The Last Secret of the Deverills

by Santa Montefiore

  Celia threw her arms around him and held him tightly, breathing in his familiar scent, which reminded her of Harry. They cried then because of what Harry had meant to them both.

  Celia had lit a fire in the upstairs drawing room and they settled into one of the sofas, Boysie with a large glass of whiskey, Celia with a more modest glass of sherry. She kicked off her shoes and curled up in the corner against the silk cushions. Boysie grinned at her and his enlivened eyes told of his relief that she had come home just when he needed her most. ‘Darling girl,’ he sighed. ‘You’re more beautiful than ever. The years have done nothing to diminish you. If anything, you have a shrewd look about you which has only made you more attractive. Although I did adore the doe-eyed innocent you used to be.’

  Celia took his hand. ‘I’ve come a long way in a decade.’

  ‘It had better have been worth it, because you sacrificed us,’ said Boysie and they both thought of Harry again.

  ‘How is Dreary Deirdre?’ she asked mischievously.

  ‘Dreary,’ he replied with a feeble smile.

  ‘She never knew?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Not even suspected?’ He shook his head. ‘Charlotte knew, didn’t she? But she never breathed a word. She’s good like that. A real trouper!’

  ‘Charlotte allowed us a friendship and we did try, but I’m afraid we went beyond that in the end.’

  ‘Was Harry happy, Boysie? He was always so restless, as if he was searching for some sort of meaningful way to live his life. I don’t think he ever found it.’

  ‘You’re right, he was restless and rootless. Losing Castle Deverill hit him harder than any of us knew. He had grown up sure of his destiny and then suddenly that destiny was taken away from him and it left a void. He never found anything to fill it.’

  ‘You filled it, Boysie.’

  ‘I did, old girl, but only up to a point. A man defines himself by his work, which meant that Harry was never really sure of who he was. Before the war I found myself in the art world and now I’ve found myself at Government Communications Headquarters, which has been enormously satisfying. Harry wanted to be useful, but he ended up at a desk in some dull office in Whitehall. He loved his children and he was fond of Charlotte, but it’s frustrating not being free to be yourself. Harry found the burden of living a double life unbearable.’

  ‘I can only imagine,’ said Celia.

  ‘But what of you, darling? Tell me about your lovers. I hope you have lived an immoral life in Johannesburg.’

  Her blue eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve had lovers, certainly, but I will never fall in love again, Boysie. I don’t wish to.’

  ‘Really?’ He wasn’t convinced.

  ‘I had a good marriage and I loved Archie. But he hurt me, Boysie. He hurt me deeply. I don’t ever want to be hurt again.’

  ‘I know all about hurt. I don’t want to be hurt again either.’

  She smiled affectionately. ‘If you weren’t married to Dreary Deirdre I’d marry you myself and we would live very happily on our memories and all the money I’ve made in the mines.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me, old girl.’

  ‘So, what now?’ Celia asked.

  Boysie withdrew his hand from hers and pulled an enamel cigarette case out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He put one between his lips and Celia flicked the lighter. He puffed smoke into the room. ‘I search for the Deverill spirit in me,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Kitty told me that if I look hard enough I might find it.’

  ‘Darling Kitty.’ Celia laughed. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Restless,’ he replied, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘Yes, I sensed a restlessness which had nothing to do with Harry.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Perhaps we ought to go to Ireland together and find out.’

  ‘Oh let’s!’ Celia exclaimed excitedly. ‘Will they do without you at Government Communications Headquarters? Sounds jolly important.’

  ‘We might have to wait until after the war.’

  Celia lifted his arm and snuggled up beneath it. ‘I’d like to go and see what the Countess di Marcantonio has done to my castle! Do you know when Kitty wrote and told me that the Countess was none other than Bridie Doyle I nearly threw up my breakfast! But it’s only a castle. Bricks and stone and a great deal of Archie’s money!’

  ‘To Kitty it is much more than that,’ Boysie reminded her.

