Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Yes, she did,’ Maud replied. ‘I’ve practised with her but you know young people, they read much too quickly.’

  ‘I understand she will soon be leaving us for London.’

  ‘I don’t know how I shall make do without her,’ said Maud, who always managed to swing every conversation round to herself. ‘I shall be quite bereft with only Elspeth for company.’

  ‘You will soon have Harry back for the holidays and of course you still have—’ He was about to mention Kitty but Maud cut him off briskly.

  ‘One pays a heavy price for a good education,’ she said solemnly. ‘But it is the way of the world and Harry is happy at Eton so I shouldn’t complain. I miss him terribly. He is worth ten of my daughters. God didn’t see fit to give me more sons,’ she added reproachfully, as if the Rector were somehow responsible.

  ‘Your daughters will look after you in old age,’ said the Rector helpfully, draining his glass of sherry.

  ‘Harry will look after me in my old age. My daughters will be much too busy with their own children to think about me.’

  At that moment Adeline joined them, her sweet smile and twinkling eyes giving the Rector a warm feeling of relief. ‘We were just saying, Lady Deverill, how daughters are great comforts to their mothers in old age.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, my daughter having crossed the Atlantic without a backward glance,’ said Adeline, not unkindly. ‘But I’m sure you’re right. Maud is quite spoiled with three daughters.’ Maud averted her eyes. Adeline had an unsettling way of looking right through her as if she recognized her shortcomings for what they were and was even slightly amused by them.

  ‘There’s a good chance Victoria and Elspeth will marry Englishmen and leave Ireland altogether. My hope lies with Harry for, whomever he weds, he will live here.’

  Adeline looked steadily at Maud. ‘You’re forgetting Kitty, my dear.’

  The Rector grinned broadly, for he was very fond of the youngest Deverill. ‘Now she won’t be leaving Ireland, not Kitty. I’d put a lot of money on her marrying an Irishman.’ Maud tried to smile but her crimson lips could only manage a grimace.

  Adeline shook her head, her special affection for Kitty undisguised. ‘She’s quite fearless. She’ll do something surprising, for certain. I’d put good money on that.’ Maud felt she was expected to add something to the conversation, but she didn’t really know what her daughter was like. Only that she had the same flame-red hair as Adeline and the same unsettling knowing in her eyes.

  At last O’Flynn appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was now ready. Maud found her husband discussing the next hunt meeting with his father, who was already on his third glass of sherry. Lord Deverill always managed to look moth-eaten. His grey hair was wild, as if he had just arrived at a gallop, and his dinner jacket looked as if it had been nibbled at the elbows by mice. As hard as Skiddy tried to keep his master’s clothes clean and pressed, they still appeared to have been pulled out of the bottom of a drawer – and he refused, doggedly, to buy new clothes, ever. ‘May I have the pleasure of escorting you in to dinner, Maud?’ Hubert asked, taking pleasure from her beautiful face. Maud, who could always rely on her father-in-law’s support, slipped her hand under his arm and allowed him to lead her into the dining room.

  Bertie escorted the Shrubs on either arm, allowing their excited chatter to rise above him like the unobtrusive twittering of birds. The Rector walked in with Adeline, their conversation having been reduced to a one-sided lecture by him on women’s suffrage, to which Adeline listened with half an ear and even less interest.

  They stood to say grace, Hubert at the head, Adeline at the foot, with the Rector on Adeline’s right side, next to a furious Maud. They bowed their heads and the Rector spoke in the low, portentous voice of the pulpit. The moment it was over the door burst open and Rupert, Bertie’s younger brother, stood dishevelled and obviously drunk with his hands on the door frame. ‘Is there a place for me?’ he asked, appealing to his mother.

  Adeline didn’t look at all surprised to see her middle child, who lived in the house previously occupied by her late mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady Deverill, a mile or so across the fields, overlooking the sea. ‘Why don’t you sit between your aunts,’ she said, sinking into her chair.

  Hubert, who had less patience for his hopeless son and believed he would have done better to have joined his younger sister in America, found a wife and perhaps made something of his life, gave a loud ‘Harrumph’ and said, ‘Cook’s day off, is it?’

  Rupert smiled with all his charm. ‘I heard my dear aunts Hazel and Laurel were coming for dinner, Papa, and I couldn’t resist.’ The Shrubs blushed with pleasure, unaware of his slightly mocking tone, and moved apart so O’Flynn could slip a chair between them.

