn’t have known where to start. “No doubt we have a rocky road ahead,” she said. “We might as well enjoy ourselves before things get serious.”
Martha glanced at Mrs. Goodwin and bit her lip. “Oh, I do hope he comes calling.”
JP DEVERILL STOOD by the open window of his room in the Shelbourne Hotel and gazed out over St. Stephen’s Green. The smoke from his cigarette curled into the air before the wind snatched it away. His vision was trained on the latticework of branches rising out of the Green, but he didn’t see them; all he saw was Martha
Wallace.
JP had never been in love. He’d been attracted to girls and kissed a few, but he’d not cared for any of them. He cared for Martha Wallace, even though he had spent only an hour in her company. But what an hour it had been. He wanted to give her the world. He wanted to see her smile and to know that her smile was for him. He wanted more than anything to hold her hand, look deeply into her eyes and tell her how he felt. He dragged on his cigarette and shook his head in disbelief. Martha Wallace had pulled the rug out from under his feet and set him off balance. She had been a bolt of lightning that had struck him between the eyes, an arrow launched from Cupid’s bow straight to his heart. Every cliché he’d ever read now made sense to him, and he didn’t know what to do.
Thankfully Bertie Deverill knew exactly what to do. He had patted his son on the back and chuckled in a manner that left JP in no doubt that his father had once been quite the lady’s man. “If you want to see her again, JP, you must act quickly. Didn’t they say they were headed for London? Why don’t you buy some flowers and call on her at her hotel? You could show her the sights of Dublin. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you.”
JP replayed every second of their encounter in the tearoom downstairs. The first moment they had caught eyes, Martha had been watching him from the table where she sat with her companion by the window. He hadn’t noticed her at first, so busy was he greeting people he knew and settling into his chair at the table a short distance from hers. But then her gaze had attracted him and like a homing pigeon he had alighted there and something magical had happened. She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t striking and she certainly wasn’t the sort of young woman to draw attention to herself, but JP was astonished to discover that he did not want to pull his eyes away. It gave him a frisson of pleasure now to remember it. She hadn’t looked away either but remained locked onto his gaze, unblinking. Her cheeks had blushed, and a surprised look had swept across her face. It had almost been a look of recognition, as if she had seen something in his countenance and was startled to discover that she knew it. Poetry told of this kind of love at first sight, but JP had never given it much thought. He hadn’t ever considered or pursued such a thing. But now love had found him, and he felt as if it had cast a net and caught him in it.
The Secret of the Irish Castle Page 1