Daughters of Castle Deverill (46 page)

There was a short pause that felt like minutes, and the Count’s expression softened with sympathy. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said quietly.

‘Which one?’ Celia replied with a bitter chuckle.

‘It is a terrible thing to lose a father.’

‘And a husband. I lost both,’ she said.

‘And now you are going to lose your home.’ He shook his head and his handsome face creased with compassion. ‘You are a beautiful young woman. If I was not married I would buy
the castle and give it to you.’

Celia laughed. If it wasn’t for his alluring foreign accent
that
would have sounded tasteless. ‘Where is your wife?’ she asked, hoping to curb his flirting.

‘The Countess is in New York. We live there.’

‘Did you, by any chance, make me an offer last summer?’

‘My attorney did on my behalf. Mr Beaumont L. Williams.’

‘Yes, I remember. You must want it very badly.’

‘My wife wants it very badly, Mrs Mayberry. When she heard it was for sale she said she wanted to have it more than anything in the world. So, I will buy it for her, whatever the
cost.’ He cast his gaze around the room. ‘Now I know why she wants it so much. It is very beautiful.’

‘Has she seen it?’

The Count frowned. ‘Of course she has seen it,’ he replied, but he didn’t look very certain. ‘It is a famous castle, no?’

‘It’s been in my family since the seventeenth century. It would break my heart to lose it. After the generations of Deverills who have treasured it, I feel I am letting them down.
I’m the Deverill who will be remembered as having let it go into the hands of strangers.’

‘We will love it, Mrs Mayberry. You can be sure of that.’

‘I have no doubt that you
would
,’ she said softly, still reluctant to accept the fact that the castle had to go.

O’Sullivan entered with the Count’s whiskey followed by Mrs Connell with a fresh pot of tea for Celia. The Count waited for the servants to leave, then he swilled the ice in his
glass and said, ‘I will make you an offer you cannot refuse. I will pay you more than anyone in Europe would pay. You see, the Countess has set her heart on this place and nowhere else will
do. The Countess wants it exactly as it is. She will keep the servants. No one will lose their job because of the sale. Everything will continue seamlessly. She wants it so I shall buy it for
her.’

Celia was perplexed. What had inspired the Countess to want it so badly? ‘Has your wife been here before?’ she asked.

He shrugged and, once again, looked unsure. ‘She has always dreamed of an Irish castle and this one is special,’ he told her. ‘It has a charming history and yet it is fully
modernized. I don’t think that one could say the same for the vast majority of Irish castles.’ He swept his eyes around the room. ‘Irish castles are not worth much on the whole,
but this one is different from the rest. You have made it beautiful, Mrs Mayberry. You see, I am descended from the counts Montblanca and the princes Barberini, the family of Pope Urban VIII, so I
know quality when I see it.’

‘Are you going to come and live here?’

‘Eventually, yes. The Countess is expecting our first child.’ He grinned bashfully. ‘I am going to be a father. I am very happy.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Celia. She envied the Countess her vast wealth and her good fortune. There had been a time not long ago when Celia had been blessed with both those
attributes, before fate had so cruelly snatched them away. ‘Have you undertaken the long voyage from America just to see the castle for yourself?’ Celia’s curiosity was aroused by
this foreign man whose wife wanted the castle so badly, in spite of never having set foot in it. There was something shifty about the whole scenario.

The Count uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and looking up at her from under the glossy hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘I wanted to talk to
you personally, Mrs Mayberry. I also wanted to see the castle for myself, of course. I didn’t want such an important purchase to be done coldly, through my attorney. I sensed that this is a
home, a family home, so I felt it was only polite to talk to you face to face. I understand your reluctance to sell, but I can assure you that we will take good care of it.’

Celia wondered whether he had somehow read the British newspapers, which had been full of her father’s financial demise and the possibility that Celia was going to have to sell the castle.
But there had been no photographs of the castle itself, so how had the Countess come to set her heart so firmly upon it? ‘Shall I show you around, Count di Marcantonio?’ she asked.

‘If you have the time.’

‘I do,’ she said with a sigh, pushing herself up from the fender. ‘I have all the time in the world.’

