It was dark and raining heavily when Michael Doyle knocked on Father Quinn’s door. There was a cold and ragged edge to the wind as it whipped around the walls of the priest’s house, which stood in isolation behind the ancient church of All Saints. Michael waited, shoulders hunched against the cold, cap leaking water into his hair, and wondered why the old priest wanted to see him now, at this ungodly time. He was reminded of the secret meetings that had taken place here in the dead of night during the War of Independence, when Grace and Kitty had crept in through the back door to plot and scheme and betray their class. He grinned as he thought of Grace now, pressed up against the farmhouse wall, legs wrapped around his middle, upper lip glistening with sweat, moaning with wanton pleasure. He knew what lay beneath the ladylike veneer she presented to the world. He knew how deeply ran her lust and how hot and uncontrollably it boiled. He had enjoyed her immensely. The big door opened a crack, and Father Quinn’s wrinkly face peered through it, bringing Michael back to the present and to the matter at hand, which, judging by the priest’s expression, was urgent.
Michael took off his jacket and cap and followed Father Quinn into the parlor. There was a fire in the grate and a dim, cheerless light radiating weakly from a few tatty lamps placed on polished wooden tables positioned around the room. The parlor was dour and simple and lacked a woman’s touch, Michael thought, but Father Quinn was a practical man who did not have the patience or the desire for embellishment. Michael was pleased to be out of the rain. He took the armchair beside the fire where he had sat so many times before and Father Quinn took the one opposite, which was placed directly beside one of the lamps so that he could read more easily. Michael noticed the almost-empty glass of whiskey and the open book on the table.
Father Quinn took off his spectacles and looked at Michael gravely. “I would not have invited you here at this time of the night had it not been of the greatest importance,” he said, folding his big, coarse hands in his lap.
“I thought as much. So what is it?” Michael replied.
“It’s Ethan O’Donovan. He came to see me this evening. His daughter Niamh is planning to run away with the Count.”
Michael had been expecting this and showed no surprise. “Did he say when?”
“He did not. But his wife found a packed bag beneath the maid’s bed, and when she questioned her, the girl confessed. She told her that Niamh boasted that she is going to start a new life in America now that the war is over. I fear that the Countess has given her husband power over her riches.” Father Quinn had known Bridie when she had been a barefooted scrap of a girl in his congregation, but since she had acquired status and a great fortune he was not only respectful of her title but protective of her money, for she gave generously to his church as well as to local charities. He was not about to see it disappear across the Atlantic with her good-for-nothing husband.
“Does Mrs. O’Donovan know that Ethan came to see you?”
“She does not,” said Father Quinn, knowing Michael well enough to understand where his questioning was leading.
“Does anyone else know that he came to see you?”
“I believe not. No one knows that you are here either, I don’t imagine.”
“Then leave the matter with me.”
Father Quinn nodded his gray head, and his rheumy, hooded eyes looked at Michael without blinking. “Sometimes men of God such as we are have to take justice into our own hands. In this case the Countess is your sister and you have a right to protect her. I will absolve you of any sin.”
“I knew the sort of man the Count was the moment he arrived in Ballinakelly,” said Michael.
“I am afraid he is one of God’s lost sheep.”
“But there’s no shepherd to bring him into the flock, Father Quinn. He is a man who abides by his own rules and thinks he can act with impunity because of his title and his wealth. But let me tell you that he is not what he seems.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“I will not let him ruin my sister.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I will deal with him the Irish way.” Michael pushed himself up from the chair. “You must tell Ethan that you cannot do anything to help besides giving advice and support and that his daughter is in God’s hands now. What will be, will be, and it will be God’s will.”
“I will talk to him tomorrow,” said Father Quinn.
“You must remain above suspicion, Father.”
Father Quinn grinned grimly. “I always am, Michael.”
