Daughters of Castle Deverill (38 page)

Harry looked into his wine glass. ‘I don’t know.’

Boysie sighed in that nonchalant way of his and pouted petulantly. ‘I’m not sure I can stand it.’

‘You
have
to stand it,’ Harry said in alarm. ‘It’s all we’re allowed. It’s better than nothing. I couldn’t live with nothing.’

‘After Archie did himself in I’m sure Charlotte has come to realize that.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Would you really kill yourself for me?’ he asked, leaning
across the table, his pretty green eyes melting into Harry’s.

‘I thought about it,’ Harry replied quietly.

‘Don’t ever do it,’ said Boysie. ‘Because
I
don’t have the courage and I certainly couldn’t live without
you.
You won’t go and leave
me on my own, will you?’

Harry smiled. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, that’s settled then. A weight off my shoulders. You know that hotel in Soho is still there. No one would ever know. Not even Charlotte with her spying would know to look
there.’

‘We can’t,’ Harry hissed, glancing anxiously to his left and right for fear of being overheard.

‘You know, Celia has told me that someone has made her an offer to buy the castle, lock, stock and barrel,’ said Boysie, changing the subject because Harry’s reaction to
that
suggestion remained always the same. ‘News travels fast.’

Harry’s eyes widened. ‘When did she tell you?’

‘This morning. She telephoned.’

‘Well? What did she say? Is she going to sell it?’ Harry looked horrified.

‘Of course she’s not going to sell it. She adores it. She’s just going to sell the contents.
Most
of them. I’m sure she’ll keep a bed or two.’

Harry shook his head. ‘It’s desperate. I can’t bear it for her. She’s terribly lonely without Archie.’

‘Darling, she’s lost more than Archie. She’s lost her
joie de vivre.
Her
esprit.
I think we should persuade her to come to London for a while. She needs to
get out, to see people, to remember who she really is.’

‘She shouldn’t be a widow,’ Harry agreed.

‘Unless she’s a
merry
widow. We’ll remind her of her merry side, won’t we, old boy.’

‘God, they were good old times,’ Harry sighed. They began to reminisce wistfully about their lives before Deirdre and Charlotte had stepped in to complicate them.

Presently, Digby walked into the dining room with a great kerfuffle. With his flashing white teeth, his slicked-back blond hair and his diamond shirt studs, he greeted his friends loudly as he
moved through the tables, finding something witty or charming to say to everyone. Harry and Boysie suspended their conversation to watch as he made his way towards them, his flamboyant attire and
vibrant personality creating amusement and comment among the members of this most conventional of clubs.

‘Ah, boys,’ Digby said when he reached their table. ‘At least there is one place in London where we are sure to be free of our wives.’ He laughed without realizing how
true his words were to Boysie and Harry and moved on to where his guests awaited him.

Grace knocked on the door of the Doyle farmhouse. It was the first time she had ever visited for during the War of Independence she and Michael had met either at her house or
Badger Hanratty’s barn in the hills. As she pushed it open her heart accelerated at the thought of seeing Michael, ‘the Pope’, whose piety repulsed her but whose physicality still
thrilled her. She could feel his presence for his energy vibrated strongly, like a strain of music permeating every inch of the farm, and her excitement mounted. She heard a voice and when her eyes
adjusted to the darkness, she saw an elderly woman sitting on a chair by the hearth.

‘Good day,’ said Grace and the elderly woman raised her hooded eyes and her cadaverous face registered surprise. Old Mrs Nagle had not been expecting a lady to step into their humble
dwelling. ‘My name is Lady Rowan-Hampton. I’ve come to see Mrs Doyle.’

A moment later Mrs Doyle appeared at the bottom of the staircase. She stepped into the room, wringing her hands nervously. She was smaller than Grace remembered, her skin as lined as a map, her
round black eyes the same colour as Michael’s. She nodded curtly. ‘Good morning, milady,’ she said.

‘Father Quinn . . .’ Grace began a little anxiously. She didn’t want anyone to know that she was here, besides Michael, of course.
That
was the reason
she had come, after all.

‘Oh, Father Quinn, yes, he did emphasize discretion. You can be sure that Mam and I won’t breathe a word, so help me God.’ She looked unsure of what to do next, then
remembering her manners she offered Grace a seat at the table. ‘Would you like tea, milady? The kettle is hot.’

