The Count marvelled at the neatly trimmed borders, the recently cut lawn, the flower beds where forget-me-nots and tulips interrupted the emerging green shoots with splashes of blue and red. He admired the yew hedges and ancient cedar and the giant copper beech that rose up behind the croquet lawn in a rich display of emerging red leaves. They wandered through the vegetable garden and Celia showed him the greenhouses where she had once played as a little girl. She thought of Kitty then, and her heart gave a painful lurch. No one would suffer more than Kitty at the sale of Castle Deverill. She suppressed her guilt and tried to keep her attention on the tour and the Count.
Suddenly a shout resounded across the lawn. Celia recognized the voice at once. She turned to see Grace marching across the grass towards her in a pale floral dress. Her hand was holding her hat to stop it flying off her head into the wind. The Count also turned and Grace’s face flowered into a wide and enchanting smile as she reached them. ‘I’m so sorry, Celia, I thought your visitor would have left by now,’ she said, tilting her head in that coy, flirtatious way of hers which had won many a heart, and broken just as great a number.
‘I thought you had a cold,’ said Celia.
‘Oh, those Shrubs exaggerate everything. I’m perfectly well.’ She looked at the Count and smiled. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she added, giving him her hand.
The Count took it and brought it to his lips and bowed. ‘Count Cesare di Marcantonio,’ he said and his words seemed to flow over her in a delicious cascade for she shivered with delight.
‘È un grande piacere conoscerlei,’ she replied and they smiled together as if they had suddenly come to a mutual understanding. Celia watched Grace’s shameless flirting with admiration. The Count, who had been mildly flirting with Celia, now turned his full attention to Grace and Celia realized, by the comparison, that he hadn’t really been flirting with her at all. He had recognized a fellow epicurean in Grace.
‘May I introduce Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ said Celia and the Count gave her features a long caress with his heavy green eyes.
‘How lovely to see Castle Deverill on such a day as this!’ Grace continued, catching her breath.
‘We were just saying the same thing,’ said the Count. He chuckled to himself as if surprised by his own luck. ‘Are all the women in Ireland as beautiful as you two bellissime donne?’ he said. ‘Because, this is my first time here and I am wondering why no one told me. I would have come sooner.’
‘They are not,’ said Grace with a laugh. ‘I’m afraid you have seen the best West Cork has to offer.’
They began to stroll towards the stable block. ‘Castle Deverill always had the best hunt meets,’ said Grace. ‘And Lord Deverill always had the best hunters. Do you ride, Count di Marcantonio?’
‘Of course. I play polo. I have many horses in Southampton.’
His reply was deeply satisfying to Grace. ‘What an exciting game polo is.’
‘I grew up in Argentina and there the ponies are the best in the world.’
‘And, as far as I understand, so are the riders,’ said Grace.
‘You are not wrong. But I am much too polite to boast.’ He grinned broadly, showing off a perfect set of gleaming teeth.
‘Oh, you don’t need to be polite in front of us, does he, Celia? We’re not opposed to a little boasting.’
‘Count di Marcantonio is looking to buy the castle, Grace,’ said Celia, hoping that Grace would modify her behaviour accordingly, but she didn’t. Her slanting cat’s eyes widened and her chest puffed out with ill-concealed excitement that this dashing foreign count was going to come and live at Castle Deverill.
‘I have to first convince Mrs Mayberry that I am a suitable person to take over the responsibility of looking after such a historic castle. It is not only a castle but a much beloved home. Perhaps you are a good judge of character, Lady Rowan-Hampton, and can help me persuade her.’
‘I will do my best, for the both of you,’ said Grace, but she didn’t once look at Celia. Her eyes lingered on the Count’s. Celia continued to show the Count around although she would have preferred to leave Grace to do it for her. The two of them chatted away like a pair of teenagers on a date. She wondered whether they realized that the other was married. She presumed they did and that they didn’t care. The Countess was in America and Sir Ronald, well, Sir Ronald was anywhere but here in Ballinakelly.
At length Celia agreed to consider his offer. But on one condition.