Celia took him on a tour of the inside first. She showed him the grand rooms, lovingly restored and rebuilt after the fire, and the furniture and paintings she had bought in Italy, which he
particularly loved, being of Italian origin. She told him the history, at least the parts she knew, and he nodded earnestly and listened keenly as if wanting to learn it all by heart. He praised
her style, admired the splendour of the architecture and imagined himself living there, Celia thought, as she watched him running his eager eyes over everything. She thought it odd that a foreigner
with no connection to Ireland should want to move here. The landscape was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but it was cold and damp in winter and wouldn’t they miss the glamour of New
York? She imagined the Countess to be a flamboyant and spoilt Italian woman with a loud voice and brash taste. She saw her striding down the hall in furs and pearls and shouting at the servants.
She had no reason to imagine her so, for the Count was tastefully dressed and had impeccable manners – perhaps her envy was making her mean.

The gardens were bathed in bright spring sunshine. Birds tweeted in the trees whose branches had just begun to turn green with the fresh, phosphorescent brilliance of new leaves. Apple blossom
floated on the wind like snow and seagulls wheeled and cried above them beneath fat balls of fluffy white cloud. It could not have been a more propitious day for the Count to see the castle. It
shone in all its glory and a lump lodged itself in Celia’s throat, for soon it would no longer be her home. Soon, all the love and pleasure she had poured into it would belong to someone
else.

The Count marvelled at the neatly trimmed borders, the recently cut lawn, the flower beds where forget-me-nots and tulips interrupted the emerging green shoots with splashes of blue and red. He
admired the yew hedges and ancient cedar and the giant copper beech that rose up behind the croquet lawn in a rich display of emerging red leaves. They wandered through the vegetable garden and
Celia showed him the greenhouses where she had once played as a little girl. She thought of Kitty then, and her heart gave a painful lurch. No one would suffer more than Kitty at the sale of Castle
Deverill. She suppressed her guilt and tried to keep her attention on the tour and the Count.

Suddenly a shout resounded across the lawn. Celia recognized the voice at once. She turned to see Grace marching across the grass towards her in a pale floral dress. Her hand was holding her hat
to stop it flying off her head into the wind. The Count also turned and Grace’s face flowered into a wide and enchanting smile as she reached them. ‘I’m so sorry, Celia, I thought
your visitor would have left by now,’ she said, tilting her head in that coy, flirtatious way of hers which had won many a heart, and broken just as great a number.

‘I thought you had a cold,’ said Celia.

‘Oh, those Shrubs exaggerate everything. I’m perfectly well.’ She looked at the Count and smiled. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she added, giving him her
hand.

The Count took it and brought it to his lips and bowed. ‘Count Cesare di Marcantonio,’ he said and his words seemed to flow over her in a delicious cascade for she shivered with
delight.

‘È
un grande piacere conoscerlei
,’ she replied and they smiled together as if they had suddenly come to a mutual understanding. Celia watched Grace’s shameless
flirting with admiration. The Count, who had been mildly flirting with Celia, now turned his full attention to Grace and Celia realized, by the comparison, that he hadn’t really been flirting
with her at all. He had recognized a fellow epicurean in Grace.

‘May I introduce Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ said Celia and the Count gave her features a long caress with his heavy green eyes.

‘How lovely to see Castle Deverill on such a day as this!’ Grace continued, catching her breath.

‘We were just saying the same thing,’ said the Count. He chuckled to himself as if surprised by his own luck. ‘Are all the women in Ireland as beautiful as you two
bellissime donne
?’ he said. ‘Because, this is my first time here and I am wondering why no one told me. I would have come sooner.’

‘They are not,’ said Grace with a laugh. ‘I’m afraid you have seen the best West Cork has to offer.’

They began to stroll towards the stable block. ‘Castle Deverill always had the best hunt meets,’ said Grace. ‘And Lord Deverill always had the best hunters. Do you ride, Count
di Marcantonio?’

‘Of course. I play polo. I have many horses in Southampton.’

His reply was deeply satisfying to Grace. ‘What an exciting game polo is.’

‘I grew up in Argentina and there the ponies are the best in the world.’

‘And, as far as I understand, so are the riders,’ said Grace.

