‘I do understand,’ said Bridie gently.
‘When will it end? When will Papa and Harry come home? It’s beastly, just beastly!’
‘The war will end and Master Harry and your father will come home. They will. It can’t go on forever, can it?’
‘I don’t know? Can it?’ Kitty took Bridie’s hands. ‘You must miss your papa.’
‘I do. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of him, God rest his soul.’
‘It makes little difference that I know Uncle Rupert is in Heaven now because he’s not here, where he should be. Grandma was crying her heart out even though she knows he’s in Heaven too and not dead on that battlefield. A ghost is not the same as a living person. You can’t touch a ghost and a ghost can’t hold you.’ Kitty squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Oh God, please don’t take Papa.’
The hardest part about Rupert’s death was the fact that there was no body to bury. His home was boarded up like a tomb because it was part of the Deverill estate and Adeline couldn’t bear to clear out his things, or for anyone else to live there. She organized a small service in his memory in the church of St Patrick in Ballinakelly, outside of which many of the locals and tenants gathered to pay their respects. It was there that Adeline noticed how hungry they all looked. She gazed in horror at the scrawny bodies and gaunt faces of the children and wondered why she hadn’t noticed before. The sight hauled her out of her grief and galvanized her into action. She arranged for herself and Kitty to drive into town the following morning with a cart full of food baskets for the tenants. With the help of the gardeners they raided the green-houses for vegetables and instructed Mrs Doyle to set about baking loaves of soda bread.
Their charity was so gratefully received that Adeline made it her mission to care for the poor. It was a way of suppressing her grief; she buried it beneath the distraction of activity and purpose. The gardens were large enough to grow plenty more produce, she said, giving orders for more seeds to be sown and nurtured and harvested. ‘It’s wrong of us to keep it all for ourselves.’ Hubert huffed and puffed like an old engine, complaining that his wife’s undertaking to save the poor would only end in bankruptcy.
When the family reunited for the summer she put the women to work. Gone were the days of croquet and tennis, dinner parties and lunch parties, and languid afternoons in the sunshine playing cards beneath parasols. The people needed them and they would rise to their need and save them from starvation, just like Adeline’s mother-in-law had done during the famine with her soup kitchen.
Maud complained that Adeline had gone mad with sorrow. Beatrice rolled up her sleeves and set to work with relish for it was like Marie Antoinette’s Petit Trianon, was it not? A delightful game which she could play all summer before returning to the civilization of Deverill Rising, their country estate in Wiltshire, where she wasn’t required to dig up potatoes and drive them round to the poor. Victoria, Elspeth and the twins complained bitterly while they podded the broad beans and picked endless baskets of raspberries but Kitty and Celia enjoyed the task, probably because their sisters so loathed it.
At the end of the summer there was no ball at the castle. There were no young men to invite and it didn’t seem appropriate to hold a party when half the guests were risking their lives at the front. After the cousins returned to Wiltshire and Maud to Kent with Victoria and Elspeth the castle was quiet once more and the shroud of mourning which had been temporarily lifted during the summer months now fell over the family again.
Adeline sank into a torpor. It was as if she had exhausted her energies with all the planting and picking. The usual casual labourers arrived in September to pick the fruits. There were apples, figs, pears and plums, loganberries, strawberries, and currants and Adeline turned a blind eye to the ones they surreptitiously ate along the way and to the stones they added to their bags when it was time to weigh them for their pay.
She sat in her little sitting room on the first floor and listened to music on the gramophone, drinking herbal tea made with the cannabis she grew to calm her nerves. It was there that Kitty would find her in the evenings while Hubert was still out. She looked frail and older now, curled up in the big armchair, gazing into the flames as if hoping to find answers there. The sweet smell of turf smoke and herb tea gave the room a comforting air and Kitty liked to sit in there with her and read. She enjoyed the soothing sounds of classical music and her grandmother’s familiar presence. It was a cosy, restful room, detached from the uncertainty disrupting the world at war.
