Aubusson; but right now the rooms were works in progress, with tools of the decorator’s trade heaped in a corner and undercoat spattered on dust sheets.
Her eyes followed the graceful line of the cantilevered staircase. On the floor above her, bedrooms and bathrooms had unparalleled views over the countryside, with sea shimmering and mountains slumbering on the horizon. The views were as yet unframed by curtains, but Dervla had improvised with yards of unbleached muslin in the master bedroom, to soften the magisterial appearance of the high casements. More muslin was draped from the tester over the king-sized bed, each side of which was flanked by a pale rug: not the Aubusson carpets of Dervla’s fantasy, but pretty in their own way. A chest at the foot of the bed contained bed linen, but aside from that, and the cushions piled on the window seat, the room was unfurnished.
Only one room in the house had been finished – finished to pretty high spec, at that. Christian – Dervla’s husband of less than a year – had surprised her one day by taking her hand and leading her up the staircase that accessed the turret room at the very top of the house. Unlocking the door, he’d thrown it open to reveal a dedicated office space with units to house computer, printer and scanner. There was an ergonomic chair cushioned in leather, and shelves just waiting to be filled with books and stationery. ‘This is where you’ll finish that book!’ he’d announced. ‘What do you think? Isn’t this a dream space for a writer?’
It was a dream space for a writer – her very own ivory tower. The only snag was that Dervla wasn’t a writer: she was – like thousands of other professionals recently made redundant – an aspiring writer. Having been a successful auctioneer in a former life and in a former economy, Dervla had been commissioned to write a beginner’s guide to selling property. She knew she had lucked out: other estate agents had sunk without trace since recession had struck. But even though she had a publishing deal and a deadline to work to, Dervla felt like a complete fraud every time she sat down in front of her keyboard and opened the file entitled How to Sell Your House – What Every First-Timer Needs to Know. Her contract specified eighty thousand words, and as the deadline inched closer, Dervla was feeling less and less confident that she’d be able to deliver.
It wasn’t entirely her fault – for the past few months she’d been inundated with the kind of stress that might floor a less resilient individual. Closing down her business, putting her Galway penthouse on the rental market and moving into the Old Rectory had all taken its toll on her energy, and she’d had little spare time in which to get any writing done. But now that she had a room of her own – a room with a view and an ergonomic chair, to boot – perhaps inspiration would come to her.
Crossing back to the front door where she’d dumped her bags, Dervla picked up her computer case, then made for the staircase that curved up to the first floor. A narrower spiral staircase took her to the turret room. Switching on her computer, she strolled over to one of the three double-glazed windows while she waited for the screen to shimmer into life.
When they’d bought the Old Rectory, the turret had been windowless – blocked up since the introduction of the window tax in the eighteenth century. Dervla and Christian had gleefully reinstated windows to east, west and south, thereby ensuring that the room was filled with light. From this vantage point the steeple of the little church on the outskirts of Lissamore village was just discernible, and you could hear the bells chime, too, when the wind was coming from the right direction. Sheep baaing! Birdsong! Church bells chiming! The kind of pastorale that accompanied Thomas Hardy adaptations on television, now made up the soundtrack to her life.
Chimes of another kind were coming from her bag. On honeymoon in Mexico, Dervla had fallen in love with the sound of the wind chimes on the veranda where she and Christian had slept. She’d made a recording to use as her phone tone, and every time her phone rang now, she picked it up with a pang of nostalgia.
Her sister’s name was lit up on the display.
‘Hey, Dervla,’ said Río, breezily. ‘Have you moved in yet?’
‘Yes. I’m in my turret.’
‘Wow! Like a princess in a fairy tale. Any sign of your prince?’
‘He’s on his way from the airport.’
‘With the wicked stepmother?’
‘She’s not my stepmother, Río. She’s my mother-in-law.’
‘Mother-in-law! The scariest words in the world.’
‘According to Fleur, the French call them belles-mères – beautiful mothers.’
Over the phone, Dervla heard her sister suppress a snort. ‘What are you going to call her? I mean, call her to her face? “Daphne”, or “Mrs Vaughan”?’
‘According to the carer it depends on what kind of a mood she’s in. If she’s in a snit she insists on being called Mrs Vaughan, but when she’s in good form she doesn’t mind Daphne.’
‘You could always call her Daffy.’
‘That would be very politically incorrect, Río.’
Dervla moved to the window that overlooked the stable yard. It had been spread with golden gravel, and terracotta planters had been arranged around the water feature – a raised pond complete with underlighting. A gleaming new thatch roofed the outbuildings that had been converted into a cottage-style dwelling for her mother-in-law, and – to complete the rustic look – shutters painted duck-egg blue flanked a half-door crafted by a local carpenter. The exterior was deceptive: inside, the cottage had been modernized, and now boasted a state-of-the-art kitchen, a big, comfortable sitting room with an HD plasma screen and a tropical fish tank, and underfloor heating. There was also adjoining accommodation for Mrs Vaughan’s carer, Nemia.
‘Are you all set for her arrival?’ Río asked.
‘Yep. There’s a shepherd’s pie ready to go, and a bottle of vintage Moët in the fridge.’
‘Posh!’
‘One of the pluses of being married to a wine importer. We got a case from Christian’s partner as a wedding present.’
‘Is Mrs Vaughan senior allowed a drink?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t imagine a person with her complaint would have much tolerance for alcohol.’
‘Oh. I see what you mean. Yikes. I never thought of that.’
Christian’s eighty-four-year-old mother suffered from dementia. Because she had been born and reared near Lissamore, it was Christian’s wish that she should spend her final days in the place she still called home. She and her carer had left London earlier that day on what was to be Daphne’s final journey to her native Coolnamara.
‘You could always just pour her a glass of fizzy water and pass it off as champagne,’ suggested Río.
‘I don’t think she’s that confused.’
‘When did you last talk to her?’
‘A couple of days ago. She hadn’t a clue who I was, of course, but Christian thought it was a good idea to give her a gentle reminder of my voice from time to time, to get her used to it.’
‘Does she even know who he is?’
‘He
