The Last Secret of the Deverills

by Santa Montefiore

  Boysie frowned. ‘God, Celia, you do bowl a fast ball.’

  ‘You like me that way.’

  He nodded and grinned. ‘I do. I really do.’ He put his champagne glass next to hers and wound his hand around her waist. ‘I’d adore to be your husband,’ he said, kissing her forehead. He rested his cheek there a moment and sighed. ‘Wouldn’t Harry laugh if he could see us now.’

  ‘I’m sure he can see us now,’ she said, ‘but I doubt he’s laughing. Knowing Harry, he’ll be moved to tears.’

  ‘Very true,’ Boysie agreed. ‘Harry cried at the smallest thing.’

  ‘Celia Bancroft,’ said Celia happily. ‘That has a lovely ring to it, don’t you think?’

  ‘No one can say you’re a conventional woman,’ said Boysie.

  Celia laughed. ‘You see, you’re just the sort of man for me!’

  However, there was one young man who was not included in Lady Deverill’s Salons and that was the now notorious Count Leopoldo di Marcantonio, who was residing in London and fast making a name for himself at the gambling tables of Mayfair and in the brothels of Soho.

  Leopoldo was twenty-one years old. His doting mother had sent him to London with a generous allowance and yet he still telephoned her every month asking for more. Bridie was indulgent and forgiving of his shortcomings. She never blamed him for being irresponsible or careless and always found excuses for his lack of purpose. Whatever disaster befell Leopoldo, it was never his fault.

  Leopoldo believed he was special. His father had told him he was better than everyone else and his mother had never held him accountable for his actions. Thus he treated women with disrespect, bullied those weaker than himself, got drunk at the gambling table and wasted money because he always knew his mother would give him more.

  Ballinakelly bored Leopoldo but London dazzled him. He attached himself to a fast group of privileged young people who ‘did’ the London Season, partied on the Riviera in the summer and skied in St. Moritz in the winter. They played polo on the manicured grounds of Cirencester and Windsor, shot pheasants in England and grouse in Scotland, stayed in grand houses, went to the races and danced until sunrise in the fashionable London clubs. Desperate to belong to this glamorous scene, yet aware that he had neither the education nor the breeding to fully qualify, Leopoldo threw his money around instead. When the bill came his new friends were quick to turn to Leopoldo. ‘You are a darling!’ they gushed, pushing it beneath his nose. ‘What would we do without Leo! He’s adorable!’ they’d say, and Leo would inflate with happiness and feel he was truly part of this exclusive world as he wrote out a large cheque. Yet, in spite of buying the right clothes and becoming a member of the right clubs, he always felt he was somewhat falling short. Everyone seemed to speak a language he didn’t understand, even though the words were the same. They seemed to exist behind a veil and however much money he threw at it, it never lifted. But as long as he was writing the cheques these privileged young people were only too delighted to include him.

  But Leopoldo had a grand foreign title and a magnificent castle as well as money, which compensated for his unpleasant character. There were plenty of avaricious girls who hoped to marry him and Leopoldo chose the most insecure of them to go out with: that way he always felt powerful. He bought them clothes and jewellery and bragged about his heritage, that he was related to Pope Urban VIII, Maffeo Barberini, and showed off his diamond bee cufflinks, inherited from his father. He bragged about the castle his mother had bought from the illustrious Deverill family, who, he was quick to add, were now tenants. One day it would be his. He did not like to be reminded that his mother had come from peasant stock or that his father had been murdered.

  London Society despised him. They mocked him behind his back and the press nicknamed him the Count of Monte Twitsko. His mother had once been a notorious socialite in New York; now her son received equal, but less positive attention. He was photographed leaving the Savoy drunk, crashing his car outside the Ritz and getting into a fight in the street after he refused to honour his losses at the gambling table. He was thrown into a cell for punching a policeman and fined for swimming naked in the Serpentine after the park was closed. His antics made entertaining reading for everyone except Bridie, who blamed the crowd with whom he was now mixing for leading him astray.

