Daughters of Castle Deverill (5 page)

Beatrice rolled her eyes with annoyance. Her mother-in-law enjoyed nothing more than talking about her own, always imminent, death. Sometimes she rather wished the Grim Reaper would call her
bluff. ‘Oh, you’ll outlive us all, Augusta,’ she said with forced patience.

Victoria glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I think it’s time we left,’ she said, standing up. ‘Mama and I are going to look at a house in Chester Square this
afternoon,’ she announced happily. ‘That will cheer you up, Mother.’

Maud pushed herself up from the sofa. ‘Well, I’ll need somewhere to live now we’ve lost the castle,’ she replied, smiling on her eldest daughter with gratitude. ‘At
least I have
you
, Victoria, and Harry. Everyone else in my family seems intent on wanting to wound me. I’m afraid I won’t come to your Salon tonight, Beatrice. I don’t
think I’m strong enough.’ She shook her head as if the weight of the world lay between her ears. ‘Having the whole of London society talking about me behind my back is another
cross I have to bear.’

Harry Deverill lay back against the pillow and took a puff of his cigarette. The sheet was draped across his naked hips, but his stomach and chest were exposed to the breeze
that swept in through the open bedroom window. Making love to his wife Charlotte was a loathsome duty he endured only because of the mornings he was able to spend with Boysie Bancroft in this
nondescript Soho hotel where no one even bothered to question their regular visits. He made his mouth into an O shape and ejected a circle of smoke. If it wasn’t for Boysie he didn’t
think he’d be capable of living such a despicable lie. If it wasn’t for Boysie his life wouldn’t be worth living because his job selling bonds in the City gave him no pleasure at
all. Without Boysie life would have little point.

‘My dear fellow, are you going to lie in bed all day?’ asked Boysie, wandering into the room from the bathroom. He had put on his underwear and was buttoning up his shirt. His brown
hair fell over his forehead in a thick, dishevelled fringe, and his petulant lips curled at the corners with amusement.

Harry groaned. ‘I’m not going in to work today. I find the whole thing a terrific bore. I can’t stand it. Besides, I don’t want the morning to end.’

‘Oh,
I
do,’ said Boysie, tracing with his eyes the large pink scar on Harry’s shoulder where he had been shot in the war. ‘I have lunch at Claridge’s with
Mama and Aunt Emily, then I shall mosey on down to White’s and see who I bump into. Tonight I might pop into your delightful Cousin Beatrice’s “at home”. Last Tuesday her
Salon was rather racy with the entire cast of
No, No, Nanette.
All those chorus girls squawking like pretty parrots. It was a “riot”, as Celia would say. I dare say your Cousin
Digby gets a leg over here and there, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t doubt he has a mistress in every corner of London but one can’t criticize his devotion as a husband.’ Harry sighed with frustration and sat up. ‘I wish I
could join you and your mama, but I promised Charlotte I’d take her for lunch at the Ritz. It’s her birthday.’

‘You could always bring her to Claridge’s and we could make eyes at each other across the room, perhaps sneak a private moment in the men’s room. Nothing beats the thrill of
deception.’

Harry grinned, his morale restored. ‘You’re wicked, Boysie.’

‘But that’s why you love me.’ He bent down and kissed him. ‘You’re much too pretty for your own good.’

‘I’ll see you tonight at Cousin Beatrice’s then.’

Boysie sighed and his heavy eyes settled on Harry’s face. ‘Do you remember the first time I kissed you? That night at Beatrice’s?’

‘I’ll never forget it,’ said Harry seriously.

‘Neither will I.’ He bent down and kissed him again. ‘Until tonight, old boy.’

Harry walked home through St James’s Park. The light was dull, the bright summer sun having packed up and gone to shine on a more southern shore. Clouds gathered damp and grey and the wind
caught the browning leaves and sent them floating to the ground. He pulled his hat firmly onto his head and put his hands in his trouser pockets. Soon it would drizzle and he hadn’t bothered
to bring a coat. It hadn’t looked like rain when he had set out that morning.

When he reached his house in Belgravia Charlotte was waiting for him in the hall. She looked agitated. Guiltily, he panicked that he might have been found out but when he stepped inside she
looked so delighted to see him he realized to his relief that he was still above suspicion.

‘Thank goodness you’re home, darling! I telephoned the office but they said you weren’t coming in.’

