Her greatest fear had been love letters from a mistress but now, reading the terrible words written on the page, love letters would have been preferable to this. Her heart plummeted into her stomach and the blood drained from her face. The floor seemed to spin away from her as she drew the other two letters from their envelopes and hurried to read them. How she wished she had just done what her father had asked and burned them. Hadn’t she been taught that curiosity killed the cat? Now she knew what these letters contained she could never unknow it. She felt tainted by the poison contained within the words. Cursed. There was only one thing to do.
Hastily, as if the letters had a life of their own and might suddenly make off out of the house and into the public gaze, she screwed them into tight balls and threw them into the grate. She found matches on the mantelpiece and struck one. Bending down she put the flame to the paper and watched it grow into a small fire. The blaze consumed the letters until all that was left was ash, sinking into the pile of cinders left over from her father’s many fires.
Aurelius Dupree. She never wanted to see or hear that name again.
Chapter 24
London has lost its brightest – and richest – light, wrote Viscount Castlerosse in his Express column.
Sir Digby Deverill was one of my dearest friends and his sudden death from a heart attack has sent waves of shock through the drawing rooms of London’s elite, for we all believed him immortal. It was no surprise to see his memorial service attended by the crème de la crème of British society and queens of film and theatre. Earl Baldwin of Bewdley, who, it is whispered, was trying to entice the flamboyant and popular Sir Digby into politics, rubbed shoulders with Mr Winston Churchill, the Earl of Birkenhead and Lord Beaverbrook, founder of this newspaper, and the delightful Betty Balfour and Madeleine Carroll brought the glamour of the silver screen to the sombre event in Mayfair and reminded us that Sir Digby’s net was flung far and wide. The King sent a representative, for Sir Digby was a popular character in the racing world and I once heard that he bought a horse from the royal stud at an inflated price, a favour the King remembered. I was not surprised to see a few of his fellow Randlords, among them his friend and neighbour, Sir Abe Bailey, whom I saw chatting to the aesthete Mr Boysie Bancroft, one of the leading lights at Christie’s, about art no doubt; Sir Abe’s collection is said to be second to none. The black attire of mourning did not diminish the radiant beauty of the Marchioness of Londonderry who attended with her son, Lord Castlereagh. But none outshone the tragic beauty of Deverill’s youngest daughter, the recently widowed Mrs Celia Mayberry, and the question unspoken on everyone’s lips was: Will she or won’t she sell her castle?
‘Ridiculous!’ Maud sniffed, closing the paper. ‘Nothing will induce her to sell the castle.’
‘She’s planning on selling the contents,’ Harry informed her, stirring milk into his coffee.
‘That’s not the same as selling the castle. Viscount Castlerosse should write fiction not fact, he’d be much better at it. Honestly, the last thing on anyone’s mind yesterday was the castle.’
‘I’m sure Digby has left Celia enough in his will to cover any of Archie’s losses,’ he said optimistically.
‘Archie left Celia in a terrible position. Imagine doing that to one’s wife. Shameful.’ She smiled at her son. Harry’s visits did much to raise her spirits. Autumn always made her feel melancholy with the strong winds, falling leaves and thick smog. ‘So, what’s Celia going to do now?’
‘She’ll sit it out here in London for a while, I think. At least until the will is read and she knows where she stands. The nanny is coming over with the children. Beatrice—’
‘Beatrice,’ Maud interrupted, pursing her scarlet lips. ‘Beatrice isn’t good for anything. She should remember that she has a family who needs her. I imagine Celia needs her mother very badly right now because those sisters of hers are useless, but they’ve never been close. You’re good to her, though, aren’t you, Harry? I’m sure she’s taking comfort from you.’
‘Beatrice has returned to Deverill Rising already,’ Harry continued. ‘She doesn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone.’
‘She needs to eat. She’s half the size she was in the summer.’
‘She’s unhappy, Mama. I’m sure it’ll pass.’
‘Of course it will. She’ll bounce back. We Deverills are a resilient lot.’
‘We have to be.’
