Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘I can see the family resemblance,’ he said, looking her over. ‘You have your father’s eyes. The same blue. He was a great man, your father,’ he added, giving a meaningful nod. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. It was all terribly sudden.’

  ‘From what I know of Digby Deverill, he wouldn’t have wanted a long, drawn-out death. Too early, certainly, but it would have been the way he’d have chosen to go.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Mr Botha.’

  ‘Come, let me help you with that.’ He lifted her suitcase with ease, as if it were a child’s toy. ‘Now, I’m sure you’d like to freshen up in your hotel before we get down to business. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you into Jo’burg’s finest, the Carlton Hotel. I think you’ll find it very comfortable. Then a nice lunch.’ He set off down the platform and Celia had to walk fast to keep up with his long strides. ‘This is your first time in South Africa, I believe.’

  ‘It is,’ she replied.

  ‘You’ve come a long way, Mrs Mayberry.’

  ‘I hope it is worth the journey.’

  ‘It is sure to be,’ he replied encouragingly. ‘You said you need to look into your father’s past. Well, there is no one better than me to help you, Mrs Mayberry, and I am at your service.’

  Opened in 1906 the Carlton Hotel was grand in scale and harmoniously classical in design, with shutters and iron balconies that reminded Celia of Paris. Her suite was big and comfortable and she was relieved to be back in luxurious surroundings familiar to her. She unpacked her clothes and bathed, humming happily to herself. After her bath she changed into a light summer dress and ivory-coloured cardigan, which she hooked casually over her shoulders. She felt quite restored after the long train journey and stood a moment at the window gazing out onto this foreign city which had once been home to her father. Below, a double-decker tram made its way slowly along the track on Eloff Street while a few cars motored up and down in a stately fashion, their round headlights catching the sunlight and glinting. Celia’s confidence increased for Mr Botha was sure to dismiss Aurelius Dupree’s story as invention. She was certain that she would be able to return home with her head held high – for the truth would unquestionably vindicate her faith in her father. Aurelius Dupree would crawl back into the hole out of which he had slid and never trouble her again.

  Mr Botha arrived in his car to take Celia to lunch. The restaurant was an elegant, Dutch-style building designed around a wide courtyard of shady trees and pots of red bougainvillea. Autumn was already turning the leaves on the branches but the sun was still hot and the air heavy with the lingering scent of summer. They sat at a table in the garden, shielded by the yellowing leaves of a jacaranda, and Celia felt very much herself again after a large glass of South African wine. Mr Botha was only too happy to tell her about the young Lucky Deverill and the early days before he made his great fortune. ‘You knew him right from the beginning?’ Celia asked.

  ‘I did and we remained in contact right up until he died, Mrs Mayberry. Your father was never still. He was a gambler all through his life. He liked nothing better than to take a risk. He wasn’t called Lucky for nothing, now, was he?’

  When they had finished their main courses, Celia felt it was time to ask the question she had come all the way to South Africa to ask. ‘Mr Botha, may I speak plainly?’

  ‘Of course.’ He frowned and the skin on his forehead rippled into thick folds.

  ‘I presume you know of the Dupree brothers?’ she asked.

  ‘Everyone has heard of the Dupree brothers, but I knew them well. Tiberius was killed by a lion and his brother, Aurelius, was sentenced to life for his murder.’ He shook his head. ‘They were a rum pair of losers.’

  ‘Did my father tell you about the letters Aurelius sent him, just before he died?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. What was in them?’

  Celia, now utterly confident of her father’s innocence, was ready to share the contents. ‘Aurelius accuses Papa of murdering his brother.’

  Mr Botha looked satisfyingly appalled. ‘That’s a lie. Your father wasn’t a murderer.’

  Celia took a deep breath. ‘You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that. Even though I never doubted him.’

  ‘Your father wasn’t an angel either,’ he said, digging his chins into his sunburnt neck. ‘They were hard times back then and competition was heavy. A man had to have a certain cunning – a certain craftiness – to succeed. But murder was not something Lucky Deverill would have dirtied his hands with.’

  ‘Aurelius told me about the hunt for the man-eating lion. He said that three men were with the white hunter. Spleen, Stone Heart and McManus. I would like to talk to them.’

