Daughters of Castle Deverill (40 page)

When Beatrice was told the news of Digby’s death she was overcome with grief. Once before she had clawed herself back from the brink of hopelessness, but she knew she
didn’t have the inner reserves to do that again. Digby had been her sails and her rudder and the captain at the helm; now he was gone life was a wild and lonely ocean that threatened to
consume her. She withdrew to her bedroom and took to her bed where she remained in semi-darkness, afraid of facing the world without him. Death would be preferable to living, she thought bleakly as
she lay curled up beneath the quilt, and the velvet-black allure of oblivion called to her in whispers promising sanctuary in silence.

Celia was devastated and bewildered by such a great loss, coming as it did so soon after Archie’s suicide. Her father had been as solid as the ground beneath her feet; dependable,
unshakeable, immortal. It was impossible to imagine her world without him in it. How would she get by? She had never had to think for herself. Her husband and her father had taken care of
everything. She had never looked at a bill or even spoken to her bank manager – and if she had ever had a problem one of those two capable men had sorted it out for her. To whom could she
turn now? Celia had no one. She dug deep to find her inner strength and found nothing but weakness.

Boysie and Harry took their wives back to London, aware that the two women would only irritate Celia and conscious of the fact that the family needed to be together. Celia enveloped them with
needy arms and copious tears, promising to let them know when the funeral would be. She waved forlornly on the steps as the taxi motored down the drive.

‘Death stalks the Deverills like a relentless predator,’ said Boysie grimly as Celia’s small figure receded and finally disappeared as they turned out into the lane.

‘It certainly seems so,’ Harry replied.

‘Do your best to elude him, old boy,’ Boysie added under his breath.

‘If a man as indomitable as Cousin Digby yields so readily what hope is there for the rest of us?’

Celia grieved with her sisters, Leona and Vivien. Tragedy brought them closer as only tragedy can. They moved into Deverill Rising to help Celia look after their mother and Celia was grateful;
her mother’s collapse had been almost as shocking as her father’s death and she was relieved that she didn’t have to cope with it on her own. During the week that followed the
sisters reminisced about the old days when they had been children, shedding tears of both joy and sorrow as they remembered their father, his ostentatious and oftentimes gaudy attire and his
irrepressible spirit. Digby had been a man whose glass was always overflowing. They remembered too their brother George, when he had been a little boy following Harry around Castle Deverill like a
loyal dog, and they all longed to be transported back to those summers in Ballinakelly before the Great War and the War of Independence had swept them away. They took long walks over the Wiltshire
hills, finding solace in the peaceful serenity of nature, comfort in their memories and strength in each other.

Augusta did not die then as everyone, particularly she herself, was sure she would. In the great British tradition she stiffened her jaw, lifted her chin and refused to let her son’s death
get the better of her. She accepted condolences with fortitude – she knew that if she gave in to sorrow she might never again recover her composure – and she clung to her religion,
putting her faith in God and giving up any resistance to what is. ‘Acceptance is the only way,’ she told Maud, who paid her a visit as soon as she heard the terrible news. ‘Stoke
will go now, I’m sure of it. He cannot accept that Digby is gone and therein lies the folly. It is through acceptance that one finds peace. Digby’s time was up and God has gathered him
into His keeping. There’s no point fighting it; God won’t send him back. One has to accept,
that’s
the key.’ Maud had always found Augusta trying, but she had to
admire her philosophy. She wondered, though, whether the old lady let go of her control in private. The red rims around her eyes, which one might have assumed were simply the signs of her great
age, told Maud that she did.

The funeral took place in the village church a few miles from Deverill Rising. It was a small, family affair. Bertie, Kitty and Robert, Elspeth and Peter and the Shrubs came
from Ireland while Augusta and Stoke, Maud and Victoria travelled down from London with Boysie and Harry and their wives. Digby’s two brothers came with their spouses and some of their
children, but the jealousy that had seeped poison into their hearts when Digby had made his fortune in South Africa still prevented reconciliation, even in the event of their brother’s death,
and they left as soon as the service was over.

Beatrice, helped by her strong sons-in-law who took an arm each, was escorted to the church then straight back home again where she retreated once more to her bed. She didn’t feel up to
speaking to anyone. One more word of condolence and she would break like a flimsy raft on a wave. Sobbing quietly into her pillow, she allowed the effects of the cannabis tea Kitty had brought from
Ireland to pull her under where it was still, cool and quiet.

