Daughters of Castle Deverill (36 page)

Adeline watched her go. ‘Ireland is calling you home, my child,’ she said, but her voice was a whisper that was lost on the wind. ‘Ireland is where you belong and where you
shall one day be. Love binds you to it and will eventually carry you there. I have all the time in the world to see that it is done.’

Ballinakelly, 1930

Mrs Doyle sat in her usual rocking chair beside the hearth while the hunched and wizened figure of her mother, Old Mrs Nagle, was barely noticeable in the chair opposite. Now
in her late seventies and almost blind, the elderly lady toyed with her rosary beads and mumbled prayers through toothless gums while she shrank a little further into the black dress that almost
swamped her. Michael stood in the middle of the room, filling it with his physical bulk. In his hands he held a letter. He glanced at Sean and his pregnant wife Rosetta who sat at the table,
waiting to hear Bridie’s news from America, then returned his black eyes to the letter and began to read.

Michael lifted his gaze from the page and swept it over the astonished faces of his family. Mrs Doyle was dabbing her eye with a handkerchief, Old Mrs Nagle had ceased to pray and suspended her
thumb above the beads while Sean glanced at his wife and there passed between them a silent communication that is the fancy of young married couples. ‘Marrying for the second time.
She’s done well for herself,’ said Michael. He folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. ‘Indeed God has been gracious. We have much to be thankful for.’

Mrs Doyle pushed the handkerchief up her sleeve and smiled. ‘God has indeed been gracious, Michael. I never did think Bridie would amount to much, but as God is my witness, I admit I was
wrong. We have much to thank her for,’ she said, thinking of her mangle and the other small improvements that had eased the burden of her work and worry.

To be sure Bridie had improved their lives immeasurably. In spite of Old Mrs Nagle’s protestations, when Michael had returned from Mount Melleray he had set about using his sister’s
money as she had intended. He bought the land he rented from the Deverills, purchased more cows, repaired and extended the farmhouse and farm buildings and acquired a car – he even employed a
few young lads to help with the business. Having repented of his sins and vowed to lead a pious life he was careful not to descend into extravagance and imprudence. He donated money to the church,
which pleased Father Quinn and earned him the chairmanship of the Society of St Vincent de Paul, which was a large Catholic charity set up to help the poor. He was careful not to flaunt his new
prosperity but the townspeople mocked him behind his back for his sanctimonious vanity and nicknamed him ‘the Pope’. The Doyles never wanted for anything, although their requirements
were modest. There was always food on the table, there were always clothes on their backs and the house was sealed against the cold winter winds.

‘She says she’s coming home,’ said Rosetta quietly, edging closer to her husband. It had been five years since she had married Sean, and almost as many years since Michael had
returned from Mount Melleray, but Rosetta still found her brother-in-law intimidating. His presence was enormous and, even though he had become a man of God, bent on doing good,
Ballinakelly’s own pope emanated a dark and powerful energy.

‘And what is an American to find in Ballinakelly?’ Mrs Doyle asked, rocking gently on her chair, content now that Michael, whom she admired as much as she had admired his father, had
given Bridie his blessing.

‘I should like to meet him,’ said Sean.

‘I long to see her again,’ agreed Rosetta. She remembered her friend ‘Bridget’ whom she had met in New York when they were both lowly maids sharing their days off on the
benches in Central Park. How far she had travelled, she mused with admiration. Rosetta looked at Bridie’s grandmother and wondered whether she’d live to see her granddaughter again. She
didn’t think of her own family in America nor dare to speculate on the chances of ever seeing
them
again, nor did she think of her two small children who might never know their
Italian grandparents. ‘She is the wife of a gentleman now,’ she added quietly. ‘A grand lady.’

‘A grand lady!’ repeated Mrs Doyle disapprovingly. ‘God save us.’