  Mr Botha shook his head. ‘They are dead, Mrs Mayberry,’ he said.

  ‘Dead? They’re all dead?’

  ‘Ja, all dead,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Aurelius accuses Papa of cheating them twice. Firstly, when he registered the company Deverill Dupree and took the greater share and secondly, when he bought them out and promised them shares—’

  ‘Let me make one thing clear, Mrs Mayberry,’ Mr Botha interrupted stridently. ‘Yes, Mr Deverill registered the company Deverill Dupree in his favour, but that was because he had won the land in a card game, so it was right that he should have fifty-one per cent to their forty-nine. As for the shares, ja, I know all about that too. They wanted to sue, but really, they didn’t have a case. They signed all the papers willingly and Mr Deverill paid them more than he believed it was worth at the time. How was he to have known that De Beers would buy it for millions? People are greedy, Mrs Mayberry, and those Dupree brothers were worse than most.’

  ‘So Papa didn’t cheat them . . .?’

  ‘He certainly did not.’

  Celia sat back in her chair. ‘Can you give me evidence to prove this odious man wrong? I’m afraid he is trying to blackmail me.’

  ‘I will give you copies of the very documents they signed,’ said Mr Botha. He flicked his fingers for the waiter and asked for another bottle of wine. The sun was hot, the restaurant elegant and he was enjoying reminiscing about a man whom he had held in the highest respect.

  ‘What was Papa like as a young man, Mr Botha?’ Celia asked, light-headed with relief to have her father’s innocence confirmed.

  ‘He was a big character. When he came out here he had very little to his name. He had lived a life of privilege, but he was the youngest of three brothers so he had to make his own way. He didn’t want to go into the Army or the Church, or indeed to follow in his father’s footsteps and work in the financial world, that sort of life would have bored him. He wanted adventure. He wanted a challenge. Not only did he have a good brain, a sharp brain, he had guile. You should have seen him at the gambling table. I don’t know how he did it, but he rarely lost and even when he did, he looked like he was winning. No one had a better poker-face than Digby Deverill.’

  Celia watched the waiter fill her glass. She was already feeling pleasantly tipsy. ‘And what of love, Mr Botha? Did my father have love affairs? When I was going through his office I looked at old photographs of him and he was such a handsome man. I bet half the women out here fell in love with him.’

  ‘They certainly did,’ said Mr Botha with a belly-laugh. ‘But do you know who he loved the most?’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Celia, smiling at him encouragingly.

  ‘A coloured woman he called Duchess.’

  ‘Coloured? Isn’t that black?’ she asked, fascinated.

  ‘Half black, Mrs Mayberry. Your father fell in love with a beautiful coloured woman.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She lived in a township just outside Joburg. If she’s still alive she probably lives there now. Your father was a lady’s man, that’s for certain, but he was Duchess’s man in his heart. She was his great love for about three years. I imagine there was no secret he kept from her.’

  ‘I want to m
eet her,’ said Celia suddenly. ‘I want to meet this mystery woman my father loved. She’ll know him better than anyone, won’t she?’

  Mr Botha shook his head. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ he said and there was something shifty about the way he lowered his eyes and swilled the wine about in his glass. ‘I’m not even sure she still lives there. We might never find her.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I can find you more interesting people to meet who knew your father. Men of distinction—’

  ‘No, I want to meet her,’ she said. ‘Come on, Mr Botha.’

  ‘It was forty years ago.’

  ‘I know and of course she’s married and had children and probably grandchildren, who knows, but wouldn’t it be important for me to meet her? If my father loved her once, I’d very much like to see her. She must know so much about that time. I’ve come a long way and I’m not going home without turning over every stone.’

  ‘Your father had other women, too . . .’ he added uneasily, but Celia was undeterred.

  ‘I know about Shapiro’s wife,’ she said.

  Mr Botha nodded. ‘Yes, he had her too.’

  ‘But Duchess . . .’ She shook her head and drained her glass. ‘I’d like you to take me to see her, Mr Botha.’

  ‘I think you should think twice about digging into your father’s past,’ he warned. ‘You might discover things you wished you hadn’t. They were rough times back then. You had to be tough to succeed.’