Michael left the priest in his armchair and let himself out. It was still raining but not as hard as when he had arrived. He pulled up his collar and walked briskly to his car.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Bridie received an unexpected visitor. She was sitting on the terrace with Rosetta, for the rain had passed and the sun was shining down with the enthusiasm of summer, when the butler stepped out to announce Mrs. Maddox, the rector’s wife. Bridie raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Rosetta. What could the rector’s wife possibly want with her? She didn’t imagine it was a social call, Catholics and Protestants did not mix, so she was curious as to what the woman’s motive might be. A moment later the elderly lady was shown through the French doors.
Ballinakelly was a small town, but Bridie did not venture there much, and many of the people who had come to live there in recent years were strangers to her. Mrs. Maddox, the former Mrs. Goodwin, was one of those. But Bridie instantly recognized her, for it was impossible to forget that sweet, gentle face and unassuming smile. However, she couldn’t remember where she had seen it, only that she had, at some time in her past, set eyes on it. “Mrs. Maddox, please join us here in the sunshine,” she said, playing for time while she racked her brain in search of her. “Have you met my sister-in-law, Mrs. Doyle?”
Mrs. Maddox shook Rosetta’s hand and then sat down on a garden chair made comfortable by pretty floral cushions. The butler disappeared to fetch a fresh pot of tea and another teacup. As soon as Mrs. Maddox began to speak Bridie recalled the moment in the milliner’s when she had met the pretty young girl trying on hats with her companion. In fact, Bridie had been quite taken with her. Now that the girl’s companion had come to call she would ask after her.
“What a lovely day,” said Mrs. Maddox, whose life had turned into a veritable banquet of pleasure since marrying her old love John Maddox. Her joy rendered everything beautiful. Not a moment went by when she didn’t count her blessings. Like her husband she had grown fat on happiness. The two of them resembled a jolly pair of portly partridges. But her chubbiness gave her a rosy, friendly demeanor, as well as restoring her youthful appearance, which years of silent longing had purloined, and Bridie and Rosetta were immediately charmed by her. “This is the first time I have seen Castle Deverill in its entirety. Of course I’ve seen the towers peeping above the tree line and Mr. Maddox showed it to me from the distant hills. I have to confess that the first sight of it stole my breath.” She put her hand on her chest and sighed. “Indeed, it is quite magnificent.”
“We have met before, haven’t we, Mrs. Maddox?” said Bridie, pleased that she had recalled the memory in time.
“Oh yes, we have,” said Mrs. Maddox.
“It was before the war,” Bridie told Rosetta. “I was in Loretta’s looking at hats with Emer when Mrs. Maddox came in with a sweet girl with an American accent.”
“Miss Martha Wallace,” Mrs. Maddox interjected helpfully. “You very generously gifted her a hat.”
“She had to have it,” said Bridie, now remembering the moment well.
“She was delighted. I’m sure she wears it often. The color was so becoming on her.”
“Did she return to America?” Bridie asked.
“Yes, she suffered a terrible disappointment and fled with her heart broken.”
The joy was swept from Mrs. Maddox’s face, replaced by a sad, regretful expression as she thought of her beloved, disconsolate Martha.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bridie.
“Who broke her heart?” Rosetta asked, for while Bridie was too polite to pry, Rosetta had no such compunction.
“Well, it’s a very sad story,” Mrs. Maddox began. She did not feel she would be betraying Martha if she were to confide in the Countess, who had been so sweet to her. But just as she was about to share Martha’s sorry tale the butler reappeared with a pot of fresh tea and a cake on a silver tray. She paused as he poured the tea. All the while the three women remained silent. In that prolonged moment Mrs. Maddox had time to reconsider.
“Do go on,” said Rosetta, once the butler had gone back inside.
“You were about to tell us the girl’s sad story,” said Bridie.
Mrs. Maddox’s lips hovered over the fine rim of her teacup. “She had fallen hopelessly in love with Mr. JP Deverill,” she said, then took a sip.
Now Bridie grew more interested. “He didn’t love her back?”