  ‘What a delightful evening this has turned out to be,’ gushed Laurel. ‘Don’t you think, Hazel?’

  ‘Oh, I most certainly do, Laurel. Come and sit down, Rupert my dear, and tell us what you have been up to. You lead such an exciting life, doesn’t he? In fact, we were only saying yesterday what it must be to be young, weren’t we, Laurel?’

  ‘Oh yes, we were. We’re so old, Hazel and I, that all we can do is enjoy the little titbits you give us, Rupert, like crumbs from the rich man’s table.’

  Rupert sat down and unfolded his napkin. ‘What has Mrs Doyle cooked up for us this evening?’ he said.

  It was past midnight when Bertie and Maud drove back to the Hunting Lodge. Maud vented her fury to her weary and pleasantly tipsy husband. ‘Rupert is a disgrace, turning up uninvited like that. He was smashed, too, and poorly dressed. You’d have thought he’d have the decency to dress properly for dinner, considering the amount of money your father lavishes on him.’ She fell forward as the carriage went over a pothole.

  ‘Mama and Papa don’t care about that sort of thing,’ he replied with a yawn.

  ‘They should care. Civilization is about standards. This country would descend into barbarism if it wasn’t for people like us keeping the standards up. Appearances matter, Bertie. Your parents should set an example.’

  ‘Are you suggesting they’re poorly dressed, Maud?’

  ‘Your father’s eaten by moths. What harm would it do to go to London and visit his tailor once in a while?’

  ‘He’s got more important things to think about.’

  ‘Like hunting, shooting and fishing, I suppose?’

  ‘Quite so. He is old. Leave him to his pleasure.’

  ‘As for your aunts, they’re ridiculous.’

  ‘They’re happy and good and kind. You’re a harsh judge of people, Maud. Is there no one you like?’

  ‘Rupert needs a wife,’ she added, changing the subject.

  ‘Then find him one.’

  ‘He should go to London and look for a nice English girl with good manners and a firm hand to smack him into shape.’

  ‘You’re bitter, Maud. Was tonight really so bad?’

  ‘Oh, you had a splendid time in the dining room, drinking port and smoking cigars, while we languished in the drawing room. Do you know, your mother and her sisters are going to hold a séance here at the castle? They’re a trio of witches. It’s absurd.’

  ‘Oh, leave them to their fun, my dear. How does it affect you if they want to communicate with the dead?’

  Maud realized her argument was weak. ‘It’s ungodly,’ she added tartly. ‘I don’t imagine the Rector would think much of their game – no good will come of it, mark my words.’

  ‘I still don’t see how it affects you, Maud.’

  ‘Your mother is a bad influence on Kitty,’ she rejoined, knowing that Kitty’s name would carry more weight.

  Bertie frowned and rubbed his bristly chin. ‘Ah Kitty,’ he sighed, feeling a stab of guilt.

  ‘She spends much too much time talking nonsense with her grandmother.’

  ‘Might that be because you don’t spend any time with her at all?’

  Maud sat in silence for a while, affronted.
Bertie had never complained before about her obvious lack of interest in their youngest. Besides, it was customary that young children should be kept out of sight and in the nursery with their governesses. Then it came to her in a sudden flood of pain: Grace Rowan-Hampton must have mentioned it to him. By keeping her enemy close she had allowed a spy into her home.

  The carriage drew up in front of the Hunting Lodge and stopped outside the front door. It was lightly drizzling, what the locals called ‘soft rain’. A strong wind swept over the land, moaning eerily as it dashed through the bare branches of the horse chestnut trees. The butler was waiting for them in the hall with an oil lamp to light their way upstairs. Feeling more discontented than ever, Maud followed her husband up to the landing, hoping he would notice her silence and ask what was troubling her. ‘Goodnight, my dear,’ he said, without so much as a glance. She watched him disappear into his room and close the door behind him. Furiously she went into hers, where her lady’s maid was waiting to unhook her dress. Without a word she turned her back expectantly.

