The Distant Shores Read online

  ‘That’s me,’ she replied chirpily, but the bitterness in his tone had not gone unnoticed.

  He reached for the packet of cigarettes. ‘You smoke?’ he asked, tapping it against his knuckle.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she answered.

  ‘Ugly habit,’ he said with a sigh, pulling one out. ‘One of the many things I ought to give up.’

  ‘I’m writing a history of the Deverill family,’ she said, aware that the sooner she told him the better. He might take offence if she waited until she’d drunk his tea and eaten his cake.

  He popped the cigarette between dry lips and flicked the lighter with a trembling hand. The end glowed scarlet as he drew in the air with a few short sucks. All the while Margot waited for him to respond. He narrowed his eyes and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Then you’re in the right place,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been fascinated by your ancestors ever since Grandpa started telling me stories of their antics.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re exaggerated.’

  ‘Perhaps. To Grandpa the Deverills were larger than life, so he may have embellished his stories to enhance the legend. I believe them, though.’ She gave him her most winning smile.

  ‘Is that why you’ve come to see me, because you need my help?’ He shrugged. ‘Not many of us around these days. Once we were a great number. A great family with a great house and a great history. Little great about us now.’ He sighed with resignation. ‘Every dog has his day.’

  ‘I’d prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, rather than interviewing vaguely connected people who are only able to give me gossip. I want this to be an authentic history of one of Ireland’s greatest families.’

  ‘The rise and fall,’ he said glumly.

  ‘If you’re speaking of the castle, I would say the rise and fall and rise again.’

  ‘I’m speaking of us both. The castle and the family are one. Neither can exist without the other. It is only a matter of time before the castle is a ruin once again, as I am.’ He chuckled joylessly.

  ‘I don’t think Mrs de Lisle would like to hear that.’

  ‘Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum.’ He spoke slowly and deliberately as if he were casting a spell.

  ‘A Deverill’s castle is his kingdom,’ Margot translated.

  ‘You know our motto.’

  ‘You’d be surprised by how much I know already. I’ve done quite a lot of research.’

  ‘There is a dark magic in that motto. Like I said, our destinies are intertwined. But Mrs de Lisle does not know that, otherwise she would not have put her money there.’

  ‘And it all started with Barton Deverill, did it? This intertwining of destinies.’

  ‘It was never just a castle to him. It was the seed which sprouted a beanstalk.’

  ‘In which case I’d like to think of the Deverills as the giants at the end of the beanstalk.’

  ‘Am I Jack, I wonder? The one who cuts it down and kills the giants?’ He gave her another sorry smile.

  Margot laughed sympathetically. ‘No, Lord Deverill. You’re one of the giants!’ He laughed then too, both flattered and disbelieving, and she knew that he liked her. ‘Come, I want to show you something.’ Mrs B appeared in the doorway with a tray. ‘Put that on the table, Mrs B. We’ll be right back.’ Mrs B nodded and moved aside to let them pass. Margot noticed a startled look on her face. She noticed, too, a deep sadness in her eyes.

  JP led Margot to the other side of the house, near the kitchen, and unlocked a door into the cellar. ‘This used to be full of wine,’ he told her. ‘Now it’s a storeroom. Come.’ She followed him down the wooden stairs. It was cold beneath the floorboards and smelt of dead mice and sour, stagnant air. Margot did not imagine Mrs B came down here very often, if ever.

  ‘All those boxes contain family records.’ He pointed at the two dozen cardboard boxes carelessly piled into unsteady towers. ‘I’m not even sure what’s in them myself. Diaries, I suspect, letters, newspaper cuttings, photograph albums. I brought them from the bowels of the castle when I moved. They were spared the fire, being underground. You might find some useful things. Of course, you might find a whole heap of rubbish. I suspect, though, that you’ll find what you’re looking for. Then you and I can talk.’

  Margot couldn’t believe that he was going to let her loose among all these boxes. He didn’t even know her.

  ‘Why are you helping me, Lord Deverill?’ she asked.

