Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  Grace hadn’t seen Michael since the Sunday before. She went to church, trying and failing to concentrate on the service, wondering how on earth she was going to seek him out without exposing herself. Her father seemed unconcerned about his focus on godly matters and far more interested in finding sport in the poor Shrubs who sat across the aisle, blushing into their prayer books. As he grinned at the two spinsters and lifted his hand in a small greeting, Grace put her fingers to her lips and scowled into the middle distance.

  She knew Michael went to O’Donovan’s, but women didn’t go to the pub and certainly not women of her class. She knew where he lived, but she couldn’t very well turn up at the Doyle farmhouse, asking for him. The old network of note-passing that had worked so efficiently during the War of Independence had long ceased to exist, and even if it had still functioned a note would not bring him to her door. He was avoiding her. For whatever reason – and she convinced herself that there was a very good reason – he wasn’t coming to see her. So, she had no option but to engineer a meeting.

  It is a sad fact that, in every affair, one party is keener than the other. Grace knew that only too well. But now she was the less desired and she couldn’t accept it. Once a lover, man or woman, has given a partner unique delight it’s almost impossible to imagine they no longer want it. She would pursue him. She would force him to face her and explain himself.

  Her chance came at the Ballinakelly Fair, which took place on the first Friday of May. People had come from all over the county to look at the horses, buy and sell livestock and socialize. The sea breeze swept through the square with playful curiosity, dancing with sunbeams and ladies’ hemlines, snatching smoke from the farmers’ pipes and the boys’ cigarettes. Spirits were high as the men and women flirted and the children played among the chickens and goats, earning a few bob for looking after the cows while the farmers went to the pub. There was music from a band and fortune-telling from tinker women who weaved through the crowd with baskets of heather and holy pictures. Voices rose with the peals of laughter and the mooing of cows and the bleating of sheep. Grace usually enjoyed the fair, but today she was anxious. Nights lying awake in torment had left her nerves frayed. Her father, however, was very excited. He had already met half of Ballinakelly society and was eager to meet the other half. When he bumped into the Shrubs he bowed formally and held out both arms, inviting them to show him around. It was fortunate that he had two arms, for both Laurel and Hazel were determined to take one.

  Grace accompanied her father and the Shrubs, commenting on this and that without really listening to the conversation or, indeed, to her own responses. Her eyes scanned the faces for Michael’s. She knew he’d be here. As a farmer he made it his business to attend every fair. Perhaps he’d even enter one of his bulls to compete for a prize?

  At last she saw him right at the other end of the square: a glimpse of his head, unmistakable with its thick black curls, towering above everyone else’s. She quickly left her father and the Shrubs without a word and elbowed her way through the crowd, keeping her head down for fear of getting caught by someone she knew and being compelled to stop and talk. She pushed on, eager to get to him, but it felt like she was wading through the sea, for with every step forward a wave of people came and pushed her back.

  At last she lifted her gaze and there he was, right in front of her, gazing back at her with a serious look on his face. His coal-black eyes were the same but the wildness in them had gone. ‘Top of the morning to you, Lady Rowan-Hampton.’ The man he had been talking to slipped away and Grace felt as if they were alone on an island in an ocean of people.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ she whispered, barely able to restrain herself from placing a trembling hand on his forearm, just to feel him solid beneath her touch. ‘Why didn’t you come and see me? How long have you been back? I’ve been waiting . . .’ She despised the pleading tone in her voice, but she no longer had the will to dissemble.

  ‘I’ve changed my ways,’ he replied solemnly, glancing about him to make sure they weren’t being overheard. ‘I’ve repented of my sins.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You went to be cured of the drink, not to become a monk!’

  He lowered his eyes to hide his shame. ‘I’ve changed,’ he repeated, this time with emphasis. ‘The Michael Doyle you knew is dead. God has cured me of the drink and opened my eyes to the wickedness of my past.’

  Grace shook her head, unable to comprehend what he was saying. ‘You’re still a man, Michael,’ she whispered, stepping closer. ‘God can’t change that.’

  ‘I will not break His Commandments. You are a married woman, Lady Rowan-Hampton.’

