Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  Once out in the sunshine Martha let her tears flow freely. Mrs Goodwin put her arms around her. ‘There there, dear, don’t cry. We’ve only just started our search. We will find her, I have no doubt. It was never going to be easy. I know, let’s go and give ourselves a treat. Let’s go to the Shelbourne and have a nice cup of tea. The tea at the convent was weak and cold. I’m sure the tea at the Shelbourne will be exceptionally good.’

  The Shelbourne Hotel did not disappoint. It was grand and classical, with high ceilings, marble floors and tall windows looking out onto St Stephen’s Green. They made their way across the foyer to the Lord Mayor’s Lounge where a waiter showed them to a round table beside one of the windows and Mrs Goodwin asked for afternoon tea. ‘You’ll feel restored once you’ve had some scones and jam,’ said Mrs Goodwin. ‘We’re not going to give up because we fell at the first hurdle, Martha.’

  ‘I know. I suppose I thought that, because we knew the name, the address would be easily come by. After all, if she was a grand lady she’d presumably come from a grand house which might have been in the family for a long time.’

  ‘Well, you’re not wrong,’ said Mrs Goodwin. ‘I know a little about British titles. I don’t think it will be that difficult to find her.’

  ‘But where do we start?’

  ‘We must go to London. Your mother might have travelled to Dublin from her home in England to have her child in secrecy. I’m wondering now whether she ever lived here. I have family in England who will help us. I suggest we start there.’

  ‘All right, then. Let’s go to London,’ Martha agreed. The waiter brought the tea, which was far superior to the tea they had had at the convent, and scones, which tasted better than anything Martha had tasted in America. ‘Goodness, these are good,’ she said and the colour began to return to her cheeks and the optimism to her heart. ‘While we’re here we might as well enjoy the park and have a look around the city. I’ve been trying not to think of Mother and Father,’ she said quietly.

  ‘The letter you left explained everything very clearly,’ said Mrs Goodwin. ‘I imagine Edith might be in a bit of hot water, though,’ she added.

  ‘I specifically told them not to blame her. She’s only little.’

  ‘Your aunt Joan will be in trouble and with good reason.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have told Edith,’ said Martha firmly. ‘But I’m glad that she did. I have a right to know where I come from.’

  ‘You do, dear,’ Mrs Goodwin agreed.

  At that moment their attention was diverted by a couple of gentlemen who stepped into the room. The older gentleman wore a three-piece suit with a grey felt hat while the younger man, who stood a good few inches taller than the other, was equally well-dressed but of a slimmer, more athletic build. Both had an air of old-fashioned grandeur and importance, for it seemed that the entire hotel staff had gathered around them to ensure their comfort. They were escorted slowly through the room in a stately fashion and the older gentleman greeted people he knew with a dashing smile and a raffish twinkle in his pale grey eyes. Those with whom he spoke seemed very happy to see him and Mrs Goodwin noticed how the ladies put down their teacups and gave him their hands, giggling flirtatiously as he brought them to his lips with a courteous bow. Martha and Mrs Goodwin watched them in fascination. Mrs Goodwin was taken by the charm of the older man, with his flaxen hair and arresting eyes, and wondered who he was, for surely he was a man of some standing in this city. Martha stared at the red-headed boy, who must have been of a similar age to her, for she found his insouciance compelling. There was a jauntiness to his walk and a confidence to his smile as if he had only ever encountered good in his life. The two men settled at their table, which was a short distance from Mrs Goodwin and Martha’s, and the waiters fussed about them with napkins and menus and pleasantries – although they placed their orders without consulting the menus.

  ‘Well, that’s an elegant pair of men if ever I saw one,’ gushed Mrs Goodwin. ‘Must be father and son, don’t you think? Besides the colour of their hair they look quite similar.’

  Martha did not reply. She was unable to take her eyes off the boy. He was handsome, certainly, with a mischievous curl to his smile and a lively, amused gleam in his eyes, but there was something besides. Something Martha had never found in anyone else. Then, sensing he was being watched, he raised his eyes and they locked into hers as if destiny had always meant them to be together. They stared at one another without blinking, stunned and delighted at the strange new feelings they aroused in one another.

