Daughters of Castle Deverill (34 page)

Cesare’s charisma was so bright that it reduced to ashes any residual feelings of affection that she had for Jack O’Leary. It consumed her longing for Ireland and even quelled her
yearning for her son. It raised her out of her past and carried her into a present moment where she believed that nothing and no one could ever hurt her again. Cesare would look after her now and
she gladly gave him her heart.
Take it
, she told him silently as he sank his face into her neck,
and do with it what you will because I am yours and always will be.

The wedding date was set for May, but as it was Bridie’s second wedding, Marigold Reynolds had offered to host the ceremony and subsequent party in the lavish gardens of her house in
Southampton. As the undisputed society queen, Marigold was only too happy to arrange another sumptuous event to which she could invite the newest stars of film, theatre, media, society and sport.
The Wall Street Crash might have curtailed many people’s spending, but it had done little to curtail hers. The invitations were engraved on the finest card, written in the most beautiful
calligraphy and hand-delivered to the three hundred guests by one of the Reynoldses’ chauffeurs.

As America descended into the most shocking economic decline in its history Bridie and Count Cesare enjoyed the happiest of engagements. They were the toast of New York and most of society
welcomed a respite from the depressing news that filled the newspapers and radio waves. They began to look for a new house, which wasn’t difficult as prices plummeted and those who had
suddenly, from one day to the next, lost their fortunes, found themselves having to sell their homes. Bridie found herself spoilt for choice.

‘My darling, I need to speak with you,’ said Cesare, taking her hand across the dinner table in Jack and Charlie’s 21 restaurant on West 52nd Street, a famous speakeasy with a
secret system of levers which, in the event of a raid, tipped the shelves of the bar, sending the bottles of liquor crashing into the city’s sewers.

Bridie looked concerned. ‘What about?’

‘Money,’ he replied, bathing her in Latin love and shameless affection. His eyes were moist and tender, and Bridie squeezed his hand encouragingly. ‘My father is being
difficult,’ he explained. ‘I have asked him for money but—’

In that accent, with those eyes, from those lips, money didn’t sound vulgar or suspicious. It was just a gorgeous request from a gorgeous man and she wished to satisfy him immediately.

‘My darling, dearest Cesare,’ Bridie interrupted. ‘I have money enough for the two of us. We don’t need your father’s money. I will talk to Mr Williams, my
attorney, and arrange for an account to be set up in your name and for money to be put directly into it the moment we are married. We will share everything.’

Cesare tried to disguise his relief with a look of horror. ‘But Count Cesare di Marcantonio, descendant of the family of Pope Urban VIII, cannot accept money from a woman. It is a
husband’s duty to look after his wife.’

Bridie held his hand tighter. ‘I came from nothing, Cesare. I began in Ireland as Bridie Doyle, a maid to a grand lady who lived in a castle. I came here to make a new start and worked for
a wealthy old woman who died and left me a great fortune. I have been lucky. Please let me share my luck with you. I love you, Cesare. You’ve made me happier than I could ever have believed
possible.’

‘It is against my nature. I cannot accept.’

‘Well, it is not against mine. I have suffered, God knows I have suffered, but you have restored my belief in love.’

‘I will write to my father again . . .’

‘If you wish. But let’s eat and enjoy our evening and talk no more about money.’

He threaded his fingers through hers and his eyes fell heavily upon her. ‘I cannot wait to make love to you,’ he said with a smile that snatched her breath. ‘You are a
beautiful woman and you are soon to be mine. I will take my time and explore every inch of you.’ He lowered his voice and leant closer. ‘And when I am finished, I will do it all over
again.’ And Bridie fell dreamily into his gaze and thought that she would buy him the world, he only had to ask.

In May the spring sunshine brought the fruit trees into blossom and warm breezes carried their pink and white petals through the streets like confetti. Yet, in spite of the change of season, the
mood in the city was desperate. With growing unemployment and poverty, the atmosphere was sombre, anxious and simmering with anger. However, the Great Depression hadn’t reached the
Reynoldses’ house in Southampton. On the first Saturday of the month the road to their house was congested with chauffeur-driven Cadillacs, Chryslers and Bugattis bringing the grand and
celebrated guests to the wedding. Among them were Beaumont and Elaine Williams, the only true friends Bridie had in New York. Everyone else was glitter and sparkle – people she knew would
melt away at the first sign of her decline. But she didn’t care, for today she was marrying the man she loved.

