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Silence. Dessie waited for Jules to hang up.
But then a shaky voice said, “Dessie? Oh, God. It can’t be.”
“It is,” Dessie whispered. “It’s me, and I’m here. Back in Cloughmichael. I need to see you.”
“Are you in trouble?” Jules asked, her voice marginally stronger. “If you need money...”
“No!” Dessie shot up from the bed. “I’m fine. I’m here for a job. I wasn’t going to call, but then I thought, what if you spotted me somewhere and had a heart attack or something...”
“Heart attack?” Jules snapped. “I’m not that old. What kind of job? Modelling?”
Dessie bristled. “Shit, don’t you think I could handle something a bit more intelligent than modelling?” She swallowed, trying to keep her voice calm. “As a matter of fact, I have a degree in art history from Trinity. I’m now working for a well-known auctioneer in London, and they sent me here to catalogue Killybeg for the big auction at the end of December. That’s why I’m here, not for some stupid modelling.” Dessie fought an urge to stick out her tongue at the phone and hang up, but she held on. No need to act like a five-year-old.
“Does Miranda know?” Jules said at the other end.
“No. I rang you first. I only just arrived. I’m staying at the gatehouse with a woman called Audrey—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know her,” Jules interrupted. “So you’ll be here for a while, then?”
“At least until Christmas.”
“Oh.”
“Can I come and see you? I’d like to talk to you, to explain...”
Another long silence. “Explain?” Jules whispered. “Explain what? I don’t think what you did can be explained.”
“Yes, it can. It must be. I have to tell you that you were wrong, thinking I had...” Dessie couldn’t get out the words. “Will you at least see me?” she whimpered, her eyes filling with tears.
“I’ll think about it. You have to tell Miranda you’re here.”
“I will. I’m sure she’ll give me a warmer welcome.” Dessie hung up without saying goodbye. She lay down on the bed and let the tears come.
***
The room was flooded with light. Dessie stirred, opened her eyes, and sat up. She was stiff and sore, having fallen asleep with her clothes on. The half-drawn curtains let in the early morning sunshine, and the wind softly rattled the sash window that had been left open. Dessie checked her watch. Half past seven. Exhausted after all that had happened the day before, she had slept all night without waking up.
Cold and weary, Dessie undressed and put on the fluffy bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. She tiptoed into the little bathroom, where she found blue towels stacked on a shelf marked “Guests,” along with an array of bath products, body lotions, exfoliating creams, and eau de cologne, all in sealed bottles, ready for use. She giggled, feeling she had died and gone to Harrods, turned on the shower, and stepped into the stream of warm water. She soaped herself all over with a large bar of French soap, its soft suds like whipped cream on her skin. Her hair was quickly shampooed and wrapped in a towel, and then she lathered body lotion all over, finishing with a light spray of Miss Dior.
Feeling like a new, much younger woman, she crept down the corridor, across the hall, and peered into the kitchen. Nobody there. Audrey might already have gone to work; Marcus was probably still asleep.
Dessie walked in and turned on the kettle, scouting around for bread, butter, and marmalade, which she found in the fridge. There was a rustle at the door of the utility room, and a black cat wandered in, meowing and winding herself between Dessie’s legs. “You must be Cat.” Dessie sat down at the table and lifted the cat on her lap. She helped herself to an apple from the fruit basket on the table, looking out at the avenue as she had her breakfast, the cat purring in her lap.
She could see all the way up to the front of the big house, where the pillared porch rose above a well-tended gravel drive. It seemed as if the house were slowly waking up from its long sleep. It looked much as it must have been in the early days, and Dessie conjured up images of ladies descending from carriages with the help of liveried footmen. What a graceful, elegant time it was, even if the dirt-poor Irish were starving outside the gates. She tried to imagine what it might have been like to be one of those ladies. Would she have noticed the poor and hungry? Would she have cared? Did they? As the vicar’s daughter in the early eighteen hundreds, she might have been made aware of those less fortunate, of course, just as she and her sisters had been when they were children living in the vicarage.
