The house fell silent and Elspeth was duly summoned to the library. Kitty remained in the room above, her ear glued to the glass. The voices were soft but she could hear her father’s every word. He would give his consent if it was what Elspeth wanted. ‘If the war has taught me anything, Elspeth,’ he said solemnly, ‘it is the value of love. Love for one’s fellow soldiers, love for one’s children, love for life. When I was at the front it was all that mattered. So, if you think Peter can make you happy, you have my blessing.’
‘Oh Papa!’ Elspeth cried and Kitty imagined them embracing. Her mother remained silent: her objections had been loud enough. Kitty knew he would never give his consent to her marrying Jack, even if Jack would make her happy. There was a limit to his beneficence. Not only was Jack a different class and a different religion, but he was an Irishman. Her father would never stand for a Sinn Féiner as a son-in-law.
A while later Elspeth ran up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room where Kitty was waiting for her. ‘He said yes!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms around her sister. ‘If it wasn’t for you I’d never have had the strength to defy Mama.’ Elspeth was trembling. ‘But I did it and Papa says I can marry Peter if he makes me happy.’
‘And Mama?’ Kitty asked.
‘She left the room as white as a sheet.’
Maud locked her bedroom door and sank into the chair in front of her dressing table. She put her face in her hands and stared at her reflection. Where did it all go wrong? she asked herself. Didn’t she raise Elspeth with a good moral compass? She knew which way pointed north: how hard was it to follow? But she now insisted on marrying an Anglo-Irishman with no money to his name. Acclaim for being one of the best huntsmen in the land was not going to pay for their lifestyle. What would become of Elspeth in a country that was unravelling around their ears? Didn’t she realize that her future was in England, where it was safe? Victoria had chosen well, she was a countess of a great country not a Mrs of nowhere. Maud rubbed her temples. One day Hubert would die and she would become Lady Deverill, but of what? A castle which was once one of the greatest in Ireland, but was now nothing more than a pile of stones with precious little land to call its own, surrounded by rebels intent on hounding them all out. What good was a castle in Ireland? She cursed herself for her own foolish choice of husband. As for happiness, how long had it been since she was happy? She bit her lip. She couldn’t tell; it had been too many years. If one was going to be unhappily married the least one could do was marry an aristocrat with a stately home, pots of money and a grand title pertaining to the greatest empire on earth. Didn’t Elspeth understand that there was consolation in that?
At the beginning of the following year the British sent a special task force to Ireland to reinforce the police. Due to a shortage of traditional bottle-green uniforms they were given khaki trousers and black berets, a combination of colours which inspired their subsequent nickname: ‘Black and Tans’. Shortly after they arrived, Hubert invited their colonel to dinner at the castle. A tall, oily man with glossy brown hair and a thick thatch of a moustache neatly trimmed above pink fleshy lips, Colonel Manley had returned from the war with a reputation for heroism and an equally high regard for himself. Hubert greeted him warmly, patting him on the back and offering him a glass of whiskey. ‘It’s a good thing you’ve arrived, Colonel Manley,’ said the old man, showing him into the drawing room. ‘We’re in a state of emergency. This sort of uncivilized behaviour simply can’t go on.’
‘You can rest assured, Lord Deverill, that we will see that it doesn’t,’ Colonel Manley replied confidently. ‘We’ll put Paddy in his place!’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Hubert. ‘The ladies will feel safer with you lot about.’
When the Shrubs came down for dinner with Adeline, Colonel Manley bowed, most certainly not a nod, Laurel reported later, and brought their hands up to be tickled by his moustache, which they found thrilling. He sat on Adeline’s right with Hazel on his right and Laurel opposite, gazing eagerly into his clear blue eyes that shone with equal brilliance on all three sisters.
‘Charming man,’ said Hazel, when the ladies retired to the drawing room after dinner, leaving the men to their cigars and port.
‘One has confidence in a man like that, wouldn’t you say?’ said Laurel.
‘I don’t know,’ Adeline deliberated. ‘I think he has a cruel glint in his eye.’
‘You think he was mocking us?’ Hazel asked.
