Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Tell that Mr Murphy he has a good aim,’ she said loudly, remembering that Mr Trench was seated beside her. ‘Why doesn’t he put it to good use?’

  Jack stepped down. ‘I’m sure he will. Off you go now.’

  Mr Trench shook the reins and Kitty tore her eyes away from Jack, who put his hands in his pockets and watched the pony and trap trot off down the road. As they drove to the castle Mr Trench was very talkative. The drama had injected him with excitement. He gave Kitty his handkerchief with which to wipe her tear-stained face and nurse her bruised eye and he discussed the band of men who were clearly up to no good. ‘I saw them watching me,’ he told her, ‘and I just knew something was going to happen.’

  But Kitty wanted to explain to Mr Trench that she was on their side. That they had her sympathy and her support, but all she could say was, ‘What a silly lot. Potato throwing won’t get them anywhere.’

  The following morning her left eye had swollen to the size of a golf ball. When her grandparents saw it, her grandfather threatened to deal with the potato thrower himself until her grandmother convinced him that that sort of bullish behaviour would only make matters worse. She told Kitty to rest and applied a cool poultice of comfrey to the bruise. Nonetheless Kitty crept out of the castle to retrieve Jack’s note from the wall. He had placed a posy of wild woodbine there too, tied with a piece of string. She brought it to her nostrils and inhaled the sweet perfume and her heart swelled with happiness that Jack belonged to her. When she entered the greenhouse to read his letter she noticed the empty plates at once. The children had returned and they had eaten all the food. She smiled at the thought of those satisfied bellies. But what if word got out and they brought their friends with them tomorrow? Would she end up feeding the entire population of children in Ballinakelly.

  Chapter 15

  In the summer of 1918 the conscription crisis was over but the fighting continued on the Continent and the number of dead grew. The cousins descended once more on Castle Deverill, but a sadness hung over their usually glorious arrival. Beatrice, once so spirited, had expanded in her grief as if armouring herself in fat would defend her beleaguered heart. She now moved around the castle grounds in a stately fashion, like a rudderless galleon with black sails. Augusta lamented that God had not taken her in George’s place. ‘He had his whole life ahead of him,’ she declared. ‘Whereas I am used up and spent. I only hope God preserves our darling Digby and takes me instead of him. I am ready for the call whenever it may come.’

  Digby’s father Stoke and Hubert went out fishing as usual but they stayed away much longer, finding the company of sad women too emotional for their tastes. They preferred not to talk about their sorrows, but to chew on them in private like dogs with bitter bones.

  Maud returned with Victoria and Elspeth, but she quarrelled with Elspeth and tormented Vivien and Leona who were both engaged to marry Army officers once the war was over. Her jealous remarks were wasted on Beatrice, whose emotions were numbed by a mixture of heartbreak and Adeline’s cannabis, but not lost on Elspeth who confided in Kitty that she was thinking about entering a convent: ‘The only place on earth I can be free of our mother and the beastly convention of marriage.’

  Kitty, Celia and Bridie met in Barton’s tower, which was the only place in the castle where they were safe from intrusion. Kitty and Celia complained about their sisters and Bridie told them the gossip from the kitchen and how her mother had reported that Victoria had asked her if she knew of a wise woman in Ballinakelly who could help her conceive – Bridie giggled that she’d happily play the part for a sixpence. Barton Deverill listened from his chair and his face shook off its habitual grimace and the corners of his mouth twitched as he inserted comments into their conversation that only Kitty could hear.

  In November the war finally came to an end. The fighting ceased. The guns fell silent. But the tremor would vibrate on in the earth the artillery had violated and in the minds of those who had walked through Hell and survived. The euphoria of victory was soon replaced by the sobering realization that almost an entire generation had been killed. Every family had suffered losses. No one had been spared the anguish of mourning. The British Empire had won, but something of the old world had been broken forever.

  Bertie, Digby and Harry returned home to their families who gratefully received them. Outwardly they looked the same as the men who had left four years before, albeit thinner and a little older, but inwardly they had been irrevocably altered. In the tradition of all Deverill men they drank to blot out the images and they smiled to hide the truth that they never shared, for putting it into words would only breathe life into the memories they wanted so badly to forget.

