Daughters of Castle Deverill

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Everyone says that,’ she replied coolly, not sure whether or not it was a compliment. Did they see a sliver of ice there that had been in her father’s too?

  Relieved that he remembered something, Celia asked him to share his memories, which he did much like the others had, with admiration. She listened as he told banal anecdotes of Digby’s daring and his cunning and his unfailing luck, digressing all the time to talk about himself. Every story about her father seemed to lead into one about him. She sat back and sipped her gin while he boasted of the Franco-Prussian War and his courage in killing ‘natives’. Indeed, he bragged, he had been awarded a medal for valour.

  Celia began to tire of his long-winded tales, which might well have been total fantasy for all she knew. She didn’t believe he was going to help her either confirm or deny what Duchess had told her. Was he likely to admit murdering a white person to a woman he has only just met? ‘Captain Kleist,’ she said. ‘Do you remember two brothers named Dupree?’

  Der Kapitän nodded thoughtfully. ‘Of course I do. One of them, I don’t remember which, got eaten by a lion.’

  ‘Yes, he did. Is it true that you arranged the hunting trip?’

  ‘What if I did? Possibly?’ He shrugged and put his empty glass on the table in front of him. His hand was not so tremulous now.

  ‘I think you remember that day, Captain Kleist. I think you remember it well. After all, how many times have clients of yours been eaten by lions?’ She watched him with an unwavering gaze. ‘I imagine you made a lot of money that day. More than the usual rate.’

  ‘White hunters are paid a lot,’ he said, then his face seemed to narrow with cunning and one side of his mouth extended into a grin. ‘But, it is true, I never made as much as I made that day, and I earned every penny. Your father was a very demanding client.’ He nodded pensively. ‘And the others, Mad McManus, Stone Heart and Spleen, were all working for your father too. We all earned well that day. But Deverill was a very rich man and rich men get what they want.’

  ‘You were hunting a man-eating lion, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we were.’

  ‘But you didn’t get him, did you?’ said Celia.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No, we didn’t.’

  ‘But you did get the kill my father wanted you to get, didn’t you?’ she said with care, looking at him steadily.

  Captain Kleist sobered up in a moment. He returned her stare with one of equal steadiness. The stale air in that room turned as still and silent as a tomb. The Captain’s face was bereft of humanity, as flat and sharp as a stone cliff. A small smile crept across it – the smile of a man too vain to conceal his triumphs. ‘Let’s just say, Miss Deverill, that I never missed my target.’

  A few days later Celia was driven to van der Merwe’s farm in Bloemfontein in the Orange Free State, a five-hour drive from Johannesburg. In the group accompanying her was a young bespectacled geologist called Mr Gerber, a Mr Scholtz and a Mr Daniels – two prospectors whom Mr Botha insisted were vital to the project – and Mr Botha himself who was now taking credit for having suggested to Celia she assess her father’s farm. ‘It was on my mind to approach Sir Digby about it just before he died,’ he claimed. ‘It is very fortunate that you, Mrs Mayberry, chose to come to South Africa when you did. I believe the time is right to dig.’ Celia didn’t bother to argue with him. If they found gold she wouldn’t care who had suggested it.

  The farm was a small huddle of trees in the middle of a vast expanse of arid yellow veldt, with a tall water tower, a dilapidated whitewashed dwelling in the Cape Dutch style with its distinctive gable and dark green shutters, surrounded by rundown wooden fences and redundant farming equipment lying abandoned on the grass like the bones of beasts long dead. To the west of the house was a field whose red earth had been recently ploughed. Beyond the house were miles and miles of flat land reaching as far as the eye could see, punctuated every now and then by clusters of trees and herds of game.

  A couple of scrawny goats eyed them warily as they pulled up in their cars and climbed out. Celia was happy to stretch her legs and inhale the rich country air. As they approached the front door an elderly lady walked out to greet them followed by a pack of mongrel dogs. She was small in stature with dove-grey hair swept up into a bun pinned roughly to the top of her head and wrinkled skin browned and weathered by the harsh African summers. However, her small eyes shone brightly like two sapphires, and they settled directly on Celia. She held out her hand and smiled. ‘My name is Boobie van der Merwe,’ she said. ‘I am Flippy’s wife, but sadly Flippy is no longer with us. I remember your father. But it was many years ago that he bought this farm. Welcome.’ She invited them all to freshen up in the house and then to take refreshments on the terrace. Then, while the men went off to look at the land Celia remained with Boobie in a large wicker chair that looked directly out over the veldt.