Dessie’s thoughts drifted to her childhood, those happy days before anything bad had happened. Three girls growing up in an old house, brought up by strict but loving parents who didn’t have much money but who still managed to keep a certain style and class. They had lived frugally, but the girls received a rich education when it came to literature, music, and nature. Dessie sighed. Those were the good times, before Granny died, her mother only two years later, followed by her dad, leaving three young girls without a family. Then the vicarage was sold, as the Protestant Church of Ireland were cutting down on the clergy and abolishing smaller parishes. But by then they were grown up, or at least Miranda and Juliet were. Miranda looked after their baby sister when she was first married and her husband, Jerry, bought the vicarage. And Jules married Harry.
Oh, Harry... Dessie blinked away tears as she buttered yet another slice of toast. No use thinking about that—about him and what happened, and what hadn’t, despite what everyone believed. It was all in the past.
The door opened. Startled, Dessie whipped around as Marcus, dressed in jeans and a black polo neck, strolled in. She clutched her bathrobe and gave him a polite smile. “Good morning. I thought you might still be asleep.”
“Wide awake since seven. Morning, Dessie. Did you sleep well?” Marcus switched on the kettle.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I see the cat appeared.”
Dessie stroked the soft black fur. “Yes, this is Cat.”
“A handsome cat.”
“She is. But I’d better get dressed and dry my hair.” Dessie pushed her plate aside, placed Cat on the floor, and got up.
“There’s no rush. But I would like to head up to the house in about half an hour. Just to walk through it and decide on a plan. The light’s good too, so it’s a perfect time to have a look at everything.”
Dessie nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you in a minute. Audrey said to help ourselves to breakfast, but then we have to buy our own food. She only cooked dinner last night to help out as we had just arrived.”
“Yes, I know. We can go to Clonmel to do our shopping later. I’d let you go on your own, but you don’t have a car, so...”
Dessie frowned. “No, I don’t. Maybe I should rent one? I forgot how you’re stranded in the country if you don’t have a car. I don’t even think about it in London.”
“It’s more of a nuisance in the city. Are you finished with that teapot?”
“Yes. I had my breakfast. I was just sitting here daydreaming, really.”
“About the good old days?”
“Maybe. See you in a little while.” Dessie went back to her room to get dressed and quickly blow dry her hair. She had just put on her jeans, shirt, and warm sweater, when her phone rang.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Dessie, it’s Miranda.”
Dessie froze. “Oh. How did you...?”
“Jules. She rang last night sounding upset. She told me you were here and why and gave me your number.”
“I see.” Dessie tried to think of something to say. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“And Jerry and the boys?”
“Fine too. Dessie, I’d like to see you. Can you come to the house? Maybe this evening? Jerry’s away, and the boys are at a weekend scout camp, so I thought...”
“That it would be a good time as nobody would see me?” Dessie tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“No,” Miranda said softly. “Not really that, but I thought it would be good to talk. Just you and me. Would that be okay?”
Dessie considered Miranda’s suggestion. It would be hard to meet again, but Miranda had always been more forgiving and understanding than Jules, who always jumped to the wrong conclusions—usually bad. Miranda always gave you the benefit of the doubt. She listened. “Yes. That would be okay,” Dessie replied. “But only if you...” She stopped. “I have so much I want to tell you.”
Miranda let out a long sigh. “Wonderful. I was afraid you wouldn’t...oh, I don’t know what I was afraid of. But one step at a time, right? Let’s go slowly.”
“Yes. That’s what we should do.” Dessie relaxed. It would be okay. It would be good to talk to Miranda. “See you tonight. I have to go. We—this director I’m working for and I—have to go and see the house now.”
“The house? Won’t that be a bit spooky?”
“I suppose,” Dessie said. “No one has lived there for so long. There are bound to be echoes of times past.” Like ripping a plaster off a deep wound, she thought. But it has to be done. So I can start to heal.
