Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  Chapter 19

  Kitty was indeed useful to Jack. Being a Deverill meant that none of the Royal Irish Constabulary ever stopped and searched her when she went into town. No one asked her where she was going and on what business. She could walk through Ballinakelly with guns in her basket without raising so much as an eyebrow. The excitement was twofold: she delighted in the thrill of doing something illegal and she relished the fact that she was helping, in a small way, to free Ireland from British rule.

  After the men were released, thanks to the intervention of Father Quinn, they had to be more cautious; the priest wouldn’t be able to save them a second time. Already under suspicion, they were constantly stopped and searched, while walking to Mass, meeting at the end of the day for a pint of stout in O’Donovan’s, buying and selling livestock at the monthly fair. They were never free from harassment. Therefore Kitty and Grace became more valuable to them than ever. Even Michael had to concede that they needed them, English though he believed them still.

  Kitty was wary of Michael Doyle. She had known him from a distance as Bridie’s brother but he’d always been much older than her and so dark and serious that she had been a little afraid of him. He was strong and robust like all Doyle men, but he lacked the gentleness of his late father and the sensitivity of his brother Sean. However, he was taller and more handsome than both and possessed a menacing charisma that women seemed to find compelling – indeed Bridie had told her that the girls in Ballinakelly would do anything for her brother, such were his powers of attraction. But Kitty found him alarming. He had a mop of black curls that fell over his forehead, giving him the sly, furtive look of a poacher, and his black eyes were as hard as coal, his jaw as rigid as wood, his gaze as steady as the barrel of a gun. No one messed with Michael Doyle. Only Grace seemed to command his respect and admiration even though she stood for everything he opposed.

  While Kitty became indispensable to the cause Michael seethed with resentment. He seemed to begrudge everything about her, from her fine clothes to her pampered lifestyle and her cleverness. He made snide remarks at every opportunity and hid his dislike badly beneath a thin veneer of prickly humour. As far as he was concerned she was part of the ruling power they were fighting against. ‘She might have a romantic vision of a free Ireland but what she doesn’t see is that she has no place in it,’ he would say over a glass of stout. ‘Fight or no fight, she’s still one of them.’ Jack would argue passionately in her defence, which only made Michael despise Jack as well, for having won Kitty’s heart and her esteem. He would watch the two of them like a jackal watching a pair of sheep, and his eyes had the Devil in them. But Kitty could stand up for herself and took pleasure in letting loose her temper.

  ‘I might not have suffered as you have, Michael, and my family roots might be in England, but my heart is Irish to its core just like yours. I’m risking my life running back and forth with notes, ammunition, even standing here in your house – and I’m not doing it for fun or for romance but for Ireland, and you know it. Get past your prejudice because it doesn’t serve you well. We’re in this together and we need to support each other or we’ll get nowhere.’ Michael would glare at her with his smouldering black eyes and she’d feel his loathing as if it were able to penetrate her skin. He’d search for words to pull her down but she was more articulate than him, having had the advantage of a fine education, and that seemed to infuriate him all the more. No one made him feel less of a man than Kitty Deverill.

  In the spring of 1921 Elspeth married Peter MacCartain in the church of St Patrick in Ballinakelly. Family and a few brave friends came from London for four days of celebrations in spite of the negative publicity splashed across their newspapers. They were reassured by the heavy police presence on the estate and the sturdiness of the castle walls. Maud was determined to show her London friends the grand and glittering side of Ireland. No expense was spared. She was also determined to conceal the groom’s shortcomings in the extravaganza and hoped that no one would notice that he had no title and no fortune worthy of note.

  The castle was filled with English guests. Cousin Stoke and Augusta had their usual rooms above the hall but complained after the first night of the noise rising up from the drawing room below so that they were duly moved to the remotest part of the castle for the second. However, Augusta grumbled loudly about the damp sheets and the queer sound of footsteps in the middle of the night so they were promptly moved back into the rooms above the hall again. Augusta wasted the servants’ time trying to find a suitable pair of earplugs, complaining that, if the rebels didn’t kill her, this wedding would. Adeline’s patience was sorely tried.

