Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  When at last the front door opened and Kitty strode in, her face red from the cold and her Titian hair wild and knotted down her back, Robert was at first overcome with relief, then furious that she had caused him such concern. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ he demanded, meeting her in the hall.

  Kitty laughed. ‘You weren’t worrying about me in the fog, were you?’

  ‘Of course I was, you silly girl!’

  Kitty was affronted by his patronizing tone. ‘I know those hills better than most shepherds,’ she retorted crisply. ‘There was no need for you to worry.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  She shrugged and pulled off her gloves. ‘Out riding.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Why all these questions, Robert? Are you accusing me of having a lover tucked away up there in the hills?’

  Robert was stunned. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘That idea hadn’t occurred to me. Should it?’

  She flushed beneath her weathered complexion. ‘You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill. I was simply out riding, as I always do. I wasn’t alarmed by the fog.’

  ‘I forbid you to ride out like that again. It’s dangerous.’

  Kitty sighed impatiently. ‘Oh really, Robert. You’re sounding like my tutor again!’

  ‘When I was your tutor you were not obliged to obey me. Now I’m your husband, you are.’

  ‘I won’t be told,’ she snapped, making for the stairs.

  ‘Yes, you will. You have a little boy who depends on you,’ he reminded her. ‘And you have me, for better or for worse. I will not have you rampaging around the countryside in the dark. You have the entire day at your disposal. Please do me the favour of riding during daylight hours. Surely, I’m not asking too much.’

  Kitty, furious that he was telling her what to do and fired up with guilt about where she had been, was all too quick to inflame the argument. If she was angry with Robert it would make it all the more easy to leave him. She marched up the stairs without looking back. Robert remained in the hall until she had disappeared, then he turned and limped into his study, slamming the door behind him.

  Kitty read Little Jack a story and tucked him up in bed. She planted a kiss on his soft forehead and savoured for as long as possible the feel of his small arms around her neck, holding her close. Her heart mollified at the sight of him and, when Robert came in to say goodnight, she found it hard to maintain her sulk. However, she managed to eat her supper in silence. He attempted conversation but she thwarted it with monosyllabic answers until he gave up and only the clinking of cutlery on their plates interrupted the heavily charged silence.

  Kitty went to bed alone and turned off the light. Her thoughts shifted to leaving home again and she felt the familiar sense of despair. But just as she closed her eyes she heard the door open and the sound of her husband’s shuffling walk as he limped into the bedroom. She wished he would see that she was asleep and leave, but he didn’t. He climbed in beside her and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against him. ‘I don’t want to fight with you, darling,’ he whispered. ‘I love you.’

  His gentle voice lured her out of her brooding and her despair was at once laid aside. She rolled over and kissed him. She kissed him tenderly, and as she did so a tear squeezed through her lashes, for, even as she knew she was betraying Jack, she knew also that she was being guided by a deeper longing. She didn’t try to understand it, nor attempt to justify it. But as she undid the buttons of his pyjamas and glided her hand over his chest, she knew she was sealing her fate, whichever way it would go; it was in God’s hands now.

  Chapter 7

  After New Year, Digby Deverill arrived in Ballinakelly with Archie and Celia to stay with his cousin Bertie at the Hunting Lodge. He hadn’t been back since Adeline’s funeral, when Bertie had announced to the family that he was not only selling the castle but introducing them to his bastard son, Jack Deverill. That had been quite a luncheon, Digby mused with a sardonic smile. Maud had stormed out and disappeared to London in a huff, bleating humiliation and hurt. Everyone else had been left speechless, which was quite something for a noisy family such as theirs. Now, a few months later, he was able to reflect on the whole episode with wry amusement.

