Daughters of Castle Deverill (24 page)

‘Before we lost people we loved in the war,’ said Celia quietly. She thought of her brother George, whom she rarely considered these days, and her mood took an unexpected dive. She
shook her head to dispel the memories and smiled fiercely. ‘But everything is wonderful now, isn’t it?’ she said firmly. ‘In fact, life has never been better.’ She
swung round and contemplated with satisfaction the splendour of her great vision brought to completion at last. ‘I have poured all my love into this place,’ she told Kitty.
‘Castle Deverill is like my third child. I will now spend the rest of my life embellishing her. More trips to Italy and France, more shopping. It’s a never-ending project and so
thrilling. I am following in the footsteps of our ancestors who went on their grand tours of Europe and brought back wonderful treasures.’ She sighed happily. ‘And tonight everyone will
admire it. Everyone will appreciate all the work I have put into it. I do hope Adeline is watching, wherever she is. And I hope she approves.’

Kitty knew her grandmother was watching, but doubted she really cared what Celia had done to her home, for Adeline was in a dimension now where the material world was no longer important.
‘Come, let’s go downstairs. Your guests will be arriving shortly,’ she said, moving away from the window. The two women walked through the castle to the front stairs. They
hesitated a moment at the top of the landing to check their reflections in the large gilt mirror that hung there. Celia, resplendent in ice blue, admired the daring cut of her dress which exposed
most of her back, while Kitty, elegant in forest-green silk, gazed upon the two faces smiling back at her and felt keenly the absence of the third.
Where are you now, Bridie, and do you miss us
too?
she thought.
Because in spite of everything, I miss
you.

A long queue of cars was slowly drawing up in front of the castle. Celia’s servants were in attendance to receive the ladies in long gowns and the men in white tie who climbed the few
steps up to the front door to walk beneath the lintel where the Deverill family crest had survived the fire and still resonated with Barton’s passion for his new home:
Castellum Deverilli
est suum regnum.
The restoration of the castle had been the talk of the county for years, and the amount of money spent on it a matter of much conjecture, and they were all eager to see the
results for themselves. Celia and Archie stood in front of the fireplace that had been filled with summer flowers from the gardens, shaking hands and receiving compliments. Celia enjoyed the gasps
of wonder and astonishment as her guests laid eyes on the sumptuous hall for the first time. Most had been regular visitors before the fire and were quick to compare the dilapidated old building
with the lavish new one. While some were delighted by the opulence there were others who found it in poor taste.

‘It looks like a beautiful but impersonal hotel,’ Boysie whispered to Harry as they stood on the terrace overlooking the gardens. ‘But for God’s sake keep that to
yourself or I’ll never be invited again.’

‘I’m relieved it’s nothing like it was or I should suffer terrible homesickness,’ said Harry.

‘No regrets then?’ asked Boysie, who knew Harry well enough to know that he had plenty.

‘None,’ Harry replied firmly, knocking back his champagne. ‘Celia has done a splendid job.’

Boysie smoked languidly. ‘Your mama would seethe with jealousy if she were here.’

‘Isn’t it lucky then that she isn’t?’

‘She’d hate to see Celia lording it about the home that should, by rights, be hers. Celia is insufferably happy and Maud hates happy people. She loves nothing more than misery
because she hopes that if it’s plaguing someone else it won’t have its eye on
her.
Digby is more puffed up than ever. Don’t you adore the way he wears his white tie?
Somehow it looks brash on him. He has a talent for brash, you know. If he wasn’t Sir Digby Deverill one would assume he was frightfully common. And as for your dear Charlotte, pregnant again,
I see. How do you manage it, old chap? Perhaps after two daughters you’ll be blessed with an heir.’

Harry looked into Boysie’s eyes and grinned. ‘You’ve had two so probably the same way you manage it, old boy.’

Boysie chuckled and a knowing look passed between them. ‘Is your father aware of your mother’s little friend, Arthur Arlington?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘I haven’t asked him. I’m sure he is. Half of London is. Mama hasn’t asked for a divorce, but I’m sure Papa would give her one. The marriage is a farce and Arthur
is a drip.’

‘A very rich drip,’ Boysie added.

Harry sighed resignedly. ‘But life is good for Papa these days.’ He watched his father in a small group of people who were standing on the croquet lawn looking back at the castle.
Bertie was pointing at the roof, no doubt taking them through the building process. ‘Strange that he takes so much delight in Celia’s success, isn’t it?’ he said softly.
‘One would expect him to be bitter about it, but he isn’t. I truly believe he’s genuinely pleased.’

