The Secret of the Irish Castle

by Santa Montefiore

  Michael didn’t move but watched Grace languidly from beneath his cap, blowing cigarette smoke into the air. Mrs. Doyle thought that that was no way to greet a lady, but she wouldn’t be telling Michael. He had been the head of the family ever since his father had been murdered by a tinker and Mrs. Doyle knew better than to tell him anything. He watched Grace approach in her pale summer coat and hat. The wind caught the coat and flicked it up, exposing a flash of leg and the fine dress she was wearing. She was still attractive, there was no doubt about that.

  “So, what brings you to my door, Grace?” he said quietly when she reached him.

  She put a hand on her hat to stop it blowing away. The sunshine lit up her face, turning her skin to amber. “I have news that might interest you,” she replied, and her lips curled like a secretive cat.

  “Go on.”

  “I have used all my contacts, Michael, this side of the Atlantic as well as the other, and I have some information about your brother-in-law that might interest you.”

  “If you’re going to list the women he’s bedded, you can save your breath because I already know.”

  Grace smiled, and Michael’s interest was aroused, for there was something of the old Grace in it, the one he had taken in the farmhouse on the Dunashee Road. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette on the wall. “The Count is not really a count at all,” she went on, and watched Michael catch his breath. His surprise gave Grace a tremor of pleasure. “In fact he’s not even Italian,” she added.

  “Jesus, Grace!” Michael shook his head.

  “He’s Albanian.”

  “Albanian?”

  “His family is from Tirana. But his father did move to Italy and Cesare was born there, but both his parents are Albanian and they were poor. It appears that his father, whose real name was Besmir Zaharia, was a gardener for the Barberini family in Rome. He got involved in some sort of shady business on the side, made some money, then left in a hurry, taking his wife and son with him. He owed money, apparently, and had to flee for his life. Besmir invented the title Count Benvenuto di Marcantonio when he moved to Argentina, and was obviously an accomplished con artist because he fooled everyone. He got involved in industry and farming, exporting beef and the like, but he was one of those entrepreneurs who quickly make a fortune then lose it. He’s infamous in Buenos Aires for gambling and womanizing and, from what I hear, his wife, who claims to be an Italian princess, has left him. I doubt Cesare has had anything to do with his father for years. Cesare left Argentina and made a career out of leeching off rich people. He’s got charm and charisma and a title.” She grinned knowingly. “Americans love a title! I’m afraid they are as much related to the Popes of Rome as you or I. Those silly bees he’s stuck above the door of the castle are nothing but fantasy.”

  “A fantasy financed by my sister’s money,” Michael added grudgingly.

  “Speaking of her fortune, Cesare has managed to manipulate her into giving him total control of her money.”

  “I thought as much. She’s as blind to his faults as she is to his intentions.”

  Grace arched an eyebrow. “You think he’s planning on running off with her money?”

  “Do you think a man like him is going to spend the rest of his life in Ballinakelly? The only reason he’s lasted so long is because of the war. Believe me, the moment it’s over he’ll be out of here like a devil on horseback.”

  “Ruining Bridie in the process,” Grace added. Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Who’s to say his parents didn’t dupe him along with everyone else?” Grace suggested. “Perhaps he’s an innocent.” She shrugged, as if giving him the benefit of the doubt, then dismissed the idea with a shake of her head. “But if you ask me, Cesare is an adventurer and a fraud. I sensed he was so the first time I met him, but I didn’t realize how deeply deceitful he was.” Then, remembering suddenly that she was speaking of Michael’s sister’s husband, she pulled a sympathetic face and added, “I’m so sorry for Bridie, Michael. I fear Cesare has taken advantage of her.”

  Michael didn’t reply. Grace watched him and thought how the passing of the years had only enriched his allure. His skin was weathered, the lines around his mouth and eyes deeper and his hair now streaked with gray, but his eyes were still black and pernicious even though he claimed to be leading a pious life, serving the community and the Church. Grace was certain that his lust simmered beneath as it always had, like lava beneath a hard crust. She could almost feel it in the space between them, as if it seeped through the cracks in his chilly veneer.