‘Hello, Maud,’ said Bertie, approaching his estranged wife with caution as they gathered outside the church.

But she smiled sympathetically and he saw that her icy eyes had thawed a little more since they had met at Christmas. ‘Why is it that we are always brought together by tragedy?’ she
asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Bertie replied. ‘We’ve had rather a lot of it lately, haven’t we?’

‘Poor Beatrice, how she must be suffering.’ Bertie was astonished. For once Maud was not thinking of herself. ‘I remember when she lost George. I didn’t think she’d
ever recover, but somehow she pulled herself back from the edge. Now I fear she has toppled over it.’

‘It was so sudden and unexpected. He was only sixty-five.’

Maud’s eyes shone suddenly and a shadow of fear passed across them, or perhaps it was just the reflection of the clouds. ‘Death could come to us at any moment. Never before have I
felt so keenly a sense of my own mortality. If Digby . . .’ She caught her breath. ‘If Digby, so strong and powerful . . . If
he
 . . .’ Her voice thinned. Bertie put a hand on her arm. She didn’t shrug it off, but gazed at him with a benign expression softening the chiselled contours of
her face.

‘One has to seize the day, Maud,’ he said, suddenly remembering with a jolt the time Digby had shouted to him as he was on the point of perishing in the sea, demanding that he choose
between life and death. ‘Digby saved my life,’ he said quietly.

‘He did?’ said Maud.

‘Yes. If it wasn’t for Digby I would have drowned myself in a bottle of whiskey.’

‘Oh Bertie,’ she gasped.

‘I chose life. I pulled myself together. I vowed never to waste my God-given existence again.’

Maud wiped away a tear with her glove. ‘I did wonder.’

‘Did you?’ he asked, feeling his spirits soar with something close to happiness.

She nodded. ‘I did, Bertie, and I was pleased to see the man I married again.’

‘Had he really gone so very far away?’ She nodded again. ‘Perhaps we can reach a time in our lives when we can let bygones be bygones,’ he ventured.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, afraid to step back into a place which had been so dark. ‘Perhaps.’

Kitty watched her parents talking in the sunshine and wondered what they had to say to each other. As far as she knew, Maud was still being escorted round the London party circuit by Arthur
Arlington. ‘We’re going back to the house for a cup of tea,’ said Hazel, tapping Kitty on the shoulder. ‘Are you going to come with us?’

‘I could do with something stronger than tea,’ said Kitty, searching the faces for Robert’s. She saw him talking to Bruce and Tarquin and presumed that he would hitch a lift
with them. ‘I’ll wait for Harry and Boysie,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk you to your taxi.’

‘Do you remember Adeline’s cannabis tea?’ Laurel asked as they walked down the path.

‘Do I ever!’ said Hazel.

‘If we
all
drank it
all
of the time wouldn’t we be the happier for it?’ Laurel said.

‘Life would pass us by,’ said Kitty. ‘As pleasant as that would sometimes be, I think we are all the better for our suffering. It drives us deeper, makes us more compassionate
towards others. What selfish beings we would be if we were untouched by sorrow.’

Hazel frowned. ‘You sound just like Adeline,’ she said.

Kitty smiled. ‘Do I?’ She watched the Shrubs climb into the back of the cab. ‘She’s here, you know,’ she said with certainty. ‘I’m sure she’s seen
to it that Digby has found his way home.’

Celia watched the cab motor off and then swept her eyes over the sombre faces of the locals who had come out to pay their respects. The men stood with their hats in their hands while the women,
some with small children, looked on with sympathetic faces. Among them was an old man who caught her attention on account of the fact that he hadn’t removed his hat. His cadaverous face had
none of the compassion or sorrow of the others; rather it had a cold, defiant expression which offended her. The man noticed that she was watching him and narrowed his eyes with contempt. He looked
right at her as if his intention was to intimidate, and Celia, shocked by his visible wrath, and bewildered by it, turned away sharply and went to find Boysie and Harry. When she found them the
unpleasant man swiftly slipped from her mind.