  The following morning Kitty breakfasted with Miss Grieve in the nursery then dressed for church. The Sunday service, in the church of St Patrick in Ballinakelly, was the only time the family all gathered together. The only time Kitty really saw her parents. Miss Grieve had put out a fresh white pinafore and polished black boots and spent much longer than necessary combing the knots out of her hair without any consideration for the pain she caused. But Kitty fixed her stare on the grey clouds scudding across the sky outside the window and willed herself not to shed a single tear.

  While her parents and grandparents rode in carriages, Kitty and her sisters sat in the pony and trap with Miss Grieve in the front beside Mr Mills, who held the reins. Victoria was pretty like her mother with a wide, heart-shaped face, a long, straight nose and shrewish blue eyes. Her blonde hair fell down to her waist in lustrous curls as she sat with her back straight and her chin up, much too aware of her own beauty and the admiring looks it aroused. Elspeth was more modest and less attractive than her elder sister. Her hair was mouse-brown, her nose a fleshy button, her expression as submissive and dim-witted as a lap dog’s. The older girls ignored Kitty completely, preferring to talk to each other. But Kitty didn’t mind: she was much too busy looking around at the fields of cows and sheep. ‘Mother says I have to have new dresses made for London,’ said Victoria happily, holding her hat so it didn’t fly off in the wind. ‘She has already sent my measurements to Cousin Beatrice. I can hardly wait. They’ll be the most fashionable designs for sure.’

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ said Elspeth, who had a tendency to elongate her vowels so that her voice sounded like a whine. ‘I wish I were coming with you. Instead I’m going to be all alone with no one to talk to but Mama. It’s going to be frightfully dull without you.’

  ‘You had better get used to it, Elspeth,’ said her sister sharply. ‘I fully intend to find a husband.’

  ‘That’s what it’s all for, I suppose.’

  ‘Mama told me that if one doesn’t find a husband it is because one is ugly, dull or both.’

  ‘You are neither ugly nor dull,’ said Elspeth. ‘Fortunately neither of us inherited Grandma’s ginger hair.’

  ‘It’s not ginger,’ interrupted Kitty from beneath her bonnet. ‘It’s Titian red.’

  Her sisters giggled. ‘Mama says it’s ginger,’ said Victoria meanly.

  ‘It’s very unlucky to have red hair,’ Elspeth added. ‘Fishermen will head for home if they see a red-haired woman on the way to their boats. Clodagh told me,’ she said, referring to one of the maids.

  ‘You’d better keep it under that bonnet of yours then,’ said Victoria. She looked down at her youngest sister and Kitty lifted her grey eyes and stared at her boldly. Victoria stopped laughing and grew suddenly afraid. There was something scary in her sister’s gaze, as if she could cast a spell just by looking at someone. ‘Let’s not be unkind,’ she said uneasily, not wanting to incite Kitty’s wrath in case she somehow jinxed her first London season. ‘Red hair is all right if it’s combined with a pretty face, isn’t that so, Elspeth?’ She dug her elbow into her sister’s ribs.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Elspeth agreed dutifully. But Kitty was no longer listening. She was watching the local Catholic children walking back from Mass, looking for Bridie and Jack O’Leary.

  Chapter 4

  Ballinakelly was a quaint town of pretty white houses that clustered on the hillside like mussels on a rock, all the way down to the sea. There was a small harbour, three churches (St Patrick’s, Church of Ireland, the Methodist church and the Catholic church of All Saints), a high street of little shops and four public houses, which were always full. The local children attended the school, which was run by the Catholic church, and gathered at the shrine to the Virgin Mary most evenings to witness the statue swaying, which it very often did, apparently all on its own. Built into the hillside in 1828 to commemorate a young girl’s vision, it had become something of a tourist attraction in the summer months as pilgrims travelled from far and wide to see it, falling to their knees in the mud and crossing themselves devoutly when it duly rattled. The children were greatly amused by the spectacle, running off in their pack of scruffy scamps, hiding their fear beneath peals of nervous laughter. It was whispered that horses sometimes baulked when passing it, foretelling a tragedy.

  The pony and trap made its way slowly through the town. Kitty eagerly searched the rabble of Catholic children walking towards her. They were pale with hunger, having fasted from the evening before, and dazed with boredom from the service. At last she saw Bridie, treading heavily up the street with her family. Her face, half-hidden behind a tangle of knotted hair, was grim. Kitty knew she didn’t like going to Mass. Father Quinn was a severe and unforgiving priest, prone to outbursts of indignation in the pulpit and quite often reproachful finger-wagging as he picked on members of the congregation whom he felt had, in some way, transgressed. The poorest among them received the worst of his tongue-lashing.