‘Rupert was a troubled soul,’ said Adeline quietly, staring into the fire. ‘He put on a show of being this wild and glamorous man to hide the inadequate boy he was inside. He was always like that, even as a child, showing off to hide his insecurities. Bertie, on the other hand, was born sure of himself. I suppose that comes with being the eldest son. He knows where he’s going. If he survives the war he will inherit Castle Deverill when Hubert goes and after him Harry. It’s all mapped out, all very predictable.’
‘But what will happen if Ireland wins independence?’ Kitty asked. ‘Will we have to leave and go and live in England?’
‘Of course not. Just because there’s a revolution doesn’t mean we won’t be able to continue living here. Wild horses wouldn’t drag us away from our home. We belong here and Lord knows we deserve to stay. We look after our tenants and we respect those who want to break free . . .’
‘Grandpa doesn’t.’
Adeline slid her eyes to where Kitty was sitting on the sofa and put her teacup in its saucer with a clink. ‘Grandpa,’ she chuckled sleepily. ‘Hubert thinks by saying it won’t happen he will somehow prevent it from happening. Of course, saying it doesn’t make it so. He grew up believing in the might and power of the Crown. It’s what his parents believed.’ She shrugged. ‘Loyal to king and country he simply can’t see it from any other point of view. Mind you, Rupert’s death has woken him up to the fallibility of the British Army. The Deverills aren’t any different from anyone else. They can cut us down as surely as the next man. I fear Ireland will descend into violence, Kitty. The Irish people will never forgive the English for executing those men after the Easter Rising. They will be treated as martyrs in the eyes of the Irish people and there is nothing more dangerous than a martyr. They live in Tir na nÓg – the Land of the Forever Young. It’ll come back in the form of reprisals, I know it.’
‘When will there be an end to this war?’ Kitty sighed. ‘It’s been two years now. Surely someone has to win?’
‘Not until they’ve all killed each other first,’ said Adeline with uncharacteristic pessimism. ‘The root of all evil in the world is man’s ego. If only they could rise above their bloody egos the world would be a peaceful place. But they can’t. They’re no better than beasts.’
Kitty watched her grandmother’s eyes droop and her head fall onto her chest. She got up and walked over to the chair, catching the cup and saucer before they dropped onto the rug at Adeline’s feet. Curious about this sweet-smelling herb that intoxicated her grandmother, she poured the last drops out of the pot and took a sip. It tasted benign, sugary even, and Kitty wondered whether her grandmother had added honey to improve the flavour. Soon her head began to spin and she only just made it back to the sofa before collapsing into the cushions. In a moment she felt better about the world. Nothing mattered. Not independence, nor Jack, nor Ireland. She took another swig and smiled. Her grandmother really was a witch and this was her brew.
In the spring of 1917 Harry returned home from the war, wounded by a gunshot to the shoulder. But he didn’t come to Castle Deverill. Maud felt it was too dangerous for him as a British soldier to be seen in a country growing increasingly violent towards the English there and summoned him to Kent. She had no such concerns for Kitty and had no intention of calling for her to join them. She wouldn’t know what to do with the girl once she got there – and she knew in her heart that Kitty was flowering into a beautiful and articulate young woman who would easily eclipse Elspeth.
There weren’t enough eligible men to go round as it was, so she certainly wasn’t going to narrow Elspeth’s chances of finding a husband by inviting Kitty onto the playing field.
Hubert lifted his spirits by purchasing a shiny red Daimler motor car. It arrived from England all glossy and new and caused a sensation when he drove Adeline and Kitty to Ballinakelly and back. Hordes of children ran after it, old women stared as if they were seeing something other-worldly and grown men laughed, shaking their heads at the flamboyance of Lord Deverill who didn’t care a hoot what anyone thought. At the castle the servants spilled out onto the gravel to look at it. Bridie had never seen anything so magical in all her life. Mrs Doyle shook her head, believing it to be the Devil’s work, but O’Flynn ran his fingers over the bonnet and remembered with affection the toy train he had been given as a boy, which had been painted the same red. When Hubert offered to take him for a drive around the estate O’Flynn became that boy again, springing into the front seat as if he wasn’t eighty years old and decrepit.
