“I’m sorry that I didn’t ask your permission to court your daughter,” he said, looking up at Jack on his horse with a mixture of remorse and determination. “But I love her, and I intend to marry her.”
Jack looked from JP to Alana and didn’t know what to say. He certainly had no reason to prevent his daughter marrying a Deverill when all his life he had loved one. Alana now stood beside JP and took his hand. “I love him too, Da, and if he asks me to marry him I will accept.” She glanced at JP and grinned, and he couldn’t help but grin back, for she had agreed to marry him.
Kitty smiled as JP and Alana quivered with excitement. “Well, I can’t imagine why anyone would object,” she said. “Mr. O’Leary?” she added, suddenly remembering that Jack was the vet and she should, in public, treat him like one.
“Mrs. Trench, I see no reason either. Alana, whyever did you think I’d stand in the way of your happiness?” he asked.
“Because you hate the Deverills,” she replied.
Jack glanced at Kitty. “I do not.”
“Then you’ll allow us to marry?”
Jack looked at JP and tried to be serious. “Mr. Deverill, if you would be so good as to come to my house tomorrow morning, I will receive you and you can ask me then, formally, for my daughter’s hand.” Kitty envied JP for the ease with which he would marry the woman he loved. She looked at Jack and knew that he was thinking the same thing. Kitty’s brother and Jack’s daughter would enjoy the life together in Ballinakelly that they had been denied. It was impossible not to notice the irony and to be a little saddened by it.
“We will leave you,” said Jack, pulling his horse away. “Mrs. Trench has taken the trouble to find me; I must not delay her any longer.” But JP and Alana couldn’t have cared less about Jack and Kitty’s business; they only had eyes for each other.
When they were once more alone JP took Alana’s hands and smiled at her tenderly. “Will you marry me?” he asked.
Alana’s face flushed. “Yes, I’ll marry you,” she replied, her eyes welling with tears. “I’ve always known I would marry you, JP. From the moment you rescued me in the hills I was yours.”
“Then I don’t want us to have any secrets,” he said, kissing her. “I want to tell you everything and for you to know that you have healed me.” He took her hand, and they sat down again on the rug by the giant stone. He told her the whole story, of his birth in the convent, the death of his mother and the survival of his twin sister. He didn’t spare her any details but told her frankly and dispassionately. All the while he held her hand and she listened without interrupting. “Martha went back to America and I went into the RAF. I never thought I would love again. But you wrote to me and I found myself sharing things with you that I never shared with anyone else, even Kitty. When I came to find you in the spring, I didn’t expect to fall in love with you. The last time I saw you, you were a little girl. But I fell in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you, and every day I have grown to love you more. I want you to know everything, Alana, because I don’t want there to be space between us. Do you understand? I don’t want anything to ever come between us from secrets or misunderstandings. I want to always tell you the truth.”
“And I will always tell you the truth,” she replied, gazing deeply into his eyes.
“You’re not shocked by my story?”
She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t change who you are. I’m sorry you were hurt over Martha. Perhaps you’ll meet again one day and be able to enjoy a normal relationship of brother and sister. I don’t own your past, JP, but I want to own your present. At least, I want to be the only woman you love now.”
“And you are,” he said.
“And the only woman you’ll love in your future.”
“And you will be,” he added.
“Then I give you my heart forever and al0ays.”
“And I will treasure it.”
“And I will treasure yours, JP. You won’t ever suffer again in love, I promise.”
Chapter 25
In the last week of August two Americans arrived in Ballinakelly, a father and son returning to find their roots. The father was in his early fifties, handsome with a low brow, thick gray hair and a moustache. His eyes were deep-set and as blue as a lagoon. His son looked nothing like him. He was dark-haired and skinny with a long weaselly face, swarthy skin and small hazel eyes. They wandered into O’Donovan’s and ordered stout, and the room was silenced. Mrs. O’Donovan was not one to hold her tongue. “So, where are you gentlemen from in America?” she asked, putting two glasses of Guinness on the counter.
