The Ludlow Ladies Society
Also by Ann O'Loughlin
The Ballroom Café
The Judge’s Wife
First published 2017
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL
www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
This electronic edition published in 2017
ISBN: 978 1 78530 129 2 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 78530 127 8 in paperback format
Copyright © Ann O’Loughlin 2017
The right of Ann O’Loughlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore
To John, Roshan and Zia
Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgements
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Acknowledgements
I stitched a memory quilt once. I was just a teenager, and my mother, a dressmaker, to keep me busy, suggested a patchwork quilt using the bits and pieces of fabric she had stored over the years from all the clothes she had made, many of them for me. It soon became a labour of love and over a shared passion for sewing we talked and laughed, making precious memories.
My mother Anne passed away two years ago, just as my first novel was published, but her influence is enduring. She was my greatest champion and she would be especially proud that her sewing and our patchwork quilt were the inspiration behind The Ludlow Ladies’ Society.
This is my third novel, and one thing I have learned on this writing journey is once you type those magic words The End, it really is just the beginning of a new and exciting phase.
But even before I got to the end, my agent Jenny Brown of Jenny Brown Associates was there with her words of encouragement to get me over the finish line. Thank you Jenny! There beside Jenny was the home team, my wonderful husband, John, and our children, Roshan and Zia. Without their love and unstinting support, it would not be possible to stay on the writing road.
I am also very lucky to have a dynamic team at Black & White Publishing. A huge thank you to my editor, Karyn Millar, word wrangler extraordinaire. Thanks Karyn for your hard work and excellent eye for detail. Thank you to the whole team at B&W, especially Managing Director Campbell Brown, Publishing Director Alison McBride, Rights Manager Janne Moller, Digital Director Thomas Ross, Daiden O’Regan and Chris Kydd.
Thanks too to Henry Steadman for yet another wonderful cover.
A special thanks to all the readers who have stayed on this writing journey with me. I hope, like The Ballroom Café and The Judge’s Wife, you enjoy the story of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society.
To new readers who happen on this book, welcome, and enjoy your time at Ludlow Hall.
Ann
1
Rosdaniel, Co. Wicklow, Spring 2013
His words pounded inside her head.
Understand. Forgive.
Each word throbbing, festering in her brain.
Understand. Forgive.
The air was cool crisp, the town quiet. Briskly, she walked down the main street, her head low, her hands punched into her pockets, her step heavy, matching the monotonous beat of his words.
The dog curled up in the doorway of Bugler’s chemist kicked off a slow scratch, all the time his eyes on her back. The owner of Darcy’s Delight Café, lifting a delivery box of bread and rolls from the doorstep, nodded, but she did not respond. Stepping inside, he leaned against the glass of the window, observing her as she scurried faster towards the end of the street and the turn-off for Ballyheigue.
She was not sure if she was going the right way, but she kept her pace.
An old lady at the bus stop beside the bridge, a knitted hat pulled low around her ears, a large shopping bag in her hand, eyed the stranger up and down, making Connie accelerate her step.
Understand. Forgive.
Bawling words hammering through her head.
At the bottom of the hill, as she crossed the narrow bridge, she faltered, the strength of her determination ebbing away, leaving a dark cloud of uncertainty pressing down on her heart. Distracted, she plucked a leaf from a dusty buddleia spreading across her path, kneading the damp grey greenness between her fingers, digging into it. Agitated, she let the torn leaf fall over the side, floating to the stream below, caught up in the gurgling water.
She pushed forward, her head sinking in concentration, crossing to the opposite side of the road, where the path disappeared under a froth of grass. The bus for Dublin boomed towards her, forcing her to step into the soft, damp earth on the bank. Hot fumes billowed around her coat as the double-decker charged past. Feeling unsure, she stopped.
A blackbird crashed through the briars, letting out a throaty warning call. On a high tree, a magpie sat studying Connie as she took out her phone, checking the time: 8.30 a.m. The time everything changed . . . Her heart raced in recollection, sweat seeped out of her. Every day she felt the gouge of the pain, as raw as when it was first delivered, the intensity of loss strangling her, the frail beauty of an early morning forever tarnished. Slipping her phone into her pocket, she forced herself to push on.
It mattered little she was in a strange place. Home: a comfortable four-letter word for most, yet it was her no-man’s-land, where only pain and loss were neighbours.
Loss, once rooted, never dies, pain flares and swells at its own bidding. Letting her head burrow deep into the soft fur collar of her maroon coat, her thoughts swirling, she walked faster, as if somehow she could escape the emptiness which chased her relentlessly, wrenching her back down, smothering her.