  ‘What are you looking at, JP?’ asked Bertie, following the line of his gaze. He smiled then as he saw the pretty girl by the window. ‘An eye for the ladies, eh?’ he commented with a chuckle. But JP was too electrified by her to reply. He gazed at her as if he had never before seen anyone more lovely. Bertie smiled at his son’s enthusiasm and remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Maud. She had aroused the same excitement in him. He looked back at the young girl who realized she had drawn the attention of both men and hastily dropped her gaze to her plate, blushing profusely. But Bertie did not avert his eyes, for there was a familiarity about her that he wasn’t quite able to put his finger on. It was in the way she blushed perhaps, or in the sweetness of her shy smile, he couldn’t be sure, but he was certain he had seen her somewhere before. She began to nibble on a scone while her companion clucked away like a hen. He could tell that she was making a great effort not to look in their direction again and finding the task almost impossible. JP’s eager gaze drew her like a magnet.

  ‘Would you like me to ask them to join us?’ Bertie asked.

  JP was surprised. ‘Would you, Papa?’

  Bertie grinned. ‘Leave it to me.’ He called over a waiter and said something in his ear. A moment later the waiter was passing the message on to Mrs Goodwin, whose face revealed her pleasant surprise at Lord Deverill’s invitation. The older woman raised her eyes and looked at Bertie, who bowed his head and smiled encouragement.

  ‘Will they come?’ asked JP impatiently.

  ‘I do believe they will,’ said Bertie and a moment later the two ladies were standing before them and Bertie and JP were on their feet, introducing themselves enthusiastically.

  ‘How very kind of you to invite us to join you,’ said Mrs Goodwin once she had sat down. ‘Martha and I have just arrived from America.’

  ‘Is it your first time in Ireland?’ Bertie asked, noticing that the two young people were now too shy to look at each other and were equally flushed.

  ‘It’s Martha’s first time,’ said Mrs Goodwin.

  ‘And how are you finding it, my dear?’ asked Bertie, turning to the nervous young woman sitting on his left.

  ‘Oh, it’s charming,’ she replied. ‘Just charming.’

  ‘Will you be staying long?’

  The girl glanced anxiously at Mrs Goodwin. ‘I don’t know. We haven’t really made plans. We’re just enjoying the visit.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Bertie. ‘Ah, the tea,’ he added as fresh pots, jugs of milk, a little plate of sliced lemon and a five-tier cake-and-sandwich stand were placed in the centre of the table.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Mrs Goodwin with a sigh. ‘What a wonderful display of treats.’ She helped herself to a cucumber sandwich.

  ‘Which would you like?’ Bertie asked Martha who was gazing at the cakes with wide, delighted eyes.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied, moving her fingers up and down the plates indecisively before settling on an egg and watercress sandwich on the lowest level.

  ‘That’s my favourite,’ said JP, reaching out to take one for himself. The two young people grinned at each other as JP popped his sandwich into his mouth and Martha took a small bite of hers.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ said JP, when he had finished it. Martha nodded.

  ‘How would you like your tea, Mrs Goodwin?’’ Bertie asked.

  ‘With a slice of lemon, please,’ she replied. ‘Martha likes milk. Lots of milk.
In fact, there’s more milk in her tea than tea.’

  JP laughed. ‘That’s just how I like it too,’ he said, frowning at Martha, astonished that two strangers should have so much in common.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Mrs Goodwin, enjoying herself immensely. ‘I don’t know anyone who likes their tea as milky as Martha does.’

  Bertie poured the tea. JP and Martha filled their cups to the brim with milk, taking pleasure in this shared idiosyncrasy that immediately bonded them. The conversation continued as they drank their tea and ate their sandwiches. A while later Bertie was giving them a list of all the interesting things they should see in Dublin when JP and Martha’s hands reached for the same chocolate sponge cake on the top level of the cake stand. They laughed as their fingers collided over the plate and withdrew as if scalded. ‘We like the same cakes too,’ said JP softly, gazing at Martha with tenderness.

  ‘But there’s only one left,’ said Mrs Goodwin.

