Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Grace . . .’

  She strained the muscles in her neck to hold back her emotions. ‘You know it is possible to be so heavenly as to be no earthly good, have you thought of that?’

  ‘Then let it be thus,’ he said.

  ‘You will come to your senses. I know you will.’

  He shook his head. ‘When one has experienced the light, Grace, there’s no going back to the darkness.’

  She gave a furious groan, turned her horse roughly and galloped off to catch up with the hunt.

  At dusk, when the weak winter sun smouldered through the latticework of trees like a blacksmith’s furnace, the hunt made its way home. They had caught their fox and everyone was high on the thrill of the chase and the drama of the kill. Archie walked his horse down the hill towards the castle whose windows glowed with the welcoming lights that promised tea and cake and turf fires. As he approached, the towers and turrets of his home were silhouetted against a clear indigo sky for the wind had blown the clouds inland and sent the drizzle with it. The sight was arresting. He wanted to stop awhile to savour it before the sun dipped below the horizon and the outline was lost to the dark, but the others were keen to get home to their baths and their tea so he continued, his shoulders suddenly heavy with the weight of responsibility. Castle Deverill was more than a castle and he knew it. It was at the heart of the Deverill spirit and it was now up to him to keep that spirit alive. Celia loved the castle but she didn’t understand why she loved it. Archie did. He was well aware that it was more than the memory of good times; it was the Deverills’ very soul.

  When they reached the stables they handed their horses to the grooms and hurried into the castle to change for tea. Their breeches were splattered with mud, their faces stained with sweat and earth kicked up by the hooves. As Harry made his way across the hall towards the stairs, Celia hurried out of the sitting room, her face red and shining. ‘You’ll never believe who’s just turned up!’ she hissed, grabbing his arm. For a moment Harry’s heart gave a little leap. Could Boysie have changed his mind and come after all? ‘Maud!’ Celia declared, trembling with excitement. ‘She says she’s bored in London on her own and that Christmas is about family. Truly, I feel as if the wicked fairy has turned up to ruin the party!’ But she didn’t look at all unhappy about it. ‘What’s your father going to say – and Kitty?’

  Harry concealed his disappointment. ‘She hasn’t brought Arthur Arlington with her, I trust?’ he asked, trying to inject some humour into his voice.

  ‘God no! Now that would be scandalous. She came on her own. She said she wanted to surprise us.’

  ‘She’ll do that all right,’ said Harry, setting off up the stairs.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’

  ‘And cover her immaculate dress in mud? I think not. I’ll come down after my bath and relieve you.’

  ‘Ah, there’s Papa!’ She rushed over to Digby. ‘You’re never going to guess who’s shown up . . .’

  Maud sat primly on the club fender in her pale tweed dress over which she wore a luxurious fur stole. Her blonde hair was cut off sharply at her jaw line, which accentuated the severe angles of her face. She passed her icy eyes around the room, missing nothing. Beatrice could almost hear the clicking of her mind as she calculated the cost of everything. Augusta watched her warily from the armchair while Charlotte, who had always been a little scared of her mother-in-law, remained on the sofa with Leona and Vivien hoping that she wouldn’t direct any conversation her way. The Shrubs, who could think of nothing but Lord Hunt, sat on the other sofa, momentarily stunned like a pair of mice in the presence of a snake. Victoria sat beside her mother on the fender, a cigarette smoking in the holder that balanced between her fingers, enjoying the warmth of the fire on her back and the varying expressions on the faces of the ladies, which ranged from surprise to ill-concealed horror.

  At last Maud spoke. ‘It’s nice,’ she said tightly. Beatrice’s mouth twitched.

  Augusta gave a snort. ‘ We were always taught that nice is a most unimaginative word, Maud,’ she said imperiously.

  ‘It’s lovely then,’ Maud added. ‘It’s certainly warm, which is a welcome change. Fortunately Adeline isn’t alive to see how much it’s changed.’

  ‘It had to change, Mama. One couldn’t very well have made a replica of everything that was lost in the fire,’ said Victoria.

  ‘But it’s so different. The soul is missing.’

  ‘It’s modern,’ Victoria told her. ‘I like it very much. In fact, it’s just the way I would have done it, had I had the opportunity.’

  Beatrice smiled at Victoria. ‘You have always had such beautiful taste, my dear,’ she said, trying not to allow Maud to irritate her.