‘Thank you. That would be lovely,’ said Grace, sitting down. She could smell Michael, as if he had only a moment ago stood before her, dwarfing the room with his wide shoulders and
powerful authority. She wondered where he had gone and whether he’d be coming back soon. She didn’t know how long she could sustain talking to his mother about God.

Mrs Doyle placed a basin of tea and a plate of currant soda bread on the table in front of her and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. She waited for Grace to begin. Grace wrenched her
thoughts away from Michael and tried to concentrate on the charade. She had no wish to convert to Catholicism, but if that’s what it took to win Michael’s heart she’d go the whole
way and beyond.

‘As Father Quinn will have told you, I would like to become a Catholic,’ she said. ‘This will be against the wishes of my family, but I feel I am being called, Mrs Doyle, and I
want to answer that call.’

‘So, how can I help you?’ Mrs Doyle asked with a frown.

‘I want to know what it means to live a Catholic life. Father Quinn suggested
you
as a role model. You are a good Catholic, Mrs Doyle. I would like you to set me an
example.’

Mrs Doyle’s face relaxed when she realized
that
was all that was expected of her. She certainly believed herself to be a good Catholic and was happy to tell Lady Rowan-Hampton how
she lived a pious life. ‘Shall I—’ Mrs Doyle began but Grace interrupted.

‘Tell me about your life from the beginning, yes, that would be most interesting. What was it like growing up a Catholic?’ Mrs Doyle began to reminisce and Grace’s mind
wandered through the house in search of Michael. Old Mrs Nagle had fallen asleep in her chair and her head had slumped forward like a rag doll’s. A dribble escaped one corner of her mouth and
ran down the grey hairs of her chin, dropping onto the loose fabric about her scrawny chest. Mrs Doyle warmed to her subject. She spoke of the angelus, her daily prayers, the rosary, Mass and the
little things she did every day that were all part of her devotion. Grace listened with half an ear, nodding when appropriate. With one eye on the door she let Mrs Doyle talk on, silently willing
that door to open and Michael to stride in.

When Mrs Doyle finally drew breath Grace had finished her tea. The room had grown a little darker and Old Mrs Nagle had woken herself up with a snort. Grace realized that she couldn’t stay
any longer. She didn’t think she could endure a minute more of Mrs Doyle’s flat voice and her piety. Then the door was flung open and she knew it was Michael even before she saw him.
She pushed out her chair and jumped to her feet, forgetting for a moment that Old Mrs Nagle and Mrs Doyle were watching her with fascination, as if she were a rare bird that had chosen to mingle
with geese.

Michael stared at her in surprise. He had seen her car parked outside and wondered what the devil she was doing in his house. Had she gone mad? ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said and his
tone demanded an explanation.

Grace smiled sweetly. ‘Hello, Mr Doyle.’ She relished holding him in suspense for a moment.

He looked at his mother, who had now pushed herself to her feet. ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton and I have much to talk about,’ she said and, true to her word, she was careful to be
discreet.

‘About what?’ he asked.

‘Would you like tea?’ she said, making for the fireplace. ‘I will boil the kettle.’

‘I must be going,’ said Grace. Her mood had lifted considerably. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Doyle. I really appreciate your time. Might we perhaps be able to meet
again?’

‘As you wish,’ said Mrs Doyle, flattered. She had enjoyed talking about herself to someone who listened with such concentration.

Michael was perplexed. ‘I will escort you to your car, Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said, opening the door. Grace walked past him with her chin up, a gratified smile curling the corners
of her lips.

Outside, the sun was on the wane. The tweeting of birds filled the air with the sound of summer. A light breeze drifted in over the cliffs. Michael turned to her, his face cast in shadow.
‘What’s going on, Grace?’

‘I’m converting to Catholicism,’ she stated simply.

Michael scowled. ‘The devil you are,’ he replied.

‘Oh, I am,’ she insisted with a smile. ‘Your mother is helping me along my spiritual path. Father Quinn suggested I come and talk to her. She’s an inspiring
woman.’

‘You’re not going to convert to Catholicism. Sir Ronald would divorce you.’

‘Ronald won’t know,’ she said breezily. ‘As you’re well aware we lead very separate lives. That suited you once.’

