Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  Her apartment was light and airy thanks to its tall ceilings and large windows, and decorated in the opulent and highly fashionable art deco style. Shiny black-and-white marble floors, bold geometric wallpapers, silver and leather furnishings and mirrored surfaces gave the place a feeling of Hollywood glamour that Bridie relished. She felt she was in another world and it suited her perfectly. She gazed out of the window where modest black Fords motored up and down the street beside luxuriously painted Rolls-Royces and Duesenbergs in bright reds and greens, and noticed that there were precious few horses and carts in the city. In Ireland the horse was still the main form of transport and in the countryside very few people had a car. Everything in Manhattan seemed to belong to the future and she was thrilled to be part of this bright new world.

  Elaine had found an Ecuadorian couple to work for her. The husband, called Manolo, would be chauffeur, and Imelda, his petite and quiet wife, would be her maid and housekeeper. Mr Williams had helped her buy a car. She had chosen a sky-blue Winton, with a soft top, which could be pulled back in the summer, and plush leather seats. She was pleased with Manolo and Imelda because neither of them knew where she came from. They took her as they saw her, a wealthy young widow, and she was grateful for that. However, it wasn’t long before the infamous Mrs Lockwood who had graced the society pages of the city’s magazines and newspapers only a few months before began to appear once again. But no one wanted to dwell on her past any more; her rags to riches story was old news. They were now interested in the glamour of her clothes and the identity of the lucky men accompanying her out on the town.

  ‘Oh do look, Bridget. There’s a photo of you,’ trilled Elaine one morning, burying her head in the newspaper. ‘The delightful Mrs Lockwood attends Noel Coward’s The Vortex in a sumptuous mink coat . . .’

  ‘Don’t they have anything better to write about?’ Bridie interrupted, secretly thrilled with the attention, for that photograph reinforced her sense of belonging.

  ‘You’re a beautiful, rich widow, out on the tiles with a different man every night. You oughtn’t to be surprised.’ Elaine tossed her blonde curls and took a long drag on her Lucky Strike cigarette. ‘I’m glad you wore the dress with the fringe. You look swell, like a real flapper.’

  ‘Rather a flapper than a vamp, Elaine,’ she replied.

  Elaine grinned at her over the top of the newspaper. ‘You’re not a vamp, sweetie, you’re just having fun. I watch you, being fawned over by the most handsome men in Manhattan, and sometimes wish I wasn’t married. Not that Beaumont isn’t everything a woman dreams of She gave a throaty laugh and Bridie laughed with her.

  ‘Mr Williams is distinguished,’ Bridie told her, choosing her word carefully because Beaumont Williams was not a handsome man by anyone’s standards.

  ‘Sometimes a girl wants a little more dazzle and a little less distinguished, if you know what I mean.’ Elaine sighed and put down the paper. ‘A girl needs a bit of adventure, otherwise life can get boring and boredom is the enemy, don’t you think?’

  ‘God save us from boredom,’ Bridie agreed. She brushed a crumb off the lapel of her pink satin dressing gown. ‘Having nothing to do makes me think and thinking takes me to places I don’t want to go. How will we keep ourselves entertained this weekend, Elaine?’

  ‘Beaumont has suggested I take you to Southampton. The Reynoldses are giving a Christmas party on Saturday night which promises to be one of the most lavish of the year. They’re very keen for you to come. You add a bit of mystery—’

  ‘And scandal, most likely,’ Bridie interrupted. ‘Some people have long memories in this town.’

  ‘Not Marigold and Darcy Reynolds. They’re great people-collectors. Anyone who is anyone will be there, you can be sure of that. We have a modest beach house in Sag Harbor, which we close during the wintertime, but we can stay there.’ Elaine looked shifty. ‘Beaumont can’t come. Business, you know.’ She shrugged. ‘Too bad. We can drive out together, just the two of us. It’ll be the bee’s knees. What do you say?’