  ‘This is a very beautiful place to live,’ said Celia, feeling the pull of the distant horizon tugging at her chest.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Boobie agreed with a smile. ‘I’ve lived here for seventy years.’

  Celia frowned. ‘Seventy?’

  ‘My dear, I’m ninety-six.’

  ‘And you still farm?’

  ‘A farmer never retires, you know. Farming is not an occupation but a way of life. Flippy died twelve years ago and I continued to farm the land with our two sons. We often wondered if your father would ever return to mine it. They’re digging deep round here now. Modern technology is a wonderful thing. Perhaps Sir Digby forgot about it.’ Or perhaps he had darker reasons why he never came back, Celia thought to herself. ‘He certainly forgot to raise our rent,’ Boobie continued, her tiny eyes twinkling. ‘Or he chose to forget. He must have been a good man.’

  ‘If they mine here, Mrs van der Merwe, you have my word that you will be very well looked after. I will see that you are relocated and compensated for the loss of your home.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, my dear. We are only tenants. There is nothing to prevent you from asking us to leave, perhaps a month or two’s notice. That is all. We expected to leave forty years ago.’ She chuckled.

  ‘But I know what it feels like to be emotionally attached to a place. Your heart is here, Mrs van der Merwe. It will be a terrible wrench to have to leave it.’

  ‘Nothing lasts forever, Mrs Mayberry. Everything is reduced to dust in the end. As long as I can look out over the veldt I will be happy. My boys will look after me.’

  ‘Perhaps they might consider working for me.’

  Boobie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps they will,’ she replied.

  At last the men returned. They were hot and dusty but Celia could tell from Mr Botha’s face that they had reached a positive outcome. He took off his hat and fanned his sweating face. ‘As Sir Digby discovered forty years ago, the gold here is very deep, but it is mineable. Advances in technology make it possible. If you want to persevere we will need to drill here. Or perhaps you can just sell it to Anglo American. But there’s gold here. Lots of gold. This is just as large as the other deposits found in the Free State. Your father was a shrewd man, Mrs Mayberry. What will you do?’

  ‘I will do this myself,’ she said resolutely. ‘I will start with the men who financed my father, and their sons. They all made their fortunes with him and they will make fortunes with me. Make a list, Mr Botha, of all his shareholders.’

  He replaced his hat and smiled. ‘I suggest you prepare to move your life to Johannesburg, Mrs Mayberry,’ he said.

  The following day Celia wrote to her mother and sisters to tell them what she had discovered. There was a strong possibility that Celia would restore her family’s fortune in the industry where her father had originally made it. Mr Botha could look after her interests while she returned to England to see to the ugly business of Aurelius Dupree. Then she would return to Johannesburg with her daughters and build a new life. The castle was gone, her husband and father were gone, it was time she moved on from her
losses and concentrated on rebuilding.

  But there was something she had to do before she left for London.

  Duchess was surprised to see her again. As the car drew up outside the humble shack she was sitting on a chair outside her front door puffing on her pipe. She looked at Celia in amazement. ‘I did not think I would ever see you again, Miss Deverill,’ she said, pushing herself up. ‘Will you come inside?’

  Celia followed her into the dark interior of her home. She smelt the familiar scent of tobacco mixed with the herbs and spices of Duchess’s cooking. ‘I’ve come to thank you for telling me about the van der Merwe farm.’

  Duchess chuckled and sank onto the chair. ‘I knew you’d find gold,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Did I not say that you would?’

  ‘It’s very deep but, as you rightly suggested, with the machinery they have now it will be possible to dig that far into the earth.’

  Duchess nodded and exhaled a waft of smoke. ‘I’m glad. You will now be rich like your father was. Like him you are lucky.’