  In December the Irish voted in the General Election, the result of which was a landslide victory for the radical Sinn Féin Party, defeating the nationalist Irish Parliamentary Party that had dominated Irish politics since the 1880s. Of the one hundred and five MPs elected, most had fought in the Easter Rising. ‘By Jove! Who would have predicted the bloody Shinners winning like that, eh?’ Hubert huffed over his newspaper.

  ‘I think it was entirely predictable, my dear,’ said Adeline patiently. ‘If it hadn’t been for the clumsy way the British dealt with the rebels after the Rising, Sinn Féin wouldn’t have won the country’s support. I suspect the tide is going to turn now and the British will be swept away on the current.’

  Maud returned to Cork for Christmas and the Hunting Lodge was inhabited once again. The dust sheets were lifted, the windows opened and the servants reinstalled to scrub and polish, dust and clean. Maud dismissed Mr Trench. Kitty was eighteen now, she explained, and required a husband, not a tutor, although she didn’t think the former would be so easily found considering that the majority of eligible young men had been slaughtered on the battlefi eld. Mr Trench’s face darkened with regret and for a moment he looked as if he might break down. Maud was appalled. She couldn’t imagine how the young man had grown fond of such a wilful and rude child as Kitty. But before he could offer himself Maud added that there were bound to be suitably aristocratic men in London who hadn’t been lost on the front lines. ‘We’ll be returning to London soon and I’m sure the matter will be resolved very quickly.’

  When Mr Trench said goodbye to Kitty he looked defeated. Kitty thanked him politely for everything he had taught her. ‘You are a very intelligent young woman,’ he told her. ‘I hope you don’t waste your fine intellect but put it to good use.’

  ‘Oh, I will, Mr Trench. I hope you have a safe journey back to England.’

  Mr Trench let down his guard for a moment. His lips paled, his cheeks drained of colour and his brown eyes seemed to darken like damp suede. ‘Be safe,’ he said, and his voice, usually so clear and strong, broke. ‘Ireland is a dangerous place, Kitty, and I’d hate you to come to harm.’

  ‘I will be safe,’ Kitty reassured him firmly. ‘I am Irish. No one is going to harm me.’

  ‘That’s not what Mr Murphy thought when he threw his potato.’

  Kitty gave a sigh. She really couldn’t be bothered to explain and wished he’d get on and finish saying goodbye. ‘Perhaps the potato was meant for you, Mr Trench. Did you not think of that?’ Mr Trench didn’t know how to respond. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it, seeing as you’re leaving us. I do hope to see you again someday. You’d better hurry or you’ll miss your train.’ She gave him her hand and he took it, surrendering to her. Unhappily he climbed into the Daimler, now driven by a chauffeur, and allowed himself to be parted from the woman he had grown to love.

  Bertie and Harry returned to their old ways, chasing hares and shooting snipe, fishing on the sea and hunting with the Ballinakelly Foxhounds. Harry, who had never much liked hunting, now rode as often as possible because the thrill of the gallop forced him into the moment, which was the only place he was liberated from his thoughts. And then there was his valet Joseph who crept into his bed to hold him when the night terrors rose out of the dark to grab him by the throat.
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br />   Bertie disappeared for hours, returning late, his skin reeking of Grace’s tuberose perfume he no longer bothered to disguise. He rarely spoke to his wife and so she created little dramas to force his attention. Bertie drank more to drown out the noise she made and little by little Grace began to grow weary of her lover’s descent into intoxication. Sir Ronald had tolerated her affairs in the past, so long as they were conducted with discretion – after all he had mistresses of his own in both Dublin and London – but now Bertie was becoming increasingly reckless and threatening to tarnish their reputation. ‘If he can’t control his drink,’ Sir Ronald told his wife, ‘you will have to find another man to amuse you for I will not have our good name sullied.’ Grace gave Bertie an ultimatum. He had to choose between her and the bottle. But Bertie didn’t think he could live without either.