She wrote a brief letter to tell her family that she was marrying again but omitted to mention his aristocratic title. She didn’t want them assuming that she had married him just for that.
She posted the letter then forgot all about them. She was so detached from her old life that she barely gave them a thought. Distance didn’t dim her memory, infatuation did. While she was in
Count Cesare’s brilliance the shadows of her past could not reach her. Dressed in an ivory Chanel dress, covered in pearls and beads and sparkling in the sunlight, she walked down the aisle
of white roses to where the manifestation of all her dreams stood waiting to take possession of her. Mr Williams stood in for her father and handed her to the Count, while Elaine walked ahead as
her maid of honour. Marigold sat at the front, satisfied that all the most prominent writers, actors and socialites from New York were there. But Bridie saw only Cesare. She took his outstretched
hand and stepped in beside him. The priest read the vows, which they both repeated, and then it was over and the party began. Everyone drank champagne and ate from the bountiful feast and danced
beneath the flower moon that rose over Long Island, pink in the light of the setting sun.

Cesare held his bride and bent his head to kiss her. The celebrations continued around them but they were a small island, rising out of the revellers who seemed to have forgotten that the party
had anything to do with them. ‘My darling wife,’ he said softly. ‘You are now Contessa di Marcantonio, wife of Conte Cesare di Marcantonio who is descended from the family of Pope
Urban VIII, Maffeo Barberini. The Barberini family coat of arms is three bees. I would like you to wear
this
, because now
you
are a Barberini too and I want the world to know
it.’ He opened his hand to reveal a small gold bee brooch. Bridie gazed at it in awe. The magnitude of this man’s ancestry made her light-headed and she swayed. Cesare slipped his
fingers beneath the fabric of her dress, just beneath her collarbone, and attached the bee. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, leaving his fingers resting against her skin. Bridie saw from the way
he was looking at her that he cherished her. She understood from the sleepy look in his eyes that he wanted her.

They crept away as soon as they could and closed the bedroom door behind them. The room was semi-dark, the sound of music muted by the closed windows and curtains, the air thick with the sweet
smell of narcissi that Marigold had put in their room for their wedding night. Gently Cesare unhooked the back of her dress until it floated down her body, landing in a silky puddle at her feet.
Bridie stood in her slip and panties, the sheen of her bare skin standing out against the silk of her lingerie. He caressed her shoulders with a light touch, then her neck, then her face, reaching
behind her head to unpin her hair, scrunching it in his hands as it was released in glossy waves to fall about her body. She trembled as he lifted her slip and pulled down her panties. She stood
naked before him and he admired her with lustful eyes.

Bridie had enjoyed many men, some of them had given her satisfaction while others had been a disappointment, but Cesare took the time to pleasure her in a way that none of her lovers ever had
– and he knew things that made even Bridie, with her unabashed approach to sexual gratification, blush. True to his word he explored every inch of her body, and when he was finished, he went
over it once more. He brought Bridie to great heights of exultation. She moaned and murmured, sighed and finally wept as she discovered a carnal heaven made possible by her skilful and masterful
lover.

If Cesare felt emasculated by Bridie’s money he didn’t show it. On the contrary, he lived up to his name conquering her like a sexual Julius Caesar. He was as masterful in the
bedroom as any man could be. The new Countess di Marcantonio relinquished control and let him take her by the hand, and
that
gave her the most exquisite pleasure of all.

Connecticut

When Pam Wallace discovered that she was pregnant in the summer of 1927 she went straight to church, threw herself on her knees and thanked God for his divine intervention, for
surely such a miracle, longed for and yet so elusive, had come directly from Him. She wept with joy, vowed to show her thanks with acts of charity and kindness (and never say a mean thing about
anyone ever again), then hurried home to tell her husband the wonderful news.

