Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘I didn’t think anywhere could be as beautiful as home, but Deverill Rising has taken my breath away,’ Kitty replied, panting heavily.

  ‘We’re going to have such fun. Just like we did in Ireland. Vivien and Leona are coming with their boring husbands and squeaking babies. Harry and Boysie arrive tonight with Archie Mayberry, who I think is going to propose to me at any minute.’

  ‘What’ll you say?’ Kitty asked.

  Celia shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose. After all, I have to marry somebody and Archie’s no worse than anyone else. He has heaps of money. Heap and heaps and heaps.’

  ‘And he’s handsome at least,’ said Kitty helpfully.

  ‘Yes, he’s not unpleasant to look at, is he? I don’t love him, but I think he loves me. One has to be practical in choosing a husband. He’s rich, comes from a good family and is intelligent, which is important because I can’t bear to be bored. God forbid I’m bored. I can behave very badly if I’m not entertained. So, I’ll have a couple of babies and then fall in love with someone else.’ Celia gave a contented sigh. ‘Isn’t that how it all works?’

  ‘I’ve never really considered it. I know Papa has strayed from his marital bed.’

  ‘Of course he has. So has mine. If Mama has had lovers she’s been more discreet. I say, when the boys arrive, let’s go riding? I bet you miss it.’

  ‘I do,’ said Kitty. ‘I miss it terribly.’

  ‘No hunting at this time of year, but we can gallop over the hills and I can show you the Man. He’s a giant carving on the hillside, for there’s chalk beneath the grass. It’s not as impressive as your Fairy Ring because the Man doesn’t come alive at sunset.’ Celia took Kitty’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I do wish we could turn the clock back and spend just one more summer at Castle Deverill, don’t you?’ Kitty’s eyes dimmed so Celia changed the subject. ‘Come on, let me show you the inside.’

  It wasn’t long before the house was filled with guests. They seemed to come unexpectedly and stay for days on end. Beatrice didn’t mind. She sat on the terrace in a wide sunhat holding court, while Digby, in a brand new yellow checked jacket and breeches, took the men off round the estate to show them the farm. Sir Digby Deverill might have come from an old family but he lived like a complete nouveau riche, glittering with the splendour of a South African diamond millionaire. Beatrice enjoyed the young people best. They motored down in their shiny new cars, the girls with their fashionably short haircuts and low-waisted dresses, long red nails and lipstick to match, the men in pale suits or stripy jackets, cricket sweaters and boater hats, fun-loving and cheerful, seemingly without a care. She watched them play croquet and tennis, charades and kick the can, picnic on the hill, tease each other, flirt, smoke, dance and banter. Oh to be young again, she thought wistfully. These young people have it all.

  Archie took Celia by the hand one starry night in August and asked her to marry him. Celia accepted and they ran into the house, breaking up a game of Cocky Ollie which the Deverills had invented and which had, over time, become legendary, and announced it to the entire house-party. Champagne was popped, congratulations given and Celia hurried off with her girlfriends to discuss the Dress and choose her bridesmaids. ‘You, Kitty, will catch my bouquet, because you’re going to be next.’ But Kitty knew that the only man she’d ever marry would be Jack. When, oh when, would he be released?

  On the 22nd August Michael Collins, the Irish leader who had negotiated the partition of Ireland, was ambushed by diehard nationalists in Co. Cork and murdered. Kitty was devastated when she read about it in the newspaper. ‘How could they murder Michael Collins!’ she wailed, throwing The Times onto the breakfast table, thinking of Jack rotting away in prison. ‘When will the violence end?’

  ‘Wasn’t he just another Irish terrorist?’ Celia asked, wondering what the fuss was about.

  Kitty shook her head in astonishment. ‘I despair of you, Celia,’ she cried out. ‘Michael Collins was a hero. He was a rebel, a freedom-fighter, a brave and selfless man. I hope they find the people who did this and string them up by their necks!’ The house-party glanced at each other uncomfortably. None of them, besides Harry, cared what happened in Ireland. Harry took the paper and read it in silence. Boysie’s face darkened with concern. The room was plunged into an awkward stillness.