“He did,” said Mrs. Maddox.
“So why the broken heart?”
Both women looked at her expectantly. The secret balanced precariously on the older woman’s tongue. It was true that happiness had made her garrulous. She had been only too eager to throw off the constraints imposed upon her by her position as nanny in the Wallace household, discretion being one of them. Indeed, since marrying John Maddox she had become something of a gossip.
“They were both broken-hearted,” Mrs. Maddox said carefully. “I do believe they intended to marry.”
Bridie’s eyes widened. “But what stopped them?” she asked.
“They . . .” Mrs. Maddox hesitated. But just before she spilled the details of Martha and JP’s parentage, she stopped herself. “The Deverills forbade it,” she said instead, which was still a revelation to the two women who were now staring at her with their mouths open. “They prohibited it on account of Martha’s parentage.” There, she thought, that’s not exactly an untruth. “Martha was forced to leave. But your hat did much to raise her spirits,” she added, and took a bite of cake.
As Bridie expected, Mrs. Maddox had come to appeal for money for a charity she was hoping to set up through the Catholic and Protestant churches to unite children of both religions, but Bridie wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about her son JP and wondering about his broken heart. The thought of him suffering made another tear in her already ragged heart, and she had to concentrate very hard on what Mrs. Maddox was saying in order to stop her emotions from showing.
Bridie had heard from Emer O’Leary that JP was home. She had told Bridie how he had come looking for Jack but had asked very kindly after Alana. Not only was he handsome to look at, Emer had said, but he had lovely manners too. “Those Deverills have all the charm,” she told Bridie with unconcealed admiration.
“But they don’t have their castle,” Bridie had replied.
Emer, who had heard all about the castle’s history from her mother-in-law, had smiled and said nothing. According to Jack’s mother, the land the castle was built on should still belong to the O’Learys.
LEOPOLDO WAS ONLY thirteen, but he was taller than his mother and almost as tall as his father. He was spoiled and unpleasant and feared by everyone, from his tutors to his cousins. He had no friends, for his parents had brought him up to believe that as a prince he was superior to everyone else. Consequently, he was lonely and unhappy, and his unhappiness made him mean. He seemed to find pleasure only in hurting creatures weaker than himself. The one creature he was unable to dominate was the horse, and as a result he was terrified of it.
Cesare insisted he learn to ride so that he could hunt and play polo, but the boy’s fear prevented him from mastering the beast that seemed to sense not only his terror but his disagreeable nature and responded by bucking and bolting and generally acting up. His riding instructor despaired, not least because the Count would not listen to reason and allow the boy to quit. He wanted Leopoldo to be a finer version of himself and was infuriated that he did not have all the qualities to make him proud. “A prince does not fear anything!” he would shout, and his ears would go red with fury and his lips would glisten with spittle. “You are to be a prince of princes! The duty of a son is to exceed his father, but you are a disappointment, Leopoldo.” Leopoldo would retaliate with equal vitriol, calling his father a tyrant and a bully; if he was a disappointment it was only because his father had made him so. The two of them would stare at each other and snort like a pair of bulls in a ring, but Leopoldo was now too big for Cesare to smack so the Count would lower himself to use the only threat he knew had any impact. “If you don’t master the horse I will cut you off and you will be penniless and I will leave the castle to one of your cousins!” Leopoldo knew that there was no point appealing to his mother because his father held the financial strings. So he had no choice but to learn to ride because he enjoyed too much his material comforts and the promise of a future lording it up in the castle. There were times when his father shouted at his mother that Leopoldo wished he was dead.
A few days after Mrs. Maddox had visited the Countess (and managed to leave with the promise of money and support for her charity) Leopoldo found his mother sobbing on her bed. In her hand she held a piece of paper. She was crying so loudly that she didn’t notice him come in. By the time she did he had taken the letter out of her hand and was reading it. Leopoldo went white. “You shouldn’t have seen that, Leo,” Bridie said, sitting up and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. “It doesn’t involve you.”