  Kitty focused hard on her friend until Bridie raised her eyes and saw her, just as the pony and trap clip-clopped past. Bridie’s face lit up and she smiled. Kitty smiled back. A little behind Bridie, Liam O’Leary, the vet, walked beside his twelve-year-old son, Jack. Kitty smiled at him, too. Jack was more discreet. His blue eyes twinkled beneath his thick brown fringe and the corners of his mouth gave a tiny twitch. The pony walked on. When Kitty looked back she caught eyes with him again as he tossed her another furtive glance over his shoulder.

  The church of St Patrick was almost full. Here the aristocracy came together with the ordinary working-class Protestants – shopkeepers, cattle jobbers, dressmakers and the Castle Deverill estate manager and bookkeeper, all descended from the Huguenots. Lord and Lady Deverill sat in the front pew with Bertie, Maud, Victoria and Elspeth. Miss Grieve sat in the row behind with Kitty. Much to Kitty’s delight she found herself sitting next to Lady Rowan-Hampton, wrapped snugly in a warm coat and fur stole. Her husband, the portly and red-faced Sir Ronald, had to sit on the aisle side in order to get out to read the lesson. ‘My dear Kitty,’ whispered Lady Rowan-Hampton happily, placing her prayer book on the ledge in front of her. ‘I haven’t seen you for such a long time. Haven’t you grown into a pretty girl? I must say, you’ve inherited your grandmother’s good looks. You know, as a young woman her beauty was the talk of Dublin. Now, how are we to get through the service? I know, let’s play a game. Find an animal that matches each member of your family, and Reverend Daunt, of course, let’s not forget him. If you were an animal, Kitty, you’d be . . .’ She narrowed her soft brown eyes and Kitty was transfixed by her rosy cheeks, slightly on the plump side, her smooth powdery skin and full, expressive mouth. Kitty thought that, if people were cakes, Lady Rowan-Hampton would be a juicy Victoria sponge cake, whereas her mother would be a dry and bitter porter cake. ‘Of course, my dear, you’d be a fox!’ Lady Rowan-Hampton continued. ‘You’d be a very cunning and charming little fox.’

/>   The service began with the first hymn and Kitty stood tall and sang as prettily as she could in order to impress Lady Rowan-Hampton. Miss Grieve just mouthed the words, Kitty supposed, because her voice was inaudible. Mrs Daunt, the Rector’s wife, usually played the organ, almost as badly as Elspeth played the piano, but today, as Mrs Daunt was indisposed, their neighbour, the porcine Mr Rowe, played the violin beautifully. Kitty could smell Lady Rowan-Hampton’s perfume, which was floral and very sweet, like tuberose, and Kitty decided that when she was grown-up she wanted to be just like her. Of course, she didn’t want a fat old husband like Sir Ronald, who was Master of the local hunt, a loud bore and contrary when drunk – Kitty had often heard him holding forth in the dining room after dinner when the women had gone through to the drawing room. Lady Rowan-Hampton always wore glittering diamonds about her neck and wrists and long dresses that swished as she walked. She was the closest thing to a princess that Kitty had ever seen. Now she was sitting beside her, Kitty was more enthralled than ever.

  Sir Ronald read the first lesson. His booming voice rebounded off the walls as he threw each syllable into the congregation as if he were a colonel lobbing grenades. Victoria read the second, softly and a little too fast, swallowing the ends of the sentences so their meaning was almost entirely lost. As Reverend Daunt warmed to his sermon, Lady Rowan-Hampton leaned down and whispered a word into Kitty’s ear. ‘Walrus.’ Kitty stifled a giggle, because that was the very animal Kitty had thought of when Sir Ronald had read the lesson.

  During the final hymn the collection plate was passed round. Lady Rowan-Hampton handed Kitty a coin so that, when the plate reached her, she was able to drop it in among the others with a light clink. At the end of the service Mr Rowe took up his violin and played a jig, which made most people smile in amusement, except for Maud whose tight lips pursed even tighter with disapproval. ‘So, what animal do you think your father would be?’ Lady Rowan-Hampton asked Kitty.