‘Oh, you will when you’re eighteen. You’ll be weary of all the hunt balls and the Irish boys. You’ll want excitement and new faces. London is thrilling and you like Cousin Beatrice, don’t you?’
‘Yes, she’s perfectly nice and Celia is funny, but I love being here with you best of all.’
Her grandmother’s face softened into a tender smile. ‘You know it’s all very well playing with Bridie here at the castle, but it’s important to have friends of your own sort. Celia is your age exactly and your cousin, so it is natural that you should both come out together.’
‘Surely, there’s a Season in Dublin?’
‘Of course there is, but you’re Anglo-Irish, my dear.’
‘No, I’m Irish, Grandma. I don’t care for England at all.’
‘You will when you get to know it.’
‘I doubt it’s as lovely as Ireland.’
‘Nowhere is as lovely as here, but it comes very close.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if I were cursed to remain here for all eternity.’
Adeline lowered her voice. ‘Oh, I think you would. Between worlds is not a nice place to be, Kitty. It’s very lonely.’
‘I’m used to being on my own. I’d be very happy to be stuck in the castle forever, even if I had to pass my time with grumpy old Barton. I shouldn’t mind at all.’
After playing chess with her grandfather Kitty walked home in the dark. The air smelt of turf smoke and winter and a barn owl screeched through the gathering mist. There was a bright sickle moon to light her way and she skipped happily through the gardens she knew so well, along a well-trodden path.
When she reached the Hunting Lodge she crept in through the kitchen where Miss Gibbons was sweating over a tasteless stew. Kitty could hear the sound of the piano coming from the drawing room and recognized the hesitant rendition as sixteen-year-old Elspeth’s, and smiled at the thought of her mother, on the sofa with a cup of tea in her thin white hand, subjecting some poor unfortunate guest to this excruciating performance. Kitty tiptoed into the hall and hid behind a large fern. The playing suddenly stopped without any sensitivity of tempo. There was a flurry of light clapping, then she heard her mother’s voice enthusiastically praising Elspeth, followed by the equally enthusiastic voice of her mother’s closest friend, Lady Rowan-Hampton, who was also Elspeth’s godmother. Kitty felt a momentary stab of longing. Lady Rowan-Hampton, whom her parents called Grace, was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen and the only grownup, besides her grandparents, who made her feel special. Knowing she wasn’t allowed downstairs unless summoned by her parents, Kitty reluctantly retreated upstairs by way of the servants’ staircase.
The Hunting Lodge was not as large and imposing as the castle, but it was suitably palatial for the eldest son of Lord Deverill, and much larger than its modest name suggested. It was a rambling grey-stone house partly covered by ivy, as if it had made a half-hearted attempt to protect itself from the harsh winter winds. Unlike the castle, whose soft, weathered stone gave the building a certain warmth, the Hunting Lodge looked cold and austere. It was icy and damp inside, even in summer, and turf fires were lit only in the rooms that were going to be used. The many that weren’t smelt of mildew and mould.
Kitty’s bedroom was on the top floor at the back, with a view of the stables. It was the part of the house referred to as the nursery wing. Victoria, Elspeth and Harry had long since moved into the elegant side near the hall and had large bedrooms overlooking the gardens. Left alone with Miss Grieve, Kitty felt isolated and forgotten.
As she made her way down the narrow corridor to her bedroom she saw the glow of light beneath the door of Miss Grieve’s room. She walked on the tips of her toes so as not to draw attention to herself. But as she passed her governess’s room she heard the soft sound of weeping. It didn’t sound like Miss Grieve at all. She didn’t think Miss Grieve had it in her to cry. She stopped outside and pressed her ear to the door. For a moment it occurred to her that Miss Grieve might have a visitor, but Miss Grieve would never break the rules; Kitty’s mother did not permit visitors upstairs. Kitty didn’t think Miss Grieve had friends anyway. She never spoke of anyone other than her mother who lived in Edinburgh.