“Of course it involves me, Mama,” he snapped. “If Papa wants to divorce you then he wants to rid himself of both of us.”
Bridie started to cry again. She put a hand to her mouth in an effort to stop herself, but the tears tumbled down her cheeks all the same. She couldn’t begin to explain to a thirteen-year-old boy that she had feared this moment for years. She had known Cesare was bored in Ballinakelly. In spite of her efforts to divert him, he hadn’t found the place or the people amusing. And what was worse, she knew she bored him. She had bored him from the moment they set foot in Ireland. “We should never have left America,” she said regretfully. “We were happy there.” And I was lively and fun and entertaining.
“Then why did you?” Leopoldo asked, an accusatory tone in his voice.
“Because I wanted to come home. I wanted to buy this castle and make a home for us.” And I wanted to wreak revenge on the Deverills who had ruined my life.
“Where is he?” Leopoldo demanded.
“He didn’t come home last night. I found this when I woke up. He must have put it on my pillow while I slept, then crept away.”
“How cowardly not to tell you himself.”
“I expect he didn’t want a scene.”
“Well, he’s going to get one now! I’m going to find him.”
“No, Leo, please—”
“He’s probably spent the night in one of those inns in Ballinakelly.” Bridie watched as he marched out of the room. She lay on her bed and cried into her pillow. She wished she’d taken Beaumont Williams’s advice and kept control of her money. Everything was lost. Everything. But she wasn’t thinking of herself because she knew what it was to be lowly. My poor Leo, she thought. My poor, poor Leo.
Leopoldo marched to the stables. He was going to master the horse now if it killed him, he decided, and gallop into Ballinakelly to find his father. So furious was he that he shoved aside his fear and saddled his father’s gray mare. The grooms watched in bewilderment as the boy who was terrified of horses threw the saddle onto the horse’s back and pulled the girth tightly around its belly. When they offered to help he barked. I’m not going to be a coward like my father, he thought to himself as he put on the bridle. I’m going to show him just how fearless I can be. He mounted with ease and, suppressing a moment’s doubt, trotted out of the stable yard.
As he accelerated into a gallop across the field toward the hills he began to gain more confidence. The horse did not play up, nor did it try to buck him off. Leopoldo held the reins firmly and gritted his teeth, repeating to himself, I am master of this horse. I am master of this horse. He wondered whether the animal sensed the transformation in him, that he had changed from a frightened child into a furious young man, determined to confront his father and shame him into withdrawing his threat of divorce, for his mother’s sake. He wondered whether the horse knew that he was boss.
Leopoldo arrived in Ballinakelly and went from inn to inn in search of his father. No one had seen him. When he entered O’Donovan’s he found Mr. O’Donovan talking to Father Quinn in a low voice. They stopped talking when he entered, and in the silence Leopoldo was sure he could hear a woman sobbing upstairs. He asked whether they had seen the Count, and they both shook their heads. “He hasn’t been in here for a few days,” said Mr. O’Donovan, and Leopoldo left because there was obviously a crisis going on in the O’Donovan household and he had one of his own to settle.
By the time he rode out of town his anger had abated. He was disappointed that he hadn’t found his father. Disappointed that he hadn’t shown him how masterful he was on a horse. He made his way slowly up the road then turned off into the field that led to the hills. He no longer felt afraid and wondered why he had allowed horses to terrorize him. He realized now that it was simply a question of showing them who was master.
In spite of the dramas playing out beneath it the sun shone heartily in a cornflower-blue sky. The green hills glistened vibrantly beneath it, and Leopoldo began to enjoy himself. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and set off at a canter. The wind raked his hair, and the sensation of speed lifted his spirits. If Papa could see me now, he thought triumphantly.