Having made sure, even in her grief, that Charlotte and Deirdre had gone with Maud and Augusta, Celia returned to the house with Harry and Boysie. ‘Do you know what Papa’s last words
to me were?’ she said, staring down at her black gloves as the car rattled up the road. The boys shook their heads. ‘“Burn my letters,” ’ she told them solemnly.
‘That’s the last thing he said. It’s been bothering me, but do you think he had a mistress? I mean, I’d be naïve to believe he didn’t entertain himself here and
there, but do you think he loved somebody else?’

Harry caught Boysie’s eye but Boysie knew better than to add to Celia’s unhappiness by speaking his mind. ‘No, I don’t imagine he did,’ said Boysie. ‘He loved
your mama. That was very clear.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘So, are you going to burn them?’ Harry asked.

‘I don’t know where they are.’ She laughed helplessly.

‘You could start by looking in his study.’

‘If he has a safe I wouldn’t have a clue of the code. I’m not about to break in, you know.’ She sighed. ‘If
you
were to keep love letters, where would
you
hide them?’ She looked at Boysie and then at Harry and the world seemed to still for a long-drawn-out moment. She saw the two young men as if from a distance and from that fresh
perspective she suddenly experienced a moment of clarity. Why had she never thought of it before, she wondered. It seemed so obvious now. Harry loved Boysie and, judging by the way they were always
inseparable – and by the way Boysie’s face lit up when he was with Harry – Boysie loved Harry back. They probably always had. Everything now made sense. Charlotte’s
grumpiness, the months Harry and Boysie didn’t see each other, the fact that Boysie declined her invitation to Castle Deverill and stopped attending her mother’s Salons. The two of them
looked more of a couple than they did with their wives. She dropped her gaze, afraid that they might see the realization in it and be ashamed. But they had nothing to fear. When it came to love,
she believed
she
loved
them
more than anyone else in the whole world. ‘Don’t answer that,’ she said quickly, vigorously shaking her head. ‘It’s a
silly question. Where does anyone hide anything? In a bottom drawer? Behind a book in the bookcase? Really, they could be anywhere. I’ll start in the obvious places and work my way through
his study, inch by inch.’ She pressed a glove to her mouth and shut her eyes. ‘Oh, I do miss him.’ Both Harry and Boysie put an arm around her and squeezed her tightly.

‘Of course you do, darling,’ said Harry. ‘But you’re not alone.’

‘Lord no,’ Boysie rejoined. ‘You’re never alone. You’ll always have us.’

After the funeral Celia left her mother in the care of her sisters and returned to London with Boysie and Harry. Her father’s last words had been delivered with urgency
– it was her responsibility to see that his final wish was granted.

It felt strange to be in the house on her own. She could hear the reassuring rumble of motor cars down on Kensington High Street and the scuffling sound of the servants who inhabited the top
floor of the building and the hidden recesses behind the green baize door. The street lights bathed the road outside her father’s study window in an amber glow that somehow made her feel less
lonely. She closed the curtains. She could detect the sweetness of her father’s cigars, the rich scent of whiskey and the musty smell of papers, ink and books. Or was she imagining it because
she wanted to feel his presence so badly?

She slumped into his leather chair and ran her eyes over his desk. Digby was not a tidy man. There were books, documents, newspapers and notes strewn across it. He seemed to scrawl comments and
observations on everything. She picked up a letter he had been writing and ran her fingers over the ink. He had flamboyant handwriting, like an artist’s calligraphy. Dreading that it might be
a love letter she held her breath, but it was only a thank-you letter to Lady Fitzherbert for a dinner party he had been to. She sighed helplessly. There were drawers, cupboards and bookcases, full
of her father’s life. Where was she to start looking for these incriminating letters?

Slowly and meticulously she began to rifle through his drawers. No one had tidied them, ever. She smiled as she remembered his continuous battle with her mother. He hadn’t wanted the
servants to invade his private room but she had been adamant that it had needed dusting at the very least. ‘It’ll end up smelling like a hamster cage,’ she had said, to which he
had replied, ‘Hamsters don’t smoke cigars and drink whiskey, my dear, and I’m not opposed to a thin layer of dust.’ At first Celia was careful to lift everything out, piece
by piece, and study it. Attached to each item must be an anecdote she’d never hear, she thought, rubbing her thumb over the surfaces, wondering how her father had come by these things and
what they had meant to him. Old coins, pens, business cards, travel documents, racing cards, menus and other mementoes, all thrown in together. Eventually she lost patience and poured the contents
of the drawers onto the rug.