| |
Marcus had some news when Dessie got back to Killybeg House the following day.
“There’ve been a lot of enquiries about the auction,” he said as they walked up the winding staircase to the top floor. “And we’re having a video shot here tomorrow for online issues of the major newspapers. It’ll be on our website too. And,” he continued, “we’ll be doing a public viewing a week before the auction. We’re going to open the house for three days. I have been talking to a security firm who’ll be handling that. There has to be security personnel in each room to make sure nothing gets nicked, and then they’ll stay on and patrol the grounds right up to the auction. The catalogue is twenty euros, and that’ll be the entrance ticket, if you know what I mean.”
Dessie stopped in the middle of the stairs. “Security? Is that really necessary? I mean, during the viewings, yes, but afterwards?”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Where have you been the past week? Haven’t you seen the papers? They’re all full of items about the auction. The cat is out of the bag, so to speak. It has even been mentioned across Europe. This is a unique house, the contents of which are worth millions. But I bet your Richard Hourigan had something to do with that. Free publicity for the new hotel, which will be opened a year from now, or so I read.”
“He’s not my Richard Hourigan,” Dessie muttered and resumed walking up the stairs. “Come on, let’s get stuck in upstairs. There are eight bedrooms, all stuffed with...stuff.”
She hadn’t realised the enormity of the task. The bedrooms, all large, furnished with heavy mahogany, oriental rugs and thick velvet curtains, also housed an intimidating array of personal effects, such as silver-backed hairbrushes, crystal perfume spray bottles, jewellery cases (all empty), and crystal bowls for hairpins and shirt studs. The nursery also contained a large collection of dolls, all lined up on a bed, staring at Dessie with unblinking, glassy eyes. She gulped and slammed the door shut, muttering, “Spooky.”
“You do realise that the catalogue has to be ready for the open house at the end of next week?” Marcus said when Dessie wanted to take a coffee break. “We have to catalogue everything up here, take photos and send the lot to be printed in Dublin. The deadline is Tuesday.”
Dessie nearly burst into tears. “Shit, then we’ll have to work day and night.”
Marcus brushed dust off his blue sweatshirt with the Oxford cricket team logo. “Yes, my dear, we certainly do. This auction is going to be a lot bigger than we thought. We already have calls from foreign dealers. We’re going to have to set up a telephone service so they can bid on the day. We even have interest from Japan.”
Dessie stared at him. “Oh my God, really?”
“Yes, really. So, we’d better get a move on. Have you noted down the Victorian dressing table set?”
“Yes. I thought a hundred and fifty.” She picked up a silver-backed brush from the dressing table. “Not much, but who on earth will want to brush their hair with someone else’s hairbrush? Even if it’s Victorian?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Dessie shrugged. “I’m sure it’ll sell just for the curiosity aspect.” She looked around the large double bedroom, where the twin mahogany wardrobe towered above her, and the ornate bedhead and rich Oriental rug gave the room an opulent air. “What about the furniture here? Is that going to auction too?”
“No. All the bedroom furniture will be used for the hotel.” Marcus peered at a picture over the chest of drawers. “What do you make of this one?”
Dessie moved over to join him. It was a small pastel portrait of a young girl, her dreamy expression, curly blonde hair, and large blue eyes oddly arresting. She studied the portrait for a moment, trying to place the muslin dress and hairstyle in the proper period. “Early English school,” she said. “Very early nineteenth century, as you can tell by the slightly bouffant hairstyle that was still in fashion just before the Regency period, and the lace-trimmed dress. Enchanting.”
Marcus took a measuring tape from his pocket and measured the painting. “Write this down. Fifty-five centimetres by forty-one. Price?”
Dessie tapped her pencil against her mouth. “Hmm...three to five hundred?”
“Sounds good.”
And on they went, through dressing rooms and smaller bedrooms for ladies’ maids and nannies, to a bathroom with a huge roll top bath and antiquated shower.
“I hope they keep this bathroom,” Dessie remarked. “It’s so quirky, with the mahogany toilet seat and the pull-thing to flush.”
Marcus looked around. “I wouldn’t think so. Too old-fashioned. I think they plan to make the smaller rooms into en-suite bathrooms so that every room has one.”
