‘A lion,’ said Kitty.
‘Very good,’ said Lady Rowan-Hampton approvingly. ‘I think you’re right. He’s fair and handsome, just like a lion. And your mama?’
‘A white weasel.’
Lady Rowan-Hampton was shocked. ‘My dear, are you sure you know what a weasel looks like?’
‘Of course. Don’t you think she looks just like one?’
Lady Rowan-Hampton hesitated and flushed. ‘Not really. I think she’s more like a lovely snow leopard.’ Kitty crinkled her nose and thought of the dry porter cake. ‘Your sisters?’ Lady Rowan-Hampton asked.
‘Little weasels,’ said Kitty with a grin.
‘Oh dear, a very weaselly lot,’ said Lady Rowan-Hampton, smiling too. ‘I think we should keep this game to ourselves, don’t you think?’ Kitty nodded and watched the weasels get up and file down the aisle towards the door.
Once out in the sunshine, the congregation took the opportunity to mingle. The Anglo-Irish, being such a small community, had known each other for generations and cleaved to each other for comfort and safety. They hunted together, met at the races and enjoyed an endless circuit of hunt balls and dinner parties. They were united by a love of sport and entertainment, a loyalty to the Crown, a wary respect for the Irish and a subliminal determination to keep going in a changing world as if their decline as a people were not inevitable.
Kitty found a spider’s web studded with raindrops on the grass not far from where her father was now talking to Lady Rowan-Hampton. Sensing they were discussing her, she turned her attention away from the spider to see if she could work out what they were saying. Once or twice her father glanced in her direction and she had to pretend she was looking elsewhere. Lady Rowan-Hampton was gesticulating in a persuasive manner, and quite crossly too, by the way she vigorously moved her hands. Kitty was surprised to see her father so contrite, as if he was being told off. Then Kitty was diverted by another pair of eyes that watched the couple from the opposite end of the yard. They belonged to her mother and they were colder than ever.
Sunday lunch was always held up at the castle. The family gathered in the drawing room by a boisterous fire, to warm up after the freezing-cold church and blustery ride back with glasses of sherry and large tumblers of Jameson’s whiskey. The Shrubs were always included, arriving in a trap with the ribbons of their hats flapping madly in the wind and their heads pressed together, deep in conversation. Rupert always came alone, already tipsy, and charmed his parents’ other guests who often increased the number around the table to as many as twenty. Today, it was just the family, however, and Kitty sat at the very end of the table, beside her sisters, who ignored her. To her surprise, her father addressed her.
‘Kitty, my dear, come and ride with me this afternoon. I’d like to see how you’re coming along.’ Elspeth turned and glared at her in surprise. It was a rare treat to be asked to ride with their father. ‘It’s about time you rode with the grownups, eh? No more languishing in the nursery for you, my girl. How old are you now, eight?’
‘Nine,’ said Kitty.
‘Nine, eh? Where’s the time gone? When I was nearly half your age I was hunting with the Ballinakelly Foxhounds.’
‘What fun!’ exclaimed Hazel.
‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Laurel. ‘Do take care to find her a gentle pony, Bertie. When I was a girl I barely escaped with my life after being thrown into a ditch by my naughty little pony, Teasel. Do you remember, Hazel?’
‘Do I ever!’ laughed her sister. Hubert immediately launched into his favourite hunting anecdote and Kitty was quite lost again in the sudden swell of conversation. But her heart began to thump excitedly at the thought of riding out with her father. She wondered whether her mother would come too, but decided not. After all, this impromptu arrangement was clearly Lady Rowan-Hampton’s idea and her mother rarely rode. When she did she cut a dash in her black riding habit and hat with its diaphanous black veil reaching down to her chin.
Kitty loved to ride. She adored the wild and rugged hills, the birds of prey that hovered overhead, the gurgling streams and swelling sea. She was curious about the world outside her own isolated existence and liked nothing more than to escape whenever the opportunity arose. Now she set off with her father at a gentle pace, he on his tall chestnut horse, she on a small grey pony called Thruppence. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as they walked up the long avenue of tall, leafless trees.
‘Where would you like to go?’ her father replied, looking down at her with kind, smiling eyes.