  ‘I can see that no expense has been spared. Really, I had no idea that Archie was such a tycoon,’ Maud added.

  Augusta snorted again. ‘It’s very vulgar to talk about money.’

  ‘But hard to ignore in such lavish surroundings,’ Maud replied swiftly. ‘I do believe it’s even more sumptuous than the days when Hubert’s father lived here. It was extremely luxurious then.’

  Before Augusta could object the men appeared washed and dressed for tea. When Harry greeted his mother, Maud’s resentment at Celia’s inappropriate rebuilding of her son’s inheritance evaporated like mist in sunlight. She embraced him fiercely and smiled with a rare display of warmth. ‘You will bring Rupert down, won’t you, darling? I’m just dying to give that little baby a squeeze.’ Charlotte winced; Maud barely knew how to hold a baby. Digby hid his surprise and asked after her crossing. He wondered how Bertie was going to react to his wife setting foot in Ireland again, having sworn she never would.

  Celia sat on the floor beside her grandmother for safety. She knew that Augusta would defend her from Maud’s barbed comments. Part of her wished Maud hadn’t come, but the other part found the drama of her surprise appearance thrilling.

  When at last Bertie arrived for tea with Kitty and Robert a hush fell over the room. Maud had not spoken directly to her husband since Adeline’s funeral over four years before, and everyone was curious to see what she would say, as well as a little anxious for Bertie, of whom they were all very fond.

  Bertie saw Maud at once and his face flushed. Maud, who had prepared herself for this very moment, and loved nothing more than to draw the attention of the entire room, smiled sweetly. ‘Bertie,’ she said evenly. ‘How very good to see you.’ She believed her delivery to be gracious yet cool – the sort of delivery one might use when greeting the Vicar or an old family friend of whom one is not particularly fond.

  Bertie stalled in the doorway. He stared at her in amazement. Digby wanted to give him a nudge. Instead, he decided to break the awkward silence himself. ‘Isn’t this a nice surprise,’ he said, hoping Bertie would agree. But Bertie cleared his throat and seemed to be searching for something to say – and failing miserably.

  ‘Hello, Mama,’ said Kitty. But Maud’s youngest daughter did not even pretend that she was pleased to see her.

  ‘Hello, Kitty,’ said Maud. ‘How was the hunt?’

  ‘Frightfully good. Fast and dangerous. Just the way I like it.’ She turned to her father. ‘Let me get you a cup of tea, Papa. After the day we’ve had, we both need to warm up.’ She laughed and Maud flinched; the affection between father and daughter was very apparent. She watched Bertie as the conversations in the room started up again and the awkwardness was lost in the murmur of voices. The last time she had seen him he had been fat and bloated and swollen with alcohol. Now he was slim, fit and clear-skinned. His hands didn’t shake and his pale eyes were focused with the old intensity that had at first attracted her to him. He had been living well – and obviously very contentedly – without her.

  A little while later Grace arrived with Sir Ronald and her father and the Shrubs were rescued from the snake by their gallant, who drew them away from the sofa to the window, where he was keen to show them the stars, which, he explained, were shining
unusually bright this evening. ‘The temperature has dropped considerably,’ Ethelred said. ‘I believe it will snow.’

  ‘Oh, we love snow,’ said Hazel, thinking how romantic it would be to take a moonlit stroll around the gardens with Lord Hunt.

  ‘We do indeed,’ Laurel agreed, wishing Hazel would entertain herself elsewhere so she and the silver wolf could gaze at the moon together. Lord Hunt sipped his tea and, in spite of their hopes, neither Shrub moved an inch.

  Maud noticed how thin Grace was. She noticed too, much to her pleasure, that her old friend and rival was beginning to lose her beauty. She stood up and advanced. ‘My dear Grace,’ she said. ‘It’s been much too long.’

  ‘Why, Maud. What a lovely surprise,’ said Grace with a faultless smile.

  ‘I couldn’t very well sit in London while my entire family is over here, celebrating without me.’

  ‘Of course not. You look well. London must suit you.’

  Maud smiled smugly. ‘Oh it does. But you, my dear, look a little thin. Being so terribly thin is very ageing. Are you not eating?’

