But he stood beside her now, patiently, wondering what she was waiting for.
And then the statue moved. Martha caught her breath. Larry blinked. “Did that thing sway?” he asked. Martha nodded, afraid to speak unless she ruined it. It swayed again, indisputably so, from side to side. “Is someone up there playing a prank?” Larry asked, wandering farther up the road so that he could see behind it. But Martha knew. It wasn’t a prank; it was the Virgin. She didn’t know how and she didn’t know when, but Martha was certain that, in the end, everything would turn out all right.
Maggie O’Leary
Ballinakelly, 1662
Maggie first laid eyes on Lord Deverill on a drizzly morning in early spring, when, accompanied by an entourage of about fifteen men, he entered the small hamlet of Ballinakelly. He was mounted on a majestic chestnut horse, dressed finely in a crimson cloak, a wide-brimmed hat with an extravagant plume, high leather boots and shining spurs. His hair was a rich brown and curled in fashionable waves onto his broad and confident shoulders. But Maggie didn’t notice how handsome he was with his straight nose and pale gray eyes. Blinded by anger she stepped into the lane.
This man had stolen her family’s land. Land the O’Learys had owned for generations. He had knocked down their home and built a castle there, seizing their magnificent view of the ocean and all the memories contained within it. High gray walls now soared toward the sky where once the smoke from their modest chimney had gently wafted. Towers and turrets formed powerful defenses to protect this ennobled soldier from his enemies where, before, their small farmhouse had welcomed anyone who chose to stop by on their way up the coast. This castle was an affront to the people of Ballinakelly, an affront to the O’Learys—what was left of them—and a personal affront to Maggie, who was now responsible for her sister and her grandmother, who had gone mad with despair in the ramshackle cabin Maggie had built in the woods.
There he sat, the newly appointed Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly, speaking English, which Maggie did not understand. His voice had to compete with the wind that swept up the main street in insolent gusts as if it too wanted to see the back of him. Maggie stepped into the road, her Bandon cloak trailing in the mud at her feet. Lord Deverill stopped talking and watched her with interest. A man beside him raised his voice and placed his hand on the sword at his hip, but Lord Deverill lifted his glove to silence him and Maggie lowered her hood. She shook her head, and her long dark locks of tangled hair fell about her face and over her shoulders in thick, wild waves. Her anger did not, however, blind her to the expression of wonder on his face. She stared at him with wide green eyes and spoke the curse that seemed not to come from her but through her from some supernatural force beyond her control. “Is mise Peig Ni Laoghaire. A Tiarna Deverill, dhein tú éagóir orm agus ar mo shliocht trín ár dtalamh a thógáil agus ár spiorad a bhriseadh. Go dtí go gceartaíonn tú na h-éagóracha siúd, cuirim malacht ort féin agus d-oidhrí, I dtreo is go mbí sibh gan suaimhneas síoraí I ndomhan na n-anmharbh.” As she spoke her voice took on a mellifluous tone, like the hiss of an enchanted snake and she saw, to her delight, that Lord Deverill was mesmerized by it. When she was finished Lord Deverill turned to one of his men, and Maggie assumed that he was demanding the translation for the man looked reluctant and his face was gray with fear, but he finally replied in a loud and quivering voice for the whole party to hear. “Lord Deverill,” said the man, and a small smile crept across Maggie’s lips as she waited to see Lord Deverill’s reaction. “You have wronged me and my descendants by taking our land and breaking our spirits. Until you right those wrongs I curse you and your heirs to an eternity of unrest and to the world of the undead.” The men reached for their swords, but Lord Deverill seemed to make light of those dark words. When he turned his face away Maggie lifted her skirts and with the agility of a young deer disappeared into the cluster of thatched hovels.
She stopped running only when she reached the safety of the forest. When she was certain that she was alone she sank to the ground at the foot of a tree. Her body shook with nervous laughter. It amused her to think that she had not only bewitched Lord Deverill but snatched his heart as well. He has taken our land so I vow to take his heart and crush the life out of it with my own hands, she thought, picking a little blue gentian and twirling it between her finger and thumb. Having felt impotent for so long she now had a sense of purpose and an exciting plan.
