Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  Kitty pulled up outside the farmhouse and climbed out. She caught up with Robert and took hold of his hand. ‘Careful now, Robert,’ she hissed. ‘I doubt Bridie’s family know about Little Jack.’

  ‘I’m not about to set the whole Doyle clan onto our boy, Kitty,’ he retorted and Kitty felt a surge of confidence at the commanding tone in his voice.

  Robert knocked loudly on the door. There was a brief pause before it opened and Sean peered out. He looked surprised and a little apprehensive to see them. Without hesitation he pulled the door wide and invited them in. Inside, Old Mrs Nagle sat beside the turf fire smoking a clay pipe while Mrs Doyle rocked on the other side of the hearth, busily darning. A pretty young woman Kitty had never seen before was sitting at the table. Bridie was noticeably absent.

  As Kitty and Robert entered, bringing with them a gust of cold wind, four pairs of eyes watched them warily.

  ‘Good evening to you all,’ said Robert, taking off his hat. ‘Please forgive our intrusion. We’ve come to see Miss Doyle.’

  Mrs Doyle pursed her lips and put down her sewing.

  ‘She’s not here,’ said Sean, standing in the middle of the room and folding his arms.

  ‘Where is she?’ Robert demanded. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘She’s gone—’

  ‘Gone where?’ Kitty interrupted.

  ‘Back to America.’

  Robert looked at Kitty and she could see the relief sweep across his face like the passing of a storm. ‘Very well,’ he said, replacing his hat.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ Sean asked.

  ‘You just have,’ Robert replied, making for the door.

  Kitty noticed that Mrs Doyle’s cheeks were damp from tears and Old Mrs Nagle’s eyes brimming with a world-weary blend of sorrow and acceptance. A heaviness pervaded that room which Kitty would have liked to alleviate, but she was keen to be out of there as fast as possible and home, where she felt safe. As she hurried to the car she thought of the loss that poor Mrs Doyle had suffered and she felt sorry for her.

  Kitty started the engine and they set off up the track. As the car drove slowly over the stones Robert reached across the gear stick and put his hand on her leg. He glanced at her, but her features were indiscernible in the darkness. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I am now,’ she replied.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘I wanted to.’

  He grinned. ‘Didn’t you trust me to do it on my own?’

  ‘I don’t trust you at the wheel, no. But I trust you completely in everything else, especially this, Robert,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘I felt very sure that whatever happened you’d protect Little Jack; that you’d protect the both of us.’

  ‘You know, Kitty, you and Little Jack are the two people I love most in the world. I’d do anything for you.’

  Kitty turned back to gaze into the road, her guilt slicing a divide through the centre of her heart.

  Bridie stood on the deck of the ship and watched the Irish coastline disappear into the mist. She recalled with bittersweet nostalgia the first time she had left her homeland three years before. She had travelled in steerage then with little more than the clothes on her back and a small bag, full of hope for the future and anguish for the child she was leaving behind, and watched her past grow smaller and smaller until it was gone.

  She felt that she had lost Jack not once but twice. She’d had the chance to take him. She’d reached for him but the revelation that the child loved his home had taught her that the fabric of living was as powerful as the lottery of blood, and the very fact that she’d tried to lure the child with a toy shamed her. She’d abandoned him again but this time she’d debased herself in the process.

  Now she watched the swirling mist engulf the island she had loved and lost, and knew from the pain in her heart that the wrench was just as severe now as it had been the first time. For in that green land rested the body of her daughter and upon those verdant fields her son would thrive, without a thought for his mother and her longing, without realizing where he really came from. Indeed, he would grow up on the Deverill estate never knowing the simple farmhouse, barely a few miles over the hills, where his roots lay deep and silent.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. There was a strange pleasure to be found in grief; a certain satisfaction in the aching chest and dull, throbbing head; a sense of triumph in her will to go on living despite the sea below that swelled against the barrel of the boat, inviting her to taste the deadening flavour of oblivion in its wet embrace. She stared now at the black sea and found the rhythm of the waves hypnotic. They called to her in whispers and it would have been so easy to heed their summons and allow them to take away her pain. And yet she didn’t. She let grief rattle through her like an old familiar friend, searching the wreckage of her soul for the last remains of sorrow. She knew that, once it had consumed all that she was, there would be nothing left and it would move on. It had done it before and it would do so again.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled the damp sea air. She might be leaving her son behind but her daughter, her sweet little girl whom she had not even blessed with a kiss, was with her, for hadn’t Kitty taught her that the dead never leave us? That was the only thing of value left of their friendship and she held it close, against her heart.