  ‘I won’t take no for an answer,’ said Celia, standing up.

  And so it was with great reluctance that Mr Botha drove Celia out of the elegant city and into the shabby, dusty township of simple wooden huts, corrugated-iron roofs, dry mud tracks and narrow shady alleyways. Celia had never seen such poverty even during the worst of times in Ireland and her exuberance evaporated in the late-afternoon heat. Skinny dogs loped over the red earth hunting for food while men in mining caps with dirty faces bounced about in the back of horse-drawn carts on their way home from the mines. Women in brightly coloured headscarves chatted in the shade while half-naked, barefooted children played happily in the sunshine. A man, clearly drunk, staggered in front of the car and Mr Botha had to stamp his foot on the brakes to avoid running him over.

  As the car drove slowly over the dusty ground people emerged from their huts and stared with curiosity at the shiny vehicle. The whites of their eyes gleamed brightly against the rich colour of their skin and Celia gazed back, transfixed. She remembered Adeline’s passion for feeding the poor of Ballinakelly and now, on seeing for herself the desperate quality of these people’s lives, she understood Adeline’s need to make a difference.

  Soon the car was being followed by a small group of excited children. They ran alongside, daring each other to touch the metal, shouting in a language that Celia didn’t understand. ‘I wish I had something to give them,’ she said to Mr Botha.

  ‘If you did, you’d never have enough,’ he said flatly. ‘Besides, you feed one and you have every child in the entire township begging for food.’

  After a while, Mr Botha, now sweating profusely, was clearly lost. Celia recognized a street they had already been down. Not wanting to make him nervous she decided to pretend that she hadn’t noticed, but when they drove down it for the third time she knew she had to say something. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t been here for years, Mrs Mayberry. I seem to have lost my bearings.’ He buried his hand in the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a handkerchief with which he proceeded to pat his damp brow.

  ‘Why don’t you ask someone?’ she suggested. ‘I’m sure these children will help us.’ She grinned at them through the window and they smiled back with eagerness.

  Mr Botha was reluctant to speak to the ‘natives’ but he knew he had no choice. Besides, if he didn’t know where he was, how would he ever find his way out? He stopped the car and asked the children now crowding round where Mampuro Street was. They all pointed enthusiastically and then started running ahead of the car, shouting and laughing at each other.

  Mr Botha followed at a gentle pace, only to discover that he had been a couple of streets away all along. Recovering his bearings he put the handkerchief back in his pocket and motored down the track, pulling up outside a small brown hut with a simple wooden door and two glass windows. ‘Is this where she lives?’ Celia asked, climbing out of the car. The children retreated, forming a semicircle around the car, watching the beautiful blonde lady in the long flowing dress and T-bar shoes with large, curious eyes.

  Mr Botha knocked on the door. There came a rustling sound from within, then the door opened and an eye looked cautiously out through the crack, accompanied by the pleasant smell of smoke. A woman’s voice said something that involved a string of words Celia didn’t understand interspersed by sharp clicks of the tongue. Then she seemed to recognize Mr Botha and the door opened wider. She shuffled out on her bare feet in a heavy, brightly coloured shweshwe dress and matching turban and craned her neck to take a closer look. On her face she had painted an array of white dots. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you, Duchess,’ said Mr Botha.

  Duchess turned to Celia. When she saw her the woman straightened up and a curious expression took over her face. She stared for a long moment without blinking and her lips twitched with indecision. Then the shock turned to curiosity. She glanced warily at the children who quietly scampered off and lowered her voice. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Mr Botha, but Celia raised a hand.

  ‘No, please wait in the car,’ she said. Mr Botha was not happy but he did as she requested. Celia followed the older woman into the dim interior of the hut. It was cool inside and crammed with potted plants of varying colours. There was a straw mat on the floor, a wooden table and a few chairs. The walls were painted bright blue and there was a shelf, laden with objects and a few books, above an open fireplace. Celia looked through into the other room where there was a bed positioned beneath a small window that gave onto the back of another rough dwelling. On the wall above the bed was a wooden cross, which took Celia by surprise. She hadn’t imagined this woman to be Christian.

