Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘No, Mr Gordon, I don’t.’

  ‘That is one thing you may presume, Miss Doyle. It took me thirty years to win her trust. I doubt she’ll be here in thirty years. As for you, I’ll be surprised if you last another thirty days.’

  Bridie left the hall and retreated upstairs. She wiped away tears as she busied herself tidying Mrs Grimsby’s bedroom and hanging up the discarded dresses that lay draped over the bed, too small for the old woman’s inflating body. She wondered why Mrs Gottersman kept making her cakes; surely the cook could see that her mistress was getting bigger and bigger. Bridie sat for a moment and put her head in her hands. She was tired. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in months. Mrs Grimsby thought nothing of waking her up for the smallest thing, like checking behind the curtains for a ghost or simply because she wanted the reassurance that she wasn’t alone – and the chamber pot. How could any living creature fill it so often and with such relish?

  Bridie would have loved to have asked Mrs McGuire who had claimed her at Ellis Island to help her find another position. But she had been kind enough already. If she had had the time Bridie would have knocked on Mrs McGuire’s door, just to see a friendly face, but she was rarely allowed out of the house and her days off were few. Besides, she didn’t want to admit defeat, not to Mrs McGuire or even to herself. She had transgressed in the eyes of God by bearing children out of wedlock; she had to put it right now through hard work and sacrifice. She had to ask for God’s forgiveness. She had to be good.

  When Mrs Grimsby returned in the late afternoon, Mr Gordon welcomed her home at the door. Bridie watched them from behind the wall on the landing above the hall. They spoke together in low voices, the butler inclining like a drooping reed so that their heads were almost touching. Mrs Grimsby patted his hand and shook her wobbly chins, showing her gratitude for something he said. Mr Gordon put his head on one side, listened attentively and sympathetically when she talked. The old woman smiled feebly, fanning her perspiring face, which was flushed from the heat and a little wine, Bridie thought, judging by the way she was swaying slightly. Mrs Grimsby gave Mr Gordon’s hand another pat, looked up at him from beneath her painted eyelashes and pulled a face, a face that Bridie thought was almost flirtatious; the face of a girl giving a smidgen of hope to a boy who fancied her.

  As Mrs Grimsby began to climb the stairs, Bridie walked out to meet her. ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ she said.

  Mrs Grimsby’s face hardened. Gone was the smiling girl she had been with Mr Gordon; back was the grouchy old woman struggling to move in a dress that was much too tight. ‘Get me out of this thing at once!’ she snapped, striding across the landing towards her bedroom. ‘You should never have let me wear this dress. I’ve been feeling faint all day.’ She staggered into the room and leaned on the chest of drawers, thrusting her back at Bridie so that she could unhook the dress. As soon as Mrs Grimsby was relieved of it she went to her bed and lay down in her petticoat. Her mountainous body lay inert on the covers, spread out like a waxy corpse, eyes shut, mouth agape, her breath rattling in her chest. ‘Fan me!’ she demanded. Bridie found her fan on the top of the chest and opened it. As she waved it in front of Mrs Grimsby’s face, little wisps of grey hair quivered at her hairline. The sweat slowly dried around her nose and on her upper lip where it glistened among the fine down that grew there. Bridie said nothing. She listened to her mistress’s breathing and fanned her until it was obvious that she was asleep. Every now and then she gave a snort and her body twitched. Once, she opened her eyes in surprise to see that her maid was still standing over her and the cool breeze from the fan was still blowing. Bridie was too afraid to leave. She knew that, if Mrs Grimsby were to wake up and find her gone, she would be in terrible trouble. So, she remained, fanning until her arms ached.

  The summer days grew shorter. Mrs Grimsby took tea on the veranda and wrapped her shoulders in a shawl as the sun dipped behind the Cottage and the air grew cooler. She seemed to grow tired of people and went out less, receiving fewer guests. She preferred to sit alone, gazing out over the ocean, or deep in a book, her reading glasses propped on her nose. Then one Sunday at the end of August Bridie was called to the garden. Mrs Grimsby was sitting on the swing chair, listening to the birdsong in a long dove-grey dress. She was lost in thought, her face surprisingly soft in repose.