At the bend in the road, she weakened again, regretting her decision to leave her car in the town. She could see the gate, paint peeling from it, huge scrapes of rust along the spikes at the top. Both sides of the gate were pulled across, a chunky chain laced between them, a padlock discoloured with rust pinched in near the handle. Household rubbish, neatly tied in plastic bags, was clumped in one corner, as if somebody thought by being neat they were exonerated from littering.
A half attempt had been made to block up the stile in the stone wall with black, dampened boards wedged tight. Yanking fiercely, feeling it give a little, she kicked the bottom of the largest board with her foot, making it surrender. Gripping harder, she managed to free it enough so it slipped out, leaving a narrow gap for her to get through. Squeezing through the stile, she stood on the pillow-moss centre of the long avenue, dithering on the final part of her journey. Her phone rang, making her jump.
“Connie, I was afraid you were dead. Where are you?”
She did not answer.
“Jesus, you haven’t gone to that place, have you?”
“I had to, Amy, I have to find out.”
“What is there to find out?”
“I don’t know.”
“I will come over, you can’t be there on your own.”
Connie, even through her tears, smiled to think of her sister crossing the Atlantic.
“I have to do it on my own, Amy.”
“Are you mad?”
“Alone, not alone, what does it matter?”
“Connie?”
“Talk soon.”
Pressing the red button before Amy could respond, she paced up the avenue past the disintegrating old wooden posts where there had once been gates, the copse of hazel trees creaking in the light breeze, the bank of rhododendron majestic, pink in bloom, a small red azalea fighting to be seen nearby. Faltering, she stopped to stare at a patch of daffodils, their gentle movement in the breeze a reminder of a more tranquil time.
Understand. Forgive.
A chill snaked inside her, anger swelled up to her heart, a raging loneliness whirled through her. How could she ever understand or forgive?
She walked faster, not noticing the tulips gently bending in the breeze, bunches of ferns flaking water over her shoes, the man walking towards her. He was practically on top of her before she saw him.
“Mrs Carter? I am Roger Greene. Your attorney said to meet you here. My firm has had the estate up for sale for quite some time.”
She allowed him to take her hand.
“May I extend sympathy on behalf of myself and all the employees at Hayes and Greene on your loss.”
She did not answer.
Finding it awkward, he continued. “I didn’t expect you to be walking.”
Lightly she pulled her hand from him. “I am taking it off the market.” Her voice was husky low, but firm.
The young auctioneer, about to brush fluff from his jacket sleeve, stopped, staring at her. “The market is starting to pick up. Just give it a few months, I will have a very good offer on the table.”
“I am not selling Ludlow Hall, Mr Greene.”
She made to walk past him; he stepped to the side.
“You could make a pretty penny.”
“It is no longer for sale, Mr Greene.”
His face reddened and he began to stammer. “Whatever you say.” Kicking out at the river of clover and grass in the centre of the driveway, he studied a cloud of insects as they rose up. “You might reconsider. Ludlow is a lot to take on.”
“I won’t.”
“What will you do with it? It has been closed up for years.”
“I don’t know. Open the windows, let the light in.”
“It is going to need more than that. There is a lifetime’s work in the old place. The previous owners did their best, but a place like this eats money, with little to show for it.”
As she pressed past him, he handed her a bunch of keys.
“The big key is for the front door, but you will have to go in the back. The electricity still works, so that is a start. We will send out a final statement of account.”
She took the keys and waved to indicate she had heard him, shooting up the path, anxious to turn the corner. Pushing past the pink rhododendron, she let it slap against her, spewing droplets of water over her shoulders.
The words screeched inside her brain again.
She wanted to shout to the sky, to this house bathed in the watery sunshine of a late spring day, that she would never understand, could never forgive.
Ludlow Hall: forlorn, each window boarded up, the front door hemmed in with damp, dirty plywood. Old geranium pots lining the four front steps spilled over with weeds, a stone seat in front of the house was stained and pocked with moss. She stood, taking it all in. Two storeys over a basement, a worn sadness about the place, as if the house had read and copied her heart. Anger swelled up inside her.
His words hammered louder in her head.
She wanted to bolt after the young auctioneer, throw back the keys and tell him to take the first bid that came in on the place. But she didn’t, feeling somehow compelled towards, drawn to a house kept secret from her for so long. Gingerly, she stepped across the gravel, shifting her weight, so that the stones only softly crunched her arrival. Making for the back of the house, she noticed the hoarding on a part of the side bay window had slipped, hanging half off, as if somebody had once tried to break in and squat but thought better of it. Walking to the window, she eased her hands on the sill, pressing her head against the filthy glass to look in.