‘Perhaps the responsibility of being Lord Deverill of Castle Deverill has secretly weighed heavily on his shoulders all these years. Who knows, maybe he’s relieved to be shot of it.
I know
you
are.’

‘I couldn’t be myself here,’ said Harry, recalling the brief affair he’d enjoyed with Joseph the first footman. ‘It would hardly have been appropriate to put you up
in one of the estate cottages. I dare say you’re used to finer things.’

‘I am indeed, old boy. Ireland is much too damp for my tastes.’ He took Harry’s empty glass and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Now, why don’t we go and
pay some attention to those wives of ours, eh? For better or for worse and all that . . .’

‘Capital idea,’ said Harry and the two men set off into the castle.

Hazel and Laurel stood in the ballroom and gazed about them in wonder. Celia had decorated it in an opulent rococo style, with white walls and lavish gold stucco designed in
flamboyant, asymmetrical patterns. The chandeliers no longer held candles but blazed with electricity, which was reflected in the large mirrors that embellished the room like golden stars.
‘But look at the flowers, Hazel,’ said Laurel. ‘I’ve never seen so many lilies.’ She inhaled through dilated nostrils. ‘The smell is wonderful. Really, Celia
should be very proud of herself. Tonight is a triumph.’

Just as Hazel was about to agree with her, they heard the familiar and nervously anticipated voice of Lord Hunt as he strode into the room, greeting them enthusiastically. They swung round,
their delight at seeing him ill-concealed. ‘The dear Misses Swanton,’ he said, taking each Shrub in turn by her white-gloved hand and drawing it to his lips with a formal and slightly
exaggerated bow. Both ladies shivered with pleasure for Lord Hunt had the ability to make them feel young and beautiful and deliciously frivolous. In the three years that he had been living with
his daughter, he had gained notoriety in Ballinakelly for his breezy charm, his jocular wit and his incorrigible flirting. ‘May I be permitted to say how radiant you both look tonight?’
He ran his astute brown eyes up and down their almost identical dresses and Hazel and Laurel felt as if he had somehow got beneath the fabric and caressed with a tender finger the long-neglected
skin there.

‘Thank you, Ethelred,’ Laurel croaked when, after a short struggle, she managed to find her voice.

‘I’m going to have a terrible decision to make later this evening,’ he said, pulling a mournful face.

‘Oh dear,’ interjected Hazel. ‘What might that be, Ethelred?’

He looked from one to the other then sighed melodramatically. ‘Whom to dance with first, when I want to dance with both of you.’ Laurel glanced at Hazel and they both tittered with
shy delight. ‘Is there not a dance for three?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Laurel. ‘Although Celia is very modern, so one never knows.’

‘I see neither of you has a glass of champagne. Let me escort you into the garden. It’s the most splendid evening. Wouldn’t it be nice to enjoy our drinks in the beauty of
sunset?’

‘Oh, it would,’ said Hazel.

‘It certainly would,’ Laurel echoed.

Lord Hunt offered them each an arm. But as Laurel slipped her hand through his left she felt the first stirring of something deeply alarming and unpleasant: competitiveness. She glanced at Hazel
and for a fleeting moment she wished her sister ill. With a shocked gasp she forced the feeling away. Hazel was smiling at the object of her most ardent desire, but as he turned to smile on Laurel,
she too felt the beginnings of something of which she was too ashamed to even acknowledge. Both sisters turned their eyes sharply to the double doors that led into the wide corridor and through to
the hall. They could never reveal to the other the degree of their passion for Ethelred;
never
. For the first time in their lives they harboured a secret they were unwilling to share.

Digby stood in the garden and gazed upon the castle with a gratifying sense of achievement, as if he had reconstructed it from the rubble with his own hands. It was the jewel
in his family’s crown, the culmination of a lifelong desire. He looked back on the years he had struggled to make his fortune in South Africa and smiled with satisfaction at how far he had
come and how high he had risen. A hearty pat on the back jolted him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Sir Ronald Rowan-Hampton’s red face beaming at him happily. ‘My dear
Digby,’ Sir Ronald exclaimed. ‘What a triumph the castle is. Celia and Archie have done you credit. It’s a great success, a masterpiece, an example of courage in the face of
adversity. You have raised it from the ashes and, my, what a palace it is. Fit for the King himself.’

‘I cannot take all the credit,’ he replied smoothly. ‘It is all Celia and her vision.’