“Boston,” said the older man. “My grandfather was from around here,” he added by way of an explanation.
“Really? From where?”
“From here,” he replied. “Ballinakelly.”
“What’s your name then?” she asked.
“Callaghan,” he said. “Jim Callaghan.”
“Well, there are many with that name here.” She raised her eyes and beckoned over an old man in a brown cap and jacket. His white hair curled about his large ears and in bushy sideburns on his cheeks. “This here is Fergus O’Callaghan,” she said.
The old man approached the bar stiffly. “Jim Callaghan,” said the American, extending his hand. “This is my son, Paul.”
Fergus O’Callaghan wiped his hand on his jacket and then shook theirs. He grinned, revealing shiny gums and a few remaining yellow teeth. “Well, seeing as we’re related, you can buy me a drink!” he said, staring at the American boldly and a little unsteadily. Mrs. O’Donovan cackled, and a roar of laughter erupted from the locals behind them.
“Seeing as we are, I will,” said Jim with a grin that charmed Mrs. O’Donovan and disarmed Fergus O’Callaghan. “One for my cousin,” he said.
Mrs. O’Donovan shook her head. “Isn’t that grand,” she said, reaching for a glass. “There’s nothing like the generosity of family!”
“I suppose ye’ll be looking for a pair of colleens to carry back to Amerikay,” said Fergus, watching Mrs. O’Donovan fill his glass.
“Aye, you could travel farther and fare worse, lads,” Mrs. O’Donovan added. The older American laughed, but the younger one just scowled and wet his lips with Guinness.
Fergus O’Callaghan took his stout and shuffled back to the round table by the window where his friends were waiting for him. The chatter resumed, and father and son settled onto their bar stools with their Guinness.
“So where are you staying?” Mrs. O’Donovan inquired, because after they’d gone she didn’t want everyone asking her questions she couldn’t answer.
“At Vickery’s Inn,” the older man replied, which was a few minutes’ walk from the pub.
“And how long will you be staying?”
“Only a week.”
“That’s grand,” she said. “You didn’t come all the way from America just to find your roots, did you?”
“No, I had other business to see to in Dublin, so we thought we’d do a detour.”
“That’s grand,” she repeated. Then she looked at the young man. “Does your lad talk?”
“I do,” said Paul, glancing shiftily at the door.
“So he does,” said Mrs. O’Donovan. “Must be the stout.”
“I was told that this is the heart of the town,” said Paul, and Mrs. O’Donovan thought he was only making conversation to prove that he did indeed have a tongue.
“Aye, it is,” she said. “Everyone comes here.” She glanced at the young man’s father and smiled. “You might meet some more relations.”
He smiled back. “Then I’ll depart a poor man!”
“Do you know where your kin used to live?”
“It was a farmhouse on the hill, but it’s not there anymore,” he replied vaguely.
“Farmers, were they?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Your grandfather, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope you find what you’re lookin
g for.”
“Thank you, Mrs. . . .”
“O’Donovan. This is my husband’s pub.”
“And a very charming pub it is too.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
A COUPLE OF nights later Jack went to O’Donovan’s for a game of cards. Paddy O’Scannell and Badger Hanratty, who was now so old he needed a magnifying glass to see the numbers on the cards, were already at the table. They had substituted the Count with a young lad called Tim Nesbit, who had the best poker face in town and a keen eye for the ladies, but he didn’t buy the locals rounds of stout like the Count had, and the flamboyant Italian was sorely missed.
Everyone in Ballinakelly knew that Michael Doyle was behind the murder of Cesare di Marcantonio, everyone, it seemed, except Bridie, who, although aware of Michael’s sinister past, would never have believed her brother to brutally murder the man she loved. Those old enough to remember the War of Independence and the Civil War that followed knew exactly what Michael Doyle was capable of. The fact that he had reinvented himself as a pious man of the Church fooled no one. The high positions he held in the community simply disguised his ruthlessness, and everyone was as frightened of him now as they had been then. Niamh had disappeared the night the Count was murdered, and the O’Donovans’ explanation of having sent their daughter away to stay with relatives in county Wicklow did not convince anyone that the two events were not connected. The story got out and gossip boiled and bubbled and the Garda came around asking questions, but no one was going to rat on Michael Doyle; no one dared.