  ‘Because it will give me the opportunity to put the record straight.’ He turned and looked at her directly. His grey eyes suddenly steady and determined. ‘Do we have a deal, Miss Hart?’

  ‘We do, Lord Deverill.’

  ‘Good. When would you like to begin?’

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when Margot left the Hunting Lodge. The sun was a fiery coal, hovering above the horizon, setting it aflame with pinks and golds. JP watched her drive away then closed the door. He turned to Mrs B who stood in the hall, shivering in the damp that was rising off the water nearby. The damp that caused her joints to ache; however there was nothing for it but stoicism, a quality she had in abundance. ‘Miss Hart will be a regular visitor from now on,’ JP informed her. ‘I’d like those boxes brought up to the games room. You can light the fire in there so it’s warm for her while she works.’

  ‘I’ll ask the boys to do it tomorrow, m’lord,’ Mrs B replied. The boys were Tomas and Aidan O’Rourke who worked in the garden, cut logs and saw to the general maintenance of the place.

  ‘She’s researching a book on the Deverills, Mrs B. I suspect all the family secrets are going to be brought into the light.’ He raised his eyebrows and grinned. Mrs B had not seen him this animated in a very long time. He rubbed his hands together. ‘A few cages are going to be rattled, Mrs B. A few noses put out of joint.’

  Mrs B frowned. She wasn’t sure whether to look disapproving or to mirror his gleefulness with a smile. She didn’t have much to smile about these days. The house was oppressive, her master’s misery infectious. The long days of nothing happening, depressing. Yet she had worked for his family for over sixty years. She remained out of a mixture of loyalty and habit, and there was always the hope that things would get better. That they might return to the way they were when they’d moved into the castle after Bridie Doyle, the Countess di Marcantonio, had left it to JP in her will. Mrs B had felt sorry for the Countess’s other son Leopoldo, who had expected to inherit it. After all, he was the only child of the Count and Countess. But JP was a Deverill, the illegitimate child of Bertie Deverill and Bridie, the child brought up by Kitty Deverill, his half-sister, and the rightful heir. He had believed his mother had died when he was young because Kitty had told him it was so. What a shock it must have been to discover, only after she had died of cancer, that his mother had been living in the castle only a mile or so across the estate. He had never had the chance to talk to her, to get to know her, and she had never had the chance to put her arms around him, her lost child.

  Mrs B’s heart had broken for all of them. Leopoldo had much to be bitter about, but so had JP. No one ever considered that. They thought only of the blessing of that castle being restored to the family and the fortune that went with it, for the Countess had been very rich. But Mrs B knew the value of things. She’d watched JP’s world disintegrate around him in the twenty-two years he had lived in that castle, and she was pretty sure she knew why. The Deverills had always put much too much emphasis on their family name and their illustrious history. But Mrs B knew there was no real value in a family name or a castle. She knew this because she had suffered loss, and once a person has crossed that bridge of sorrow things like castles and family names were like ashes in one’s hand. That is what loss had taught her. But some people took a lifetime to learn that simple truth.

  ‘Yesterday is history and tomorrow is a mystery. Is it wise to dig up the past, m’lord?’ she asked gently. She was aware that he wasn’t in his right mind, on account of his drinking
, and felt it was her duty to guide him as subtly as she could.

  ‘Oh no, Mrs B, it’s not wise at all. But as you know, I’ve never been very wise, or lucky.’

  ‘We make our own luck, m’lord, and wisdom is learned through experience and mistakes. You have had enough experience and mistakes to have learnt the wisdom of Solomon, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘If you’re worrying what the rest of the family will think, Mrs B, you know I don’t care about them and they care even less about me.’

  ‘Get away with you now, that’s not strictly true and you know it,’ she said and her face was full of compassion and pity, because he had brought most of his troubles upon himself.

  ‘It’s only a bloody castle!’ he protested, striding off down the corridor.

  ‘Bricks and mortar and a house full of trumpery,’ she agreed, and yet she knew how much the loss of it had wounded him.