‘To the Fairy Ring,’ Kitty replied.
Bertie arched an eyebrow. He knew it well but the place held no interest for him. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘I ride there with Grandma.’
‘I bet you do.’ He laughed. ‘Do you dance among the stones when there’s a full moon?’
‘Of course,’ she replied seriously. ‘We turn into wolves and howl.’
Bertie stared at her in astonishment. His daughter held his gaze for a long moment with her unsettling grey eyes, then her face broke into a grin and Bertie realized, to his relief, that she was joking. ‘What a sense of humour you have for an eight-year-old.’
‘Nine,’ Kitty said emphatically.
He shook his head and thought how irregular it was for such a young child to be so unnaturally grown-up. Grace had been right to berate him. It wasn’t fitting for his youngest to languish alone in the nursery with her austere Scottish governess. He knew full well that Maud had no interest in the child, but he hadn’t bothered to find out the extent of her neglect. Now he felt guilty. He should have intervened earlier. ‘You’re a weak man,’ Grace had scolded him and her words had stung. ‘Your aversion to confrontation has meant that Maud has been allowed to do as she pleases. Now take charge, Bertie, and do something about it.’
‘Then let’s go to the Fairy Ring and you can show me what you and Mother get up to when you’re alone together,’ he said, and the smile Kitty gave him made him wonder why he didn’t seek her company more often.
The Fairy Ring was an ancient and mystical formation of seventeen large grey rocks positioned on the summit of a hill, overlooking the patchwork of fields that stretched all the way to the ocean. From up there they could see cottages shivering in the dusk, thin ribbons of smoke rising from their chimneys as the farmers’ families huddled by their turf fires to keep warm.
‘All this is Deverill land,’ said Bertie, sweeping his eyes over the vast acres of farmland. ‘We had ten times as much before the Wyndham Act enabled tenants to buy their own land. We’ve lived well for over two hundred years, but life as we know it will one day come to an end as our diminishing estates will no longer be able to support our lifestyle. I don’t suppose Miss Grieve has taught you anything about that.’ Kitty shook her head. Her father had no idea how to talk to a nine-year-old. ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ said Bertie dolefully. ‘What does she teach you?’
‘The Great Fire of London and the Plague.’
‘It’s time you learned about your own heritage.’
‘Barton Deverill?’ she said eagerly.
Her father smiled. ‘You already know about him. Of course you should know about your ancestors, but you should also know about the Irish nationalists’ struggle for independence, Kitty. The Irish people don’t want to be ruled by the British. They want to govern themselves.’
‘I know about that,’ she said, remembering what Bridie had told her. ‘They hate that the British have all the power and the taxes are too high.’
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘So you know something already?’
She knew not to reveal that she played with the Catholic children and listened to their patriotic chatter. ‘I know that the Irish don’t like us, even though we are Irish too.’
‘We’re Anglo-Irish, Kitty.’
‘I’m not,’ she said defiantly, folding her arms. ‘I don’t like England.’
‘It’s England that enabled you to live here. If it wasn’
t for Charles II Barton Deverill would never have been given these lands in the first place.’
‘They belonged to the O’Learys,’ she said boldly.
Bertie narrowed his eyes and thought a moment before replying, as if working out the best way to be tactful. ‘The land he built the castle on was indeed O’Leary land.’
‘Do they want it back?’
‘I’m sure they did at the time, Kitty. But that all happened over two hundred years ago. Liam O’Leary is a vet, as was his father before him. They haven’t been farmers for generations.’
‘So, there’s no fighting then?’
‘No fighting, no.’
‘Then you’re friends?’
He shuffled uneasily on his horse, thinking of Liam’s resentful wife. ‘Quite friendly, yes.’
‘Then there’s the possibility that a Deverill might one day marry an O’Leary, after all?’
‘I think that’s highly unlikely,’ Bertie replied tightly. ‘You’ve been listening to your grandmother, haven’t you? Her stories are great fun, Kitty, but it’s important that you understand that they are just fun and not real. They’re like Greek myths and Irish legends like “The Children of Lir”, to be enjoyed but not taken literally. So, what do you and Grandma do here?’ He pointed his riding crop at the rocks.
