A few days later Margot drove into Ballinakelly in search of some action. She wasn’t used to living in such a quiet, provincial place. She’d lived in Buenos Aires, Milan, Paris, Amsterdam and Oslo, all vibrant cities in constant movement. Ballinakelly, by contrast, was eerily still. She had too much time to herself and too much time to think.
She hadn’t seen Colm since their awkward encounter in the Hunting Lodge. Angry at the suggestion that she was preying on a vulnerable man, Margot had lain awake most of the night, going over their conversation, inventing responses that she hadn’t had the wit to think of at the time, and imagining what she’d say to him were she to see him again. But that didn’t seem likely. She had avoided O’Donovan’s on purpose so as not to bump into him, even though she’d like to have seen Seamus O’Donovan again. He had a rough magnetism that appealed to her. She hoped she wouldn’t bump into Colm in town. At least there were no animals at the hotel that might require a vet.
Two more hotel guests had complained about strange noises in the middle of the night. Margot wondered why these so-called ghosts always seemed to come out at that time. Why didn’t they appear during the day? Were they like sea urchins that hid beneath rocks during daylight hours and crawled out when it was dark? The whole idea was preposterous. But Mr Dukelow had taken the complaint in his stride, persuading the young couple that the castle really wasn’t haunted. Mrs de Lisle had even hired a priest to cleanse it of any negative vibrations, he’d told them. Margot wasn’t sure that was true. Mrs de Lisle did not seem like someone who believed in such nonsense. She was an upfront businesswoman with a sensible and practical head on her shoulders.
The couple hadn’t been convinced, but they’d certainly felt they had been listened to and went off appeased. Margot wondered whether Mr Dukelow was beginning to worry that these ghost stories might put guests off coming. ‘It’s a creaky old castle,’ he’d told her when she mentioned it. ‘Who’s listening out for ghosts in the daytime? No one. They lie in bed at night, ears straining to hear every squeak and groan. If they were as alert during the day as they are at night, they’d hear the same noises and think nothing of them.’ Margot was inclined to agree with him.
She parked the car on the kerb and stepped into the sunlight. The sky had been washed to a sparkling blue and seagulls wheeled beneath it, the tips of their wings catching the light and flashing white. The high street was made up of simple, flat-fronted houses painted in a rainbow of colours, set against the dramatic backdrop of green hills and patchwork fields. The slate roofs shone with the last rain and rooks were cawing loudly from the chimney stacks. Locals wandered up the damp pavements, browsing in shop windows and emerging from doorways with their shopping bags full, and a trio of elderly ladies in headscarves sat gossiping on a bench while a fat fox trotted blithely up the street as if in defiance of the Deverills whose hunting days were now over.
Margot went into a boutique. She wasn’t very interested in fashion, but something drew her in there. No sooner had she entered than she realized what it was. Emer O’Leary was talking to the saleswoman. When she saw Margot her smile faltered and an awkwardness filled the silence that ensued.
‘Good morning, Mrs O’Leary,’ said Margot with her usual ebullience, hoping to defuse the situation by feigning cheerfulness.
Emer wavered between her good nature and her support for her daughter and grandchildren. ‘Good morning,’ she replied tightly. She gave the saleswoman a warmer smile. ‘Well, I better be going, Sheila. I’ll see you later.’
Margot felt it was impolite to let her leave without saying something. After all, Mrs O’Leary had entertained her in her home. She followed her out onto the pavement. ‘I want you to know I’m going to be tactful, Mrs O’Leary,’ she said, realizing as she said it how lame it sounded. How could she be tactful writing about a family plagued by so many unfortunate dramas?
Emer stepped close and lowered her voice. ‘I know you mean well, my dear,’ she said, her pale eyes holding Margot in their steady, gentle gaze. ‘But everything has a consequence. Everything causes a ripple and that ripple will go out into the world and either harm or heal. You know nothing about the Deverills. You may think you do, following your research, but you don’t. If JP is going to enlighten you, he will only give you one side of the story. Think about that when you write the final chapters. And think about my daughter, Alana, and her children, who have suffered also. Not only did they lose their home but they lost their father too.’
‘Why don’t you give me their side of the story? I want to write a balanced account.’
Emer smiled in bitter amusement at the suggestion. ‘That would be a betrayal, Miss Hart,’ she said. ‘Good day to you.’
Margot knew she’d get nothing from Mrs O’Leary.
