Daughters of Castle Deverill Read online

  Mrs Goodwin was about to put the hat on Martha’s head, when a white glove stopped her. ‘Let’s not ruin her hair,’ said Mrs Wallace. ‘You’ve tied those bows so beautifully, Goodwin. It would be a shame to squash them. We’ll hurry out to the car and try not to get wet, won’t we, Martha?’ Martha nodded, glancing swiftly at her nanny who smiled at her encouragingly.

  Mrs Goodwin clutched the hat and nodded. ‘As you wish, Mrs Wallace.’

  ‘Come along now, let’s not dawdle. There are presents awaiting you, darling, and cake. Didn’t Grandma say that she was going to get Sally to make you the finest chocolate cake you’ve ever eaten?’

  Mrs Goodwin watched mother and child walk down the steps to the driveway where the chauffeur stood to attention beside the passenger door, his grey cap already thick with snow, his hands probably cold inside his black gloves. She watched her little charge climb onto the leather seat followed by her mother. Then the chauffeur closed the door and a moment later he was behind the wheel, motoring off towards the road, leaving fresh tracks in the snow. Mrs Goodwin wished the child had worn a hat.

  Pam Wallace’s mother-in-law’s house was a short drive away. Martha enjoyed rides in the car and gazed out of the window at the pretty houses and trees, all covered in white. It looked like a winter wonderland and she was enchanted by it. Pam sat stiffly beside her daughter. She was too consumed by her thoughts to notice the magic of the world outside the car, too anxious about the afternoon ahead to even talk to the child. Her sisters-in-law would be there: Joan, with her four children aged between nine and fourteen, and Dorothy, with her two boys who were ten and twelve. It made Pam bristle with competitiveness just to think of them and she hoped that Martha would impress them with politeness and good manners. If she didn’t, they’d simply say that Pam had acted unwisely and bought a child with bad blood.

  Ted and Diana Wallace’s home was a large red-bricked house with white shutters, a grey-tiled roof and a prestigious-looking porch supported by two sturdy white columns. It was the house in which Larry had grown up and lived with his two elder brothers until he had married Pam at the age of twenty-five. Larry was everything Pam’s Irish Catholic parents had wanted for her: old American money, a fine education and a respectable job in the Foreign Service – well, almost everything; Larry Wallace wasn’t Catholic. He was well-mannered, extremely well-connected, impeccably dressed, good at sports, distinguished-looking and, most importantly, rich, but the problem of his religion was insurmountable to Pam’s father, Raymond Tobin, who did not attend the wedding. Having left their home and farm in Clonakilty after their son, Brian, had been murdered by the IRA in 1918 for having fought for the British in the war, Raymond Tobin was not prepared to compromise when it came to religion. ‘The Tobins have married Catholics for hundreds of years. I will not give Pamela Mary my blessing to go and marry a Protestant,’ he had said and he had cut his daughter loose. Hanora, Pam’s mother, put aside her reservations for the sake of her youngest daughter, and did her best to accept the man Pam had chosen for love. If losing her son had taught her anything it was that love was the only thing of real value in this world.

  Pam had married Larry at the age of twenty-two after a six-month courtship. They had been blissfully happy at the beginning and Pam’s efforts to win acceptance from this very East Coast American dynasty, who had also had their reservations about their son marrying a Catholic, had begun to pay off. But after two years of trying unsuccessfully to conceive, Pam’s doctor had confirmed her greatest fear: that she would never bear children. The agony of childlessness had propelled her, in desperation, to look into other options. Adopting a child was most certainly not common in the Wallace world. Ted Wallace said that one would never buy a dog without knowing its pedigree so why would one buy a child without knowing exactly where it came from? Diana Wallace worried that it would be hard to love a child who wasn’t one’s own flesh and blood. But Pam was determined and Larry supported her in the discussions that flared into heated rows around the Wallace dining-room table on Sundays. Pam’s father, Raymond Tobin, agreed with Ted Wallace, although the two men had never met. ‘You won’t know what you’re getting,’ he told his daughter. ‘Buy a son, Pamela Mary, but he won’t be a Tobin or a Wallace, whatever name you give him.’ Her mother, however, understood her daughter’s craving for a child and whispered that it would be nice to give a chance to one of those poor Irish babies who were born in convents to unmarried mothers too young to look after them. With her mother’s help Pam found an adoption agency in New York who had links with the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven in Dublin. Larry arranged to be sent to Europe to set up and advance diplomatic links with America and they went to live in London for two years – sailing over to Ireland in search of the baby they wanted so badly. Aware that what they were doing was unconventional they had made every effort to keep it secret. Only Larry’s family and Pam’s parents knew, for it would have posed too great a challenge to pull off such a deception in families as close as theirs.

