Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  Archie inhaled through his nostrils as he considered Digby’s words. ‘You are asking a great deal of me, Sir Digby,’ he said finally, but Digby knew it was an offer too good to refuse. ‘Had she fled with a girlfriend, I might have understood her wedding nerves. But to run off to Scotland with Lachlan Kirkpatrick and live with him is a clear case of adultery. However, we are married, as you say, and in God’s eyes must remain so. I will take her back, but this is a blight on our happiness. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to trust her, much less love her, but I will strive to forgive.’ The two men shook hands. Money had, as it so often did, eased the pain of the recent events and cast Digby’s daughter in a more favourable light. Certainly it softened the atmosphere in the library so that, when the door was opened and Celia summoned, the two men were on excellent terms, discussing the roaring start to the London Season.

  Celia appeared, sufficiently contrite. Archie glanced at her, but he couldn’t meet her eye. He shook Digby’s hand again and walked out into the square where his chauffeur waited for him on the kerb beside his shiny Ford Model T, a wedding present from his father, bought with borrowed money. Celia followed, uncertain what to do, wanting to cling on to her childhood and the security of her home, but knowing she had willingly left her girlhood behind in Lachlan Kirkpatrick’s bed from where she could never get it back. Her father didn’t want her at home, Archie probably didn’t want her either, and Lachlan had wanted her very badly but seemed to want her less when the excitement of their grand escape had worn off. The drama had been thrilling, but the aftershock now left her cold. She climbed into the back seat beside Archie.

  ‘Are you going to forgive me?’ she asked, trying to find the old Archie beneath his hard and pitiless mask.

  ‘I thought I understood you, Celia.’ He shook his head and gazed out of the window as the car drove round the square and off towards Mayfair. ‘But I don’t know you any more.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was thinking only of myself. I was a fool and I will live with that for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’ His profile remained unmoved. ‘And you will accept everything I demand of you.’

  They settled into their new home in Mayfair and Celia tried very hard to be a good wife. She ran the house, arranged dinner parties and accepted the sudden deluge of invitations that arrived from the grandest hostesses in London. As Boysie had predicted, the drama had only made them more interesting as a couple and when in public they put on a convincing display of unity. However, Celia’s bed remained empty at night, their marriage unconsummated. Archie didn’t speak to her at all, unless in company, so Celia made sure the house was full of guests whenever possible. Her front door was forever open and callers most welcome. They came in their droves, simply so they could report what they’d seen of the ‘runaway bride’ and her poor cuckolded husband, and both Celia and Archie did their best to keep up appearances.

  ‘It’s a sham,’ Celia confessed to Kitty when they were alone together in the garden one afternoon, sitting side by side on an iron bench, a gift from one of the wedding guests. ‘We look like the happiest couple in the world, yet we’re the most miserable and it’s all my fault.’

  ‘It will settle down,’ Kitty reassured her, taking her hand.

  ‘He won’t forgive me, Kitty. I hurt him and he won’t ever forgive me for it.’

  ‘You’ll have children soon and they’ll bring you together.’

  Celia laughed huskily, throwing her head back so her throat flashed white and vulnerable in the sunshine. ‘He doesn’t come to my bed,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t visited me once. Not once. I’m a pariah.’

  ‘He will.’

  Celia stared at Kitty, her eyes wide and desperate. ‘The irony is I so want him to.’

  ‘Oh Celia.’

  ‘I ache for him, Kitty. I long for him to hold me. I long for things to be the way they were before we got married. Back then I dreaded him touching me. But now I wish he would.’ Her voice lowered as she struggled with her emotions. ‘But I’m a tainted woman. I’ve been with another man. I’m spoiled goods. No one wants me any more. I hear Lachlan is courting that dreadful Annabel Whitely. He didn’t waste time pining for me, did he?’

  ‘Forget about Lachlan. Concentrate on your marriage. You have to be patient. You can’t expect wounds to heal overnight. Archie will soften, I’m sure.’

  ‘He’d better or I’ll wither away. The virgin bride, they’ll call me.’ She smiled at Kitty sadly. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Jack will have to have a father, you know. You can’t bring him up without a man to look up to.’

  Kitty frowned at Celia. She hadn’t thought about that. But Celia was right. It wouldn’t be fair to deny Jack a father’s love. ‘I always believed I’d marry the man I loved,’ she said. ‘I was starry-eyed and dreamy. But it isn’t like that, is it?’ She was lost now in the half-distance, her mind dragging her back to Ireland and the memories she had left there.

  ‘One has to be lucky.’ Celia sighed. ‘I didn’t realize how lucky I was.’

  ‘I loved a man,’ Kitty confessed suddenly, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I loved a man with all my heart, Celia. I loved him enough to die for him. But I couldn’t have him.’

