Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Oh Papa, wouldn’t it be glorious if Lucky Deverill won! Willie would most certainly win the most fetching jockey in his green and white.’

  Digby chuckled. ‘He’s got more mileage under his belt than all of them put together, I suspect.’

  ‘And Lucky Deverill is a fine horse.’ Celia ran her eyes up and down the animal’s gleaming limbs.

  ‘He’s well put together, no one can deny that. He looks like he’ll get the trip as he has plenty of scope.’

  ‘Plenty,’ Celia agreed without understanding her father’s racing jargon.

  ‘This is our year,’ Digby said to his daughter. ‘If ever I am to win the Derby it will be today.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  Digby nodded thoughtfully, remembering the day he struck lucky in the South African diamond fields. ‘When you’re lucky, Celia, you carry that luck around with you for a while. Luck attracts more luck. That’s the time to exploit it.’

  ‘Can you say the same about bad luck?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid it works both ways. Sometimes bad luck sticks to you like mud. In that case you weather it. But we’re on a lucky roll, Celia my dear, and today we’re going to win.’ He waved at Willie as the jockey walked Lucky Deverill past.

  ‘Oh Papa, you’re wonderfully confident,’ she gushed, full of admiration for her daring father.

  ‘Until my luck runs out,’ he added.

  ‘But it won’t, surely.’

  ‘Oh, but it will,’ he said with certainty. Then he grinned the grin of a gambler who is as much excited by the possibility of loss as he is of gain. What mattered to Digby was the thrill of the game. ‘But sometimes one can make one’s own luck,’ he added with a wink.

  The horses left the paddock and paraded in front of the grandstand where the King and Queen and the Prince of Wales observed them keenly from the Royal Box. The air grew tense as the crowd watched them canter across the downs to take their starting positions behind the rope. Celia stood beside her father at the front of the gallery at the very top of the grandstand, directly opposite the winning post. ‘I’m a bundle of nerves,’ she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘But terribly excited.’

  Digby put his field glasses to his eyes and watched the horses arrange themselves at the start. His heart began to pound in his chest like a drum. His cheeks flushed with competitiveness and it took a great force of will to steady his hands. He could see Lucky Deverill clearly, the green-and-white silks of Willie Maguire, right in the middle of the lineup. He muttered under his breath. Then the flag fell and they were away.

  Celia barely dared breathe as the horses thundered off up the long incline, contracting into a tight huddle. The crowd was pressed up against the rails either side of the track and the noise of cheering was deafening. Digby said nothing. He watched through his field glasses, perfectly still, while Celia jumped and fidgeted nervously beside him. Beatrice wrung her hands while Harry and Boysie watched Lucky Deverill fall back on the outside. ‘Digby might have to rename him Unlucky Deverill,’ said Boysie in a low voice and Harry chuckled. He thought of the bet he had placed in support of Celia; he might as well have just burned the money.

  The horses galloped up the hill, disappearing briefly behind the copse at the top before starting their descent towards Tattenham Corner, the most famous corner in racing. The inexperienced horses, fearful of the steep slope, began to slow down while the more experienced horses advanced, creating a muddle. Lucky Deverill had not yet distinguished himself. He languished behind the first six horses. Beatrice shot a surreptitious glance at her husband, inhaling sharply through her nose at the sight of his immobile profile; there was something in the barely perceptible twitch of his lower lip that caused her heart to snag. Celia put her fingers to her mouth and began to chew her glove.

  It was at that moment, when the horses slowed down just before the home stretch, that something extraordinary began to happen. The sharp bend had flung some of the horses wide into the field and Willie Maguire, being a seasoned jockey, took advantage of this, hugging the inside. To Digby’s astonishment Lucky Deverill was gaining momentum – and gaining it fast. Digby’s knuckles went white. He lowered his field glasses. The horses advanced up the slope towards the winning post and all Digby could see was the bright green and white edging its way past the fourth, then the third, grabbing the rising ground. It wasn’t possible! His breath stuck in his throat. The noise grew more intense but he heard nothing, just the hammering sound of blood pulsating against his temples.

