Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  Bridie listened as Mr Williams ran through figures and funds she barely understood. The only words that mattered to her were ‘gains’, ‘interest’ and ‘the bottom line’. She watched this self-contained man, with his round belly fastened behind a pristine grey waistcoat, his clean, tidy hands and manicured nails, closely shaven face and shiny black hair and felt a flood of gratitude that she was in the care of such a sensible man. If it hadn’t been for Mr Williams where would she be now, she wondered. What she didn’t ask herself was where Mr Williams would be without her – his prosperity, and he was most certainly prosperous, was more closely linked to hers than she had ever imagined.

  ‘As you can see, Mrs Lockwood, you have nothing to worry about. New York can crash about your ears, but you will still be one of the few people left standing.’

  ‘I am very much in your debt,’ she said, watching him close the book and replace it on the table in front of him. She lifted her left hand and admired the diamond ring that glittered there.

  ‘That’s a very fine ring,’ said Mr Williams. ‘May I?’ He reached for her hand, drew it towards him and held it in the light. He knew a thing or two about diamonds and he could see, even without a loupe, that this one was of poor quality. ‘When are you going to tie the knot?’

  ‘We haven’t set a date,’ Bridie told him, her face glowing with happiness. ‘It’s all happened so fast. I need to catch my breath. Cesare wants to marry as soon as possible.’

  ‘Does he indeed,’ said Mr Williams, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. But Bridie was too excited to hear the concern in his voice. ‘Might I give you a word of advice?’ he asked. Considering the amount of money he had saved her she didn’t feel she was in any position to refuse.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied.

  ‘Take your time. There’s no rush to marry again. Get to know the man. Meet his friends and family. After all, getting into marriage is much easier than getting out of it.’

  Bridie smiled and shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh, I know what it looks like, Mr Williams. Of course I do. I don’t know anything about him, do I? But I followed my head with Walter and look where it got me. This time I will follow my heart. Life is not worth living without love. I know that now. I can be as rich as a Rockefeller, but if I don’t have love I have nothing. I do believe I have found my soulmate.’

  Beaumont observed her keenly. She was quite a different woman to the one she had been two years ago when she was pining for her Irishman and searching for solace in gin. Her cheeks were now flushed with the blush of a first love, her eyes shone with good health and optimism, her demeanour was both confident and satisfied, and Beaumont realized that it didn’t matter whether this count was genuine or not, because Bridie loved him. After all she had been through: a life of drudgery in the service of Mrs Grimsby, marriage to the aged Walter Lockwood, widowed at twenty-five, deserted by the Irishman she believed she loved – and those were only the facts he knew, what shadows lurked in her deeper past could only be guessed at – he realized that she deserved a taste of happiness.

  ‘I wish you luck, Mrs Lockwood,’ he said, settling back into his chair.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Williams,’ she replied and because she was so intoxicated with infatuation, she was oblivious to Mr Williams’ reservations. However, Beaumont Williams was not a passive man. When there was something that troubled him he wasted no time in getting to the bottom of it.

  Count Cesare di Marcantonio was an enigma. If Bridie knew little about him, his friends and acquaintances in New York knew even less. But Beaumont Williams had contacts in both Italy and Argentina and after a gentle digging in the right places, he was able to throw some light into the Count’s murky corners. ‘He was born in Abruzzo, somewhere in Italy,’ Elaine told Bridie over lunch in Lucio’s, a small restaurant on Fifth Avenue where the owner, a bearded Italian with a gift for making women feel special, always gave them the best table by the window. ‘But his family is really very aristocratic. His mother is a princess whose family is descended from the family of one of the popes, Barberini I think they’re called, but I can’t for the life of me remember which pope he was. Their names all sound the same, don’t you think?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Bridie, elegant in a fashionable cloche hat, olive-green dress and a string of shiny pearls that hung down to her waist.