  Chapter 4

  Hazel and Laurel, Adeline Deverill’s spinster sisters, known as the Shrubs, stood by Adeline’s grave and admired the crimson berries they had placed there. They might have been twins, being of the same height, with round, rosy faces, anxious, twitching mouths and greying hair pinned onto the top of their heads. But on closer inspection, Hazel, who was older than her sister by two years, had bright, sky-blue eyes whereas Laurel’s were the colour of the mist that gathers over the Irish Sea in winter. They had not been beauties in their day, unlike Adeline with her fiery red hair and disarming gaze, but they both possessed a sweetness of nature that showed in the soft contours of their features and in the surprising charm of their smiles. Their need for each other was particularly endearing in two elderly women who seemed to have sacrificed marriage and children to remain together.

  ‘She always loved the colour red,’ said Hazel with a sigh.

  ‘She loved colour,’ Laurel agreed. ‘Any colour.’

  ‘Except black,’ Hazel added.

  ‘Black isn’t a colour, Hazel. It’s the lack of colour.’

  ‘Adeline used to say that “darkness is simply the absence of light”. That it doesn’t exist in itself. Do you remember, Laurel?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘She was so wise. I do miss her.’ Hazel pressed a crumpled cotton handkerchief to her eye. ‘She was a reassuring presence during the Troubles.’

  ‘Oh, indeed she was,’ agreed Laurel. ‘We’ve lived through turbulent times, but I do feel that peace has descended over Ballinakelly and those beasts who wanted us English out have put away their claws. Don’t you think, Hazel?’

  ‘Oh, I do. But how I wish that things hadn’t changed. I do so hate change. Nothing was—’

  ‘The same after the fire. I know,’ said Laurel, finishing the sentence for her sister. ‘No more games of whist in the library or parties – oh, how I loved the parties.’

  ‘No one threw parties like Adeline. No one,’ said Hazel. ‘All that’s left are the memories. Wonderful, wonderful memories.’ She sighed sadly at the thought of what had once been. ‘It won’t be the same now Celia’s bought the castle.’

  ‘No, it won’t be the same. It’ll be different,’ agreed Laurel ponderously. ‘She’ll bring it back to life, though, which will be lovely. I do hope she remembers the way it was. Should we advise her, do you think?’

  ‘She’ll be grateful for our help, I’m sure. We knew the castle better than anyone else.’

  ‘Except possibly Bertie,’ said Laurel.

  ‘Yes, except Bertie, of course.’<
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  ‘And Kitty, perhaps?’ Laurel added.

  ‘Yes, and Kitty,’ Hazel agreed, a little irritably. ‘But we know the way Adeline would want it to be,’ said Hazel, gazing upon the damp earth beneath which their sister’s body lay buried.

  Laurel inhaled deeply. ‘We’re the last of our generation here, you know.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Laurel. One has to look to the younger generation for comfort. I’m very grateful to Elspeth and Kitty. If it wasn’t for our great-nieces and their darling children, there’d be no reason to go on. No reason at all.’

  ‘Adeline was always certain we’d meet up in the end.’

  ‘A load of old rubbish,’ said Hazel.

  Laurel stared at her in surprise. ‘My dear Hazel, I think that’s the first time we’ve ever disagreed on anything.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Well, I hope it doesn’t set a precedent,’ Hazel added anxiously.

  ‘I don’t know. It might. Wouldn’t that be awful? Suddenly at the grand old age of—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Hazel interrupted, putting a hand on her sister’s arm.

