‘I hope not,’ said Hubert.
‘She’ll certainly outlive her husband. Stoke is more rickety in the legs than ever. Ah, there’s another car. Let’s see. Who’s that?’ She waited beside Hubert who was getting increasingly difficult to entertain in the monotonous limbo that had been his for too many years now to count. Adeline smiled. ‘It’s Harry and Charlotte.’ She sighed and dropped her head to one side. ‘Poor Harry, he’s desperately miserable. Life is difficult.’
‘Life after life is worse,’ grumbled Hubert.
‘Well, you had better get used to it,’ came Barton’s voice from the armchair. ‘You have nothing to complain about.’
‘Don’t bicker,’ said Adeline patiently. ‘You might as well get along because by the looks of things you’re all here to stay for the foreseeable future. Ah, there’s Digby and Beatrice. Do you remember, darling, how Digby used to bring you the finest Cuban cigars?’ Hubert grunted. ‘And Beatrice brought all of us the most exquisite silks. They were always so generous. Poor Digby’s finding life difficult too. But these things are sent to test us, are they not? We were tested, weren’t we, Hubert?’
‘Wish I’d listened to you, Adeline,’ he said suddenly. ‘I just thought you were . . .’ He hesitated then chuckled at the irony. ‘I thought you were a bit mad, but it was I who was mad. I thought your ghosts were in your imagination but now I’m one of them. How blind we human beings are and how misled. Look at them all.’ He stared down as another car slowly made its way over the gravel. ‘They’re blind too. All of them. Only death can open their eyes.’
There came a loud tut from behind them. ‘Be of good heart, Hubert. At least you’re not in Hell.’
Hubert turned to Barton. ‘I don’t believe in the Hell that I was taught. Hell is on earth. That’s very clear now.’
‘And that is Hell right now,’ said Adeline mischievously. Hubert smiled, for there, stepping out of the car, was Victoria, Countess of Elmrod, with her desperately dull and humourless husband, Eric. ‘Now that’s going to set the cat among the pigeons,’ she said. ‘We’re all in for a fortnight of entertainment. Isn’t that fun!’
Chapter 17
Victoria had been in the castle for no more than an hour and already the servants were exasperated by her incessant demands. She wanted all her dresses ironed and her husband’s shirts pressed. She insisted that her eight-year-old daughter, Lady Alexandra, have a lady’s maid of her own, which meant that Bessie, one of the younger housemaids, had to be removed from her usual duties to look after her.
Victoria had arrived ready to criticize her cousin’s audacious rebuilding of her father’s former home, but to her surprise she found it very much to her liking. ‘It has proper plumbing and electricity!’ she exclaimed in delight, flouncing into the bathroom. ‘Goodness, Celia’s dragged it out of the Dark Ages and what a difference it makes. I think I’m going to be very happy here. I rather wish Mama had swallowed her pride and come because even she would be impressed with the comfort and luxury of the new castle.’
‘My dear, she’d find something to criticize, I assure you,’ said her husband, looking out of the window onto the manicured box garden below. ‘And her jealousy would make her stay intolerable.’
‘But she’s spending Christmas alone in London.’
‘That’s her choice, Victoria. She was asked and she declined.’
‘Well, I’m not going to let her make me feel guilty.’
Eric laughed. ‘She’ll make a fine job of trying.’
Harry and Charlotte were given the same room as they had had in the summer, which put an added strain on their already overwrought marriage. Harry hadn’t laid eyes on Boysie in all those months, and now, finding himself back at the castle, he discovered that memories of his friend shone out from every corner, which only served to make him feel even more sick with misery and longing. He too looked down onto the gardens but his mother’s jealousy was not the focus of his thoughts. No, Harry stared onto the box hedges below and contemplated the idea of hurling himself out the window. The thought of it came slowly yet steadily, creeping across his mind like an evening shadow. Death would be a release, he figured. He’d feel no more the pain of separation and the agony of guilt; he’d be free.
