Daughters of Castle Deverill (10 page)

‘And a new husband,’ said Mr Williams with a smile. ‘You’re young, and if I may say so, Mrs Lockwood, a fine-looking woman too. You will have all the bachelors of
Manhattan howling outside your door like a pack of wolves.’

‘You make them sound terrifying, Mr Williams,’ she said, but her grin told him his flattery had pleased her.

‘So, tell me, what made you change your mind and return?’

Bridie sighed, her narrow shoulders and chest rising and falling on her breath. For a moment Mr Williams glimpsed the lost child beneath the woman’s fashionable hat and expensive clothes
and he felt a surprising sense of pity, for he was not a man to be easily moved by the pathos of a woman. ‘Life is strange,’ she said softly. ‘I came here as a penniless maid from
a small town in the south-west of Ireland, worked for the formidable Mrs Grimsby who, by some God-given miracle, chose to leave
me
her fortune when she died, so that I became a very
wealthy woman overnight. Then I married a gentleman, a
grand
old gentleman he was indeed, who gave me respectability and companionship. His children might have called me many things, but I
am no gold-digger, Mr Williams, and never was. I wanted to be looked after, I wanted to feel safe and I wanted to banish the loneliness forever. Nothing more than that. I was a young girl in a
foreign country with no one to look out for me. Indeed I have come a long way.’ She dropped her gaze into the fire and the warm glow of the flames illuminated for a second a deep regret in
her eyes. ‘I wanted things to return to the way they were, when I was a small, barefooted scarecrow of a girl with a grumbling belly but a home full of love.’ She smiled wistfully,
sinking into her memories while the crackling embers in the grate transported her back to a simpler time. ‘There was music and laughter and I was as much part of the place as Mam’s
rocking chair or the big black bastible that hung over the turf fire full of parsnip soup. I’m not so naïve to have forgotten the hardship. The cold, the hunger and the sorrow.’
She thought of her father then, murdered in broad daylight in the street by a tinker, and her heart contracted with guilt and pain, for if she hadn’t been with Kitty and Jack that day and
discovered the tinkers poaching on Lord Deverill’s land, her father might still be alive, and who knew if she would ever have left Ireland then. ‘But I’d suffer all that again
just for a taste of what it feels like to belong.’ She dragged her gaze out of the fire and settled it on Mr Williams who was listening with a grave and compassionate expression on his face.
She smiled apologetically. ‘So, I realized I had to come back to the city that made me.’

He nodded and smiled. ‘This city might have turned you into the fine lady you are today, but you made yourself, Mrs Lockwood, out of sheer strength of character and courage.’

‘I’ve certainly come a long way on my own.’

‘When you wired to tell me you were on your way I set about finding you somewhere to live. I have an apartment for you to look at, when you feel ready. Elaine will help you put together
your household. I understand you returned without Rosetta?’

‘Yes, indeed. I need a new maid as soon as possible.’

‘Let’s dine tonight. Elaine is longing to see you. We’ll go out, somewhere buzzing. I hope you haven’t put away your dancing shoes?’

Bridie laughed, her anxieties about her future falling away in Beaumont Williams’ confident and capable hands. ‘Of course I haven’t, Mr Williams. I will dust them off and take
them out and see if they remember the Charleston!’

Bridie spent a fortnight at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel while Beaumont Williams arranged the rental of a spacious apartment on Park Avenue, which was a wide and elegant street a couple of blocks
from Central Park, home to New York’s richest and most glamorous people. It felt good to be back in Manhattan. She liked the person she was here, in this far away, vibrant city which seemed
to reject the old and embrace the new in a thrilling tide of jazz, bright lights and wild parties. It was the era of Prohibition, all alcohol was banned, and yet you wouldn’t have known it.
The drinking was just driven underground and it was in these murky speakeasies where bootlegged alcohol was drunk to the music of George Gershwin and Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith and Duke
Ellington that Bridie could forget her past sorrows and dance until the skyline above New York blushed with the pink light of dawn. She could start afresh in the private parties on the Upper East
Side where they would consume Orange Blossoms in crystal glasses and sweet-talk in dark corners, and Bridie could reinvent herself yet again, attracting a new crowd of friends who were as full of
hedonistic fun as she was. Here, she was Bridget Lockwood, and the noise of the trucks, buses and automobiles, trolley cars, whistles and sirens, hoists and shovels, the clatter of feet treading
the sidewalks, the singing in the music halls and the tap dancing in the theatres was so loud as to drown out the little voice that was Bridie Doyle, deep in her soul, calling her home. In the
dazzling lights of Times Square she could forge a new happiness, one that came from champagne and shopping, spending money on fashionable clothes and cosmetics, and nights out at the new movie
theatres. She embraced New York with a renewed fervour, determined never again to stumble back into her past.

