Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  It wasn’t until she was introduced to Mr Trench that Maud realized the reason for her intellectual flowering, and that the damage had already been done; he had unleashed in Kitty a power which was quite beguiling and there was precious little she could do about it. Comparing her to Victoria and Elspeth with their poor education, she resented her youngest for having benefited, in such a short time, from Mr Trench’s tutoring. This child, whom she had done her best to keep out of sight, was now in full view of everyone and, to add insult to injury, a great success. If one more person told her how brilliant Kitty was she would scream. Kitty was a dazzling card player, Laurel had told her. Kitty was a fearless horsewoman, Hubert had raved. Kitty was a beautiful dancer, Hazel had admitted, after confessing to have taught her herself. Maud had responded by ignoring their comments and pushing her other daughters forward. Elspeth was celebrated in London, she told anyone who would listen, and with so many suitors she couldn’t count them. The fact that the only young man to have shown interest was the third son of a meagre baronet who was now at the front, with all the other eligible young men in the country, was not mentioned.

  Kitty worried about Harry. He was withdrawn, as pale as porridge and fidgety. He couldn’t sit still. It was as if his nerves were frayed and the slightest movement made him jump. Maud, who had never disguised the fact that she loved her son the most, fussed around him, making his nerves even more ragged. She second-guessed his wishes, asked him if he was all right twenty times a day and pressed him for details about the war. She unwittingly drove him out with the hunt, which he hated on account of his lack of courage, but anything was better than sitting at home with his mother. If he confided in his father, Maud never knew, because the two of them walked out with their guns and the dogs, putting up snipe and shooting hares, and Bertie never shared their conversations with his wife. It infuriated Maud to think he might share them with Grace. It hurt to think that Grace might know more about her beloved son than she did.

  Then the night before Harry was to be sent back to the front Kitty decided to talk to him. She couldn’t bear to lie awake thinking of him sobbing into his pillow with no one to comfort him. Who looked after him out there in France? Might he die as so many had? Would she perhaps never see him again? She put on her robe and picked up her candle and tiptoed down the corridor. It was cold out there but she hurried on, determined to give comfort where she could.

  At last she reached his bedroom door. It was firmly shut but a faint light glowed beneath it. She pressed her ear to the wood. For a moment she heard nothing, then came a muffled sob. Needing no further confimation of his misery she turned the knob and quietly pushed open the door. The curtains were closed around his bed. The embers were dying in the fire. Outside, the wind howled like a pack of wolves. She crept to the bed and pulled back the curtain. Not one, but two faces stared back at her in horror and surprise. Kitty’s jaw dropped. Harry sat up abruptly. ‘Kitty,’ he hissed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Kitty looked from her brother to Joseph, the first footman. Both were young, naked and handsome – and looking guilty. Scattered on the bed were loose sheets of poetry written in Harry’s hand.

  ‘I heard crying. I thought you needed comfort.’ She grinned, shock making her want to laugh out loud. ‘I see Joseph got to you first.’

  Harry’s face reddened, the fear in his eyes exposed. ‘You won’t tell,’ he said.

  ‘Of course I won’t tell. I’ve got more secrets than you can imagine, Harry.’

  ‘You promise me. Even if I die in France, you swear you won’t tell?’

  ‘I cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘Now go and we won’t ever speak of this again. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’ She dropped the curtain and crept out of the room. When she reached her bedroom she sank onto her bed, trembling. She knew what her father had been doing to Lady Rowan-Hampton at the Summer Ball all right, but was it possible Harry was doing that to Joseph? She thought not. They were simply cuddling – and why shouldn’t Harry be comforted by a loyal servant? But, as she climbed beneath the blankets and blew out her candle, she instinctively knew that what Harry and Joseph were doing was wrong; after all neither had had any clothes on and the terror in their eyes had told her as much. But Kitty was a master at keeping secrets. She’d guard this one closely in the same way she guarded the others. It gave her a feeling of power to know so much.