  ‘No one knows exactly why, but the family moved to Argentina when your count was a child. It sounds a little dubious if you ask me. They simply vanished into the night. I suspect it had something to do with owing money. Anyhow, his father is one of those men who makes a fortune then loses it just as quickly, only to make it again. He made his first fortune in beef, then in industry, investing in railways. He bought estates and cattle, exporting the beef around the world. That’s what Beaumont found out.’

  ‘And now?’ Bridie asked.

  Elaine shrugged. ‘His father, Count Benvenuto, is a notorious character in Buenos Aires. He lives the high life, takes risks investing in pipe dreams and squanders his money on his mistresses and gambling. His reputation is not entirely snow white. Who’s to say whether he’s managed to hold on to his fortune or whether he’s never really had one. Beaumont suspects the latter and wishes to warn you that not everything about your count is, as we say in New York, kosher.’ Bridie put down her knife and fork and looked thoughtful for a moment. Elaine felt bad and rushed in to soothe her doubts. ‘I’m not saying your Cesare is after your money, Bridget,’ which was exactly what she was saying. ‘But he surrounds himself with rich people who are happy to absorb him into their world. He’s undoubtedly charming, entertaining and no one loves a foreign title more than the Americans.’ She sniffed apologetically and glanced at her friend a little fearfully. ‘We thought it better that you know before you tie the knot.’

  But Bridie smiled with indulgence, as if she were a parent who had just been told of her child’s latest antics by a worried teacher. ‘I don’t care about his family history, Elaine. I don’t care where he comes from. God knows that I come from nothing. What have I got to be proud of: a farmhouse that was sinking into the mud, a few cows and barely enough food to sustain us? I didn’t own a pair of shoes until I went to work at the castle. Cesare can be penniless and destitute and descended from peasants for all I care. It makes no difference to the way I feel about him. If his father’s gambled all his money away, I have enough for the two of us. If he’s a womanizer, I’ll make him faithful. If he’s an adventurer I’ll give him the adventure of a lifetime. Love will carry us like the wind and our feet will never touch the ground.’ And there was nothing Elaine could say after that.

  Bridie closed her ears and her eyes to Count Cesare’s obvious faults. To her there had never lived a man more handsome and romantic and kind. Love blinded her to his arrogance and to his shameless pursuit of the rich and powerful, to his vanity and his unwavering belief in his own success. She gazed into his sea-green eyes and felt the light of his adoration reach the darkest parts of her being, reviving them like neglected gardens that are suddenly bathed in sunshine, bringing them into blossom and flower. She didn’t need gifts; she needed love. And Cesare had enough of that to quench her most voracious thirst.

  Cesare’s charisma was so bright that it reduced to ashes any residual feelings of affection that she had for Jack O’Leary. It consumed her longing for Ireland and even quelled her yearning for her son. It raised her out of her past and carried her into a present moment where she believed that nothing and no one could ever hurt her again. Cesare would look after her now and she gladly gave him her heart. Take it, she told him silently as he sank his face into her neck, and do with it what you will because I am yours and always will be.

  The wedding date was set for May, but as it was Bridie’s second wedding, Marigold Reynolds had offered to host the ceremony and subsequent party in the lavish gardens of her house in Southampton. As the undisputed society queen, Marigold was only too happy to arrange another sumptuous event to which she could invite the newest star
s of film, theatre, media, society and sport. The Wall Street Crash might have curtailed many people’s spending, but it had done little to curtail hers. The invitations were engraved on the finest card, written in the most beautiful calligraphy and hand-delivered to the three hundred guests by one of the Reynoldses’ chauffeurs.

  As America descended into the most shocking economic decline in its history Bridie and Count Cesare enjoyed the happiest of engagements. They were the toast of New York and most of society welcomed a respite from the depressing news that filled the newspapers and radio waves. They began to look for a new house, which wasn’t difficult as prices plummeted and those who had suddenly, from one day to the next, lost their fortunes, found themselves having to sell their homes. Bridie found herself spoilt for choice.

  ‘My darling, I need to speak with you,’ said Cesare, taking her hand across the dinner table in Jack and Charlie’s 21 restaurant on West 52nd Street, a famous speakeasy with a secret system of levers which, in the event of a raid, tipped the shelves of the bar, sending the bottles of liquor crashing into the city’s sewers.