Kitty knelt down and put her eye to the keyhole. There, sitting on the bed with a letter lying open in her lap, was Miss Grieve. Kitty was astonished to see her with her brown hair falling in thick curls over her shoulders and down her back. Her face was pale in the lamplight, but her features had softened. She didn’t look wooden as she did when she scraped her hair back and drew her lips into a thin line until they almost disappeared. She looked like a sensitive young woman and surprisingly pretty.
Kitty longed to know what the letter said. Had someone died, perhaps Miss Grieve’s mother? Her heart swelled with compassion so that she almost turned the knob and let herself in. But Miss Grieve looked so different Kitty felt it might embarrass her to be caught with her guard down. She remained a while transfixed by the trembling mouth, wet with tears, and the dewy skin that seemed to relax away from the bones which usually held it so taut and hard. She was fascinated by Miss Grieve’s apparent youth and wondered how old she really was. She had always assumed her to be ancient, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was quite possible that she was the same age as Kitty’s mother.
After a while Kitty retreated to her bedroom. Nora, one of the housemaids, had lit her small fire and the room smelt pleasantly of smoke. An oil lamp glowed on the chest of drawers against the wall, beneath a picture of garden fairies her grandmother had painted for her. The curtains had been drawn but Kitty opened them wide and sat on the window seat to stare out at the moon and stars that shone brightly in a rich velvet sky.
Kitty did not recognize loneliness because it was so much part of her soul as to blend in seamlessly with the rest of her nature. She felt the familiar tug of something deep and stirring at the bottom of her heart, which always came from gazing out at the beauty of the night, but even though she was aware of a sense of longing she didn’t recognize it for what it was – a yearning for love. It was so familiar she had mistaken it for something pleasant and those hours staring into the stars had become as habitual to Kitty as howling at the moon to a craving wolf.
At length Miss Grieve appeared in the doorway, stiff and severe with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, as if she had beaten her emotions into submission and restrained them within her corset. There was no evidence of tears on her rigid cheeks or about her slate-grey eyes and Kitty wondered for a moment whether she had imagined them. What was it that had made Miss Grieve so bitter? ‘It’s time for your supper, young lady,’ she said to Kitty. ‘Have you washed your hands?’ Kitty dutifully presented her palms to her governess, who sniffed her disapproval. ‘I didn’t think so. Go and wash them at once. I don’t think it’s right for a young lady to be running about the countryside like a stray dog. I’ll have a word with your mother. Perhaps piano lessons will be a good discipline for you and keep you out of trouble.’
‘Piano lessons have done little for Elspeth,’ Kitty replied boldly. ‘And when she sings she sounds like a strangled cat.’
‘Don’t be insolent, Kitty.’
‘Victoria sounds even worse when she plays the violin. More like a chorus of strangled cats. I should like to sing.’ Kitty poured cold water from the jug into the water bowl and washed her hands with carbolic soap. So far there had been no piano or violin lessons for her, because music was her mother’s department and Kitty was invisible to Maud Deverill. The only reason she had enjoyed riding lessons since the age of two was due to her father’s passion for hunting and racing. As long as he lived no child of his would be incompetent in the saddle.
‘You’re nine now, Kitty, it’s about time you learned to make yourself appealing. I don’t see why music lessons can’t be afforded to you as they are to your sisters. I will speak to your mother tomorrow and see that it is arranged. The less free time you have, the better. The Devil makes work for idle hands.’
Kitty was used to Miss Grieve’s mean jibes and tried not to be riled by them. Wit was her only defence. ‘It must be for your pleasure, Miss Grieve, because otherwise you might get lonely.’
Miss Grieve laughed bitterly. ‘And I suppose you consider yourself good company, do you?’
‘I must be better company than loneliness.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. For a nine-year-old you have an inappropriate tongue. It’s no wonder your parents don’t wish for the sight of you. Victoria and Elspeth are young ladies, but you, Kitty, are a young ragamuffin in need of taming. That the task should fall to me is a great trial, but I do the best I can out of the goodness of my heart. We’ve a long way to go before you’re in any fit state to find a husband.’