  Maud had arranged for Hubert to have new clothes for the occasion – it wouldn’t do to have him letting her down with his shabby wardrobe. She had had his measurements sent over to Bertie’s tailor in Savile Row in London and presented him with a beautifully cut white tie for the ball, a greenvelvet smoking jacket for dinner and traditional morning coat for the church service. Hubert sniffed his displeasure and complained to his wife. ‘She’s trying to change me, the silly woman. Doesn’t she know that this dog’s too old for new tricks?’ He ignored the pristine new attire and slipped into his old, tattered favourites with a mutinous grunt. Maud was outraged. Not only had the new clothes cost a small fortune but he would lower the tone of the wedding. It simply wasn’t right that Lord Deverill of Castle Deverill should appear with holes in the elbows of his sweaters and patches sewn into the fabric of his jackets where the moths had dined most lavishly. By contrast Sir Digby Deverill of Deverill Rising in Wiltshire was as neat and shiny as one of his diamond shirt studs.

  Victoria resided at the Hunting Lodge with her slack-jawed husband the Earl of Elmrod. It was Bridie’s duty to look after her, as well as Kitty and the bride to be, and she barely had time to gather her thoughts for the demands of the Countess. Victoria rang her bell for the smallest whim without a thought for Bridie and her heavy workload. She demanded that her sheets be aired during the day and warmed before bedtime. She sent clothes to be washed when they’d barely been worn and pressed when they had scarcely a crease. She turned her nose up at the limited plumbing, complaining that Ireland was still in the Dark Ages compared with England where electricity and hot and cold running water were a given.

  Bridie had never warmed to Victoria but now she liked her even less. Elspeth, on the other hand, had grown sweeter with age, like a mature fruit. She was polite and grateful and as undemanding as her elder sister was demanding. Maud barely paid her any attention, even though it was her wedding, running around after Victoria as if she were Queen Mary. It gave her enormous pleasure to have a daughter married to an earl and she used Victoria’s title wherever possible. ‘Lady Elmrod would like her milk heated for her tea,’ or, ‘Countess Elmrod will be taking a walk at eleven, if any of Lord Deverill’s guests would like to accompany her.’

  Kitty enjoyed the wedding celebrations all the more because of her double life. Her new role as rebel gave her a certain swagger and she revelled in the knowing smiles that she and Grace gave one another when no one else was looking. Her loathing for Lady Rowan-Hampton had been replaced by a healthy respect for a woman of surprising courage and mystery. They worked together now. They had a common goal and a common interest and they both knew too much about the other to be disloyal. Having spent the last twelve years despising her, Kitty discovered that the borders between love and hate were as fragile and easily broken as eggshell. Her affection for the woman she had always admired as a little girl flourished in the glow of their shared secret.

  Beatrice had climbed out of her grief after losing her beloved George in the trenches by making a stairway of diamonds upon which, step by laborious step, she had ascended into the light. Turning her focus away from her battered heart into London’s social whirl of parties and lunches and balls, she could adorn herself in Digby’s diamonds and bask in the attention such riches afforded her, the more superficial the better, for anything remotely
deep drove her dangerously close to that dark and painful place she was trying so hard to circumvent. She threw herself into the wedding celebrations with gusto. She danced until her feet ached, she drank until her head swam, she flirted until her husband discreetly took her outside for some air, and she laughed so loudly she surprised even herself. In her brief moments of reflection she found that she was drawn to Harry. He appealed to her maternal nature, so desperately underemployed. There was something of the lost soul about him. He had a furtive look around the eyes which made her want to gather him up and show him a good time in London. She watched him talking to the other young men, smoking and laughing in a particularly jaunty manner, and thought how terribly dashing he was. He’d certainly be an asset at her Tuesday evening Salons.