When he reached the cliff top he saw that the tide was out. The beach extended for miles, the pale white sand smooth and flawless in the morning light. Then he spotted a flock of birds pecking at something lying on the sand. It resembled a buoy, and seemed to attract every sort of bird from the greedy white gulls to the gannets and grebes. Leopoldo turned his horse and directed it down the path toward the beach. Perhaps something exciting had been washed up during the night, he thought, curious to see what it was.
The horse stepped onto the sand, and they made their way across it toward the birds. As they approached, there was a noisy flapping of wings as the birds reluctantly took to the air. They didn’t go far, however, but hovered above like vultures, unwilling to discard such a rare and tasty feast.
Leopoldo narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t make it out. What was it? His pleasure mounted at the thought that some poor animal had been savaged, and he gave the horse a kick to move it closer. Leopoldo saw then that it was a head, a human head. His horse noticed at the same time, gave a terrified whinny and reared. Leopoldo was thrown to the ground, landing with a dull thud. As he nursed his bruised hip the horse bolted up the beach in terror, leaving him alone on the sand. The sound of squawking birds grew louder as they flew closer to their meal.
Leopoldo got up and brushed himself off. He peered at the head, realizing that it belonged to a man who had been buried up to his neck. The tide must have come in and drowned him. What a horrid way to die, he thought, but fascination and a dark attraction to the macabre brought him even closer.
Suddenly Leopoldo recoiled. He cried out in panic as if the head itself had turned on him. It was his father’s.
Leopoldo fell to his knees. Unable to tear his eyes from the bloodied, bloated face of the Count, he stared at him with loathing. He hated him. He hated the world, and he hated God. Most of all he hated himself because in his father’s eyes he had never been good enough, and now he never would be.
BRIDIE’S WORLD IMPLODED when the inspector informed her of her husband’s murder. The same anguish that had seized her when her father was stabbed by the tinker seized her now, and she let out a desperate cry and sank to the floor. Her first thoughts were for their son. But Leopoldo’s face was as hard as stone. “He won’t divorce you now,” he said as she clung to him. “He won’t hurt you ever again.”
However, Bridie had loved Cesare in spite of his faults—faults that had marred his character like shadows lingering about a beautiful painting. During his life Bridie had found it easy to overlook the shadows by focusing solely on the beauty, but now that he was dead, those shadows were relegated to the very back of her subconscious mind as if they had never been there and the beauty rose in stature like a magnificent, rearing stallion. She swiftly forgot his infidelity, which she had taken pains to ignore, and she forgot his indifference and his cold-heartedness. He grew out of all proportion in her eyes and her grief became unbearable because of the greatness and nobility of the man she had lost. Bridie was no fool, but love had made a fool out of her. However, it is a happy fool who lives in ignorance of an ugly truth, and Bridie believed she had been happy. The only way to go on without him was to continue being a fool.
WHAT WAS INEVITABLY a tragedy for Bridie was a triumph for Grace. Michael arrived at her door, having abandoned his virtuous intentions and with the lascivious glint restored to his eyes. Sinning is a slippery slope, and as Michael had now gone and put his foot once again on that familiar incline he was quick to slide further toward Hell. He had refrained from sex for years, choosing to lead the pious life of a monk, but that kind of abstinence had ill suited him. He had returned to his old ways by arranging the murder of the Count, and the thrill of wielding power over life and death gave him a profound sense of satisfaction that far exceeded the satisfaction of being moral. “I knew you’d come for me,” Grace gushed hoarsely as he pushed her against her bedroom wall and lifted her skirt. He didn’t care that she was old now and that she had lost the succulence of her youth; there was still something wild and wanton about her that appealed to him, and of course the memory of the woman she had once been was real to him. He kissed her passionately, bruising her lips and stifling her breath as the full weight of his body pressed against her chest. His beard scratched her skin, his coarse hands fondled her breasts, his fingers plunged inside her as he was impatient to savor every part of her and careless with his touch, but Grace relished the vigor in him. Nothing excited her more than the rough handling of a man, and no man excited her more than Michael Doyle.