  Celia sighed. ‘I know, but she won’t be happy until she learns that home is wherever love is.’

  Chapter 19

  Ballinakelly

  Alana lay on her bed with her dog Piglet, an adorable French bulldog bitch that Bridie had given her for her twelfth birthday the September before. So enamoured was she of her new friend that she took her everywhere, except to school where the nuns had recoiled in horror at the sight of a dog on the desk and sent them both home in disgrace. Nothing excited Alana more than returning to Piglet at the end of the day, except a letter from JP Deverill.

  The first letter she received had arrived in July of the year before. Her mother had looked at the envelope closely and studied the handwriting, astonished that anyone had written to Alana. She had shown it to Jack, who had been reading the newspaper at the breakfast table, and he had studied it too, holding it up to the light and frowning. Then he had asked Alana directly and she had had no alternative but to tell them that she had written to JP and that this was his response. Both parents had stared at her in stunned silence. The child was only eleven, it was most unseemly to be writing to a young man she barely even knew. When they voiced these concerns Alana had grabbed the letter and fled the room in tears. Those tears had dried up pretty swiftly, however, on reading what JP had written. He had used both sides of the paper, thanking her for her letter and telling her as much about his life as a fighter pilot in the RAF as the censorship would allow. To Alana it sounded like the most glamorous life ever. She soon forgot about her parents’ disapproval as her heart expanded with elation and she read it over and over again before hiding it inside the encyclopaedia her father had given her.

  Alana had written back immediately. She had told JP about her parents’ reaction to his letter and suggested that he send any letters to his sister Kitty’s house instead. Alana had always been a bold child and her parents’ disapproval only made her more determined. She had walked to the White House the following day after school and told Kitty of her plan. Kitty was amused by the child’s pluck, being no stranger to schemes and plots herself, and had agreed to send Alana’s letters for her and to leave any letters from JP under a stone just inside the wall that surrounded her property. Alana could not have imagined that once her father and Kitty had left notes for each other behind a stone in the vegetable-garden wall at Castle Deverill. The parallel was not lost on Kitty, however, and she had been only too ready to go along with the girl’s plan.

  Now, as Alana lay on her bed with Piglet snoring softly beside her, she read JP’s most recent letter. He had written over two sides of paper, telling her stories of his childhood growing up in Ballinakelly when his days had been spent hunting and fishing and building a model railway with his father. He told her little about the daily battles in the sky, but from the small amount he was able to share she knew he was risking his life doing his duty and she feared for him. To Alana he was a hero, defending Britain from the most ferocious enemy that small island had ever known. She poured her anguish into her prayers, certain that God would do as she asked and keep him safe.

  JP always ended with From your knight on horseback, referring to the day he had rescued her in the hills. Alana could feel him through his letters, as if his writing literally resonated with his life force. She pressed the paper to her heart and closed her eyes, envisaging him on his horse, his grey eyes twinkling at her from beneath the rim of his hat. She remembered the feeling of her back nestled against his warm body and his arms around her as he had taken the reins and directed the horse ho
me. She could recall the vibration of his voice in his chest as they had talked and his smile when he had lifted her down. She was now nearly thirteen but she believed she loved him and she believed that, although she was not yet a woman, one day he would love her back.

  Alana was certain that her parents had forgotten all about JP. After they had found the initial letter she had been careful to hide all his correspondence from them. Neither had mentioned JP since and when Alana felt the need to talk about him she whispered her feelings into Piglet’s ear and Piglet wagged her tail. Alana had now over a dozen letters full of nostalgic recollections and amusing anecdotes. She might be a child but JP treated her like an adult – she wondered sometimes if he’d forgotten how young she really was. He had even poured out his heart about Harry, his half-brother, who had been killed in the Blitz, and Alana had cried for him and his sorrow, which he had described so touchingly.

