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Dessie had only worked at Smythe’s Auctioneers in Mayfair for a week when she got the assignment. The envelope was addressed to “Miss Desdemona Broadbent,” and she thought at first it was an invitation to a party. But all she found was a scribbled note in spidery handwriting that said: Please see me regarding sale of contents of country house. Best, Martin Smythe.
Martin Smythe. The managing director. He wanted to see her about this house, wherever it was. She read the note again. He didn’t say when she was to see him, or where. Probably in his office; that inner sanctum she had never been allowed to enter, being a lowly apprentice only just arrived at the small but reputable auction house. There was only one way to find out about this assignment.
Dessie got up from her desk at the back of the communal office, straightened her skirt, tucked her white shirt into the waistband, and smoothed her hair. It was coming up to five o’clock, and she hoped Mr Smythe was still in his office.
He was. “Come in,” he boomed when she knocked softly on the massive mahogany door.
She pushed the door open to discover the broad back of the managing director, who was standing in the middle of the oriental carpet tapping golf balls into a silver bowl.
“Hello, Mr Smythe,” she said. “I’m Dessie Broadbent. You sent me a—”
“Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. I have to get...” He tapped the club gently on the last ball, and it rolled slowly into the bowl, making a click as it hit the side. “Bingo.” Smythe turned around and beamed. “See that? A perfect putt.”
Dessie nodded. “Congratulations.”
“You play golf?”
“No.”
“Oh. Right.” He straightened up, walked across the floor to a huge desk littered with papers and catalogues, and sat down in a leather armchair that had seen better days. “Desdemona...”
“Broadbent,” she filled in. “But everyone calls me Dessie. You sent me a note.”
“Oh, yes...” He riffled through the papers. “About the house... Sit down. I have the details here...”
Dessie sat down on the edge of a lyre back chair. Regency, she noted, possibly very early nineteenth century. She folded her hands in her lap and put her feet neatly together, waiting for Smythe to speak. He was a big man in his sixties with a ruddy complexion, small pale blue eyes, and thinning white hair. Managing director of the auction house, which was not quite Sotheby’s or Christie’s but reputable and old all the same. They were famous for the gems they had unearthed in what they called “Sleeping Beauty” auctions of houses that had been deserted for decades but never sold, their contents often treasure troves of art and silverware. Dessie itched to know what this one would be. She waited patiently while Martin Smythe looked through his papers, muttering under his breath.
He looked up, waving a piece of paper. “Here it is. Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s an Irish property. In—” he peered at the note “—County Tipperary. A property called Killybeg House. Near a town called Cloughmichael.”
Dessie’s mouth was suddenly dry, and her heart nearly stopped. No. Not Killybeg. Please let that be a mistake.
Smythe peered at her over his glasses. “You’re from Ireland, is that correct?”
“Yes. But I left,” she said. “A long time ago.” As if that would make her less Irish.
“But still,” Martin Smythe said, “Irish. Knowing about the country and antiques of that area, no?”
Dessie nodded. “I suppose.” He was right. She did have extensive knowledge of the antique furniture one might find in an Irish country house. She had worked briefly at an auction house in Dublin and had become fascinated by the history of country houses in Ireland, making it her speciality. It was on her CV too, she remembered.
“Good.” He kept looking at her. “You have the most extraordinary eyes.” He leaned forward. “I can’t quite see what colour...”
Dessie met his gaze without blinking. She was used to this. “Dark green,” she replied.
“Ah, yes.” He sat back. “Please forgive me. Didn’t mean to get personal. It was just that your colouring is so—unusual. Those dark, greenish eyes with that black hair and pale skin... so very Irish. And the accent, of course.”
“Well, sure I’m Oirish,” Dessie quipped with a stiff smile.
“Very much so, I hear,” Smythe replied without raising an eyebrow. He nodded, resuming his businesslike air. “Right then, let’s give you the details. This house is quite a find. It hasn’t been lived in for over seventy years. But a housekeeper has been on the premises and has been keeping an eye on the place, making sure it was aired and dusted and even heated in the winter according to the wishes of the owners. But now the owners—or owner, I should say, as there is only one left, has...”
She looked up. “Died?” she whispered, her heart constricting. It couldn’t be...Richard was only a few years older than her. He couldn’t—
“No,” Martin Smythe said. “Maybe I should explain the circumstances. The house is owned by the descendant of a man who worked as an engineer for the British Empire. He left at the beginning of the twentieth century and returned thirty years later, when his parents died. Incredible to think of all that happened during his long absence. The First World War, the Irish War of Independence... A Rip Van Winkle kind of story, I imagine. In any case, this man—Tom Hourigan— was married with two children, but the family moved to America after the wife died in the early 1940s. It hasn’t been lived in since, as the family settled in the US. And now the children of Tom Hourigan have passed away, and their only heir has decided to sell the contents; the house will be up for sale later. I believe he’s getting married and has no wish to live in the house.” Martin Smythe drew breath.