  ‘I’m in fine health, thank you,’ Grace replied smoothly. ‘But this is the first time you have seen the castle since Celia bought it. Isn’t it marvellous? I don’t think there’s a house in the whole of Ireland that can equal it. Everyone thinks so.’

  Maud stiffened. ‘I hope it doesn’t all go horribly wrong,’ she said with an insincere frown. ‘Many a fortune has been wiped out due to the Crash. I hope theirs is secure. After all they’ve put into this place, it would be a great shame to lose it.’

  ‘You always were a positive person, Maud,’ said Grace.

  ‘And you were always a dear friend, Grace,’ said Maud.

  It snowed that night. Thick white feathery flakes were released onto the frozen countryside by an army of cloud that advanced silently over the ocean under the cover of dark. The Deverills and their families slept undisturbed in their beds, oblivious of the flurry occurring right outside their windows. The castle was quiet, the winds had abated, the stars withdrawn; the snow fell softly and without a sound and yet, in the peaceful stillness, the spirits of Castle Deverill were restless; they sensed something terrible in the calm. And then, just as the first light of dawn glowed pink in the eastern sky, one of the men got up.

  He dressed, taking care not to wake his sleeping wife. He buttoned his shirt and arranged his tie. He slipped into his jacket and shoes, making sure that his socks were pulled up beneath his trousers. His breathing was calm, his hand steady as he reached beneath the bed for the rope he had put there earlier. Without hesitation he crept to the door. He turned the knob without a squeak and stepped into the corridor. With the stealth of a cat he crept through the castle and out into the cold.

  It was a beautiful dawn. The pink glow was turning golden right before his eyes as the sun heralded another day, cracking like a duck’s egg onto the sky. He walked deliberately across the lawn, leaving a trail of indigo-coloured footprints in the snow. The skies were clear now, the last of the stars peeping out from where the clouds had drifted away. Yet he was unmoved by it. He had a purpose and nothing would distract him from it. Neither the loveliness of the dawn nor the people he was going to leave behind. He was calm, resolute and relieved.

  When he reached the tree, which was marked with a plaque that said Planted by Barton Deverill 1662, he climbed it with ease. He sat astride the branch that extended parallel to the ground and set about tying the rope around its girth. Making a noose was easy, he had enjoyed making knots as a boy. He pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a swig. The alcohol burned his throat and warmed his belly, giving him the last sense of pleasure he would experience on this earth. He didn’t allow himself to feel sad or regretful: that might have prevented him from carrying out his plan. He thought of what he would have to face were he to continue living and knew, without any doubt, that death was preferable. Death was the only way out.

  He put the noose around his neck and carefully rose to his feet with the slow agility of a tightrope walker. Pressing his hand against the trunk he held his balance. He lifted his eyes and gazed upon the castle one last time. The rising sun threw her rays upon the stone walls and like flames they slowly moved upwards, consuming the purple shadows as they went. Soon it would be morning and the place would come to life. But now it was still and silent and ghostly somehow in the snow. He closed his eyes, lifted his hand off the tree and let himself fall. The rope gave a soft squeak as it jarred, then a rhythmic creaking as the body swayed a few feet off the ground.

  A spray of crows took to the skies, their loud caws echoing through the woods with the eerie cry of the Banshee.

  Chapter 18

  Charlotte awoke to find Harry’s side of the bed empty. She put her hand on his pillow. It was cold. He must have been up for a while. She clenched her fist. He was so distant these days, so aloof. She wondered whether their marriage would ever heal. Sometimes she thought that, after what she had witnessed, it simply couldn’t. She dressed and went downstairs to the dining room where Digby, Celia, Beatrice and Maud were already having breakfast. The room smelt of fried bacon and her stomach gave a gentle rumble, although she didn’t have much of an appetite nowadays.

  ‘Ah, Charlotte,’ said Digby, smiling at her warmly. ‘I trust you slept well.’

  ‘Papa, the beds are the best money can buy. Of course she slept well,’ said Celia.

  Charlotte glanced around the room for Harry. She had been so consumed by her own unhappiness that she hadn’t given any thought to his. She wondered whether he’d gone out for an early walk in the snow and her heart lurched with remorse. He’d been spending a lot of time on his own lately.

  ‘Isn’t the snow marvellous!’ said Beatrice.