  ‘But I need you.’ Even now she wanted to offer herself to him. To taste him, to kiss the sweat off his forehead, and she could scarcely keep her hands from reaching out and stroking him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Grace,’ he said, this time with more tenderness.

  ‘I waited for you, God damn it. I’ve waited months and months.’ Her voice was pleading, bordering on hysterical. ‘What am I? A jezebel?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a solemnity that shocked her. ‘I must never look at a jezebel again. I shall never again visit Babylon.’

  Michael looked down at this woman who had always been so in control, of herself as well as everybody else. She had been a deadly weapon during the War of Independence, and many a British soldier had lost his life because of her, but here she was standing before him, a woman like any other, appealing to a man. He shook his head. ‘I think you should go before you draw attention to yourself,’ he said, not unkindly. Grace stared at him in disbelief, hating her submissive aching for him, longing to be rid of her dependence. Her vision began to blur but she searched his face for signs of amusement, for surely this was a joke. Surely, this was a bloody-minded joke. But Michael’s face didn’t change. He looked back at her with the righteous expression of a priest. She backed away, her cheeks aflame with mortification and fury. If Mount Melleray could cure me of you, Michael, I’d be there like a shot.

  Chapter 11

  On the first Wednesday in June, Sir Digby and Lady Deverill attended the Derby, the most famous flat race in the world, at Epsom Racecourse in Surrey. Accompanied by Celia and Archie, Harry and Boysie and their insipid wives, Charlotte and Deirdre, who the two young men would have preferred to have left at home, they were in high spirits. The women wore elegant cloche hats and coats yet Beatrice had chosen a larger, more Edwardian-style hat adorned with extravagant ostrich feathers and pearls that drew the eye as well as the comments, for many of the noble ladies considered Lady Deverill rather brassy. ‘Who does she think she is, the Queen?’ they whispered behind their race cards. The gentlemen were dressed in the finest top hats and tails but somehow Digby’s shoes and hat shone with more polish than anyone else’s, the cut of his collar was slightly more flamboyant than convention dictated and his confident swagger gave the impression that he was a man of great importance. Today he felt indomitable, because, running in the race for the first time, was Digby’s colt Lucky Deverill whom he had been training up in Newmarket. ‘I hope he has the luck of the London Deverills and not the Co. Cork Deverills,’ Boysie whispered to Celia, who swiftly reproached him with a playful smack on the hand.

  ‘You’re wicked, Boysie!’

  ‘One cannot be chastised for telling the truth, Celia,’ he replied with a sniff.

  ‘Papa says he has a very good chance of winning.’

  ‘I think he is alone in that belief,’ said Boysie. ‘Judging by the odds.’

  ‘What do they know,’ Celia sniffed dismissively. ‘Papa says he’s bred to win the Derby.’

  ‘And he came fourth in the 2000 Guineas at Newmarket, yes, I know, your father told me that, too.’

  ‘You will bet on him, won’t you?’

  ‘Only for you, Celia. Though I doubt it will make me a fortune.’

  ‘If he wins, his value at stud will soar. The covering fees will be enormous. Papa will make a f
ortune.’

  ‘Another one,’ said Boysie with a smirk. ‘Your father’s rather good at making fortunes.’

  Wrapped in coats and hats, sheltering beneath umbrellas, the small party who had parked their cars behind the grandstand hurried inside. It was warm and exclusive in there and they were quick to help themselves to refreshments. ‘Goodness, there are so many people on the hill!’ Celia groaned, looking out onto the rise of common land where the fairground loomed out of the rain like a mythological sea creature. ‘I do so hate the great unwashed!’

  ‘The hoi polloi,’ said Boysie. ‘I’m glad they’re out there and we’re in here.’

  ‘Quite,’ she agreed. ‘It’s hell out there. I swear the entire East End has decamped for the day.’

  ‘Darling, the whole of London has decamped for the day,’ said Boysie. ‘You’d have thought the rain would have put people off, but no, there’s nothing like a free day out for the great British public.’