The dark shapes of thick old-fashioned furniture she could make out in the dim light. Two armchairs either side of the fireplace as if the occupants had only recently left the room and a mug on a small side table reinforced her feeling of calling too late. She saw a book left turned over on its pages, indicative of either a hasty leaving or the intention for an early return.
A tinge of trepidation crept through Connie. She ducked quickly away, lest the ghosts of the past detect her intrusion. Clutching the keys tight, she took long strides, stepping quickly around the back of the house. The cobbled yard was riddled with weeds, her foot skittering more than once. The old stables were shut up, huge cobwebs glinting in the sunshine, an old mop and bucket thrown to one side of the back door, paint peeling off in strips, as if the sun had burned its way through, blistering and curling it up.
Pushing the mop handle out of her way, a cloud of ants spread out in all directions, making her dance from one foot to the other. She was about to turn the key in the lock when a man called out to her.
“Excuse me, miss. This is private property. Can I help you?”
Startled, Connie jumped back.
He spoke again, a little louder this time.
“May I ask what is your business here?”
He walked slowly towards her. She fiddled with the key.
“I might ask you the same. I am the owner of this property.”
Her voice was firm, but soft. He stopped to take her in: the faded jeans, the runners bright white because they had only ever walked a city street, her coat fitted and well cut, looking out of place.
“Mrs Carter?” He fumbled with his pocket, not sure what to say. “We were all so sorry to hear of Mr Carter’s death.” He reached out and took her hand. “I am Michael Conway. I look after the gardens, keep them tidy for Mr Carter.”
“I saw the rhododendron on the way in.”
“I will have to cut it back after it finishes flowering.” He stopped for a moment, concentrating on nudging a dandelion in bloom in the fertile grike between two cobblestones. “I have not known what exactly to do since Mr Carter passed. I just tipped about, waiting to hear.” His words spewed out too quickly, as if trying to fill the awkwardness crouching between them.
Jiggling with the key, Connie spoke softly. “I am going to live here.”
“You are taking the place on?” His voice boomed, reflecting his surprise.
“I don’t see why not, Mr Conway.”
Recovering his composure, he placed his hands on the stone back wall of the house. “It will take a bit to get it ready to live in again, but I suppose it could be done.”
“I want to stay here tonight.”
He was not sure if she was joking, and when he realised she was not, he threw his hands in the air.
“I have nowhere else to stay.”
“That place is as cold as Siberia, seeping damp. The hoarding will have to come down for starters. You might want to reconsider your plans.”
Her face crumpled, making him soften towards her.
“I could get a few men to take down the boards, but this is an old house. It is no place for a woman on her own, not until you have done a bit to it at least.” He rubbed his hands together, and she thought he seemed to like being her only source of information. “There is a small bed and breakfast on the other side of the town. Maybe Mrs Gorman will give you a good rate for a long-staying guest.”
She nodded, and he thought he should leave, but he dithered, pushing with his foot a discoloured ice-cream wrapper caught up in the blown dust around the back door.
“Are you by any chance going ahead with the plans
for development?”
“What plans?”
“Mr Carter only ever wanted to build on the land.”
“You need buckets of money for that. I do not have such resources.”
“Very few do, these days.” Afraid he had overstepped the mark, he reached out and lightly touched Connie’s arm. “Don’t go in here now. I can get a few lads over tomorrow to help take down the shuttering. At least then you will be able to see where you are going.”
She hesitated.
“It should only take us a couple of hours. Would that do you?”
She nodded and, seeing tiredness sweep across her face, he offered to give her a lift to the guesthouse.
“I might walk around the gardens a bit first, make my way there later.”
He left her with directions, and said the hoarding should be down by noon the next day.
Connie watched him as he made his way down the back lane, where he had parked his car. She waited for him to be gone, for the stillness of this place to envelop her. Reaching into her pocket, she felt for the small sticky note, so handled, so fingered, it was no longer gummed along the top.
Touching the contours of the tiny stick-on hearts, two of them, pink, she traced the words “Love You Mommy”.
It was the note from the before, her crutch in the after. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
How could she ever understand or forgive?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she wanted to scream, to kick the walls of this great house, to break down the door and tear through the rooms seeking out answers. Ludlow Hall, whether she liked it or not, was both her past and her future.
She had done enough for now. Slowly she turned away from the old house, setting off down the front driveway, letting the rhododendron slap against her and the long straggles of grass thrown over the sides of the avenue deposit sprays of water across her feet.
2
Eve Brannigan got up early to sit by the window and thread her needle. Picking up the red taffeta skirt, she began to stitch the wide hem slowly and deftly, so that none of the thread showed on the outside. The fabric rustled as she shifted it across her lap, making her smile and want to dance across the floor, to show it off more.