  Leopoldo rarely went home and he rarely telephoned his mother. He was much too busy pleasing himself, but Bridie didn’t mind. ‘As long as he’s well, I’m happy,’ she told Rosetta, who believed that Leopoldo was selfish and undeserving of his mother’s love. ‘Poor boy has lost his father and his role model. He has to go out into the world and find himself now, as I had to do. But I had no one to look after me. Leo is lucky. I’ll always be there for him, come what may. I’ll love him whatever he does.’ Rosetta suspected that Bridie only knew the half of what Leo did.

  It was in the spring of 1953 that Bridie got sick. She hadn’t felt well for a long time. At first she’d thought it was just weariness, then she’d thought she was simply getting old. The aches and pains were perhaps part of the menopause, she’d told herself, or more likely the result of a lifetime of sorrow, and, because she had never had any reason to visit a doctor, she soldiered on. She did not want to worry Leo by telling him. ‘Let him have his fun without fretting about me,’ she told Rosetta, and Rosetta resented Leopoldo all the more for not taking more trouble with his mother, for surely if he bothered to come home he’d see her sickness for himself. And Bridie did not want to worry her mother or bore Emer and Martha with her complaints. She managed to disguise her fading health behind a smile and dismissed their concern with excuses of tiredness and quips about growing old. Rosetta urged her to see a doctor, but Bridie told her that not even the most gifted doctor could mend her heart, which had broken the morning she had learned of her husband’s murder. It was only natural that grief would take its toll eventually.

  It was only when she collapsed at the top of the stairs that Rosetta took matters into her own hands. She called the local doctor who came to the castle. He looked grave, scratched his whiskers and shook his head, then referred her to a doctor in Cork. The doctor in Cork was equally troubled and sent her to a hospital in Dublin for tests. She travelled by train and Rosetta went with her for support. For the first time Rosetta feared, as Bridie seemed to be getting smaller, weaker and paler before her very eyes, that Bridie was dying.

  The train journey back to Cork was a sombre one. Bridie stared out of the glass, but she didn’t see the countryside sweeping past her window. Instead she saw scenes replayed from her life. She saw the farmhouse where she had grown up, her grandmother, Old Mrs Nagle, smoking her clay pipe by the fire, her mother saying the family rosary and the angelus at the table, her father dancing with her around the kitchen while their friends clapped and shouted, ‘Mind the dresser.’ She saw the convent where Martha was training to become a nun, she saw her babies and she saw herself losing them. She saw the boat that took her to America and the New York skyline as she had laid eyes on it for the first time, with optimism and hope and a deep sadness for what she had left behind. She saw Mrs Grimsby, who had bequeathed her a fortune and Miss Ferrel and Mr Gordon who had always been suspicious of her. She saw her attorney and ally Beaumont Williams, and his wife Elaine, who had been a dear and loyal friend. She saw her first husband Walter Lockwood, who had been so kind to her, and his family who had accused her of being a gold-digger. She saw her apartment on Park Avenue and her beloved Cesare, the man she had loved above all others. She saw Leopoldo as a boy, and the castle, which she had never felt really belonged to her, and she wondered now, as it was all going to end, whether the jealousies and feuds had really been worth it. In the light of her departure they seemed so trivial somehow.

  ‘I have cancer,’ she told Rosetta at last. She could no longer smile to hide the truth. She dropped her shoulders and sighed. Rosetta put down her magazine and gazed at her friend with sadness. She had suspected as much, but the words surprised her all the sa
me; they seemed so much darker when said out loud. Bridie dropped her gaze into her hands and Rosetta tried to remain strong, but a tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. She swiftly brushed it away. ‘I must accept what God has given me,’ Bridie continued. ‘I have suffered much in my life but I have never lost my faith. I will not lose it now. There is consolation in the promise of seeing my father again, Nanna and Cesare. I’ll not be alone in Heaven.’ And she thought of her baby daughter and her battered heart gave a little flutter of anticipated joy.

  ‘Oh Bridie,’ Rosetta croaked, moving to the empty seat beside her and taking her hand. ‘I will nurse you back to health.’