  Bridie had inherited Mrs Grimsby’s luxurious pink chateau-style house in the Hamptons, but on the advice of her husband, Walter Lockwood, she had sold it. She hadn’t been back since. She remembered gazing out of the window onto the long white beach and the frustration she had felt at not being allowed out to enjoy it. Mrs Grimsby had been very demanding. Then, after the old woman died, she had finally taken a long walk up the sand. It was on that stroll, with the waves softly lapping at the shore and the glittering light bouncing off the waves, that she had realized she would miss her. She still did sometimes. Mrs Grimsby’s autocracy had given Bridie the greatest sense of security she had had since leaving Ballinakelly pregnant and afraid, and the hard work – and hard it certainly was – had given her a refuge from her pain. ‘I should like that very much,’ said Bridie.

  On Saturday morning Bridie set off for Southampton in her new blue motor car with Elaine, who had persuaded Bridie that it would be much more fun without Manolo and was sitting confidently behind the wheel. The roof was down and they were wrapped in furs, gloves, hats and scarves to ward off the cold and chatting merrily as they jostled for position among the traffic making its way out of the city for the weekend. It was a crisp winter morning. The sky above Manhattan was a bright cerulean blue, full of optimism and free of cares. The sun hung low over the Hudson, caressing the ripples on the water with fickle kisses, and turning the rising new skyscrapers orange. As they drove over the Brooklyn Bridge Elaine broke into the song ‘Tea For Two’ from the musical No, No, Nanette, which had appeared on Broadway that year and got everyone toe-tapping to the catchy tunes. Bridie joined in, although she didn’t know all the words, and smiled coyly at the admiring men who glanced at them from the passing cars while their wives weren’t looking.

  As they left the city giant billboards lined the route, advertising cars, cigarettes and the new Atwater Kent radio set, which Elaine had insisted Bridie buy because it was all the rage. Beautiful faces smiled out from these posters, twenty feet tall, promising pleasure, glamour and happiness, and Bridie, who had bought into that world of material immoderation, delighted at being a part of it. Hers was the pretty smile in the advertisement and hers was the glossy existence behind it. Together, she and Elaine were wild, carefree and liberated, popular, fashionable and blithe.

  The highway soon left the city behind and the concrete and brick gave way to fields and woodland, farm buildings and dwellings. Winter had robbed the countryside of its summer foliage and the trees were bare and frozen, their gnarled and twisted branches naked to the winds and rain that swept in off the sea. The young women sang to keep warm, their breath forming icy clouds on the air. It was late afternoon when they reached Elaine’s house, which was a white cottage made of clapboard with a weathered grey shingled roof and a veranda overlooking the water. ‘Beaumont bought this as a young man and even though he has the dough to upgrade, he insists on keeping it. Surprisingly sentimental, don’t you think?’ said Elaine, drawing up outside.

  ‘I think it’s charming,’ Bridie replied, keen to get inside and warm up.

  ‘Connie should have prepared it for us. Let’s go and see.’ But before she reached the steps up to the front door, a stout little woman no more than five feet tall opened it and the welcoming smell of burning wood greeted them with the promise of hot food and comfort.

  Preparing for a party is often more thrilling than the party itself. While one can’t predict whether the evening will be a success or a failure, at least one can assure that the two hours or so it takes to get ready are exciting in themselves. With this in mind Elaine and Bridie laced their orange juice with gin, listened to jazz on the gramophone and danced around Elaine’s bedroom in satin slips and stockings as they curled their hair and applied their make-up. Connie, who was originally from Mexico, pressed the creases out of their dresses and brushed the scuff from their dancing shoes, muttering to herself in Spanish that no good would come of two young women going off t
o a party without the presence of men to escort them. But she waved them off with a smile, if not a little warning shake of her head, then retreated inside to tidy up the great mess the two of them had made of the main bedroom.

  The Reynoldses’ grand Italianate mansion, set in sumptuous grounds overlooking the beach in Southampton, was famous for its spectacular ballroom, baronial-style fireplaces and elaborate gardens. Darcy Reynolds had made his fortune on Wall Street. His motto seemed to be, ‘No point earning it if you can’t show it off.’ So the mansion, or ‘summer cottage’ as the family referred to it, heaved with entertainments during the summer months and usually fell silent directly after the first frost. This winter, however, was Darcy’s fiftieth birthday, and he had decided to celebrate with a lavish Christmas party, the like of which had never been seen on Long Island.