‘Yes?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
‘There are two houses on the estate which are rented by my cousins, Lord Deverill and his daughter, Kitty Trench. I will only sell the castle if those houses continue to be let to them at the current rate. In fact, I will have it included in the documentation that the Hunting Lodge and the White House are always offered to Deverills first.’
The Count shrugged. ‘I’m sure that will not be a problem,’ he said. ‘It is the castle that my countess wants so badly.’
‘While you think about it, why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night?’ suggested Grace. ‘Celia, I hope you will come too. I will invite some nice people for you to meet. Do you play bridge?’ she asked the Count.
‘Of course,’ he replied with a shrug.
‘Wonderful. Where are you staying and I will send an invitation round.’
‘Vickery’s Coaching Inn in Bantry.’
Grace’s smile broadened. ‘If you are going to come and live here you might as well meet some of your neighbours.’
Once again he kissed their hands and bowed. They stood on the steps and watched him climb into the back of his taxi and set off down the drive. ‘My goodness, what an attractive man! His countess is a very lucky lady,’ said Grace.
‘Having seen the way he flirted with you, I’m not so sure she’s very lucky! I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
‘Oh, all Italian men are like that. If they can’t flirt they might as well be denied oxygen too,’ said Grace dismissively. But her cheeks were flushed and her brown eyes shone with intent. Count Cesare di Marcantonio might be just the person to take her mind off Michael Doyle. In fact, in her mind, she was already at the royal suite in Vickery’s Coaching Inn in Bantry. ‘I’m sorry you have to sell the castle, Celia,’ said Grace. ‘I truly am.’ She placed a soft hand on Celia’s.
‘He wants to buy it for his countess,’ said Celia. ‘I’m not sure why an Italian countess should want to come and live in Ballinakelly. They live in New York, and, as far as I understand, she’s never even seen it.’
‘I agree, that is strange,’ said Grace, but she really didn’t care. ‘You’re very sweet to think of Bertie and Kitty.’
‘I feel guilty,’ said Celia.
‘For what? Saving their castle and then losing it? If it wasn’t for you it would never have been rebuilt. No one would be mad enough to do what you did.’
‘And look where it got me.’
‘It will make you rich,’ said Grace, turning serious. ‘This count will pay a fortune for it. He has more money than sense, I assure you. Don’t accept his first offer. You can push him higher, much higher. If his countess wants it that badly, he’ll pay you three times its value. He’s a terrible old fraud.’ Grace laughed.
‘What do you mean? I thought you were taken by him?’
‘Taken by him, yes, but not taken in by him. I have a sensitive nose. I can tell when someone is a phoney. But still, he’s very easy on the eye.’ She linked her arm through Celia’s. ‘Let’s go in and have a cup of tea and you can tell me how this count found out about the castle in the first place.’
Celia sighed as they walked into the hall. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that question.’
Grace narrowed her eyes. ‘Then we need to find out.’
Chapter 28
Adeline stood by Stoke Deverill’s bed and watched the old man’s laboured breath slowly enter and exit his body in a low rattle. His skin was gradually losing the colour of life and
turning the dull green colour of death. His moustache, once as majestic as the outstretched wings of a swan, now drooped and purple shadows stagnated in the holes where once his cheeks had been. Adeline knew his time was very near for his son Digby, his grandson George, and other members of Stoke’s family who had long departed, had come to take him home. Adeline smiled; if people knew they wouldn’t die alone death would not frighten them so.
Augusta sat in a chair pulled up to the bedside and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Maud perched on the end of the bed while Leona and Vivien stood by the window, wondering how long it was going to take because they had things to do. Beatrice was still languishing at Deverill Rising, unaware of the enormity of her late husband’s debts. While she hid beneath the blankets her sons-in-law were fighting to keep her homes. There was little chance of success.
‘It should be me,’ said Augusta with a sniff. ‘I have defied death at every turn. I’m bound to be waylaid by it sometime.’
‘You’ll outlive us all,’ said Maud.