Emer had been a great comfort to Bridie, who was inconsolable. If Bridie knew the truth she didn’t have to face it because Michael weaved a likely tale of Cesare’s gambling and falling into debt and she was ready to believe that her husband had lost his life because of his refusal to pay the reprobates to whom he owed money. She turned a blind eye to the fact that Cesare had never had any qualms about squandering her fortune or, indeed, running off with it. Michael promised he would track down the criminals who murdered him and kill them himself, and Bridie believed him. She vowed to wear black for the rest of her life and found solace in church, much to Father Quinn’s delight, for with the Countess’s gratitude came large and frequent donations.
That night Jack found O’Donovan’s abuzz with talk of the two Americans who had bought a drink for Fergus a couple of evenings before. “Just say you’re called O’Callaghan,” Paddy told Jack as he dealt the cards. “And you’ll get a free pint!”
“What are they doing here?” Jack asked Paddy, who had heard it all from Mrs. O’Donovan.
“Looking for relatives, it seems,” said Paddy. “They’re from Boston.”
Jack frowned and rubbed his chin. There was nothing unusual about Americans coming to county Cork in search of their roots, but Jack’s suspicions were raised all the same. He put a cigarette between his lips and lit it pensively. It was years since he’d left New York in fear of his life after the plot to kill “Lucky” Luciano had failed. He didn’t imagine anyone was after him now, but “Bugsy” Siegel had put a high price on his head, so there was always a chance of some dogged bounty hunter tracking him down. He studied his hand of cards and dismissed his suspicions as paranoia. It was crazy to suspect the worst of every stranger who came to Ballinakelly.
Behind the partition, in the snug, the six women of the Legion of Mary, known as the Weeping Women of Jerusalem, sat in a row on the bench, drinking glasses of Bulmers Cidona and nibbling on Mikado biscuits like dainty mice. They were more excited about the arrival of the Americans than anyone else, for it gave them something new to gossip about. “The lad who looks like Clark Gable is a daily communicant,” said Nellie Clifford. “They keep the faith,” she added approvingly.
“They go to Mass every morning,” said Joan Murphy.
“Indeed, they’re already great pals with Father Quinn,” said Mag Keohane, whose elderly mongrel, Didleen, lay sleeping at her feet. “They’ve promised to put electric lights in the church and electrify the organ. It will be America at home. And to top it all they are keeping him supplied in whiskey, God save us!”
Maureen Hurley shook her gray curls. “Ain’t it amazing, Mag, the call of St. Patrick brings them all back to the land of the shamrock.”
But that night when Jack went to bed he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the American tourists, and he couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling that tugged at his gut. He didn’t want to frighten Emer with his own fears, so he kept his suspicions to himself, but he took her hand and held it until dawn.
The following morning Jack was summoned to see three lame horses, two bloated ponies and a goat that had eaten an azalea bush. Everywhere he went people were talking about Jim and Paul Callaghan. The women’s cheeks blushed as they repeated the compliments the older man had given them, and even the most hardened farmers were touched by their interest in their way of life. ’Tis true what they say, you can take the boy out of the bogs but you can’t take the bogs out of the boy, they said. There isn’t an ounce of grandeur in the two Yanks and they must have a fortune to be able to stay in Vickery’s Inn . . . I knew a Mossie O’Callaghan from Killarney when I was a young girl, and the older one is the dead stamp of him. They nodded admiringly, and Jack’s suspicions were aroused even further, for these two men seemed to be making an effort to talk to everyone in Ballinakelly.
