“I saw a ghost!” he wailed.
“What are you doing in Eugenio’s bedroom?” Then she saw the sheet and the flashlight. “What were you doing, Leopoldo?”
“I only wanted to scare him,” he whimpered.
Bridie glanced at the bed. “Where is he?” she asked.
Then Cesare was in the doorway in his dressing gown and slippers, his expression grave. “You had better come quickly,” he said. Then he shook his head dolefully at his son, and Leopoldo felt as if his father had taken his heart and given it a hard squeeze. Bridie followed her husband down the corridor to the staircase. Now the entire household seemed to be awake and standing in the hall around Rosetta, who was on her knees, cradling her son’s limp body in her arms. Everyone stared, not knowing what to do.
Bridie saw her brother’s stricken face, and her hand shot to her mouth. Holding on to the banisters for balance she hurried down the stairs, feeling as if at any minute her legs were going to give way, almost hoping that they would because she was too afraid to ask the question. Was Eugenio dead?
“The doctor is on his way,” said Sean.
“Is he . . . ? Is he . . . ?” she stammered. Oh Lord, if you are a loving God, please don’t take him. She looked at Rosetta. Then she looked at the child. Then she saw his eyes open. He moved his arm. He tried to get up. Eugenio began to cry, and Rosetta, so relieved that he had come around, cried too. Thank you, God, Bridie thought. Thank you. Then she turned to see Leopoldo standing at the top of the stairs. He was no longer holding the sheet and the flashlight.
“What happened, Leo?” his father demanded. “What were you doing in Eugenio’s bedroom?”
Bridie replied before her son had a chance to. “He heard Eugenio screaming and hurried in to see what the matter was. Then he said he saw the same ghost that Eugenio saw. God save us, Cesare, but we must call Father Quinn at once and have him exorcise it. Whatever it is, it must go.” And she remembered Kitty’s ghosts, the Deverill heirs, stuck in the castle until an O’Leary returned to claim the land, and she wondered whether Kitty had really seen ghosts. Whether they were here, in the castle, and whether Leopoldo was seeing them.
Leopoldo gazed down at his mother and nodded. “The ghost that scared him scared me too,” he said.
Cesare’s expression softened, and Leopoldo felt his father’s hand loosen its grip on his heart. “You did well, Leopoldo,” he said. “Now go back to bed.”
“I’ll take him,” said Bridie, feeling sick for having lied.
When Leopoldo was tucked up in bed, his mother kissed his forehead. “My darling, sometimes well-intentioned games go wrong. This is one of those times. I know you didn’t mean to frighten Eugenio like that and it’s not your fault that he fell down the stairs. He’ll be all right, I’m sure of it.”
Leopoldo bit his bottom lip. “I didn’t mean to scare him, Mam. He’s like a brother to me. I wouldn’t hurt him.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” she soothed, stroking his dark hair off his forehead.
“Has he broken bones?”
“He might have.”
Leopoldo hid his delight at that possibility. “He was really scared,” he said, masking his glee.
“He must have been.”
“I saw it too. It had three heads. It was a monster.”
“Whatever it was, Father Quinn will make it go away.”
“Will he come tomorrow?”
“I’m sure he will.” She kissed him again. “You’re a good boy, Leo. Don’t worry about Eugenio. The doctor will be here soon and he’ll put him right. You sleep well.”
And for the first time in weeks, he did.
Chapter 12
Goodness! The shock of it. I’m still reeling!” said Mrs. Goodwin, lying in bed as the early-morning light shone in beams through the gaps in the curtains. Martha understood her to be speaking of Lady Rowan-Hampton, for the coincidence had been extraordinary, but Mrs. Goodwin was thinking of John Maddox. She had believed that the part of her he had once awakened had died upon their parting, but the previous night he had brought it back to life with one tender look. She felt as if she was young again with her whole life ahead of her, and this time Mr. Goodwin did not stand in the way, nor did her guilt or misplaced sense of duty. She was free. But she was old—was it possible that he still wanted her?