  * * *

  JP was pouring himself a large glass of whiskey and looking forward to an evening alone by the fire, watching the television, when Colm Deverill strode into the library. JP was surprised by this unexpected visit, because he didn’t get many visitors these days. ‘Colm?’ he said, looking up from the drinks table, glass in one hand, whiskey decanter in the other.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ said Colm. His son always made him think of his ex-wife, but in truth he’d taken the best from both parents. Dark wavy hair, eyes the colour of cobalt, a straight nose and a sensual, honest mouth.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ JP asked, holding up the decanter to tempt him.

  ‘No thanks. I won’t be staying long.’

  ‘I’d invite you for supper, but Mrs B has only left soup and cold meat for one.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll be heading home.’

  It was awkward, their conversation. Standing the width of the room apart, the air between them charged with both guilt and blame. It was hard to believe that Colm had once worshipped his father. But that was before. ‘So, this isn’t a social visit?’ JP was making a joke, bitter though it was. No one visited him.

  ‘I’ve come to warn you about a girl called Margot Hart. She’s staying up at the castle and she’s writing a history of the family.’

  JP nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve already had the pleasure.’

  A shadow of anxiety darkened Colm’s face. ‘She’s already been here?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, you just missed her.’

  ‘And what did you tell her?’

  ‘I invited her in and gave her a cup of tea and some cake. I was very hospitable.’

  ‘I hope that’s all you gave her.’

  JP took a swig of whiskey and gave a little shiver as the heat of it reached his stomach. ‘She’s a friend of the family,’ he added.

  Colm sighed. ‘That doesn’t mean she’s going to write a glowing book about us.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s very interested in you, Colm.’

  Colm ignored him. Alcohol made his father mean. Colm was used to it. ‘As good as her intentions may be, it will be impossible to write a history book without including all the bad stuff.’

  JP raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, we do have a colourful history,’ he conceded.

  ‘We do and as far as I can tell, it just keeps getting more and more colourful. So I’m giving you a word of advice, Dad. Don’t talk to her. She can get tea and cake at the hotel.’

  JP took another swig. ‘Trouble is, Colm, I’ve already decided that I’m going to help her with her research. I don’t want her getting things wrong.’

  Colm put his hands on his hips. ‘Dad, you have no right. You’re not an island.’

  ‘I have every right. I’m a Deverill.’

  ‘What would Grandpa say?’

  ‘If you’re hoping to shame me, that ship has already sailed. I’m sure every Deverill from the past is turning in his grave at the sight of the castle having been converted into a hotel and blaming me for it. I like Margot Hart. She’s got character. I think she’ll do a good job. It’s a history that needs to be written.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re allowing this to happen.’ Colm shook his head. ‘If you were sober you’d never speak to a woman like her.’

  ‘Have you met her, Colm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you’ll like her. She’s about your age and she’s a beauty too.’

  ‘I have no desire to meet her.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘I cannot for the life of me think of one reason why you might wish for a book to be written which reveals our family secrets. Besides the hurt you’ll inflict on us all.’ Colm looked at his father in bewilderment, wounded suddenly at the realization that his father might wish to cause him pain. ‘Is that why? To hurt us?’ When his father didn’t reply, he added, jaw stiff, lips taut, ‘Don’t you think you’ve hurt us enough, Dad?’

  As Colm turned and walked out of the room, JP stared into his glass. ‘And I’ve been hurt too,’ he muttered. ‘But no one ever thinks of that.’

  * * *

  Margot sat at the desk in her tower room and reflected on the day. It could not have been more extraordinary. Lord Deverill was allowing her to go through the contents of the boxes, but understandably he had not given her permission to take anything away with her. So she’d spent the entire day in the cellar, cold though it was, and Mrs B had even made her lunch. She’d opened the first box with almost uncontainable excitement to find photograph albums dating back to the turn of the century. She resisted the impulse to open all the boxes at once and concentrated on the albums. She’d have plenty of time to go through the rest, and she didn’t want to rush. She wanted to savour every riveting piece of information.