‘No one more than me, Harry. What I have been put through would have felled most normal women. But I am made of tougher stuff Harry wondered what exactly she had been put through, besides the odd scandal and losing a castle that she never liked in the first place. He did not disagree with her, however. He knew better than to argue with his mother. ‘What keeps me going is my faith, my children and the certainty that I have always only ever done my best.’
Harry looked around her sumptuous sitting room, which she had spared no expense in furnishing, and decided to change the subject. ‘You’ve made a fine home, Mama.’
‘I have, but I cannot deny that I am lonely. You are my consolation, Harry. You, Charlotte and those adorable children. I have no regrets. None.’ She smiled at him again and the satisfaction in it made Harry feel uncomfortable. ‘You have done me proud, my darling. I could not have wished for a better son.’
Celia closed the newspaper with a disdainful sniff. Her father had told her not to sell the castle. That place meant more to him than anyone could know. There was no way that she was going to give it up without a fight.
She reflected on the memorial service. What Castlerosse hadn’t noticed was the strange man in the felt hat who had attended without invitation and had lurked at the back of the church, watching them all keenly – the same man as the one who had been outside the church at the funeral, staring at her with such vitriol. Celia had noticed him. She was terrible at remembering names but she never forgot a face, and his, gaunt, mottled and grey, had stuck in her memory like a thorn. She had seen him various times since, standing beneath the lamp on her street, watching the house, watching her. To show up at her father’s funeral was one thing, but to attend the memorial service was audacious to say the least, but she didn’t imagine he had many scruples. Not him. Not Aurelius Dupree.
She knew he wanted to get her attention, but she was determined not to let him. If she ignored him perhaps he would go away.
Beatrice was too unwell to attend the reading of the will. The meeting was held in a plush office in St James’s, and those present included Celia and her sisters Leona and Vivien, their husbands Bruce and Tarquin, and Harry, who Celia had invited to stand in for Archie. The mood was sombre and formal. Mr Riswold, Digby’s solicitor, was not the usual plump, paternal solicitor, but as cadaverous and dour as an undertaker. He sat at the end of the table and opened his briefcase. After the usual pleasantries he lifted out a neat pile of papers held together by a staple and laid it carefully in front of him. ‘Let us begin,’ he said and the family waited expectantly to hear how their father had divided his great wealth.
Digby had in fact bequeathed everything to Beatrice, leaving it at her discretion to share money and property with their daughters. As Mr Riswold explained, Sir Digby’s money had been gambled – for that is the word he used, and he looked somewhat disapproving – on the Stock Exchange, which everyone present knew had crashed the year before. If Sir Digby had lived Mr Riswold was sure that he would have recuperated his losses in time, as it was – and at this point small beads of sweat began to sprout on his forehead – he had lost a great deal. He cleared his throat, avoided looking at any of them directly, and told them the grim truth. Digby’s financial troubles had been far greater than any of them had imagined. The gambler’s luck had finally run out.
‘How are we going to tell Mama?’ Leona asked, her long face ashen with shock. They had entered the room believing themselves very rich, only to discover that they had been left nothing.
‘We’re not going to tell Mama,’ said Celia deci
sively.
‘I don’t think we can keep this sort of information from her, Celia,’ said Vivien. ‘We will have to sell Papa’s assets. That includes Deverill House in London and Deverill Rising in Wiltshire. Papa’s greatest joys.’ Her eyes glittered with tears. Tarquin put his hand on hers and squeezed it encouragingly.
‘Mama’s in no state to hear that her homes are threatened,’ said Celia.
‘Let’s not be dramatic,’ Leona cut in. ‘The only person who will be doing any selling will be you, Celia. Mama is going to struggle to pay off Papa’s debts with the little he has left, but there’s certainly nothing in the pot to pay off yours.’
Celia stiffened. ‘I am perfectly capable of paying off Archie’s debts myself, thank you very much,’ she retorted crossly, aware that in truth she was incapable of paying off even half of them.
‘Let’s not fight,’ Harry interrupted.
‘I agree,’ said Bruce. ‘We have to discuss this calmly, as one unit.’ His tidy brown moustache twitched as his mind, conditioned by a long career in the Army, set about putting together a strategy.
