Chapter Two

Blackwater Hall, County Kerry

July 1939

It was early evening when the car finally turned up the wooded avenue and drove the last slow mile to Blackwater Hall. July was running to its close and the chauffeur said that the locals were already predicting an Indian summer. But the oppressive heat wasn’t the only reason for Nancy’s slick palms.

Teddy reached across the back seat and took her hand. ‘You’re intolerably hot,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’ It wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question since they’d left the station.

‘It’s sweltering.’

‘A southern English lass shouldn’t have trouble in heat like this.’

She loosened the collar of her dress. ‘It’s just so . . . muggy.’

‘This is dry, trust me!’ He laughed, an easy sound that she knew belied his nerves.

She smiled and took back her hand, using it to twirl the ring on her finger, to count the five tiny diamonds on its now-familiar contour. This was their first visit to the estate since the wedding. And she hoped it might be their last.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said in the voice he reserved for times when it certainly didn’t feel that way. He looked beyond her and she followed his gaze, a tightness growing in her chest.

Across the dark, slick surface of Lough Atoon, Blackwater Hall hove into view. It was less grand than she remembered, but handsome enough – not quite a pile; more sprawling than imposing. Thick ivy covered the walls, and its blue slate roof was scattered with a dozen chimney pots. Three rows of white sash windows – some of them open against the warm evening – peppered the front elevation. French doors led directly on to a sloping lawn that ran a hundred yards to the reedy edge of the lough.

And now out of those French doors came a slender figure in white.

‘Ah, Mother’s here,’ Teddy said. ‘I’m so pleased.’

‘Me too.’ Nancy smoothed the Gibson bun she’d risen especially early to attempt. She had packed numerous hats under which to hide her unruly hair; Teddy’s mother was fastidious about neatness. In her compact mirror, she checked her make-up. Despite the heat, her foundation remained matte, her dark brows and lashes still neatly set with a touch of mascara. An English rose in the Irish countryside. ‘I bet she’s spent all day . . .’

‘Cleaning?’

‘Or cooking?’ she said, and Teddy laughed. ‘A cake. To welcome me warmly into the family.’ Two comrades, thought Nancy, making light of the approaching domestic war.

‘The weeks will fly.’ But even he sounded unsure. Now that they were married, there was his inheritance to consider, documents to sign. In person. They’d put it off for long enough.

Nancy turned to the lough, partly to hide her apprehension, partly to take in the view of Cottah Mountain. It towered over Blackwater Hall, an eight-hundred-foot fell of rock and wild vegetation, dazzling with the rich purple of flowering heather. In winter, the south-facing slope heated up during the day, and the family maintained that when the evening breeze rolled over the summit, the mountain’s warm breath kept the frost at bay.

But as they pulled up to the house, Lady Rathmore’s expression was icy in the heat. She stood watching. Waiting.

Teddy turned Nancy’s face gently towards him. ‘You’re beautiful, I love you.’ He brushed her cheek. ‘Those eyes, Nancy. You’ve incredible eyes. So rich, so blue.’

Unlike my blood, she thought, but she simply said: ‘I love you too.’

They walked through the French doors into a bright room; duck-egg-blue walls and a pale carpet so immaculate it might have been laid the night before. Nancy kept to the centre of an oriental runner that led through the space and spread left and right towards two dark timber doors. On the far wall an enormous sideboard groaned with polished silverware. Half of a twelve-seater table was set for dinner, and at the other end of the room, two oxblood wingbacks huddled around a green marble fireplace, peat and kindling piled but unlit in the warm afternoon.

The smell of roasting meat hung in the air. ‘I thought we’d eat informally tonight,’ said Lady Rathmore. She talked at Nancy but not to her. ‘That will, I’m sure, make you more comfortable.’

Nancy bit her tongue and smiled. ‘How thoughtful.’ She spoke with ease but clasped her hands behind her back, fingernails pressed painfully into her palms. It was, she hoped, the only outward sign of her irritation.

Lady Rathmore nodded. ‘Very well.’ She was an elegant woman with a soft East Coast American accent. Tall, pale, and wearing a floor-length white dress so pristine and impractical that only a lady could get away with it. ‘I had thought six thirty, but as you were late, shall we say seven?’ Not waiting for an answer, she followed the runner and disappeared through a door to the left, leaving Teddy and Nancy alone in the room.

Somewhere in the house, a clock struck six, and Nancy leaned forward, whispered to Teddy: ‘So, no cake?’

‘I’m so sorry.’

But she laughed. Everything was different now. She was different. This time she had a ring on her finger; she felt safe, secure. Now she and Teddy were one and nothing could come between them.

She slipped off her shoes and stepped onto the cream carpet. It was cool and luxurious between her toes. ‘At least I didn’t babble.’ She leaned down and stroked it. Wool. It must have cost a fortune. ‘Last time I waffled about Edward’s abdication . . . I went on and on. And then – after, mind you – you tell me your mother is friends with Wallis Simpson’s cousin . . .’

That, though, was three years ago. She’d been a twenty-two-year-old overawed by the grandeur, the pomp. And taken in by the beauty of Kerry – the only true thing, she thought, about Blackwater Hall. That, and Charlotte. She had been newly in love with Teddy and they shared everything. Their life in London was just taking shape, their independence slowly annealing into partnership.

She picked up her shoes and crossed the carpet. ‘This time I’m determined to keep my opinions to myself.’ She paused at the window. Outside, the lough threw back a crisp reflection of the mountain, and inside, the walls were covered with Rathmore portraits, Rathmore blood. Four barons, their wives, and a handful of children.