Like a predator Maggie stalked Lord Deverill. She lurked outside the castle gates and watched him when he left and when he returned. She even dared sneak right up to the castle walls to peer in through the windows on dark nights when the rooms blazed with candlelight. She marveled at the luxury, she wondered at his privilege, but she didn’t expect to grow fond of the man.
From her hiding place at the window she watched him pace the rooms, his forehead furrowed with worry. She watched him playing cards with his friends by the large, vivacious fire and she sensed that his laughter was only for show, for when he knocked back the wine she noticed sorrow in the careless way he did it. What could he have to be sad about? she wondered. How could he be unhappy in a magnificent castle with such a beautiful view to please him? But there was a sadness in him that caught her off guard. She had expected him to be grandiose and pompous, but what she saw was a sensitive man with troubles on his mind and she found herself wanting to unfurrow his brow with her fingers and kiss those lips that so rarely smiled.
Sometimes he’d disappear for months and the candlelight glowed cheerlessly in only a few of the rooms in Castle Deverill as the servants looked after the place in his absence. Maggie suspected he’d gone back to London and wondered whether he had a wife there and how he spent his days. She imagined him dining with the King, which gave her a frisson of pleasure, but when she thought of his wife she grew jealous.
Years passed. Maggie knew not how many. She imparted messages from the dead, and her name grew infamous in county Cork. They said she was a witch, and those who visited did not stay long, but she didn’t care. It was her duty to be a medium between this world and the next. She didn’t think much about the curse she had put on Lord Deverill. It was long ago now, and Lord Deverill had grown into such a large presence in her life that she had almost forgotten her plan to crush his heart because a tenderness had arisen and attached itself to his name.
Then one day in late summer she was in the forest when she heard the rumbling of hooves and the sound of the huntsman’s horn. Birds took to the air, and small creatures dived for cover. Maggie saw a stag on a grassy knoll, a majestic, noble creature standing benign and pure. Then she saw the pointed barrel of Lord Deverill’s musket and her horror at the thought of that splendid creature’s destruction compelled her to act. Hitching her dress to her knees she hurried up the knoll and, as the stag leapt lithely away, the clouds parted and a beam of sunlight shone down upon her, as if some higher power was grateful for her intervention. Lord Deverill lowered the barrel and stared at her in amazement. The apples of his cheeks flushed and his lips parted and to her surprise her heart began to pound against her rib cage with desire, as if it too had forgotten that he was the enemy who had stolen her land.
She lowered her hood and gazed back at him. Their eyes met, and the forest fell silent around them like an invisible veil, hiding them from the world. Lord Deverill dismounted and threw the reins around a branch. As he walked purposefully toward her, Maggie hastened down the back of the knoll, knowing that he would follow; hoping that he would. She turned to see him on the top of the hill and smiled, inviting him to catch up with her while at the same time quickening her pace.
Deeper and deeper into the forest they went. The trees grew thicker, knitting their branches into a dark canopy above them. The birds ceased to twitter and only thin watery beams of light managed to make it through the small gaps in the leaves to illuminate their way.
Then he was upon her. He swung her around and pushed her against the trunk of an oak and pressed his lips to hers. She allowed
his tongue to slide between her teeth and explore her mouth with an urgency that enthralled her. This was the first time she had ever been kissed, and it aroused feelings in her that she had never experienced before. She felt a hot and aching sensation between her legs and a strong desire for him to touch her there. He was breathing heavily through his nose, like a horse that has galloped a great distance, and he fumbled with her laces to undo her shift. At last it came undone, and he let it drop at her waist. Her breasts, now exposed, were white and soft, and he cupped them with his hands and the sensation in her abdomen grew so strong as to be almost unbearable. He buried his face in her neck and licked her skin, and Maggie let out a low moan from the bottom of her throat as the feeling of his thumbs grazing her nipples sent quivers of enjoyment like hot arrows into her belly. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes as his fingers found their way beneath her skirt into the dark center of her longing. His touch was gentle and slippery and rhythmic, and the aching intensified until she lost control of her actions and of the thoughts in her mind and was only aware of this pleasure, tormenting her and pleasing her in equal measure, building and building.