They passed Jack O’Leary on the drive, riding his horse towards the castle to see to a lame mare. Jack doffed his cap and watched the motor car speed over the mud. Lord Deverill waved as he passed and Jack wondered what the point was of wasting money on such an expensive toy.
At the castle he saw to the mare. It was nothing more serious than a pulled muscle and required only a few days’ rest in the stable. As he was closing the stable door, Kitty appeared in her riding habit. ‘I’ll ride you home,’ she said, but he knew that meant riding to the Fairy Ring to talk politics, war and their own brand of nonsense.
Kitty rode side-saddle. In her black habit she looked poised and stylish. Beneath her black hat her red hair was tied in a thick plait that reached down to her waist. Against the black dress and white collar her skin was as flawless as the smooth surface of cream. Her full lips curled mischievously while her grey eyes couldn’t help but look intelligent and serious. Jack admired her in the saddle. She rode with a confidence that came from years of practice as well as a courageous heart. He mounted his horse and they set off up the drive beneath the avenue of trees whose budding leaves were just beginning to open.
Once out on the hills they cantered side by side over the heather, laughing at the sheer pleasure of being in the wind with a magnificent view of the sea. They reached the Fairy Ring and dismounted, leaving their horses untethered. ‘I remember telling my father that these stones come to life after sunset,’ said Kitty, walking among them. ‘Of course he thought I was mad. I remember the look in his eyes. I never got the chance to explain that it’s only at sunset, when the shadows lengthen, that they appear to move. I imagine growing up with my grandmother meant he’d heard all sorts of stories about the supernatural and thought perhaps this was just another. Poor Papa. He’s so patient.’ She looked out across the ocean where the waves rolled in over the wide expanse of white sand. ‘I pray for him, Jack. I pray that he comes back to us, not wounded like Harry, but as he was when he left.’
Jack stood beside her and turned his gaze to the horizon. ‘You seeing spirits and all that, what happens when we die then?’
‘We leave our bodies and float away, to a place where there’s no war and no violence and no poverty.’
‘You really believe that, don’t you?’
‘I know it, Jack. You know it, too, remember?’
‘That face I saw in the window was a ghost. That’s different.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s the same. That was Jonnie Wilson who’d been killed in the war and had come back to find the woman he loved. It’s romantic, don’t you think?’
‘Aye, ’tis romantic,’ he agreed. ‘And you think Miss Grieve killed herself to be with him?’
‘I think so.’
Jack turned to face her. The sun was beginning to set, bathing her features in a warm amber gold. ‘If I died I’d come back to be with the woman I loved. If I could.’
Kitty smiled. ‘Who would you come back for, Jack?’ But as she said it her words caught in her throat because she saw the tender way he was looking at her. Her cheeks flushed suddenly and her lips parted in surprise.
Jack looked quite serious and a little anxious. He held her gaze but her eyes were wide and guarded and he couldn’t keep it, nor could he read what was in it. He breathed deeply, as if about to take a great risk. Then he reached down for her gloved hand. He squeezed it gently. ‘I’d come back for you, I would,’ he said softly.
Kitty’s eyes shone. ‘Do you love me, Jack?’ she asked.
‘I do, Kitty, with all my heart.’
Kitty felt something warm and sweet flow into the aching hole in her heart, the one that hurt with longing whenever she gazed out at the starry night and full moon, and at last she knew it for the loneliness that it was. ‘I think I love you, too, Jack,’ she replied hoarsely and her lips, now pale and no longer curling with mischief, smiled diffidently.
Jack took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. She let him part them and kiss her deeply. She inhaled the horse dust on his skin and the turf smoke in his hair and wanted to weep at the familiar smell that was home to her. Wrapping her arms around his neck and sinking into him, she closed her eyes and let down her guard, allowing herself to take pleasure from the unfamiliar feelings which were now taking hold of her. As the shadows lengthened and the stones began to move Kitty knew she belonged to Jack O’Leary as surely as she belonged to Ireland.