‘I should like to meet her gentleman,’ said Old Mrs Nagle and they all stared at her in surprise for she didn’t say much these days. The elderly lady’s lips curled around
her gums as she smiled. ‘My granddaughter married for the second time! Sacred heart of Jesus. What would Tomas have said, Mariah, about her wealth and her second marriage?’ she asked
her daughter. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘He’d have thought she’d got above herself, that’s what,’ Mrs Doyle replied, lifting her chin, but she couldn’t disguise the pride that smouldered in her
eyes. ‘The Lord looks on us all with one loving gaze, kings and peasants alike. Indeed Bridie is no better for being wealthy or for being the wife of a gentleman. In truth she would have led
a more godly life if she had remained here with us. Who knows what kind of life she is living over the water.’ She began to snivel again and pulled the handkerchief out of her sleeve with a
trembling hand.

‘But she writes that she is going to come back,’ said Rosetta hopefully.

Michael settled his imposing gaze on his sister-in-law and watched her wince. ‘She will never come back,’ he said firmly. ‘There is nothing for her here.’

Michael put on his cap and ducked beneath the doorframe, stepping into the sunshine. Summer had turned the grass a rich green and his cows grazed contentedly, growing fat on the wild flowers
that flourished on the hillside. He put his hands in his pockets and thought of Bridie. He remembered her in Dublin, her belly swollen and her mouth full of lies about being raped by Mr Deverill.
He remembered bringing her child home from the convent, not before he had corrupted one of the nuns who aided him with his plan. He had placed the boy on Kitty’s doorstep with a note and she
had done what he was confident she would do: remain in Ireland. The baby had tied her to her home because he was a Deverill and he belonged in Ballinakelly, as
she
did. Michael had ensured
that Jack was arrested by making a deal with the Auxiliaries – his freedom for Jack’s capture – and Kitty had fled to London but she had come back as he knew she would. Now his
rival had settled in America, for good. Jack had gone forever and Michael would never again have to endure the sight of the man Kitty had loved so fiercely. Kitty and JP were in Ballinakelly just
as he had planned. He had counted on her indissoluble bond with Ireland and her strong maternal instinct and been proved right; Kitty was exactly where he wanted her.

His mind turned sharply to the time he had taken her in the farmhouse and the remorse came in such a powerful swell that he had to sit down. She had tempted him,
that
much was clear,
and he had sinned. He had duly confessed to the rape to Father Quinn and been forgiven, and devoted himself to God’s work. He had tried to keep his eye on the Lord so his thoughts
didn’t stray to Kitty Deverill, but despite all his efforts, that girl still had the power to touch him.

He plucked a head of purple heather and twirled it between his fingers.
Kitty Deverill
. The name was like a thorny rose: beautiful but capable of causing terrible pain. How he loved
Kitty Deverill. He did his best to avoid her these days because the look on her face when she saw him was a stab to the heart. He had burned the castle because of the lie Bridie had told him and
his anger and jealousy had driven him to do something unspeakable. But he had faced up to his sins at Mount Melleray and God had forgiven him. He was a different man now; a man of the Church. He
wanted Kitty to know that. He wanted her forgiveness too.

Grace, dressed in a hat pulled low over her face, hurried up the path that led to the Catholic church of All Saints. The sunshine warmed the grey stone walls of the ancient
building which had been at the very centre of the Irish struggle for independence. She remembered the meetings held in the sacristy and the plans she had concocted with Michael Doyle and Father
Quinn. She had thrived on the thrill of danger which had ultimately led to the killing of Colonel Manley on the Dunashee Road. That danger had thrown her into Michael’s arms. She would never
forget the violent excitement of that night, as Michael and she had torn at each other’s clothes like wild animals. Now she was advancing up that familiar path but the danger she was about to
face was of a very different kind.

She found Father Quinn at the back of the church, talking to a young altar boy. When he saw her he dismissed the child with a wave of his hand. ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton, please, come with
me,’ he said, his feet stepping noiselessly across the flagstones. They walked through a low door and into the sacristy which contained a wooden armoire for the priest’s vestments, a
small ceramic piscina, a large wooden table upon which stood elaborate silver candlesticks, fine candles, books and other sacred vessels. On the walls were religious paintings and a marble
sculpture of Christ on the cross which hadn’t been there the last time Grace had visited. She could see that Bridie’s money had been well spent in embellishing God’s house.