  “And you’re sure about your sources?” Michael said at last.

  “I’m very sure. I have sources in both Italy and Argentina.” She didn’t mention Beaumont Williams, Bridie’s attorney in New York, who had been only too happy to help, for he had also had his reservations about the Count and done a little digging himself before Bridie had married him. He hadn’t dug deeply enough the first time, but the second time he had left no stone unturned. “So, Cesare’s real name is Zaharia,” she said. “Cesare Zaharia. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?”

  “It certainly doesn’t,” Michael agreed. He rested his dark eyes on Grace as if he were seeing her anew. “You’ve done well. Back to your old form, aren’t you?”

  She smiled coyly. “We had fun once, didn’t we? Now we’re reunited in another plot. Don’t tell me you don’t get a buzz out of it.” He chuckled, and there was an intimacy in it that Grace hadn’t seen in years. It was a chuckle that seemed to say, How well you know me, Grace. “So, what are you going to do?” she asked him. “Surely you’re not going to let him get away with it?”

  “I’m going to sleep on it,” he replied.

  “Poor Bridie. I gather he’s bedding Niamh O’Donovan,” she added.

  “It appears so,” Michael said gravely. “But this is no time to be rash. A foolish man would rush in and put a knife to his heart, but I’m not a foolish man. I will keep my powder dry. You did right in coming to see me.”

  Grace gave him her most charming smile. “We’ve been through a lot, you and I. I’m nothing if not loyal, Michael.” He gave her a look then that turned her stomach to jelly. It was a look that held within it the memory of long nights of pleasure, of a time when they had been coconspirators and secret allies, when he had known every curve and crease of her body because he had tasted them all.

  It required every ounce of willpower to walk away from him. If Mrs. Doyle hadn’t been spying on them through the window she might have thrown herself against him, but they were not alone and he was not ready for her yet. She had to make him believe he couldn’t have her. She’d whetted his appetite; that was all. Like the old tinkers—he would become wanton when hungry.

  Michael watched her go. She had an appeal that was born out of total self-belief. However, he had made a vow at Mount Melleray to uphold God’s Commandments and lead a reformed life. Grace was a married woman. It was going to take all his self-control to resist her, but resist her he would. As for Cesare, Grace was right; he would not let him get away with it. The question was, to what lengths would he go to stop him?

  Chapter 20

  Jack did not think about the future. In the past the future had been all he had thought about. He had dreamed of an independent Ireland and a life with Kitty. He had fought hard for both, but had won only a republic; Kitty had eluded him. He realized now that his youth had been wasted in dissatisfaction with the present. He had barely lived it, so busy was he thinking about what was to come and trying to manipulate it to his will. However, it is a fool who thinks he can control the future, and Jack was no fool. His life was much too complicated to hope for a resolution with Kitty. His dream of their living together in a cottage overlooking the Celtic Sea was never going to materialize now. All he could do was love her and accept the limited amount of time he was able to be with her. He had her heart; he knew he must be grateful for that.

  Jack loved Emer too, and he adored his children. His family lif
e gave him great joy and he was determined not to jeopardize it, but he couldn’t resist Kitty. He had tried. He had really tried, and in America and Argentina distance had made it possible, but now he was back in Ballinakelly he just couldn’t do it. He had thought his fury at her for not running away with him to America would have dampened his ardor. He had thought that he and Emer would be strong enough to withstand the appeal of an old love. He had thought he had changed. But he was wrong.

  The moment he had stepped onto Irish soil he had sensed Kitty’s presence, as if her perfume lingered in the very air he breathed. It had assaulted him, and he had felt light-headed with the sudden onslaught of memories. His heart had contracted with longing, and he had become once again the man who had stood staring out of the window of his cottage, willing himself not to turn around as Kitty left the house, mounted her horse and cantered away. He had become the rejected lover he had been when he had boarded the boat and sailed off to a new life across the Atlantic, a life he had dreamed of living with Kitty. It had all come flooding back then, on disembarking in Ireland, and although he had a wife and children, Kitty’s shadow had wrapped itself around him like an invisible cloak and however hard he tried he could not shake her off.

