To Hear a Nightingale Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Copyright Page

  Acclaim for Charlotte Bingham

  Also by Charlotte Bingham

  Dedication

  To Hear a Nightingale

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Two

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Interim One

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Interim Two

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Interim Three

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Aftermath

  Epilogue

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781407067698

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  a division of The Random House Group Ltd

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE

  A BANTAM BOOK: 9780553818420

  First published in Great Britain

  in 1988 by Michael Joseph Ltd

  Bantam edition published 1989

  Bantam edition reissued 2007

  Copyright © Charlotte Bingham 1988

  Charlotte Bingham has asserted her right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009

  The Random House Group Limited makes every effort to ensure that the papers used in its books are made from trees that have been legally sourced from well-managed and credibly certified forests. Our paper procurement policy can be found on www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Typeset in 10/11pt California by

  Colset Private Limited, Singapore.

  Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.

  4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

  ACCLAIM FOR CHARLOTTE BINGHAM

  The Kissing Garden

  ‘A perfect escapist cocktail for summertime romantics’

  Mail on Sunday

  Love Song

  ‘A perfect example of the new, darker romantic fiction

  . . . a true 24-carat love story’

  Sunday Times

  ‘A poetic and poignant love story’

  Sunday Post

  The Love Knot

  ‘The author perfectly evokes the atmosphere of a bygone

  era . . . An entertaining Victorian romance’

  Woman’s Own

  ‘Hearts are broken, scandals abound. It’s totally addictive,

  the sort of book you rush to finish – then wish you hadn’t’

  Woman’s Realm

  The Nightingale Sings

  ‘A novel rich in dramatic surprises, with a large

  cast of vivid characters whose antics will have you

  frantically turning the pages’

  Daily Mail

  To Hear a Nightingale

  ‘A story to make you laugh and cry’

  Woman

  ‘A delightful novel . . . Pulsating with vitality and deeply

  felt emotions. I found myself with tears in my eyes on

  one page and laughing out loud on another’

  Sunday Express

  The Business

  ‘A compulsive, intriguing and perceptive read’

  Sunday Express

  ‘Compulsively readable’

  Options

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Also by Charlotte Bingham:

  CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS

  LUCINDA

  CORONET AMONG THE GRASS

  BELGRAVIA

  COUNTRY LIFE

  AT HOME

  BY INVITATION

  TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE

  THE BUSINESS

  IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW

  STARDUST

  NANNY

  CHANGE OF HEART

  DEBUTANTES

  THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS

  GRAND AFFAIR

  LOVE SONG

  THE KISSING GARDEN

  THE LOVE KNOT

  THE BLUE NOTE

  THE SEASON

  SUMMERTIME

  DISTANT MUSIC

  THE CHESTNUT TREE

  THE WIND OFF THE SEA

  THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT

  DAUGHTERS OF EDEN

  THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS

  THE MAGIC HOUR

  FRIDAY’S GIRL

  OUT OF THE BLUE

  THE WHITE MARRIAGE

  GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART

  Novels with Terence Brady:

  VICTORIA

  VICTORIA AND COMPANY

  ROSE’S STORY

  YES HONESTLY

  Television Drama Series with Terence

  Brady:

  TAKE THREE GIRLS

  UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS

  THOMAS AND SARAH

  NANNY

  FOREVER GREEN

  Television Comedy Series with

  Terence Brady:

  NO HONESTLY

  YES HONESTLY

  PIG IN THE MIDDLE

  OH MADELINE! (USA)

  FATHER MATTHEW’S

  DAUGHTER

  Television Plays with Terence Brady:

  MAKING THE PLAY

  SUCH A SMALL WORLD

  ONE OF THE FAMILY

  Films with Terence Brady:

  LOVE WITH A PERFECT

  STRANGER

  MAGIC MOMENTS

  Stage Plays with Terence Brady:

  I WISH I WISH

  THE SHELL SEEKERS

  (adaptation from the novel by

  Rosamunde Pilcher)

  To my beloved partner,

  Terence Brady

  She woke early

  To his song

  She had never heard

  A bird sing

  To her.

  In each note

  He wrote

  The passing of time

  And when it ceased

  It was eternity.