  Martha was everything a privileged and pampered little girl should be. She was pretty, polite and charming, her features were refined and, in Pam’s opinion, aristocratic. Hadn’t Sister Agatha said that the baby’s mother was well-bred? On top of all that, Martha was the apple of Grandma Wallace’s eye. This was the first time Diana Wallace had ever thrown any of her grandchildren a birthday party. Pam should have been proud, but she was too worried to enjoy the moment. Joan and Dorothy would be there with their immaculate children who were small clones of their parents and destined to continue the bloodline, which was so important to Pam’s father-in-law, Ted Wallace. Who knew what Martha’s bloodline was? Pam turned to her child and there was a warning tone beneath her question. ‘You’re going to be a good girl today, aren’t you, Martha?’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Martha replied dutifully. Sensing her mother’s nervousness, she began to fidget with her fingers.

  When Pam arrived, Joan, who was married to the oldest Wallace boy, Charles, was already there, perched on the sofa in the drawing room beside Dorothy, who was married to the middle son, Stephen. Their mother-in-law, the formidable Diana Wallace, was holding court in the armchair. Joan’s slanting green eyes swiftly assessed the competition, then relaxed into a lazy gaze as she rated herself the better dressed of the three Wallace sisters-in-law. Her short auburn hair curled into her cheekbones like two fish hooks. Her pale lilac-coloured dress was fashionably low-waisted and worn beneath a long cardigan in the same colour as her hat and adorned with a large knitted flower just below her left shoulder. The impression was one of studied glamour for even the black shoes, with their T-bar strap, burgundy stockings and the long string of blue beads that dripped down to her waist had been carefully selected according to the trends of the day. Dorothy, who took her lead from Joan in everything, had tried and failed to create the same effect and simply looked dowdy. Pam, whose glamour was as equally contrived as Joan’s, only managed to look stiff and plain by comparison.

  Grandma Wallace’s face lit up when she saw Martha. She held out her arms and the child ran into them, knowing she would always be welcome in Grandma Wallace’s embrace. ‘Well, if it isn’t the birthday girl!’ said Grandma Wallace. ‘If I’m not mistaken you’ve grown again, young lady.’

  Pam noticed Joan’s lips purse at this display of affection between Grandma Wallace and her niece and she allowed herself a moment of pleasure. Joan had relished the fact that Pam was unable to bear children and had enjoyed being the first daughter-in-law to produce grandchildren. Ma and Grumps, as Diana and Ted had soon been called, had doted on those children. Grumps had taken a great interest in the boys’ tennis and golf and Ma had read the girls stories and encouraged them to play the piano and paint. Soon after, Dorothy had given birth to boys but Joan hadn’t felt threatened by Dorothy, her sister-in-law’s admiration for Joan was both eager and blatant and Diana Wallace had always had a special affection for her first son’s children. Then Pam and Larry had returned from Eu
rope with a baby.

  Pam would never forget the look on Joan’s face when she had first laid eyes on Martha. She had peered into the crib and sniffed disdainfully. ‘The trouble with adopting a child, Pam, is that you don’t know what you’re getting. Genes are very strong, you know. You might bring her up to be a Wallace, but she’ll always be who she really is inside. And what is that?’ She had shaken her head and pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Only time will tell.’ Pam was determined to prove her wrong.

