Secrets of the Lighthouse (16 page)

Ronan’s dark eyes flashed. ‘But he’s alive, isn’t he?’ He took a sharp breath, as if preventing himself from saying any more. Jack flew off his perch and settled on
the curtain pole above the kitchen window. It was pitch black outside and the wind had picked up. It moaned around the house like a ghost. ‘He only has himself to blame,’ Ronan added
quietly. ‘They
both
have themselves to blame.’

‘Ah, the gossip and speculation,’ said Oswald. ‘Twenty years from now the people of Ballymaldoon will still be talking about it.’

‘And no one will be any the wiser,’ Peg added, taking the kettle off the stove and pouring boiling water into the teapot. ‘Now, let’s all have another cup of tea and talk
about something else for a change.’

A little later, Ronan drove off to the pub and Peg settled Ellen into the small sitting room and lit the fire. It crackled comfortingly in the grate. ‘Does Ronan have a
girlfriend?’ Ellen asked her aunt as she plugged her laptop into the socket in the wall behind the desk.

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Peg replied. ‘He’s a very difficult young man, as you can see.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Probably my fault. Children never come
out of a divorce unscathed.’

‘He’s very handsome, though, isn’t he?’

‘Ah, yes, he’s a good-looking boy, all right. The Byrne men are all very handsome.’ Peg closed the curtains. ‘It’s a gusty night. I’m glad you’re not
going out.’

‘Lovely staying in here. It’s a very sweet room.’

‘It’s yours for as long as you want it.’

‘Aunt Peg, I’m very conscious of being a burden to you.’

Peg turned round and smiled at her niece. ‘You’re no burden, Ellen. I’d tell you if you were. It’s nice to have a girl about the house. I only ever had big boys. Since
Ronan moved out it’s been so quiet. I have Oswald.’ Her smile broadened. ‘He’s a lovely rogue, but it is nice to have a girl to look after.’ She hesitated a moment,
considering Ellen’s concern. ‘You know, if you want, you can help me with the messages. I don’t need your money. I have enough for our needs. I’m not extravagant, as you can
see. But if you want to help I’d appreciate you going into Ballymaldoon for me. This damp weather is bad for my bones.’

Ellen was pleased there was something she could do, although she suspected Peg was just being kind. The damp didn’t stop her from spending all day outside with her animals.
‘I’d love to. Just give me your lists and I’ll do the shopping for you, and anything else you require. I’ll even help with the animals. Consider me your Girl
Friday.’

‘It’s a deal, then.’ Peg glanced at her watch. ‘Now, I’d better go and look after Oswald, he’s very demanding. He wants me to help choose paintings for an
exhibition in the town hall. Mr Badger might come and lie in front of the fire. He loves fires. So, don’t be alarmed. He won’t bother you. I’ll just be across the way with Oswald,
if you need me.’

‘Thank you, Aunt Peg. I really appreciate that you’re happy to have me here. It feels like home already.’

Peg smiled. ‘I’m happy to hear it, pet. Now get some writing done, will you?’

‘I will.’

Peg departed, leaving the door a little ajar. The fire began to rustle and crunch as it devoured the kindling and set upon the logs with orange tongues. Ellen switched on her computer and waited
dreamily for it to start up. She rested her chin in her hands and let her mind revisit the moment Conor had appeared over the knoll on his horse. She wasn’t aware of the small smile that
crept across her face as she pictured him in his felt fedora with his wild hair and troubled eyes. The screen lit up in front of her but she was unaware of that too, until Mr Badger wandered in and
settled in front of the fire with a contented sigh, alerting her to his presence and drawing her out of her head.

She almost clicked onto her emails before she remembered that Peg didn’t have email access in her house. It was probably for the best that she didn’t begin communicating with the
very people she had travelled to Ireland to avoid. Instead, she opened a blank page and wrote
NOVEL UNTITLED
in looped writing, adding her name beneath. She spent at least twenty minutes
playing around with the fonts. When she scrolled down to the next page, she found she had nothing to write. The clean white of it made her shrink back in defeat. Until she had a plot there was no
point even beginning. But she had her hero all right, and she put her head in her hands and thought of him again.