‘He’d be a cruel God to inflict me with longevity! What’s the fun of being down here if all one’s friends are up there?’ She raised her eyes to Heaven. ‘I think he’s going now. He’s stopped breathing.’ Leona and Vivien hurried to the bedside, relieved that the vigil was about to end. Then Stoke gave a splutter and inhaled sharply. ‘Oh no, he’s back again!’ Augusta cried. ‘I don’t think he wants to go.’
He would if he knew where he was going, Adeline thought. But Stoke was clinging on to life as if he were a climber digging his nails into the edge of a precipice, afraid of letting go. Adeline ran a hand across his brow. Come now, she whispered. We’ll catch you.
Stoke opened his eyes. He stared in wonder at the faces surrounding him. Faces he hadn’t seen for so long. ‘Digby, George,’ he gasped, reaching out his hand. Augusta caught her breath and stopped crying. Maud’s mouth opened in amazement. Leona looked at Vivien and bit her bottom lip. Vivien’s eyes sparkled with tears. Suddenly neither of Stoke’s granddaughters wanted to be anywhere else but here.
Lost for words Augusta hiccuped loudly and pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. Stoke’s face expanded into a wide smile, releasing the shadows and reviving his moustache. Adeline watched as Digby and George took his hands and lifted him from the bed. Surrounded by his loved ones he departed into the light. Adeline watched them go. Just before Digby disappeared he turned to Adeline and winked.
‘He’s gone,’ said Maud, peering into Stoke’s lifeless face.
‘Do you really think he saw Digby and George?’ Augusta asked, the handkerchief trembling in her hand.
‘I truly think he did, Grandmama,’ said Leona, putting a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. ‘I’m certain of it.’
‘I do hope they’ll come for me when it’s my turn,’ said Augusta. She looked at Maud and smiled sadly. ‘I haven’t been that bad, have I?’
‘No, you haven’t, Augusta. No worse than the rest of us.’
‘Then I hope Stoke saves a place for me up there, because it won’t be long.’ Leona rolled her eyes at her sister, who suppressed a grin.
‘Augusta, you’ve been rehearsing your death for twenty years,’ said Maud, not unkindly.
‘Then it’s long overdue, wouldn’t you say?’ She pushed herself up from the chair and Vivien handed her her walking stick. ‘In the meantime, life goes on, such as it is without my beloved Stoke. Let’s go and eat. I’m certainly not going to die of hunger!’
Back at Castle Deverill Adeline recounted Stoke’s death to Hubert. ‘What a privilege it is to die like that,’ he said wistfully. ‘What a curse it is to die like this!’ And there was nothing Adeline could say, because she wholly agreed with him. What a curse it was, indeed, for the poor unfortunate Lord Deverills to die like this.
Celia sat on the window seat and stared out into the black night. Clouds obscured the stars and blinded the eye of the moon to her misery. She felt alone and fearful. There was no one she could confide in. No one she could turn to. No one to advise her how to proceed. She’d sell the castle, buy somewhere modest to live as close to Ballinakelly as possible and settle Archie’s debts. As for Aurelius Dupree, when she thought of buying his silence something inside her recoiled into a tight, stubborn ball. She couldn’t leave him to publish his outlandish claim, but allowing herself to be blackmailed went against every instinct. Her father would never have tolerated such an attack.
She pulled her knees to her chest and folded her arms on top, resting her forehead in the crook of her elbow and closing her eyes. She just wished the whole sorry business would go away. As she drifted off to sleep she found solace in her memories. She remembered so clearly the excitement of rebuilding the castle; the ebullient Mr Leclaire with his plans and his ideas; the grand tour of Europe she and Archie had enjoyed together, choosing the pieces of furniture and the works of art to adorn their new home. She recalled Archie’s pride, her father’s pleasure, her mother’s excitement and her sisters’ jealousy, and the tears squeezed through her knitted lashes. It was then that she thought of Kitty, Harry and Bertie. If she was suffering at the prospect of selling the castle, how had they felt when she had bought it? It had never occurred to her that it might have caused them pain. She had expected them to share her joy, but how could they? Only now did she understand how hard it must have been for them and how valiantly they had dissembled, and she felt ashamed. She had been so selfish, so self-absorbed and arrogant. Maud, Victoria and Elspeth seemed to have no emotional connection to the place, but Kitty – and her heart swelled with compassion and sorrow at the thought of her – Kitty loved it more than anyone, even her. How had she endured it?