‘Well, he knows how to compliment a lady,’ said Laurel. ‘He’s a gentleman – only a true gentleman knows how to get the right balance between flirtation and good manners.’
‘If his eyes have a cruel glint, Adeline, it might be just what these people need to put them back in line. I must inform the colonel that only yesterday the shop girls in Flanagan’s were sneering at me . . .’ and Hazel sank into the sofa to tell her sisters all about it.
As winter thawed into spring Bertie saw less and less of Grace even though he was trying to consume a reduced amount of alcohol and conduct their affair with the utmost discretion, as he had before the war. She claimed she had business to attend to in Dublin and disappeared for weeks at a time, which left him as heartbroken as a lovesick schoolboy. He saw Sir Ronald out hunting and at the races, but Grace, usually such a keen horsewoman, was often absent, and he missed her dreadfully. It had been her letters and her words of encouragement that had supported him through the war, like the wind beneath the wings of an eagle, he thought unhappily. Without her he didn’t have the will to fly but remained earthbound and in despair like a miserable chicken.
Maud was no longer speaking to him. Bertie welcomed her silence but he didn’t welcome the unpleasant atmosphere she created in the house. She was rude to the servants and ruder still to her daughters; only Harry was untouched by her desire to inflict gloom on everyone around her. While her daughters kept a safe distance from their mother, Harry remained close out of guilt and loyalty. Maud was adept at manipulating her son with a mixture of emotional blackmail and favouritism and she was determined not to lose him, as she had clearly lost Elspeth. If Kitty was the influence behind Elspeth’s surprising rebellion she was damned if she was going to let Harry slip into her power as well.
One morning Bridie was leaving Kitty’s bedroom with the dirty linen when she saw Mr Deverill sitting in a heap at the other end of the corridor. At first she thought she should pretend she hadn’t seen him and disappear behind the green baize door. But compassion overcame her caution and she put down the linen and approached him. ‘Mr Deverill, are you all right, sir?’ she asked. Bertie looked up at her, his eyes cloudy and alien. ‘Can I get someone to help you? Mr O’Lynch, Mrs Deverill?’
At the mention of his wife’s name he seemed to come alive. ‘No no . . .’ he stammered, trying to get up. Watching him there, floundering on the floor, impelled her to assist him. She held his arm and let him use her as a lever to push himself up. When he reeled, she held him tighter.
‘Are you all right?’ she repeated lamely, for it was clear that he wasn’t.
‘Take me to my room,’ he said, leaning on her. They walked slowly down the corridor. Once in his bedroom she made to leave. He sat on the side of the bed and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, Bridget.’
‘It’s Bridie, sir,’ she corrected him. ‘I’m Miss Kitty’s lady’s maid.’
‘Bridie,’ he repeated.
Suddenly she noticed a trickle of blood running down the side of his face from his head. ‘You’re bleeding, sir.’
‘Am I?’ he asked, putting trembling fingers to the wound.
She hurried to the bathroom and returned with a towel. ‘May I, sir?’ she asked. He nodded and frowned as if he wasn’t quite sure why he was bleeding. As she dabbed his injury she could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores. ‘I think I’d better call for Mr O’Lynch, sir,’ she said, referring to his valet.
‘I must have fallen and hit my head,’ he muttered. ‘That�
�s what happened. I hit my head. How silly of me.’
‘I think I should call for Mr O’Lynch, sir,’ she said again.
‘If you must.’
She rang the bell beside the bed. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ She went to the dresser where there was a jug of water and a glass.
‘Thank you, Bridget,’ he said, taking it.
‘It’s Bridie, sir.’
‘Bridget to me, Bridget.’ He took the towel and looked at the bloodstains in bewilderment. Then he put it to his head again. Bridie noticed his hand was shaking. ‘You’re a good girl, Bridget, and a pretty girl, too. Let’s keep this just between us, all right?’
Bridie smiled. ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsy and left the room. She retrieved the linen she had discarded on the floor and made her way back up the corridor, passing Mr O’Lynch hurrying the other way.
‘What are you up to, Bridie?’ he asked.
