Daughters of Castle Deverill (18 page)

At last they reached the church of St Patrick. Its walls shone orange in the bright light of the sun and the spire, rising as it did towards Heaven, uplifted the hearts of these two sisters who
had suffered terrible fears during the Troubles and were still a little nervous about leaving the safety of their house. They were greeted warmly by Reverend Maddox, whose ruddy face and round
belly betrayed his love of fine wine and good food and his inability to indulge in either with any sort of moderation. ‘My dear Misses Swanton,’ he said, sandwiching in turn their small
hands in his big spongy ones. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’ He raised his eyes to the sky in a pious manner, as if he and God were in cahoots, even about the weather.

‘Oh, it is indeed,’ agreed Hazel, almost feeling inclined to thank him. ‘It is a lovely spring and I’m sure it will be a lovely summer.’ She sighed heavily.
‘Adeline would have adored the wild flowers on the hillside.’

‘Lady Deverill is enjoying the flowers in God’s great garden,’ he reassured her.

‘Of course she is,’ said Laurel.

‘Adeline believed she’d be a spirit walking among us,’ Hazel added. ‘In which case, she’ll be here enjoying it all for herself.’

‘Oh I’m sure she is,’ Laurel agreed. ‘I’m sure she’s enjoying God’s great garden with poor Reverend Daunt who was such a good vicar. We are so pleased
our humble parish has been sent such a fine replacement.’

Reverend Maddox smiled with gratitude and ushered them into the church. ‘My dear ladies, why don’t you step inside and enjoy the music. Mrs Daunt has been practising a few new pieces
and she’d love you to hear them. Music has been a consolation to her during this difficult time.’ He watched the two women walk into the church. Two more compatible sisters he had yet
to find.

Soon the church was beginning to fill up with the Ascendancy and gentry who had not been chased out of their homes by the rebels during the Troubles, and the working-class Protestants. There was
an atmosphere of unity now, a sociability that hadn’t existed before. The violence had herded them together in their small minority and they found comfort in each other as if a group of sheep
on a windy hillside surrounded on all sides by wolves. Shopkeepers greeted the lords and ladies with sincere smiles and the grandees returned their salutations with equal warmth.

Lord Deverill sat in his usual place in the front row. Kitty was beside him with Robert and JP as Little Jack was now known, for Kitty had felt that, at four years old, he was too big to be
called ‘little’, and considering he was christened Jack Patrick, JP suited him just as well. In truth, the name Jack gave her pain every time she uttered it.

Kitty had noticed a change in her father, subtle like the subliminal shift of a plate beneath the earth’s crust. She couldn’t say exactly when it had happened, but it was as if he
had made a decision to amend the way he saw himself and the world. This deep shift had sent ripples through his being that affected him in so many ways. Gone was the melancholy, the self-pity and
the need to drink himself into forgetfulness. He seemed grateful for life, with its small blessings. Most of all he seemed grateful for her and Elspeth, and spent as much time as possible with his
little son, JP, who called him ‘Papa’ and enjoyed all the outdoor pursuits that
he
enjoyed. The new clarity in his eyes convinced her that his feelings were genuine, but she
couldn’t understand what had inspired them. He even supported Celia’s renovations of the castle with enthusiasm, wandering around the building site daily, where hundreds of men toiled
away like an army of ants on an anthill. She wished she could share his interest in the rebuilding of his old home, but she couldn’t; it caused her great anguish.

She didn’t want to think of Jack O’Leary either, for that was painful too. He had gone and life had continued. She hadn’t believed it possible, but it had happened. Celia had
given birth to a baby daughter at the beginning of April, named Constance after her mother-in-law. Kitty’s child would arrive in the autumn. Robert was ecstatic. She took his hand now and
squeezed it as the jumping chords of Mrs Daunt’s organ playing resounded off the stone walls of the church. Kitty had made her choice; she had now to learn to live with it.

