Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  He had only seen her twice. Once when she had publicly cursed him in the road in Ballinakelly, the second time when he had been out hunting. Accompanied by Sir Toby and a retinue of attendants, he had been galloping through the forest in pursuit of a deer. Suddenly, as the deer headed off through the thicket to his left he had spotted through the tangle of trees on his right a stag, standing on the crest of a knoll. Without time to inform his men he swerved his horse to the right and quietly trotted towards it.

  Alone in the wood he pulled on the reins and drew his beast to a halt. It was quiet but for the chirruping of birds and the whispering of the wind about the branches. The stag was magnificent. It stood with the dignity of a monarch, watching him haughtily with shiny black eyes. Slowly, not to frighten the animal away, he pulled out his musket. As he loaded and aimed, the stag suddenly disappeared and in its place stood a woman. Lord Deverill lifted his eye from the gun and stared in astonishment. She wore a cloak but beneath her hood was the unmistakable face of Maggie O’Leary. He put his gun down and gazed upon her, not knowing what to say. Her loveliness stole his words and yet he knew, even if he had managed to speak, that she would not have understood him. Her green eyes were wide and enquiring and her berry-red lips curled up at the corners in a mocking smile. At once he was overcome with lust; quite out of his mind with desire. She lifted her delicate hands and removed her hood. Her hair fell about her shoulders in thick black waves and her pale face bewitched him like the face of the full moon.

  He dismounted and walked towards her. She waited until he was almost upon her and then turned and floated down the hill, moving deeper into the forest. He followed, encouraged by the coy glances she tossed him over her shoulder. The trees grew closer together. The branches were a mesh of twig and leaf, the light reduced to thin, watery beams that sliced through the dimness. Even the birds had ceased to sing. The sweet smell of decaying vegetation rose up from the earth. She stopped and turned round. Lord Deverill did not wait to be invited. He pushed her against the trunk of an oak and pressed his lips to hers. She responded hungrily, winding her arms around his neck, kissing him back. A low moan escaped her throat as he buried his face in her neck and inhaled the scent of sage that clung to her skin. His fingers tore at the laces of her bodice until her breasts were exposed, white against his brown hands, and his lust was intensified by the warmth of her naked flesh and by the intoxicating smell of her. Maddened by desire he lifted her skirts. She raised a leg and wrapped it about him so he could more easily enter her. She gasped with satisfaction and her eyelids fluttered like moth’s wings as he slipped inside with a groan. They moved as one writhing beast, their faces clamped together, their breaths staggered, their heartbeats accelerating as they took their pleasure greedily.

  They reached the pinnacle of their enjoyment simultaneously then fell limp in a tangle of limbs, clothes and sweat onto the soft forest bed. At length Maggie rolled away from him and pulled down her skirts to cover herself, but she left her laces hanging loose at her waist and her breasts exposed. She fixed him with wide, brazen eyes, as feral as a wolf’s, and held him in her thrall for a long moment. Then she spoke. Her voice was as silky as a spring breeze but Lord Deverill did not understand her native language. He frowned and she seemed to find his bewilderment amusing for she burst into peals of mocking laughter. As Lord Deverill’s frown deepened she turned onto her knees and crawled towards him on all fours with the speed of a cat. She climbed astride him, pinned his wrists to the ground and pressed her mouth once more to his. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard upon it. Lord Deverill tasted the blood on his tongue and recoiled. ‘By God you’ve hurt me, woman!’ he exclaimed but Maggie just laughed louder. Her black hair cascaded in thick tendrils over her exposed breasts and her bruised mouth twisted into a secretive smile, but it was her eyes, her wild green eyes, which looked at him with a sudden coldness that froze the blood in his veins. Suddenly she was pressing a dagger to his throat. Lord Deverill’s breath caught in his chest and he stared back at her in horror. A gush of bubbling laughter rose up from her belly as she leaped to her feet. She smiled at him again, this time with playfulness, then she was gone, as quickly as she had come, and he was left alone and bewildered in the middle of the forest.