  ‘At our grand old age then, that we began to disagree.’

  ‘We couldn’t have that,’ said Hazel.

  ‘No, we couldn’t. It would upset everything.’

  ‘Yes, it would. Everything.’

  ‘Shall we go home and have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’ Hazel smiled with relief. ‘I’m so happy we agree on that!’

  Adeline watched her sisters walk out into the street and head off towards home. From her place in Spirit she could see everything that went on in Ballinakelly. Unlike her husband Hubert and the other heirs of Castle Deverill who were bound by Maggie O’Leary’s curse to remain in the castle until the land was returned to an O’Leary, Adeline was free to come and go as she pleased. Literally a free spirit, she thought with satisfaction. It would have been easy to have left this world altogether; after all, the allure of what human beings call ‘Heaven’ was very strong. But Adeline was bound to Hubert by a more powerful force than curiosity. She had resolved to stay with him because she loved him. She loved Ireland, too, and her family who remained here. Only when their time ran out would she go home to Heaven; all together, as they had always been.

  Adeline was intrigued by the recent comings and goings at the castle. Celia, who was staying at the Hunting Lodge with Bertie, spent a great deal of time exploring the ruins and discussing her plans with Mr Leclaire, the architect she had brought over from London. Portly like a little toad, with a shiny round face, bald head, fleshy lips, and a speech impediment that caused him to spit on his S’s, Mr Kenneth Leclaire was wildly enthusiastic about this ambitious commission. Celia Mayberry was his favourite sort of client: clueless and with a bottomless budget. He had grand ideas and hopped from charred room to charred room behind the dreamy Celia, waving his arms about and describing in lavish superlatives the splendour of those rooms once rebuilt according to his glorious vision. Celia clapped her hands with glee at his every suggestion, squealing encouragement: ‘Oh, Kenny darling, I just love it! Import it, build it. I want it yesterday!’

  Celia wanted Kitty to enjoy the process of restoration as much as she did, and Adeline, so amused by the prancing Mr Leclaire and Celia’s blinkered passion to recreate the past through the rose-tinted hue of her memories, was saddened by the sight of her favourite grandchild, wandering the ruins with her cousin as if she too were a ghost, searching for herself among the ashes.

  Kitty cut a lonely, heavy-hearted figure. For Kitty, the loss of her home and her beloved grandparents had caused something to shift inside her, subtly like the small movement of a cloud that repositions itself in front of the sun, casting her in shadow. But there was something else. Adeline could intuit that from her vantage point. From where Adeline stood Kitty’s soul was laid bare and all the events of her life were revealed to her grandmother like the open pages of a book. Adeline saw the brutal rape in the Doyle farmhouse and the moment on the station platform when Jack O’Leary had been taken from her by the Black and Tans, and she knew that Michael Doyle had not only violated Kitty, but destroyed too her chance of happiness with Jack. His had been the hand that had swiped away her future, and yet, with the same stroke he had brought Little Jack from the convent in Dublin and placed him in Kitty’s care. Adeline saw it all with absolute clarity. She also saw the plans Kitty was making to leave for America. She had missed her opportunity once before and was determined not to do it a second time. But Adeline knew that Little Jack didn’t belong on the other side of the Atlantic. He was a Deverill and Castle Deverill was where he belonged.

  No one had more right to Castle Deverill than Barton Deverill himself, the man who had built it and invented the family motto. Yet he was tired of haunting this accursed place. Adeline had tried to ask him about Maggie O’Leary but, unlike Kitty’s, the storybook of Barton’s life was closed defiantly shut. There was something in it, she sensed, of which he was greatly ashamed. She could almost see the stain seeping through the paper. Why else would he be so unhappy? Of course it made him desperately sad to see the castle reduced to rubble — it had made them all unhappy to see it so, but the excitement of Celia’s plans had cheered them up considerably. Only Barton remained in his mire of misery without any desire to pull himself out and Adeline wondered why.