  ‘Then we shall share it,’ said JP. He put the cake on his plate and lifted the silver knife to cut it. Martha watched him slice it in two, now dizzy with infatuation. ‘Half for you,’ he said, placing one piece on the plate in front of her. ‘The other half for me,’ he added. And they lifted the small pieces to their lips and smiled at each other as if they were conspirators, sharing in a secret plot, and popped them into their mouths.

  Epilogue

  Ballinakelly

  The air was thick and stuffy in the snug, arranged as it was at one end of O’Donovan’s public house and partitioned by a dividing wooden wall, which didn’t quite reach the ceiling. The cigarette smoke and body heat from the men next door flowed freely over the top of the partition, along with the sweet smell of stout and the sound of deep voices. Set aside for the women (for women were not permitted in the public house), this was where the six elderly members of the Legion of Mary, known as the Weeping Women of Jerusalem behind their backs, met every week, sitting in a line along the bench like a row of hens in a hen house.

  There were the Two Nellies: Nellie Clifford and Nellie Moxley, Mag Keohane, who was always accompanied by her dog, Didleen, Joan Murphy, Maureen Hurley and Kit Downey. The Legion of Mary dedicated themselves to caring for the poor. They would cook them meals, take the elderly to Mass and stay in their houses if they needed nursing. Their weekly treat was to sit in the snug at O’Donovan’s and have a glass of Bulmer’s Cidona or a Little Norah orange crush. Mrs O’Donovan would put a lump of ice in each glass, as she had an icebox, and provide a plate of Mikado and Kimberley biscuits which she couldn’t sell on account of them being broken. The greatest luxury, however, was that she allowed them to use her flushing lavatory upstairs. ‘’Tis America at home, girl,’ Mag Keohane had said to Mrs O’Donovan the first time she used it. ‘You’re a lucky woman not to have to brave the elements to do your business and all you have to do is pull the old chain and the lot disappears. God help us, ’tis a wonder we haven’t pneumonia from going out with the old chamber pot in the middle of winter.’ The Weeping Women of Jerusalem used it, even when they didn’t need to, just for the thrill.

  ‘Can you believe that Bridie Doyle bought the castle?’ said Nellie Clifford now, nibbling her Mikado biscuit. ‘I remember laying out her poor dead father, God rest his soul, when she was a little thing of nine.’

  ‘She’s come a long way from the streets of Ballinakelly,’ agreed Nellie Moxley, sipping her orange crush. ‘She’s a countess now, which they tell me is a fine thing to be. Indeed, she’s made a healthy donation to our Legion, God rain his blessings on her.’

  ‘Her new husband is eaten alive with money. A fine-looking man even if he has a foreign look about him,’ said Joan Murphy.

  ‘They say that foreign cows wear long horns,’ said Kit Downey with a grin.

  ‘I’m not one to say, but I hear he has an eye for the ladies, God save us. Nonie Begley is a receptionist at the Shelbourne and says that when he stays there he has a regular lady,’ said Joan Murphy.

  Nellie Moxley leapt to his defence. ‘Maybe that’s a sister or a relative.’

  But Nellie Clifford was quick to put her straight. ‘You’re as innocent as the suckling child, Nellie. That was no sister, girl. It’s none other than Lady Rowan-Hampton.’ The women gasped in unison. ‘They were in the dining room holding hands and making sheep’s eyes at each other.’

  ‘Merciful Jaysus, the maids at her place said that Michael Doyle was a regular visitor there when the master was abroad, and that he would swagger into the hall, king of all he surveyed.’ The women shook their heads and clicked their tongues with disapproval.

  ‘But what does Lord Deverill make of the new mistress of the castle?’ Mag Keohane asked. ‘She was the daughter of the cook and now she owns the place.’

  ‘Hope for us all,’ cackled Kit Downey.

  ‘I heard that Kitty Deverill swore like a sailor when she heard the news.’

  ‘God save us!’ muttered Nellie Moxley.

  ‘That Michael Doyle will be above himself now. I suppose they’ll all be after moving into the castle.’

  ‘I heard that Mariah won’t be leaving her home for love nor money,’ said Kit Downey.