‘Who’s that man sitting with Grace?’ Hazel whispered to Laurel. Laurel leaned forward and looked across the aisle to the other side of the church. There, seated beside Grace
Rowan-Hampton, was a man neither Shrub had ever seen before. They both stared, and as they took in his thick silver hair, deep-set brown eyes and tidy white moustache resting above a wide and
sensual mouth, time stood still. The chatter around them faded with the organ music and only their hearts, which began to race with an unfamiliar or long-forgotten tempo, resounded in their ears.
United as always, the two ladies admired and feared the silver wolf in their midst. Not in the many decades of their dedicated spinster-hood had a man had such power to unbalance them. Suddenly, to
their horror, he turned and his eyes met theirs, holding them captive for an excruciating moment. As they were jolted back to their senses with a flush of embarrassment, the music and chatter
returned louder than before. He smiled and nodded politely. They tore their gazes away and fanned their flushed faces with their prayer books.

‘Lord preserve me,’ hissed Laurel.

‘He must be Grace’s father,’ said Hazel.

‘Has he a wife, do you think?’ Laurel asked. Then she added hastily, ‘God forgive me for asking such a thing in His house. Don’t answer that, Hazel. I don’t know
what’s got in to me. Must be the heat. It is terribly hot, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, it is, Laurel. Terribly hot. I didn’t see a wife. It appears he’s with Grace.’

‘Look, Reverend Maddox is about to start the service. We must concentrate.’

Hazel’s fingers fluttered over her mouth. ‘He smiled at us, Laurel. Did you see?’

Laurel nudged her sister. ‘Shhh,’ she hissed. But her lips twitched with excitement.

Reverend Maddox gave a stirring sermon which seemed to go on and on and on. He was well known for enjoying the sound of his own voice to the point of being deaf to anyone else’s, but today
he was taking more pleasure from it than usual. Perhaps it was due to the sunshine, or maybe to the presence of the distinguished gentleman who was sitting beside Lady Rowan-Hampton whom he felt
compelled to impress. Whichever it was, his voice rose and fell in great waves of passion, his sentences elongated like a piece of elastic only to snap back into short, brisk phrases designed to
rouse the sleepy faithful.

At last, after he said the closing prayers and the Celtic Blessing he was so fond of, the Shrubs were the first into the aisle to make their escape before this devilishly handsome gentleman was
able to see what a pair of quivering fools he had reduced them to.

Grace turned to her father, for indeed it was him. ‘I’m sorry about the Rector, Papa. He mistakes the pulpit for the stage.’

Lord Hunt patted his daughter’s hand. ‘My dear, you needn’t worry about me. When I am bored, which I often am in church, my mind is inclined to wander. Today, however, it
wasn’t my mind but my eyes that went wandering.’ He grinned mischievously.

Grace shook her head. ‘Papa, you’re incorrigible. Mama would turn in her grave to see the way you behave. If you’re going to live with me in this small community, you have to
conduct yourself with decorum. I warn you, a town like this loves nothing more than to gossip. If you’re going to misbehave you have to be discreet.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grace.’ He laughed. ‘I’m a paragon of virtue. Besides, I’m much too old for that sort of thing.’ He
arched a fluffy white eyebrow and smiled a wolfs smile, which told her that he was neither too old nor disinclined to ‘that sort of thing’. Grace smiled too because in her
father’s lustiness she recognized herself.

They walked out into the sunshine and Grace introduced her father to Bertie and Kitty. The old rogue took Kitty’s hand and brought it to his moustache, where the short hairs tickled her
skin. ‘I must say, the women of Ballinakelly are very easy on the eye,’ he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Kitty laughed. ‘You’re too kind,’ she said, grinning at Grace, who was shaking her head in mock embarrassment.

‘Papa’s been here but five minutes and he’s already misbehaving,’ she said.

‘A little flirtation is the secret to longevity,’ said Lord Hunt. ‘And I intend to live a very long time.’

‘You must come for dinner,’ said Bertie cheerfully. ‘We’d like to welcome you formally.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Lord Deverill. Grace has told me a great deal about your family and I admit that I am intrigued by your history. I was sorry to hear about the fire but
curious to learn that the castle is being rebuilt.’

‘My cousin’s daughter has bought it and is in the process of renovating it. Why don’t you let me show it to you? It’s an ambitious and extravagant project, to say the
least, but I believe it’s going to be magnificent when it’s finished.’

‘I would like that very much, thank you,’ said Lord Hunt.