Charlotte left the room to go and check on the nursemaid and Little Rupert, who had been put at the other end of the house with the rest of the children. Harry lit a cigarette and allowed his memories to float before his eyes like ships on the sea. He remembered his first love, Joseph the first footman; the time Kitty had discovered them in bed together; the moment he had had to say goodbye and return to the Front. He remembered the war, the cracking sound of gunfire, the skull-shattering explosion of bombs and the yearning, the terrible yearning, when at night he had sat huddled in the trenches gazing up at the stars that twinkled like the distant lights of home. He felt that yearning now, for Boysie, and it was just as terrible.
That evening the Shrubs arrived with Kitty and Robert, Elspeth and Peter and all their children, and Bertie who wandered up from the Hunting Lodge with a torch. Everyone embraced excitedly, for it had been so long since they had all been together, the London Deverills and the Ballinakelly Deverills, and they fell on each other with exclamations of joy. ‘I’m just grateful that I have been spared to see once again the magnificence of the castle restored to its former splendour,’ said Augusta in her stentorian voice, sinking into an armchair like a fat bantam. Her black dress ruffled up at her neck like feathers and the diamonds on her ears weighed so heavily that her lobes hung loose and floppy. She knitted her swollen, arthritic fingers so that the large gems she had managed to force onto them clustered together in a glittering display of bright colours. ‘I am ready to go, now that I have seen it one last time.’
The men stood in the hall discussing the dire state of the economy while Celia showed her sisters, Vivien and Leona, around the drawing room and Kitty and Elspeth endured Augusta’s self-indulgent soliloquy about death. Beatrice chatted to the Shrubs and noticed that there was something different about them. It wasn’t the way they looked, although she had to admit that they were taking more trouble with their appearance. It was something intangible but distinctly noticeable. Something in the air between them that wasn’t pleasant.
‘I gather Archie is going to host the Boxing Day Meet,’ said Hazel.
‘Indeed he is,’ Beatrice confirmed. ‘I dare say he’ll be dragged off with the hunt. I don’t think he’s a very keen horseman.’
‘Ethelred is a mighty fine horseman.’ Laurel inhaled through her nostrils and pulled a face which could only be described as deeply admiring and reverential. ‘Have you met him?’
‘Of course I have,’ said Beatrice, noticing the air had grown suddenly chilly between the two sisters.
‘He will be at the Meet, certainly,’ Hazel interjected. ‘He’s a very fine horseman.’
Laurel smiled tensely. ‘He tried to persuade me to take it up again.’
‘And me,’ added Hazel, not to be outdone. ‘He tried to persuade me, too. But I believe I’m too old.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ snapped Laurel. ‘I am considering it.’
‘You’re not!’ said Hazel.
‘Why, do you think me incapable? I was a very competent horsewoman in my day, don’t forget. Lord Hunt even told me that I would cut a dash in a riding habit.’ Laurel blushed and smiled smugly. ‘He does take liberties.’
Hazel pursed her lips. ‘Ah, there’s Charlotte,’ she said. ‘I’m longing to see Little Rupert. Do excuse me.’ And she stalked over to Charlotte, who was standing pale and shy in the doorway. Beatrice watched her go with a sense of helplessness. She turned back to Laurel and asked for news of Reverend Maddox – anything to draw the conversation away from Lord Hunt, who seemed to her like a fox in a hen house.
Digby patted Archie hard on the back. ‘You’re a good man, Archie, to host Christmas for my family. I do believe it’ll be the best Christmas any of us have ever had.’ Archie basked i
n his father-in-law’s admiration. ‘I must say,’ Digby continued, ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better man for my daughter. You’ve made her very happy, which is no easy feat. She’s flighty and easily distracted, but she’s kept her eye on the castle all these years without deviation, which surprises no one more than me. You’re the wind in her sails, Archie. You’ve got the measure of her, I dare say.’
‘Thank you, Digby,’ said Archie.
‘Tell me, man to man. How are your affairs?’
‘Very good,’ Archie replied.
Digby nodded thoughtfully, letting his eyes lose their focus in the middle distance. ‘Nothing I should worry about?’
‘Nothing,’ Archie reassured him.
‘These are trying times. I’m a gambling man, Archie. A speculator. I enjoy taking risks, but even I’ve had my fingers burned.’
‘I won’t say we’ve come out of this unscathed,’ Archie conceded. ‘But I’ve been shrewd in my dealings.’