  After Christmas there were the usual hunt meets and hunt balls, point to points and social gatherings that gave structure and meaning to the lives of the Anglo-Irish. The country was in a fine state of celebration, and those to whom their sons, brothers and fathers were returned had much to be grateful for. However, while Castle Deverill reverberated with music and laughter the Irish fight for freedom went on beyond its border.

  On 22nd January 1919 Hubert was reading the Irish Times over breakfast when his moustache began to twitch with indignation. ‘The Assembly gave the British Government a formal notice to quit and proclaimed this country’s complete independence,’ Hubert read in disbelief. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ he gasped. ‘They won’t get away with it, y’know.’

  ‘I fear they will do terrible things to get their way,’ said Adeline calmly.

  ‘One would have thought they had learned their lesson after the Rising,’ said Hubert. ‘The British won’t accept it.’

  ‘My darling,’ said Adeline. ‘The Volunteers are growing in numbers thanks to the foolish attempt by the British Government to conscript them into the war. They’re gaining support all over Ireland. Right here in Ballinakelly, too. I fear there will be civil war—’

  Hubert cut her off. ‘I’ll deal with the traitors myself if I hear a whiff of support from anyone in my employ. I demand loyalty to our king and country.’ His face had now turned the colour of a beetroot.

  ‘You can raise your fist and stamp your foot all you like, my dear, but you won’t stop the Irish wanting to govern themselves.’

  ‘They’re Bolshevists,’ he continued with a grunt. ‘Can’t they see what the bloody idiots have done in Russia? That’s no way to run a country. It’s the way to ruin a country.’

  ‘They’re idealists, Hubert.’

  ‘Immature dreamers, more like. Any fool can see what Ireland will become if they get their way. They’ll destroy agriculture, industry, religion, law and order. We’ll be living in a quagmire of lawlessness and papism. It’s a disgrace. A bloody disgrace!’

  Adeline wandered into the garden. She had had enough of her husband’s huffing and puffing. It was icy cold but the sky was a clear, watery blue. She inhaled the fresh sea air and watched a robin perch on the bird table to eat the seed she put out for them. Thrusting her hands into her pockets she wandered across the grass, her footsteps crunching on the frost, her keen eye taking in the yew hedges and shrubs that looked like they were sprinkled with a thin dusting of icing sugar. She loved Ireland with all her heart and it pained her to think of the violence breaking out across the country in the name of nationalism. She understood Ireland’s desire for independence, but why did they have to resort to bloodshed to achieve it? Sometimes she thought it would be safer to leave but that would be defeatist. They belonged at Castle Deverill. Love would always bind them to it.

  As she made her way to one of the greenhouses, she noticed a group of ragged children at the door. They were stuffing things into their mouths in great haste. At first she thought they were consuming plants, for what else was there at this time of the year? But then she saw the hunks of bread in their fingers. She quickened her pace, fearing those tinkers and remembering what had happened to poor Tomas Doyle. As she approached, one of them saw her and nudged his friends. In a moment they had run off like frightened rabbits, disappearing over the vegetable-garden wall. With her heart beating frantically she peered round the door frame. Evidence of their feast was plain to see in the row of empty plates. Barely a crumb remained. But who was putting food out for them? It didn’t take her long to work it out. There was only one other person in the family who cared for the poor as much as she did.

  ‘Kitty, I believe you have been feeding children in the greenhouse,’ she said later when her granddaughter came to the castle for tea.

  Kitty looked momentarily guilty. ‘I have,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. The poor mites are so hungry. I can’t bear to see a hungry child.’

  Adeline smiled indulgently. ‘You should have said. Why don’t we organize something in one of the farm barns, rather than encouraging the children to trespass on the castle grounds? You know what your grandfather is like. If he gets wind of it I can’t guarantee he won’t fire at them like rats and we wouldn’t want that on our consciences!’

  ‘We could talk to the school. Perhaps we can organize hot-soup lunches once or twice a week?’

  ‘We could get the Shrubs involved. It would give them something to do,’ Adeline suggested.

  ‘That’s a capital idea, Grandma.’

  ‘And Grace Rowan-Hampton. She’s already giving children free English lessons. I think we should rally the ladies of Ballinakelly. It’s our responsibility to look after those who don’t have the means to feed themselves. Grace is a life force. We need women like her. Women who get things done.’