It was true that there had been no tourism during the war and it was exciting to see new people visiting the area once again, especially from as far away as America. On top of that the Irish had a rose-tinted view of America because so many of them had emigrated there and sent money back to their poor relatives along with descriptions of the material comforts and marvelous opportunities they had found. But Jim and Paul Callaghan were, in Jack’s opinion, asking too many questions.
When Jack arrived home Emer was waiting up in the kitchen, darning.
“We need to talk,” she said, putting down her work, and by the expression on her face he could see that she was upset.
“What about?” he asked, hanging up his jacket and cap.
“It was something your mother said to me today about a comment she had heard Nora O’Scannell make.” Nora O’Scannell was Paddy’s wife, and she worked the telephone switchboard.
“What did she say?” Jack hoped she wasn’t gossiping about him and Kitty.
“You know those two Americans everyone is talking about?” she said.
Jack’s blood went cold. “Aye.”
“Well, your mother told me that Nora, who we all know likes earwigging down the line, was listening in on that Jim Callaghan making a call to America. I bet she wanted to find out whether he’s married or not. She’s sweet on him, you know. Says he looks like a film star. Anyway, she heard him say that he was going to give Jack O’Leary his present by the end of the week.” Emer looked at him anxiously. “Nora went up and told Julia with great excitement, wanting to know why the Yank is going to give you a present and what it might be. But I know what it is. It’s time, isn’t it, Jack?”
The ground seemed to spin away from him. He pulled out the chair and sat down at the table. “I thought as much,” he said, putting his head in his hands.
“They’ve come looking for you, haven’t they?” She turned to gaze out the window, into the black night, so he couldn’t see the fear in her eyes. “I thought we were safe here in Ballinakelly, but we’re never going to be safe. We’re always going to be looking over our shoulders, until you’re dead.”
Jack gazed at her steadily. “Then I have to get them first,” he said.
NEITHER EMER NOR Jack slept well that night. While Jack tried to think of a way to outwit the Americans, Emer prayed that they wouldn’t have to run away again. She liked Ballinakelly. She didn’t want to go and start a new life somewhere else. But in the dark she reached for Jack’s hand, and he took it.
For the first time in years Jack felt fear. It was cold and hard, like a wall closing in around him, and he s
queezed Emer’s fingers hard. “I love you, Jack,” she whispered.
Jack felt sick in his stomach for having betrayed her with Kitty. His life shifted into sharp focus at the terrifying thought of losing it, and all he saw was Alana, Liam, Aileen and Emer. Emer, his lovely Emer, who had followed him unquestioningly from one country to the next. “And I love you, Emer,” he croaked. “God help me. I’ve done some stupid things. Made some foolish decisions and yet you’ve never left my side. You’ve been my better half, Emer, and I don’t deserve you.”
“Now you’re being silly,” she whispered, snuggling up to him. “Any woman worth her salt would do the same.”
But Jack knew that wasn’t true. “No, Emer, they wouldn’t. You’re not like other women. You’re better.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re better,” he repeated. And I’ve been an idiot not to notice.
In the morning Jack kissed Emer good-bye and took his car straight to Michael Doyle’s farmhouse. He and Michael had fought side by side in the War of Independence and yet those years that should have bonded them had set them at each other’s throats on account of Kitty Deverill, who they both loved. After all that had happened in the past Jack and Michael could never be friends, but they had at least come to a mutual understanding. Jack knew that Michael was the only person who could help him, and, because of the dark things they had shared in their past, he would be ready to do so. However, when Jack entered the cottage he found Mrs. Doyle on her rocking chair, smoking a clay pipe and reading a tatty old Bible in the dim light through a pair of thick spectacles. “Michael’s gone to see Badger,” she informed him when he inquired after her son. “He’s good like that, is Michael. Poor Badger has no kin. Michael is everything to him now. But he’ll be back soon. He visits Badger every morning just to check he wakes up,” she added with a toothless grin. “You’re welcome to wait. I can wet the tea.”
The Secret of the Irish Castle Page 30