  ‘Oh dear, well, it’s all very sad, isn’t it? I tell you what, let’s have a picnic today. That’ll cheer you up, Kitty. We can play rounders on the hill,’ Celia suggested.

  ‘Capital idea, darling,’ Archie agreed, gazing at her with soppy eyes. ‘We’ll take your mind off your Michael Collins.’

  The wedding date was set for the following spring. Autumn was filled with endless engagement parties and the usual revelry. Kitty kept in close contact with her grandmother, whose letters were long and poetic and increasingly mad. She wrote of the leprechauns in the hedges and the fairies in the flowerbeds and said that Bertie had made her move into the Hunting Lodge on account of the cold weather. She said she only went there to eat and sleep, because Hubert was very demanding and insisted on her company during the day. The Shrubs were too afraid to visit and had become virtual recluses in their home in Ballinakelly. She sent them cannabis to calm their nerves but who would know if they died in their beds? She asked whether the allowance she had set up for Kitty was enough. I don’t want you to live like a pauper, my darling Kitty, you deserve to live well. As for me, I need very little now my life is confined to the tower. I feel like Rapunzel, except there is no witch, and Hubert, my prince, is in no position to rescue me. Be safe and pray for an end to the violence so that you can come back with the baby and bring him up here at Castle Deverill, where he belongs.

  Kitty continued to write to Jack. Even though he had told her not to wait for him she was bewildered and hurt by his refusal to write back. Didn’t he know that she loved him enough to wait a lifetime for him? Then, on 17th December 1922, following the creation of the Irish Free State, the last of the British forces handed over the Royal Barracks in Dublin and left. The South was independent at last. Surely Jack would be released now.

  Liberation was a tremendous moment and one which Kitty had fantasized about for so long. She was proud that she had played a small part in winning this freedom and together with Grace she celebrated with champagne and a sumptuous dinner at the Ritz. The two women reminisced about their rebel days, the gruesome murder of Colonel Manley, the moment Kitty had realized that Grace was an ally and not an enemy and the time Kitty had nearly been caught carrying a gun in a shoebox by the Auxiliaries. ‘Had it not been for the fast-thinking priest you might have been thrown into jail like Countess Markievicz,’ said Grace, who clearly missed those exciting times. Kitty expected Jack’s immediate release but, as the weeks went by, she heard nothing and her sense of triumph dissolved into bitterness and disappointment.

  Little Jack Deverill was growing big and strong. No longer the frail little baby who had been left on the doorstep, he was now fat and bonny. As Kitty didn’t know his date of birth, she decided that 1st January would be his birthday. She made him a little cake and invited Celia and Harry to celebrate with her. As she blew out the candle she wondered where Bridie was and whether she had returned to Ballinakelly. She wanted to write to her and reassure her that her child was safe and that she loved him with all her heart because Bridie couldn’t. Sometimes, when he was sleeping, she’d sit and gaze at him without noticing the time. Who’d have thought such a little person could bring her such joy? It pained her to think what Bridie was missing out on.

  Grace came to London from time to time but she brought no news of Jack. As for Kitty’s father, he was more adamant than ever that Kitty would never return to Castle Deverill. ‘He does not recognize his child,’ Grace told her gently. ‘In his eyes Jack is not a Deverill.’

  ‘Then I cannot go back,’ Kitty declared, lifting her chin to restrain her sorrow. ‘But one day Jack Deverill will know his home. He’s more Irish than I am and I intend to reunite him with his
roots.’

  ‘You are always welcome to stay with me,’ Grace told her.

  ‘And gaze upon my home from afar? That would finish me off completely. No, Papa will have to relent, for Grandma’s sake. You have to talk some sense into him, Grace.’ She put a hand on Grace’s arm. ‘You’re the only person who can.’

  Grace didn’t tell her that Bertie was drowning himself in drink and that she barely saw him these days. He hunted only occasionally, was never seen at the races and rarely accepted visitors. He was a husk of the charismatic man he used to be. Once dashing and insouciant, he had grown paranoid and twitchy. Only whiskey in large quantities soothed his troubled soul – soon she feared he’d be seeing Adeline’s leprechauns and fairies.