  ‘Read to me,’ she demanded, handing Bridie a book. ‘And read with expression. Alice had such a dead voice. She even looked like a dead fish hanging in a frame on the wall. Well, off you go. No need to sit on ceremony.’ She stroked her cat and closed her eyes expectantly.

  ‘A Collection of Poems, by William Butler Yeats,’ Bridie read.

  ‘It’s my favourite book. He’s an Irish writer. I thought you’d like that. I want to hear it read with an Irish accent. It’s appropriate that it should be read with authenticity.’ Mrs Grimsby did not open her eyes. Bridie was astonished by the kindness of her words, or perhaps she had chosen an Irish writer to torment her. ‘Do you know Yeats?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Bridie replied.

  ‘Good. There’s nothing more tedious than a stupid woman, that’s what my father used to say. He taught my mother everything he knew. She wasn’t born to privilege but she had a lively mind. You’re no beauty, Bridget, but if you’re stupid as well as plain no man will ever marry you.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Bridie like a hawk considering its prey. ‘You do want to marry, don’t you?’

  ‘I won’t ever marry,’ Bridie replied firmly, returning Mrs Grimsby’s stare with a boldness that even took her by surprise.

  ‘How very unusual,’ said Mrs Grimsby. Bridie lowered her eyes for Mrs Grimsby’s enquiring stare was much too intense to endure.‘Of course you will marry,’ Mrs Grimsby continued stridently. ‘All girls marry in the end because we live in a man’s world, Bridget, and a woman on her own is a helpless creature, unless she has money. Money doesn’t guarantee happiness; I am a fine example of that. But it gives one power, Bridget.’ Her fat fingers stroked her cat. ‘The trick is in finding the right man. Now that’s a gamble.’

  ‘I am in service to you, madam. I think no further than that.’

  Mrs Grimsby frowned. ‘Children?’

  Bridie answered without flinching. ‘No, I don’t long for children.’ She squeezed her heart shut and suffered the agony in silence.

  ‘I was not blessed with children but with great wealth. Eliot was a talented industrialist. I have no one, you see, only parasites who leach onto me for my fortune. Take Paul, my hyena nephew. Do you think he enjoys coming to see me?’

  ‘Does he not?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t. He’s waiting for me to die. They all want a piece of my wealth.’ She sniffed disdainfully. ‘Well, you might as well begin. Read “The Stolen Child”.’

  Bridie found the right page. She took a deep breath. ‘Where dips the rocky highland Of Seuth Wood in the lake . . .’ She glanced at Mrs Grimsby who sat with her eyes closed and her chins tucked into her bosom. Her fingers were still, buried in the fur of her cat who slept peacefully in her lap. ‘Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand . . .’

  Without opening her eyes Mrs Grimsby began to recite it with her. ‘Where the wave of moonlight glosses, The dim grey sands with light, Far off by the furthest Rosses We foot it all the night . . .’ The old lady’s voice trailed off and she sighed with rare pleasure. ‘Beautiful, Bridget. Beautiful,’ she sighed.

  Bridie read on, her face flushing at the extraordinary compliment and the tone in her mistress’s voice that suggested she meant it. When she reached the final verse, Bridie’s eyes filled with tears. She struggled to stop her voice from quivering with emotion for every line brought her closer to her home. ‘Away with us he’s going, The solemn-eyed: He’ll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the
oatmeal-chest . . .’ In that moment she saw her mother and father dancing round the kitchen table, their eyes sparkling with pleasure, their unguarded smiles only for each other, and she was sure she could hear the sound of fiddles carried on the breeze from across the ocean of time and space.

  ‘You read that superbly,’ said Mrs Grimsby quietly when Bridie had fnished. Bridie looked up from the book to see that her mistress’s cheeks were pink and shiny, like the cheeks of a child. ‘Tell me about Ireland,’ she asked, and her gentle tone caught Bridie off guard. ‘Is it really as beautiful as Yeats describes it?’

  ‘It’s more beautiful,’ Bridie replied, her heart lurching painfully at the thought of the lowing calves on the warm hillside.

  ‘Are there really fairies?’

