The Forgotten Secret: A heartbreaking and gripping historical novel for fans of Kate Morton. Kathleen McGurl
she said, placing her holdall on the bed. ‘Should I change now or get straight to work?’
‘Ah, your uniform. Just a moment, I’ll call Siobhan to fetch it. Oh, and call me Madame. Not ma’am, and not Mrs. Those forms of address are just too … English, I suppose.’ She smiled. ‘Just my little idiosyncrasy.’ And then she left the room.
Ellen took the opportunity while she was alone to have a look around. Besides the two narrow beds there was a washstand, basin and ewer, a chest with four drawers, two bentwood chairs and a small mirror hanging on the wall. There was a neat little fireplace with a bucket of sweet-smelling turf to burn beside it.
A worn-out hearthrug was on the floor, and a sampler hung over the fireplace with the words ‘Many suffer so that some day all Irish people may know justice and peace –Wolfe Tone’ embroidered upon it, signed with the initials E.C. Mrs Carlton’s first name was Emily, Ellen knew. Was it Mrs, sorry, Madame Carlton herself who’d embroidered the sampler? The words were so patriotic, so Irish, and yet Madame Carlton was English – at least, she was one of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy. She was a widow, but her husband had been a Member of Parliament, spending most of his time in London.
Ellen had always thought the desire for Irish independence was something only the poor wanted and fought for: the downtrodden, those whose ancestors had perished during the Great Famine, those who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. But here was the widow of a British MP, embroidering quotes like that and hanging them in her servants’ rooms, and asking not to be called Mrs because it was too English-sounding.
She was still standing in front of the fireplace pondering this when Madame Carlton arrived back in the room, carrying a neat black dress, white apron and cap. ‘Your uniform, Ellen. I have guessed at the size, but it should be about right.’ Her gaze followed Ellen’s to the sampler. ‘And are you a patriot, my dear?’
Ellen gaped for a moment, not sure how to answer or what she was expected to say. Madame watched her for a moment and then her eyes softened. ‘I am sorry. That was wrong of me to ask such a thing on your first day, when I barely know you. Suffice to say that all here are Fenians and true Irish patriots. I would employ none other. We believe in the Cause. Irish independence must be won at all costs. I know something of your family, Ellen, and feel that you will fit in perfectly.’
She handed Ellen the uniform. ‘So, put this on, and report downstairs to me. You’ll find me in the housekeeper’s office.’
Madame Carlton left the room, closing the door behind her, to allow Ellen to get changed. She did so, quickly, her mind reviewing all that she had heard. Between Jimmy’s declaration of support for the Cause and now her employer’s, she seemed to be surrounded by people who wanted a free and independent Ireland. But her own thoughts on the matter were still unresolved.
The week passed quickly. Although she was an upstairs maid, with easier work than the downstairs and scullery maids had, she found it exhausting and crawled into bed each night aching all over. She was on her feet from six a.m., running up and down stairs, setting the fires, fetching fuel, jugs of warm water to wash, bringing breakfast trays up and clearing them away after. Later she had to make the beds, change sheets, clean bedrooms, sweep the stairs and landings, clear out grates and set the fires ready for the evening.
Besides Madame Carlton there was a succession of visitors using the many guest rooms on the first floor. Ellen rarely glimpsed the guests, and was often instructed to leave their breakfast trays outside the door. Madame seemed endlessly busy, running her household, entertaining her guests and conducting serious-looking meetings either in the library or the dining room. When these were in progress, the servants were instructed to keep well out of sight at all times. Madame herself would emerge to fetch a tray of refreshments if needed.
Siobhan had softened towards her a little, as Ellen had displayed relentless friendliness towards the other girl. She’d got the impression Siobhan was most miffed about having to share a bedroom, so Ellen had tried to be as easy-going a room-mate as possible. They’d begun chatting for a few minutes at bedtime, exchanging little stories about their work, speculating on who Madame’s latest visitors had been.
‘Something to do with the fight for independence,’ Siobhan said one night. ‘Our Madame’s really tied up in all that, you know. She’ll suck us into it as well, if we’re not careful, so.’
‘Do you want to be part of the fight?’ Ellen asked.
Siobhan was quiet, as though she was mulling over her answer. ‘Not sure. What about you?’
‘I’m not sure either,’ Ellen had whispered in reply. Even as she said the words, she wondered how she’d have answered if it had been Jimmy asking her. She knew she’d do anything for him.
At last it was Saturday evening, and Ellen was free to leave Carlton House for twenty-four hours. She’d arranged to meet Jimmy at the end of the drive, and had time to go for a walk with him before returning to her father.
She walked down the drive carrying half a ham wrapped in muslin that the cook had given her. ‘The mistress said to give it to the dogs but it’s still perfectly good, so you take it home for your daddy, now,’ the cook had said, handing it to Ellen with a smile. She had so much to tell Jimmy. Not least her growing realisation that Madame Carlton seemed to be deeply involved with the fight for independence.
Jimmy was leaning against the gate post, hands in pockets and a thoughtful expression on his face.
‘All right, Jimmy?’ Ellen said as she approached, and Jimmy hauled himself upright with a shrug.
‘Yes, sure I am. How’re you? How was your first week?’
They fell into step, walking down the lane towards Clonamurty Farm. Ellen told him of her duties, of her room-mate Siobhan and her less-than-friendly welcome, of the other staff.
‘And your mistress, Mrs Carlton? How do you get on with her?’ Jimmy asked. There was an odd tone to his voice.
‘She seems very nice,’ Ellen said, guardedly. She still wasn’t sure whether she should voice her suspicions about Mrs Carlton. Even to Jimmy.
‘Just nice?’
‘There’s something odd. She wants to be called Madame and not Mrs. I think she’s … well, I think she’s involved with the Irish Volunteers, so I do.’ There. It was out in the open. ‘Jimmy, you won’t say it to anyone, will you? I’d hate for her to get in any trouble because of me.’
To her surprise Jimmy laughed, and then flung an arm about her shoulders. ‘Ah, my sweet Ellen. Of course she is involved! She runs a branch of the Cumann na mBan. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?’
She had. It was the Irishwomen’s Council – an auxiliary branch of the Irish Volunteers, fighting for Irish independence. ‘So you know what she does? There are always people coming and going, having meetings and all sorts.’
‘Yes, there would be. She’s quite senior in the organisation. She’s important to the Cause.’ Jimmy nodded knowledgeably.
Ellen wanted to ask how he knew so much about it, but Jimmy had withdrawn into himself again, with that serious, thoughtful expression he’d had when they met. She wanted to snatch away his hat, run off with it, have him chase her, laughing, the way they used to when they were children. But something told her it wouldn’t work now; he’d just be annoyed at her. They were adults now, and Jimmy clearly had something serious on his mind.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, quietly, after they’d walked in silence for a few minutes. They weren’t far now from his parents’ farm, and he might leave her there, and they’d have no more chance to talk until after Mass tomorrow.
He smiled at her, and stopped walking. There was a wooden fence lining the road, and he pulled her over to sit with him on the top rail.
‘I’m thinking about my future. And Ireland’s future. And how the two are intertwined.’
She frowned. ‘Of course they