Martha didn’t know what all the fuss was about. It was as if something extraordinary had happened. Something
otherworldly
. Suddenly her mother was treated as if she was so fragile
that any sudden movement might break her. She glided about the house slowly, like an invalid, but one enormously satisfied with her sickness. She moved from table to chair, chair to stair, stair to
door, making sure that her hand always had somewhere to settle in order to steady herself, just in case she tripped, and everyone did everything for her, telling her over and over again to rest
‘for the baby’. Larry bought her flowers and jewellery in pretty red boxes, and even her father, Raymond Tobin, visited, armed with gifts, offering reconciliation. The whole house smelt
like a florist’s, which excited Martha far more than the thought of a baby because she adored flowers. She hovered over the petals like a bee drunk on nectar, marvelling at the vibrant
colours and inhaling the sweet perfume. Everyone patted her on the head and told her how lucky she was to be getting a little brother or sister and Martha secretly hoped that the baby would stay
inside her mama’s tummy forever, because she was very happy on her own.

The only member of the family who took the news badly, as if it were a personal affront, was Joan, who had relished the fact that Pam’s child was adopted and by consequence
‘strange’. Now her sister-in-law was going to give birth to a genuine Wallace Joan’s competitiveness made her irritable. ‘I wonder if Martha will be Ma’s favourite
grandchild after Pam’s baby is born,’ she said to Dorothy as they wandered around a fashionable boutique, browsing the summer dresses.

‘I’m afraid I think Martha will be all but ignored once the baby arrives, poor darling,’ Dorothy replied. ‘Ted is a tribal man, for him blood is thicker than
everything,
and Diana will dote on the new arrival, because to have her own child is what Pam has wanted from the very beginning.’

She has always had everything she wants,
Joan thought sourly.
How galling that she’s now going to get
this. Joan pulled a crimson dress off the rail and stood in front of
the long mirror, holding it against her. ‘I have nothing against Martha. She’s a child and she’s very . . . sweet.’ It took some effort to utter the word
‘sweet’. ‘I hope it’s a boy. All men want sons and Larry’s no different from anyone else. He’ll be terribly disappointed if it’s a girl.’ She cocked
her head. ‘What do you think?’

‘That colour looks stunning,’ Dorothy gushed. ‘Why don’t you try it on?’

‘You don’t think it clashes with my hair? I don’t usually wear red.’

‘Oh Joan, you can get away with anything.’

‘That
is
true, of course. You don’t think Pam will see me in it and want one too. Crimson is a better colour for her and I don’t want her showing me up.’

‘Really, Joan, you are infinitely more stylish than Pam. You know what they say about copying?’

‘That it’s the greatest form of flattery.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’m not flattered, just bored. I’ve endured years of having her echoing my every fashion
choice.’ She smiled with satisfaction. ‘At least she’ll be in maternity dresses for the foreseeable future!’

Martha did not feel ignored during her mother’s pregnancy because Pam was careful to include her daughter in every stage of the baby’s growth. She encouraged Martha to put her hand
on her belly to feel the baby moving inside. She reassured her that when babies come into the world they bring their own love with them so that there is always plenty to go round. ‘I
won’t love you less because I love this child,’ she told her. ‘I’ll just have double the amount of love.’ Although Martha was too young to be conscious of her
emotions, she began to feel secure in her mother’s liking. For the first time in her life her mother’s eye was not full of scrutiny and apprehension and the sucking in of her affection
faded into an unpleasant memory so that, over the months before the baby was born, Martha ceased to look out for it.

Mrs Goodwin noticed Martha’s growing confidence. She was like a spring bud that had just begun to open, revealing the delicate pink and white petals inside. The atmosphere in the house
became light and soft, like early evening sunshine. Pam was happy all the time. She lay on a day bed in the conservatory reading books and magazines and talking on the telephone to her friends.
Ladies came to visit and drank iced tea. They shared the gossip and listened to Pam’s plans for the decoration of the new baby’s nursery. Martha was brought in like a little show pony
and the women admired her floral frocks and commented on how much she had grown. Mrs Goodwin was relieved that the business of Martha’s imaginary friends was forgotten. It seemed that Martha
had forgotten them too. She had not mentioned them since seeing the doctor and when she played in the garden on her own she no longer talked to herself or tried to catch invisible things that
apparently flew about the flower beds. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to suffer from their absence.