‘Celia is right,’ said Tarquin, who had enjoyed as many years in the armed forces as his brother-in-law and was as much excited by schemes, plans and tactics as he was. ‘There’s no point upsetting Beatrice. She’s much too fragile at the moment and it might tip her over the edge. I suggest we work out exactly how much is owed and then we can calculate how much is left to run both houses.’
‘I break out in a sweat just thinking about how much those houses cost,’ said Celia. ‘I know how much I spend on Castle Deverill—’
‘This isn’t about Castle Deverill,’ said Leona, her voice rising a tone. Vivien shot her a warning look, but Leona continued regardless. ‘If it wasn’t for Papa throwing money at your stupid castle we might not be in the situation we are in.’
‘Leona, that’s not fair,’ Vivien cut in. ‘Castle Deverill was Papa’s dream.’
‘Well, it’s turned into a nightmare, hasn’t it.’
‘Please, let’s not fight,’ said Harry again. If anyone should be upset about Castle Deverill it was him – and he wasn’t.
‘I never liked the place. It was cold and damp and much too big,’ said Leona. ‘You’ve made it into a palace. It was never meant to be a palace. I’m sure Adeline and Hubert are turning in their graves.’
‘Leona, enough,’ said her husband in the same tone he would use for an insubordinate officer cadet. ‘Let’s be positive. There’s no point dwelling on the past. Digby was perfectly within his rights to spend his money as he pleased. He’d earned it.’
‘And gambled it away,’ said Leona bitterly.
‘We have to work out how to proceed.’ Bruce turned to the grim solicitor who had remained quiet and watchful as the temperature in the room had begun to rise. ‘Mr Riswold, you know Sir Digby’s affairs better than any of us, perhaps you can advise us.’
Mr Riswold pulled back his shoulders, licked his forefinger again and flicked through the pages of his document to the very end. ‘I anticipated your concern,’ he said in a monotone. ‘So I took the liberty of working out a plan for you . . .’ Celia knew then why her father had chosen this meagre, pedantic man to run his affairs, it was on account of his composure under pressure. ‘Prepare yourselves,’ he warned ominously. ‘For the worst.’ They all felt the vertiginous sensation of falling, falling inescapably towards poverty.
When Celia returned to Deverill House the butler handed her a letter on a tray. She recognized the handwriting at once and turned white. ‘A gentleman delivered it this afternoon,’ the butler explained when Celia asked, for there was no stamp on the envelope. The thought of Aurelius Dupree ringing her doorbell sent a chill coursing over her skin, like the march of a thousand ice-cold ants. She pulled herself together, calmly thanked the butler, then strode into her father’s study, threw the letter in the grate with a trembling hand, and did what she had done with the others: burned it. She hoped that by destroying them the whole situation would go away.
There was only one thing to do, return to Castle Deverill. Perhaps Mr Dupree wouldn’t find her there. The following morning she explained to the butler that she was leaving for Ireland and, if that man was to turn up again, with or without a letter, he was to say that she had left indefinitely so there was no point in corresponding further. She hoped he wouldn’t turn up at Deverill Rising and try to speak to her mother. If Beatrice knew what those letters had contained they’d most likely have another funeral to arrange.
Adeline watched Celia’s return home with concern. She sensed Celia’s fear as well as her determination to delve into her inner resources and find a strength she wasn’t sure she had. Celia was alone. She might have Bertie in the Hunting Lodge and Kitty in the White House but she had never been as lonely as she was now. Adeline’s heart went out to her; but there was nothing she could do to console her. Archie and Digby were gone from her sight; the fact that they were still with her in spirit meant nothing to someone who lacked the sensitivity to feel them.
‘I envy the likes of Digby,’ said Barton, pushing himself up from the chair and joining Adeline at the window. ‘He’s a lucky Deverill, after all.’
‘If you mean because he’s free to come and go as he wishes, then you’re right,’ said Adeline, who found herself losing patience with these cantankerous spirits. ‘But he’s not very lucky to have left when he did. Much too early. He still had things to do.’
‘Didn’t we all, Adeline,’ Barton rejoined. He sighed and watched Celia stride into the castle, leaving the servants to carry in her luggage and the nanny to take in the children. ‘This wasn’t the first time the castle had to be rebuilt,’ he added.