  Everyone was now on their feet. Celia was screaming, Beatrice gasping, Harry and Boysie mute with astonishment, mouths agape, as Lucky Deverill inched ahead of the second. With only a hundred yards to go Willie Maguire rode Sir Digby’s hope as if he were riding the wind. A moment later he was parallel to the first. The two horses were now neck and neck. But Lucky Deverill was propelled by the luck of the London Deverills and with one last valiant thrust Willie Maguire rode him first past the winning post.

  Digby was on his feet, punching the air. Celia was throwing her arms around him. Beatrice was dabbing her eyes with Boysie’s handkerchief. Harry shook his head and wanted to throw his arms around Boysie, but he thrust his hands into his pockets and swept his eyes over the crowd now pouring onto the racecourse.

  Suddenly Digby was besieged. Hands patted his back, faces smiled at him, lips congratulated him. He was swept down the grandstand like a leaf on a waterfall, carried by the hundreds of surprised spectators, both friends and strangers alike. When at last he reached the ground he hastened off to the Finish to meet his horse and jockey, the victorious Willie Maguire. When he saw his triumphant horse, nostrils flaring, his coat sodden with rain and sweat, he stroked his wet nose then took him by the reins to lead him into the Winners’ Enclosure. He was at once surrounded by journalists asking him questions and photographers clicking their cameras, the flash bulbs momentarily blinding him. ‘Really, it had very little to do with me,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Willie Maguire rode with great courage and skill and Lucky Deverill proved everyone wrong. It is Newcomb, Lucky Deverill’s trainer, who should be congratulated and, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to go and do that myself.’ And with the help of the police he extracted himself from the throng of press.

  ‘By God, he won!’ said Boysie to Celia. ‘He really does have the luck of the Devil!’

  ‘Papa makes his own luck,’ said Celia proudly.

  Beatrice had now composed herself and was graciously receiving congratulations when she was interrupted by an official-looking man with a neatly trimmed moustache and spectacles. He coughed into his hand. ‘Lady Deverill, may I ask you to follow me. The King would like to offer you his personal congratulations.’

  Beatrice beamed. ‘But of course. Excuse me,’ she said to those awaiting her attention. ‘I have been summoned by the King.’ The people stepped aside to allow her to pass and Beatrice was escorted up to the Royal Box where His Majesty was waiting in the ante-room, surrounded by courtiers. A small, bearded, gruff man in tails and top hat with a row of military medals across his chest, the King had the air of a retired military colonel.

  ‘My dear Lady Deverill,’ he said when she entered. He extended his hand. Beatrice took it and allowed the King to plant a kiss on her cheek, tickling her face with his beard. She then dropped into a low curtsy. ‘You must be very proud,’ he said.

  ‘Oh I am, sir. Very.’ Unlike his son, the King was a man of few words, so Beatrice found herself overcompensating to disguise any awkwardness. ‘I shall have a hard time keeping his feet on the ground now that he’s got a Derby winner.’ She laughed to fill the silence that ensued.

  ‘Oh yes, indeed,’ said the King finally, settling his watery blue eyes on her.

  ‘We remember with great affection your visit to Ireland,’ she said, recalling his state visit to Southern Ireland fifteen years before. ‘Did you know that Celia is now restoring Castle Deverill?’

  ‘Is s
he now?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Beatrice gushed. ‘It is a tragedy that some of the most beautiful houses in Ireland were razed to the ground during the Troubles. It’s just wonderful to think of possibly the most beautiful of all rising once again.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the King muttered. ‘Damn good shoot at Castle Deverill.’ At that moment an equerry sidled over and whispered something into the King’s ear. ‘Ah, I must go and hand Sir Digby his trophy,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you must,’ said Beatrice, dropping once again into a low curtsy. She left his presence in high spirits in spite of the uneasiness of their conversation, because, after all, the King’s the King and Beatrice was dazzled by royalty.

  ‘One could not really ask for very much more,’ said Digby to his wife when they arrived back at Deverill House at the end of the day. He poured himself a drink while Beatrice fell into the sofa, exhausted by all the excitement.