“I suppose.” Dessie closed the bathroom door. “But this won’t be a very big hotel. I mean eight bedrooms?”
“Don’t forget the servants’ quarters in the attic. They’ll be turned into smaller doubles. They’re empty, so we don’t have to bother with those. Then the gatehouse and the other outbuildings. They’ll be restored and become luxury cottages. It’ll be a very exclusive boutique-style hotel.”
“I wish them luck,” Dessie said with a derisory snort. “I can’t see how a luxury hotel in the five-star price bracket will do well here in the sticks.”
“I have no idea,” Marcus countered. “Could be that the sporting facilities are good here. Fox hunting, pheasant shoots, hillwalking and the many excellent golf courses in the area could be big draws. Plus fly fishing in the spring, of course.”
“Yeah, sure. But time will tell.” She opened the door to the next bedroom. “Let’s get started in here, then, so we can finish it before lunch, if that is allowed. Lunch, I mean.”
“Half an hour, no more,” Marcus muttered.
Dessie’s phoned pinged. A message from Rory. She sneaked a look at it before she joined Marcus. How about tonight? My place @ 8. R xxx
“Put away that thing, and do try to concentrate,” Marcus ordered. “We’ll have to deal with our messages on our lunch break.”
Dessie looked up. “Even if you get a message from Audrey?”
Marcus’ eyes turned cold. “That’s not very likely.”
“Why? You’re having problems?”
“Just to stop the inquisition—we broke up. Not that there was much to break up, actually, but there you are. I’m moving out tonight.”
“Do you have to? Did she tell you to leave? Where are you going?”
“I’ll be at the Bianconi Inn in town. And no, it was my own decision. Please shut up and put your phone away. We have a tight deadline.”
Dessie sighed and stuck the phone back in her pocket. Her love life would have to take a back seat until after the auction.
***
Later that day, however, Dessie got a call she couldn’t ignore. They had just tackled the nursery and catalogued the toys, Edwardian brass bed, and white wardrobe when Dessie’s phone rang.
“I thought you had switched off that thing,” Marcus snapped.
“I forgot.” Dessie took a quick look at the caller ID. “It’s from Miranda. Must be urgent. I’m taking it,” she said, ignoring his glare. “Hello? Miranda? What’s up?”
“It’s Rory,” Miranda panted. “Something has happened. I know you and he...I mean Jules told me...oh never mind. Just go there. He needs you now.”
“What?” Dessie stammered, her heart racing. But Miranda had hung up.
“I have to go to Rory,” Dessie said. “Something has happened. Please, Marcus, we’ve nearly finished for tonight anyway.”
Marcus sighed. “Okay. Off you go, then. You worked hard. Sorry to have been such a slave driver. I’ll go and take my stuff to the Bianconi. See you here tomorrow?”
“Of course. Bright and early. Promise.” Her knees shaking, Dessie grabbed her bag and ran down the stairs and out through the door to the car. What could have happened to Rory? An accident? He said he’d be trying out a new horse. Had he been thrown off and horribly injured? She barely managed to keep the car on the road as she drove at breakneck speed to Rory’s farm, coming to a screeching halt in a shower of gravel in front of the big old farmhouse. She raced to the back door she knew led to the kitchen, knowing that’s where he’d be—or anyone who was helping him survive after the accident, whatever it was.
Dessie ran in through the open back door. “Rory! What...” She stopped and stared. The sight that met her eyes was not what she had expected. Rory was alive and well, sitting at the table, his head in his hands, sobbing, while Jules, her arms around him, murmured soothing words into his ear.
Jules looked up, and their eyes met.
“What happened?” Dessie gasped.
“It’s his mum.”
“What’s she done now?”
“She died.”
“Oh, dear, that’s...” Dessie swallowed, fighting an irresistible urge to shout “Ding-dong, the witch is dead.” Oh God. How strange. Awful for Rory, but not a huge tragedy in Dessie’s estimation. She tried to adopt a sympathetic expression. “Awful,” she managed.
“He’s very upset,” Jules said.
“Of course.”
Jules got up. “I think he needs you.”
