47
Finula and Marcus had loved honeymooning in Ireland. Staying in Roscommon had meant seeing where Marcus had been born and grown up. Finula had cooed over the sweet, whitewashed cottage where he and his mother had lived, with breathtaking views of the mountains. It was hard trying to picture his childhood there, in such a humble home with magnificent, dramatic backdrops, when really, by rights, he had belonged in Treweham Hall as the firstborn to Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake.
Not that it bothered Marcus – the opposite in fact. The last thing Marcus wanted was attention, especially the kind that having an ancestral, aristocratic family would bring. Secretly, he was glad to have been out of the limelight, but what really rankled him was the way his mam had had to struggle to keep them both. Many times he had contemplated what would have happened if his mam hadn’t bolted and escaped to Ireland. But it was no good; he’d never know and it didn’t do any good pondering over what might have been. The good thing was thathe hadfound his true home, and his brothers.
He and Finula had rented a cottage in his home village of Kilsalla and explored the area. Marcus had enjoyed showing Finula where he had gone to school and the local pub, where he’d taken his first pint. Here, he was well known and regarded as somewhat of a celebrity due to his award-winning documentaries. The locals had welcomed Finula with open arms, at first mistaking her for one of them, rather than coming from England.
He had taken her to the Sacred Heart church, where his mam was buried and they had laid flowers by her tombstone. Finula had been so impressed inside the church, with its lovely mosaic work throughout and gold gilt décor, its ornate altar and vaulted ceiling. Never had she felt so serene and peaceful. They had climbed Ireland’s famous “Holy Mountain” Croagh Patrick, giving them the most amazing view of Clew Bay. Hand in hand they had wandered through the crumbling ruins of Roscommon Castle and marvelled at its history.
All in all, they had had a ball, a real rest from the nagging pressures of everyday life and just enjoying each other’s company, but now the honeymoon was over. It was time to go home. Finula felt like sobbing, having to leave such a beautiful, charming place that had struck a chord in her heart.
‘Do we really have to go?’ she pleaded, knowing full well the answer. Of course they did.
Marcus gave a wry smile. ‘Darlin’, we can always come back.’
‘Yes, yes we must.’ She felt suddenly appeased. After all, it would be nice to head off back home to Shropshire. To be fair, she’d missed the lush, rolling hills of the place and was rather looking forward to settling down to married life in their quaint, black and white timbered cottage. She glanced at her new husband. My, what a handsome brute he was, with his black, wild curls and green, twinkling eyes. The sun had caught his skin, giving him a healthy glow.
He was busy packing his suitcase for their departure the following morning. He turned to face her and winked. ‘Come on, Fin,’ he coaxed, ‘it’s not the end leaving here. It’s just the beginning.’
How right he was.
