Learning the truth about her birth had shifted something in Martha. Mrs. Goodwin noticed the change even if no one else did. She was quiet, pensive and heavy-hearted. While Edith was more buoyant than ever, grabbing her parents’ attention with both hands, Martha’s solemnity was barely noticeable, but Mrs. Goodwin, who knew and loved her so well, was disturbed by it. Yet unhappiness drove her deeper into herself and in that dark and silent place she found something she had lost long ago: a sense of where she came from and who she really was. She heard whispers on the wind and saw glimpses of strange lights that hovered around the snowy garden. At night when she lay crying on her pillow she had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t know who it was and, having been brought up in the Christian faith, she wondered whether it was God or an angel sent to reassure her. She thought of Ireland often and imagined her mother as a frightened young woman with nowhere to turn. She didn’t despise her for giving her away—such negativity was not part of Martha’s nature—she pined for her. Somewhere, in that distant land, there was a woman who was part of her. A woman who had lost her, and the frightened young woman of her imagination made her ache with pity.
Martha refused to go anywhere and stayed in her room, staring out of the window, while Mrs. Goodwin made excuses so as not to arouse Mr. and Mrs. Wallace’s suspicion that something was dreadfully wrong. Martha preferred to be alone with her thoughts. She took comfort from her inner world because the outer world had so disappointed her.
Then one night in early January she had a strange thought. It seemed to come out of nowhere. She saw the image of a shoebox at the back of her mother’s bathroom cupboard and heard the words birth certificate very clearly, as if they had been whispered into her ear. She sat up with a jolt and looked around the room. It was dark, as usual, but she sensed she was not alone. Her heartbeat accelerated and her hands grew damp with nervousness. There was somebody in her bedroom, she was sure of it. She knew, however, that if she turned on the light the being would disappear and she didn’t want it to go. She wanted very badly to see it.
After a while she lay down again and closed her eyes. But her heart was racing and she felt more awake than ever. Then a memory floated into her mind. She remembered a brownstone building and the fear of going up in a lift that looked like a cage. She remembered holding her mother’s hand, but she remembered also the briskness of her mother’s walk—the determination in her stride to go deeper into the building. She saw a tall man with big blue eyes bending down to inspect her as if she were an insect and her stomach clamped with panic. Then she saw a strange lamp that looked like a demonic eye and she gasped with fright. Horrified, she leaned over and switched on the light. She glanced around the room. There was no one there. No sound save the thumping in her chest. She took a deep breath and tried to recall more of the memory. The man faded, taking with him the terror, but something refused to go. She couldn’t discern what it was, only that it was there, just out of reach. She worked the muscle in her brain until it began to fatigue. The more she tried to recall it, the further away it drifted. Eventually she gave up. She turned off the light and lay back down on the pillow. The vision of the shoebox must surely have been a dream, she thought, but she’d take a look the following day when her mother was out, just in case. If she could find her birth certificate she’d know who to look for—because she was going to look. That she had already decided.
The following day, as soon as her mother had left the house with Edith, Martha hurried into her bathroom. She crouched down to open the cupboard beneath the sink. Inside were neat bottles lined up in rows, bags of cotton wool and packets of medication. She was astonished to see the shoebox of her vision sitting in darkness at the back, just as she had envisaged it. With a trembling hand she carefully lifted it out. Barely daring to breathe she raised the lid. Inside were papers and a piece of old blanket. Burrowing beneath the piece of blanket she pulled out the documents. There, sitting in her hand, was her birth certificate. It took a moment for her to focus because her eyes had once again blurred with tears. But she blinked and her focus returned. Born on January 5th, 1922, at 12:20 p.m. in Dublin at the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven. Name: Mary-Joseph. Sex: female. Name and surname of father: unknown. Name and surname of mother: Grace, Lady Rowan-Hampton. She caught her breath. Her mother was an aristocrat. She presumed she had got pregnant out of wedlock and been forced to give her child away, and her heart flooded with sympathy. She wondered whether Lady Rowan-Hampton ever thought of her and wondered how she was. Wondered whether she was happy, whether she even knew that she existed. She wondered whether she regretted giving her away or whether she had simply signed the papers and moved on with her life. Was it possible to ever forget a child you gave away? She put the box back and returned to her room, where she stared at her face in the mirror and tried to imagine what Lady Rowan-Hampton looked like. Did she resemble her mother or her father? she wondered. Her father’s name was unknown, but Lady Rowan-Hampton must know who he is, she thought. If she found her mother she might be able to track down her father too. Then a horrid thought occurred to her: what if Lady Rowan-Hampton didn’t want to be found? The idea that Martha’s appearance might be unwelcome was almost enough to thwart her plan, but she dismissed that as negative. There was a fifty percent chance that her mother would be grateful and she had to bank on that.