Feeling bruised, she made her way up the street, her eyes sweeping either side yet seeing nothing. She hadn’t considered the living members of the Deverill family when she had pitched her idea to her editor. Her editor had loved it and her agent had negotiated a high advance, following the success of her biography of Eva Perón. She would struggle to repay the money and she didn’t have another idea were she to decide to write about something else. She had committed to nine months as Writer in Residence at the hotel; she couldn’t very well back out of that either. She was stuck.
As she walked past All Saints Church Margot’s bruised ego began to retaliate. Why should anyone tell her what not to write? she thought angrily. The Deverills weren’t the first dynasty to be the subject of a biography and they wouldn’t be the last. What about the British Royal Family? They were written about all the time and they never kicked up. If JP Deverill wanted to help her with her research, she wasn’t going to stop him on account of his mother-in-law and son, whom she didn’t know. Why should she have any loyalty to them? If anything, she felt a certain allegiance to JP, who had invited her into his home and allowed her to look through the family records. And besides, what did it matter? In nine months’ time she’d leave Ballinakelly and never see any of them again.
As indignation burned in her chest Margot felt a growing sense of defiance. She quickened her pace towards O’Donovan’s. Striding past what appeared to be a group of farmers in caps and boots and heavy coats, she pushed open the door. There were a few people inside, enjoying an early lunch. Seamus O’Donovan was behind the bar, talking to a young woman who was drying glasses with a tea towel. When he saw Margot he raised his eyebrows and smiled.
‘I wondered when you’d be coming back,’ he said, grinning at her.
The indignation cooled. ‘It’s too early for a stiff drink, but I need one. A lime and soda will have to do.’
He laughed. ‘This is Ireland, girl. It’s happy hour somewhere in the world, if that’s any consolation.’
‘Lime and soda. I’m working.’
‘That never put anyone off. Sure, even old Father Leader is half cut saying morning Mass.’
‘You’re a bit of a devil, you are.’ It felt good to laugh.
‘Lime and soda coming up.’ Seamus reached for a glass. ‘You ran off the other night. Was it something I said?’
She could tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he didn’t believe it was. ‘I’d grown bored of being leered at by Mr Flannigan.’
He shrugged. ‘He’s harmless enough. The worst of him is from the mouth out.’
‘The “enough” undermines your defence, Mr O’Donovan. I’d also grown bored of being glowered at by Colm Deverill.’
‘That’s another matter altogether,’ he said, pouring lime into the glass, followed by soda. She noticed his big, masculine hands and strong forearms and felt a frisson of desire. ‘Surely you didn’t expect the family to welcome you with stories for your book, exposing their underbellies.’
‘Of course not. However, I did expect them to be civil.’
‘He’s angry.’
‘So am I.’
‘Look, it’s none of my business. I’ve known Colm since we were kids. He’s a good man. But he’s a proud man too and protective of his family.’ Seamus pushed the glass across the bar and Margot picked it up and took a sip. ‘He’s unhappy that his father’s talking to you.’
‘I know. He told me himself. But I’m not going to be pushed about by anyone. JP Deverill’s a big boy. He can look after himself. I was a journalist once. I’m used to pissing people off.’ Margot shrugged. ‘It’s the nature of the job.’
‘You look like you can handle yourself,’ he said. Then he leaned on the bar and looked her dead in the eye. ‘Fancy a quiet drink somewhere, just the two of us?’
Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘Sure, where do you suggest?’ She couldn’t very well invite him back to the hotel.
‘I can escape in an hour. I could smuggle you upstairs.’
She grinned at his allusion to danger. ‘We’re consenting adults,’ she said.
‘But this is a small nosy town and tongues wag. You’ve only just arrived. You need to mind how you go.’
‘You’re not married, are you?’
He shook his head. ‘Not married, in spite of my mam’s nagging. Who would have me anyway?’
‘Neither am I. So we’re free agents.’ Then she laughed. ‘Are you worrying about my reputation, Seamus? How gallant.’
He laughed with her. He’d never met a woman with the insouciance of a man before. ‘Have some lunch, then I’ll be dessert.’
‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse,’ she said, turning her attention to the menu scrawled onto the blackboard. ‘It’s part of my research, after all.’
Later, in Seamus’s bedroom under the eaves, Margot lost herself in the arms of a man she barely knew, as she had done so many times in the past. Men she could enjoy with detachment. Men she didn’t have to get close to. Seamus was strong and masterful and smelt good besides – of woodsmoke from the fire and a spiciness that was all his own. He was funny too and they laughed there between the sheets as his hands brought her into the present moment with their surprisingly light touch.