  TO HEAR A N
IGHTINGALE

  Charlotte Bingham

  BANTAM BOOKS

  LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND • JOHANNESBURG

  PROLOGUE

  Ireland

  The Present

  Cassie picked up her journal. It was bound in antique red leather, with her initials engraved in gold on the cover. But even though every page was now full, and she had long ago started on a new volume, she always kept it on her dressing table beside her silver hair brushes and the heavy old cut-glass bottles filled with her various scents. It seemed to her that she had only to pick it up at random and from its pages would fall some memento of her life – a picture given to her on her tenth birthday at the convent, a loving message written to her in haste from Tyrone, a Christmas tag gloriously misspelt in large childish writing from Josephine, a drawing of a monster from the leaky pen of Mattie, a piece cut from Tyrone’s racing colours, or a birthday card from young Padraig.

  Downstairs she could hear Erin her housekeeper opening the door to the man who had come to interview her.

  Cassie stopped reading her journal for a moment and imagined him standing on the stone-flagged hall, perhaps looking up at her portrait. The painting had been commissioned by Mattie and given to her as a presentation from all the workers and stable staff at Claremore. It showed Cassie looking as they all liked to think of her but actually seldom saw her, wearing a saffron ballgown with a magnificent necklace of rubies, one hand resting on a sculpture of her husband Tyrone mounted on his trainer’s hack Old Flurry.

  She paused to put on a little more lipstick and then a last touch of perfume on each wrist. A nervous habit of hers, as ritualistic as the taking of holy water at the entrance to a church. She had lain awake half the night trying to think of original answers to the questions the famous J. J. Buchanan would inevitably pose. The most celebrated sporting writer in America, he was not exactly a noted feminist. And as the first woman to train an English Derby winner, Cassie McGann would be a prime target for his chauvinism.

  Cassie looked at her watch. He would have been kept waiting fully five minutes by now. Enough time for him to be grateful for the delay which would enable him to take in everything in the drawing room, enough time to examine the graceful furnishings in the room, the paintings of past winners, the signed photographs from members of royalty and other famous and less famous owners, enough time to begin the journalist’s ritualistic search for the keys to her character.

  Erin was waiting for her in the hall, and as Cassie descended the stairs she moved in to pluck invisible pieces of hair from Cassie’s shoulders and quite unnecessarily tug down the back of her perfectly cut jacket, her freckled face wearing the anxious look of a mother sending her child to her first party.

  Cassie hesitated before entering the drawing room.

  ‘Go on with you,’ said Erin, as she pushed the door open for Cassie. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll ate yer.’

  Cassie lifted her small chin and walked determinedly past Erin, and into the room.

  The man waiting for her had his back turned. He was well over six foot in height, and he appeared to be absorbed by the painting of Little Fred, Cassie’s first winner trained under her own name.

  ‘So you’re the famous Mr Buchanan?’ she heard herself say, aggressive as always in moments of doubt.

  Buchanan turned to her. When he did, Cassie stopped. For she found that the tall man with the shock of white hair who was standing so seriously before her was someone quite other than J. J. Buchanan.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  New Hampshire, America

  1947

  Cassie was six when she was sent away to school. She was enrolled in a convent in Pentland, New Hampshire, twenty miles from Westboro Falls where she lived alone with her grandmother. On her very first day there, when she walked down the long path which led to the playing fields, her clothes were so long and ill-fitting, and the turn on the hems of her shorts so deep, that when they saw her all the older girls laughed at her. Cassie laughed too, but only in the hope that the general merriment would make her accepted.

  Later, when they were changing, one of the girls asked her why her mother didn’t buy her clothes that fitted her.

  ‘Because I don’t have a mother,’ Cassie replied. ‘And Grandmother doesn’t like sewing.’

  Another girl with small bright blue eyes looked at Cassie sympathetically. Her name was Mary-Jo.

  ‘My grandmother wears long drawers that keep falling down,’ she said.

  Cassie smiled, then stared at the sports clothes she had just taken off. How she hated them now. When she had seen them laid out, she had been so eager to put them on – the crisp white blouse, the smart blue shorts; they had seemed to hold such promise. And now they held only memories of ridicule. Cassie picked them off the floor and, bundling them all together, threw them into her cupboard.

  ‘You’re meant to fold everything up,’ whispered Mary-Jo. ‘You’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ replied Cassie. ‘They’re too big. They make me look silly.’

  Mary-Jo carried on dressing. She did up her hair ribbons quickly and efficiently, while Cassie struggled hopelessly with hers. Hearing the bell ringing for class, Cassie tried to hurry even more and in her feverish haste pulled her ribbons into knots, unlike Mary-Jo’s which were now like perfect butterflies. Mary-Jo, seeing her friend’s difficulty and having got herself ready, helped Cassie out.