  ‘She’s a good woman, is Mariah. As for Old Mrs Nagle, it won’t be long now,’ said Nellie Moxley. There was silence for a moment as they spared their thoughts for poor Mrs Doyle and Old Mrs Nagle.

  Then Nellie Clifford put her glass on the long shelf which ran along the partition in front of them. ‘It’s poor Bridie Doyle we should be praying for. She might have married a rich man but, mark my words, she’ll be paying for it. By Christmas he’ll have a girl in every corner of the county.’

  A head suddenly poked through the gap at the top of the partition. ‘Ye are great with the prayers, girls. An example to us all. Will I walk ye home in case some blaggard tries to waylay one of ye?’

  ‘Get away with you, Badger, and stop codding us,’ said Kit Downey. ‘We have miraculous medals and we are like nuns, we travel in twos for safety and we have Mag’s Didleen to protect us. She’d tear him limb from limb, God save the mark.’ Badger’s chest rattled.

  ‘That’s a graveyard cough if ever I heard it,’ said Mag Keohane.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, girl,’ retorted Badger with a grin. ‘There’s many in the graveyard who would be glad of it.’

  Just then a hush came over the pub as a cold wind swept in through the open door. ‘It’s none other than the Count,’ Badger hissed and his woolly head disappeared behind the partition.

  ‘The Count,’ said Nellie Clifford, making her mouth into an O shape as she took in a long gasp. The six women strained their ears to hear what he was saying.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ Mrs O’Donovan asked behind the bar.

  ‘I have just arrived on the train from Dublin. I would like a cab to take me up to the castle.’

  There was a shuffle as the hackney cabbies looked at one another, not wanting to rush their drinks.

  ‘Why don’t ye stay for a stout and a game of cards,’ ventured Badger Hanratty. ‘You’re not in a great hurry, are ye? Then one of these good men will drive you up.’

  The women heard the Count laugh. ‘A glass of stout and a game of cards? Why not? Dinner can wait. So, what are we playing?’ There ensued a scraping of chairs as he made himself comfortable at one of the tables. A moment later he added in a loud, exuberant voice, ‘Madam, a drink for every man in the house.’ And a roar of appreciation rose up as the men hurried to the bar to order more stout.

  ‘God save us, they’ll be legless and good for nothing,’ said Nellie Moxley, shaking her head.

  ‘He knows how to win hearts in Ballinakelly,’ said Joan Murphy with a smile. ‘I can’t wait to see what happens next.’

  Acknowledgements

  As I continue to follow the lives of Kitty, Celia and Bridie, I continue to rely on my dear friend and consultant Tim Kelly for research and guidance. Our regular meetings, over porter cake and cups of Bewley’s tea, have
provided me with entertainment as well as information and his wonderful stories keep me laughing long after he has left my house. I am so grateful to my books for they have given me a great friend in Tim.

  I would like to thank my mother, Patty Palmer-Tomkinson, for reading the first draft and editing out all the grammatical errors and ill-chosen words, thus saving my editor at Simon & Schuster from what is probably the least interesting part of her job! My mother is patient and enthusiastic and her advice is always wise. She’s also a very intuitive person and a sound judge of character, I have learned a lot from her. I’d also like to thank my father because I wouldn’t be writing these books if I hadn’t had the magical childhood they gave me in the most beautiful corner of England. Everything that goes into my work flows directly from them.

  Writing a scene about the Derby was always going to be a challenge, but I would not have attempted it without the help of David Watt. Thank you so much, Watty, for reading it through and correcting it – and for suggesting many ways to improve it.

  Thank you Emer Melody, Frank Lyons and Peter Nyhan for your warm Irish encouragement and Julia Twigg for helping me research Johannesburg.

  My agent, Sheila Crowley, deserves an enormous thank you. She’s the best agent a writer can have because she’s there when I need a counsellor, when I need a friend, when I need a strategist and when I need a warrior. Quite simply, she’s always there when I need her Full Stop. Her mantra ‘onwards and upwards’ reflects her positive and determined attitude and every time she says it I’m grateful that she’s taking me with her!

  Working with Sheila at Curtis Brown are Katie McGowan, Rebecca Ritchie, Abbie Greaves, Alice Lutyens and Luke Speed and I thank them all for working so hard on my behalf.