‘That was great,’ she said with a sigh, playfully pushing him off her. ‘You’ve done it before.’
‘A few times,’ he replied, rolling onto his back.
‘Just what I needed.’
‘Not angry anymore then?’
‘No.’ She stretched and sighed. ‘In fact, everything is right with the world now.’
He turned to face her, his expression one of admiration and puzzlement, as if he were looking at a rare creature from another world. ‘They don’t make them like you down here,’ he said.
‘I should hope not. I’d hate to be like everyone else.’ Margot smiled at him, basking in his appreciation.
‘So, we can do it again sometime?’
‘I’d like that.’ She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed at him steadily. ‘I feel like you’re sleeping with the enemy, Seamus. Is that why you wanted to smuggle me up here?’
‘No, I’m impartial, Margot. I promise. I’ve no sense of loyalty to the Deverills. If JP wants to talk to you, that’s his business. If Colm doesn’t want him to, that’s his. Besides, I’d say I’m on your side now, if I had to take sides.’
‘You’re easily bought,’ she laughed, running a finger down his chest. ‘But don’t worry. I’m not going to put you in a difficult position. This is pleasure, not work.’
‘So it is,’ he agreed.
‘Tell me about Ballinakelly. Your family have lived here for generations. This is where you grew up. Have you ever wanted to move away?’
‘No, I’ve always been content here. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Besides, I’m running the family business now. Da’s retired, Mam’s a busybody so she’s still involved. The only way she’ll be leaving is feet first.’
‘Siblings?’
‘Five, but I’m the only one who’s stayed.’
‘What do you make of the hotel? Did you feel sad when the castle was sold? Over three hundred years of history gone, over. The end of an era, of feudalism—’
‘The hotel employs many more local folk than the castle did as a family house, certainly in its final years. JP lost money in the divorce and, I heard, bad investments. He was never very good with money, so I hear. He didn’t grow up with it, you know. That family lost everything in 1921 when the castle was razed to the ground. Since then, they’ve not been rich. JP suddenly inherited a castle and a fortune. It ruined him.’
‘How did it ruin him?’
Seamus squirmed uncomfortably, but Margot’s fingers traced the tender part of his belly, just beneath his tummy button. ‘He had an affair, apparently. That’s usually reason enough for divorce, isn’t it? I suppose that’s why the kids all sided with their mam. They blame him for the break-up of the marriage and for their mam’s unhappiness.’
‘I suppose it’s hard hiding something like that in a small community like this one. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. There’s always someone who saw something or heard something. I imagine the castle was full of staff with their ears to the doors.’
‘You’re not wrong. I think if I’d worked up at the castle, I’d have been just as nosy.’
‘Listen, there are always two sides to every story. JP had an affair, but perhaps he was pushed into it. Maybe he was unhappy too.’
‘If you ask me, that castle has never brought any of its owners happiness.’
‘Surely some were happy?’
‘You tell me. You’re writing the history.’
‘Were Bridie and her count happy?’
‘Well, there’s a story. You need to talk to Bridie’s brother, Michael. You know he lives in the farmhouse down the road. Must be in his nineties now. He comes in here from time to time and, after a pint or two he’s given to talk. He’ll talk to you. He’s always had an eye for a beautiful woman.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Seamus.’
‘Don’t mention it. If the stories are true, Michael did away with the Count. Buried him up to his neck in the sand and let the tide take him. A gruesome way to go. Sure, that castle is cursed.’
Margot had heard that story before, from Mrs B. ‘I need to talk to Michael Doyle,’ she said. ‘But I don’t believe in curses, only bad people.’
However, as she thought about it, she realized that Seamus might be on to something. None of the heirs had enjoyed peaceful, harmonious lives. They had sacrificed much for their home, perhaps too much. ‘A Deverill’s castle is his kingdom,’ she repeated pensively. ‘Do you think they’ve always put their family seat above the welfare of those living inside it?’ But she didn’t need him to answer. A rush of excitement coursed through her veins, waking her from her post-coital apathy. She sat up. ‘I think that’s the theme of the book. As long as they put bricks and mortar above love they will never be happy. The castle itself is not cursed, but their attachment to it brings bad luck.’ She shook her head. ‘God, I’m sounding like Dan.’
‘Who’s Dan?’