  ‘Where do you go from here, Digby?’ she asked, sighing with the pleasure of taking the weight off her legs.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m going to win the 2000 Guineas and the Gold Cup,’ he replied. Digby brought his glass to his nose and inhaled the sweet smell of whiskey. His ambition would be greatly served by entering into the public arena, but he was only too aware of the skeletons rattling about in his cupboard to risk threatening his reputation by putting his head so high above the parapet. Aware that his wife was not referring to horses he added, ‘I have no desire to encumber my life with politics, my dear.’ He sank into an armchair as a maid brought in a tray of tea.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Beatrice with a smile. ‘You can’t resist the limelight!’ The maid handed her a teacup. ‘Ah, thank you. Just what I need to restore my energy. What a day. What a perfect day. Celia is mistress of Castle Deverill and my husband has won the Derby. It’s all too wonderful to be true.’ She watched the maid pour the tea then dug her teeth into a shortbread biscuit. ‘I am aware of our blessings, Digby, and I take none of them for granted. When we lost our beloved George in the war I thought my life was over. But it’s possible to rise out of the ashes and live, isn’t it? One simply has to keep going in a different way. One part of me shut down, but I discovered that I am more than I believed I was. Other parts of me came to the fore. So here we are, enormously fortunate, and here am I, grateful and proud.’ She sipped her tea, dislodging the lump that had unexpectedly formed in her throat.

  Digby looked steadily at his wife. ‘I think about George every day, Beatrice,’ he said quietly. ‘And I miss him. He would have relished today. He loved horses and he had a competitive spirit. He would have enjoyed the thrill of the race. But it was not to be. I hope he was watching from wherever he is.’

  They withdrew into silence as they both remembered their son, and while they both felt blessed, they knew that nothing, no accomplishment, success or triumph on any level, could make up for the devastation of so great a loss.

  Kitty struggled to live with the choice she had made. She waded through her days against an incoming tide of grief and regret, the bleeding in her heart staunched only by the burgeoning life growing inside her belly. It was as if she had prised open the very body of Ireland and ripped out its soul. Without Jack the landscape was bereft, weeping golden tears onto the damp grass as autumn stole the last vestiges of summer. She kept herself busy, looking after JP and preparing the nursery for the new baby, and she tried not to succumb to the memories of the man she loved which lingered on every hill and in every valley like mist that just won’t lift. Yet, in late October, hope arrived with the first frosts as Kitty was delivered of a little girl. They called her Florence, after their honeymoon in Italy, and Kitty found, to her joy, that the overwhelming love she felt for her daughter eclipsed the longing she felt for Jack.

  Robert stood at the bedside and held the tiny baby in his arms. He gazed into her face with wonder. ‘She is so pretty,’ he said to Kitty, who lay in bed propped up against the pillows.

  ‘What do you think, JP?’ she asked the little boy who was snuggled up beside her.

  JP screwed up his nose. ‘I think she’s ugly,’ he said. ‘She looks like a tomato.’

  Robert and Kitty laughed. ‘You looked like a tomato too, when you were a baby,’ Kitty told him. ‘And look what a handsome boy you are now.’

  ‘She doesn’t have much hair,’ said JP.

  ‘Not now, darling, but it will grow,’ said Kitty. ‘You’ll have to look after her and teach her to ride.’

  ‘She’ll look up to you,’ Robert added, handing Florence back to her mother and sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘You’ll be her big brother.’

  ‘Although, you’re really her uncle,’ Kitty said.

  ‘Think of that. Uncle JP. How does that sound?’ Robert asked him.

  The boy grinned proudly and peered into Florence’s face. The baby wriggled and began to cry. JP screwed up his nose again in distaste.

  Robert put out his hand. ‘I think you and I should leave Kitty to feed the baby,’ he said.

  ‘Is she always going to make that noise?’ asked JP, jumping down from the bed.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Robert.