  She was about to introduce herself, but the woman gesticulated to a chair with long, elegant fingers. ‘I know who you are,’ she said in a heavy accent, sitting down opposite and picking up her long-handled pipe which she had been smoking. She was a full-bodied woman with strong arms and voluptuous breasts, greying hair just visible beneath her turban and a gauntness about her cheeks which betrayed her age, but Celia could see that she had once been beautiful. Her eyes were the colour of shiny brown conkers and slanted like a cat’s. When she looked at Celia they possessed a certain haughtiness which Celia imagined had earned her the name Duchess. Indeed, her skin was smooth and unlined, her cheekbones high and her eyebrows gracefully arched, giving her an air of nobility. Her full lips curved in a pretty bow shape and her teeth were very big and white. ‘You are Digby Deverill’s girl,’ she said, running her intense gaze over Celia’s features. ‘I would recognize you out of a thousand women,’ she added. ‘It’s the eyes. I’d know them anywhere.’

  ‘I am Digby’s daughter,’ said Celia, smiling. ‘I’ve just arrived in South Africa and I wanted to meet you.’

  The woman clicked her tongue. ‘How is your father?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid he died,’ said Celia quietly. The woman blinked in horror and her head fell back a little, as if she had just been slapped. ‘It was a terrible shock for all of us,’ Celia explained, suddenly questioning her wisdom in coming. ‘He was still young and full of life.’ She proceeded to tell Duchess how he had died because the woman’s grief prevented her from speaking. While Celia chattered on Duchess’s long fingers played about her trembling lips.

  Eventually her eyes, now heavy with sorrow, settled on Celia. ‘So, you want to see me because I knew your father?’

  Celia was embarrassed and lowered her gaze. What r
ight did she have to turn up uninvited and dig up this woman’s past without knowing anything about it? ‘Yes, I want to know who he was. From what Mr Botha tells me, you knew him better than anyone.’

  Duchess’s eyes seemed to gather Celia into their thrall. Celia stared back, powerless to look away. It was as if the woman was a vault of secrets which was on the point of being opened. ‘Your father betrayed everyone around him,’ she said softly, blowing out a puff of blue tobacco smoke. ‘And he betrayed me. But God knows, I’ve never loved anyone like I loved Digby Deverill.’

  ‘He betrayed you?’ Celia asked, astonished. The feeling of reckless happiness which had been brought on by the verification that her father wasn’t the murderer of Aurelius Dupree’s story now crumbled and she felt the sickening fear return as shadows swallowing the light. ‘I’m sorry . . . perhaps I shouldn’t have come.’ She made to get up.

  ‘No, perhaps you should not have. But as you are here you might as well stay.’ Celia remained on the chair wishing very much that she could leave. But Duchess had waited more than forty years to tell her story and she was determined to have her say. ‘God has sent you to my door, Miss Deverill. I wondered whether I would ever see your father again. But the years passed and our story faded like dye in sunlight, but not for me. My heart loves now as it loved then and it has not learned otherwise. So, you will not leave with nothing, Miss Deverill. You came to see me for a reason and I am glad you have come.’ She pressed her lips to the pipe and Celia noticed the glass-beaded bracelets around her wrists and necklaces hanging over her breasts in elaborate designs of many colours. ‘My name is Sisipho, which means ‘gift’ in Xhosa, but your father called me Duchess. He said I was beautiful and I was then, Miss Deverill. I was as beautiful as you are.’ She lifted her chin and her sultry eyes blazed with pride. ‘Your father was a gentleman. He always treated me with respect, not like other white men treat black women. He listened to me. He made me feel like I was worth something. He even took me around Johannesburg in a horse and buggy.’ She pressed her fist to her heart. ‘He made me feel valued.’ She nodded in the direction of the bookshelf. ‘Those books you see there. He taught me English and he taught me to read. Digby gave them to me and I have read them all a hundred times. He spoiled me. He made me feel special and I was special, to him.’ Celia wondered if anyone since had made her feel special. From the way she was now wiping her eyes with those impossibly elegant fingers Celia doubted it. ‘He shared all his secrets with me. I knew everything and I have kept those secrets for over forty years. But I don’t want to die with them. They’re a heavy burden to carry through the gates of Heaven, Miss Deverill. I’m going to give them to you.’