‘A friend of mine who claims to be a psychic medium. He’s into all that stuff like karma, a universal consciousness, universal law, feng shui, tarot cards and the law of attraction. Mad,’ she added with a laugh. Seamus looked at her in bewilderment; he’d lost her after karma. ‘But it doesn’t matter,’ she continued. ‘I think I’m on to something.’ She bent down and kissed him on the lips. ‘Okay, enough work, this is meant to be about pleasure. Shall we do it again?’
Mrs B opened the door to the games room to find Lord Deverill standing by the fireplace, flicking through a red-leather-bound book, a cigarette smoking between his fingers. She was surprised to see him there. The games room was one of the many rooms he never went into. ‘Hello, Mrs B,’ he said when he saw her. ‘Miss Hart didn’t come in today, did she?’
‘No, m’lord, she didn’t.’
He looked up from the diary. ‘Do you think it’s warm enough in here? I don’t want her working in the cold.’
‘When the fire’s lit, it will take the chill off.’
‘And light enough?’ He glanced at the big windows, framed by heavy green velvet curtains. ‘It gets dark early now.’ He sighed. ‘Bleak in winter, this place. Always was.’
‘I’d say there’s good lighting in here. She hasn’t complained.’
He took a drag of his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. ‘She’s not a complainer. She’s got an easy temperament. Cheerful. I like that. It’s nice to have a cheerful person around the house, isn’t it, Mrs B?’
‘Oh, it is, m’lord. She’s cheerful all right.’
He looked down at the book. ‘Do you know what this is, Mrs B?’
‘No, I don’t, m’lord. What is it?’
‘My great-great-grandmother’s diary. Makes fascinating reading. I can understand why Miss Hart is gripped by history. It is rather intriguing learning about those who lived in the past. My great-great-grandmother Hermione rescued donkeys. She had dozens of them. They each had a different coloured ribbon tied to their ears so she could keep track of their names. She also had a Shetland pony called Billy who used to come into the dining room at breakfast and drink tea out of a china bowl.’
Mrs B smiled and her solemn face grew soft and pretty. ‘That’s grand, that is.’
‘But her husband died young. He drowned and left her with five small children to bring up on her own.’
‘Oh, that’s very sad.’
‘It is. But she was a tough Englishwoman and earned the respect of her tenants and employees and she ran the castle with the efficiency of a colonel. I dare say she was the sort of woman who built the Empire. Tough and unflappable in a crisis. When she died the whole town came out to pay their respects and her coffin was put on a cart full of flowers and pulled by a pair of her donkeys. Deverill men have a tradition of marrying strong women, it seems.’
‘You may say your grandmother Adeline was some woman.’
‘She was indeed.’
JP thought of his own wife, his ex-wife, then shunted the image away before it could take hold with its painful grip. ‘Do you think Miss Hart will be back tomorrow?’ he asked, putting down the book. His whole body suddenly ached for a swig of whiskey. He made for the door.
Mrs B stepped aside to let him pass. ‘I’m sure she will, m’lord.’
‘Good. Give the place a dust and perhaps the boys can bring in some more logs. Proper logs, not turf. Only wood will warm this place up and I don’t want Miss Hart to get cold.’
Mrs B watched him stride off towards the library, where she knew he’d help himself to a glass of whiskey. He wouldn’t stop after one, but would pour himself another and another. Often she found him asleep in his chair, the fire down to dying embers, a chill pervading the room. She sighed and hoped Miss Hart would be back tomorrow. Lord Deverill cheered up when she was around.
That night Margot lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Outside, the moon was full-faced and glowing, a luminous ball in a sky of twinkling stars. The curtains were open a sliver, allowing the watery light to enter in a shaft, bringing the furniture and beams into eerie relief. All was quiet, apart from the intermittent hooting of an owl or the screech of a startled animal. Even the wind was still. Margot had a strange sensation that she was being watched. She knew it was absurd. There was no one in the room but her. She was quite alone. However, it was as if a presence was right beside her bed, watching her. She rolled over and tried to sleep. Dorothy had put ideas into her head. If it hadn’t been for her and her stories of ghosts, Margot would never have thought of them.
As soon as she began to drift off, JP Deverill surfaced in her mind. A pathetic, lost creature. Overcome suddenly by a wave of pity, she opened her eyes. She did not want to feel compassion. She did not want his addiction to suck her in. She couldn’t help him. Nor did she want to. She closed her eyes again and thought of Seamus. Yet JP kept bobbing to the top of her mind like a cork in water, persistent and pleading.