‘Fetching Miss Kitty’s linen, Mr O’Lynch.’
‘Then be quick about it,’ he said, marching on. Bridie hummed a tune as she washed the linen. That was the first time anyone had ever said she was pretty.
The Shrubs reported insults daily, taking unnecessary trips into Ballinakelly just so that they could return loaded with more ammunition for Colonel Manley. Every morning over breakfast, Hubert reported ‘atrocious acts of violence’ committed by the ‘bloody Shinners’. He would thrust his nose into the Irish Times and grunt and groan like an old walrus at the tales of murder and arson against the British Army and their property. ‘It’s time Colonel Manley and his men showed their mettle,’ he said before describing the outrages to the women as they drank their tea and buttered their soda bread.
The Black and Tans were quick and decisive in their response to the atrocities. Rumours spread of reprisals carried out all over Ireland with the murder and abuse of innocent people. Shops and hay barns, homes and businesses were destroyed. Men were stopped and searched at random, shot at, assaulted, arrested, tortured, threatened and deported. It seemed that the Black and Tans could do just about anything they liked, without censure. ‘They’re above the law,’ Jack told Kitty when they were able to meet at the Fairy Ring. ‘Colonel Manley’s the most hated man in Ballinakelly. He doesn’t think twice about killing innocent men if he thinks it’ll terrorize people into line.’
‘Be careful, Jack,’ said Kitty anxiously. ‘Keep your head down. You have to be above suspicion.’
‘I don’t like to say this, Kitty, but your grandfather must be careful. If I were him I wouldn’t socialize with the likes of Manley.’
‘He only came to dinner.’
‘I know, but word gets round and he’ll get into trouble.’
‘Grandpa’s old.’
‘And we don’t want him to see his grave before it’s time.’
Kitty blanched. ‘Ballinakelly people are loyal . . .’
‘No they’re not, Kitty,’ Jack growled. He took her arms as if he wanted to shake her. ‘It’s war. It’s not about soup kitchens and feeding the poor – they resent you all the same. Shooting those men after the Easter Rising did the British no favours. Oppressing the people with violence will only deepen their hatred and unite them in their determination to be free.’ He released her and wrapped his arms around her instead, pulling her against him with a ferocity that shocked her. ‘I wish to God you’d leave.’
‘Don’t, Jack.’
‘I fear for your safety.’
‘You’ll keep me safe.’
He squeezed her hard. ‘I can’t. The only way to be safe is to go to London—’
‘I love you, Jack.’
‘Right now I wish you didn’t.’ He buried his face in her neck. ‘And I wish to God I didn’t love you. It’s a blessing and a curse.’
Chapter 17
Due to the violence Digby and Beatrice decided to break years of tradition and spend the summer months at Deverill Rising, their country estate in Wiltshire. The British press was full of the atrocities being committed in Ireland in the name of nationalism and they feared for the safety of their Anglo-Irish cousins. But Hubert and Adeline had faith in the British Government and were certain that with the swift and efficient response of Colonel Manley and men like him peace would be restored.
‘He needs our support, Kitty,’ Hubert explained when his granddaughter tried to discourage him from entertaining Colonel Manley at the castle.
‘Surely you have to be seen to be above the conflict, Grandpa?’ she argued.
‘If I was younger I’d take my gun and patrol the streets myself,’ Hubert responded. ‘Manley is our ticket to peace in this county and we must show our allegiance. It wasn’t with a weak heart that Barton Deverill, the first Lord Deverill, won his title and land but by showing his loyalty to the King. We must do the same and uphold the family name.’
Kitty sighed heavily. There was no point arguing with her grandfather. He was born in a different century when the Great British Empire was at the height of its power. So, to Kitty’s despair, Colonel Manley became a frequent guest at the dining table at Castle Deverill and she had to endure his disingenuous charm and condescension, for in his eyes all women were as butterflies, to be admired, played with or crushed, depending on his whim. One of his favourites was Grace Rowan-Hampton, who was a regular visitor with her husband Sir Ronald when she wasn’t in Dublin. Kitty had to suffer her, too, and endure the sight of her father watching his mistress from across the table with sad puppy eyes while her mother’s mouth grew thinner and thinner with resentment until it disappeared altogether.