  Bridie looked concerned. ‘What about?’

  ‘Money,’ he replied, bathing her in Latin love and shameless affection. His eyes were moist and tender, and Bridie squeezed his hand encouragingly. ‘My father is being difficult,’ he explained. ‘I have asked him for money but—’

  In that accent, with those eyes, from those lips, money didn’t sound vulgar or suspicious. It was just a gorgeous request from a gorgeous man and she wished to satisfy him immediately.

  ‘My darling, dearest Cesare,’ Bridie interrupted. ‘I have money enough for the two of us. We don’t need your father’s money. I will talk to Mr Williams, my attorney, and arrange for an account to be set up in your name and for money to be put directly into it the moment we are married. We will share everything.’

  Cesare tried to disguise his relief with a look of horror. ‘But Count Cesare di Marcantonio, descendant of the family of Pope Urban VIII, cannot accept money from a woman. It is a husband’s duty to look after his wife.’

  Bridie held his hand tighter. ‘I came from nothing, Cesare. I began in Ireland as Bridie Doyle, a maid to a grand lady who lived in a castle. I came here to make a new start and worked for a wealthy old woman who died and left me a great fortune. I have been lucky. Please let me share my luck with you. I love you, Cesare. You’ve made me happier than I could ever have believed possible.’

  ‘It is against my nature. I cannot accept.’

  ‘Well, it is not against mine. I have suffered, God knows I have suffered, but you have restored my belief in love.’

  ‘I will write to my father again . . .’

  ‘If you wish. But let’s eat and enjoy our evening and talk no more about money.’

  He threaded his fingers through hers and his eyes fell heavily upon her. ‘I cannot wait to make love to you,’ he said with a smile that snatched her breath. ‘You are a beautiful woman and you are soon to be mine. I will take my time and explore every inch of you.’ He lowered his voice and leant closer. ‘And when I am finished, I will do it all over again.’ And Bridie fell dreamily into his gaze and thought that she would buy him the world, he only had to ask.

  In May the spring sunshine brought the fruit trees into blossom and warm breezes carried their pink and white petals through the streets like confetti. Yet, in spite of the change of season, the mood in the city was desperate. With growing unemployment and poverty, the atmosphere was sombre, anxious and simmering with anger. However, the Great Depression hadn’t reached the Reynoldses’ house in Southampton. On the first Saturday of the month the road to their house was congested with chauffeur-driven Cadillacs, Chryslers and Bugattis bringing the grand and celebrated guests to the wedding. Among them were Beaumont and Elaine Williams, the only true friends Bridie had in New York. Everyone else was glitter and sparkle – people she knew would melt away at the first sign of her decline. But she didn’t care, for today she was marrying the man she loved.

  She wrote a brief letter to tell her family that she was marrying again but omitted to mention his aristocratic title. She didn’t want them assuming that she had married him just for that. She posted the letter then forgot all about them. She was so detached from her old life that she barely gave them a thought. Distance didn’t dim her memory, infatuation did. While she was in Count Cesare’s brilliance the shadows of her past could not reach her. Dressed in an ivory Chanel dress, covered in pearls and beads and sparkling in the sunlight, she walked down the aisle of white roses to where the manifestation of all her dreams stood waiting to take possession of her. Mr Williams stood in for her father and handed her to the Count, while Elaine walked ahead as her maid of honour. Marigold sat at the front, satisfied that all the most prominent writers, actors and socialites from New York were there. But Bridie saw only Cesare. She took his outstretched hand and stepped in beside him. The priest read the vows, which they both repeated, and then it was over and the party began. Everyone drank champagne and ate from the bountiful feast and danced beneath the flower moon that rose over Long Island, pink in the light of the setting sun.