Her apartment was light and airy thanks to its tall ceilings and large windows, and decorated in the opulent and highly fashionable art deco style. Shiny black-and-white marble floors, bold
geometric wallpapers, silver and leather furnishings and mirrored surfaces gave the place a feeling of Hollywood glamour that Bridie relished. She felt she was in another world and it suited her
perfectly. She gazed out of the window where modest black Fords motored up and down the street beside luxuriously painted Rolls-Royces and Duesenbergs in bright reds and greens, and noticed that
there were precious few horses and carts in the city. In Ireland the horse was still the main form of transport and in the countryside very few people had a car. Everything in Manhattan seemed to
belong to the future and she was thrilled to be part of this bright new world.

Elaine had found an Ecuadorian couple to work for her. The husband, called Manolo, would be chauffeur, and Imelda, his petite and quiet wife, would be her maid and housekeeper. Mr Williams had
helped her buy a car. She had chosen a sky-blue Winton, with a soft top, which could be pulled back in the summer, and plush leather seats. She was pleased with Manolo and Imelda because neither of
them knew where she came from. They took her as they saw her, a wealthy young widow, and she was grateful for that. However, it wasn’t long before the infamous Mrs Lockwood who had graced the
society pages of the city’s magazines and newspapers only a few months before began to appear once again. But no one wanted to dwell on her past any more; her rags to riches story was old
news. They were now interested in the glamour of her clothes and the identity of the lucky men accompanying her out on the town.

‘Oh do look, Bridget. There’s a photo of you,’ trilled Elaine one morning, burying her head in the newspaper.
‘The delightful Mrs Lockwood attends Noel
Coward’s
The Vortex
in a sumptuous mink coat . . .’

‘Don’t they have anything better to write about?’ Bridie interrupted, secretly thrilled with the attention, for that photograph reinforced her sense of belonging.

‘You’re a beautiful, rich widow, out on the tiles with a different man every night. You oughtn’t to be surprised.’ Elaine tossed her blonde curls and took a long drag on
her Lucky Strike cigarette. ‘I’m glad you wore the dress with the fringe. You look swell, like a real flapper.’

‘Rather a flapper than a vamp, Elaine,’ she replied.

Elaine grinned at her over the top of the newspaper. ‘You’re not a vamp, sweetie, you’re just having fun. I watch you, being fawned over by the most handsome men in Manhattan,
and sometimes wish I wasn’t married. Not that Beaumont isn’t everything a woman dreams of She gave a throaty laugh and Bridie laughed with her.

‘Mr Williams is distinguished,’ Bridie told her, choosing her word carefully because Beaumont Williams was not a handsome man by anyone’s standards.

‘Sometimes a girl wants a little more dazzle and a little less distinguished, if you know what I mean.’ Elaine sighed and put down the paper. ‘A girl needs a bit of adventure,
otherwise life can get boring and boredom is the enemy, don’t you think?’

‘God save us from boredom,’ Bridie agreed. She brushed a crumb off the lapel of her pink satin dressing gown. ‘Having nothing to do makes me think and thinking takes me to
places I don’t want to go. How will we keep ourselves entertained this weekend, Elaine?’

‘Beaumont has suggested I take you to Southampton. The Reynoldses are giving a Christmas party on Saturday night which promises to be one of the most lavish of the year. They’re very
keen for you to come. You add a bit of mystery—’

‘And scandal, most likely,’ Bridie interrupted. ‘Some people have long memories in this town.’

‘Not Marigold and Darcy Reynolds. They’re great people-collectors. Anyone who is anyone will be there, you can be sure of that. We have a modest beach house in Sag Harbor, which we
close during the wintertime, but we can stay there.’ Elaine looked shifty. ‘Beaumont can’t come. Business, you know.’ She shrugged. ‘Too bad. We can drive out
together, just the two of us. It’ll be the bee’s knees. What do you say?’