When Mrs. Goodwin told Martha that she had been dismissed in favor of a governess who was coming to look after Edith in February, and that she would shortly be leaving for England, Martha’s reaction took the old nanny by surprise. She didn’t sob and beg her to stay as she had expected; she gazed into the nanny’s sad face and declared that she was going with her. “But, my dear, your place is here with your family,” she protested.
“I will not rest until I have found my mother,” Martha replied, and the determination in her voice told Mrs. Goodwin that she had made up her mind and nothing would change it.
“But what will your parents say?” Mrs. Goodwin asked anxiously.
“I will leave them a letter explaining what I plan to do. If I tell them they will try to stop me. I have thought of nothing else since our conversation in the nursery.”
“But where are you going to look?
“I found my birth certificate, Goodwin, in Mother’s bathroom cupboard, and discovered that my mother’s name is Grace, Lady Rowan-Hampton.”
Mrs. Goodwin’s eyes widened. “Fancy that,” she said, impressed. “You’re a lady.”
“I intend to travel to Dublin, to the convent where I was born. Surely they will have records.”
“I’m sure they will.” Mrs. Goodwin looked perplexed. “I don’t have much money, Martha,” she warned. “But I will help as much as I can.”
“I came into some money on my sixteenth birthday,” Martha explained. “And I have saved a little over the years. It will certainly pay for my passage to Ireland and, if I live modestly, it will enable me to manage once I’m there.” She took Mrs. Goodwin’s hands. “Will you come with me?”
“To Ireland?”
“To Dublin. Oh please, say you will. It will be an adventure. I’m afraid to go on my own. I’ve never been anywhere. But you, you’ve traveled. You’re wise and experienced. I know I can do it if you come with me.”
“Well, I do know a little more of the world than you do.” The nanny smiled tenderly. “If you want me to, of course I will. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“What?” Martha asked nervously.
“That you make it right with your parents when you get back.”
“I will,” she replied.
“They love you dearly, Martha. This is going to make them very unhappy.”
“I cannot help that. Now I know the truth I cannot unknow it and I cannot let it go. My mother is out there somewhere. Perhaps she longs for me. Maybe she doesn’t, but I have to know. I’m not the girl I thought I was, Goodwin. I have to find out who I really am.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Goodwin briskly. “Leave everything to me.”
AND FROM HER place in Spirit, Adeline smiled with satisfaction at a job well done.
BACK IN NEW York Bridie read the letter from Michael: Old Mrs. Nagle was dying and her mother was asking for her. As her eyes filled with tears she realized that she couldn’t avoid her destiny any longer. She had bought the castle out of revenge but perhaps her deepest desire lay in the land on which it was built. In spite of her fears about confronting the people she loathed, she harbored a longing for those she loved that called her back to her roots. She put the letter on the table and gazed out of the window. The sky was a pale blue, the winter sun shining weakly onto the frozen earth. A robin hopped about on the snowy lawn, its red breast bright against the white flakes. Finding nothing for it there it spread its wings and flew away, and Bridie wished that she had wings too so she could fly away. Fly away home. This time for good.
JACK HAD SPENT the last seven and a half years in Buenos Aires. He had used some of the money Maranzano had given him to open an Irish pub in a neighborhood northeast of the city called Retiro, and bought a small apartment in a Parisian-style building close by. Both he and Emer had tried very hard to love their new home. After all, Buenos Aires was a beautiful city of tree-lined avenues, sun-dappled squares and leafy parks, but the prosperity it had enjoyed in the twenties had collapsed with the Great Depression and the atmosphere was now tense and uncertain. It was not the time to be running a new business. But Jack had had no option but to hide. He didn’t think Luciano and Siegel would look for him there. However, every knock on the door gave his heart a jolt and every lingering glance in the street raised his suspicion. He slept with his gun beneath his pillow and he feared for his children every time they left the house. Emer was patient and calm but even she was beginning to tire of his constant wariness.
Alana was now ten, Liam was nearly seven and Emer had given birth to Aileen the year before. He worried for their safety and he worried about their future. He didn’t see himself living out the rest of his days in this country where he struggled to speak the language and strove without success to find a sense of belonging. His pub had few customers; the Irish community in Buenos Aires was small and Argentines didn’t appreciate Irish music or Irish stout. He had made a few bad investments and was losing money fast. He looked out of his bedroom window one morning and made a decision. It was time to go home.
Nearly eight years had passed since he had run from the Mafia; he didn’t imagine they were looking for him now. He believed he’d feel safe in Ballinakelly. He trusted his children would have a better quality of life there and a better future. He wanted to put away his gun, dust off his veterinary bag and live a quiet life without looking over his shoulder and mistrusting every stranger. He tried not to think of Kitty. He tried to focus on what he had, not on what he had lost. He loved Emer. She was his present; he had no reason to fear the past.