  Kitty stiffened. She hadn’t seen Grace since the fair the previous spring. ‘Yes, Grandma,’ she said. ‘She’s certainly a woman who gets what she wants.’ Her remark was lost on Adeline who was already thinking of the other ladies she could approach. ‘We must make ourselves useful,’ she said with deliberation. ‘And be seen doing it,’ she added craftily.

  Kitty wandered back to the Hunting Lodge with a heavy heart. She really didn’t want Grace involved in their soup kitchen. Her grandmother was the most perceptive of women; why hadn’t she noticed how devious Grace was? That beneath her sugary coating she was a manipulative, conniving seductress? When she reached the house she went upstairs and threw herself onto her bed with a sigh. A moment later there came a light knocking on the door. She knew from habit that it was Bridie. ‘Come in,’ she called.

  Bridie opened the door. She didn’t have much time to gossip with Kitty now that Elspeth had returned to Cork, for she had to look after the two of them. ‘I have news,’ she said in a low voice, hurrying over to the bed.

  ‘What news?’ Kitty asked, propping herself up on her elbow.

  ‘It’s Miss Elspeth. She’s being courted by Mr MacCartain.’

  ‘Peter MacCartain?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  Kitty sat up. ‘Goodness. How did you find out?’

  Bridie flushed. ‘Because he just came to the back door asking for her.’

  ‘The back door?’

  ‘Miss Elspeth winked at me and put her finger over her lips.’

  ‘Mama will kill her if she finds out.’ Kitty grinned. ‘Well, I’m happy for her. I didn’t think she was cut out for a convent.’

  ‘I think she’s in love, Kitty. Her face was all pink and smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.’

  ‘I’m astonished she’s managed to hide it from Mama.’ Kitty lay down on the bed again and sighed heavily.

  ‘What’s the matter, Kitty?’ Bridie asked, perching on the end. ‘You’re not missing Mr Trench, are you now?’

  ‘Mr Trench? Goodness, Bridie, whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘So, you’re not in love with him?’

  ‘In love with him? With Mr Trench?’ Kitty sat up again. ‘I couldn’t be less in love with him. He’s the dullest man I’ve ever met.’

  Br
idie frowned. ‘Then what’s all the sighing for?’

  Kitty laughed. ‘You thought I was sighing over Mr Trench?’

  ‘Well, you’ve been sighing a lot recently.’

  ‘I think I’d have to be desperate to want to marry Mr Trench.’

  Bridie looked at her seriously. ‘Do you ever think of marriage, Kitty?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Kitty said dismissively as if it was of no importance. ‘Do you?’

  Bridie smiled shyly. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Who would you like to marry, Bridie?’ Bridie looked down at her fingers nervously. Kitty narrowed her eyes. ‘There is someone, isn’t there?’ She was appalled that she hadn’t noticed. ‘Tell me, who is he? Does he love you back?’

  Bridie’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘I don’t think he loves me back, Kitty. But I know he likes me, which is a start, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it one of the servants? Is it John McGivern?’ she asked, referring to the second footman.

  ‘No!’ Bridie screwed up her nose. ‘It’s Jack.’

  Kitty stared at Bridie. So deft was she at keeping secrets that her face gave away nothing of the horror she felt at Bridie’s confession. ‘Jack O’Leary?’ she said.

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘How long have you loved him?’

  ‘Years and years,’ Bridie replied and her face flowered into a faraway smile. ‘I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I thought you’d laugh.’

  ‘Why would I laugh?’

  ‘Because I’m not good enough for the likes of him. His mother would want better for Jack.’

  ‘Has he given you any encouragement?’ Kitty asked, averting her eyes because she felt bad for asking when she already knew the answer.

  ‘No.’ Bridie lowered her eyes. ‘But we’re friends, so . . .’ She gave a helpless shrug.

  ‘Oh Bridie,’ Kitty sighed, sitting up again. ‘Do you think it’s wise to pin your hopes on someone you might not be able to have?’

  ‘There’s no one else, Kitty. No one else like Jack.’ Bridie’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I’d follow him to the ends of the earth, I would.’