  Kitty watched them wander from the room, JP’s small hand in Robert’s big one, his bouncy walk full of childish vigour beside Robert, whose laboured stride was slow due to his stiffened leg. Her heart buckled. As hard as it had been to make her choice, she knew she had done the right thing. She gazed into the innocent face of her child and knew that this was where she belonged.

  Chapter 12

  New York, autumn 1927

  Bridie had been in New York for two years. She was now an established presence in the gossip columns, at the theatre, in the elegant uptown restaurants and cafés and, of course, in the smoky underground speakeasies of Harlem. Her sorrow was a silent current beneath the hard shield that she had built around herself for protection against memory and melancholy. Like ice on a river it was beautiful to look at but cold. Her life was lived on the surface where everything was superficial and gay and without a care. Happiness was acquired in the same way that she acquired everything: with money. The moment she felt a tremor of gloom she headed out to the shops to buy more happiness in the form of expensive clothes and hats, shoes and bags, feathers and sequins, diamonds and pearls. The boutiques were full of happiness and she had the means to procure as much of it as she wanted.

  There were men; plenty of men. She was never without a suitor and she took her pleasure when she wanted it. In those midnight hours when darkness wrapped its soft hands around her and lovers caressed her with tender fingers the silent current swelled and grew inside her, breaking against her heart in waves of longing. Her soul cried out to be loved and the memory she had of loving shifted into focus. For a blessed moment she could pretend that the arms holding her belonged to a man who cherished her and that the lips kissing her were devoted and true. But it was fool’s gold. Reality shattered the dream every time with dawn’s first light and Bridie was left fighting her desolation in the shops on Fifth Avenue where happiness was sold alongside other mirages.

  Beaumont and Elaine Williams were her allies in her new world of fickle, fair-weather friends. Mr Williams had known her before she had inherited her fortune, when she was a naïve and humble maid, fresh off the boat from Ireland, and she trusted him. He oversaw her investments personally and his office attended to all her bills. Bridie paid him handsomely for his cunning and wisdom. With the dreary jobs taken care of, Bridie’s only responsibility was to have fun and Elaine was her constant companion. As frivolous and acquisitive as she was, Bridie didn’t hesitate to fund her lifestyle, after all, Elaine was as vital to her as rope to a drowning man.

  Just when she believed she was forgetting her past, her past remembered her.

  It was a hot, sticky night in Manhattan. Bridie and Elaine had been to Warners’ Theatre to see the movie Don Juan, a new ‘talkie’ with sound effects and orchestral music starring John Barrymore as the irresistible womanizer. They were in such a
high state of excitement that going home to bed was not an option. ‘All that kissing has got me quite shaken up,’ said Elaine, linking arms with Bridie as they hurried across Broadway. ‘What shall we do now? I’m feeling in a party kind of mood.’

  ‘Me too,’ Bridie agreed. ‘Let’s go to the Cotton Club,’ she suggested. ‘There’s always plenty of entertainment there.’ She put her hand out to hail a cab.

  The Cotton Club was a fashionable nightclub in Harlem where New York’s most stylish went to eat fine food, drink illegal alcohol, dance to live bands and watch shows. It was buzzing, busy and boisterous and Bridie loved it especially because in that heady, loud and crowded place she could forget who she really was.

  Except on this night, sitting at a round table with a group of suited men Bridie didn’t recognize and being fawned over by a couple of scantily dressed showgirls, was the only man in New York capable of making her remember: Jack O’Leary.

  She stood staring at him in astonishment. He had changed. His hair was cut short, he was clean-shaven and he wore a pristine suit and tie. But he was unmistakably Jack with his deep-set pale blue eyes and crooked smile. People moved and jostled around her, but she remained as still as a rock until Elaine nudged her out of her stupor. ‘What’s up, Bridget?’ Elaine followed the line of her gaze. ‘Do you know those guys?’ she asked, then she added huskily, ‘They look like they’re up to no good, I’m telling you.’

  ‘I know one of them,’ said Bridie slowly, suddenly feeling sick.

  ‘The handsome one?’ Elaine asked with a giggle.

  ‘He’s from my past.’

  ‘Oh. Listen, if you’re not happy we can go someplace else.’