  The following day Harry went back to the war. He gave her a hug, which was out of character, and a look which silently begged her to honour her word. Bertie left a few days later. He didn’t know the secret she kept for him but he embraced her all the same. Uncle Rupert went off to the front as if he were going to a party. He waved extravagantly and threw his head back with laughter and only he knew how much of a brave face he put on in order to conceal the crippling fear inside.

  Before Maud left for England she managed to take Mr Trench to one side under the pretext of discussing her youngest daughter’s education. Once they were alone she spoke directly. ‘Mr Trench, I see you are giving Kitty a wonderful education and my husband and I are very grateful to you. However, I feel you might be happier in England. Ireland is very damp and cold and this old castle is terribly creaky.’ She looked down at his leg. ‘And I can’t imagine what you get out of a country that is obsessed with horses. Might it not appeal to you, Mr Trench, to come and tutor my daughter, Elspeth, instead? She’s a bright girl and I’m sure it won’t be long before she marries, but every young woman should be in possession of a good education, don’t you think?’ Maud was quite satisfied that Mr Trench would leap at the chance to leave Ireland. However, he replied with equal directness, for he belonged to the same social class as Mrs Deverill and was by no means afraid of her.

  ‘Mrs Deverill, I am flattered that you should offer me a position in England but I fear I must disappoint you. Kitty is a very rewarding student and I am enjoying tutoring her immensely. As for Ireland and this castle, I have grown very fond of them indeed. It would take more than you could offer to lure me back to England.’

  Maud was enraged. She tried another tack. ‘Life is terribly unfair,’ she said, pulling a pitiful face. ‘Kitty has every advantage and my poor Elspeth—’

  ‘I am not unique, Mrs Deverill,’ Mr Trench replied. ‘In fact, I’m sure there are many like me in London who would be grateful for a job.’

  ‘There aren’t any like you in London,’ Maud replied tightly. ‘They are all away fighting the war. Well, if I can’t persuade you now, I leave my offer open. When Ireland gets too much, and I assure you it will get too much, you may change your mind.’

  Maud left for England with Victoria and Elspeth and the castle was Kitty’s once again. She resumed her lessons with Mr Trench and the more she learned about Ireland’s history the more her patriotic fire was fanned. She saw a great deal of Jack for with his father away fighting on the Western Front he was the only vet in Ballinakelly and Castle Deverill had many animals. When he didn’t ride up to the castle, she rode to find him, and sometimes they arranged to meet on the hills where they cantered over the heather, their laughter carried on the wind with the mournful cries of gulls. They would lie on the grass and talk as the days grew longer and the little purple flowers of mountain thyme opened in the sun. Often they would meet at the Fairy Ring to watch the sun set behind it, elongating the shadows until it looked as if the very stones were brought to life.

  It was in that spring of 1915 that Jack began to look at Kitty with different eyes and Kitty, drawn close to Jack because of the secret they shared and their mutual love of Ireland, began to feel a budding tenderness in return. She began to look forward to their meetings with impatience, and the heaviness in his gaze when he looked at her wielded an irresistible power that turned her stomach to jelly. When she wasn’t with him she found herself staring out of the window thinking of him, and the idea of their shared patriotism grew ever more romantic.

  Chapter 12

&n
bsp; By 1916 all hope of an imminent end to the war disintegrated. Battles were fought in Europe and the Middle East at devastating human cost on both sides. Soldiers dug themselves into trenches like rodents and there seemed little in the way of advancements, only death. As the black bands on the arms of grieving mothers and wives grew in their number in Ballinakelly, the shadow of death had not yet reached Castle Deverill. The Deverills prayed for the continued safety of their loved ones and tried to live their lives in the normal way, for what else could they do?

  The year before, their English cousins had come to stay for the summer as usual, but Digby and George were absent, as were Bertie, Harry and Rupert, leaving old Hubert and Stoke to entertain the ladies. Victoria was still not pregnant in spite of Eric returning on leave and Elspeth was yet to find herself a husband. Kitty wasted no time in telling Elspeth that she should find a nice Irishman as there were plenty about who had not gone to war, to which Elspeth replied that only Kitty would do such a thing and send their dear mama to an early grave.