‘You are not wrong. But I am much too polite to boast.’ He grinned broadly, showing off a perfect set of gleaming teeth.

‘Oh, you don’t need to be polite in front of us, does he, Celia? We’re not opposed to a little boasting.’

‘Count di Marcantonio is looking to buy the castle, Grace,’ said Celia, hoping that Grace would modify her behaviour accordingly, but she didn’t. Her slanting cat’s eyes
widened and her chest puffed out with ill-concealed excitement that this dashing foreign count was going to come and live at Castle Deverill.

‘I have to first convince Mrs Mayberry that I am a suitable person to take over the responsibility of looking after such a historic castle. It is not only a castle but a much beloved home.
Perhaps you are a good judge of character, Lady Rowan-Hampton, and can help me persuade her.’

‘I will do my best, for the both of you,’ said Grace, but she didn’t once look at Celia. Her eyes lingered on the Count’s. Celia continued to show the Count around
although she would have preferred to leave Grace to do it for her. The two of them chatted away like a pair of teenagers on a date. She wondered whether they realized that the other was married.
She presumed they did and that they didn’t care. The Countess was in America and Sir Ronald, well, Sir Ronald was anywhere but here in Ballinakelly.

At length Celia agreed to consider his offer. But on one condition.

‘Yes?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘There are two houses on the estate which are rented by my cousins, Lord Deverill and his daughter, Kitty Trench. I will only sell the castle if those houses continue to be let to them at
the current rate. In fact, I will have it included in the documentation that the Hunting Lodge and the White House are always offered to Deverills first.’

The Count shrugged. ‘I’m sure that will not be a problem,’ he said. ‘It is the castle that my countess wants so badly.’

‘While you think about it, why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night?’ suggested Grace. ‘Celia, I hope you will come too. I will invite some nice people for you to
meet. Do you play bridge?’ she asked the Count.

‘Of course,’ he replied with a shrug.

‘Wonderful. Where are you staying and I will send an invitation round.’

‘Vickery’s Coaching Inn in Bantry.’

Grace’s smile broadened. ‘If you are going to come and live here you might as well meet some of your neighbours.’

Once again he kissed their hands and bowed. They stood on the steps and watched him climb into the back of his taxi and set off down the drive. ‘My goodness, what an attractive man! His
countess is a very lucky lady,’ said Grace.

‘Having seen the way he flirted with you, I’m not so sure she’s very lucky! I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

‘Oh, all Italian men are like that. If they can’t flirt they might as well be denied oxygen too,’ said Grace dismissively. But her cheeks were flushed and her brown eyes shone
with intent. Count Cesare di Marcantonio might be just the person to take her mind off Michael Doyle. In fact, in her mind, she was already at the royal suite in Vickery’s Coaching Inn in
Bantry. ‘I’m sorry you have to sell the castle, Celia,’ said Grace. ‘I truly am.’ She placed a soft hand on Celia’s.

‘He wants to buy it for his countess,’ said Celia. ‘I’m not sure why an Italian countess should want to come and live in Ballinakelly. They live in New York, and, as far
as I understand, she’s never even seen it.’

‘I agree, that
is
strange,’ said Grace, but she really didn’t care. ‘You’re very sweet to think of Bertie and Kitty.’

‘I feel guilty,’ said Celia.

‘For what? Saving their castle and then losing it? If it wasn’t for you it would never have been rebuilt. No one would be mad enough to do what you did.’

‘And look where it got me.’

‘It will make you rich,’ said Grace, turning serious. ‘This count will pay a fortune for it. He has more money than sense, I assure you. Don’t accept his first offer. You
can push him higher,
much
higher. If his countess wants it
that
badly, he’ll pay you three times its value. He’s a terrible old fraud.’ Grace laughed.

‘What do you mean? I thought you were taken by him?’

‘Taken by him, yes, but not taken
in
by him. I have a sensitive nose. I can tell when someone is a phoney. But still, he’s very easy on the eye.’ She linked her arm
through Celia’s. ‘Let’s go in and have a cup of tea and you can tell me how this count found out about the castle in the first place.’

Celia sighed as they walked into the hall. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that question.’