  ‘But unlike him my luck is not from the Devil. I will not forget the woman who made it possible, Duchess. I will not betray you as my father did.’

  ‘You have a big heart, Miss Deverill.’ Celia noticed that her eyes shone with emotion. ‘And a good heart, too.’

  Just as Celia was about to sit down the door opened, throwing light across the floor. A tall man with light brown skin stepped into the room. He was surprised to see her. The shiny car outside with the waiting driver must have aroused his curiosity and he gazed at her warily. ‘Miss Deverill,’ said Duchess, waving her long fingers. ‘This is my son.’

  Celia looked into the man’s eyes and gasped. She stared at him and words failed her. It was as if she were looking into a reflection of her own eyes, for they were the same almond shape, the same pale blue, set in exactly the same way as hers. They were her father’s eyes. They were Deverill eyes. She extended her hand and he took it, gazing back at her with equal wonder. ‘Celia Deverill,’ she said at last.

  ‘Lucky,’ he replied, without releasing her hand. ‘Lucky Deverill.’

  Chapter 31

  Grace trailed her fingers down Count Cesare’s muscular chest and smiled. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes gleamed and her greedy appetite for the gratification of the flesh was well and truly sated, for now. Indeed, the Count had not disappointed her. She had barely thought of Michael Doyle since this exotic and clearly devilish man had undone the first button of her dress. He had carried her to her bed and confirmed what she had always suspected, that Latin men know better than anyone how to pleasure a woman.

  Now Michael Doyle slipped into her consciousness again. She wanted him to know what she thought of Count Cesare and she wanted him to boil with jealousy. ‘Now that you have bought the castle, Cesare, when are you going to move in?’ she asked, propping herself up on her elbow and shaking her head so that her hair fell in tawny waves about her shoulders.

  ‘In the fall perhaps,’ he replied non-committally. ‘I need to sort things out in America first. Perhaps return to Buenos Aires. Play polo.’ He grinned and Grace devoured the beauty of it with ravenous eyes.

  ‘I should like to watch you play polo,’ she said. ‘But I should like to see you hunt first. You cannot disappear back to America without knowing what it is like to ride a horse at full gallop over the Irish hills. There is nothing quite like it.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry to leave.’ He sighed and slipped his fingers through her hair to caress the back of her neck. ‘Now I have found entertainment here, I should like very much to enjoy a little more of what the Irish life has to offer.’

  She kissed his arrogant smile. ‘Oh, I have much more to offer and so has Ireland. You have merely scratched the surface. Stay awhile.’ She slid her hand beneath the covers. ‘I’m sure I can think of ways to keep you here.’

  He writhed with pleasure and groaned. ‘Well, the Countess is in no hurry, after all. I have bought her a castle, it is only right that I explore a little further the place where we are going to make our home.’

  ‘It most certainly is,’ she agreed, stroking him with deft fingers. ‘I shall show you everything you need to know.’

  Kitty rode with her father up the sandy beach at Smuggler’s Cove, the place where she had often walked with Jack. She gazed out across the ocean and wondered what he was doing in America and whether he ever thought of her. Her feelings for him had certainly not diminished with the years, but she was content with the choice she had made. She had a family of her own now and she had Ireland – always Ireland, in the heart of her heart. Only when she allowed her mind to wander freely did thoughts of Jack cut her to the quick.

  News had spread fast that a handsome Italian had bought the castle and planned to bring his countess over from America to settle here. Kitty didn’t imagine they would last very long. What would an Italian couple make of the grey skies and drizzle? She didn’t imagine they would understand the Irish way of life. It was only a matter of time before they would move back to the glamour and sophistication of New York. A castle was a lovely fantasy for a foreigner with more money than sense but a harsh reality for strangers to this wild and unforgiving land. She didn’t imagine they’d be impressed by the society here, although, from what she had witnessed at Grace’s dinner parties, the Count was more than entertained by her company, in the bedroom as well as at the table.