It was eleven o’clock when Johnny and Joe banged on the door of Peg’s house. Ellen was in bed, reading a Daphne du Maurier novel from Peg’s bookcase. She put the book down and
cocked her ear. She could hear Peg in the hall, berating them for waking her up, but in truth she had only just finished her card game with Oswald and had retired barely ten minutes before. Ellen
threw a sweater over her T-shirt and striped pyjama bottoms and hurried downstairs to see what the commotion was about.

‘Just the person we came to see,’ said Joe when he saw his cousin in the doorway. He looked her up and down in amusement, taking in the boyish pyjamas and her dishevelled hair.
‘Sorry we got you out of bed,’ he added wryly.

‘Did they wake you up, pet?’ Peg asked.

‘No, I was reading,’ Ellen replied. ‘What’s going on?’

Johnny sat at the table and looked at her gravely. ‘Mr Macausland came into the pub, asking after
you
.’

Ellen’s heart gave a little skip. ‘Really?’

‘He came into the pub,’ Joe repeated. ‘Can you believe it? He hasn’t set foot in that place since the fire.’

‘What did he say?’ Ellen asked, trying not to look too interested, but failing abysmally.

‘He walked in and the whole place went quiet. You could have heard a mouse fart,’ Joe continued.

‘Craic poured him a pint and they chatted a while,’ said Johnny gravely. ‘It takes a lot of courage to come into a hostile place like the Pot of Gold.’

‘Fair play to him,’ Peg added, putting the kettle on the stove.

Joe sat down beside his father. Ellen was so distracted she took Jack’s chair, forgetting that the bird was perched on the back until she felt him peck at her hair.

‘Good God!’ she exclaimed, getting up and moving to the other end of the table. ‘That bird is the limit!’

‘It took him a while to get the conversation around to you,’ said Joe with a mischievous grin. ‘He talked about the estate first. Then he said he found you lost on the hills
and gave you lunch.’

‘Which is true,’ said Ellen excitedly.

‘He said his little girl wants you to paint her nails.’

Ellen smiled. ‘I told her how good I am at bejewelling them.’

Peg observed quietly from the Stanley, a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘He wants you to go and give her a manicure, or whatever you call it,’ said Joe. He raised his eyebrows. ‘I think he’s got the hots for you.’

Ellen blushed. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m good with children, that’s all.’

‘He must have the hots for you if he took the trouble to come into the pub. He must have thought you’d be there.’

‘Why didn’t he just call you?’ Peg asked. ‘I might not have Internet or a TV, but I do have a telephone!’

‘That would be too obvious. He was being subtle,’ said Joe, winking at Ellen.

‘There’s nothing subtle about Mr Macausland walking into the Pot of Gold,’ Johnny retorted. ‘You can say you’re busy writing. I’ll make sure he gets the
message.’

‘You think I shouldn’t go?’ Ellen asked in surprise.

‘Of course you shouldn’t go,’ said Peg from the stove. ‘I won’t have you getting involved in all of that.’

‘I’d only go and paint the girl’s nails.’

Peg narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ll be stepping into the wolf ’s lair, pet. He’ll be gone in a week.’

Ellen felt a sudden sense of urgency. Her mind scurried like a mouse trying to find a way out of a maze. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Peg?’ she suggested. Peg looked appalled.
‘I think it would be unfair not to paint Ida’s nails. I mean, she doesn’t have a mother to do it for her, does she? Poor little thing. She looked so excited when I told her I
could stick jewels on them.’

‘But where would you buy such things?’ Peg asked.

Ellen shrugged. ‘There must be a gift shop in town?’

‘Yes, Alanna has a little boutique, but it doesn’t sell jewels for nails, I’m quite sure of that.’

‘It’ll sell something I can use. Something I can cut up and stick on with polish.’

‘The chemist will have polish.’

‘Good, that’s all I need. I’ll go into town tomorrow and have a look.’ She turned to Johnny triumphantly. ‘You can tell Mr Macausland that Aunt Peg and I will come
for tea to paint Ida’s nails. You’ll see him tomorrow at the castle, won’t you?’

Johnny frowned at his sister. ‘Aye, we will. But are you sure you want to go, Peg? What will Desmond say? He won’t like it one little bit.’

‘Of course I don’t want to go,’ Peg answered. ‘But I don’t want Ellen to go on her own, so I have no choice.’

‘You’re right, she mustn’t go alone, if she has to go at all,’ Johnny agreed gravely.

Ellen laughed. ‘I feel like I’m straight out of Jane Austen, having to take a chaperone.’