  ‘Didn’t you practise?’ Mary-Jo asked her. ‘My mother made me practise on the standard lamp for days. That’s why I can do them so quickly.’

  I bet that’s what all mothers did, Cassie thought. They taught you how to do up your hair ribbons quickly. And they sent you to school with clothes which fitted you. And with store-bought jars of peanut butter. Not with great long shorts, and one pot of homemade spread, and not knowing how to tie your hair ribbons. That’s what grandmothers did.

  And mothers didn’t forever tell you how wicked you were, like her grandmother was always doing. And how lucky it was that such a wicked girl was accepted by the good nuns.

  Nuns were always good to Grandmother, but to Cassie, when she arrived at the convent, they had seemed terrifying, as they bent their wimpled heads down and stared with dark foreign eyes into hers. It seemed to Cassie as if they were staring right into her soul.

  ‘Has she made her first confession yet?’ one of them asked her grandmother. ‘And if so, when? How long is it since she made her first confession?’

  There seemed to be a great and general anxiety as to whether or not Cassie had purged herself of the burdens of her sinful six-year-old-soul, an anxiety of which Grandmother approved. To her Cassie was a sinner. She had been a sinner ever since the child had been left in her care, a fact of which she was forever reminding Cassie.

  Her very first sin – and, according to her grandmother one of her very worst ones – was the day she wet her knickers in the shoe store in Westboro. In the excitement of going shopping, Cassie had forgotten to ‘go’ before they left the house, and by the time they were in the shoe shop, and Grandmother was trying on endless pairs of shoes, Cassie was afraid to ask. When Grandmother saw the stream trickling down Cassie’s leg and on to her newly washed sock, she was outraged. So much so, and much to the horror of everyone in the shop, she beat her there and then. She turned her over on her knee and smacked her hard. And then she hit her again in the street outside the store and again and again on the way home, before she locked her in her room, where she was to remain until she learnt to control her ‘functions’.

  Young Cassie learned to control her ‘functions’ so well that she became adept at not going at all. She would leave going until the very last moment so that she would be wriggling and writhing by the time she shut herself in Grandmother’s bathroom.

  She dreaded going to the bathroom anyway, because Grandmother’s bathroom was not a bathroom – it was a shrine. A place where before anything was done the carpet must first b
e rolled back, your sleeves folded and the basin filled with water; and care had to be taken so that not one drip would mark the shining chrome of the taps. Cassie was taught to spit her toothpaste down the plughole by her grandmother holding her face over it, and then, having soaped and rinsed herself with the wash flannel, she would be required to fold it, leaving it on the edge of the basin in a neat square. The carpet could then be rolled back, and the taps polished with a towel before Cassie was allowed to leave the room.

  Not that life was any easier outside the bathroom. Every room of Grandmother’s house was a model of cleanliness and tidiness. It was a mortal sin not to have all the long beige fringes on the rugs pointing in exactly the same direction. It was a sin not to step around the edges of the room to prevent the carpets from wearing; and, climbing the stairs dozens of times each day when she was sent to fetch Grandmother’s glasses or her Bufferin, or change her gloves for her, or whatever, she always had to tread on different parts of the carpet. Their life seemed very complicated, and Cassie’s life in particular seemed to be one long round of fetching and carrying.

  ‘Seeing as how you’re my burden in life,’ Grandmother would say constantly, ‘you may as well be my donkey.’

  But being a donkey brought no reprieves when it came to sins. To move at table meant a sharp slap on the legs. To cry out when Grandmother found a toy on the floor and pulled you down the corridors by your ears and beat you meant she would beat you harder. So Cassie learnt not to cry out. She also learned to remain silent when her grandmother, trying to provoke a response, would accuse her of lying, or of being deliberately disobedient, untidy or rude. Or simply of being ugly.

  ‘You’re the plainest child I’ve ever seen,’ she would tell Cassie.

  And then on another day, ‘No you’re not, I’m quite wrong, you’re not plain at all.’

  Cassie looked up at her expectantly.

  ‘I don’t know how I could have thought you plain: you’re not plain, you’re ugly.’

  The examination of her conscience was also done for Cassie by Grandmother. So there was no real need for her to be sent to the priest for this, but nonetheless sent she was, where she duly confessed to her lies, her disobedience, her failure to be pretty, her inability to grow curly hair, or have a nice straight nose, or nails that didn’t need cutting, or to swallow the hard bread sandwiches wedged with fat that Grandmother dumped in front of her every night at supper.