“Of course.” Dessie sat down on the chair beside Rory and touched his arm. “I’m here, darling. I’m so very sorry about your mum.”
Rory turned his tear-stained face to Dessie and took her hand. “Thank you. I know she wasn’t very nice to you, or to anyone really. But...”
“She was your mother,” Dessie said. “Losing your mother is a terrible sadness.”
He nodded and fished a handkerchief from his pocket.
A big Irish setter, its red coat gleaming, wandered into the kitchen and put its head on Rory’s lap.
“Who’s this lovely dog?” Dessie asked, stroking the soft fur.
Rory put his hand on the dog’s head. “This is Nellie. She’s been resting after breaking her leg six weeks ago. But she’s better now. Aren’t you, girl?” The dog wagged its tail and looked adoringly at Rory.
“She’s lovely,” Dessie said. “And she knows you’re sad.”
“I’ll make tea,” Jules said while Rory blew his nose.
“Thanks.” Rory smiled shakily. “You’re a brick, Jules. I didn’t think you’d come here after hearing...” He shot a guilty look at Dessie.
“That’s what friends do,” Jules said and filled the kettle. “I’m over it anyway. I got mad when Dessie told me, but then I had a good think and realised that hey, life’s too short to fall out with my sister. I forgive you. Both of you.”
“How very gracious of you,” Dessie snorted.
Jules laughed. “Gracious? Moi? Nah, it was Finola. She told me not to be ‘so fucking precious.’ Her words, not mine. So, I got a grip on myself and saw she was right. Sisters are special. Even if they go around stealing my men.”
“I didn’t...” Dessie started before she saw the glint in Jules’ eyes. She turned back to Rory. “How did it happen? Your mum, I mean. Was it sudden?”
Rory nodded. “Yes. A massive heart attack about two hours ago. My aunt found her in her bedroom. She hadn’t been feeling well and went to bed early. She must have got out of bed to call for help, but...” His eyes filled with tears again. “Poor Mam. She didn’t have much luck in life. I don’t know why she was so miserable to everyone, but I think most of it stemmed from her childhood. Her dad was an abusive drunk. Used to beat up both his wife and his children. She only told me this lately. I think she only married Dad to get away from all of that. I wish she had talked to me earlier. I wish I had gone to see her more often. Then we could have become closer and maybe...”
Dessie hugged him. He was heartbroken. So many regrets, so many unspoken words. “I’m sure she knows what’s in your heart now. She’s in a better place and not suffering anymore.” She didn’t know how to go on. She had hated Breda Quirke for spreading those vicious rumours all over town. It had changed Dessie’s life forever. That could never be undone. Breda had also wrecked Rory’s life and prevented him from having good relationships with women he loved. But that had backfired in a way Breda would never know. Dessie couldn’t help smiling at the irony of it all: Rory ending up with the woman his mother had tried to destroy. What a pity she hadn’t lived to see it.
Jules put three steaming mugs on the table. “Here. Tea. I’ll have a mug with you, and then I’ll be off.”
Dessie picked up a mug. “Thanks, Jules. Tea, the most soothing remedy for nearly everything.”
Rory stared at his mug. “Yes. Mam used to say...” He stopped and took a sip of tea. “No use brooding. Much to do. I have to call my sisters, start arrangements for the funeral, and see to the removal of Mam’s remains to the funeral parlour.” He looked at Dessie. “You’ll come to the funeral?”
Dessie gave a start. The funeral? How could she go? Everyone would look at her and think... “Uh,” she mumbled, absentmindedly stroking Nellie. “I...”
Jules put her hand on Dessie’s. “You don’t have to go. It would be an exercise in hypocrisy if you were there, pretending to mourn Breda’s passing.”
“She wouldn’t have to pretend anything,” Rory protested. “I know she has good reasons not to have liked my mother, but...” He looked at Dessie. “It would be a great help if you were there. But if you find it awkward, I understand, of course. I can see that it might look odd if you were there. But still...”
“I don’t know what to do,” Dessie sobbed. “Whatever I choose, it’ll be wrong. I’m sorry, Rory, I know this is so hard for you, but...”
“Look, I’ll be off,” Jules interrupted, putting on her jacket. “I’ll leave you two to sort it out. Bye, Rory. Give me a shout if there’s anything I can do.”