  Then he had seen her through the window of the milliner’s and he realized that he had been looking out for her from the moment he had arrived in Ballinakelly, glancing anxiously down every street, into every window, half craving, half dreading seeing her again. But there she was behind the glass, and the sight of her had rendered him powerless. Her face had been pale, her cheekbones more pronounced, her eyes darker, and on locking into his they had darkened further. He had tried to rouse his fury, to tell himself that she had hurt him, that she didn’t deserve so much as a smile, and he had turned away. But how he had longed to march into that shop and shout at her for her broken promises and her callousness, then take her beautiful face in his hands and kiss her.

  Later he had made love to his wife with a passion they hadn’t enjoyed since the early days of their marriage. Emer had laughed at his unexpected ardor, but he had known that it was Kitty who had aroused him. As he had tried to throw off her image it had remained between them so that he had had to open his eyes and gaze into Emer’s face, fearful that if he closed them again he would see Kitty.

  Anger was the only way he could deal with the conflict of emotions that played tug of war in his heart. If he stayed angry surely he’d be able to repel her. He remembered her as she had been that morning, sitting across the table from him, confessing that she was pregnant with Robert’s child and that she couldn’t go with him to America. He had concentrated on that. Not on the flame-haired girl with the impulsive nature and mischievous smile who he had loved from the moment he became a man.

  What had changed everything was Kitty’s remorse. She hadn’t had to explain herself; he had seen it in her eyes. Those gray eyes that he knew even better than his own. Her emotions had been laid bare as if she was saying, Take my remorse and my sorrow and my regret. Take it all and do with it what you will, but I will never stop loving you, ever. Because I can’t.

  He had seen her on her horse, on the crest of a distant hill, and he had heard her silent call as if it was carried on the wind. And resist her he couldn’t; because he was unable to stop loving her either.

  Now their notes to each other were left not behind a stone in the vegetable-garden wall at the castle but up at the Fairy Ring, beneath a stone hidden in a shrub. Neither of them dreamed of “what ifs,” for those days were gone. They accepted what they had, which was very little: kisses stolen in the cave on Smuggler’s Bay, embraces on the hillside concealed among the long grasses and gorse, snatched glances across the street in town. There was too much at stake to risk getting caught; too many people to hurt. And as impossible as loving two women seemed, Jack loved Emer, and hurt her he wouldn’t.

  To Kitty the fact that Jack was hers again changed everything about the world. If only the war would end and JP could come home then all would be well again. But the war didn’t look like it was going to end anytime soon. It seemed that the Germans had stepped up their air raids on British cities, and Kitty feared for JP in his Spitfire.

  JP hadn’t been home since before war broke out, which was now more than two years ago. The odd week’s leave had been too short to spend in Ireland, so he had stayed in Harry’s house in London, meeting up with Boysie and Celia. The three of them had plotted their return to Ballinakelly as soon as the war was over, and Kitty was heartened at the thought of being all together again, even though they would miss Harry dreadfully.

  IN THE SUMMER of 1942 Ethelred Hunt died, leaving Laurel alone without even her sister to comfort her. The shock aged her a decade in a day. She wasn’t sure where she was or what her name was, and Kitty, taking pity on her great-aunt, rashly suggested she move in with them until she felt stronger. Robert was appalled when Kitty told him but didn’t want to appear mean-spirited so agreed at once. Their daughter, Florence, on the other hand, who was now nearly sixteen, was delighted because she wanted to be a nurse and her parents had not allowed her to offer her services in England, where women like her were in great demand. She’d have her patient at last, even though Laurel would turn out to be a very cantankerous one.

