Daughters of Castle Deverill (21 page)

Everyone was now on their feet. Celia was screaming, Beatrice gasping, Harry and Boysie mute with astonishment, mouths agape, as Lucky Deverill inched ahead of the second. With only a hundred
yards to go Willie Maguire rode Sir Digby’s hope as if he were riding the wind. A moment later he was parallel to the first. The two horses were now neck and neck. But Lucky Deverill was
propelled by the luck of the London Deverills and with one last valiant thrust Willie Maguire rode him first past the winning post.

Digby was on his feet, punching the air. Celia was throwing her arms around him. Beatrice was dabbing her eyes with Boysie’s handkerchief. Harry shook his head and wanted to throw his arms
around Boysie, but he thrust his hands into his pockets and swept his eyes over the crowd now pouring onto the racecourse.

Suddenly Digby was besieged. Hands patted his back, faces smiled at him, lips congratulated him. He was swept down the grandstand like a leaf on a waterfall, carried by the hundreds of surprised
spectators, both friends and strangers alike. When at last he reached the ground he hastened off to the Finish to meet his horse and jockey, the victorious Willie Maguire. When he saw his
triumphant horse, nostrils flaring, his coat sodden with rain and sweat, he stroked his wet nose then took him by the reins to lead him into the Winners’ Enclosure. He was at once surrounded
by journalists asking him questions and photographers clicking their cameras, the flash bulbs momentarily blinding him. ‘Really, it had very little to do with me,’ he heard himself
saying. ‘Willie Maguire rode with great courage and skill and Lucky Deverill proved everyone wrong. It is Newcomb, Lucky Deverill’s trainer, who should be congratulated and, if you
don’t mind, I’d very much like to go and do that myself.’ And with the help of the police he extracted himself from the throng of press.

‘By God, he won!’ said Boysie to Celia. ‘He really does have the luck of the Devil!’

‘Papa makes his own luck,’ said Celia proudly.

Beatrice had now composed herself and was graciously receiving congratulations when she was interrupted by an official-looking man with a neatly trimmed moustache and spectacles. He coughed into
his hand. ‘Lady Deverill, may I ask you to follow me. The King would like to offer you his personal congratulations.’

Beatrice beamed. ‘But of course. Excuse me,’ she said to those awaiting her attention. ‘I have been summoned by the King.’ The people stepped aside to allow her to pass
and Beatrice was escorted up to the Royal Box where His Majesty was waiting in the ante-room, surrounded by courtiers. A small, bearded, gruff man in tails and top hat with a row of military medals
across his chest, the King had the air of a retired military colonel.

‘My dear Lady Deverill,’ he said when she entered. He extended his hand. Beatrice took it and allowed the King to plant a kiss on her cheek, tickling her face with his beard. She
then dropped into a low curtsy. ‘You must be very proud,’ he said.

‘Oh I am, sir. Very.’ Unlike his son, the King was a man of few words, so Beatrice found herself overcompensating to disguise any awkwardness. ‘I shall have a hard time keeping
his feet on the ground now that he’s got a Derby winner.’ She laughed to fill the silence that ensued.

‘Oh yes, indeed,’ said the King finally, settling his watery blue eyes on her.

‘We remember with great affection your visit to Ireland,’ she said, recalling his state visit to Southern Ireland fifteen years before. ‘Did you know that Celia is now
restoring Castle Deverill?’

‘Is she now?’

‘Oh yes,’ Beatrice gushed. ‘It is a tragedy that some of the most beautiful houses in Ireland were razed to the ground during the Troubles. It’s just wonderful to think
of possibly the most beautiful of all rising once again.’

‘Indeed,’ the King muttered. ‘Damn good shoot at Castle Deverill.’ At that moment an equerry sidled over and whispered something into the King’s ear. ‘Ah, I
must go and hand Sir Digby his trophy,’ he said.

‘Of course you must,’ said Beatrice, dropping once again into a low curtsy. She left his presence in high spirits in spite of the uneasiness of their conversation, because, after
all, the King’s the King and Beatrice was dazzled by royalty.

‘One could not really ask for very much more,’ said Digby to his wife when they arrived back at Deverill House at the end of the day. He poured himself a drink
while Beatrice fell into the sofa, exhausted by all the excitement.

‘Where do you go from here, Digby?’ she asked, sighing with the pleasure of taking the weight off her legs.