Bridie had inherited Mrs Grimsby’s luxurious pink chateau-style house in the Hamptons, but on the advice of her husband, Walter Lockwood, she had sold it. She hadn’t been back since.
She remembered gazing out of the window onto the long white beach and the frustration she had felt at not being allowed out to enjoy it. Mrs Grimsby had been very demanding. Then, after the old
woman died, she had finally taken a long walk up the sand. It was on that stroll, with the waves softly lapping at the shore and the glittering light bouncing off the waves, that she had realized
she would miss her. She still did sometimes. Mrs Grimsby’s autocracy had given Bridie the greatest sense of security she had had since leaving Ballinakelly pregnant and afraid, and the hard
work – and hard it certainly was – had given her a refuge from her pain. ‘I should like that very much,’ said Bridie.

On Saturday morning Bridie set off for Southampton in her new blue motor car with Elaine, who had persuaded Bridie that it would be much more fun without Manolo and was sitting confidently
behind the wheel. The roof was down and they were wrapped in furs, gloves, hats and scarves to ward off the cold and chatting merrily as they jostled for position among the traffic making its way
out of the city for the weekend. It was a crisp winter morning. The sky above Manhattan was a bright cerulean blue, full of optimism and free of cares. The sun hung low over the Hudson, caressing
the ripples on the water with fickle kisses, and turning the rising new skyscrapers orange. As they drove over the Brooklyn Bridge Elaine broke into the song ‘Tea For Two’ from the
musical
No, No, Nanette
, which had appeared on Broadway that year and got everyone toe-tapping to the catchy tunes. Bridie joined in, although she didn’t know all the words, and
smiled coyly at the admiring men who glanced at them from the passing cars while their wives weren’t looking.

As they left the city giant billboards lined the route, advertising cars, cigarettes and the new Atwater Kent radio set, which Elaine had insisted Bridie buy because it was all the rage.
Beautiful faces smiled out from these posters, twenty feet tall, promising pleasure, glamour and happiness, and Bridie, who had bought into that world of material immoderation, delighted at being a
part of it. Hers was the pretty smile in the advertisement and hers was the glossy existence behind it. Together, she and Elaine were wild, carefree and liberated, popular, fashionable and
blithe.

The highway soon left the city behind and the concrete and brick gave way to fields and woodland, farm buildings and dwellings. Winter had robbed the countryside of its summer foliage and the
trees were bare and frozen, their gnarled and twisted branches naked to the winds and rain that swept in off the sea. The young women sang to keep warm, their breath forming icy clouds on the air.
It was late afternoon when they reached Elaine’s house, which was a white cottage made of clapboard with a weathered grey shingled roof and a veranda overlooking the water. ‘Beaumont
bought this as a young man and even though he has the dough to upgrade, he insists on keeping it. Surprisingly sentimental, don’t you think?’ said Elaine, drawing up outside.

‘I think it’s charming,’ Bridie replied, keen to get inside and warm up.

‘Connie should have prepared it for us. Let’s go and see.’ But before she reached the steps up to the front door, a stout little woman no more than five feet tall opened it and
the welcoming smell of burning wood greeted them with the promise of hot food and comfort.

Preparing for a party is often more thrilling than the party itself. While one can’t predict whether the evening will be a success or a failure, at least one can assure that the two hours
or so it takes to get ready are exciting in themselves. With this in mind Elaine and Bridie laced their orange juice with gin, listened to jazz on the gramophone and danced around Elaine’s
bedroom in satin slips and stockings as they curled their hair and applied their make-up. Connie, who was originally from Mexico, pressed the creases out of their dresses and brushed the scuff from
their dancing shoes, muttering to herself in Spanish that no good would come of two young women going off to a party without the presence of men to escort them. But she waved them off with a smile,
if not a little warning shake of her head, then retreated inside to tidy up the great mess the two of them had made of the main bedroom.

The Reynoldses’ grand Italianate mansion, set in sumptuous grounds overlooking the beach in Southampton, was famous for its spectacular ballroom, baronial-style fireplaces and elaborate
gardens. Darcy Reynolds had made his fortune on Wall Street. His motto seemed to be, ‘No point earning it if you can’t show it off.’ So the mansion, or ‘summer
cottage’ as the family referred to it, heaved with entertainments during the summer months and usually fell silent directly after the first frost. This winter, however, was Darcy’s
fiftieth birthday, and he had decided to celebrate with a lavish Christmas party, the like of which had never been seen on Long Island.