He pulled a sympathetic face. ‘What’s this all about, Grace?’ he asked gently.

‘It has nothing to do with you, Michael. I have moved on. You can rest assured that I will not be the temptress who diverts you from your path. I respect your devoutness. In fact, I admire
it.’ She lowered her eyes demurely and hesitated, as if struggling to find the words. ‘I have done things in my life of which I am deeply ashamed,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘I want to make peace with God. I want to ask forgiveness and I want to lead a better life. What we had was intense and I wouldn’t go back and change it for all the world. But
I’ve started another chapter. The old one is closed, forever.’ She walked to her car. ‘It’s been nice seeing you.
Really
nice. I hope we can be friends,
Michael.’

He nodded, but his knitted eyebrows exposed his bewilderment. He watched her open the door and climb inside. Then she lifted her hand and gave a small wave as she set off up the track.

She looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him watching her, the frown still etched on his forehead, and she smiled, satisfied with her plan and excited by the thrill of a new plot.

It was hard persuading Celia to return to London for a break, but Boysie and Harry were adamant that she should not be alone at the time she needed her friends the most. She
protested that she had Kitty and Bertie on her doorstep and the Shrubs made it their business to visit her every day with cake soaked in whiskey. ‘That should be reason enough to bolt for the
mainland,’ Boysie had said and Celia had laughed and finally relented.

She arrived in London at the beginning of July and Beatrice made a great fuss of her. She put fresh flowers in her bedroom and arranged lunches with her dearest friends. She knew that her
daughter would not feel up to going out into society, but the company of those she loved the most would be balm to her ailing spirit. Even Leona and Vivien were kind and no one mentioned
Archie’s suicide or asked whether she would have to sell Castle Deverill. Celia knew they were all burning with questions but was grateful for their tact and restraint. That is, until Augusta
invited herself for tea.

Celia’s grandmother arrived in a shiny black Bentley with a long thin nose and big round headlights that flared like nostrils. It drew up outside the house on Kensington Palace Gardens and
came to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up to the grand entrance. Augusta waited for the chauffeur to open her door and offer her his hand, then she descended slowly, ducking her head
sufficiently so as not to squash the feathers in her hat. The chauffeur gave her her walking stick, but knew that his mistress would not take kindly to being helped up the steps. ‘I’m
not decrepit yet,’ she would say dismissively, shrugging him off.

Looking like a Victorian lady in a long black dress with a high collar buttoned tightly about her neck and her silver hair swept loosely up and fastened beneath her hat she walked past the
butler without a word and found Celia waiting dutifully for her in the hall at the foot of the staircase. Augusta, who had not seen her granddaughter since Archie’s death, pulled her against
her vast bosom and held her in an emotional embrace. ‘My dear child, no one should have to suffer what you have suffered. No one. The indignity of suicide is more than I can bear.’
Celia was relieved when her mother appeared and the three of them went upstairs to the drawing room.

Augusta settled into the sofa and pulled off her gloves, placing them on her disappearing lap. ‘The whole business has been most vexing,’ she said, shaking her head so that the
feathers quivered like a startled moorhen. ‘I mean, what was I to tell my friends? If it hadn’t been all over the newspapers I could have made something up, but as it was I found myself
having to admit that the poor man had hanged himself. Surely, there’s a way to do oneself in without drenching one’s family in shame?’

Beatrice was quick to move the conversation on. They had spent enough time debating the whys and wherefores. ‘It is as it is,’ she said. ‘We have to look forward now and think
of the future.’

‘The silly boy should have swallowed his pride and asked Digby for help. Digby is as rich as Croesus,’ Augusta said, her lips pursing into a smug smile at the thought of her
son’s success. ‘Why, out of all my chicks, Digby is the one who has flown the highest and the furthest. But pride is a terrible thing.’

Beatrice handed her a teacup. ‘I think it was more complicated than that, Augusta,’ she said. Celia caught her mother’s eye and pulled a face while her grandmother was dropping
two sugar lumps into her tea. ‘How is Stoke?’

‘Frail,’ said Augusta. ‘He won’t last long, I’m afraid. I’m surprised when I see he’s still there in the mornings. I’m as frail myself but of
course I hide it.’