Secrets of the Lighthouse by Santa Montefiore

girl, all right. She hated the city. She
told me as much herself. She’d come and help with the gardening and grumble about having to go to Dublin when she’d rather be down here. They had some big fights. I think Mr Macausland
wanted the children educated up there, but she insisted they live down here. She won that battle. I think she won most battles in the end. Mr Macausland gave in, probably for an easy life, and
disappeared up to Dublin as often as he could. The marriage stank like sour milk.’
    ‘As soon as she died, Mr Macausland took the children up to Dublin,’ says Joe, in a tone that suggests this is of great significance. ‘They don’t come down much and when
they do, Mr Macausland looks miserable.’
    ‘He does indeed,’ Johnny agrees. ‘Like the life has been knocked out of him.’
    ‘But he can’t stay away, can he?’ says Joe. ‘I mean, he could sell the place, couldn’t he? But he doesn’t. Why’s that, then?’ Both men shrug and
shake their heads.
    They reach the front of the castle. Ellen takes in the towers and turrets and her face is full of wonder, as mine was when I saw it for the first time. The magnificence of the place takes your
breath away, even on a cold February morning when the walls are damp and the trees are naked and twisted like arthritic old men.
    Johnny pulls the key out of his pocket and pushes it into the lock. I follow them inside. I wish there was a fire in the hall grate, and furniture and rugs so that this stranger could know how
lovely my castle used to be. But stripped of everything that gave her life, she is now left alone with her memories, sad and forlorn like me. It is almost colder inside than out and the air has the
stale, musty quality of a cathedral. I want to open the windows but they are boarded up with wood. Ellen feels the sorrow there, I can tell, because she puts her hands in her pockets and barely
speaks. She wanders over to my portrait, a splash of colour on the colourless walls, and gazes up. Her jaw slackens and she lets out a slow gasp.
    I stare down at her through the eyes of the painting. We are gazing at each other. She is fixed on me and I am fixed on her, and she is seeing me. Yes, she is seeing me as if I am living. I hold
her like a fish on a hook, and there is no getting away. Johnny and Joe come and stand quietly beside her, and look up at me as they have done so many times over the last five years, trying to make
sense of my death. Johnny takes off his cap in reverence and Joe has no joke to crack. They all admire me in silence. Johnny’s cheeks flush, for he loves me; Joe sees life in the portrait
that he hasn’t seen before; and Ellen, well, besides my beauty she is affected by my tragedy. A collective shiver ripples over them and I suddenly feel I am no longer alone. While I am in
this painting, I can almost pretend I am alive.
    At last the silence is broken. ‘In that green dress she looks like an old-fashioned movie star,’ Ellen whispers.
    ‘She was an old-fashioned girl,’ Johnny agrees sadly. ‘She wasn’t made for the modern world.’
    ‘Her skin looks translucent, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s flawless. How old was she when she died?’
    ‘Thirty-four,’ Johnny says flatly. ‘She was but a girl. Left two small children who’ll grow up with barely a memory of their beautiful ma.’
    ‘Don’t you think it looks like she’s staring back at us?’ Joe says nervously.
    ‘Yes, it does,’ Ellen agrees. ‘It looks like she’s real.’
    ‘It creeps me out altogether,’ says Joe, moving away. ‘I think this place is haunted. I’ll see you both outside.’ And he leaves.
    I am triumphant. Joe knows I am still here. He can feel it in his bones. As for Ellen, this lovely stranger who I hold captive with my eyes, she senses it, too. I’m sure of it. She gazes
at me for a long, long time, questions tottering on the end of her tongue. And as she gazes, I can read her mind as clearly as if she were