  He was jolted back to the theatre by a sharp jab to the ribs. ‘Barton!’ It was his wife, Alice. ‘The King is waving at you. Wake up!’ Lord Deverill turned towards the Royal Box. Indeed the King had raised his white glove. Lord Deverill bowed in response and the King beckoned one of his attendants with a flick of his fingers. The attendant bent down and the King whispered something in his ear. ‘I believe you will get your meeting with the King,’ said Alice, smiling with satisfaction. ‘King Charles will always remember those who were loyal to his father.’ Lord Deverill turned back to the stage just as the performance was beginning, and passed a finger absent-mindedly across his lips.

  Chapter 13

  Ballinakelly, 1929

  Celia and Kitty stood in their finest silk gowns at the top of the castle and gazed out of the window over the sea. The sun had already begun her slow descent. Her face, which had blazed a bright yellow at midday, had now mellowed into a deeper hue, transforming the sky around her into dusty pinks and rich oranges. Later she would set the horizon aflame and the soft shades would intensify into royal crimson and gold, but by then the two women would be entertaining the large number of guests who were soon to arrive from all over the county, for tonight was Celia’s first Summer Ball as mistress of the newly restored and quite splendid Castle Deverill.

  The rusted gates at the entrance had been replaced by an elaborate wrought-iron creation, painted black and decorated with the Deverill coat of arms which had been incorporated into the design in an ostentatious display of family prestige. Flares had been lit on either side of the sweeping drive which had been resurfaced in tar and shingle and covered in gravel – an extravagance that had aroused the curiosity of the locals because tar and shingle was very new and many of the roads in Co. Cork were still boreens made of earth or brick. The gardens had been resuscitated, the wild, overgrown areas tamed, the tennis court reinstated and the croquet lawn mown flat and even. A kaleidoscope of colourful flowers flourished in the borders, pink roses and purple clematis climbed the walls of the herbaceous border, and raised wooden beds in the vegetable garden were home to lettuces, potatoes, carrots, parsnips and radishes and rigorously weeded by the team of men Celia had employed from Ballinakelly to train under Mr Wilcox, one of the gardeners at Deverill Rising, on loan from her father. Adeline’s greenhouses had been repainted, the broken panes of glass replaced, the blancmange-shaped roofs polished until they gleamed. Inside, Celia insisted on growing orchids, which required a complicated, not to mention costly, array of humidifiers and temperature regulation. The only plant that remained from Adeline’s day was the now giant cannabis, which Celia had, for some reason unknown even to herself, decided to keep. Digby had paid for the old stone Mr Leclaire had recommended and sourced from a ruined castle in Bandon in order for Castle Deverill to retain its antique flavour so only the western tower and the few surviving walls that remained from the original building hinted at its tragic past. It looked just like it had before the fire, only newer – like a battle-weary soldier whose face has been scrubbed and shaved and whose uniform has been replaced and sewn with bright gold buttons.

  Inside, however, was an entirely different matter. Besides the grand hall, where the stone fireplace still stood as it always had, and the sweeping wooden staircase, which was identical to the old one, little of Adeline and Hubert’s old home remained. Celia had redesigned and redecorated according to the grandiose nature of her ambition. Gone was the shabby elegance of a home that had been loved by generations of Deverills – worn thin by their affection like a child’s toy bear whose fur has all but disappeared from hugging, whose ears are ragged from games, whose nose is frayed from kisses. Celia had recreated the interiors to impress her guests, not to welcome
her family home from a hard day out hunting in the rain. The hall floor was chequerboard marble, the walls papered and painted and hanging with Old Master paintings, the surfaces cluttered with Romanov antiques and Roman antiquities and anything else she could find that was fashionable. Furniture had been acquired in chateau sales in France, much of it from the First French Empire of Napoleon I and wildly opulent in rich crimsons and gold. She had bought an entire library by the yard but the cosy atmosphere of Hubert’s den, where he’d once sat smoking cigars in front of the fire, reading the Irish Times in a tatty leather armchair while Adeline painted at the table in the bay window, was gone. Everything gleamed but nothing attracted. The charm had been consumed by the fire and the opportunity to recreate it had been lost on a young woman whose inspiration was born of her shallow nature. The warm glow of love which cannot be bought had been replaced by things that can only be acquired with money.

