The Midnight House

by Amanda Geard

Genres: World War II; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

People disappear. Secrets remain...

'A wonderful tale of family secrets. Compelling, intriguing, and brimming with lush historical detail' HAZEL GAYNOR, New York Times bestselling author of The Bird in the Bamboo Cage

'I really, really loved it. Written in that old-school, descriptively beautiful way I just love and adore. A wonderful mystery, and then another mystery thrown in, totally atmospheric and just wonderfully escapist' LORNA COOK, USA Today bestselling author of The Girl from the Island
_________________________

My Dearest T, Whatever you hear, do not believe it for a moment...

1940: In south-west Ireland, the young and beautiful Lady Charlotte Rathmore is pronounced dead after she mysteriously disappears by the lake of Blackwater Hall. In London, on the brink of the Blitz, Nancy Rathmore is grieving Charlotte's death when a letter arrives containing a secret that she is sworn to keep - one that will change her life for ever.

2019: Decades later, Ellie Fitzgerald is forced to leave Dublin disgraced and heartbroken. Abandoning journalism, she returns to rural Kerry to weather out the storm. But, when she discovers a faded letter, tucked inside the pages of an old book, she finds herself drawn in by a long-buried secret. And as Ellie begins to unravel the mystery, it becomes clear that the letter might hold the key to more than just Charlotte's disappearance.

An unforgettable and spellbinding story of secrets, war, love and sacrifice, perfect for readers of Kate Morton, Eve Chase and Louise Douglas.

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: May 12, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Prologue

The house, it’s said, was once a great ringfort, piled purple stones placed with such precision that its smooth wall – a perfect circle – rose from the earth without a sliver of mortar to hold it together. It saw the arrival of the Bronze Age. The passing of the Iron Age. The coming of Christianity to this emerald isle on the edge of the tumbling Atlantic Ocean.

Its stones – they say – were moved, one by one, by rough tenant hands, into a new shape, a rectangle, all evidence of curving geometry lost. More stones were added, taken from the base of the mountain that towers behind. And cool blue slate – at dawn it turns to warm magenta – was brought from Valentia Island, where it was cleft in neat regular slivers, its smooth scales forming a weatherproof skin, the veins lined with lead.

To delay decay, local timber was shunned. Even beams made from the slow-grown oaks of Ireland’s woodlands could not compete with rich resinous pitch pine shipped across the ocean. The walls – held together with mortar, unlike the fort from which they are said to have been pulled – were given a sheath: alkaline powder mixed with the inky waters of the lough.

Even back then, ivy crept from the wooded surrounds, reaching eagerly towards the new walls with curious fingers. The gardeners would cut it back, year after year, but still it came.

Once the house was watertight, work on the inside began: green Connemara marble fashioned into fireplaces, quarry tiles imported from a thousand miles east, hand-painted silks unfurled from the Orient. Countless sash windows peered from the elevation like sentinels. They were eyes on the world, and when they blinked, they let in fresh Kerry air rolling damp from the ocean below.

Over the years, the house was added to, extended piece by piece: a wing here, a boiler room there, a hall for the servants at the back. Each postscript tied in by new layers of that blue-then-magenta slate. There were times when the chimneys puffed white peaty smoke. There were times when they didn’t. Generations came and went. Malevolent landlords. Benevolent landlords. Absent landlords. And their children too.

Ireland fought for freedom; the old order tumbled.

And Blackwater Hall survived. But it could yet disappear.

Because ringforts disappear.

Houses disappear.

People disappear.

Chapter One

Ballinn, County Kerry

September 2019

It was the contents of her mum’s bookshelf that finally drove Ellie out of hiding; Moira Fitzgerald’s taste in literature was chalk and cheese to her daughter’s. Heaving bosoms versus timeless classics. And two weeks of plot lines where the guy gets the girl and everything turns out hunky-dory was just too much.

In a desperate bid to fill her days, Ellie had devoured a dozen old editions of The Kerryman scattered here and there about the house, read the crumpled ageing news of local sporting victories and items lost and found. When she’d asked Moira to pick up the Guardian from the village shop, her mum had loyally obliged, bringing the paper back each day between two fingers as though it might be contagious. Ellie knew she would have made some excuse to Deidre O’Brien, the proprietor – and purveyor of gossip – about why she was ordering it (sure, Ellie’s career is flying in Dublin – a freelance article in the Guardian!).