But Peg didn’t laugh with her. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I do, and as you’re staying with me, you’re my responsibility. I think your
mother would have a heart attack if she thought you were going anywhere near a man like Conor Macausland. He’s trouble, believe me.’

‘Easy now, Peggine,’ said Joe. ‘She’s only going to paint the girl’s nails.’

Peg threw him a stern look. ‘No, she’s not. She’s going to tea with Mr Macausland. Painting Ida’s nails is just an excuse. Really, Joe, do you think I came down in
yesterday’s snowstorm?’ She took the boiling kettle off the stove. ‘Now, seeing as you’re here, we might as well have a cup of tea.’

Ellen was unable to sleep for excitement. Conor Macausland had braved the pub for
her,
and they had only met once. But once had been enough to ignite
her
interest, so why not
his
? But then in the darkness of her bedroom she began to doubt her appeal. Perhaps he had braved the pub for Ida: after all, the little girl was motherless and he
clearly loved her very dearly. Maybe it really
was
all about the nails and nothing to do with him
fancying
her.

She tossed in her bed, unable to find a comfortable position. Her heartbeat galloped, preventing her from sleeping. She wondered about Caitlin and why she had been at the lighthouse that night,
and she wondered about the fire and whether Conor had really been responsible for her death. Had the man in the boat, rowing away as the lighthouse burned, been Conor, rowing away from her murder?
And why had he left her portrait hanging in the house? Was it so that he could still look upon her? Or because he wanted to lock her away with the rest of his memories in the castle that was now a
tomb?

Was she as mad as a moth fluttering about the flame? If she got too close, would it consume her? Or was Conor unfairly maligned?

And then she thought of William and how safe he seemed compared with Conor. She wondered whether he was trying to contact her and cringed at the memory of the text she had sent him. He deserved
better. But then, wasn’t she just sitting on the fence, hedging her bets, not wanting to burn the bridge in case she got the sudden urge to run back across it, into a secure, albeit dull,
future?

She hadn’t even been away a week and yet these few days in Ireland felt like months. She had travelled extensively in her life. Holidays in South Africa and Switzerland, Thailand and
India, shopping trips to New York and Milan, weekends in Italy and France, and yet none of those places had ever given her a sense of belonging. She had always been a tourist, a guest, just passing
through. Connemara, on the other hand, had a sense of permanence about it: more than simply a destination, like a wandering tree reunited with its roots. With this comforting thought, she finally
drifted off to sleep.

The following morning she awoke early, having slept a shallow, fitful sleep. Dawn was breaking behind the house, casting the lighthouse in a soft pink light. She stood at the
window and watched the sea swell around it, frothing as the waves hit the rocks. Large white gulls perched on the blackened wood and squabbled over urchins left stranded by the tide. A while later,
Peg left the house with Mr Badger and strode across the field to count sheep and talk to the donkey and llama. Ellen watched her in her brown trousers and big coat, a woolly hat pulled over her
short grey hair, and felt her heart expand with compassion. There was something very poignant about the slight stoop in her shoulders, as if the weight of her grief had, over the years, crushed
her. Was it possible ever to get over the death of one’s child? Ellen watched Peg stroke the llama behind the ears. She looked very solitary out there in the field, against the backdrop of
the sea. Of course it wasn’t possible, she knew, her aunt had just learned to live with it.

After a hearty breakfast of porridge and tea, Ellen took Peg’s car into town to buy polish and sparkly things for Ida’s nails. She parked down by the harbour, which was busy with
fishermen attending to their boats and their early catch, and set off in search of Alanna’s gift shop. She wandered up the narrow streets, past pretty pastel-coloured houses and boutiques
designed to entice the summer tourists with fishermen’s sweaters, pottery, sheepskin and crystal. Alanna’s was easy to find, nestled between a café and the chemist. She had
painted the shopfront a bright fuchsia pink.

A bell tinkled as she opened the door. Alanna looked up from her desk at the back of the shop and her face registered recognition and delight. ‘Well, look at you, Ellen! You have the
bearing of a local now.’

‘So this is your shop. It’s lovely.’ She swept her eyes over the cluttered shelves of shiny ornaments, pretty stationery, painted crockery, embroidered linen,
old-fashioned-looking soaps and scented candles. It was a fragrant treasure trove of indulgences one didn’t need. The sort of place Ellen loved.