  It was early summer now. The war had been going on for nearly two years. In spite of their neutrality the Republic of Ireland had not escaped the might of the German bombers. Dublin had been attacked twice, first in January and then in May, when twenty-eight people had been killed. Alana worried for JP and Kitty grieved for Harry, but Alana’s father Jack seemed, for the first time in years, to be free of concern. Alana had noticed a sudden lightness in him – a readiness to laugh, an energy that seemed to invigorate every limb and smiles that softened his face when he had no apparent reason to smile. It was as if summer had not only restored to life the hills and forests but her father as well. The house was full of sunshine, even when the sun wasn’t shining, and her mother seemed to be affected by it too, for she laughed as well when he put on the music and danced with her around the kitchen table. Alana didn’t wonder why – the adult world was a mystery to her which she didn’t care to question – but she enjoyed the lift in atmosphere all the same.

  At the White House Robert noticed a change in Kitty too. Despite her sadness at losing her beloved brother, she seemed to be finding pleasure in her life again. He wondered whether Harry’s death had taught her to appreciate what she had, whether it had perhaps shown her that the people she loved were more important than bricks and mortar. She had not mentioned Bridie and the castle in a long time. It appeared that she had let that whole business go at last. How ironic it was, he mused, that it had taken the death of someone dear to jolt her back to life.

  Grace Rowan-Hampton put down the telephone and smiled. She remained a moment at her desk, taking pleasure from the thought of Michael Doyle. How he’ll enjoy this, she thought to herself.

  She wound her hand around the back of her neck and closed her eyes. How she longed for him. How her body longed for him. She was sixty-six years old and yet her lust was that of a woman half her age. She had always been sensual and Ronald had never satisfied her in the bedroom, even when they had been young; but many had. She reflected on the affairs she had enjoyed over the years. Some she only recalled vaguely, a few had been as passing storms in the night, but a small handful stood out. Among them there had been her long and amorous affair with Bertie Deverill, who had been a very adept lover, sensitive, mischievous and tender. Then there had been her torrid and passionate affair with Michael Doyle, who had pleased her in a way that no man ever had before. Later there had been her affair with the arrogant Count who had turned sexual pleasure into an art form. But out of those three very different men Michael Doyle was the one she was unable to let go.

  Grace parted her lips and sighed. She would do anything for Michael Doyle, anything at all to spend another night in his arms. The years were passing and she was growing older. Her allure was fading. She wasn’t the ripe young woman she had been when he had first taken her in the old farmhouse on the Dunashee Road. But she still had a certain appeal. She knew that. She saw it in his eyes when he looked at her, although he tried very hard to disguise it. She had failed in persuading Kitty to forgive him but she could deliver the Count. Yes, she thought resolutely, pushing herself up from her chair. She could deliver the Count.

  The Count was where he was happiest: in bed with Niamh O’Donovan. He had rented a little cottage outside Drimoleague in the name of Mr McGill and taken to smuggling Niamh there hidden beneath a blanket on the back seat of his car. The skulduggery excited him as did Niamh, who had the most luscious body he had ever encountered and a shameless delight in letting him have it any which way he desired. She was quite a different woman now to the virgin he had first seduced two years before. In fact, he thought she could probably make even hardened professionals blush with some of the things he had taught her to do.

  Ballinakelly did not offer him a great deal besides women – and he had pretty much made his way through the most attractive of them. He had tired of the sharp, brittle socialites of Manhattan and the brassy waitresses in Connecticut. He had been ready for a change and the castle had held a very powerful allure, but Ballinakelly was a small town with limited entertainment for a man who was used to the glamour of polo and the glitzy city soirées. Had Bridie been of a different stock he might have enjoyed hunting with the Deverills, but as it was he was restricted to a lesser class of person and they bored him. Niamh didn’t bore him. There was something about her which kept him coming back for more. Besides her obvious sexuality she was witty with a natural cunning, and mischievous and playful like a voluptuous cat. He enjoyed talking to her. She had a delightful way of listening to him. Not like Bridie, whose eager face revealed an anxiety to please, which now bordered on fear. Niamh listened to him with great interest as if everything he said was intelligent and wise. Bridie made him feel unmanly because it was her money he was spending and her castle he was living in, even though he had gained control of her fortune over the years. But Niamh made him feel powerful. She didn’t know that he had brought nothing into his marriage save a grand Italian title. Not only did she make him feel sexually proficient but clever too. He didn’t know how long he was going to last in Ballinakelly, but when he left, which he surely would one day, he fantasized about taking Niamh with him.