  Beatrice’s daughters, Vivien and Leona, had made excellent matches, which exacerbated all the more acutely Maud’s fury at Elspeth’s disappointing choice. She watched Kitty dancing with her brother Harry and wondered whether with a little more persuasion she could find a suitable match for her in London; after all, she conceded grudgingly, Kitty was by far the most beautiful and intelligent of her daughters. As for Harry, so handsome and witty, it was about time he stepped onto the London stage. A man with the promise of a title and a magnificent Irish castle was sure to attract a woman with a fortune. An American would do, she mused: they would be the only people foolish enough to consider Ireland romantic.

  The Shrubs delighted in all the wedding celebrations like children at Christmas time. Never had the castle looked so grand. Flares lit it up at night, flowers adorned it during the day as if the building itself were a bride. In fact, they had only ever seen so many flowers when their father had taken them to London’s Covent Garden as little girls. They fluttered excitedly from arrangement to elaborate arrangement like a pair of canaries, twittering loudly on Maud’s exquisite taste and extravagance. ‘No expense spared!’ they cried for everyone to hear. Maud wished they wouldn’t behave like a pair of provincials. She wanted her English friends to think the castle looked like this all the time.

  The Anglo-Irish women had come out in their splendour like crocuses after a hard winter. Keen not to be outdone by the English guests they paraded their finest jewels and silks, led by Co. Cork’s two most beautiful women, Maud Deverill and Grace Rowan-Hampton. Not easily defeated in the beauty stakes, they had more competition in the fashion stakes, the Englishwomen having the advantage of the latest designs from the Paris couturiers to give them the winning edge. Where the Anglo-Irish women outdid their English counterparts, however, was in their skin, which had benefited from years of soft rain and moist air. Neither Maud nor Grace had a line on her face; even Adeline and the Shrubs looked much younger than their years. The Englishwomen could only gaze on them with envy, for no amount of expensive face cream and foundation could disguise the corrosive effects of the smoggy London air.

  Bertie found the celebrations excruciating, for Grace had never looked more beautiful. Every change of clothes brought a more radiant Lady Rowan-Hampton onto the scene. She sparkled in sapphires, dazzled in rich silks and glowed in the candlelight as if she herself were lit from within like a Chinese lantern. His heart ached for her and the distance that had opened between them like a canyon only served to worsen his pain and deepen his confusion. Grace remained close to her husband throughout the four days, clearly avoiding any sort of uncomfortable discourse with her ex-lover.

  On the last night, in a fever of frustration and high on alcohol, Bertie left the ball and returned to the Hunting Lodge in search of Bridie. He found her tidying Victoria’s bedroom. Without a word he took her to his own quarters where he laid her on the bed and unbuttoned her shirt. He lifted her skirts and pulled off her drawers. Sinking his face into her breasts he closed his eyes and imagined she was Grace. Bridie, on the other hand, flushed with pleasure that Mr Deverill had left the celebrations to be with her. She basked in his attention and allowed his caresses to lift her out of her pain.

  Elspeth and Peter left at the end of the four days to honeymoon in Rome. They sped away to the station in the Daimler which Kitty had decorated with ribbons and flowers, and Harry with cans tied with string that clattered on the ground as they went. The guests left with the impression that, while Ireland crashed about the castle’s borders, the castle itself remained the final bastion of civilization, glamour and wealth, exactly what Maud wanted them to think.

  Not long after the wedding Harry surprised his mother by announcing that he wanted to go to London. ‘Cousin Beatrice has invited me to spend the Season with her and I think I should go.’

  Maud’s pretty lips parted in astonishment. ‘Why, Harry, this is wonderful news. I shall accompany you, of course. With you in London there’ll be little reason for me to stay here. Besides, it’s becoming so dangerous. We’re prisoners in our own homes.’ Maud immediately perked up at the thought of parties, lunches at the Ritz, the Chelsea Flower Show, Henley Regatta and Royal Ascot. She would give her expensive frocks a good airing and be admired by men of sophistication and women of class. There was no admiration here in Ballinakelly and Bertie was moping about the place, lovesick for Grace who had obviously cut him loose. Maud lifted her chin; she was damned if she was going to show him an ounce of sympathy. ‘We shall leave at once,’ she said, getting up from her chair and smoothing down her dress. ‘With Elspeth gone to Italy and Victoria back in Kent I need something to lift my spirits. Cousin Beatrice’s beautiful home in Kensington is just the ticket.’