  ‘I am beyond nursing now,’ said Bridie. Her eyes shone as she looked at Rosetta with gratitude, as if she was suddenly seeing her anew. She pressed her hand against her cheek. ‘You have been my dearest friend, Rosetta. You have stood by me through the toughest times. I have not always chosen the smoothest path, but you have never complained. I am glad you married my brother. You made him happy and you made me happy by becoming my sister. No one knows me like you do and I know that you love me for the person I am, in spite of all my faults. I have taken you for granted because you have been so steadfast and loyal. I have mourned my losses without appreciating what I have. So, I thank you, Rosetta, from the bottom of my heart, what is left of it.’ She chuckled as the tears ran in rivulets down her face. ‘I don’t want to go without telling you. Without thanking you.’

  Rosetta was too moved to reply. She gathered her frail friend into her arms and hugged her tightly.

  Bridie did not want anyone besides her family and Father Quinn to know that she was dying. She told only Michael, her mother and Sean, and finally Leopoldo, who hurried back to Ballinakelly to be at her side. However, it was as hard to keep a secret in Ballinakelly as it is to pin down a cloud and soon the whole town knew. ‘She might have risen to great heights but she’s always been our Bridie,’ said Mag Keohane in the snug.

  ‘Oh, she has indeed. She’s always had a heart of gold,’ added Nellie Moxley.

  ‘And a purse full of it,’ said Nellie Clifford. ‘Ballinakelly has never known such generosity.’

  ‘Thanks to the electric organ Bridie donated to the church old Molly Reagan was able to give up the pumping of the old one. Do you remember how the poor old creature had to take to her bed after the sung Mass?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said Maureen Hurley. ‘Nothing but a dropeen of whiskey would revive her, God help us.’

  They all went quiet for a moment, then Mag Keohane said in a low and portentous voice, ‘That Leopoldo will inherit the castle.’ She shook her head. ‘I have a Christian heart and you won’t find a better Christian virgin outside of the convent walls than me, but God forgive me, I have nothing good to say about him.’

  Kitty was shocked to find Michael Doyle at her door. He stood with his cap in his hand and a sheepish look on his dark face. She didn’t ask him in. She didn’t want Michael Doyle to cross her threshold, but he didn’t look menacing, he looked as if it had taken courage for him to come.

  ‘Hello, Kitty,’ he said.

  Kitty lifted her chin. ‘Michael.’

  ‘I’ve come with news.’ Kitty immediately thought of Bridie and pressed her hand to her heart.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, forgetting their history and thinking only of her old friend.

  ‘Bridie is dying,’ he said and his eyes looked at her wearily.

  Kitty gasped in horror. ‘Dying? But of what?’

  ‘Cancer,’ he told her. ‘She’s riddled with it. She’s only there while she’s there now. I know the two of you haven’t had a relationship for many years, but I know Bridie would like to reconcile, even if she hasn’t said so. She won’t want to go with anger in her soul.’

  Kitty nodded. ‘Of course. I will go to her at once.’

  He hesitated and this big, powerful, formidable man suddenly looked small and uncertain. He took a breath and Kitty felt his remorse as if it emanated from his every pore. ‘I’m sorry, Kitty, for what I did to you,’ he said softly. ‘I understand that you can’t forgive me. What I did was unforgivable. But I want you to know that I regretted it even as I did it. I was young, but that’s not an excuse.’ He averted his gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the condemnation in hers.

  But Kitty reached out and touched his hand. ‘I forgive you, Michael,’ she said and she couldn’t believe she had said it. She couldn’t believe she really felt it. After so many years of resentment and resistance, something was released in her and the feeling was exquisite. A warmth flooded her chest and rose into her constricting throat. Tears stung. But the joy in her heart was overwhelming.

  Michael stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘I forgive you, Michael,’ she repeated and smiled.

  Michael took her hand and squeezed it between his. He was too moved to speak, too full of humility to stand any longer in her presence. He nodded and put on his cap. Then he walked away.

  Kitty watched him go and marvelled at how easy forgiving him had been. Is it really necessary to hold on to past pain when the possibility of letting it go is within our grasp? She thought of Adeline, for that was just the sort of thing her grandmother would have said. As Kitty thought of her she felt her presence and sensed her approval, and then she heard her, as if her words were spoken straight to her heart.

  It was time now to ask forgiveness of Bridie.

  Chapter 32

  Bridie had taken to her bed. The fire was lit, but the autumn sunshine beamed through the window, bringing with it the cheerful song of birds and the scent of damp grass. Her world had been reduced to that small room but she wasn’t sorry. She had never felt comfortable in the rest of the castle anyway. Now she lay in her nightdress propped up on pillows, waiting to die.