With these thoughts Celia fell asleep on the window seat. The clouds thinned and eventually the moon shone brightly through the openings, pouring its silver light through her bedroom window. She dreamed of her father. He was wrapping his arms around her, reassuring her that she was never alone, because he was with her, always. But when she looked at him he had the face of an ogre and she woke up with a jolt. She lifted her head off her knee and stared into the dark room in bewilderment. The impenetrable clouds blackened the sky and she felt cold and stiff in her limbs. She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. She walked over to her bed, pulled back the blankets and climbed inside. She was too tired to think about Aurelius Dupree. Too tired even to think about her father. She’d think about them tomorrow. Other women would have given up, or paid up, or wept, but now the Deverill spirit began to emerge in Celia for the first time. She knew there was only one way to find out the truth – and to clear her father’s name – and that was to go to South Africa. Her head fell onto the pillow and she was enveloped once again in sleep’s embrace.
Ten days later Celia was on the boat to Cape Town. ‘Has she gone mad?’ said Boysie to Harry, as they sat at their usual table in White’s, enjoying lunch.
‘I believe so,’ Harry replied. ‘She’s been very cagey. Wouldn’t tell me what it was all about. Said there was something important that she had to do.’
‘Must be very important if she has to cross half the world to do it!’ Boysie sipped his Sauvignon. ‘What the hell is going on? It’s not like her to keep secrets from us.’
‘Kitty says some frightfully rich foreigner is buying the castle and everything in it,’ said Harry. ‘I can’t say it’s come as a surprise, but I’m sorry for her. That place is a curse.’
Boysie shook his head. ‘The place isn’t cursed, old boy, you and your family are.’
‘Nonsense, that’s just a silly story Adeline made up. She believed in all sorts of ridiculous things. You know, she even believed in fairies.’ The two men laughed. ‘I promise you. She claimed to see garden spirits all the time.’
‘There’s a damned eccentric streak running in your family.’
‘Grandma’s family,’ Harry emphasized. ‘Look at the Shrubs.’
‘Yes, I do see. I suppose they see the dead, too, do they?’
�
��I think that would terrify them. They can barely cope with the living. That Lord Hunt is leading them a merry dance. Kitty says they’re both going to have their hearts broken.’
‘I didn’t think it was possible at their grand old age. Aren’t they a bit old for that sort of foolery?’
‘One would have thought.’ Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Apparently Celia has managed to get the foreigner to pay well over the sum that it’s worth. She declined his offer and forced him to raise it. I dare say he wants it very much – or his wife does. He’s buying it for her, you see.’
‘Since when is Celia a businesswoman?’ asked Boysie with a chuckle.
‘Maybe she has more of her father in her than we realized.’
‘Good. She deserves to get a lot for that place. She’s selling her heart with it.’
Harry frowned. ‘That’s very sad.’
‘She’s selling all your hearts with it,’ Boysie added, putting down his glass.
‘Not mine,’ said Harry quietly. ‘You have my heart, Boysie, and you always will.’ They stared at each other across the table, suddenly serious.
‘You have mine too, Harry,’ said Boysie. Then he looked away. There was no point in mentioning that little hotel in Soho. Harry wasn’t going to change his mind. They just had to accept things as they were.
Celia stood on the deck of Carnarvon Castle, the seven hundred-foot motor ship bound for Cape Town, and leaned on the railing and gazed out across the ocean. She had pawned jewellery to pay for the voyage to South Africa which would take seventeen days. It was a long way indeed, but not very long in comparison to the personal journey Celia had made. She looked back at the girl she had been a year ago – that girl would never have imagined herself here on this boat, travelling across the world in search of the truth about her father’s past. That girl would never have imagined even half of the events that had taken place in the last twelve months. She had lost her father, her husband and her home – and was being blackmailed by a man claiming her father had murdered his brother. That was more than most could handle, but Celia wasn’t most, she was a Deverill and she was beginning to learn what that meant.
Daughters of Castle Deverill Page 36