‘Oh?’ said Adeline, her curiosity mounting.
‘It has been burned down before.’
‘In your time?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Aye. In my time. History does indeed repeat itself. The people of Ballinakelly rose up against me and set it alight. I was summoned back to Ireland to defend it. There’s nothing like seeing your home blazing on the horizon. A great furnace, like God’s own smithy at work, it was. Much like the great fire by the rebels that took Hubert.’
‘Those weren’t rebels,’ said Adeline crossly. ‘That was personal.’
‘Love and hate are very closely intertwined,’ he said and his voice was heavy with regret.
Adeline looked at him. His face was contorted with pain, his mouth twisted with remorse. ‘What did you do, Barton?’ she asked quietly.
He gazed out of the window but she knew he wasn’t seeing anything but the face of a woman, for only love can do that to a man. ‘I did something unforgivable,’ he confessed. ‘And yet unavoidable.’
‘To whom?’
He shook his head and closed his eyes. For over two hundred and fifty years he had kept the secrets concealed safely in his heart. He had barely dared even face them himself. But now, with Adeline’s light so dazzlingly bright, he wanted to release his burden. He wanted to free himself from the guilt, from the darkness which hung about him like a shroud, from the intolerable weight of shadow. He wanted to absorb some of her light. ‘I loved Maggie O’Leary,’ he said and his voice was so quiet Adeline wasn’t sure she had heard him.
‘You loved the woman who laid a curse on you and your descendants?’ Adeline gasped. ‘The very same woman who condemned you to this limbo?’
‘Aye. I loved her.’ The words left him like venom expelled from a wound. ‘I loved her to her core.’
‘But I don’t understand. If you loved her, why did she not undo the curse?’
He turned to her, shook his head and gave a small, hopeless smile.
Celia had never felt so alone. In spite of the castle full of servants and the corridors full of ghosts, she felt isolated and abandoned and desperately lost. She barely dared look the servants in the eye for soon she would have to let them all go. She curled up in bed and felt ever more keenly the absence of her husband. His side of the mattr
ess felt vast and cold and she dared not put her foot into it, for while she lay coiled like a snake she could pretend not to notice the chill beside her. Tears trickled onto the pillow until the cotton beneath her head was entirely wet. She felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The puppeteer had left her to her own devices, but she didn’t want independence and uncertainty; she wanted security. She wanted things to be the way they were when she and Archie were in Italy, buying furniture and paintings for the castle. Before the money ran out, before Archie killed himself, before her father had died of a heart attack, before everything had gone so horribly wrong. She pressed her eyes shut and prayed to God. He was her last resort. The one person she could count on not to take offence at being the only remaining option. After all, wasn’t His love unconditional?
The following day she went to see Kitty. She needed to be with someone who understood; someone who didn’t criticize as Leona had done; someone who had suffered as much as she had. Only someone like Kitty could empathize with her predicament.
She found her in her sitting room wrapping Christmas presents at a round table by the window. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had hosted Christmas. Her husband and father had been alive then. Everything had been wonderful, privileged, blessed. She appreciated her good fortune now as she had never done before. There was nothing like losing something to make one value its worth.
When Kitty saw her, standing diminished and forlorn in the doorway, she rose from her chair and walked over with her arms outstretched and her face full of compassion. Words were superfluous to cousins as close as they. Kitty wrapped her arms around Celia and squeezed her tightly. Celia gave in to her despair and bewilderment and sobbed loudly onto Kitty’s shoulder. Kitty, who knew misery better than most, let her release her grief in gasps and hiccups and sighs, all the time murmuring words of encouragement and comfort. She knew time would dull the pain, it would no longer throb and burn, and Celia would eventually grow accustomed to the constant aching in her heart. Indeed, it would become as much part of her as the beat itself; she would barely notice it. Yet it would always be there, and in the quiet moments when she found herself left alone with her thoughts and her mind was not occupied with daily troubles, it would rise in her awareness and she would remember all over again the terrible agony of loss. Kitty shut her eyes and tried not to allow Jack’s face to surface, as it so often did, when it caught her unawares. Hers was a loss she would carry to the grave.
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