A little white lie.

Now, browsing the shelves in Ballinn’s only charity shop, Ellie admitted to herself it had been a mistake to come out of exile, to wind her way down from the safety of her mum’s farm to the village, where prying eyes and flapping ears were sure to be lying in wait. Her large sunglasses, meant as a disguise, had attracted more attention than they’d diverted, and her mum’s green Nissan Micra, which made a wince-inducing crunch in second gear, drew a friendly wave from every local on Main Street, their hands poised in mid-air as they realised it wasn’t Moira Fitzgerald behind the wheel but someone altogether different.

But still, she’d snuck into Threadbare undetected, and with any luck she could leave a few coins on the counter, tuck some books under her arm and slip out unseen.

‘Eleanor?’

Oh dear.

‘Is that you?’

Ellie looked and saw . . . nothing. No one. The shop was as dead as she felt inside. She added going stir crazy to the long list of things that were wrong with her.

The disembodied voice called again. ‘Ellie?’

She squinted into the gloom. ‘Hello?’

A head appeared. It floated above a shelf of women’s clothing then emerged atop a large body covered shoulders to toes in an amorphous collection of fabrics, a hundred jagged colours stitched together as though they’d been thrown in a blender and pulsed.

‘Bernie?’ Ellie’s shoulders dropped with relief. Bernie was her mum’s best friend and relatively discreet confidante; a rare commodity in Ballinn. ‘Bernie, I . . . if I’d known you were working here, I’d not have crept in . . .’

‘In disguise?’

Ellie removed her huge sunglasses. It had been a ridiculous notion: hiding in plain sight in a rural Irish village.

Bernie stepped forward, a grin on her wide face, and pulled Ellie into a technicolour bear hug. ‘You poor, poor cratúir. Your mammy said you’d be at the homeplace for a bit.’

‘It’s great to see you,’ Ellie said truthfully. ‘It’s good to be back.’ Another little white lie.

She did love Ballinn – it was charming in its way, sandwiched neatly between the heather-flecked foothills of the MacGillycuddy Reeks and the wild Atlantic. It had a church, two pubs, a café whose ownership changed with the seasons, a well-worn charity shop selling well-worn things and a garda station open every second Tuesday. And, of course, a corner shop where gossip was dished out gratis to the few dozen locals – and few hundred holiday-home owners – with every carton of milk. In winter, the village smelled of peat, its earthy smoke mingling with the fog that rolled off Kenmare Bay. In summer, it could be glorious or sodden; some days it cowered under incessant rain thrown from the Gulf Stream, other times it was bathed in sunshine, the square packed with gaggles of delighted tourists buying Irish-wool sweaters and overpriced ice cream. It was beautiful. Quaint. Grand. But it was still coming back. Still the homeplace. Not home, as such. But a safe house. Comfort, familiar surrounds and her mum’s butter-laden cooking.

‘There’s a bit of Dublin in you now,’ said Bernie, holding her at arm’s length. ‘They’ve been starving you up there?’

‘I haven’t been looking after myself.’

‘No. Course you haven’t.’

Ellie wasn’t sure how much Berne knew, but no doubt Moira had given her an overview, titbits of Ellie’s broken life. Or, at least, the titbits her mum knew about. She sighed and stepped back, looked past Bernie to the sheets of rain washing the window pane. But by avoiding Bernie’s gaze, she caught her own, there in the glass, staring back. Her usually neat fringe messy. Her hair an Ozzy Osbourne wig. She wore a black leather jacket and pale jeans: her uniform. And a smear of red lipstick: her armour.

‘. . . and my Sean always said you were top of the class.’

She turned back to Bernie. ‘Sorry?’

‘He considered you his best pupil.’

‘Out of twelve students?’

‘Wilful but bright.’ Bernie nodded. ‘Or . . . not so much bright as curious.’

‘Didn’t curiosity kill the cat?’

Bernie touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘You’re not dead yet, pet. Far from it.’

But Ellie felt dead. Inside. Outside. She ached with the desire to turn back the clock. Her old job. Her old love. Her old life.