“I feel sick,” Martha groaned, rolling onto her side beneath the blanket to face Mrs. Goodwin. “I’ve felt sick ever since I laid eyes on her. She’s more beautiful, more charismatic, more sure of herself than any woman I have ever met. She doesn’t look like she’s spent the last seventeen years pining for her lost daughter.”
Mrs. Goodwin turned her attention to Martha. She wanted her to be as happy as she was. “My dear, you don’t know what’s in her heart. You have no notion of how much she might have suffered. Seventeen years is a long time, long enough to come to terms with your grief and accept what you have and not what you have lost.” Mrs. Goodwin knew that only too well. “She was very friendly. After all, she invited you to call on her.” She propped herself up on her elbow. “I thought her incredibly charming. She has a kind face, don’t you think?”
“She does,” Martha agreed. “I can’t believe I’ve found my birth mother. I thought I would feel ecstatic, but I just feel scared.”
“What did you expect, Martha dear?”
“I don’t know. An emotional reunion?” She smiled sadly at her own foolishness. “When one thinks of a mother one conjures up a universal image of motherhood. Lady Rowan-Hampton is almost too beautiful to be that.”
“Go and see her this morning and tell her everything. After all, what have you got to lose?”
Martha sighed. “Nothing I hadn’t already lost seventeen years ago.”
MRS. O’SULLIVAN WAS only too happy to arrange a cab to take Martha to Lady Rowan-Hampton’s house—Martha insisted to Mrs. Goodwin that this was a meeting she had to endure alone. As she left the inn she bumped into Reverend Maddox striding purposefully toward it. He had a spring in his step and a broad smile on his lips, and as he raised his hat and bade her good morning she didn’t imagine it was the sunshine that had filled his heart with happiness. They exchanged a few hurried pleasantries because Martha was keen to get to her meeting and Reverend Maddox was impatient to get to his. Martha climbed into the waiting cab as the rector disappeared into the inn. She suddenly wished she hadn’t been so self-absorbed and had asked Mrs. Goodwin how she and Reverend Maddox knew each other.
The cab bounced along the winding lanes that meandered up the coast. The day could not have been more splendid, but Martha barely noticed the sunshine bouncing off the water, creating the illusion of a million jumping stars, for her heart was full of doubt. Should she have come? Should she have dug into her past? Was this meeting going to give her the answers she craved? She thought of JP and wished he had come with her. She wondered whether she should turn around and go back to the inn and wait for him.
Before she could change her mind the cab turned off the lane and through a wide gap in an old stone wall. Lady Rowan-Hampton’s gray manor was large and imposing, positioned at the end of a long, sweeping drive. However, the somber facade was softened by wisteria, that Martha imagined must look glorious when in flower, and the symmetry of the two wings that sandwiched the center portion lent the house a pleasant harmony.
Martha took a breath as the cabbie walked around to open the door. She had arranged for him to wait. She wasn’t sure how long the meeting would take. If it went well she would send him away; if it went badly she’d be out within minutes.
She rang the bell and was greeted by a snooty-looking butler in livery who showed her into an airy drawing room of comfortable sofas and chairs arranged around a fireplace. It appeared to Martha that Lady Rowan-Hampton entertained a lot because the fire was lit and crackled hospitably. Unsure whether to sit or stand she went and stood by the window that looked onto the lawn at the back of the house. As she waited, her ears straining for the sound
of footsteps in the hall, she wrung her hands to stop them shaking.
Lady Rowan-Hampton swept into the room like a bird of prey, silently. Martha sensed she wasn’t alone and swung around. “I’m sorry, Lady Rowan-Hampton, I didn’t hear you.”
The older woman smiled graciously. She looked less formidable this morning in a simple green floral dress and short purple cardigan with her hair clipped in an untidy knot at the back of her head. “Please call me Grace, Martha,” she said, and extended both hands. Martha took them and noticed how radiant her skin was without makeup. Free of the dramatic use of artificial shadow her eyes appeared more gentle too, as if she had been wearing a mask the night before and was now revealing her true face, which was soft and maternal. Martha was heartened. “How lovely to see you,” she continued. “Wasn’t last night amusing? It’s always frightfully jolly at Bertie’s.”