‘Then she is a chip off the old block,’ said Sir Ronald. ‘She has your style and your sense of proportion. Isn’t it true that everything you do is larger than life,
Digby?’ Sir Ronald gazed at the castle and shook his head. ‘It must have cost a small fortune.’

‘It cost a
great
fortune,’ said Digby, unabashed. ‘But it is worth every penny. This is Celia’s now and will be her son’s one day and
his
son’s after that, and so it will go on. She has not only rebuilt a castle but she has created a legacy that will long outlive her. I’m mightily proud of her.’ He privately
wondered whether, now the project was complete, his daughter would grow bored of life here and hot foot it back to London. He was aware of her restless nature, because she had inherited it from
him
. He only hoped she was able to stifle it.

Grace stood in the French doors of the drawing room, watching her husband talking to Digby on the lawn. The guests were now beginning to make their way upstairs to dinner in
the long gallery where Adeline had always held her dinners – except it wasn’t the same long gallery because Celia had chosen to design hers differently. For one the faces of Deverill
ancestors did not watch them impassively from the walls as many of the paintings had been lost in the fire; Celia had bought paintings of
other people’s
ancestors, simply to fill the
gaps. It would take years to build a collection – it had taken the Deverills over two hundred.

Grace thought of Michael Doyle. She
always
thought of Michael Doyle. He plagued her thoughts, tormented her and drove her to distraction. She thought she might go mad with lust and
longing. Never before had a man made such a fool of her and yet, she couldn’t help her foolish behaviour. She had lost her pride that day at the fair for she had later followed him round the
back of O’Donovan’s public house and thrown herself at him like a mad and wanton woman, trying all the tricks that would normally have ensured he lost control and became putty in
her
hand. But he had shaken her off. ‘I have sinned,’ he had told her.

‘You cannot blame yourself for things you did in the war. Lord knows I’ve done my share,’ she had replied.

‘No, you don’t understand. The things I’m ashamed of have nothing to do with war.’

‘Then with what?’

At that point he had turned away. ‘I’m sorry, Grace. I’ll speak no more about it.’ He had left her then, wondering what he had done that was so terrible, that he
couldn’t ever speak of, that he couldn’t tell
her.
Now she gazed out onto the lawn at her husband and Digby as Kitty walked over to tell them to come in for dinner, and
wondered again, what did he do and how could she find out? Surely, if she could get to the root of his guilt, she could figure a way to dig him out of it.

At the end of dinner, when the coffee was being served, Bertie stood up and a hush fell over the guests. This was quite a different Bertie to the swaying drunkard who had
announced to the family at his mother’s funeral that he was not only selling the castle but legitimizing his bastard son Jack. Now he was sober, fresh-faced, groomed and slim – dashing
even. ‘Never before have we Deverills been so united,’ he said, then raised his glass. ‘To Celia and Archie.’ Everyone jumped to their feet and toasted the audacious young
couple, then Digby gave a speech, thanking Bertie for his generosity of spirit and repeating, once again, the family motto, which, he explained, referred not only to the castle but to their family
spirit. ‘Which lives in all of us,’ he said. Beatrice wiped her eye with her napkin. Harry smiled at Celia. Kitty looked lovingly at her father and Elspeth thought how fortuitous it was
that neither Maud nor her older sister, Victoria, were here to sour the sweet feeling that encompassed their family. Suddenly, a loud snort punctured the silence. Augusta glared at her husband from
the other side of the table. ‘Do me a favour, dear,’ she said to the lady sitting on his left. ‘Give him a sharp prod in the ribs, will you?’

Archie led Celia onto the dance floor where a jazz band, brought in from London, was playing. The Shrubs restrained themselves from squabbling over who danced first with Ethelred by both
pretending to give way to the other: ‘No really, Laurel,
you
must go first.’ ‘No, Hazel, I insist.
You
must.’ At length Ethelred had tossed a coin and
Hazel had won, much to the chagrin of Laurel who had to smile and act as if she didn’t care, which she did, very much. Boysie and Harry danced with their spouses, secretly longing to be rid
of them and free to enjoy each other in one of the flamboyantly decorated bedrooms upstairs. Kitty threw herself into the music as she danced with her father while Robert looked on longingly for
his stiff leg made dancing impossible. She tried to shake herself out of her gloom – her father was happy for Celia so why couldn’t
she
be? ‘Our daughters will grow up
here as
we
did and enjoy all the things
we
enjoyed,’ Celia had said when Kitty had given birth to Florence. And she was right, history would indeed repeat itself and
Florence would enjoy the castle just as
she
had done. So why did Kitty feel so bitter?