  The curse was constantly on her mind. If it wasn’t broken she knew what Bertie and Harry’s fate would be. On and on it would continue to punish the Lord Deverills for what the first had done. But what had Barton done, exactly? Building a castle on land given to him by Charles II wasn’t a crime. Maggie O’Leary had cursed him for what she felt was robbery, but Adeline sensed there was more to it. Perhaps if she could find out what he had done, she could figure out a way to undo it. When she went to her final resting place she was going to take Hubert, Bertie and Harry with her, come what may.

  Kitty rode over the hills above Ballinakelly at a gallop. The wet wind made damp tendrils of her hair and brought the blood to her cheeks. The icy air burned her throat and froze the tip of her nose, and the rhythmic, thunderous sound of hooves on the hard ground took her back to a time of stolen moments with Jack at the Fairy Ring, when the only obstacle to their happiness had been her father’s blessing. She laughed bitterly, wishing she could turn back the clock and appreciate how simple life had been back then, before Michael Doyle, the War of Independence and the fire had complicated it beyond anything she could ever have imagined. But now she was leaving it all behind. She would start again from scratch, and forget the past. Together with her two Jacks she would create a future in a new land so that Little Jack could grow out from under the shadow of his family’s tragedy. But she couldn’t do it alone.

  As she had done so many times in the past, she trotted up to Grace Rowan-Hampton’s manor and gave her horse to the groom. Once again, Grace was the only person to whom Kitty could turn for help.

  Brennan, the supercilious butler, opened the front door and took her coat and gloves. He was not surprised to see Miss Kitty Deverill, as he would always know her even though she was now a married woman. He was used to her turning up without prior warning and striding across the hall, shouting for his mistress. He wondered what it was this time.

  Grace was in the scullery, making a large flower arrangement for the church, although, at this time of year, there was little in the way of flowers to be found in the garden. She stood in a green dress and teal-coloured cardigan with her brown hair pulled back into an untidy bun, leaving stray wisps loose about her hairline and neck. When she saw Kitty she smiled warmly, her brown eyes full of affection. ‘What a nice surprise,’ she said, putting down her secateurs. ‘I need a break from this tedious task. Let’s go into the drawing room and have a cup of tea. Brennan has lit a fire in there. My fingers are near falling off they’re so cold!’

  Kitty followed her into the main part of the house, which was lavishly adorne
d with Persian rugs and decorated with bright floral wallpapers, wood panelling and gilt-framed portraits of ancestors staring out of the oil with the bulging, watery Rowan-Hampton eyes that had been inherited by their unfortunate descendant Sir Ronald. ‘Ronald has sent a telegram announcing that he’s arriving the day after tomorrow with the boys and their families, so I’m trying to warm up the house,’ said Grace, treading lightly across the hall. All three of her sons had fought in the Great War and by some miracle survived. Since the Troubles they had preferred to remain in London where they considered the society more exciting and the streets safer for their children. ‘I persuaded them all to come home for Christmas this year even though there are few exciting parties to go to. Without the castle the place doesn’t feel right any more. Still, it will be nice to have everyone back in Ballinakelly again. It’s lonely here on one’s own.’

  Kitty imagined that Sir Ronald knew all about his wife’s infidelity. They clearly adhered to the Edwardian mode of marital conduct: the wife produced an heir and a spare after which she could make her own arrangements, provided they were discreet. It was a given that men of Sir Ronald’s class would take lovers, but Kitty couldn’t imagine how the ruddy-faced, barrel-bellied Sir Ronald could appeal to anybody. Truly, the idea was distasteful. Sir Ronald rarely came to Ireland and Grace seemed to have made her own life here without him. Kitty sensed Grace was rather irritated when he showed up. She wondered whether Grace had had other lovers besides her father. Somehow she doubted Grace was ever really on her own.

  They sat on opposite sofas and a maid brought in a tray of tea and cake and placed it on the table between them. ‘I see Celia is ploughing ahead with her plans,’ said Grace. ‘It must be hard for you and Bertie to watch her and that ridiculous little man she’s hired running riot among the ruins of your home. Still, I suppose it’s better than the alternative.’