  ‘My friend Kitty sees fairies all the time,’ said Bridie softly, suddenly afraid that she had said too much and that Mrs Grimsby would chastise her for being outspoken.

  But she didn’t. She pondered on Bridie’s words, then said, ‘Miss Kitty Deverill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was your friend?’

  ‘She was . . .’ Bridie’s voice died. Kitty was her friend no longer.

  ‘How very unusual.’ Mrs Grimsby opened her eyes. ‘I don’t imagine Kitty’s mother was very happy about your friendship.’

  ‘She never knew.’

  Mrs Grimsby arched her eyebrows. ‘Of course she didn’t. How very sly of you!’ Bridie felt ashamed, but Mrs Grimsby only laughed. ‘Tell me about Kitty?’

  ‘She’s very bold.’

  ‘And . . . ?’ Mrs Grimsby wanted more. ‘What does she look like? What is her nature?’

  Bridie put the book on her lap. ‘She has Titian-red hair and a wild character. She sees ghosts, too. That’s a gift she inherited from her grandmother.’

  ‘Ghosts? What sort of ghosts?’ Mrs Grimsby leaned forward on her chair.

  Bridie closed the book. ‘There are many ghosts at Castle Deverill.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We’ve got all afternoon.’ The old lady sat back in her chair and seemed to settle into it like a nesting hen. ‘Start at the beginning.’

  Bridie took a breath, still mistrustful of Mrs Grimsby’s enthusiasm. ‘Then let me tell you about the Cursing of Barton Deverill.’

  Chapter 26

  London, England, 1922

  Kitty waited for news of Jack. It was agony not knowing what had become of him. She took solace in the baby, named after him, and in the social events that Celia dragged her to, but Jack was never far from her thoughts. Then, at last, in March she received a letter, passed on by Grace.

  15th March 1922

  My darling Kitty

  I write to you from Cork where I languish in prison for my sins. You probably heard, but I never made it to America. At least this way I am closer to you. I can gaze at the sky and know that you are seeing the same blue. That is the only consolation. I don’t think I’ll face the firing squad. Perhaps the Brits learned from their mistakes in 1916! But, I don’t think they’re going to let me go. So, my darling, heed my words, for rotting in here will not grieve me too much if I can think of you getting on with your life and not pining for me. Don’t waste time in waiting for you’ll grow old and sour before I’m out! Beautiful Kitty, find a man to love you, and love him back. I release you from your promise as you must release me from mine. We are not destined to be together. I know that now. But my life has been sweeter for having been loved by you.

  There’s truth in the expression, if you love something, let it go. I love you more than I love myself, Kitty.

  Jack

  Kitty’s tears splashed onto the paper, smudging the ink. Hastily she put the letter down and hung her head in her hands. She’d wait for Jack. For as long as it took. The idea of falling in love with someone else was an anathema. Her heart belonged to him and always would.

  Since she had arrived in London with baby Jack she had been pleasantly surprised by people’s reactions. Celia thought it ‘a riot’ for an unmarried woman to have a baby. Beatrice admired her ‘charity’, Digby thought he looked just like her, to which Maud replied tartly that half of Ireland had red hair. Victoria wasn’t in the least interested. Harry, on the other hand, took Kitty to one side and, in their tradition of keeping each other’s secrets, demanded to know the truth. When she told him, he criticized their father for being a fool, but supported Kitty’s decision to raise the baby. ‘I might be grateful for him one day, considering my chances of fathering a child,’ he whispered with a smirk.

  ‘Mama will be very disappointed if you don’t further the family line,’ said Kitty.

  ‘Poor Mama, so many disappointments. I’m beginning to feel rather sorry for her.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled, Harry. Mama’s like a weed, very resilient and spreading her influence in all the places one doesn’t want it.’

  Kitty wrote to her sister Elspeth explaining that she had taken in a foundling child left on the doorstep of the Hunting Lodge in an act of charity. She told her that she had gone to London because their father refused to have her in the house with a child that didn’t belong to her. It was as close to the truth as she dared go and she didn’t want her hearing rumours from other sources. She knew Elspeth would support her. If she ever needed a refuge in Ireland she could count on her sister.