Harry averted his gaze nervously, waiting for her to ask him where he had been. But as he gave his hat to the butler she grabbed his arm. ‘I’ve got some news,’ she blurted.

‘Really? Don’t keep me in suspense.’

‘It’s about the castle. I know who’s bought it.’

‘You do?’ Harry followed her into the sitting room.

‘You won’t believe it.’

‘Well, go on!’

‘Celia!’

Harry stared at her. ‘You’re joking.’

‘No, I’m deadly serious. Your cousin Celia has bought it.’

‘Good Lord. Who told you?’

‘Your father telephoned about an hour ago. I didn’t know where to reach you. I’ve been desperate to tell you. You’re not angry, are you? You know I adore you with or
without a castle and anyway, I wouldn’t want to live in Ireland.’

‘My darling Charlotte, I’m not angry. I’m just rather surprised she didn’t tell me herself.’

‘I’m sure she meant to. Bertie said she’d gone to meet Kitty. I presume she was going to tell her first. You know how close they are.’

He sank into a chair and put his elbows on his knees and knitted his fingers. ‘Well, who’d have thought it, eh? Archie must be mad.’

‘Madly in love!’ Charlotte gushed.

‘It’ll take a fortune to rebuild it.’

‘Oh, but Archie’s fabulously rich, isn’t he?’ said Charlotte, not knowing that Archie’s fortune came from Digby.

‘You never saw Castle Deverill. It’s enormous.’ He felt a sudden, unexpected pain deep inside his chest, as if something were slashing open his heart and releasing memories he
hadn’t even realized were there.

‘Are you all right, darling? You’re very flushed.’ She crouched beside his chair. ‘You’re upset. I can tell. It’s only natural. Castle Deverill was your home
and your inheritance. But isn’t it better that it’s gone to someone in the family? It’s not lost. You’ll still be able to go and visit.’

‘Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum,’
he said.

‘What, darling? Is that Latin?’

He looked at her steadily, feeling like a little boy on the brink of tears. ‘The family motto. It was written above the front door, that is, before the fire. I didn’t think I
cared,’ he told her quietly. ‘I don’t want to live in Ireland, but good Lord, I think I
do
care. I think I care very much. Generations of my family have lived there. One
after the other after the other in an unbroken line.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Papa doesn’t speak about it but I know selling it has caused him enormous pain. I can tell by
the amount of alcohol he consumes. Happy people don’t lose themselves in drink. This has broken the family line which has continued since Barton Deverill was given the land in 1662.’ He
gazed down at his hands. ‘I’m the broken link.’

‘Darling, you haven’t broken it, your father has,’ Charlotte reminded him. ‘And it wasn’t his fault the rebels burnt it down.’

‘I know you’re right. But still, I feel guilty. Perhaps I should have done more.’

‘What could you have done? Even
my
money wouldn’t be enough to rebuild it. You have to leave it to Celia now and be grateful that it’s being kept in the family.
I’m sure Barton Deverill would be pleased that his castle is still in the hands of a Deverill.’

‘Celia will do her best to put it back together again, but it’ll never be the same.’ Charlotte was being so kind but her sweetness curdled. He wished he could share his pain
with the man he loved.

Charlotte brushed his cheek with a tender hand. ‘She will do her best to make it lovely, I’m sure,’ she said soothingly. ‘And one day
you
will be Lord Deverill.
Give me a son, my darling, and you won’t be breaking the family line.’ She gazed at him with fond eyes, oblivious to the fact that the thought of fathering children turned his stomach.
‘After all, it’s only a house.’

Harry looked at her and frowned. Charlotte was his wife and yet she would never understand him. How could she? ‘No, my darling Charlotte,’ he said and smiled sadly. ‘It is so
much more than that.’

Kitty returned to the Hunting Lodge, which was a short walk from the castle, with Celia, leading her horse by the reins. She held little affection for this austere, ugly house
that had once been her home. It was dark and charmless with small windows and gables that pointed aggressively towards the sky like spears. Although its situation was pretty, it having been built
near the river, the water seemed to penetrate the walls and infuse the entire building with a residual damp. Unlike the castle she did not cherish her memories here. She could still feel the sour
presence of her Scottish governess in the nursery wing along with the unhappy traces of longing that seemed to linger in the shadows with the damp. Happiness had come naturally for Kitty in the
gardens, greenhouses, woodlands and hills, and in the castle, of course, which had always been at the heart of her contentment.