Grace looked at her former lover with tenderness. Recently she had seen glimpses of the carefree Bertie in his smile and in the light in his eyes, which seemed to her like the clear light of a
new dawn. There was a fresh look about his clothes too, or perhaps it was the way he held himself in them. His tweed suit no longer looked crumpled and shabby, his hat was restored to its habitual
raffish position on his head and his skin ceased to betray an excessive love of alcohol. She had noticed he had stopped drinking whiskey and wine and wondered what had come over him. She had once
given him an ultimatum, her or the drink; he had been unable to live without either. Who had succeeded where she had failed?

She climbed behind the wheel of her car and waited for her father to join her. He was enjoying meeting the locals and soaking up the attention the women gave him, for even at seventy-four he was
a fine-looking man. Her gaze drifted out of the window. A skinny dog limped along the street on three legs, his sharp nose in the air for he was after a whiff of something savoury. Men in caps
walked in groups, hands in pockets, eyes still dark with a residual wariness left over from the Troubles. Women stood chatting beneath the clear skies while children played in the road, their
laughter bouncing off the walls of the houses. Then she saw Michael Doyle.

She caught her breath. Her heart stalled. The sensation was so acute it was visceral. For a moment she couldn’t move. Only her eyes followed him as he ambled nonchalantly up the street
with his brother Sean. She blinked, unable to believe what she was seeing, not trusting her sight, for surely, if he was back in Ballinakelly,
she
would have been his first stop? She
willed him to look at her, but he didn’t even toss her a glance. He strolled on, deep in conversation with his brother. She took in the face she had so often caressed, clear-skinned and
glowing now that he was cured of the drink like Bertie. But she wasn’t thinking about Bertie. Cast in the shadow of Michael Doyle, Bertie was invisible, as was every other lover she had ever
taken. Michael Doyle was back from Mount Melleray and nothing else mattered. He was taller, broader, more rugged and attractive than ever before. A hot, prickling sensation crept over her skin and
gathered in her belly. She gripped the steering wheel. He was past her now. She watched his back. Her eyes stung from the staring. How could he not feel her gaze through his jacket? How could he
not sense that she was here? Why didn’t he turn round? She wanted to run to him; to throw herself at him; to press herself against him and feel his rough hands upon her skin and his hungry
mouth upon her lips. But she knew she had to restrain herself. She had to wait. He was only too aware of where she lived. She was certain he would come as soon as he could. Surely, his need for her
was as urgent as hers for him?

‘That Lord Deverill is a charming young man,’ said Lord Hunt, climbing stiffly into the passenger seat. He didn’t notice his daughter’s pale face, or the raw craving in
her eyes. ‘Jolly nice of him to invite me to take a look at the castle. As you know, I have an enormous interest in history.’

No sooner had her father closed the door than Grace started the engine and began to drive slowly up the street, her eyes frantically searching. Her father continued to share his thoughts but she
wasn’t listening. She was determined to see her lover; and for
him
to see
her
and the message in her gaze that told him to come to her. At last, as the car motored towards
O’Donovan’s, she spotted him. Then she was right beside him. She slowed down, so slow that she was crawling at the same speed as his walking pace. Sean glanced at her, but Michael was
so busy talking that he was unaware of the car trailing him and of the desperate woman inside willing him to look at her.

Unable to bear it a moment longer, she tooted the horn. Both men, and the others in the street besides, turned to her in surprise. She leaned out of the window and gave a smile that exposed
nothing of the torment beneath it. Desperate she might be, but Grace Rowan-Hampton was a seasoned actress and, when it came to dissembling, no one could surpass her. ‘Mr Doyle,’ she
said, without so much as a quiver in her voice.

‘Lady Rowan-Hampton.’ Michael looked astonished to see her there. He doffed his cap and waited to hear what she had to say.

‘I’m glad to see you’re back. My husband is looking for strong men to clear a copse behind the house. Several trees were brought down in the winter storms. If you and your
friends would like some work, will you come up to the house and see me?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll ask in O’Donovan’s,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, hoping he was reading the message in her eyes as he always used to. ‘I will wait for you up at the house. Sir Ronald would like the work to be done as
soon as possible. I trust you’ll find a few willing volunteers.’

She drove on then, for there was nothing else to be said. Her father looked on in bewilderment as she checked her rear-view mirror to see if he was watching the car, but he wasn’t. He had
disappeared inside O’Donovan’s and only a cluster of scruffy youths remained in the road, admiring her shiny motor car as it rattled off.