  Pam took off Martha’s red coat and the little girl stood a moment in her blue silk dress with its white Peter Pan collar and sash. Not even Joan could deny the child’s charm and Pam swelled with pleasure because none of Joan or Dorothy’s children had ever possessed such heartbreaking sweetness. There was something about Martha that separated her from the rest. She was a swan among geese, Pam thought happily, an orchid among daisies. A moment later the other children appeared, flushed from having been tearing around the house playing hide and seek. A pile of presents had been arranged on the top of the piano and one by one Martha was presented with the shiny packages, tied up with vibrantly coloured ribbons and bows. She opened them carefully, with the help of her cousins, and gasped with pleasure when the gifts were revealed. She knew better than to grumble about the ones that didn’t appeal to her, and was gracious with her thank-yous, aware all the time of her mother’s sharp but satisfied gaze upon her.

  Tea was in the conservatory, which had been decorated with pretty paper streamers and brightly coloured balloons. The children drank orange juice and ate egg and ham sandwiches and wolfed down the birthday cake, which Mrs Wallace’s cook had made in the shape of a cat. Martha’s face, upon seeing the creation ablaze with four candles, had broadened with a captivating smile.

  Grandma Wallace could barely take her eyes off her youngest grandchild and seized every opportunity to comment on something amusing that she either said or did. ‘Why, she’s adorable, Pam,’ Diana Wallace gushed. ‘She hasn’t even got a crumb on that darling dress.’

  Joan stood in the corner of the conservatory with a cup of tea and bristled with irritation. ‘It’s only because she’s adopted,’ she whispered to Dorothy, knowing she’d find an ally in her. ‘You see, Ma’s overcompensating to make Pam feel better. She’s overdoing it, if you ask me, for the girl’s an also-ran.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think she’s an also-ran, Joan,’ said Dorothy. Then just as Joan was about to take offence at Dorothy’s uncharacteristic disagreement, she added, ‘She’s peculiar. My George tells me that Martha has an imaginary grandmother called Adele or Adine or something. An also-ran wouldn’t have imaginary grandmothers. If you ask me, I think she’s psychic’

  Joan narrowed her eyes. ‘Psychic? Why, whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I think she sees dead people.’

  ‘You don’t think they’re imagined?’

  ‘No, I think she really sees dead people. I read an article in a magazine recently about psychic phenomena. Many small children have imaginary friends who aren’t really imaginary. Apparently it’s very common.’

  ‘Well, none of my children had imaginary friends,’ said Joan.

  ‘Nor mine, thank goodness, and if they had I’d have quickly smacked it out of them! I’m not sure Stephen would approve of such a thing.’

  ‘Martha might be cute now,’ Joan pointed out. ‘But she could be trouble later. At least we know with our children where their faults come from.’

  ‘Oh, we do indeed, Joan.’

  ‘Family faults are somehow palatable, but . . .’ Joan sighed with ill-concealed Schadenfreude. ‘Martha’s faults will always be mystifying.’

  After tea when the family settled into the drawing room again, Ted Wallace strode into the house with his second son, Stephen, having enjoyed a long lunch at the golf club. Much to Ted’s disappointment golf hadn’t been possible on account of the thick fleece of snow covering the course. However, both men were in good spirits after eating with friends and finishing off with a game of billiards. Ted was an enthusiast of any pastime which involved a ball and Stephen had inherited not only his father’s love of sport but his aptitude for it. They walked in with their bellies full of lunch, laughing as they relived their victory at the billiard table.

  The grandchildren stood politely and greeted their grandfather who was a tall, imposing-looking man with strong shoulders, straight back, thick grey hair swept off a wide, furrowed forehead and a face that, though he was fifty-nine, was still handsome. Ted Wallace was much more interested in the boys, for like him, they were keen games players, but he had a kind word or two for the girls, a comment on their pretty dresses or a question about their pet rabbit or dog. After that, the children ran off and he stood in front of the fireplace to puff on a cigar while Stephen took the place on the sofa beside his wife, lay back against the cushions and stretched out his long legs with a contented sigh.

  ‘It’s going to snow all night by the look of things,’ said Ted. ‘I wouldn’t leave your departure too late. The cars will have trouble in the road with this snow. Not that Diana and I wouldn’t be delighted for you all to stay over.’

  ‘Dear God, I’m not wearing the right shoes to walk in the snow! If the car gets stuck I’m getting stuck with it,’ said Joan. ‘Are you sure it hasn’t settled already?’ She threw her gaze out of the window apprehensively.