  The only thing stopping him from going anywhere was Leopoldo, his son. He loved the boy deeply. He would like to have had more children so that one day the Marcantonios of Ballinakelly would be a formidable dynasty. But his ambitions had been thwarted by Bridie’s inability to conceive again. He didn’t imagine he lacked fertility. He blamed Bridie entirely for that and now he didn’t feel like making love to her any more. She bored him as much as Ballinakelly did. She hadn’t been boring in America. She had been full of fun then, but Ballinakelly had turned her into someone else; someone who lacked courage and zest and spirit.

  Michael Doyle was leaning on the stone wall by his farmhouse when Grace drove up in her car. Mrs Doyle pulled back the curtain and peered through the window. She admired Lady Rowan-Hampton, who had spent many an hour in her kitchen being instructed in Catholicism, but that had been years ago. Now she attended Mass at the Cottage Hospital on the pretext of noblesse oblige. Mrs Doyle knew how sensitive her conversion had been and hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. Only Michael knew of it but they had never discussed her. The old woman was surprised to see Lady Rowan-Hampton’s car pull up and wondered what business she could possibly have with Michael.

  Michael didn’t move but watched Grace languidly from beneath his cap, blowing cigarette smoke into the air. Mrs Doyle thought that that was no way to greet a lady, but she wouldn’t be telling Michael. He had been the head of the family ever since his father had been murdered by a tinker and Mrs Doyle knew better than to tell him anything. He watched Grace approach in her pale summer coat and hat. The wind caught the coat and flicked it up, exposing a flash of leg and the fine dress she was wearing. She was still attractive, there was no doubt about that.

  ‘So, what brings you to my door, Grace?’ he said quietly when she reached him.

  She put a hand on her hat to stop it blowing away. The sunshine lit up her face, turning her skin to amber. ‘I have news that might interest you,’ she replie
d and her lips curled like a secretive cat.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have used all my contacts, Michael, this side of the Atlantic as well as the other, and I have some information about your brother-in-law that might interest you.’

  ‘If you’re going to list the women he’s bedded, you can save your breath because I already know.’

  Grace smiled and Michael’s interest was aroused for there was something of the old Grace in it, the one he had taken in the farmhouse on the Dunashee Road. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette on the wall. ‘The Count is not really a count at all,’ she went on and watched Michael catch his breath. His surprise gave Grace a tremor of pleasure. ‘In fact he’s not even Italian,’ she added.

  ‘Jesus, Grace!’ Michael shook his head.

  ‘He’s Albanian.’

  ‘Albanian?’

  ‘His family is from Tirana. But his father did move to Italy and Cesare was born there, but both his parents are Albanian and they were poor. It appears that his father, whose real name was Besmir Zaharia, was a gardener for the Barberini family in Rome. He got involved in some sort of shady business on the side, made some money, then left in a hurry, taking his wife and son with him. He owed money, apparently, and had to flee for his life. Besmir invented the title Count Benvenuto di Marcantonio when he moved to Argentina, and was obviously an accomplished con artist because he fooled everyone. He got involved in industry and farming, exporting beef and the like, but he was one of those entrepreneurs who quickly make a fortune then lose it. He’s infamous in Buenos Aires for gambling and womanizing and, from what I hear, his wife, who claims to be an Italian princess, has left him. I doubt Cesare has had anything to do with his father for years. Cesare left Argentina and made a career out of leeching off rich people. He’s got charm and charisma and a title.’ She grinned knowingly. ‘Americans love a title! I’m afraid they are as much related to the Popes of Rome as you or I. Those silly bees he’s stuck above the door of the castle are nothing but fantasy.’