  ‘It’s a sign of luck,’ said Celia with a contented sigh. ‘I’m feeling very lucky at the moment. This has been the best Christmas ever and the party we’re going to enjoy on New Year’s Eve will signal a prosperous year for all of us.’

  Digby raised an eyebrow. He didn’t think 1930 was going to be a prosperous year for anyone, least of all himself. He shovelled a forkful of egg and toast into his mouth and chewed ponderously. Maud, who could always be relied on to be the voice of doom, added, ‘The country has just suffered the worst financial crisis in history. I can’t imagine anyone is feeling particularly lucky right now, except you, Celia.’

  Celia rolled her eyes and was about to say something she’d regret when her mother thankfully came to her defence. ‘I think we are jolly lucky to be here, in this beautiful place, on such a lovely snowy morning. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go for a walk after breakfast to enjoy it.’

  There was a brief lull in the conversation as Victoria and Eric wandered in for breakfast, followed by Stoke, who looked as if he had given his sweeping white moustache a good brush. Amid the ‘Good mornings’ and the courteous enquiries after the quality of their sleep, the butler appeared with a note on a tray. He hesitated a moment, unsure of whom to give it to. ‘What is it, O’Sullivan?’ Celia asked.

  ‘A letter, madam. It was on the table in the hall. But it isn’t addressed to anybody.’

  ‘Well, bring it here,’ she instructed, waving her white fingers. She opened the envelope and pulled out a little typed card. As she read it her forehead creased in bafflement and her pretty lips pouted. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Darling?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘No, that’s all it says: I’m sorry,’ said Celia.

  ‘Well, who’s it from?’ Digby demanded.

  Celia turned over the note and then did the same with the envelope. ‘There’s no name anywhere. Is this some kind of joke?’ she looked from face to face crossly. ‘Because it isn’t at all funny.’

  Charlotte burst into tears. ‘It’s Harry,’ she choked. She pushed out her chair and stood with her hands at her throat, gasping for air. ‘It’s Harry. I know it is. He’s . . . he’s . . .’ She began to sob uncontrollably. Beatrice glanced uneasily at her dau
ghter who was staring at Charlotte in horror. Digby coughed into his napkin while Victoria looked appalled; this sort of emotional outburst simply wasn’t done.

  Maud blanched. ‘What’s going on? What’s happened to Harry? Charlotte, for goodness’ sake, make some sense!’

  Charlotte tried to pull herself together. ‘He . . . he wasn’t in bed this morning. I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Let’s not panic,’ said Eric, putting his plate of eggs, tomatoes and toast on the table and sitting down. ‘He’s probably gone for a walk. It’s a lovely morning.’

  ‘He’s done something stupid. I can feel it,’ said Charlotte. ‘He’s written the note and wandered off. I know he has.’

  ‘Then we must find him,’ said Digby, throwing his napkin on the table. ‘We must all search the grounds for Harry and no one is to resume breakfast until we find him.’

  Eric and Victoria sighed impatiently. ‘If ever there was a storm in a teacup,’ said Victoria, but Maud was already making for the door. Stoke remained in his chair, watching in bewilderment as everyone left the room. In his late eighties he was hard of hearing and had consequently missed the entire conversation.

  There was a terrible sense of urgency as news of Harry’s disappearance and the cryptic note he’d typed spread swiftly round the castle. Digby put on his boots and coat and strode into the snow. He saw the footprints at once and set off in pursuit, a feeling of foreboding suddenly making him go quite weak in the knees. Beatrice, Maud, Celia and Charlotte ran after him, shouting for Harry at the top of their voices. The crows watched from the treetops, their black eyes shining with knowing.

  ‘What on earth is he sorry about?’ Maud asked Charlotte as they hurried after Digby. ‘I wish Digby wouldn’t walk so fast. I’m sure this is nothing more than a false alarm. Harry’s going to feel very silly when he comes back to find the entire castle looking for him.’

  Charlotte couldn’t begin to tell Harry’s mother about the night of Celia’s Summer Ball. What if Harry felt his life wasn’t worth living without Boysie? Oh, God, what have I done? She began to cry again. What if she had driven him to his death? Silently she prayed to any God who would listen to return her beloved Harry to her in one piece: If he comes back I shall forgive him, she promised, trudging through the snow. He can see Boysie as much as he likes, as long as he’s alive.’