‘This was an ancient place of worship for pagans,’ said Kitty confidently. ‘Each one of these stones is a person cursed to live as stone by day. When the sun sets they come alive.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Bertie, not in the least interested in magic. He turned his mind to the bottle of gin and the cheery fire that awaited him on his return.
‘Don’t you want to see it?’ Kitty turned her face to the sun. It was already melting into the sea on the horizon and setting the sky aflame with rich reds and golds.
‘Another time,’ he replied patiently, realizing that even Maud had a point when she complained that Kitty was spending too much time talking nonsense with her grandmother.
They set off back down the hill. The evening was cold, but rich smells of damp soil and heather rose up from the sodden ground to infuse the February air with the promise of spring. Occasionally a partridge or a hare bolted out of the gorse as they passed, and a herd of cows came close to watch them with their big brown eyes and placid mooing. Kitty delighted in them all, wishing she could stay out for longer and not have to return to the dull nursery wing to dine alone with Miss Grieve. But when she got back to her room Miss Grieve was there, in her stiff dress that left only her pale face and hands exposed, to inform her that she was expected at the dinner table tonight.
‘I can’t imagine why they want you all of a sudden,’ said Miss Grieve reproachfully. ‘After all, up until now they’ve barely noticed your existence.’
‘It’s because I’m nine and Papa thought I was eight,’ Kitty replied. ‘Silly Papa.’
‘I hope you mind your manners. I won’t be there to prod you.’
‘I don’t need any prodding, Miss Grieve. I shall behave like a young lady.’
‘Don’t get above yourself, my girl. You’re not a young lady yet. So, where did you go with your father?’
Kitty knew not to mention the Fairy Ring. Once, on a wave of enthusiasm, she had told Miss Grieve that she had seen the stones come to life, only to receive a good walloping on the palms of her hands with the riding crop. She wouldn’t forget herself so quickly again. ‘We rode up on the hills. It was delightful.’
‘Well, don’t get too used to it. I don’t suppose he’ll ask you again. I think he must prefer the company of Miss Victoria; after all, she’s a young woman now. Oh, she’ll be off to London in the spring and that’ll be the last we’ll see of her, I don’t doubt. She’ll find herself a nice husband, a pretty girl like her. Then it’ll be Miss Elspeth’s turn and she’ll be away like the wind. As for you . . .’ Miss Grieve looked down her long nose at Kitty. ‘A poor little thing like you. You’ll be lucky to be as fortunate as your sisters with all your disadvantages. Don’t look at me like that. Screwing your face up makes you even less attractive.’
Kitty stepped into her best dress and clenched her fists as Miss Grieve pulled the knots out of her hair. ‘If I had my say I’d cut it off altogether,’ she said, tugging on a particularly sensitive tendril of hair at Kitty’s temple. ‘The lengths we go to when the simplest solution would be a pair of scissors!’
When Kitty was ready she ran downstairs, leaving Miss Grieve to eat alone in the nursery with only her sourness for company. She stopped in front of the mirror on the landing and stared at her reflection. Was she really so ugly? Had Lady Rowan-Hampton simply been kind when she had complimented her looks? And, if she was so unattractive, did it really matter? Then she thought of her grandmother and smiled. She was a beautiful soul of God; Miss Grieve was just too blind to see it.