  Bridie and Elaine were immediately struck by the lights. It looked like the entire building had been covered in stars, which shone so brightly they almost eclipsed the full moon that glowed like a large silver dollar above the towering ornate chimneys. The central piece of the circular entrance was an impressive gilded staircase that swept up in two curving flights meeting on a landing in front of a wide arched window before parting again. A dazzling crystal chandelier hung above Bridie’s head and she couldn’t help but remember Castle Deverill and the preparations for the Summer Ball, when the servants would help take down the chandeliers in the ballroom and lay out every little piece of glass on a vast cloth on the floor in order to polish them until they shone like diamonds.

  At the far end of the ballroom a jazz band of black musicians led by Fletcher Henderson was positioned on a stage and their energizing music echoed off the walls. The floor was already crowded with fashionable people drinking champagne from crystal flutes and cocktails from slim-stemmed glasses. There were Martinis and cosmopolitans and cherries on sticks, and no one gave a thought to Prohibition; if anything, it made the party all the more exiting. Some of the revellers had already begun to dance. Women with feathers and headbands, strings of beads and pearls, fringes and tassels, short dresses, short hair and short attention spans were like exotic birds among the men in bow ties and slicked-back hair. Laughter and conversation rose above the sound of brass and drum and Bridie and Elaine threw themselves into the thick of it. It seemed to Bridie that Elaine knew everyone, but it soon transpired that most people had already heard of the infamous Mrs Lockwood. It wasn’t long before they had glasses of champagne and a crowd around them of admiring suitors all vying for a dance.

  ‘Look, darling, there’s Noel Coward talking to Gertrude Lawrence and Constance Carpenter. I wonder what they’re plotting?’ said Elaine, gazing at the famous English playwright and actresses with curiosity. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to be able to eavesdrop on their conversation?’

  ‘I only have eyes for the luscious Mrs Lockwood,’ said a young man who had introduced himself as Frank Linden.

  Bridie gave him a quizzical smile. ‘You’re presumptuous,’ she said tartly.

  ‘How so? Is it so wrong to tell a woman she’s a doll?’ he replied. He watched her blush then added, ‘Dance with me?’

  She let her eyes wander over the dancers. Everyone looked as if they were having the most wonderful time. ‘All right,’ she replied, handing Elaine her empty champagne flute.

  Frank took her hand and threaded through the crowd into the middle of the throng just as the band started to play ‘Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby’. A roar went up and a great surge of people flooded the dance floor. Bridie was good at dancing. Ever since she had been swung around the kitchen by her father in Ballinakelly she had loved moving to music. There was nothing more exciting than jazz and she danced energetically while Frank gazed at her with admiration.

  Dinner was a banquet of mouth-watering dishes, each one more beautifully presented than the last. Bridie drank more champagne, she had lost count of just how many times her glass had been refilled, and sat down to eat at a round table with Frank, Elaine and a small group of Elaine’s friends. She noticed that Elaine was tipsier than usual, flirting outrageously with a young man in a white tuxedo called Donald Shaw, patting his chest with a limp hand and laughing her throaty laugh at everything he said. Her headband had slipped on one side, almost over her left eye, and her kohl had smudged a little, giving her a decadent look. Bridie was glad Mr Williams was not present to witness it. But she was too drunk on excitement and dizzy with champagne bubbles to worry about Elaine.

  It was very hot in the ballroom. The music vibrated in her ears, the alcohol made her drowsy and the sheer delight of being part of such a fashionable crowd gave her a heady sense of omnipotence. So when Frank Linden took her by the hand and led her up the stairs to find a quiet room where they would not be disturbed, she happily obliged. In the darkness of one of the guest bedrooms he pressed her against the wall and kissed her. It felt good to receive the attentions of a man again and she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back. She closed her eyes and felt the room pleasantly spin.

  When she opened them again she was lying on the bed in her underwear and Frank Linden’s hand was beneath her slip and caressing her breast. She was too sleepy to do anything about it and besides, the sensual feeling it gave her made her writhe in pleasure like a cat. A low moan escaped her throat and Frank, taking that as a sign of encouragement, slid his hand onto her inner thigh where it lingered for a moment, tentatively teasing. As Bridie didn’t protest, rather her staggered breath and soft sighs left him in no doubt that she was willing, he slowly and gently moved his hand north, until it glided over her skin, under her silk panties, and on up her thigh until it could go no further. Bridie widened her legs with abandon. Her moaning grew into gasps and sighs as she allowed the delicious warmth to spread into her belly.