  ‘Do you remember when we stood here as little girls?’ said Celia, her heart fuller than it had ever been.

  ‘We were three of us then,’ Kitty reminded her.

  ‘Whatever happened to Bridie?’ Celia asked.

  ‘I believe she returned to America.’

  ‘Isn’t life strange,’ said Celia with uncharacteristic reflection. ‘Who would have thought that the three of us, all born in the same year, would have ended up where we are today? I am mistress of the castle with two little girls. You are married to your old tutor and have Florence and JP. Bridie is living on the other side of the world with Lord knows how many children by now. None of us had a clue what was in store for us when we stood here as girls the night of the last Summer Ball.’

  Kitty was aware that Celia knew little of what she and Bridie had been through but she wasn’t about to enlighten her. ‘I often think of those days,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Before things went wrong.’

  ‘Before we lost people we loved in the war,’ said Celia quietly. She thought of her brother George, whom she rarely considered these days, and her mood took an unexpected dive. She shook her head to dispel the memories and smiled fiercely. ‘But everything is wonderful now, isn’t it?’ she said firmly. ‘In fact, life has never been better.’ She swung round and contemplated with satisfaction the splendour of her great vision brought to completion at last. ‘I have poured all my love into this place,’ she told Kitty. ‘Castle Deverill is like my third child. I will now spend the rest of my life embellishing her. More trips to Italy and France, more shopping. It’s a never-ending project and so thrilling. I am following in the footsteps of our ancestors who went on their grand tours of Europe and brought back wonderful treasures.’ She sighed happily. ‘And tonight everyone will admire it. Everyone will appreciate all the work I have put into it. I do hope Adeline is watching, wherever she is. And I hope she approves.’

  Kitty knew her grandmother was watching, but doubted she really cared what Celia had done to her home, for Adeline was in a dimension now where the material world was no longer important. ‘Come, let’s go downstairs. Your guests will be arriving shortly,’ she said, moving away from the window. The two women walked through the castle to the front stairs. They hesitated a moment at the top of the landing to check their reflections in the large gilt mirror that hung there. Celia, resplendent in ice blue, admired the daring cut of her dress which exposed most of her back, while Kitty, elegant in forest-green silk, gazed upon the two faces smiling back at her and felt keenly the absence of the third. Where are you now, Bridie, and do you miss us too? she thought. Because in spite of everything, I miss you.

  A long queue of cars was slowly drawing up in front of the castle. Celia’s servants were in attendance to receive the ladies in long gowns and the men in white tie who climbed the few steps up to the front door to walk beneath the lintel where the Deverill family crest had survived the fire and still resonated with Barton’s passion for his new home: Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum. The restoration of the castle had been the talk of the county for years, and the amount of money spent on it a matter of much conjecture, and they were all eager to see the results for themselves. Celia and Archie stood in front of the fireplace that had been filled with summer flowers from the gardens, shaking hands and receiving compliments. Celia enjoyed the gasps of wonder and astonishment as her guests laid eyes on the sumptuous hall for the first time. Most had been regular visitors before the fire and were quick to compare the dilapidated old building with the lavish new one. While some were delighted by the opulence there were others who found it in poor taste.

  ‘It looks like a beautiful but impersonal hotel,’ Boysie whispered to Harry as they stood on the terrace overlooking the gardens. ‘But for God’s sake keep that to yourself or I’ll never be invited again.’

  ‘I’m relieved it’s nothing like it was or I should suffer terrible homesickness,’ said Harry.

  ‘No regrets then?’ asked Boysie, who knew Harry well enough to know that he had plenty.

  ‘None,’ Harry replied firmly, knocking back his champagne. ‘Celia has done a splendid job.’

  Boysie smoked languidly. ‘Your mama would seethe with jealousy if she were here.’

  ‘Isn’t it lucky then that she isn’t?’