  ‘It’ll be good for another hour or so,’ her father-in-law replied. ‘And you haven’t got far to go.’ It was true, Ted and Diana Wallace’s sons had all managed to find houses within a few miles of their parents, such was the enduring strength of the apron strings.

  ‘I’ll call the children,’ said Dorothy, standing up.

  ‘So, how was the party?’ asked Ted through a cloud of cigar smoke.

  ‘Oh, Martha’s had such a lovely time,’ Diana answered. ‘She’s a little treasure.’

  ‘It’s so nice to see her with her cousins,’ said Joan. ‘She’s really one of us, isn’t she?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Pam, a little too quickly. ‘It was sweet of you, Ma, to throw her a party. She’s loved every minute.’

  Diana gave a mellifluous laugh. ‘I’m her favourite grandmother, Pam. I have to do everything I can to remain on top.’

  ‘It’s hard competing with an imaginary one,’ Joan said, a devilish smile creeping across her face.

  ‘Does she have an imaginary one?’ Stephen asked, putting his hands behind his head and yawning.

  ‘Ah, here she is. Why don’t we ask her?’ said Joan as Martha trailed into the room behind the older children.

  ‘Really, I don’t know what Joan’s talking about,’ said Pam uneasily.

  ‘I’m not making it up. Dorothy, what is she called, Martha’s imaginary grandmother?’ Dorothy blanched in the doorway and looked confused. She clearly didn’t want to be seen to be making trouble.

  ‘Help us out, dear,’ said Joan to the little girl. Martha glanced anxiously at her mother. Joan tapped her long talons on the arm of her chair impatiently. ‘Well, speak up, dear. What’s the name of your imaginary, or perhaps not imaginary, grandmother? We’re all longing to hear.’

  Pam stood up and took her daughter by the hand. ‘Come along now, darling, we have to get home before we get snowed in.’ She turned to her sister-in-law and her face hardened. ‘Sometimes, you can be very unkind, Joan.’

  Joan laughed, opened her mouth in a silent gasp and pressed her hand against her chest. ‘Come now, Pam. It was only a bit of fun. You’re much too oversensitive. It’s one thing for Diana to compete with Grandma Tobin but to compete with a ghost is even beyond the capabilities of Grandma Wallace!’ she said.

  Diana shook her head. ‘There’s nothing unusual about having imaginary friends. Martha is on her own so much that it’s perfectly normal to invent friends to play with. I don’t mind you having another grandmother, Martha. So long as she’s as nice to you as I am!’ Martha smiled although her eyes glittered with tears.

  Mrs Goodwin noticed
that Martha was very subdued when she returned home. Mrs Wallace told her that the child was simply tired, but later that evening, after Martha had been put to bed, Mrs Goodwin eavesdropped for the second time. This time she hadn’t stumbled across the open door by accident but by design. It wasn’t like Martha to be so quiet and solemn, especially after a birthday party. Mr and Mrs Wallace were in the drawing room, enjoying a drink before dinner. Mrs Goodwin hovered outside, ears picking up the relevant snippets of conversation.

  ‘If she were our biological daughter I wouldn’t mind her faults, or eccentricities as you call them, because they’d be family faults I’d recognize, but since she comes from we don’t know where, I can’t help worrying that she’s different. I don’t want her to be different, Larry. For her to fit into the family, she has to be the same as all the other children. Don’t you see?’

  ‘I think you worry too much. She’ll grow out of it when she starts going to school and making proper friends.’

  ‘I don’t want to wait that long. I want to sort it out now.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I’ll take her to see a doctor.’

  Larry laughed. ‘She’s not sick, Pam.’

  ‘Talking to people we can’t see is a kind of sickness, Larry. It’s certainly not normal.’ Pam’s voice had now gone up a tone. Mrs Goodwin put her hand to her throat. What would a doctor make of Martha’s ‘gift’ and how would he ‘cure’ it? She heard Mr Wallace sigh. He didn’t have much patience for domestic matters.

  ‘Whatever you think, Pam. If it gives you peace of mind to have some doctor say it’s perfectly normal to talk to daisies, be my guest.’

  ‘Mary Abercorn has suggested a man in New York who treated her son for anxiety. Bobby is now the most carefree young man you’d ever meet, so he must be good.’