  There had been picnics on the beach, croquet and tennis, dinner parties and grand lunches, but beneath the gaiety was a desperate anxiety as news filtered through in the newspapers of the horrors of battle and the thousands dead. One night Beatrice got particularly tipsy and broke down in tears as she described the shocking sight of the wounded soldiers in London who were too crippled to rejoin their regiments. ‘They’re like the walking dead,’ she sniffed. ‘And all I can think of is George and Digby and our boys.’ Augusta tried everyone’s patience by declaring that she would welcome her own death in order to avoid the terrible suffering her son and grandson were putting her through.

  But in April 1916 Ireland suffered her own tragedy during the week of Easter. An uprising by Irish Republicans intent on ending British rule in Ireland brought the clatter of gunfire to the streets of Dublin. ‘Bloody knackers,’ boomed Hubert furiously, throwing down the Irish Times. ‘Isn’t there enough bloodshed in the world!’ But Kitty was secretly excited. The Irish rebel forces had seized key locations in Dublin and proclaimed the Irish Republic independent of the United Kingdom. For a glorious six days it looked as if they were going to win but then the British Army suppressed them with their artillery and felled them like ears of barley.

  ‘In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom,’ Kitty read from the Proclamation that Jack had given her, signed by the seven leaders of the Easter Rising at the General Post Office, Dublin, having declared themselves the provisional government of the Republic of Ireland.

  ‘They’ve shot three of them,’ he told her solemnly, picking a sprig of heather and twiddling it between his thumb and finger.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kitty replied truthfully. ‘Do you think they’ll shoot them all?’

  ‘All the leaders who signed that bit of paper and more, I suppose. Maybe they’ll shoot the lot of ’em.’

  ‘Must be horrid to die like that,’ said Kitty quietly.

  ‘I’d rather die in battle than be blindfolded and shot by a firing squad, a little white rag pinned to my chest to show them where my heart is.’

  Kitty winced. ‘Is that what they do?’

  ‘The Irish Citizen Army was no match for the British Army, Kitty. There were only two thousand of them, against twenty thousand soldiers. Jaysus, they didn’t stand a pup’s chance in hell!’

  ‘But if the Germans had helped, they might have had a chance?’

  ‘If the German supply of arms had reached them, perhaps. But it didn’t.’

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  Jack looked at her steadily. ‘We rally, we train, we keep up the pressure. We don’t give up.’

  ‘Jack—’

  ‘You think shooting hundreds of rebels by firing squad or sending them to the hangman is going to stamp out the desire for independence? No, Kitty, it’s just going to make us all stronger. There’s not a single man, woman or child in the whole of Ireland now who doesn’t want to be free of British rule. The Rising has made sure of that.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve joined the Volunteers, Kitty. We’re about fifty of us in Ballinakelly, but as Napoleon said, “In war, it is not the men who count, it is the man.”’

  ‘How do you know what Napoleon said?’ Kitty asked with a smile.

  ‘I heard it,’ he retorted defensively. ‘They’re not all as poorly educated as I am.’

  ‘I want to be part of it.’

  Jack stared at Kitty in amazement. ‘You’re English, Kitty. You’re one of them.’

  Kitty rounded on him furiously. ‘I’m Irish, Jack, and you know it. Do you think I’d be your friend if I were one of them? Do you?’

  ‘You’re too young.’

  ‘I’ll be sixteen in September.’

  ‘You’re a child.’

  Kitty sat up and stared out to sea. ‘I’m old for my years and you know better than anyone how good I am at keeping secrets.’

  ‘This isn’t a game, Kitty. Look what’s happened to Countess Markievicz. Well, she’s one of you, don’t you know, and she’s going to be shot like all the rest.’