  Leopoldo had come back from London. His presence had lifted her spirits more than anything else could. The very sight of him had restored the colour to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes. He had sat by her bed and held her hands and told her of all the things he had got up to in London and she had laughed because in her opinion everything he did was brilliant and clever and bold. Then he had left to seek entertainment in town.

  Bridie had not expected to see Kitty. She had thought about her old friend often and memories of their childhood had served only to make her desperately sad. Now Kitty appeared in the doorway, afraid to step into the room in case she wasn’t welcome. However, the prospect of death only made life more valuable and Bridie smiled. ‘Kitty, I’m glad you’ve come,’ she said, reaching out her hand.

  Kitty pulled up the chair which had been placed near the bed and sat down. She gazed into Bridie’s thin face and thought how terribly pale she looked. Dark shadows circled her eyes and collected in pools in the hollows of her cheeks. Kitty felt a tugging in her heart and a tightness in her throat. It pained her to see what Bridie had been reduced to and she took her friend’s hand and pressed it to her cheek.

  ‘How did we get here, Bridie?’ she asked. ‘How did we allow our estrangement to happen?’

  ‘Because we are both stubborn,’ Bridie replied.

  ‘We are both fools!’ Kitty exclaimed. ‘We love JP equally and yet we allowed that love to destroy the love we had for each other. I feel sick to the stomach when I think of what we have lost.’ Kitty’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘You did what you believed was right, Kitty. You looked after my son and for that I thank you. You raised him well. He’s a fine lad.’

  ‘But he’s your son and he must know,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m going to tell him the truth, Bridie. I’m going to tell him that you didn’t want to give him up, but you had to. I’ll tell him that you came back to get him, but I stood in your way. I will tell him what I should have told him long ago.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t, Kitty. Don’t destroy his happiness and don’t give him reason to resent you.’

  ‘He has a right to know who his mother is,’ Kitty insisted.

  Bridie’s face creased i
nto a frown and she suddenly looked scared. ‘I don’t want him to see me like this, Kitty. I don’t want him to meet his mother on her deathbed.’

  At the mention of death Kitty stood up and went to the window. She didn’t know how to tell Bridie that she had a daughter too, but she knew she had to and she was prepared to face the consequences. She gazed out onto the gardens and searched for guidance there in the place where she had grown up. ‘Bridie,’ she began. ‘I need to tell you something else.’ She turned round and looked at the small woman in the bed who had once been so full of mischief and vitality. ‘You don’t only have a son, you have a daughter too.’

  Bridie stared at Kitty, confused. ‘What do you mean, I have a daughter? I think I’d know about it if I did.’

  ‘The twin you believed died at birth was in fact alive. She was taken from you and adopted by an American couple.’ Kitty wrung her hands. ‘Oh Bridie, forgive me. I should have told you earlier.’

  Bridie pushed herself up into sitting position. She didn’t take her eyes off Kitty. Her confusion had turned to fear. ‘My little girl is not dead?’ She looked so distraught that Kitty hurried to her side and sat on the bed to hold her.

  ‘Your little girl grew up to be a beautiful young woman, Bridie.’

  ‘My baby didn’t die? How is that possible? I saw her. I saw her and she was blue!’ Bridie was trembling now.

  ‘She wasn’t breathing, but she wasn’t dead.’

  ‘In the name of God, how could anyone do that?’ Bridie gasped, sobbing onto Kitty’s breast. ‘How could anyone steal a baby straight from her mother’s womb?’ Kitty thought of Grace Rowan-Hampton and it was as if Bridie read her mind. She pushed Kitty away as it suddenly dawned on her who was behind such an appalling act. There could only be one person. There had always only ever been one person, whose manipulative fingers had repeatedly tied her life in knots. ‘Grace,’ she said, wide-eyed and alert. ‘It was Grace, wasn’t it?’ Kitty nodded, stunned that Bridie had instantly thought of her. ‘I should have known. I should never have trusted her. She was only ever self-serving, right from the beginning. But where is my daughter now, Kitty? What is her name? Is she happy?’