The older woman reached forward and squeezed her hand in a way that said feck ’em, and it took her by surprise. Ellie dropped her eyes, felt a familiar prickle behind them. Pushed it away as she took back her hand. She despised this new weakness inside her, and yet it was there.

Bernie frowned, then turned on her heel. ‘As vice chief volunteer at Threadbare, Ellie, I’m offering you VIP shopping.’ She went to the door, flicked the lock, then waved an arm around the room as though somewhere among the jumble lay the answer to all Ellie’s problems.

Despite herself, Ellie smiled. ‘Vice chief? I thought you’d be the boss.’

‘The chief’d never give up the top spot. Anyway, I can’t think of anything worse.’ Bernie leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Last week we started block colouring. In a charity shop!’

It was true, a feeble effort had been made. Reds on one rack graduating to pink then off-white. Blues gathered in the back corner. And yellows piled high by the doorway as though attempting an escape.

Bernie took a scarlet shirt and moved it across to the greys with a nod of satisfaction. ‘Now, El, I know you don’t need any fancy clothes. Tell me . . . what are you looking for?’

My old life, Ellie wanted to say, but instead she ran her hand along the line of tattered spines. ‘Reading material. Anything to pass the time.’

Bernie took her intimation – that she had nothing else to do – in her stride and removed a paperback from the shelf, held it up.

‘Well, not anything . . .’ said Ellie.

Bernie sifted, pushing books along the shelf. ‘No. No. No. Penny dreadful. Too violent. Horrible cover. Ah . . .’ she held up Frank McCourt’s Irish classic, ‘there’s always a few copies of Angela’s Ashes about.’

Ellie had enough misery in her life and Frank McCourt was the last thing she needed. She shook her head and ran her hand along the books. It was an odd assortment of fiction and non-fiction flung together – a seventies cookbook sandwiched between Hen Keeping for Beginners and a chunky Ken Follett.

Bernie held up a sausagey finger – ‘Hold on a minute’ – and disappeared through a door at the back of the shop. The sound of dragging boxes spilled from the room and Ellie turned her gaze to her own ring finger, ran her hand over its smooth surface, felt for something that was no longer there.

‘Any of these take your fancy?’ Bernie returned carrying a large cardboard box. ‘No one buys them, so we keep them out back.’ She held it out: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, a Conan Doyle, several Austens.

‘You keep these out back?’

‘Sure.’ Bernie scratched at an invisible stain on her dress.

‘Really?’

‘I know what you’re implying, but it’s strictly against Threadbare policy to save items for friends and family. The chief would eat the face off of me. She’s always hated me, you know . . .’

‘Bernie!’

‘Look, someone dropped them off from Blackwater Hall . . . the old place on the plateau,’ she added, as though it was something Ellie should know. ‘I haven’t had time to sort them. So when I heard you were coming, I just . . . put them aside.’

A lump formed in Ellie’s throat. ‘Thank you.’ There was nothing like returning to Kerry to soften the hard edges of the city.

Bernie grinned and put the box in Ellie’s arms, pushing away the money that came in the other direction. Then she took a paperback from the shelf, held it up. On its cover, a woman stared with longing into the dark eyes of a man who had evidently misplaced his shirt. She laid it on top of Jane Austen and winked.

‘There,’ she said, ‘that one’s for your mammy.’



Outside, the rain fell in fat drops and Ellie ran the last few steps to the car. She fiddled with her keys and dropped them once, twice, before wrenching open the passenger-side door and flinging the box into the car’s dry interior. By the time she slid herself into the driver’s seat, her fringe dripped with rain.

The gloom of the afternoon looked like dusk, but sunset was hours away. That was Ballinn in September; it could be summer or winter or anything in between. Next to her sat the box of books, its top flap half open as if inviting a quick peep. Reaching past the damp cardboard, she retrieved Moira’s bodice-ripper. Look away, she wanted to say to the woman on the cover, save yourself. She put it aside, leaned over the remaining titles. At the very bottom was a mottled slipcase with a book lodged inside, spine first. She picked it up and slid it out.

The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie.

Its cloth-bound spine creaked in protest as she eased it open. As she did with all old books, she brought it to her nose, sniffed. Any scent of its owner was long gone, its pages infused with damp and time.