Now she walked her horse round to the stables where the groom gave it water and hay. Celia chatted excitedly about her plans for the rebuilding. ‘We’re going to put in proper
plumbing and electricity. No expense will be spared. Above all, it’s going to be much more comfortable than before,’ she said, taking Kitty by the arm and walking towards the house.
‘And more beautiful than it ever was. I will hire the finest architect London has to offer and raise this phoenix from the ashes. It’s all so thrilling, I can barely breathe!’

They found Kitty’s father, Bertie, and Celia’s husband, Archie, drinking sherry with Bertie’s friend and former lover, Lady Rowan-Hampton, in the drawing room. A turf fire
burned weakly in the grate, giving out little heat, and they could barely see one another for the smoke. ‘Ah, Kitty, what a lovely surprise,’ said Archie, standing up and kissing her
affectionately. ‘I suppose Celia has told you the good news.’

‘Yes she has. I’m still trying to take it in.’ Kitty resented Archie’s enthusiasm. It was all she could do to smile in the wake of such devastating news. ‘Hello,
Papa, hello, Grace.’ She bent down to kiss her friend Grace Rowan-Hampton and reflected on the miraculous healing power of time. Once, she had despised Grace for her long-standing affair with
her father, but now she was grateful to her for her constant loyalty to her former lover, who looked more bloated with booze than ever. Besides Grace, Kitty didn’t think her father had many
friends left. In his youth Bertie Deverill had been the most dashing man in West Cork, but now he was a wreck, destroyed by whiskey and disillusionment and a nagging sense of his own failings. Even
though he had formally recognized Little Jack, the child was a persistent reminder of a shameful moment of weakness.

‘My dear Kitty, will you stay for lunch?’ Bertie asked. ‘We must celebrate Celia and Archie’s jubilant purchase of the castle.’

Kitty thought of Little Jack and her stomach cramped with anxiety. But she dismissed her fears and took off her hat. After all, Miss Elsie had promised not to let him out of her sight.
‘I’d love to,’ she replied, sitting down beside Grace.

Grace Rowan-Hampton looked as radiant as a ripe golden plum. Although she was almost fifty, her light brown hair showed only the slightest hint of grey and her molasses-coloured eyes were alert
and bright and full of her characteristic warmth. Kitty scrutinized her closely and decided that it was the plumpness of her skin and the flawlessness of her complexion that were the key to her
beauty; a lifetime of soft rain and gentle sunshine had been kind to her face. ‘Celia and Archie have taken us all by surprise,’ Grace said with a smile. ‘We’ve been eaten
up by curiosity over the last weeks, but now we know we must celebrate. The castle is not lost to the Deverills, after all, but regained. Really, Bertie, I couldn’t bear to think of it being
bought by someone with no understanding of its history.’

‘That’s what I said to Archie,’ Celia replied, taking his hand. ‘I said that it would haunt me for the rest of my days if the place fell into the hands of strangers. I
just love the history. All that stuff about Henry VIII or whoever it was. So romantic’ Kitty winced. No one with any real connection to the place would get it all so wrong.

‘And I decided then that my wife’s happiness was more important than anything else in the whole world. We hoped it would make you happy, too, Lord Deverill.’

Bertie nodded pensively, although Kitty didn’t think her father’s thoughts contained anything much. He had a distant look in his rheumy eyes, the look of a man to whom little matters
beyond the contents of a bottle. ‘And Celia’s having a baby too,’ Kitty said, changing the subject.

‘Yes, as if we didn’t have enough to celebrate.’ Celia beamed, placing a hand on her stomach and sliding her bright eyes to her husband. ‘We’re both very, very
happy.’

‘A baby!’ Grace exclaimed. ‘How very exciting! We must raise our glasses to that too.’

‘Isn’t it wonderful. Everything is just wonderful,’ said Celia as they lifted their glasses in a toast.

It was late afternoon when Kitty rode over the hills to Jack O’Leary’s house. The setting sun left a trail of molten gold on the waves as the ocean darkened beneath
the pale autumn sky. She had briefly stopped off at home to check on Little Jack, whom she had found happily playing in the nursery with his nanny. Kitty had been relieved to find her husband
Robert working in his study near by. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was writing and she was only too happy to leave him and get away. She’d tell him about Celia and the castle
later. As she left the White House she was content that Little Jack was safe with Miss Elsie and Robert.