‘What do you mean? I’m going to win the 2000 Guineas and the Gold Cup,’ he replied. Digby brought his glass to his nose and inhaled the sweet smell of whiskey. His ambition
would be greatly served by entering into the public arena, but he was only too aware of the skeletons rattling about in his cupboard to risk threatening his reputation by putting his head so high
above the parapet. Aware that his wife was not referring to horses he added, ‘I have no desire to encumber my life with politics, my dear.’ He sank into an armchair as a maid brought in
a tray of tea.

‘Rubbish,’ said Beatrice with a smile. ‘You can’t resist the limelight!’ The maid handed her a teacup. ‘Ah, thank you. Just what I need to restore my energy.
What a day. What a
perfect
day. Celia is mistress of Castle Deverill and my husband has won the Derby. It’s all too wonderful to be true.’ She watched the maid pour the tea
then dug her teeth into a shortbread biscuit. ‘I am aware of our blessings, Digby, and I take none of them for granted. When we lost our beloved George in the war I thought my life was over.
But it’s possible to rise out of the ashes and live, isn’t it? One simply has to keep going in a different way. One part of me shut down, but I discovered that I am more than I believed
I was. Other parts of me came to the fore. So here we are, enormously fortunate, and here am
I
, grateful and proud.’ She sipped her tea, dislodging the lump that had unexpectedly
formed in her throat.

Digby looked steadily at his wife. ‘I think about George every day, Beatrice,’ he said quietly. ‘And I miss him. He would have relished today. He loved horses and he had a
competitive spirit. He would have enjoyed the thrill of the race. But it was not to be. I hope he was watching from wherever he is.’

They withdrew into silence as they both remembered their son, and while they both felt blessed, they knew that nothing, no accomplishment, success or triumph on any level, could make up for the
devastation of so great a loss.

Kitty struggled to live with the choice she had made. She waded through her days against an incoming tide of grief and regret, the bleeding in her heart staunched only by the
burgeoning life growing inside her belly. It was as if she had prised open the very body of Ireland and ripped out its soul. Without Jack the landscape was bereft, weeping golden tears onto the
damp grass as autumn stole the last vestiges of summer. She kept herself busy, looking after JP and preparing the nursery for the new baby, and she tried not to succumb to the memories of the man
she loved which lingered on every hill and in every valley like mist that just won’t lift. Yet, in late October, hope arrived with the first frosts as Kitty was delivered of a little girl.
They called her Florence, after their honeymoon in Italy, and Kitty found, to her joy, that the overwhelming love she felt for her daughter eclipsed the longing she felt for Jack.

Robert stood at the bedside and held the tiny baby in his arms. He gazed into her face with wonder. ‘She is so pretty,’ he said to Kitty, who lay in bed propped up against the
pillows.

‘What do you think, JP?’ she asked the little boy who was snuggled up beside her.

JP screwed up his nose. ‘I think she’s ugly,’ he said. ‘She looks like a tomato.’

Robert and Kitty laughed. ‘You looked like a tomato too, when you were a baby,’ Kitty told him. ‘And look what a handsome boy you are now.’

‘She doesn’t have much hair,’ said JP.

‘Not now, darling, but it will grow,’ said Kitty. ‘You’ll have to look after her and teach her to ride.’

‘She’ll look up to you,’ Robert added, handing Florence back to her mother and sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘You’ll be her big brother.’

‘Although, you’re really her uncle,’ Kitty said.

‘Think of that. Uncle JP. How does that sound?’ Robert asked him.

The boy grinned proudly and peered into Florence’s face. The baby wriggled and began to cry. JP screwed up his nose again in distaste.

Robert put out his hand. ‘I think you and I should leave Kitty to feed the baby,’ he said.

‘Is she always going to make that noise?’ asked JP, jumping down from the bed.

‘I hope not,’ said Robert.

Kitty watched them wander from the room, JP’s small hand in Robert’s big one, his bouncy walk full of childish vigour beside Robert, whose laboured stride was slow due to his
stiffened leg. Her heart buckled. As hard as it had been to make her choice, she knew she had done the right thing. She gazed into the innocent face of her child and knew that
this
was
where she belonged.