  Kitty missed Celia. She had left for South Africa without explanation, leaving her children in the care of their nanny. Kitty had kept a close eye on them, but now Castle Deverill was no longer theirs they would surely move back to England and settle there. For all Celia’s wistful reminiscences about Ballinakelly Kitty was certain that she was a Londoner at heart and would find life there very much to her liking once she’d recovered from the shock and humiliation of selling the castle. She’d be close to Boysie and Harry and her mother, of course, although Beatrice was still refusing to leave her bed and the misery of her mourning.

  Celia had explained to Kitty and Bertie that the White House and the Hunting Lodge were theirs for as long as they wanted. It was even written into an agreement that Deverills should always have first refusal of those two residences, providing they didn’t fall behind on their rent. The Count had promised to grant them that small concession, after all, it suited him to have the places occupied and the money coming in. It had certainly come as a relief to Bertie and Kitty to know that they could remain in their homes.

  ‘I shall miss Celia very much,’ said Kitty as she rode beside her father up the wide expanse of beach.

  ‘We have to embrace the change,’ said Bertie philosophically. ‘There’s no point gnashing our teeth and wailing because that won’t return things to the way they were. We have to be grateful for our memories, Kitty. We were fortunate to have lived the way we did.’

  ‘It shall grieve me very much to watch the castle inhabited by strangers.’

  ‘The Count seems a nice sort of fellow,’ said Bertie. ‘We shall probably like him very much when we get to know him.’

  ‘If he lasts long enough. I’m not sure how they are going to entertain themselves. They really are very foreign, Papa.’

  ‘They’ll entertain themselves the same way we do. They’ll get into the Irish way of life and it will be exciting for them because it’ll be different. The spice of life is in the variety, after all.’

  ‘But surely they’ll miss the glamour of New York. The society here isn’t very urbane, is it?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re weary of urbane.’

  Kitty shrugged. ‘I still don’t hold out much hope for them. Unless one’s heart is here the mind will bore of it. The one thing that ties us to this place is love. You and I love it more than anybody and nothing can prise us from it. But the Count and his wife have no such affection, why, she has never set foot in Ireland. How can she possibly know what it is like? She must have seen a photograph in the newspapers and fancied herself living like a princess. But Balli
nakelly is not a town in a fairy tale. She’ll discover that as soon as she arrives and I bet you she’ll be hoofing it back to New York on the next available boat with her poor count moaning behind her.’ She laughed. ‘If you and I save up all our money we might buy it when they sell.’

  Bertie laughed with her. ‘You have a fanciful imagination, my dear.’

  ‘You made me, Papa.’

  ‘But your imagination and your wonder at the magic of nature came directly from your grandmother.’

  ‘Which you always dismissed as rubbish,’ she said, smiling at him with affection.

  He looked at her askance. ‘I have learned that it is the mark of a foolish man to scoff at things of which one knows absolutely nothing. I sense God out there, Kitty,’ he said, throwing his gaze across the water. ‘But I can’t see Him with my eyes. So, why not nature spirits, ghosts, goblins and leprechauns too?’ He grinned at the surprised look on his daughter’s face. ‘The idea is to grow wiser as one gets older, my dear Kitty.’

  ‘What would Grandma say?’ she laughed.

  ‘I wish I knew. I wish she were here . . .’ Then he shook his head and chuckled. ‘But of course she is here, isn’t she? She’s always here. Didn’t she insist that those we love and lose never leave us?’ Indeed I did, said Adeline, but her voice was a sigh on the wind which only Kitty could hear.

  Laurel had found her return to the saddle most thrilling. Hazel, on the other hand, preferred the card table. Consequently the two sisters began to find that their very different forms of entertainment took them to disparate parts of the county. In the past such regular separation would have greatly vexed them; however, now they were only too eager to be shot of each other. While Laurel stole kisses with Ethelred Hunt behind hedgerows on the windy hills above Ballinakelly, Hazel allowed him to play with her foot beneath the card table, and sometimes place his hand upon her leg when no one was looking. Kisses had to be seized in dark corridors and empty rooms and the secrecy of those moments only compounded Hazel’s delight. Both women guarded their secret romances closely – until one unfortunate evening in May when a chance discovery would swipe away the veil of concealment.