‘Good.’ Digby patted him on the back again, then he added, ‘If you were ever in financial difficulty, you wouldn’t be too proud to come to me, I hope.’
‘Of course not,’ said Archie. Digby went to refill his glass and hoped he’d never be called upon; he was in no position to help anyone at the moment.
On Christmas Day the family attended church then returned for lunch and the opening of gifts. The children, dressed in their very best velvet and silk, tore open the wrapping paper and ribbon with squeals of delight before being taken away by their nannies to play with their new toys in the children’s wing of the castle. The grown-ups drank sherry, played charades and card games and watched the afternoon darken outside the drawing-room windows.
‘Christmas should be a happy time,’ said Kitty to Harry as they stood together, looking out. ‘But it makes me feel nostalgic and a little sad for all that we have lost.’ She glanced at her brother, who was struggling to find the words to express his own sense of desolation. ‘You have done the right thing,’ she told him quietly. ‘Hard though it is. You have saved your family.’ He nodded, straining to hold back his emotion. His face flushed pink and his eyes sparkled but they remained locked, gazing out onto the slate-grey skies and inky gardens. ‘It will get better, you know,’ she continued. ‘The hurt never goes away, but the sharp pain you feel now will turn into a dull ache. Most of the time you’ll be able to ignore it. Life has its many distractions, thankfully. Then, suddenly, when you least expect it, something will trigger it again and you’ll be cut to the quick. But you push through those moments and they eventually pass. I think of Adeline and what she would say. These things are sent to test us, Harry. Life isn’t meant to be easy.’ She looked at him again and his profile was so grave she wanted to take his hand and squeeze it, but she knew that, for his sake, she couldn’t; her touch would only make him lose control.
The day after Christmas the Ballinakelly Foxhounds gathered on the lawn outside the castle for the Boxing Day Meet. It was a damp day, warm for December. Soft rain floated on the breeze that carried with it the scent of pine, wet soil and sea. Crows hopped on the grass, pecking the ground for grubs as the horses snorted smoke into the moist air. Women in their navy riding habits and hats sat side-saddle, except for Kitty who had made a resolution the morning of the fire never to ride like that again. She sat astride her mare in a pair of breeches and navy jacket, a starched white stock about her neck, her fire-red hair falling in a thick plait down her back, almost reaching her waist. Beside her JP sat confidently on his pony. Almost eight years old he had the bold grey gaze of his half-sister, Kitty, and the same red hair, but his face was broad and handsome like his father’s, and, to Bertie’s pride, he had already been blooded with his first kill. Eager to get going JP fidgeted excitedly in the saddle while Robert looked on with their daughter Florence who was afraid of the horses. Peter had persuaded Archie to join the hunt and he sat awkwardly on his horse, trying not to show his fear. He pulled his silver flask out of his pocket and took a large swig of sloe gin, which didn’t make him feel any better.
Lord Hunt, dashing in his black jacket and tan-topped boots, raised his hat to the Shrubs, who buzzed about his horse’s head like a pair of flies. ‘It’s a fine day for the chase,’ Ethelred told them jovially. ‘The air is mild. Those hounds will pick up a good scent. I really must find a way to persuade you both to take to the saddle again, if only to see you in your riding habits and veils.’ He grinned down at them as they elbowed each other to get closer.
Grace looked elegant in her black habit, her pale face half-hidden behind a diaphanous black veil. Her waist was, however, thinner than normal and her mouth, usually so full of sensuality, was drawn into a hard line. Ever since Michael Doyle had rebuffed her she had felt more keenly than ever the passing of her youth. She lamented that she was no longer the beauty she had once been, for surely, if she was, Michael would not have been able to resist her. Try as she might, Michael was rarely out of her thoughts and her body still ached for him with every memory of his touch. Dare she admit, even to herself, that Michael had stolen her heart as well as her desire? She hadn’t taken a lover since and had to endure her husband strutting about with the smugness of a man who has a pretty woman in every city. She glanced at Sir Ronald, talking to Bertie, astride a horse that looked as if it was buckling beneath his great weight, and felt her irritation rise as he tossed back his head and laughed heartily.