  If London society gossiped about her, Kitty never knew – nor did she care. With Ireland behind her she threw herself onto London’s party scene with such abandon it was as if she was trying to lose herself in the process. She attended Beatrice’s Tuesday night Salons and charmed and bewildered the other guests in equal measure for she was outspoken and intelligent and debated the issues of the day with the boldness of a man. If anyone was imprudent enough to challenge her on Irish politics they soon wished they hadn’t, for she was unafraid to show her support for the IRA and was better informed than most. Beatrice welcomed her outrageous niece for she added pepper to her Salons. Kitty lunched with Celia and her large circle of friends in London’s most fashionable restaurants and danced the nights away in the clubs where live bands played jazz, recently imported from America. She learned to dance the Charleston, adopted the latest attire of dropped waists and shorter hemlines and took up smoking. She visited museums and the theatre with Harry and Boysie and pretended she didn’t see their secret looks and furtive caresses. She was like sunshine to the social butterflies who clamoured to have her at their parties, even though the old dowagers condemned her for being both ‘fast’ and Irish, which was, to them, a dangerous combination.

  Kitty embraced her new life, but she never forgot Jack. Every few days she wrote him another letter, posting it to the prison in Cork. She waited anxiously for his replies, but they never came.

  If Maud had feared Kitty would never find a husband, her fears were unfounded. The war might have depleted London’s supply of young men, but the ones there quickly lost their hearts to Kitty. It didn’t seem to matter that she was caring for a child; it wasn’t hers and, besides, the way she loved the little foundling only made them admire her more. But Kitty teased them and encouraged them and like the wind was one moment warm, the next moment cold, but always fanning their interest because they couldn’t quite pin her down.

  Summer came and with it Victoria’s baby girl, pompously named Lady Alexandra Mary Victoria Casselwright. ‘Could she not have thought of a name that wasn’t a queen’s,’ Kitty complained to Celia.

  ‘Next she’ll have a boy – George William Edward Eric,’ Celia replied with a snigger. ‘Eric will have to go in there somewhere, poor child!’

  ‘At least Mama won’t be spending the summer with us, now Victoria’s got a baby for her to coo over,’ said Kitty. ‘Elspeth’s son doesn’t count, because he’s plain John MacCartain, and Mama doesn’t care for Elspeth or Ireland. How she must relish having a legitimate, aristocratic child in the family she can boast about.’

  The summer was spent at Deverill R
ising, Digby’s large estate nestled in the Wiltshire hills. When Kitty was driven up the impressive drive that swept through undulating meadows of wild flowers and long grasses and over a pretty stone bridge that straddled the Deverill stream, she realized how much she had missed the countryside. Sheep dotted the hills like fluffy dandelions, birds flew in and out of hedges of blackthorn and beech, towering chestnut trees gave shelter to horses as the summer sunshine grew intense and fat flies braved their nodding heads to gather at their eyes and on their mouths. Kitty’s heart swelled at the prospect of riding once again and she gazed over the chalk hills with longing.

  The house itself was an imposing stately home of natural stone with a giant pediment crowning the façade and a bold balustrade circling the roof with vast ornamental urns punctuating it at intervals. Tall windows looked out over gardens that had been expensively planted and lovingly nurtured. Celia jumped out of the car as soon as it pulled up on the gravel and took Kitty by the hand to show her around, leaving Hetty to look after the baby and see to the luggage. They ran through the house to the back where French windows opened onto a paved garden where wild thyme grew in abundance with Alchemilla mollis and forget-me-nots, and vast urns sprouted great heaps of rosemary. Beyond, on the horizon, a circular white dovecote with a thatched roof was positioned serenely in front of a thick wood.

  They ran through all the gardens, under wire arches of climbing roses, down meandering paths that led them between wide borders of campanula and peony, into the walled vegetable gardens where sweet peas grew among rows of carrots and spinach. Celia pulled Kitty on, keen to show her the tennis court and croquet lawn and the elaborate tree-house which her father had commissioned for her tenth birthday. At last they sat down on a wooden bench that circled a pear tree. They were both out of breath and laughing excitedly. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ Celia exclaimed.