  Due to the inclement weather the trains had been restricted and the day was soon dubbed a Petrol Derby, with makeshift car parks being set up in the large sodden fields either side of the drive to accommodate the swollen number of vehicles. The wet and dismal conditions, however, did not deter the thousands of people who arrived in cars, double-decker buses and charabancs. Some even arrived in stage coaches pulled by fine horses. Piled into and onto the coaches the delighted passengers waved cheerfully at the crowds as policemen in capes and helmets tried to maintain some sort of order for the arrival of the King and Queen. When they appeared at last, in the middle of a long convoy of gleaming cars, the crowd stopped what they were doing to watch. The King sat stiffly beside the Queen, who was wearing one of her typically elaborate feathered hats, raising his hand every now and again to greet his people. The girls, however, were much more interested in the dashing Prince of Wales and erupted into a clatter of applause when they saw him.

  Once in the relative calm of the stands Digby and Beatrice wandered around the gallery greeting their friends and acquaintances. It was there that Digby bumped into Stanley Baldwin, the Prime Minister, for Parliament was always adjourned for the Derby. ‘Ah, Prime Minister,’ he exclaimed, striding up to him. The Prime Minister swept his eyes over Digby’s flamboyant purple-and-green waistcoat and pink spotted tie and grinned. For a man of his breeding there was something rather brash about Sir Digby Deverill. Mr Baldwin lifted his top hat in salutation. ‘Sir Digby, Lady Deverill, I see you have a horse racing this year,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed we do,’ Digby replied. ‘He’s a fine colt. Young but swift. I have high expectations of him.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Sir Digby,’ said Mr Baldwin archly. ‘You didn’t get to where you are today without the desire to be a winner.’

  ‘Nor you, if I may be so bold.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mr Baldwin smiled, acknowledging Digby’s wit with a slight nod of the head. ‘What are the odds?’

  ‘Sixteen to one,’ Digby replied.

  ‘A long shot.’ Stanley Baldwin was well-known as a plain-speaking man. The Prime Minister chuckled. It did not seem likely that Lucky Deverill would win. ‘Then I wish you luck,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how is work progressing on that castle of yours?’

  ‘My daughter is pouring money into the project. If it doesn’t outshine Windsor Castle in opulence and grandeur I shall be very disappointed.’

  ‘Is she intending to live there?’ Mr Baldwin asked, incredulous, for Celia’s reputation as a socialite was well-documented. ‘I would have thought a lively girl like Mrs Mayberry would find life in Co. Cork dull by comparison to London.’ He smiled at Beatrice, noticing the large diamonds that glittered on her ears and beneath her left shoulder in the form of an elaborately crafted flower brooch. Those Randlords! he thought to himself with a barely perceptible shake of the head.

  ‘Oh, but it’s beautiful in the summer,’ Beatrice interjected emphatically.

  ‘But not quite so beautiful in the winter, I don’t imagine,’ Mr Baldwin argued.

  ‘Then we must hope that Celia shines bright enough to bring the London glamour to Ballinakelly.’ Digby gave his Brigg umbrella a couple of taps on the floor and roared a belly laugh that sounded like gold in a prospector’s pan. ‘Because, by God, no one else can.’

  Mr Baldwin laughed with him. Digby’s ebullience was shameless but irresistible. ‘Of that I have no doubt, Sir Digby. Mrs Mayberry is the very sun itself.’

  Beatrice was distracted by a friend who caught her eye and Mr Baldwin raised his hat at her departure. Digby put a hand on his shoulder and moved closer. ‘Do let me know if I can help the Party in any way,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘I will,’ said Mr Baldwin bluffly. ‘Your help is much appreciated.’

  ‘I hope one day I will be rewarded,’ said Digby.

  ‘You’ve been very well rewarded already with your baronetcy,’ the Prime Minister reminded him.

  ‘Oh, that bauble,’ Digby chuckled. ‘A viscountcy is much more to my taste.’

  ‘Is it? Is it?’ said Mr Baldwin, embarrassed at the brashness of the Randlord. ‘I think you’ve done very well already,’ he added.

  ‘Up to a point,’ said Digby with that golden gravel laugh. ‘Up to a point.’