At last he unbuttoned his trousers and released himself. He lifted Maggie’s leg and slid inside her where it was hot and wet. With a groan he began to move like a beast, and the excruciating feeling in Maggie’s belly began to build once again until she was aware only of that and the need to reach some sort of peak. Lord Deverill moved faster then and Maggie moved with him, then she gasped, as if the glorious sensation now spreading through her body was some kind of miracle, and let out a sharp cry. Every nerve seemed flooded with heat, and she shuddered as Lord Deverill expelled his seed inside her. Slowly they came back to their senses, dazed and flushed, hearts pounding against the bones that separated them. They were drenched in sweat and bathed in bliss. Weak in the knees they sank onto the soft forest floor.
Maggie knelt and pushed down her skirts, but she left her shift still hanging around her waist and her breasts exposed. She gazed at him, holding him in her thrall for a long moment. He stared up at her and his expression was of a man lost to love and lust and she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Has Lord Deverill given me his heart?” she teased, and he frowned because he didn’t understand her native tongue. Her laugh alarmed him, and he brought his left hand to his chest, where a gold band gleamed on his third finger. At the sight of the wedding band Maggie’s anger grew inside her like a maddened creature, reminding her of her curse and her vow and she pulled a knife out of her skirt and pressed it to his throat. She could end it all now, she thought. She could destroy the thief who had stolen her land. She could murder the man who had taken her but was married to another. But the fear that darkened his face made her lose courage and she pulled the knife away, laughing at her own foolishness; bewildered by her cowardice. It wasn’t compassion that prevented her from taking his life, but love.
Scared that he might turn the knife on her, she bolted into the forest.
Part Two
Chapter 14
Ballinakelly, summer 1939
If Bridie had wanted her summer ball to be the most spectacular that Ballinakelly had ever seen, she had succeeded. The driveway was lined with enormous flares, and the rhododendrons were at their most magnificent. The lawn was strewn with lavender that gave off its sweet perfume as the guests walked over it, and the trees and bushes had been lit from beneath so that, as the sun set, they glowed with a golden radiance. At dusk the castle was illuminated with so many lights it was a wonder that the ESB powerhouse in Cork had not collapsed under the demand for electricity. Inside the castle, the displays of lilies and roses were larger and more beautiful than anyone had previously seen. The ballroom mirrors glittered with the reflection of five thousand candles, and the great chandeliers, which had been polished until the glass pieces shone like diamonds, dominated in all their glory. Servants in livery attended to the guests’ every need, refilling the crystal flutes with the finest champagne and taking around silver trays of the most exquisite little canapés anyone had ever tasted. But Bridie had had very little to do with the arrangements. Grace had suggested she hire the famous Violet Adair, who organized the most lavish parties in London, and insisted that Bridie leave everything to her, explaining that Mrs. Adair was a woman of exceptional taste and, when unrestrained by miserly budgets, could create an earthly paradise that would dazzle even the most hardened partygoers. This elegant woman with a brisk, efficient manner and a perfectionist’s eye had exceeded Bridie’s expectations. And Cesare, with his hunger to be bigger and better than everyone else, had to admit that even he had never seen anything quite so impressive.
“My darling, you have made me the proudest man in the whole world,” he told Bridie, kissing her temple as they enjoyed one of the few moments they would have together in the entire evening. “Our guests will be talking about this night for many years to come.”
She swelled with pleasure. Pleasing her husband had now become something of a vocation for Bridie, who was aware that Ballinakelly had little to offer a cosmopolitan man like Cesare. The only thing he seemed to relish was the castle and playing cards in O’Donovan’s. Bridie was grateful to Grace for inviting the guests and relieved that they had agreed to come. Grace had not doubted they would; they were curious to see who had bought the castle, she had told Bridie, as well as unable to resist the allure of money and a glamorous title. Well, if that’s what it took to entertain her husband, Bridie was prepared to flaunt both her title and her fortune without restraint. She noticed that Cesare was running his eyes over the guests who were drinking champagne on the lawn. If she was aware that they lingered on the faces of the pretty young women, she chose to ignore it. Her husband had to be happy and that was all there was to it, regardless of the cost to herself or her purse.