‘I don’t want a husband,’ said Kitty, forking a piece of meat into her mouth. It was cold in the centre.
‘Of course you don’t want one now. You’re a child.’
‘Did you ever want a husband, Miss Grieve?’
The governess’s eyes shifted a moment uncertainly, revealing more to the sharp little girl than she meant to. ‘That’s none of your business, Kitty. Sit up straight; you’re not a sack of potatoes.’
‘Are governesses allowed to marry?’ Kitty continued, knowing the answer but enjoying the pained look in Miss Grieve’s eyes.
The governess pursed her lips. ‘Of course they’re allowed to marry. Whatever gave you the idea that they weren’t?’
‘None of them ever are.’ Kitty chewed valiantly on the stringy piece of beef.
‘Enough of that lip, my girl, or you can go to bed without any supper.’ But Miss Grieve had suddenly gone very pink in the face and Kitty saw a fleeting glimpse of the young woman who had been crying over a letter in her bedroom. She blinked and the image was gone. Miss Grieve was staring into her plate, as if trying hard to control her emotions. Kitty wished she hadn’t been so mean but took the opportunity to spit her beef into her napkin and fold it onto her lap without being seen. She tried to think of something nice to say, but nothing came to mind. They sat awhile in silence.
‘Do you play the piano, Miss Grieve?’ Kitty asked at last.
‘I did, once,’ she replied tightly.
‘Why do you never play?’
The woman glared at Kitty as if she had touched an invisible nerve. ‘I’ve had enough of your questions, young lady. We’ll eat the rest of the meal in silence.’ Kitty was astonished. She hadn’t expected such a harsh reaction to what she felt had been a simple and kind turn of conversation. ‘One word and I’ll drag you by your red hair and throw you into your bedroom.’
‘It’s Titian, not red,’ Kitty mumbled recklessly.
‘You can use all the fancy words you can find, my girl, but red is red and if you ask me, it’s very unbecoming.’
Kitty struggled through the rest of dinner in silence. Miss Grieve’s face had hardened to granite. Kitty regretted trying to be nice and resolved that she would never be so foolish as to give in to compassion again. When they had finished, Kitty obediently loaded the plates onto the dumb waiter and pressed the bell for it to be pulled down to the kitchen.
She washed with cold water because Sean Doyle, Bridie’s brother, who carried hot water upstairs from the kitchen for baths, only did so to the nursery wing every other night. Miss Grieve watched over her as she said her prayers. Kitty prayed dutifully for her mama and papa, her siblings and grandparents. Then she added one for Miss Grieve: ‘Please, God, take her away. She’s horrid and unkind and I hate her. If I knew how to curse like Maggie O’Leary, I’d put one on her so that unhappiness would follow her all the days of her life and never let her go.’
Chapter 3
Maud Deverill sat in the carriage beside her husband in silence. Her gloved hands were folded in the blanket draped over her lap, a fur coat warmed her chest and back but still she shivered. The night was clear and cold and yet a perpetual dampness hung in the air, rising up from the soggy ground, brought inland on the salty sea breeze, assertive enough to penetrate bones. Bertie had returned in the early evening as was his custom, smelling of horse dust and sweat. He had greeted Lady Rowan-Hampton warmly but Maud wasn’t fooled by their veneer of respectability. She had often smelt Grace’s perfume on his collar and caught the mischievous glances they slipped one another when they thought they weren’t being watched. Why, one might ask, did she foster such a close relationship with her husband’s mistress? Because she believed, perhaps misguidedly, that it was important to keep one’s friends close and one’s enemies even closer. So it was with Grace, the most dangerous of all enemies, who she simply couldn’t have brought any closer.