“It was so kind of Lord Deverill to invite me,” said Martha.
“Any friend of JP’s is a friend of his and consequently a friend of mine. Please, do sit down.” As Martha perched awkwardly on the edge of one of the sofas a couple of maids walked in with trays of tea, cake and biscuits. Martha was beginning to realize that it was customary in Ireland to offer more than just cups of tea. “I’ve known JP since he was a little boy,” said Grace, and as she reached for the teapot Martha noticed the pretty gold bracelets at her wrists and the glittering rings on her fingers. Everything about Lady Rowan-Hampton exuded elegance and good taste. “He was such a little mischief, just like his father. They both have the same twinkle in their eyes.”
“Yes, they do,” Martha agreed. Grace handed her a delicate china cup of steaming tea. Martha took it and held it steadily, summoning all her strength to hide her trembling.
Once she had served herself Grace sat back in the armchair with a sigh. “Tell me, how old are you, Martha?”
“Seventeen,” she replied.
“The same age as JP. Such a shame he dashed off to London just as you were dashing over here. Really, Fate could not have been more unkind! But he’ll be back in Ballinakelly soon, and I’m sure he’ll take you into the hills. You know he’s mad about horses. They all are, the Deverills. It’s in the blood. Do you ride?”
“Oh yes, I adore it, but unlike the Deverills my family are not so keen on horses. My sister, Edith, can’t bear them. But I feel something very magical when I’m on a horse at full gallop.”
“Then you must come and join the hunt.”
“I’ve never hunted before.”
“JP will show you the ropes. It’s easy; you just follow the hounds and jump anything standing in your way.” They both laughed, and Martha began to feel less nervous. “How long are you planning on staying, or is that a silly question to a girl who’s just fallen in love?”
Martha blushed. “I don’t know . . . I mean . . . I’ll wait and see how—”
“I understand, my dear. I might look like an old sack of potatoes, but I’ve been there myself.”
“You couldn’t look less like a sack of potatoes, Grace,” said Martha.
“You must take your time, but I always think one knows right away. If you have that sort of heart, which I think you probably do, you just know. Am I right? I think I am.” She laughed again, and Martha imagined many hopeless men must have fallen in love with that smile over the years. It was irresistible. She wondered which of those men had fathered her.
Martha put down her teacup. “I need to tell you something, Grace,” she said, and she must have paled for Grace was immediately concerned.
“Of course. Is there something I can help you with? Are you in trouble?”
“No, no, not in trouble. Did I tell you that my mother was born in Clonakilty?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, she and my father were not able to have children, at least not when they married. Edith came after, you see, and she was theirs.” Martha noticed the baffled expression on Grace’s face and realized that she wasn’t making much sense. She plowed on nonetheless. “They desperately wanted a child so they came here, to Ireland, and adopted a baby who was born in a convent in Dublin.” Grace placed her teacup on the little table beside her and carefully folded her hands in her lap. Martha didn’t notice that she had begun to rub her thumbs together and that she was now looking more closely into her face. Martha was too frightened of her reaction to meet her eyes, so she dropped her gaze onto the carpet. “I didn’t know I was adopted until my aunt Joan told my sister, who told me. I found my birth certificate in a cupboard in my mother’s bathroom . . .” Her voice cracked.
“My name is on the birth certificate,” said Grace smoothly.
“Yes,” Martha replied. Now she dared to look at Grace. The older woman sat very still and composed, as if she had been told nothing in the least surprising or out of the ordinary.
Grace inhaled deeply. “My dear Martha, I’m afraid I am not your mother.”
Martha stared at her uncomprehendingly. “You’re not?”
Grace shook her head. “No, I helped a young girl who had got into trouble. I’m afraid the nuns used my name on the birth certificate so that the couple adopting would pay more. They specifically wanted a baby of noble birth.”