  When she awoke, Frank was lying asleep beside her. She could hear the music coming from downstairs, but it was slow and mellow, and a woman was singing. She climbed off the bed without waking him and fumbled about for her clothes. Once she was dressed she turned the brass doorknob as quietly as she could and slipped into the corridor. As she stepped onto the landing, Elaine was sitting on the top stair, smoking a cigarette. Bridie sat down beside her. ‘You all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Does petting count as infidelity?’ Elaine asked in a dull voice.

  ‘I think Mr Williams would count it.’

  ‘Then I’ve just broken one of the Ten Commandments.’ She turned to Bridie and her big blue eyes shone. ‘Didn’t I say a girl needs a little adventure from time to time?’

  ‘I think we should go home now,’ said Bridie.

  ‘You’re right. I’ve had enough adventure for one night.’ Elaine narrowed her eyes. ‘Where’s Frank?’

  ‘Asleep.’

  Elaine gasped. ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I have no one to betray,’ Bridie retorted with a shrug. ‘Adventures are essential for a young widow like me, are they not?’

  ‘Are you going to see him again?’

  Bridie shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Just a bit of fun.’

  ‘Yes, tonight I discovered how a girl can have fun without . . . complications.’ She wished she had known that when she had been a maid at Castle Deverill.

  Elaine smiled drunkenly. ‘I could have told you that, Bridget.’

  ‘Are you good to drive?’ Bridie asked, knowing that she wasn’t.

  Elaine grabbed the banister and pulled herself onto her feet. ‘Never been better,’ she giggled.

  The two women linked arms and began to slowly and unsteadily descend the grand staircase. ‘God bless America,’ said Bridie, for she truly believed that America had given her a second chance.

  Elaine squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘God bless us,’ she said.

  Chapter 6

  Celia and Archie spent Christmas with Sir Digby and Lady Deverill at Deverill Rising, their sumptuous Georgian home in Wiltshire, which Digby had bought and renovated at vast expense with the first fortune he
had made in the South African diamond mines. Originally the house had been called Upton Manor, but that wasn’t nearly grand enough for the brash and newly rich Digby Deverill. Memories of summers at Castle Deverill inspired him to give his home a name which would last through history and give a sense of dynasty and substance. Therefore he swiftly renamed it Deverill Rising, endowing it with the gravitas of his new status and the weight of his historical name. Their son George would have inherited it had his life not been so cruelly cut short in the Great War. This saddened Digby and scoured the gloss from his vision. However, ebullient and always optimistic, Digby endeavoured to look for the positive. He filled it with friends at every opportunity and wondered whether a grandson might one day cherish it as he did.

  Joining them for the festivities were Celia’s older twin sisters, Leona and Vivien, who came with their husbands, Bruce and Tarquin, and their small children. Due to the seven-year age gap between them Celia had never been close to her siblings. The twins were both blonde and pretty, with long, aristocratic noses, shallow blue eyes and bland, unremarkable characters. Little could rouse them from passivity. However, ever since Celia had bought the castle and provoked their jealousy, they had shown surprising passion. Neither could believe that flighty Celia, who had shocked London society by bolting from her wedding with the best man, could have snatched the Deverill family seat for herself. It was an outrageous thing to have done and something which infuriated both girls, who lived relatively modestly with their Army husbands. What upset them even more was that their father, in spite of everything Celia had put him through, was inordinately proud of her.

  Digby had initially been horrified by Celia’s news, but his daughter’s excitement and Archie’s pride at having made the purchase possible softened his rancour and assuaged Beatrice’s reservations. Archie, intent on impressing his father-in-law, told him of the architect’s adventurous plans, which, Archie emphasized, included many of his own ideas. Digby requested to meet this Mr Leclaire at the earliest convenience, for he wanted to make sure that his erratic daughter wasn’t being overambitious. It was one thing to restore a castle to its former glory, but quite another to build a palace that wasn’t there to begin with. ‘I will come to Ireland with you in the new year,’ he declared, his enthusiasm growing at the thought of involving himself. ‘It’ll be good to see Bertie. Tell me, my dear, how is my cousin?’