  Kitty was appalled. ‘They won’t shoot a woman, surely.’

  ‘She renounced her status as a woman by joining the rebels, wouldn’t you say? They’ll court-martial her like all the rest, see if they don’t.’ Jack smiled fondly at Kitty. ‘You want independence for Ireland, same as us. You want an end to poverty and exploitation of the Irish people by the British same as us. But you haven’t thought about what comes after, have you? What’ll happen to Castle Deverill and your grandparents? You’ll have to leave, all of you. It’ll be too dangerous for English people to carry on living here. Have you thought about that? Are you prepared to give it all up for your cause?’

  ‘I won’t give it up. The Deverills are Irish. We’ve lived here since 1661 . . .’

  ‘On our land,’ said Jack with a grin.

  Kitty lowered her eyes. ‘I can’t help what happened over two hundred years ago, Jack.’

  ‘But that’s the point, isn’t it? You Anglo-Irish can never shake off the fact that you’re part of the conquering power, given land that wasn’t yours.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, Jack? Give it back?’

  ‘There’s no chance of that now.’

  ‘There, you see? Nothing can be done about that.’

  ‘They’ll want you out all the same, Kitty.’

  ‘Not if I fight for the rebels.’

  Jack laughed at her naivety. ‘You’re not going to fight for anyone,’ he said softly.

  Kitty stared at him with her grey eyes full of knowing. ‘You’re going to need me one day, Jack O’Leary, and, when you do, I’ll remind you that you laughed at me.’

  ‘Out of the hundreds arrested, only fourteen rebels executed,’ Hubert complained over breakfast, slamming down the newspaper. ‘I ask you! Bloody Shinners! They should have shot the bally lot of ’em.’ Hubert huffed furiously and left the dining room. He folded his shotgun over his arm and strode out of the castle with his dogs. As he walked onto the gravel he saw a boy in navy uniform cycling towards him. Hubert stopped. The dogs at his heels sat down as the boy approached. On the back of his bicycle was a brown parcel tied with string. Hubert’s mouth went dry. His bravado evaporated and the cold hand of fear squeezed his heart. ‘Top of the morning to ye, Lord Deverill,’ said the boy. Hubert couldn’t speak. He stood there and waited. It seemed a long time before the parcel was placed in his hands along with a telegram edged in black. The boy cycled away. He had delivered bad news too many times to be affected by it now. Hubert remained outside on the gravel, unable to move. One of the dogs whined and looked up at him in a silent plea. There were snipe in the marshes and hares in the heather but Hubert felt the weight of the parcel and wept.

  Adeline, drawn by a sense of foreboding, reached him as the heav
y clouds above them released a light drizzle. She looked at the parcel in his hands, at his ashen face and white lips, and read the telegram through a blur of tears. Rupert had been killed at Gallipoli.

  She slipped her arm through her husband’s and led him slowly back into the castle. O’Flynn’s weary old eyes flicked from their faces to the parcel and his shoulders stooped a little lower. Once in the library O’Flynn poured his master a strong whiskey, then, noticing Lady Deverill’s distress, poured her one too. They gulped it back gratefully, but nothing could dull the pain of losing a son.

  With a deep breath Adeline untied the string and opened the parcel. Inside was Rupert’s uniform, his soldier’s small-book, a packet of letters tied with ribbon and a silver hip flask his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday. She wiped her wet cheeks with trembling fingers. Now she was no different from the other mourning mothers in Ballinakelly for there is no discrimination in death.

  Kitty was called out of her lesson with Mr Trench and given the news. For some inexplicable reason she had believed her family exempt from death on the battlefield. She had told herself that Deverills didn’t fight on the front lines. They had always been special; but no one was special in war.

  She ran up to her bedroom and rang for Bridie. ‘Uncle Rupert’s dead,’ she sobbed as Bridie entered. ‘He’s been killed. Will it be Papa next?’ Bridie put her arms around her friend and felt her tears seeping into her uniform. ‘I know you understand because you lost your father.’