  ‘She’d hate to see Celia lording it about the home that should, by rights, be hers. Celia is insufferably happy and Maud hates happy people. She loves nothing more than misery because she hopes that if it’s plaguing someone else it won’t have its eye on her. Digby is more puffed up than ever. Don’t you adore the way he wears his white tie? Somehow it looks brash on him. He has a talent for brash, you know. If he wasn’t Sir Digby Deverill one would assume he was frightfully common. And as for your dear Charlotte, pregnant again, I see. How do you manage it, old chap? Perhaps after two daughters you’ll be blessed with an heir.’

  Harry looked into Boysie’s eyes and grinned. ‘You’ve had two so probably the same way you manage it, old boy.’

  Boysie chuckled and a knowing look passed between them. ‘Is your father aware of your mother’s little friend, Arthur Arlington?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I haven’t asked him. I’m sure he is. Half of London is. Mama hasn’t asked for a divorce, but I’m sure Papa would give her one. The marriage is a farce and Arthur is a drip.’

  ‘A very rich drip,’ Boysie added.

  Harry sighed resignedly. ‘But life is good for Papa these days.’ He watched his father in a small group of people who were standing on the croquet lawn looking back at the castle. Bertie was pointing at the roof, no doubt taking them through the building process. ‘Strange that he takes so much delight in Celia’s success, isn’t it?’ he said softly. ‘One would expect him to be bitter about it, but he isn’t. I truly believe he’s genuinely pleased.’

  ‘Perhaps the responsibility of being Lord Deverill of Castle Deverill has secretly weighed heavily on his shoulders all these years. Who knows, maybe he’s relieved to be shot of it. I know you are.’

  ‘I couldn’t be myself here,’ said Harry, recalling the brief affair he’d enjoyed with Joseph the first footman. ‘It would hardly have been appropriate to put you up in one of the estate cottages. I dare say you’re used to finer things.’

  ‘I am indeed, old boy. Ireland is much too damp for my tastes.’ He took Harry’s empty glass and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Now, why don’t we go and pay some attention to those wives of ours, eh? For better or for worse and all that . . .’

  ‘Capital idea,’ said Harry and the two men set off into the castle.

  Hazel and Laurel stood in the ballroom and gazed about them in wonder. Celia had decorated it in an opulent rococo style, with white walls and lavish gold stucco designed in flamboyant, asymmetrical patterns. The chandeliers no longer held candles but blazed with electricity, which was reflected in the large mirrors that embellished the room like golden stars. ‘But look at the flowers, Hazel,’ said Laurel. ‘I’ve never seen so many lilies.’ She inhaled through dilated nostrils. ‘The smell is wonderf
ul. Really, Celia should be very proud of herself. Tonight is a triumph.’

  Just as Hazel was about to agree with her, they heard the familiar and nervously anticipated voice of Lord Hunt as he strode into the room, greeting them enthusiastically. They swung round, their delight at seeing him ill-concealed. ‘The dear Misses Swanton,’ he said, taking each Shrub in turn by her white-gloved hand and drawing it to his lips with a formal and slightly exaggerated bow. Both ladies shivered with pleasure for Lord Hunt had the ability to make them feel young and beautiful and deliciously frivolous. In the three years that he had been living with his daughter, he had gained notoriety in Ballinakelly for his breezy charm, his jocular wit and his incorrigible flirting. ‘May I be permitted to say how radiant you both look tonight?’ He ran his astute brown eyes up and down their almost identical dresses and Hazel and Laurel felt as if he had somehow got beneath the fabric and caressed with a tender finger the long-neglected skin there.

  ‘Thank you, Ethelred,’ Laurel croaked when, after a short struggle, she managed to find her voice.

  ‘I’m going to have a terrible decision to make later this evening,’ he said, pulling a mournful face.

  ‘Oh dear,’ interjected Hazel. ‘What might that be, Ethelred?’

  He looked from one to the other then sighed melodramatically. ‘Whom to dance with first, when I want to dance with both of you.’ Laurel glanced at Hazel and they both tittered with shy delight. ‘Is there not a dance for three?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Laurel. ‘Although Celia is very modern, so one never knows.’