The carriage lurched along the farm track that circled the estate, over puddles and holes, until it reached the castle, its passengers quite shaken up. The footman opened the door and offered his hand to Mrs Deverill, who accepted it and put out one uncertain foot, feeling in the dark for the top step. She descended at last and took her husband’s arm. Bertie was flaxen-haired and handsome with a wide, well-proportioned face and grey eyes as pale as duck’s eggs. He had a dry sense of humour and a penchant for pretty women. Indeed, he was celebrated across Co. Cork for his quiet charm and gentle geniality and was every lady’s favourite gentleman, except for Maud’s, of course, who resented the fact that he had never really belonged exclusively to her.
Flares had been lit on either side of the castle door to light the way. Bertie and Maud Deverill were the closest neighbours but always the last to arrive on account of Maud’s procrastination. She subconsciously hoped that if she dithered and dallied and took her time her husband might go without her.
‘If I’m sitting next to the Rector again I shall shoot myself,’ she hissed, her scarlet lips black in the darkness.
‘My dear, you always sit next to the Rector and you never shoot yourself,’ Bertie replied patiently.
‘Your mother does it on purpose to spite me.’
‘Now why would she do that?’
‘Because she despises me.’
‘Nonsense. Mama despises no one. The two of you are simply very different. I don’t see why you can’t get along.’
‘I have a headache. I should not have come at all.’
‘Since you are here, you might as well enjoy yourself.’
‘It’s all right for you, Bertie. You’re always the life and soul of the party. Everyone loves you. I’m just here to facilitate your pleasure.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Maud. Come along, you’ll catch your death out here. I need a drink.’ They stepped into the hall and Maud reluctantly peeled off her fur coat and gloves and handed them to O’Flynn.
Maud was a beautiful, if severe-looking, woman. She was blessed with high cheekbones, a symmetrical heart-shaped face, large pale-blue eyes and a pretty, straight nose. Her mouth was full-lipped and her blonde hair thick and lustrous, pinned up in the typical Edwardian style with curls and waves in all the right places. Her skin was milky white, her hands and feet dainty. In fact, she was like a lovely marble statue, carved by a benevolent creator, yet cold and hard and lacking in all sensuality. The only quality that gave her an ounce of character was her inability to see beyond herself.
Tonight she wore a pale blue dress that reached the
floor and showed off her slender figure, a pearl choker about her neck with a diamond clasp glittering at her throat. When she entered the drawing room there was a collective gasp of admiration, which cheered her up enormously. She glided in, feeling much better about the evening, and found herself accosted at once by Adeline’s eccentric spinster sisters Hazel and Laurel.
‘My dear Maud, you look lovely,’ gushed Hazel. ‘Don’t you think, Laurel? Maud looks lovely.’
Laurel, who was rarely far from her sister’s side, smiled into her chubby crimson cheeks. ‘She does, Hazel. She truly does. Simply lovely.’ Maud looked down her nose at the two round faces grinning eagerly up at her and smiled politely, before extricating herself as quickly as possible with the excuse of going to greet the Rector. ‘Poor Mrs Daunt has taken a turn,’ said Hazel of the Rector’s wife.
‘We shall ask Mary to bake a cake tomorrow and take it round,’ suggested Laurel, referring to their maid.
‘Splendid idea, Hazel. A little brandy in it should restore her to health, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, it will indeed!’ exclaimed the ever-exuberant Laurel, clapping her small hands excitedly.
The Rector was a portly, self-important man with a long prickly moustache and bloated, ruddy cheeks, who enjoyed life’s pleasures as if the obligation to do so was one of God’s lesser-known Commandments. He hunted with gusto, was a fine shot and a keen fisherman. Often seen waddling among his flock at the races, he never missed the opportunity to preach, as if his constant moralizing justified his presence there in that den of iniquity. Maud was a religious woman, when it suited her, and she abhorred the Rector for his flamboyance. The vicar in her home town in England had been an austere, simple man of austere and simple pleasures, which was how she believed all religious men should be. But she held out her hand and greeted him, disguising her true feelings behind a veneer of cool politeness. ‘Well if it isn’t the lovely Mrs Deverill,’ he said, taking her slender hand in his spongy one and giving it a hearty shake. ‘Did Victoria get the reading for tomorrow’s service?’ he asked.
Songs of Love and War Page 3