  ‘Is there any news of Bridie?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘The last I heard was that she had started working as a maid for a woman in Manhattan. She’s well and happy, Kitty. You don’t need to worry about her,’ Grace said, turning her eyes to the window. ‘She wanted to start a new life. Your father has been more than generous. I don’t know another man who would have looked after her so well.’

  ‘Will she ever come back?’

  Grace looked at Kitty solemnly. ‘Do you want her to come back and claim her child?’

  Kitty hadn’t thought of that. ‘No. No, I don’t. If I’m honest I want little Jack for myself. Am I a brute?’

  ‘You’d be a very heartless girl if you didn’t want him.’

  ‘I love him like my own, Grace.’ Kitty beamed a smile. ‘When I look into his face everything is right with the world and all my cares are washed away.’

  ‘Then think nothing more of Bridie. She chose to abandon her child. Whoever left him on your doorstep knew you’d take care of him and bring him up as a Deverill, which is what he is. I’m sure Bridie arranged it herself. She knew she could trust you, her friend, to look after him.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she did,’ said Kitty, feeling better. ‘If our roles were reversed I know she’d do the same for me.’

  As her wedding approached Celia grew increasingly nervous about the wedding night. ‘I wonder what it’s like,’ she said to Kitty. ‘Do you think it hurts?’

  Michael Doyle flashed in front of Kitty’s eyes and she winced. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t hurt if the man is kind,’ she replied.

  ‘I’d rather make love with Lachlan,’ Celia said, referring to Archie’s best man.

  ‘Celia!’ Her cousin’s confession distracted her for a blessed moment.

  ‘Oh I know, I shouldn’t think of these things. But when he looks at me all the hairs stand up on my body like little soldiers standing to attention, just waiting for a command. That doesn’t happen when Archie looks at me, handsome though he is.’

  ‘What are you saying, Celia?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m getting married in a fortnight and that’s all there is to it. Perhaps when I’ve given Archie an heir and a spare I’ll fall in love with Lachlan Kirkpatrick.’

  Celia Deverill’s wedding might have been one of the most exciting events of the Season had it not been for the marriage of Prince George, Duke of York to Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon that April. The royal wedding was held at Westminster Abbey rather than the more traditional Royal Chapel, which made it a grand public affair, presumably to lift the spirits of the nation after the misery of the war. Beatrice was put out that Celia’s wedding in May should be overshadowed by a wedding with which she was unable to compete, even with Digby’s millions and her unique cocktail of guests. Still, the marriage was held in St Peter’s in Belgravia with the reception at the Ritz. Celia was resplendent in an ivory silk dress with an impressive diamond tiara Digby had commissioned for Leona’s wedding, and which her sister Vivien had worn later at her wedding. Both marriages had been written up in the newspapers with a photograph in The Tatler. Beatrice expected no less for her youngest daughter’s wedding.

  Kitty was a bridesmaid with jasmine threaded through her hair and a long white dress to complement Celia’s. Her bouquet was fragrant with lilies and cherry blossom which she kept pressing against her nose and remembering with a touch of sadness springtime at Castle Deverill. Celia vowed to love and obey Archie Mayberry and the choir sang hymns which had the power to melt the iciest heart. Or so Kitty thought, but one look at her mother’s taut profile reminded her that the only thing capable of melting her mother’s heart would be her own marriage to an aristocrat who met Maud’s impossibly high expectations. What a shame Prince George had just been snapped up, she thought wickedly, masking a smile.

  After the marriage the guests went to the Ritz for tea. This Kitty found rather dull, considering that the guest list comprised mostly of Digby and Beatrice’s friends and not Celia’s or Archie’s, which was customary. She mingled with her cup of tea and humoured old Augusta who was as disagreeable as ever, giving her, with ill-concealed relish, a long list of friends who had recently died. ‘Bunny Spencer died in the flower border last week,’ she told her eagerly. ‘One minute she was smelling the roses, the next she was compost! Arthur Sillars is terribly ill. They say it’s only a matter of time. Look at Stoke over there.’ She pointed at her husband who had never looked more spritely with his sweeping moustache and ruddy face. ‘One can’t imagine him dying, can one? But it could come at any moment.’

  Kitty managed to extricate herself with the excuse of attending the bride and hurried out onto the terrace. She took a deep breath and leant on the balustrade to look into Green Park at the people wandering aimlessly beneath the plane trees. ‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Deverill,’ came a voice beside her.