The book was still attached to her nose when her phone rang, bringing her back to the car, back to the village. Back to now. It had been so long since she’d answered a call that she tensed in fear. But when she looked at the screen, her shoulders dropped. Mum landline.

‘I’m on my way,’ she said. ‘Fifteen minutes max.’

‘There’s no need of rushing, Ellie,’ came Moira’s reply, ‘but dinner’ll be ready at five.’

Ellie smiled to herself. Dinner was always at five. ‘I’m just leaving the village.’ She wedged the phone under her ear and placed the open book in her lap. The text was neat and slightly raised; gentle Braille beneath her fingers. ‘I bumped into Bernie. She knew I was back . . .’

‘I can’t be keeping a thing like that from Bernie! You know what she’s like. Knows what you’re going to say before you even think it.’

‘A mind reader, is she?’

Moira blustered, and Ellie experienced equal measures of guilt and pleasure. ‘Had some books for me, as it turns out.’

‘Oh?’ Moira’s voice rose a notch.

Ellie paused. ‘You knew about the books?’

The line became muffled. ‘Oh . . . I have to go . . . The spuds, they’re . . . boiling over. The divils.’

‘Right.’

‘See you soon, love.’ Love? Oh yes, thought Ellie, wincing as a tractor raced past on the empty street, Moira knew about the books. Another of her ploys to get Ellie out and about. Back into the fray. Because Moira was of the generation who worked through grief and sadness and the horrors of life with action, and Ellie was from the generation who tackled it with Netflix. But as the farm didn’t have broadband – or mobile reception, for that matter – Ellie’s only escape had been books. And now she had the box. She patted it fondly as she snapped The ABC Murders shut, returning it to the top of the pile.

‘See you soon,’ she said.

She hung up and appraised the phone. It had come to life that very afternoon as she’d wound her way down the hill into Ballinn, pinging and chiming so that she’d arrived at Threadbare with a full email inbox and countless messages waiting to be read. Another time, she thought. She put the phone deep in her pocket, then turned the Micra’s key, and the car spluttered reluctantly to life, the windscreen wipers clearing a path before her.

Reminding herself to skip second gear, she pulled out on to Ballinn’s main street and away.

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.

Chapter Three

Cahercillín Farm, County Kerry

September 2019

Ellie had always loved that boreen, the one winding up out of Ballinn and inland; it led past the patchwork of stone-edged fields that lay below her mum’s farm and climbed through the valley until it became just a desolate track crossing the scrubby heather commons. And there at the end was the Fitzgerald homeplace: a white bungalow perched on the edge of the mountain and surrounded by a wind-tattered laurel hedge that appeared to be holding on for dear life.

As she turned up the driveway, the rain eased and a riot of colour lit the heather-capped mountain, its valleys and ravines flowing with white water. It’d be gone in a few hours, that water, rushing off down the hill and away to the brackish bay. Things to do, places to be. In the space of fifteen minutes, Ellie had driven from wintery Ballinn back into autumn at Cahercillín Farm. Ironic really, because coming home was like travelling back in time, in more ways than one.

As she pushed open the front door, a wave of starchy humidity hit her, mingled with the smell of something over cooked – pork chops? – and the soupy scent of a long-boiled vegetable. She dropped the box of books to the floor before stripping off her jacket and hanging it on the laden coat stand.

‘Hello?’ she called.

A head, wild with curls, popped into the hallway then disappeared. ‘Just in time,’ came Moira’s muffled voice, a Limerick lilt licking at its edges. Even after forty-five years, Moira was still a blow-in. She’d arrived in the seventies when the only things that brought people to Kerry were blood or love. She had found the latter in Ellie’s father, a Kerryman through and through. The farm had been his. He was born there. Literally born there, in what was now the kitchen, weeks after his parents inherited the scattered hundred acres. Ellie’s grandparents named the farm for him: Cahercillín. Birthplace of Cillian.

As a teenager, Ellie had found that embarrassing, such an intimate name for the farm, but nowadays she appreciated it: when she drove through those gates, her father’s name was always there to greet her, even though he was not.

She picked up Moira’s gift and stepped into the kitchen. ‘From Bernie,’ she said, ‘for you.’

Moira’s face crumpled in surprise, then cleared in delight. ‘For me? Well I never . . .’ She flicked through the book and turned