  Digby loved Co. Cork. He remembered with affection his boyhood summers at Castle Deverill, when he and Bertie and Bertie’s younger brother Rupert, who was later killed in the Great War, had taken the boat out to fish with Cousin Hubert, Bertie’s formidable father. Digby was not a natural fisherman, but he had loved the drama of the ocean, the mystery of what lay beneath it, the wide horizon and the sense of being alone in the immense blue. He was fascinated by the local fishermen in their thick sweaters, caps and boots, their craggy faces weathered from years of exposure to the salty winds, their dry hands calloused and coarse, and loved to listen to their banter when, at the end of the day, Bertie and Rupert would take him to O’Donovan’s in Ballinakelly for a pint of stout. Cousin Hubert had preferred the comfort of his own home – and the security of his own kind. They would find him in the library at the Hunting Lodge (because in those days Bertie’s grandparents lived in the castle), eating porter cake in front of the fire with his wolfhounds at his feet, hoping for crumbs. ‘Anyone for bridge?’ he’d ask, and Digby would always be the first to volunteer because there had been something about Cousin Hubert that had made him long for his good opinion.

  Now Cousin Hubert was gone, killed in the fire that destroyed the castle. Adeline was gone too. It was a salutary thought and one that reconfirmed Digby’s belief that life has to be grabbed by the collar and lived consciously, decisively and courageously, not the way Bertie was living his, drifting rudderless on a current of whiskey and disillusionment. Something had to be done, and soon, or Bertie would be gone too and that would truly be the end of an era.

  Digby had come to Co. Cork to meet Mr Leclaire, but he had also come with the secret intention of rousing his cousin out of his stupor. He knew he had to await his moment. Bertie had to be in the right frame of mind to hear his advice, for there was always the danger that his cousin would take umbrage, for Bertie was a proud and fragile man, and the consequences could be dire.

  While he waited for that elusive moment, Digby threw his enthusiasm into the plans for the castle. He’d seen the ruins the year before but he’d never taken the time to walk among them. Now, with the effervescent Mr Leclaire leading the way through the rubble (and anticipating, with relish, his enormous bill), Digby wandered slowly from room to room like a dog sniffing for the scent of his past. He found it lingering in the hall where the fireplace still stood, recalling with a wave of nostalgia the Summer Ball when he had stood there with his new wife, Beatrice, who was seeing it for the first time. He remembered her face as clearly as if it had been yesterday. The wonder in it, the joy, the sheer delight at the beauty of the castle, lit up with hundreds of candles and adorned with vast arrangements of flowers.

  Mr Leclaire dragged him out of his reverie by urging him on through the hall into the remains of the drawing room. Shiny black crows hopped about the stones and squabbled among themselves. Mr Leclaire pointed out the parts of the surviving walls which were still intact and the parts which were simply too weak and would have to be pulled down. He gesticulated extravagantly, waving his arms in the air, while Celia chirped and chattered and thought his every suggestion ‘marvellous’. ‘I want it yesterday,’ she said in response to his every suggestion. Archie watched closely for his father-in-law’s reaction, hoping that he’d approve, wanting him to approve.

  ‘We will use the original stone wherever possible, Sir Digby,’ said Mr Leclaire. ‘But where we are compelled to use new stone we will endeavour to match it as best we can. Mrs Mayberry has suggested we buy old stone but I have explained, have I not, Mrs Mayberry, that the cost will soar considerably. Old stone is very dear.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Mayberry would like an estimate for both, Mr Leclaire,’ said Digby. He smiled at his daughter and Celia slipped her hand around
his arm, for she knew from experience what that smile meant: she’d have her old stone one way or another.

  As they moved through the ruins towards the surviving western tower where Adeline had set up residence after Hubert was gone, Celia noticed a pair of grubby faces watching them from behind a wall. She nudged Archie. ‘Look, we’re being spied on,’ she whispered. Archie followed the line of her vision. There, partly hidden among the stones, were two little boys. As soon as they realized they had been spotted their faces disappeared.

  ‘Who are they?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Local boys, I imagine. They must be very curious. After all, this castle has dominated Ballinakelly for centuries.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should say something? They’re trespassing. There’s a perfectly good sign by the gate telling them this is private property and trespassers will be prosecuted.’

  ‘Darling, they don’t care about a sign. They’re children.’ She laughed, rummaging in her handbag for some chocolate. Finding a half-eaten bar, she weaved her way through the debris and ash to where the boys were hiding. ‘Hello, you two monkeys,’ she said, leaning over with a smile. Startled, they stared up at her with wide, frightened eyes, like a pair of cornered foxes. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to be cross. Here, it’s hungry work being spies.’ She held out the chocolate in her gloved hand. They gazed at it warily. ‘Go on. Aren’t you hungry?’ The larger of the two boys held out his dirty fingers and took it. ‘What are your names?’ she asked.