  She turned to find Mr Trench standing next to her. She was surprised at how happy she was to see him. ‘Mr Trench, how unexpected . . .’

  He took her hand and bowed. ‘It’s a great pleasure to see you after all this time. Might I say how lovely you look.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled: something about him had changed. He was less stiff, more sure of himself, perhaps, less solemn. ‘This is the last place I would expect to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Why, was it not through your cousin Beatrice that your mother employed me to be your tutor? Digby and Beatrice are very dear friends of my family.’

  ‘Then why have we not met before? I’ve been in London over a year.’

  ‘I’ve just returned from Italy.’

  ‘Italy, how marvellous. What were you doing in Italy?’

  ‘I’m writing a book.’

  ‘An academic book?’

  He shook his head and grinned bashfully. ‘A novel.’

  ‘Why, Mr Trench, how very exciting. What’s it about?’

  ‘Love.’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘Don’t look so startled. What else in the world is more important than that?’

  Kitty didn’t know what to say. ‘Goodness, Mr Trench, I don’t know. I don’t think anything in the world is more important than that.’

  ‘Please, you must stop calling me Mr Trench. I’m not your tutor now. My name is Robert.’

  ‘Robert then. You must call me Kitty.’

  His face became suddenly serious. ‘I heard about the castle and your poor grandfather. I’m so sorry.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘Yes, it was dreadful.’

  ‘Is that why you left?’

  ‘No.’ Kitty hesitated and felt a weariness descend upon her. ‘It’s a long story. A sad story. I don’t think I’m quite ready to share it.’

  ‘I understand. Forgive me. May I . . .’

  At that moment someone stepped onto the terrace, looking about frantically. ‘Has anyone seen the bride? We’ve looked everywhere!’

  ‘Dear God!’ Kitty exclaimed.

  ‘Miss Deverill, you’re a bridesmaid. When did you last see her? She’s meant to be cutting the cake.’

  ‘Are you sure she’s not powdering her nose?’ Kitty suggested.

  The man looked desperate. ‘We’ve searched everywhere.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s done a runner, do you?
’ said Robert under his breath, watching the panic ripple through the room as heads turned and people whispered behind their hands.

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Kitty anxiously. ‘But I suggest we start by looking for Lachlan Kirkpatrick, the best man.’

  Chapter 27

  New York, America, 1922

  Bridie discovered that, beneath Mrs Grimsby’s hard outer coating, there was a soft and sentimental woman. She knew nothing of the old lady’s past to understand why she had become embittered and unhappy, but she discovered that poetry and stories in the present were the nutcracker which occasionally exposed this vulnerable centre. Mrs Grimsby loved beautiful words. She’d repeat them, rolling them on her tongue like boiled sweets, savouring their taste. She made Bridie read every afternoon on the veranda overlooking the ocean and demanded more stories of Ireland. Mrs Grimsby loved stories of Castle Deverill best of all. She was fascinated by the ghosts imprisoned by a curse within the castle walls and gripped by Lady Deverill and Kitty’s extraordinary gift of sight. Thus Bridie was forced into the past. The door she had shut with such determination opened a crack and her memories were at once exposed like the secret corners of a darkened room suddenly thrown into light. At night she dreamed of her father, the smell of smoked herring, the sound of the fiddle and the old Irish songs that had accompanied her growing up. Sometimes she dreamed of the Banshee, the tinkers and the awesome black figure of Father Quinn, his eyes burning into her soul in search of sin, and she’d awake with tears rolling down her cheeks and soaking into her pillow.

  The smells of the sea in America were nothing like the smells in Ireland and Bridie was grateful for the difference. She didn’t allow herself to pine. America was her home now and her past existed only in her mind. Ireland was so far away – the other side of a world that was too enormous for Bridie to fully comprehend. She didn’t read the newspapers, she didn’t listen to gossip in church and when she did hear snippets of conversation in the drawing room about the civil war she suppressed her curiosity and smothered her sense of dismay. The only contact she had with her country of birth were the regular letters she wrote to her mother and the money she sent home; the only sign of surrender her pillow wet with tears.