  IT WAS ON a balmy July afternoon that the Biggin Wing had been detailed to fly to Northern France to escort the bombers home. As JP took off it occurred to him that he and Stanley had been in the squadron the longest of any of the men. It seemed like decades ago that he had gone for his interview at Adastral House in London. A lifetime ago that he had sat in a cockpit for the first time. He felt older than his years with the experience of a veteran. He barely recognized the boy he had once been. He thought of Jimmy then and the other men who had been killed in this senseless war, and for a moment he was filled with trepidation. JP never thought about his own mortality because there was no point. Fear was not something he allowed himself to give in to. Fear bred rashness, which in turn bred fatal mistakes. But somehow this afternoon as the ground fell away beneath him, he thought about death.

  Over France, just behind Lille, the skies darkened with Me 109s, and it suddenly occurred to JP that this could be it. The thoughts of death had been a premonition, for sure. His time was up. He gazed at the enemy in dismay. There just seemed to be too many of them. He felt once again like a bee that has flown into a swarm of hornets and realizes it won’t make it out. It is simply impossible on account of the sheer quantity of hornets. JP thought of the white cliffs, and his heart was seized with longing. He wondered whether he’d seen them for the last time. The R/T went quiet as the squadron concentrated on the battle. They were too busy for chatter; too busy fighting for their lives.

  Out of all the battles JP had fought, this was without doubt the most perilous. Unable to focus on a target all he could do was avoid being one himself. He flew his plane harder than he had ever done, aware that it was gobbling up fuel and anxious that he might not have enough to get back home. Indeed, he was very far from home. He looked around for his number two, or any other friendly fighter, but saw nothing, just the enemy on all sides. It appeared as if he was alone against the entire Luftwaffe. Less than ten minutes into the battle he began to ache all over. His muscles were burning, and sweat was pouring down his face and blurring his vision. He noticed he had two yellow-nosed 109s on his tail and weaved frantically in an attempt to throw them off. They were persistent, however, and for all his twisting and turning he couldn’t lose them. He was a target now, he thought with a sinking feeling, a dead man flying. “I’ll be joining you soon, Jimmy,” he said out loud, and a serenity fell upon him like snow. “I’ll be joining you too, Harry. Just make sure you’re there at my arrival, because I won’t know where to go.” Then he thought of Kitty, Robert, and his father, his niece Florence and little Alana, who thought she loved him. He couldn’t allow them to suffer. He just couldn’t. Martha’s tormented face surfaced in his fevered mind, and his hand clenched on the joystick.<
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  In one final, audacious move he turned, allowing the nose to drop. If he was going to go he’d sure as hell take those bloody Huns with him, he thought grimly. The plane juddered as he nearly stalled, but he managed to hold it together, just. He was facing the enemy now. He opened the throttle and went for them at six hundred miles per hour, firing madly. He knew he had taken them by surprise and grinned. Who would break first, he or they? Which of them had the balls to hold their course—or the madness? If they stuck it out there’d be one hell of an explosion.

  But there was no explosion. No death. Just the intoxicating sense of relief as the Germans broke.

  Glancing quickly at his instruments JP pulled back firmly on the stick and flew higher into the sky in a rollover, hoping there wouldn’t be anyone up there waiting for him. Keeping his eyes on the horizon he came out of his roll. No one was on his tail now. He was alone in the wide-open sky. Relief gave way to delayed fear, and he began to shake all over. He headed for those white cliffs, which he could just make out gleaming at him through the evening mist.

  JP arrived back at Biggin Hill, the fuel all but used up. He felt tired. Very tired. But this was a different sort of tiredness to the kind he was used to. It seemed very deep, right in the pith of his marrow. He was surprised and a little bewildered. After all, he’d fought many battles over the past couple of years and escaped death dozens of times. Why the nerves now? Why the trembling? Why the exhaustion? Why now?

  That evening JP realized that he wasn’t the only one to have noticed his tiredness. His Flight Commander informed him that he had done his time in battle and was to be sent to a new location to instruct. It was over.