  The photographs did not disappoint. They were windows into the past. Through them Margot could see what people looked like, what they wore, how they lived. Characters with whom she was familiar due to her grandfather’s anecdotes materialized in the photographs, no longer mythical, but people of flesh and blood who had lived their own stories, full of dramas, tragedy, loss, laughter and love. People who had completed their lives and passed away. It made her think of mortality and what it meant. It made her wonder what the point of it all had been. She found herself reflecting on her own mortality. My life might be long and full like Elizabeth Deverill’s was, she thought, gazing into the face of JPs great-grandmother, and yet one day I will be nothing more than a face staring out of a photograph as she is. Where will my consciousness be then? That was an uncomfortable thought indeed. Margot turned her attention to the castle. Celia Deverill had done a very good job in rebuilding it, she mused, but how much more magnificent it had been before the fire.

  Margot was so excited that she had met Lord Deverill himself, and been invited to go through the family records, that she telephoned Dorothy. She had no one else to tell, at least, no one who would be interested. ‘Dorothy, it’s Margot from Ballinakelly,’ she said when Dorothy answered the telephone.

  ‘Margot,’ Dorothy exclaimed happily. ‘What a lovely surprise. How are you getting on over there?’

  ‘Extremely well. You won’t believe it, but I met Lord Deverill today.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, he invited me in for tea, and guess what?’

  ‘Well, that’s a surprise in itself. I don’t imagine he invites people in for tea very often.’

  ‘He took me into the cellar where there are boxes and boxes of family records.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! I think I’d better sit down!’ There was a shuffling down the line as Dorothy moved to a chair.

  ‘He’s letting me go through them all. Every one. Isn’t that amazing!’

  There was a pause while Dorothy teetered on the edge of feeling happy for her new friend and anxious for her old ones. ‘You will be careful, dear, won’t you? I mean, Eva Perón is dead. JP’s family are very much alive. I’d hate for them to be hurt.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, Dorothy. I’ll be tactful. I’m not in this to hurt anybody.’

  Dorothy si
ghed. ‘Of course you’re not. But they have a rather colourful history, and airing it in public will cause embarrassment to those family members still living.’

  ‘I’ll give a balanced account,’ Margot added with emphasis. ‘And I have Lord Deverill’s blessing.’

  Dorothy was silent for a moment. Then she sighed again. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m worried about.’

  Chapter 4

  When Margot returned to the Hunting Lodge the following morning she found that the boxes had been moved up from the cold cellar into a room that Mrs B referred to as the games room. Mrs B had lit a turf fire, which gave out little heat and choked smoke into the air, but warmth came from the hard winter sun that pierced the windows, illuminating a billiard table covered in a dust sheet and the boxes piled upon it. ‘How kind of you to bring up the boxes,’ said Margot when Mrs B came in with a tray of tea and porter cake.

  The housekeeper nodded solemnly and placed the tray on the console table at the edge of the room, beneath an old wooden scoreboard that still retained in white chalk the record of the last game of billiards. Margot wondered how long ago that was. The house felt as if it had been asleep for years. ‘His lordship was concerned you’d get sick with all the dust downstairs,’ said Mrs B in her melodious voice. ‘Not to mention the chill.’

  ‘Sweet of him to think of that. It was rather cold, I admit. I went back to the hotel and had a hot bath.’

  At the mention of the hotel Mrs B hesitated. She was curious to know what it was like, yet anxious not to be disloyal to her master. Since he had sold the castle she had been careful never to mention it, knowing how much it had grieved him to lose it. However, residing in the Hunting Lodge as she did and rarely going out save to buy supplies and go to Mass, she had isolated herself from the town gossip, which she knew must contain little else. Indeed, it must be endlessly charged with stories of the guests and the formidable Mrs de Lisle. Mrs B lowered her voice, her curiosity outweighing her prudence. ‘I suppose it’s very beautiful, is it, the hotel?’