“Probably,” Miranda said. “But it’ll be exciting too. Take care, Dessie. Don’t let the ghosts get to you.”
“I won’t,” Dessie replied, thinking that Miranda had, without knowing it, voiced the fears that had haunted her for so long.
***
The ghosts, Dessie thought as they walked up the long, tree-lined avenue to the big house on the hill. The ghosts of a summer past... She tried her best to keep up with Marcus’ long strides while she steeled herself to what it would feel like to push that heavy front door open and step into the hall, smelling the musty odour of the house that had always prevailed, despite airing and cleaning.
Marcus turned and looked at her. “Are you okay? Come along, we don’t have much time before the clouds roll in. I want to see everything in this bright sunlight.”
“I’m coming,” Dessie panted. “But you’re walking so fast, I have to run.”
“Not very fit, are we?” Marcus teased.
Dessie half-ran to his side. “I’m very fit, actually. I walk a lot and go to the gym and do yoga twice a week,” she continued, wondering why she felt she had to prove anything to him.
“Yoga?” he scoffed. “That’s not what I call a sport. Doesn’t make you very fit, does it?”
“Yoga is not a sport as such, no. But it’s very challenging. I’d like to see you balance on one leg and stay there for longer than a few seconds. Not to mention a lot of the other poses that take years to master. Yoga gives you everything: strength, suppleness, flexibility, and balance. I don’t know any form of exercise that is more complete.”
“Except it doesn’t improve your cardio fitness.” Marcus slowed his walk.
“No, and that’s why I do a lot of walking.”
Marcus looked down at her, a smile hovering on his lips. “And hiking?”
“I do hillwalking when I can. I’ve been to Scotland and the Lake District with a few friends. We try to get away when we have days off or during long weekends,” Dessie said primly.
“Sounds like the perfect fitness regime.” Marcus’ gaze skimmed her body. “Explains your lithe and supple frame.”
Dessie glared at him. “Thanks, if that was supposed to be a compliment.”
“Just stating a fact, that’s all. God forbid I pay you a compliment. That would be sexual harassment, wouldn’t it?”
“Depends.” Dessie looked up at him. “But if we’re working together, I suggest we keep compliments or anything else personal to a minimum.”
“Absolutely,” Marcus said, that little smile still making his mouth quiver. “We have to stay professional, don’t we?”
Dessie was about to shoot him a snippy reply, but they had arrived at the house and the sight of it silenced her.
“It’s some house,” Marcus said as they stood there looking up at the portico. “So graceful, yet imposing. The Georgians sure knew how to build.”
“They took their inspiration from the Palladian style in Italy in the Middle Ages,” Dessie mumbled.
“Venice,” Marcus corrected. “It wasn’t Italy then.”
Dessie nodded. “Yes, sorry. That’s right. Actually, Palladio was inspired by the style of ancient Greece, I read somewhere.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes. This house is in good nick. Just look at the bay windows. I wonder if that’s—”
“The drawing room,” Dessie filled in. “It has glorious views of the valley and mountains beyond.”
Marcus looked at her. “You’ve been in this house?”
Dessie squirmed. “Yes. Once. Years ago. Someone took me for a tour.”
“I see.” Marcus took a bunch of keys from the pocket of his trench coat. “Okay, let’s go and have a look, then. You can lead the way, as you know the house so well.”
“I haven’t been here for years. Can’t remember much about it,” Dessie protested.
“Yes, whatever.” Marcus walked up the wide granite steps to the entrance, inserted the biggest key into the huge lock, and gave it a strong twist. The lock clicked. Marcus pushed against the door, and it swung open silently. “Very well oiled, I have to say.” He stood aside and made a pretend bow. “After you, princess.”
Dessie shivered, her throat constricting. She took a deep breath, climbed the steps, her legs like jelly, and hesitated for a moment on the doorstep. Then she walked into the house and back in time to that day over ten years earlier.