  Celia threaded through the crowds with Boysie and Harry, leaving their wives discussing the weather with a tedious group of Edwardian ladies, old enough to remember the Crimean War. Archie was with his mother, who had slipped her hand around his arm and thus staked her claim. There would be no getting away from her until luncheon. Celia, Boysie and Harry were only too delighted to find themselves unencumbered and wandered about in search of fun people to talk to.

  As they reached the steps to the upper terrace who should be coming down, surrounded by a coterie of courtiers, but the Prince of Wales himself, who had left the Royal Box to go to the paddock. He recognized Celia at once and his handsome face creased into a debonair smile. ‘My dear Celia,’ he said and Celia dropped into a deep curtsy.

  ‘Your Royal Highness,’ she said. ‘May I present my cousin Harry Deverill and my friend Boysie Bancroft?’ The Prince shook hands and the boys duly bowed.

  ‘You know I’ve known Celia since she was this high,’ he told them, placing his hand a few feet above the floor.

  ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me that I have hardly changed,’ Celia laughed.

  His blue eyes twinkled at her flirtatiously. ‘You’ve certainly grown taller,’ said the Prince. ‘And prettier too.’

  ‘Oh sir, you’re much too kind,’ said Celia, blushing with pleasure. ‘The King looks awfully well,’ she added. ‘And the Queen . . .’

  ‘Mama’s hats are so ugly,’ the Prince interjected. ‘She looks hideous in those ridiculous toques!’

  Celia giggled. ‘Papa has a horse running in the race.’

  ‘So I see. If he wins, he’ll be insufferable.’

  ‘He’s already insufferable,’ Celia said with a smile.

  ‘He’s a bon viveur,’ said the Prince.

  Celia grinned raffishly and leaned a little closer to him. ‘It takes one to know one, sir.’

  ‘Celia, you’re incorrigible!’ He laughed. ‘I will go and find your papa and wish him luck.’

  ‘Oh do, sir. He’s quite beside himself with nerves, though he’ll never admit it.’ The Prince chuckled and moved on into the crowd of people who were all watching him out of the corners of their eyes and hoping he’d come their way.

  ‘The Prince of Wales rendered me dumbstruck,’ said Boysie once he was gone. ‘He’s outrageously attractive!’

  ‘The wittiest tongue in London was silenced?’ said Harry, feigning astonishment.

  ‘I’m afraid it was, old boy,’ Boysie replied. ‘Fortunately Celia’s was adroit enough for the three of us.’

  ‘I’ve known him for years. He’s a darling! Come on, let’s go and find some young people to talk to,’ Celia suggested and they headed off up the stairs.

  On the common ground that was the h
ill, the weather had not dampened the spirits of the thousands of people who had flocked to the racecourse. The noise was overpowering: coach horns tooting, bookmakers hollering their odds, salesmen advertising their wares, car engines rattling and the general public shouting in different dialects. The refreshment tents were full to bursting, the stalls busy selling wares and the fairground full of mirth. Laughter resounded from the carousel, rose up from the cockshies and was swiftly smothered in the sealed booths advertising werewolves and other monstrosities. Gypsies lured the gullible into their colourful caravans to learn their futures (and the identity of the Derby winner) in exchange for a palm crossed with silver, and artists positioned themselves beneath makeshift shelters to sketch portraits of those whose hats and hairdos had not been ruined by the rain. Double-decker buses and cars were parked as close to the running rail as possible and piled with people keen to have pole position for the races while pedlars accosted them from the ground, hawking goods. The earth grew soggy but the desire to enjoy themselves kept the spectators buoyant – as did the desire to win money, for the queues at the bookmakers’ were very long indeed.

  Before the Derby Celia went down to the paddock with her father to watch the horses parading. Digby’s jockey was a five foot six Irishman of almost forty years old called Willie Maguire, notorious for his fondness of drink. Many whispered that Willie was too unreliable and that Sir Digby had been misguided to offer him the ride, but Digby was a man wise enough to take advice from those who knew better. In this case, his trainer, Mike Newcomb, had more experience and knowledge than he did and Digby trusted him implicitly. If Newcomb had appointed a seventy-year-old jockey with arthritis he would have agreed wholeheartedly.