Dessie felt the colour drain from her face as another shock wave hit her. Richard getting married again? It couldn’t be true. Why couldn’t he have died instead? “I see,” she mumbled.
“So, we’ll be doing the cataloguing first,” Smythe continued. “It’s a big house with a lot of artefacts and such, we’ve been told. But we have no actual details, except for some of the paintings, which are surprisingly valuable for a house in such a God-forgotten place.” He let out a small grunt. “The Irish were sly when it came to hiding their wealth. In those days, I mean,” he added after a quick look at Dessie over his glasses. “You look a little pale, m’dear. Not feeling quite the thing?”
Dessie cleared her dry throat. “Just a cold, that’s all. I’m fine, really.”
He nodded. “Good, good. Then you’ll have recovered by the time you go to Ireland. I thought you’d be perfect for this job, as you have an inside knowledge of the country and seem to have a knack for assessing artefacts and such, especially of things Irish. Am I right?”
Dessie nodded. “Yes. I have a degree in art history, and my thesis touched on the subject of art and antiques in Ireland.” She paused. “But...I’m not sure I can tackle such a big assignment on my own. I mean cataloguing such a house...”
Smythe let out a jovial laugh. “You won’t be on your own. I see this as part of your training. One of our directors will be coming with you to supervise and do a lot of the cataloguing too.”
“I see. Which one of the directors?” Dessie asked, praying it wouldn’t be Amanda Jones, a snooty bitch with bad breath.
“My son, Marcus. You’ve met him?”
“Yes. Once.” She remembered a good-looking, suave, and slightly distant man. He hadn’t done more than nod in her direction when they were introduced a few weeks earlier. Then he had disappeared to Scotland to conduct an auction. She hadn’t seen him since.
“Excellent,” Smythe breezed on, pulling a piece of paper from a pile on the desk. “Here are all the details. Accommodation has been arranged as well. You’ll be staying in the gatehouse with the housekeeper, who has offered two of the rooms and use of the kitchen for you both. The auction is scheduled to take place in late December, so you have two months to complete the job, and then we can print the catalogue. I suggest you get to Ireland as soon as you can to start sorting out the contents of the house. Marcus is flying to Dublin tonight. I hope you can be ready to go in a couple of days. My secretary will book your ticket.”
Dessie looked at him while she thought. There was no way out, no plausible excuse. It was a fabulous assignment, a great opportunity to show off her skills. This auction would make headlines across Ireland and in other countries too. Any apprentice would be delighted to get this chance to shine. A shortcut to a permanent position. “Thank you,” she said and got up, rubbing her clammy palms against her skirt. “I’ll let her know when I’m ready to go.”
“Good.” Smythe picked up a folder. “Here are some notes and a brief history of the house. We need more information so we can include it in the catalogue. When the house was built, the original owners, and so on. Maybe you could do some research on all of that?”
Dessie took the folder. “No problem.”
“A lot of work. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. It won’t be that hard,” Dessie replied, knowing it was true. She wouldn’t have to do much research on the house and its history. She knew all about it already.
***
Dessie was on the point of pulling out of the trip numerous times during the following days. But that could mean having to give up a job and a career that had been her dream for the past few years. In order to pay her college fees, she’d worked two jobs while she finished her degree at Trinity College in Dublin. The dream had kept her going while she stretched the pennies as far as they would go—living cheaply, eating badly, and squeezing in as much fun as she could manage between jobs and exams. And here she was in London, working at this classy establishment and getting a great assignment in one of those high-profile auctions. A fantastic opportunity—if only it weren’t that house.
Cloughmichael—her home town, where her heart had broken, never to mend. Going back would be laced with pain and shame. How could she face people there again? How could she go back to her family and see the loathing in their eyes? It didn’t seem possible. Dessie struggled with the problem as she packed and prepared to leave the small flat in Battersea she shared with two other girls—both career women working in the City. They wouldn’t miss her while she was gone. They could even sublet her room to someone who was more like them—upper class and coolly sophisticated.
Dessie put clothes suitable for the Irish countryside in November on her bed, feeling very much like a lamb going to slaughter. She stacked jeans, cardigans, shirts, thermal vests, and warm socks in a wobbly pile as her heart sank. There was no way out. She had to go if she wanted to hang on to her job. She pulled a green wool sweater from a drawer and held it up against her in front of the mirror. Green, like Ireland, like the rolling hills and fields. How hard—but oh, how sweet—to come home after all the years away. She hugged the sweater and closed her eyes. Maybe it was meant to be? Maybe this would give her closure and peace? She nodded to herself and put the sweater on the pile. Yes. It was right. It was time. Time to go home.