With a deep breath, Bridie, in a green silk dress with a red rose in her hair, waded into the sea of strangers on the arm of her husband. She shook hands and smiled graciously, keen for Cesare to see that she was all that a hostess should be, and everyone smiled back with deference as if she were royalty, taking in the diamond earrings and the three-bees diamond brooch that embellished her dress. But soon Cesare had moved away, wandering deeper into the crowd, and she saw only his sleek black head rising above the rest as he introduced himself to the ladies. Without her husband at her side Bridie felt a sudden sense of drowning, of being out of her depth, and she searched anxiously for her brothers, Michael and Sean, who were somewhere in the throng. She was sure that these new people who scrutinized her saw her for what she really was, the grubby-faced and shoeless daughter of a simple farmer and the castle’s cook, and she felt exposed as a fraud. As long as she was in Ballinakelly she would never be free of her past—for she saw it reflected in the eyes of everyone who looked at her.
Bridie was relieved when at last she found Jack and Emer O’Leary, and for a blessed moment she could relax and be herself again. Only Jack and her family, who had known her since childhood, made her feel comfortable in her skin, reminding her through memory of who she really was. She rested her gaze on her old friend and was suddenly gripped by an aching longing to be by the river again, hunting for frogs in the undergrowth with Kitty and Celia while Jack stood on the bank watching them with his dog at his heel and his pet hawk on his arm. Life had been simpler then when she had been sure of her place in the world. Who was she pretending to be? she asked herself. A countess in a grand castle! The very idea of it was preposterous, but here she was acting the lead in the most unlikely of plays. Who was she trying to fool? Cesare? The Deverills? Herself? No amount of money could change who she really was on the inside. Bridie took a swig of champagne and laughed bitterly. But when Jack asked what she was laughing at, she couldn’t tell him. How could she explain that the last twenty years had been a farce?
Once everyone was assembled on the lawn the Count positioned himself on the raised dais that had been put there for this very moment and lifted his chin importantly as the
chatter hushed and the guests turned to face him expectantly. At that moment there was a flurry of activity at the French doors behind him and Lady Rowan-Hampton, escorted by a pair of servants, appeared in a stunning silk gown of the palest duck-egg blue and stepped onto the terrace. Every eye moved from the Count to Grace, who was no stranger to theatrical entrances. “I’m so terribly sorry to be late,” she said, beaming a wide and charming smile, hoping that Michael Doyle was there among the many faces to see her at her most splendid.
Cesare jumped off the dais and lifted her hand to his mouth. “My dear Lady Rowan-Hampton, the party was incomplete without you,” he said smoothly, kissing her glove.
“I interrupted your speech,” she said.
“Not interrupted, no,” he replied with a grin. “You have introduced me perfectly. How could I have thought of beginning without you? But now you are here, I can welcome our esteemed guests to our first summer ball.” He dropped Grace’s hand and retook his place on the dais. Grace stood to one side and pretended to be listening intently, while scanning the crowd and hoping that Michael might be close and that she’d get a chance to speak to him. As the Count spoke, enjoying the sound of his own voice and the sight of all those distinguished people listening, Grace thought how incredibly pompous he was. He puffed out his chest with great importance as he alluded to his famous Barberini ancestor, and Grace sensed once again that he was a brilliant fake. After all, who would know whether he was related to Maffeo Barberini? Who could say whether he was a count at all? She narrowed her lovely brown eyes and wondered whether, if she could discover some hidden truth about the Count, Michael might be keen to listen to her. She recalled that it had been the plot to murder Colonel Manley in the War of Independence that had first united them: might not another plot unite them again?
The Secret of the Irish Castle Page 17