Celia, who had thrown herself with zeal into the role of Doyenne of Ballinakelly, sat side-saddle in her riding habit, her shiny blonde hair tied into a neat chignon at the back of her neck and contained within a hair net, a black hat set at a raffish angle on the side of her head. She walked her horse among the riders, greeting everyone with the graciousness of a queen. Bertie, distinguished in a pink hunting jacket, asked one of the servants passing around glasses of port to give one to Digby, who, he had noticed, was a little off-colour. Leona and Vivien’s husbands, Bruce and Tarquin, sat solidly in their saddles for they were both accomplished riders in the Army, while their wives, who did not like horses, looked on.
Peter, as the Master of Foxhounds, blew his horn and the hunt was off. The hounds ran ahead, their noses to the ground, eager for the scent of fox. The lawn was suddenly empty but for the crows. Hazel and Laurel stood forlornly on the terrace. ‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Hazel.
‘Until tea,’ said Laurel.
‘I’m going to go and sit by the fire in the drawing room.’
‘And suffer Augusta? Not for me.’
‘Then what are you going to do, Laurel?’ Hazel asked, put out.
‘I shall find three friends to play a rubber of bridge. I know Robert will join me at the table and I’m sure, with a little coaxing, Leona and Vivien will be game.’
Hazel looked wounded. They had always played bridge together when Adeline and Hubert were alive. ‘Very well,’ she said, lifting her chin bravely. ‘As you wish. And, by the way, I like Augusta.’ The two women walked into the castle together, stinging from their unusual discord.
Harry enjoyed hunting because it forced him into the moment, just as it had done after the war when he had wanted to flee from the after-effects of the brutality he had witnessed. Now he wanted to lose himself again. He had never liked hunting as a boy for he had been a coward then, but now he relished the speed and rode without a care for his safety, jumping hedges and fences and streams. The hounds picked up the scent and followed the trail excitedly. Harry galloped at the front, his veins pumping with adrenalin and his heart pounding against his chest, drowning out his longing for Boysie. In a moment he was beside Kitty, who rode with the fearlessness of a man, and she smiled at him as they took a hawthorn hedge and cleared it with a thundering of hooves. Brother and sister rode together relishing the danger that put them firmly in the moment, obliterating for a blessed day their impossible loves.
At length Grace, her face splattered with mud and her hair breaking out of the pins, came across a group of local men and boys in fancy
dress, wandering slowly along the track that led from Ballinakelly to other small towns up the coast. With them was a small band and they were singing. She slowed down to a trot until she saw Michael Doyle among the faces and drew her horse to a halt. A young boy was holding a long stick covered in ribbons with a small bundle hanging off the end of it. She looked at Michael through her veil and he looked right back at her with his black and steady gaze. ‘Good morning, Mr Doyle,’ she said. Then, dropping her eyes to the child, she asked him what it was that swung from the end of his stick.
‘It’s St Stephen’s Day, milady,’ said the boy, surprised that she didn’t know. ‘This here’s a wren.’
Grace recoiled. ‘A wren? A dead wren?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ volunteered one of the men.
‘Why did you kill it?’ she asked, directing her question at Michael, whose head and shoulders rose above the group with an air of authority and importance.
‘There are three stories about the celebration to bury the wren,’ he said. ‘The first is that the wren drew attention to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, which betrayed him to the Romans. The second is that a wren betrayed the Fenians when it landed on a drum and alerted Cromwell’s army.’ Then the corners of his lips curled into a smile and he looked at her with more intensity. ‘But there is another story, a legend that tells of Cliona, a temptress, who lured men to their deaths in the sea with her wiles. A charm was discovered that protected them from her. Her only escape was to turn herself into a wren, to be hunted forever more for her skulduggery.’ He was staring at Grace with a knowing look on his face.
She lifted her chin. ‘Then you’d better be on your way,’ she said, giving her horse a gentle squeeze. The group wandered on down the track, but she called out to Michael.
He hung back until the other wrenboys were out of earshot. ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton?’
‘I am that wren hanging from the stick,’ she said and bit her lip. ‘Your faith is your charm and I am that poor wren.’
Daughters of Castle Deverill Page 23