  Cesare held his bride and bent his head to kiss her. The celebrations continued around them but they were a small island, rising out of the revellers who seemed to have forgotten that the party had anything to do with them. ‘My darling wife,’ he said softly. ‘You are now Contessa di Marcantonio, wife of Conte Cesare di Marcantonio who is descended from the family of Pope Urban VIII, Maffeo Barberini. The Barberini family coat of arms is three bees. I would like you to wear this, because now you are a Barberini too and I want the world to know it.’ He opened his hand to reveal a small gold bee brooch. Bridie gazed at it in awe. The magnitude of this man’s ancestry made her light-headed and she swayed. Cesare slipped his fingers beneath the fabric of her dress, just beneath her collarbone, and attached the bee. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, leaving his fingers resting against her skin. Bridie saw from the way he was looking at her that he cherished her. She understood from the sleepy look in his eyes that he wanted her.

  They crept away as soon as they could and closed the bedroom door behind them. The room was semi-dark, the sound of music muted by the closed windows and curtains, the air thick with the sweet smell of narcissi that Marigold had put in their room for their wedding night. Gently Cesare unhooked the back of her dress until it floated down her body, landing in a silky puddle at her feet. Bridie stood in her slip and panties, the sheen of her bare skin standing out against the silk of her lingerie. He caressed her shoulders with a light touch, then her neck, then her face, reaching behind her head to unpin her hair, scrunching it in his hands as it was released in glossy waves to fall about her body. She trembled as he lifted her slip and pulled down her panties. She stood naked before him and he admired her with lustful eyes.

  Bridie had enjoyed many men, some of them had given her satisfaction while others had been a disappointment, but Cesare took the time to pleasure her in a way that none of her lovers ever had – and he knew things that made even Bridie, with her unabashed approach to sexual gratification, blush. True to his word he explored every inch of her body, and when he was finished, he went over it once more. He brought Bridie to great heights of exultation. She moaned and murmured, sighed and finally wept as she discovered a carnal heaven made possible by her skilful and masterful lover.

  If Cesare felt emasculated by Bridie’s money he didn’t show it. On the contrary, he lived up to his name conquering her like a sexual Julius Caesar. He was as masterful in the bedroom as any man could be. The new Countess di Marcantonio relinquished control and let him take her by the hand, and that gave her the most exquisite pleasure of all.

  Chapter 20

  Connecticut

  When Pam Wallace discovered that she was pregnant in the summer of 1927 she went straight to church, threw herself on her knees and thanked God for his divine intervention, for surely such a miracle, longed for and yet so elusive, had come direc
tly from Him. She wept with joy, vowed to show her thanks with acts of charity and kindness (and never say a mean thing about anyone ever again), then hurried home to tell her husband the wonderful news.

  Martha didn’t know what all the fuss was about. It was as if something extraordinary had happened. Something otherworldly. Suddenly her mother was treated as if she was so fragile that any sudden movement might break her. She glided about the house slowly, like an invalid, but one enormously satisfied with her sickness. She moved from table to chair, chair to stair, stair to door, making sure that her hand always had somewhere to settle in order to steady herself, just in case she tripped, and everyone did everything for her, telling her over and over again to rest ‘for the baby’. Larry bought her flowers and jewellery in pretty red boxes, and even her father, Raymond Tobin, visited, armed with gifts, offering reconciliation. The whole house smelt like a florist’s, which excited Martha far more than the thought of a baby because she adored flowers. She hovered over the petals like a bee drunk on nectar, marvelling at the vibrant colours and inhaling the sweet perfume. Everyone patted her on the head and told her how lucky she was to be getting a little brother or sister and Martha secretly hoped that the baby would stay inside her mama’s tummy forever, because she was very happy on her own.

  The only member of the family who took the news badly, as if it were a personal affront, was Joan, who had relished the fact that Pam’s child was adopted and by consequence ‘strange’. Now her sister-in-law was going to give birth to a genuine Wallace Joan’s competitiveness made her irritable. ‘I wonder if Martha will be Ma’s favourite grandchild after Pam’s baby is born,’ she said to Dorothy as they wandered around a fashionable boutique, browsing the summer dresses.