Daughters of Castle Deverill (59 page)

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 brown-stone 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 5th January
1922 at 12.20 p.m. in Dublin at the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven. Name: Mary-Joseph. Sex: girl. 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 per
cent 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 favour 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 travelled. 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 harboured 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 neighbourhood north-east 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.

Rosaleen 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.

Ballinakelly, Co. Cork, 1667

The day dawned grey and overcast. The air was cold and there was a hardness to the wind as if its edges had been sharpened like knives. Rooks and crows hopped about the castle
walls where the fire had charred the stones to an ugly black, but Lord Deverill’s flag flew high and defiant on the western tower so that all who saw it were reminded of his triumph over his
enemies and discouraged to rise again.

Lord Deverill awoke with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He climbed out of bed with a groan and called his servant to bring him wine and bread. Maggie O’Leary had dominated
his thoughts since the first time he had laid eyes on her, but today the whole sorry episode would be over once and for all. Today she would die. Burned at the stake the way many witches had gone
before. He hoped that with her death so too would die her image, for it plagued him day and night and, however much he tried to distract himself, she was always present, always tormenting him with
the power of her allure. He could see them now, those eerie green eyes staring at him with a mixture of insolence and wonder. Today they would close forever and he would be rid of her and rid of
his guilt for having given in to his desire and taken her in the woods.

He dressed and summoned his horse. The ride into Ballinakelly seemed to take longer than normal. Accompanied by a small handful of men he made his way slowly, through dense woodland and on down
the valley where a little stream meandered its way idly over glistening stones and craggy rocks. The hamlet, when he reached it, was unusually quiet. There was no one to be seen at the gates and
the road was empty but for a young boy running as fast as his legs could carry him for fear of arriving late and missing the spectacle. For that’s what it was, a spectacle, and the people of
Ballinakelly were gathered in the square ready to be entertained.

Lord Deverill rode his horse up the road, past the modest stone cottages, the blacksmith’s forge and the inn and further into the heart of the hamlet. The closer he got the more his
stomach cramped with fear. He did not want to see her. He did not want
her
to see
him
. He did not want to be reminded of his foolishness. At last he saw the crowd of people and,
beyond, the pile of wood gathered to make a small hill and the stake that stuck aggressively out of it. He swallowed hard and gripped the reins to stop his hands from trembling. One or two people
turned and saw him and then a ripple of whispering hissed through the crowd and a hush descended until it was so quiet that even the babes in arms were silenced by the shock of it.

Lord Deverill caught the eye of the little boy who had only a moment ago been running up the road and summoned him with a finger. The boy hurried to his horse and looked up at him with eager
eyes. Lord Deverill bent down and whispered something that only the boy could hear. The child nodded and took the small bag Lord Deverill gave him and the reward of a shining coin with grubby
hands. Then he disappeared into the crowd like an agile little ferret. A moment later there was a rattling noise as a cart appeared, carrying a woman dressed in a simple white robe. Her hair was
long and tangled, hanging about her like a black veil, and she was kneeling on straw with her hands tied behind her back. She said nothing but she cast her eyes about the crowd and seemed to
bewitch them all for no one dared utter a sound. Even when she was on her way to her death they feared her.

She walked calmly to the stake and her hands were bound behind it. She did not try to resist. She did not fight, cry out or wail. She looked frail up there, like a child, but the nobility with
which she stood was otherworldly. A priest read out her crime in a voice that echoed around the square, but Maggie seemed unmoved by it. All the while she ran her gaze over the people with her chin
held high and an imperious expression on her beautiful face as if she pitied them all for their ignorance. She apparently did not fear death and the crowd sensed her bravery and were awed into a
dreadful silence.

Just as the men with flares advanced to light the pyre she raised her eyes and looked directly at Lord Deverill, into his soul, and Barton’s breath was frozen in his chest. He was
powerless to move. It was as if she was looking deep into his very core and he didn’t know whether the smile that curled her lips was of gratitude or defiance. He tried to look away but she
held him steadily, like a snake with her prey, and as the sticks caught fire and grey smoke began to envelop her, her blazing eyes watched him still.

The flames lapped at her feet and grew higher but she remained silent and the crowd began to shuffle uneasily. Why didn’t she cry out? Why did she not feel the burning? At last she let out
a low moan. Barton stared in horror as the moan escalated into a shrill, piercing cry which threatened to shatter every eardrum in the square. And then the small bag of gunpowder she held in her
hands caught light and exploded with a loud bang, thus releasing her as Barton had intended. Lord Deverill realized that he hadn’t breathed and took in a giant gulp of air. The crowd
staggered back as sparks flew and the fire roared like the mouth of a mighty dragon. The people shielded their eyes and their cries rose with the crackling sound of burning wood and the stench of
roasting flesh. He had seen enough. He turned his horse and galloped as fast as he could out of the village.