  The elder boy unwrapped the chocolate and took a bite. ‘Séamus O’Leary,’ he replied in a strong Irish brogue. ‘This is my little brother, Éamon Óg.’ He elbowed his brother, who was staring at the otherworldly glamour of this English lady with his mouth agape. The diamonds in her ears sparkled like nothing he had ever seen before. As his brother speared him in the ribs he closed his mouth and blinked, but he was unable to tear his gaze away.

  ‘I used to play as a little girl with a boy called O’Leary. Jack O’Leary,’ said Celia. ‘He must be related to you.’

  ‘He’s our cousin,’ said Séamus. ‘His da just died,’ he added, enjoying the taste of chocolate on his tongue.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Celia.

  At that moment, Archie called to her. ‘Darling, we’re going back now to look at the plans.’

  ‘You’d better run home before Lord Deverill sees you,’ she said to the boys. They scurried off without a word, disappearing behind the western tower. Celia returned to Bertie’s car where Mr Leclaire was standing with Digby, looking up at the front door. ‘Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum,’ said Mr Leclaire, reading the inscription still visible in the charred remains of the stone.

  ‘Now it’s Celia’s kingdom,’ said Digby.

  ‘I’ll be a beneficent landlord,’ she said, striding over the grass with Archie. ‘Once the castle is finished I’ll throw a small party for the people of Ballinakelly. It will mark a new beginning.’

  ‘The people of Ballinakelly have always been loyal to the Deverills,’ said Digby. ‘The fire wasn’t their doing but the actions of Irish nationalists from other parts of the county, certainly not from here. I’m sure the people of Ballinakelly will be delighted to see it restored to its former splendour. Now, let’s go and have a look at those plans, Mr Leclaire.’ They climbed into the car, and, with Digby at the wheel, driving much too fast in his usual daredevil manner, they made their way back to the Hunting Lodge.

  It wasn’t until the last day of Digby’s stay that his moment came to talk to Bertie. During the fortnight Digby had watched his cousin closely. He lacked enthusiasm for anything. His heart had been sapped of its juice, his joie de vivre turned sour, as if life had disappointed him to the point where he resented fun. He had only gone shooting once and that was because Digby had persuaded him to. They had tramped out with the dogs and shot some snipe, but Bertie had found little enjoyment in the sport he once loved. Pleasure was no longer part of his experience but something enjoyed by other people and he begrudged them for it. The only time he had grown animated was when Kitty had brought his son Little Jack over to see him. The child had the natural charm of the Deverills, Digby thought, and he was certain that Bertie could see himself in the boy, the carefree exuberance that he had lost. Otherwise, his cousin drank too much and oftentimes was so distracted that it was impossible even to converse with him.

  As it was Digby’s last day in Co. Cork, Bertie could not deny him an excursion on the boat. The weather was fine, warm even for January, and the sea calm. It was the perfect day to take the boat out, Digby exclaimed heartily, hoping to inject his cousin with enthusiasm. Bertie agreed, reluctantly, and the two of them set off for the harbour where Bertie’s boat was moored – Digby in an eye-catching yellow-and-brown Tattersall jacket, waistcoat and breeches, thick yellow socks and matching cap, Bertie in a more discreet tweed suit. Digby waited for the jokes at his expense but Bertie wasn’t forthcoming. He had lost his sense of humour too.