Chapter 13
Bridie noticed a change in Kitty. She was distracted and pensive and uncharacteristically placid. Her sharp eyes had softened, more often turned to the window now where she’d stand and stare, her gaze lost among the turning leaves and tempestuous sea. She didn’t lie on the bed with Bridie and laugh about Mr Trench, but lay staring into the gathered silk of the canopy above, sighing heavily but contentedly, like a romantic heroine in the magazines Bridie read. Bridie could only assume that she had fallen in love with her tutor, for who else could have turned this feisty, defiant young woman to sap?
Mr Trench was certainly handsome. Behind his spectacles his eyes were a soft chestnut-brown. Although serious, his features were regular and pleasing, his nose straight, his chin angular, his jaw and cheekbones well defined. Bridie considered him gentlemanly. He always said good morning and acknowledged her politely, which was more than most Deverill guests did. Most never even looked at the servants unless they wanted something, and a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you’ seemed not to be part of their vocabulary. Bridie wasn’t privy to what went on in the classroom and unlike Kitty she wasn’t a natural spy, so peeping through keyholes was not an option. She could only wait until Kitty confided in her, which she was sure she would; after all, she shared everything else.
The war burned on like an uncontrollable forest fire, consuming men indiscriminately. George Deverill, Digby and Beatrice’s son who used to play with Harry every summer, was killed at sea and Digby himself was left for dead on the battlefield, beneath a pile of bodies, only to be discovered a day later, wounded in the leg but alive. He returned to England to recover, but nothing could heal the damage done to his heart at the loss of his only son. Kitty mourned George and prayed ever more fervently for her father. Bridie comforted her as best she could.
Bridie’s wages were gratefully received at home. Michael and Sean worked hard on the land to pay the rent and feed themselves. Mrs Doyle toiled in the castle kitchen, Old Mrs Nagle cooked for the family and none of them were ever late for Mass. Wherever they stood they would take off their caps, bow their heads and pray twice a day at the sound of the Angelus. Twice a day Bridie would remember her father and however much she told herself that time would heal, it never did. She missed him as acutely now as she had the day he was taken from her. ‘Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariæ . . .’ and she would squeeze back tears as she remembered Tomas, larger now in memory than he had been in life, and silently she would promise him that she would make something of her life and give him reason to be proud.
; Bridie saw Jack at Mass every Sunday morning. His raffish grin and intense gaze would make her heart flip over and suddenly all the fear and anxiety that filled her heart with darkness would evaporate like fog and her whole being would expand with light. He’d walk her home and she’d entertain him with stories from the castle. He loved stories of Kitty best, throwing his head back and laughing at her antics, so Bridie made sure she always delivered.
‘Kitty’s in love, don’t you know,’ she told him one Sunday in October as they ambled slowly up the road.
‘What makes you think that?’ Jack asked.
‘She’s dreamy.’
‘She’s always dreamy,’ said Jack, smiling fondly.
‘It’s a different kind of dreamy altogether. She’s all sighs and soft looks.’
‘Who’s she in love with, then?’
‘I believe it’s Mr Trench.’
For a moment Jack’s face darkened. ‘Mr Trench?’ he exclaimed.
‘Her tutor.’ She shrugged. ‘Who else could it be?’
‘Have you been earwigging, Bridie?’
Bridie was affronted. ‘I don’t go putting my nose through cracks in doors, Jack, and you know it. She spends all morning with him and indeed he’s a fine-looking fella.’
‘I don’t doubt you, Bridie.’ Jack sighed. ‘I’m just surprised.’
‘I’m not. Why shouldn’t she fall in love with Mr Trench? His stiff leg only makes him more romantic’
‘Sounds like you’ve taken a shine to him yourself.’
‘I have not,’ Bridie retorted, flushing. She wished she could be honest and confess how much she shone for him.
‘I do believe you’re blushing, Bridie Doyle!’ he laughed. When she didn’t reply he nudged her gently. ‘I’m only codding ya!’
‘Well, don’t. It’s not a laughing matter.’
‘You sound hoity-toity these days, Bridie. You’ve been mixing too much with them up at the castle.’
Songs of Love and War Page 14