Secrets of the Lighthouse by Santa Montefiore Read Free Book Online

Peg called ‘tea’. Ellen presumed he always did. They ate stew, boiled cabbage and potatoes, which
Peg called ‘spuds’ and put in the middle of the table to be individually peeled. For pudding she had baked a treacle tart, which was Oswald’s favourite, not that one could tell
from the size of him. He looked like a bullrush with a mop of curly grey hair on top.
    After dinner, he stepped out into the hall and showed Ellen the paintings he had given Peg, explaining that if he ever fell short in paying his rent, he presented her with a picture. ‘One
day, they’ll be worth a fortune and Peg will be very rich.’
    ‘What good will that be to me?’ said Peg from the kitchen.
    ‘You don’t know what’s good for you.’
    ‘Money only brings trouble. I’ve been very content without, thank you very much.’
    ‘Money’s got nothing to do with happiness, I agree, but it sure makes life more comfortable while you’re looking for it!’ he replied. Then he lowered his voice and
pointed to a painting of the lighthouse, before the fire gutted it. ‘There’s your mystery,’ he said, tapping it with his nail.
    ‘Peg told me about the fire.’
    ‘Dreadful business. Poor girl. She was only young, not that much older than you, and pretty, too. She had flowing red hair the colour of flame heather, green eyes, skin as white as cream
and a wild yet fragile nature. There was something childlike about her. I suspect she was close to the fairies and leprechauns.’ He chuckled and lowered his voice. ‘But don’t tell
Peg. She doesn’t like to admit that she believes in that sort of thing.’
    ‘Peg told me that the husband . . .’
    ‘Conor, yes, poor soul. If I was him I would have fled, with all the fingers pointing at me and murder unspoken on people’s lips. But he has a house hidden away on the estate and no
one ever sees him. He keeps himself to himself and spends most of the time in Dublin, I think. He was a very successful film producer, but I’m not sure he’s managed to pull anything off
since Caitlin died. The children go to school there now.’
    ‘I gather they lived in a castle.’
    ‘I’ve painted that, too. It’s quite something. Johnny and Joe will take you up there and you can have a look around. For a novelist it’s the perfect place to set a
book.’
    ‘I’m feeling inspired already,’ she replied excitedly.
    ‘No boyfriend?’
    ‘No,’ she lied, folding her arms across her chest.
    ‘That’s a very defensive gesture,’ he observed thoughtfully.
    ‘I had one, but it’s over.’
    ‘Ah, you’ve left some poor man back in London brokenhearted, have you?’ He smiled kindly and peered at her over his spectacles. ‘It’s better to break his heart now
than break both of your hearts further down the line.’ Ellen imagined her mother’s heart was breaking the most.
    Ellen helped her aunt carry the tray of coffee into the sitting room. She had lit a fire and closed the curtains and the room smelt pleasantly of wood smoke. Mr Badger wandered
in and climbed onto the sofa with the nonchalance of a dog simply carrying out his nightly routine. Peg and Oswald took their places at the card table set up in the bay of the window, while Ellen
sat in the armchair beside the fire and watched as Jack flew in and positioned himself on the tallboy pushed against the far wall.
    ‘Would you like to play?’ Peg asked her niece.
    ‘No, thank you. I don’t play cards,’ she replied, wondering where the television was and whether her aunt had Sky.
    Peg read her mind. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a television. I have a library of books in the little sitting room where you’re going to write your book. What do you like
reading?’
    ‘Fiction mostly. Romance, mystery, beautiful places. Escapism, I suppose,’ she replied, considering all the things she needed to escape from. ‘And I love historical fiction,
too, like Philippa Gregory. I’ve read all of hers.’
    ‘And you must read the