The family walked a strange line – a heritage split between Irish, English and American. Between Protestant and Catholic. Between past and present. And although Teddy was the second son – the spare – they’d had high hopes for him. Higher hopes. Nancy’s arrival on the scene had shaken up an already shaky relationship.

She turned to Teddy, who had joined her at the window. ‘I’d hoped Charlotte might meet us when we arrived.’ He stepped behind her, a hand on her waist. Warmth ran through her body but, checking for observers, she peeled his fingers away.

In her handbag, Nancy carried the last letter she’d written to Charlotte – she hadn’t posted it; they’d only have chased it across the Irish Sea. In their correspondence the women exchanged hopes, dreams; they sent them back and forth like trinkets, sharing the details of their lives.

Not all the details, Nancy thought, and felt a pang of guilt at the secrets she kept. At the grief she wasn’t yet ready to put into words. Charlotte had always been candid, however; she was a prolific letter writer, to Nancy, to Teddy; she had a dozen pen pals scattered here and there. It was, Nancy knew, her way of escaping the confines of her life.

‘She’ll be here,’ Teddy said. Now they stood side by side at the window, barely touching. ‘I wish my only sister idolised me as much as she does you.’

‘I’m quite sure that’s not true . . .’ But she turned and gave him a wink, suggesting she knew it was absolutely the truth. His dimples gave him away; he was smiling as he looked to her.

But as his eyes hovered over her shoulder, his expression fell away. Nancy paused, frowned. And from behind her, the silence was filled. ‘Ah.’ A loud voice. Confident. Self-important. ‘You’ve arrived.’

She turned, her face set in a practised smile. The man who crossed the room ignored the runner, his shoes leaving momentary imprints on the carpet.

‘Hugo,’ Teddy said, placing his hand gently on the small of Nancy’s back.

‘Little brother.’

It was fascinating for Nancy, seeing these two men together. When she’d last met Hugo, they’d looked remarkably similar, but the few intervening years had added pounds to the older man, etched fine lines around his eyes. She wondered where the crow’s feet had come from – she had never seen him laugh. It was as though a likeness of Teddy had been expanded upwards and a little outwards. Each feature accentuated, and occasionally, as with the nose, slightly too much. They were both fair, but while Hugo’s hair shone with Brylcreem, Teddy’s parted naturally at the side. It flopped to his temple and he was forever pushing it out of the way.

After a beat too long, Hugo turned to Nancy. He didn’t move to take her hand. ‘Ah, your lovely wife.’ He glanced at her stockinged feet. ‘My dear, I do hope Mother has made you feel at home,’ he said in a way that suggested he didn’t hope anything of the sort.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And the trip?’ This to Teddy.

‘Long.’

Hugo took his brother by the arm and led him towards the wingback chairs. ‘Not looking forward to it myself.’

‘What do you mean?’ Teddy glanced back at Nancy. A shared look: here we go.

‘I’m coming to London shortly. An opportunity has presented itself; imminent war tends to have that effect. We’ll discuss it . . . later.’ This last was said after a pause, with the slightest nod towards Nancy.

She almost laughed. The patriarchy taking care of business while the little woman kept her place. Hugo would blanch to know that their relationship transcended such old-fashioned constraints. Nonetheless, Nancy didn’t expect Teddy to protest – Hugo was the sort of man, he’d always said, one must just endure.

‘Let’s get settled from the journey before we talk shop.’

Hugo clapped his back, his younger brother wincing at the force of it. ‘Absolutely, old man.’

Nancy crossed the room and took Teddy’s hand. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’ she said. ‘I was hoping to see her before dinner.’

‘Off on one of her mercy dashes, one presumes.’ Hugo took a cigarette from a holder. Tapped it irritably against the silver surface. ‘Silly girl.’

Nancy’s smile slipped. She coaxed it back into place, but the look on Hugo’s face suggested he’d seen her lapse, noted her stumble. And, she suspected, had locked it away for later use. She gently let go of Teddy’s hand, put her own to her forehead with exaggerated calmness. ‘I need to lie down before supper.’ She nodded to the room, made for the door. Stepped through and paused on the other side.

Hugo laughed. ‘A very difficult pupil to teach decorum, I dare say. But do try. For Mother’s sake.’

Teddy took an audible breath. Pulled his temper into check. They’d discussed it before they’d arrived, she and Teddy: we must just get through this. No drama. No argument. Sign the docu­ments and get out. She felt no betrayal at his lack of retort. Instead, he said, ‘Mercy dashes?’

‘Our little Charlotte has been visiting Ballinn. Teaching the savages to write or some such. Ghastly. But you know her, she has a soft heart. And a soft head . . .’

A muffled protest from Teddy. Nancy gripped the door handle, straining to hear as Hugo lowered his voice. Then a sharp rejoinder from her husband: ‘You mustn’t speak of her like that.’

‘Nonsense, Edward. It’s all quite tame.’ Hugo’s voice had moved across the room. A box opened, snapped shut. Then the click of a lighter. ‘Besides, this charity work puts her in rather a good light. She’ll make a fine match.’ Heavy footsteps crossed the room. ‘After all,’ Hugo paused, ‘isn’t that what we were brought up to do? To make a fine match?’

Nancy stepped back from the door. She was strong. She could handle this. And after this visit, she would never return to Blackwater Hall.

Never, ever again.