  Kitty was sorry to see her brother leave. She had enjoyed having him at home. Not only was he good company, but he was a vital buffer between her and her mother. While Harry was around Maud was blind to everyone else. Kitty embraced him fiercely and in that very physical moment when brother and sister held each other close, Kitty felt the intensity of their secrets bond them even tighter. Reluctantly, she let him go. ‘Write to me, won’t you, Harry?’ she asked and he nodded, his eyes straying a moment behind her as if he was unwilling to leave the house. She waved as he sped off down the drive to take the boat across the water to Wales. She caught sight of her mother’s hard profile as she looked ahead, her face impassive; there was nothing to keep her in Ireland any more. Then they were gone.

  When Kitty turned to walk into the house she saw Joseph’s sad face gazing out of one of the upstairs windows. He was quite still, his skin translucent behind the glass, like the ghosts of Deverill heirs staring out onto their loss. She wondered whether in the vastness of London Harry would find his secret easier to bear. Whether he’d unearth others like him. Perhaps there were many lost men seeking solace and acceptance out there in the metropolis. She pitied the woman who would give him her hand, because he would never give her his heart.

  Bertie knew that Grace was avoiding him. She declined invitations to dine at the Hunting Lodge and spent increasingly more time in Dublin. Ronald took regular trips to London, which frustrated Bertie because, had he and Grace still been lovers, those weeks could have been spent together. He missed her dreadfully. He missed the smell of her, the soft timbre of her voice, the bubbling warmth of her laugh. With his wife gone the heavy atmosphere had lifted in the Hunting Lodge. It was as if the building had been holding its breath and could at last breathe easily again. Summer flowered into long sunny days and balmy nights. Bertie slept with the windows wide open and the sweet smells from the garden rose on the air to torment him, for everything beautiful reminded him of Grace.

  Kitty was a comfort to him, accompanying him out riding, playing tennis and joining him and his parents for games of whist and bridge up at the castle. His daughter did much to take his mind off his aching heart. Occasionally, when the desire took him, Bridie did much to take his mind off his aching loins.

  Then, in mid-summer, Bridie appeared white-faced and white-lipped at the library door. She knocked so quietly he didn’t hear her at first. On her second attempt he turned to see her standing small and trembling, eyes on the floor as if too frightened to look at him
.

  ‘What is it, Bridget?’ he asked impatiently. He didn’t appreciate her turning up like this.

  ‘May I speak with you, sir?’

  He sighed. It wasn’t her place to interrupt his work. ‘Come in,’ he said. He didn’t notice her flinch at his uncaring tone.

  ‘It’s a private matter, sir.’

  ‘Then close the door behind you.’ He was irritated. It was all very well taking her every now and again, but for her to come and demand his attention when he was busy at his desk was not part of the arrangement. ‘What is it?’ He noticed her cheeks flush weakly like the remaining embers of a fire, before dying away.

  She picked at the skin around her thumbnail. ‘I’m . . .’

  ‘You’re what?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m . . .’ She hesitated and he knew. Of course he knew. He should have known the moment she stepped into the doorway. He stood up and went to the cold fireplace. Placing his hands on the mantelpiece he stared into the void.

  ‘You’re with child.’ His voice was a whisper but she heard the words as if they were the sound of church bells.

  She swallowed her fear. ‘I am, sir,’ she replied.

  Bertie felt the room spin and gripped the mantelpiece to steady himself. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Why hadn’t he been more careful? At last he turned to face her, eyes dropping to her belly concealed behind her white apron. ‘Are you showing yet?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re with child?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘How do you know it’s mine?’