New York, autumn 1927

Bridie had been in New York for two years. She was now an established presence in the gossip columns, at the theatre, in the elegant uptown restaurants and cafés and, of
course, in the smoky underground speakeasies of Harlem. Her sorrow was a silent current beneath the hard shield that she had built around herself for protection against memory and melancholy. Like
ice on a river it was beautiful to look at but cold. Her life was lived on the surface where everything was superficial and gay and without a care. Happiness was acquired in the same way that she
acquired everything: with money. The moment she felt a tremor of gloom she headed out to the shops to buy more happiness in the form of expensive clothes and hats, shoes and bags, feathers and
sequins, diamonds and pearls. The boutiques were full of happiness and she had the means to procure as much of it as she wanted.

There were men; plenty of men. She was never without a suitor and she took her pleasure when she wanted it. In those midnight hours when darkness wrapped its soft hands around her and lovers
caressed her with tender fingers the silent current swelled and grew inside her, breaking against her heart in waves of longing. Her soul cried out to be loved and the memory she had of loving
shifted into focus. For a blessed moment she could pretend that the arms holding her belonged to a man who cherished her and that the lips kissing her were devoted and true. But it was fool’s
gold. Reality shattered the dream every time with dawn’s first light and Bridie was left fighting her desolation in the shops on Fifth Avenue where happiness was sold alongside other
mirages.

Beaumont and Elaine Williams were her allies in her new world of fickle, fair-weather friends. Mr Williams had known her before she had inherited her fortune, when she was a naïve and
humble maid, fresh off the boat from Ireland, and she trusted him. He oversaw her investments personally and his office attended to all her bills. Bridie paid him handsomely for his cunning and
wisdom. With the dreary jobs taken care of, Bridie’s only responsibility was to have fun and Elaine was her constant companion. As frivolous and acquisitive as
she
was, Bridie
didn’t hesitate to fund her lifestyle, after all, Elaine was as vital to her as rope to a drowning man.

Just when she believed she was forgetting her past, her past remembered
her
.

It was a hot, sticky night in Manhattan. Bridie and Elaine had been to Warners’ Theatre to see the movie
Don Juan
, a new ‘talkie’ with sound effects and orchestral
music starring John Barrymore as the irresistible womanizer. They were in such a high state of excitement that going home to bed was not an option. ‘All that kissing has got me quite shaken
up,’ said Elaine, linking arms with Bridie as they hurried across Broadway. ‘What shall we do now? I’m feeling in a party kind of mood.’

‘Me too,’ Bridie agreed. ‘Let’s go to the Cotton Club,’ she suggested. ‘There’s always plenty of entertainment there.’ She put her hand out to
hail a cab.

The Cotton Club was a fashionable nightclub in Harlem where New York’s most stylish went to eat fine food, drink illegal alcohol, dance to live bands and watch shows. It was buzzing, busy
and boisterous and Bridie loved it especially because in that heady, loud and crowded place she could forget who she really was.

Except on this night, sitting at a round table with a group of suited men Bridie didn’t recognize and being fawned over by a couple of scantily dressed showgirls, was the only man in New
York capable of making her remember: Jack O’Leary.

She stood staring at him in astonishment. He had changed. His hair was cut short, he was clean-shaven and he wore a pristine suit and tie. But he was unmistakably Jack with his deep-set pale
blue eyes and crooked smile. People moved and jostled around her, but she remained as still as a rock until Elaine nudged her out of her stupor. ‘What’s up, Bridget?’ Elaine
followed the line of her gaze. ‘Do you know those guys?’ she asked, then she added huskily, ‘They look like they’re up to no good, I’m telling you.’

‘I know one of them,’ said Bridie slowly, suddenly feeling sick.

‘The handsome one?’ Elaine asked with a giggle.

‘He’s from my past.’

‘Oh. Listen, if you’re not happy we can go someplace else.’

‘No, we’ll stay. I’m just surprised. He’s the last person I expected to see in New York.’ As the two women stared at him Jack lifted his eyes. At first he
didn’t recognize her. He stared back, his face blank. Then his features softened and his eyes narrowed as he registered who she was. They remained a moment, gazing at each other through the
smoke as if caught in a spell.

At last he pushed out his chair and began to make his way across the room towards her. ‘I think I’ll leave you to talk about old times,’ said Elaine and she melted into the
crowd of dancing people. Bridie waited, heart pounding, suddenly feeling small and lost and very far from home.