Dirty Beautiful Rich Part Four by Eva Devon Page B

getting to her. She knew it rained in Ireland. . . but she hadn’t really known . When it rained, it rained from all directions making umbrellas pointless and turned them into weapons more likely to turn inside out and poke one in the eye than shield a person from the rain. The rain also meant dark gray skies. . . All day. Of course, that’s why it was so green. Still, she was eager for spring to arrive. It had to, didn’t?
    Margaret paused in front of a towering portrait taking up the better half of the wall. She gestured with her glass.  “Poor fellow, he died at the Battle of the Boyne. Sad day for Ireland.”
    Julie nodded. She already knew this, but clearly, Margaret wanted company. Something which she felt quite honored by. Margaret avoided her daughter-in-law like the plague but seemed to enjoy Julie’s company.
    “Was it sad because he died or because they lost?” Julie asked.
    Margaret paused. “That’s a highly political and complicated question.”
    Julie grinned. “Is that going to stop you from answering?”
    “My dear, the aristocracy in this country are a complex lot. Some of us see ourselves as Irish through and through and some of us hanker for Rule Britannia. But I’m not certain it was a job well done when those first English kings decided to claim Ireland. The Irish had a type of democracy, women had many rights, and there wasn’t the rule of the firstborn son. Still, it happened and so here we are.”
    Margaret was a pragmatist. Over the last few weeks it had become utterly clear that on the surface the older woman insisted on acceptance. However, from the way she was unable to sit for longer than twenty minutes, Julie wasn’t sure just how acceptant of things Margaret truly was.
    Then again, she could understand.
    It wasn’t easy to accept that the death of her parents had just happened. It was damned hard to simply accept that her life had been so rough for no really good reason. Or that Damian had just stormed off to Asia.  A big part of her wanted to rail at the injustice of it all. But really where would that get her? Frankly, Margaret with her dogs made a lot of sense. It almost certainly saved the dowager countess thousands of euros on therapy and kept her off prescription drugs, not that prescription drugs were bad if they were warranted.
    Margaret gave a shrug then headed back down the hall. The light was failing outside, the moon already rising at five o’clock in the afternoon. That was something that had taken Julie some getting used to. Night came early in Ireland. As they walked and walked down what had to be what seemed like miles of hall, stopping every now and then to look at a fixture, tapestry, or portrait, Julie couldn’t help but admire the silver glow to Margaret’s hair. It reminded her of her own grandmother so many years ago.
    Would Margaret recoil, if Julie reached out and took her hand? It was so tempting but she couldn’t quite bring herself to try. The old woman, though kind, did send off a don’t touch me vibe.
    Margaret stopped in front a long painting, bearing an armored rider atop a white charger. She pushed on the frame and a snick of metal whispered through the hall. The portrait swung forward and Margaret stepped into the dark hall behind it.
    Julie’s mouth dropped open. She’d had no idea the house had hidden passages. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but a thrill and a shiver went through her all at once. This was the stuff of novels, of history, of her dreams. Just when she thought Castle Clare couldn’t be get any better, despite it’s male owner, it did.
    Margaret picked up a flashlight hanging from a hook on the wall. “Well, come along then.”
    Julie stepped into the dark hall. A cold breeze penetrated her sweater. Margaret didn’t seem to feel it, but she’d come to a realization quickly that Irish people didn’t feel cold the way the rest of the world did. Had to be the years and years of damp. They were simply impervious.
    As