While the castle remained entrenched in the past, fearful of change, Ballinakelly was moving towards a different future. The town was seething with anti-British feeling and fertile with plotters who were sprouting in every dark corner like mushrooms: the fight for freedom went on. Bridie had the evenings off, while Kitty ate dinner downstairs in the dining room or up at the castle with her grandparents. Those five-course dinners would go on for hours so Bridie would run home, taking the short cut through the woods, to find her brothers sitting huddled around the table with friends, talking in low voices over tumblers of stout. As she lifted the latch the room would fall silent and the men would stare at the door in fear of the Black and Tans until they saw that it was only Bridie. Then they’d put their heads together again and resume their plotting like a gang of thieves, a deck of cards at the ready to disguise their business in case of a raid.
Jack was often there. He’d smile at her as she entered and she’d smile back, encouraged by the affection in his eyes. She’d make herself a basin of hot milk, bread and sugar, sit in her mother’s rocking chair and crush the bread into a mush while the men talked of stealing guns, ambushing the Auxiliaries and murdering Colonel Manley. It was during those twilight hours that Bridie would hear stories of the Colonel’s brutality. The innocent men arrested, tortured and even killed as he went about the county in search of information like a dragon breathing fire indiscriminately. No one was more hated in Ballinakelly than Colonel Manley.
In response to the increasing bloodshed the British Government declared Martial Law in much of Southern Ireland. The Irish Republican Army was at last recognized as an army in the field instead of a band of murderous rebels. On Sunday 21st November fourteen British soldiers were assassinated in Dublin and the Royal Irish Constabulary punished the people by opening fire on innocent spectators watching a football match, killing fourteen and wounding many others. That December the violence came to Cork with the burning of the city by British forces. Hubert read the Irish Times but failed to make any comment. He had run out of puff like an old steam engine that has at last reached the end of the line. It was all too horrific to contemplate and too close for comfort for Cork City was a mere fifty miles from Ballinakelly. After that he retreated into his own world where snipe and rabbits were plentiful, foxes fit for the chase and the weather fine for the hounds. He discussed horses, the races and the good old days when he was a boy, when
the local people had had respect for the family and loyalty to the Crown, but the War of Independence had finally worn him down.
Adeline indulged him while the Shrubs grew anxious. If Hubert was scared then what was the hope for them? They sipped Adeline’s cannabis tea, played whist and prayed, for only God could get them out of this mess.
In January 1921 news reached the castle that Colonel Manley had been killed just outside Ballinakelly. ‘Good God!’ Hubert exclaimed, hanging up the telephone receiver in the hall and walking into the dining room where Adeline and the Shrubs were having breakfast. ‘That was Lieutenant Driscoll. Colonel Manley has been murdered.’ The women gasped. Laurel dropped her teacup with a splash. ‘In an old farmhouse along the Dunashee road, yesterday evening. They only found his body this morning. Bloody idiot went without an escort. Why would he do that, do you think? Eh?’ He sat down, suddenly looking every one of his seventy-four years. ‘Why, only two days ago he was sitting here at our dining-room table.’
Adeline shook her head. ‘There will be terrible consequences for Ballinakelly,’ she said anxiously, thinking of the innocent civilians who would suffer the reprisals.
‘This is an unfortunate setback.’ Hubert shook his head. ‘Manley was a good man.’
‘What happened?’ Laurel asked, as pale as egg white.
‘Yes, do tell us the details, Hubert,’ Hazel implored.
‘Driscoll didn’t have much information. He said Manley had set out along the Dunashee road yesterday evening with only one of his men . . .’ Hubert looked at Adeline and frowned. ‘Surely he of all people knew how dangerous it is on those remote roads!’
‘What happened to the man who was with him?’
‘Shot.’
‘Dreadful!’ Hazel gasped.
‘So what happened to the Colonel?’ Laurel pressed.
‘He was knifed in the ribs.’
‘Dreadful!’ Hazel gasped again.
Songs of Love and War Page 19