Martha didn’t know what to say. She stared at the woman she had believed to be her mother, and her heart caved in with disappointment. Grace got up and went to the window. She stood with her back to the room, gazing out over the garden as if searching for something hidden out there among the trees. Her hand rubbed the back of her neck, and if Martha had been able to see her face, she would have noticed a rigidity there as the need for self-preservation shifted into focus.
“An acquaintance of mine met your parents in London,” Grace continued without turning around. She had to think clearly, for much was at stake here. “She told me that they were looking to adopt a baby and I immediately thought of the young woman in my care. It was perfect timing.” Martha sat stiffly on the sofa, feeling nauseated, as if she were staring into an abyss and suffering from vertigo. “You were born and your parents came over to Ireland to collect you. The couple had said they wanted a baby of noble birth. They had been very specific about that. The young mother was adamant that her name was kept off the certificate, so I generously gave my name. It seemed the right thing to do. I never thought for one minute you would track me down years later, believing me to be your mother. I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Martha.”
“What was my mother’s name?” she asked in a whisper.
“Oh, I can’t recall.”
Martha thought it strange that Grace couldn’t remember.
Grace turned around. She knew her lie didn’t wash. “I will look through my papers,” she said with a rush of enthusiasm. “I will find her name for you. Leave it to me.” She smiled, and Martha’s hope reignited. “I helped your mother; now I will help you. I know where you are staying. I will find you.”
“What was she like, my mother?” Martha asked, standing up.
“Like you,” said Grace, and that was the truth. “She looked just like you.”
When Martha had gone Grace hurried to the telephone. She asked the operator to put her through to the White House at once. When Kitty’s voice came on the line Grace spoke plainly. “Kitty, we have a terrible problem. I need to see you and your father at once without a moment’s delay.”
“What is it, Grace?” Kitty asked.
“I cannot tell you over the telephone—those operators listen in and I don’t want them hearing this. I’ll meet you at the Hunting Lodge in half an hour. I hope your father is at home.”
MARTHA ASKED THE cabbie to drop her near the beach. She decided she would walk back to Ballinakelly from there. Her heart had contracted into a tight ball in her chest. It felt like a stone, hard, cold and very small. She needed time alone to think before facing Mrs. Goodwin and telling her the bad news. It had all seemed so positive when Grace had walked into Lord Deverill’s drawing room the night before. There, at last, was her b
irth mother, or so she had thought. But the tearful reunion she had dreamed of had been nothing but a mirage created by her wretched need to feel wanted. She should never have come, she thought now as she trudged through the long grasses down to the shore. She should have stayed in America instead of chasing this cloud. For that’s what it was, a puff of vapor, nothing more. She doubted she’d ever find her mother now.
Martha walked over the sand with her shoulders hunched and her hands stuffed into her coat pockets. The wind raced up the beach in gusts, snatching her tears and turning her nose red with cold. She felt as if she had lost her birth mother all over again, but this time it hurt because she thought she had found her. Grace’s face floated into her mind, and she cried all the more because she so wanted her to be her mother. Having thought her remote and unmaternal Martha now realized that she was perfect, in every way, and her loss felt even more acute for that.
KITTY AND BERTIE were waiting in the library when Grace hurried into the Hunting Lodge. They stood up when she entered and watched her close the door behind her. She waved away the offer of tea but requested a large glass of whiskey, and when they suggested she sit down she refused that too, preferring to stand. Her face was taut, the skin between the eyes pinched with worry. Neither Bertie nor Kitty had seen her so distressed. Indeed, Grace had always been a woman who was able to keep her composure under pressure; a mistress of pretense, a queen of deceit. But now she seemed to be unraveling, and the way she knocked back her glass of whiskey and asked for another filled both their hearts with foreboding. “What is it, Grace?” Bertie asked gently, putting a hand on her arm. “You must tell us at once.”
“Yes, Grace,” Kitty interjected, stepping closer. “Don’t keep us in suspense a moment longer.”
Grace looked from one to the other, and her brown eyes appeared suddenly feral, like those of a cornered animal. “I don’t know how to say this,” she said quickly. “I don’t know how to tell you without turning you both against me forever.”
The Secret of the Irish Castle Page 14