  Once out on the sea Digby seized his moment. ‘Now listen here, old chap,’ he began, and Bertie listened because there was nothing else to do but watch his fishing line and wait for it to tremble. ‘You’ve had a tough couple of years, there’s no doubt about it,’ said Digby. ‘You’ve suffered terrible losses: the castle, your parents and Maud. But you cannot dwell on the negatives or you’ll drown in them. You have to think positively and pull yourself back from the brink. You understand what I’m saying?’ Bertie nodded without taking his eyes off the fishing line, or somewhere thereabouts. Digby realized he had made no impression but pressed on valiantly. ‘What’s the core of the problem, Bertie, old chap? It’s me, Digby, you’re talking to. Eh? Your cousin and friend. I see you’re in trouble and I want to help.’ Still no response. Digby felt his resolve deflate. Like most Englishmen he wasn’t good at talking about emotions and rather dreaded having to. But he sensed his cousin’s survival depended on him somehow and was determined to press on even though he had rarely felt so uncomfortable. He decided to try another tack. ‘You remember when we were boys? Your father used to take us out on this very boat and teach us to fish. Of course, he made no headway with me.’ Digby chuckled joylessly. ‘I’ve never been the sporting type.’

  To his surprise memories began to rouse Bertie from his languor. The corners of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. ‘You were pretty useless on a horse too,’ he said.

  Encouraged, Digby continued to delve into the adventures of their boyhood. ‘Hubert always claimed to give me a gentle horse, but one look at me and the bloody animal was off. I think he gave me the highly strung ones on purpose.’

  ‘If he hadn’t, you’d have lagged behind with the old ladies,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I hate to admit it but those aunts of yours, the Shrubs, were more accomplished in the saddle than I was.’

  ‘Do you remember when Rupert scaled down the front of the castle?’

  ‘Adeline nearly had a seizure!’

  ‘So did your mama. I’m sure I remember her fainting flat on her back and someone calling for her smelling salts.’ The two men laughed. Then Bertie turned serious. ‘I miss Rupert,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘He was a good man,’ said Digby.

  ‘If he was here now, and finding solace in whiskey as you do, Bertie, what would you say to him?’

  Bertie’s face reddened. ‘I’d tell him to give it up. I’d make him see reason.’

  ‘I want you to give it up, Bertie,’ said Digby softly. ‘It’s destroying you and I can’t sit back and let you do that to yourself.’

  There was a long silence as Bertie digested his words. Then he stiffened. ‘I don’t have a problem,’ he said crisply. ‘We Irish like our whiskey.’

  ‘You’re not Irish,’ Digby retorted. ‘And you drink too much of it.’

  ‘With all due respect, Digby, what business is it of yours?’

  ‘I’m family,’ he replied with emphasis.

  Bertie heaved a sigh.
He turned and stared at his cousin with rheumy, bloodshot eyes. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. I’ve lost everything.’

  ‘That’s no excuse to drown your sorrows in drink.’

  ‘Oh, it’s easy for you to say, Digby. You with all your millions, a good wife and Deverill Rising that hasn’t been burned to the ground by rebels, intent on pushing you out of the country your family has lived in for over two hundred and fifty years. You have your parents still. You have the golden touch, Digby. The Devil’s luck and probably a blonde in every port. In fact, life is just dandy, isn’t it? Well, for some of us it’s a struggle. I had a mistress, you know. I loved her. But I lost her too.’

  Digby was losing patience. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. The truth is, you’re not very attractive when you’re drunk – and you seem to be drunk most of the time. She probably got sick of the stench of alcohol on your breath.’ Digby saw it coming, the punch that would have hit him in the jaw had he not reacted like quicksilver and caught Bertie’s arm with surprising strength and agility. Bertie stared at him in bewilderment, breathing heavily like a bull at bay.

  Digby bore down on him. ‘You’re a damned idiot, Bertie Deverill. I’m not surprised Maud left you and as for your mistress, well, you’ve brought it all on yourself, haven’t you? Weak, that’s what you are, weak. You’re not even fit to carry the Deverill name. If your father could see you now he’d probably punch you one himself. As he isn’t here, I’m going to do it for him.’ Digby drew back his fist and landed a blow beneath Bertie’s ribs. Bertie bent double and gasped for breath, but managed to swipe at Digby’s legs, causing him to reel off balance. The boat rocked from side to side as the two men fought like boys in a playground dispute. But Digby goaded him with every insult he could think of, hoping that Bertie would eventually collapse with exhaustion and see the error of his ways. He didn’t collapse, however. He flung himself upon his cousin and they both tumbled over the edge of the boat into the cold sea. A moment later their heads bobbed up, taking in large mouthfuls of salty water and air. Shocked by the cold they were unable to speak.