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap. ‘This is quite a different church to the one in which we used to meet during the war,’ she said.

‘It has been furnished by the devout,’ Father Quinn replied. ‘Indeed it is their moral duty to dig deep into their pockets when the Lord has been generous enough to fill
them.’

‘You are so right,’ Grace replied. She wasn’t here to receive a homily about morality.

‘Those days are over, thank the Lord,’ said Father Quinn. ‘Your help during those years was invaluable. In fact, without you and Miss Deverill, we would not have been as
effective. The Irish people will never know how much they owe their freedom to you.’

‘Life is quiet and peaceful now,’ said Grace with a smile that hid her regret. She had never felt more alive than during the War of Independence. ‘It has given me time to look
into my soul, Father Quinn.’

He raised his badger eyebrows in surprise. ‘Indeed?’

‘I feel a great longing . . .’ She hesitated and lowered her eyelashes. ‘I’m ashamed to say it. My husband would divorce me. My children would be appalled.
In fact, everyone I know would gasp in horror, but . . .’

‘But?’ Father Quinn, who had taken the chair opposite, leaned forward.

‘I wish to convert to Catholicism.’

His face flushed with pleasure. There was nothing more thrilling for the priest than a possible convert. ‘I cannot pretend that I am not astonished by your revelation, Lady
Rowan-Hampton.’

‘I know. But I have felt this longing for many years now. Do you remember the days when I taught English to the children and plotted with their fathers?’

‘I do indeed,’ said the priest.

‘And the many times I met with Fenians in Dublin?’

‘Of course.’

‘I became one of them, Father Quinn.’ Her eyes took on a feverish shimmer as she held his attention and the apples of her cheeks glowed pink. ‘I helped feed the poor with Lady
Deverill and collected second-hand clothes and shoes for the children. I wanted to alleviate the poverty. I wanted to educate them, to give them the opportunity of a better life. I wanted to change
things. But I also felt that I was one of them, Father Quinn. I can’t find the words to describe what I felt in my heart. It was some sort of connection, I suppose. A deep and powerful
connection. And then I knew it was more than a sense of patriotism. It was a religious conviction. I wanted to be Catholic’ Father Quinn was listening with fascination, his head nodding and
shaking with encouragement, not wanting her to stop. ‘It was like a thorn in my heart, Father. It niggled and hurt and every time I sat in church I felt out of place, as if I was an outsider.
But I couldn’t tell anyone. I had to keep my feelings hidden. Then the war was over and peace restored and I had time to think, to search my soul. I knew that if I didn’t express my
desire I would go mad.’

‘So, you have made a decision?’

‘Yes, Father Quinn. I want full Catholic communion and I want you to officiate, because I can trust you to be discreet. No one must ever find out about this.’

‘As you wish.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘As you are already Christian it need not take long.’

There Grace interrupted him. ‘Father Quinn, I do not want to rush this. It is not a decision I have made lightly. I want to take my time and I want to enjoy the process. I have waited
years for this moment.’

‘As you wish.’

‘And because of the delicate nature of my situation, I am unable to mix with the Catholic community here in Ballinakelly. I am, however, in need of support and guidance within the
community, am I not?’

‘Is there anyone you trust, Lady Rowan-Hampton?’

She hesitated and narrowed her eyes, as if searching through names of people she knew. ‘Mrs Doyle,’ she said at last. ‘Lady Deverill used to speak very highly of her when she
worked at the castle. I know she is a pious woman and a discreet one too. When I think of what must have gone on in her farmhouse during those tumultuous years and she never breathed a
word.’

Father Quinn raised his eyebrows again. ‘That is a fine choice. Mrs Doyle is the most devout of my congregation and as you know Michael is a reformed man. They are an exemplary
family.’