Rory nodded. “I will. Thanks for coming, Jules. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Jules touched Dessie’s shoulder. “See you, sis.” She was gone before Dessie had a chance to reply.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” Rory asked.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” He picked up his phone. “I have to call my sisters. Then we’ll have to make funeral arrangements. Have her...remains brought from Dungarvan to the funeral parlour here.” He got up. “I’ll go into my study. This could take a little time. Make yourself at home.”
“Okay. I’ll look around the rooms. I’ve never seen more than the kitchen.”
“Not much to see. But feel free to roam.” Rory kissed her cheek and disappeared into the study next door to the kitchen, Nellie trotting behind him.
Dessie opened the door to the corridor that led to the living and dining rooms, on either side of the front hall. The dining room was furnished with an old-fashioned set of mahogany table and eight chairs sitting on a faded Donegal rug. There was a china cabinet crammed with fine china from Belleek and a sideboard with a pair of silver candlesticks and a silver tea service. This room didn’t look as if it had been used for a while, Rory preferring to take his meals in the cosy kitchen. She wandered into the living room, which was tastefully furnished with two green velvet sofas flanking the period fireplace. Here, the cream carpet was soft under Dessie’s feet, and she felt like lighting the fire and settling into one of the sofas to watch a programme on the large flat-screen TV in the corner. This was an inviting room, and she guessed it was all Rory’s work. He must have refurnished it after Breda left, throwing out the nineteen-fifties’ furniture and cheap carpet she knew had been the style from what Miranda had told her.
A group of silver-framed photos on the mantelpiece caught Dessie’s eye, and she went to have a closer look. There was a large family photo of Rory’s mum and dad and four children. She spotted a tiny boy with huge eyes and a thatch of brown hair. Rory at about four. Breda and her husband smiled into the camera, their arms around each other. A happy couple with the perfect family. Dessie looked at the other boy, older than Rory, who was the image of his mother, with the same eyes, black hair, and pointy chin. That must be Brian, who died in a farm accident at the age of nineteen. The rightful heir, in other words, and his mother’s darling, according to rumours. The little girls, both toddlers, had brown hair like Rory and their dad, whose good looks were duplicated in the three little faces. The other photos were of Rory with various dogs and horses, and the sisters and their families. Dessie put the photos back, thinking it was strange that she hadn’t really known any of them, apart from Rory. But he had been the only one she’d been in contact with through the pony club. He was nearly ten years older and had been hero-worshipped by the horsey girls in those days. She vaguely remembered the tragedy of Brian’s death and the harrowing funeral mass when she was around eight, but it hadn’t really registered. The sisters looked like normal, hassled mums of small children. It would be nice to meet them.
She sat down in one of the sofas and decided to watch the evening news while she waited for Rory. Then she’d cook him something nice for dinner, if he was able to eat anything. The news had just started when her phone rang.
It was Miranda. “Hi, pet, how’s Rory?”
Dessie turned down the volume. “Very sad but holding up. It was such a shock. He’s talking to his sisters now, and then he’ll be making arrangements for the funeral.”
“Of course. How are you? Must be hard. I mean mixed feelings and all that.”
“I’m glad I can be here with him now,” Dessie replied, touched by the concern in Miranda’s voice. “I’m going to stay with him tonight. I don’t want him to be alone.”
“Of course not.” Miranda paused. “But what about the funeral? That’ll be a huge dilemma for you.”
“That’s for sure,” Dessie agreed. “A case of damned if I go and damned if I don’t. If I sit there with Rory and his sisters, everyone will know what’s going on, and if I go and sit at the back of the church, they’ll wonder what the hell I’m doing there. Either way, they’ll be saying I’m doing it all over again, blah, blah. Not that I care what anyone thinks, but I don’t want Rory to be hurt.”
“Of course not. But I’ve been talking to Jules, and we have come up with the perfect solution. This way, you’ll be looking good, and nobody will be able to say a word against you.”
“What solution?” Dessie asked.
“Just listen for a moment.”
Dessie sat back and let Miranda explain. As she heard the plan, relief flooded through her like a warm wave. It was perfect.