Chapter 5
It was Sunday night. Old Mrs Nagle’s turf fire was smoking heavily as she puffed on a clay pipe and fingered her rosary devoutly. A big black bastible full of parsnip and potato stew was suspended above it, throwing out steam into the already smoggy atmosphere. She sat in her usual chair beside the fire, a hunched and emaciated figure dressed in black, chewing on her gums for her teeth had fallen out long ago. Her granddaughter, Bridie, dutifully stirred the stew with a wooden spoon as her stomach groaned like a hungry dog at the rich, salty smell. Mrs Doyle sat in her rocking chair opposite her mother, half listening to her husband and sons, the rest of her attention focused on her basket of darning. Bridie’s two elder brothers, Michael and Sean, sat with their father around the wooden table talking in low voices, their serious faces distorted in the flickering candlelight that burned through the gloom, their rough labourers’ hands clutching pewter tumblers of Beamish stout. Every now and then Bridie caught something of what they were saying. But she’d heard it many times before. Talk of Fenian uprisings against the British, worry about working for the aristocracy, always the concern that they might be seen as spies or traitors, and then what? Bridie had long been aware of the Irish struggle for independence, and the resentment of the British. She had heard talk of it wafting up through the floorboards with the scent of porter and tobacco as she drifted off to sleep, her father and his friends discussing it long into the night, their voices loud and unguarded as they drank and played cards. She had seen copies of the Sinn Féin newspaper lying hidden beneath Michael’s bed but struggled to read them. Her father, Tomas Doyle, was a wise man when sober. He would argue that Lord Deverill was a beneficent landlord, unlike many, and Sean as well as Mrs Doyle were employed up at the castle and treated kindly. Wasn’t it true that during the great potato famine the previous Lady Deverill had set up a soup kitchen in one of the hay barns and saved many from starvation? It was well known that not one of the Deverill tenants had died of hunger during the famine, or taken the coffin ship to Amerikey, thanks be to God. But Michael, Bridie’s oldest brother, who was nearly nineteen now and worked with his father on the land, wanted the British Protestants out, whoever they were and however good they were to their tenants. It was a matter of principle and honour: Ireland should belong to the Irish, he maintained passionately, and the British ‘Prods’ should go back to England where they belonged. ‘A privilege to buy our land? What privilege is it to buy back land that was stolen from us in the first place?’ he would maintain, banging his fist on the table, his long black hair falling over his forehead. ‘They’ve stolen more than land. They’ve stolen our culture, our history, our language and our way of life.’ Bridie would hear their voices grow louder as they each tried to persuade the other and she would feel anxious for Kitty and for their secret friendship, which she so treasured. She hoped that if ever there was trouble in Ballinakelly, the Deverills would not suffer at the hands of the rebels on account of their well-known generosity and kindness towards the local people.
Bridie was disappointed Kitty hadn’t come to see her today. Usually she’d find Kitty sitting on the wall surrounding the castle grounds
and they’d run off together and play pikki with the local children. Kitty called it hopscotch but she played it all the same. Kitty was like that; if it was fun she’d throw herself into the game with all her heart and not give a thought to whether she should or should not mix with the Catholic children. She didn’t care either whether one of those children was an O’Leary.
When Bridie thought of Jack O’Leary, with his idle gaze and his pet hawk on his arm, something tickled her belly, like the soft fluttering of butterfly wings. Jack was lofty and handsome with thick brown hair and eyes as watery blue as an Irish sky in winter. An arrogant smirk played about his lips and there was always a mocking laughter in those wintry eyes as he watched the girls at their childish play. But Jack had a sensitive side too. He loved all God’s creatures, from the secretive spider to the docile donkey, and spent most of his time among them. He’d lie on his stomach in the early evening and wait for badgers, leave out food for stray dogs and birdwatch down on the beach in Smuggler’s Bay. He’d taken Kitty and Bridie along one afternoon in January to watch a family of mice in the garden shed behind his house. They’d stayed for over an hour, as still as statues, as the mice had scampered about the wooden floor as if on tiny wheels, eating the seed Jack had put out for them. That small episode had bonded them like plotters in a conspiracy, and from that moment on they had set out together for more adventures in the wild. Kitty was bold and unafraid, curious about all the creatures Jack showed them, but Bridie was scared of creepy-crawlies and hairy mollies and sometimes needed coaxing. Jack would laugh at her apprehension and say, ‘All animals are the goodies if you see life from their point of view, even the smelly rat. Indeed they all have a God-given right to be on this earth.’ And Jack would tell them about life from the rat’s point of view and Bridie would try hard to be sympathetic.
Today Jack hadn’t come out either. His father, Liam O’Leary the vet, had begun to take him along when he went to examine colicky horses, lame sheep, and dogs wounded in fights. There was plenty of work for a vet in a place full of animals like Ballinakelly. So, Bridie had spent the day with the other children whom she didn’t like as much as Kitty nor admire as much as Jack.
Songs of Love and War Page 5