  Celia stared at her cousin in astonishment. ‘Was he Irish?’ Kitty nodded. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was imprisoned.’ Kitty turned her eyes away. She didn’t want anyone to see the pain behind them, not even Celia.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being a rebel.’

  ‘Oh,’ Celia gasped, not really understanding what that meant, but knowing it had something to do with the reason they had stopped spending summers at Castle Deverill.

  ‘I told him I’d wait for him,’ Kitty continued. ‘I would have waited forever. But he let me go. I wrote letters. So many letters. But he never replied.’ She dropped her shoulders. ‘He knows, you see. There are too many obstacles in our way. There always were. But I believed we could jump them.’ She laughed unhappily. ‘I could jump anything on a horse, couldn’t I?’

  Celia wrapped her arms around her cousin. ‘Aren’t we a sorry pair?’ she said, squeezing her. ‘The Deverill cousins and their complicated love lives. Do you think it’s in our blood?’

  ‘I don’t know. Our sisters have all married, haven’t they?’

  ‘To the most dreary men in England! I wouldn’t want their boring husbands. I’d still rather be married to Archie, even though he’s not talking to me.’

  ‘I’ll have to marry a man I don’t love because I’ll never love anyone as much as I love Jack.’

  Celia pulled away. ‘Jack? You mean Jack O’Leary, the boy who loved frogs?’

  Kitty nodded. ‘I named little Jack Deverill after him. He is brave, handsome, funny, intelligent and kind. I couldn’t think of a better man to name him after.’

  ‘Don’t expect to love like that again, Kitty, or you’ll never be happy,’ said Celia with rare wisdom. ‘You have to find someone you respect and who respects you. A partner for life. He’s out there somewhere, Kitty. You can’t live off your grandmother forever. You need to give Jack Deverill security.’ It’s truly over then, Kitty thought to herself, and the last ember of hope died.

  One night at the end of the summer Archie came to Celia’s bedroom. He didn’t say a word. He took off his dressing gown and hung it on the back of her chair. He slid out of his slippers and unbuttoned his pyjama top, untying the drawstring of his trousers and stepping out of them. Celia watched him from the bed, too nervous to speak. His naked body shone golden in the glow of the street lamp that poured a fountain of light through the gap in the curtains, but his expression was cast in shadow and Celia longed to see whether he was coming in love, to take her in his arms as she had so often dreamed, or in loathing to do his duty as a husband but nothing more.

  Quietly he pulled back the covers and climbed in. Celia
bit her lip and a tremor of anticipation rippled across her skin. She felt his hand glide over her belly. Tentatively she placed hers on top of it, holding it still against her nightdress. At once she felt something silky in his grasp. She searched for his eyes through the darkness. At last he looked at her. ‘I want you to put these on,’ he said.

  She frowned. ‘What are they?’

  ‘White gloves,’ he replied. She made to object. ‘Celia, darling, the deal was you’d do anything I demand of you.’

  She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘If it’s only a pair of white gloves . . .’

  ‘That’s all it is, and nothing else.’

  For a moment she looked horrified . . . but then her face broke into a smile and she started to laugh. ‘If that’s your only peccadillo, then we’re going to be very happy together.’ And he bent his head to kiss her.

  Chapter 29

  London, England, autumn 1923

  Kitty opened her eyes. The dark face of Michael Doyle was staring down at her, smirking triumphantly as he buttoned up his trousers. Her virtue was a prize to celebrate like the murder of Colonel Manley and the many Auxiliaries he had no doubt killed in the name of a free Ireland. ‘I own you now,’ he was saying. ‘I filled you with my seed and, even though it never took root, it embedded itself deep inside you like a thorn which you can never remove, however hard you try to forget.’ She blinked into the darkness, her pulse racing, her breath scratching her throat. Had he come in death to haunt her? She blinked again then fumbled for the light. The room was empty. She realized it had only been a dream, but she could smell the blend of alcohol and smoke as if he had really been there and shuddered. She took a sip of water. She had sworn that she would never let him go, but in truth it was he who had never let her go. The ripping of her flesh had healed but the memory of his attack remained forever branded on her soul like the mark of the Devil. If she hadn’t ridden over to confront him . . . if she hadn’t been so arrogant . . . if only . . .

  Little Jack Deverill was now one and a half and more adorable than any child Kitty had ever seen. Without restraint she poured all the love she had saved for Jack O’Leary onto the half-brother who bore his name. Harry and Boysie visited often and spent time with the child, cooing over him like a pair of pigeons, but their regular calls only emphasized the lack of interest from the rest of her family. In Maud’s case it was on account of her hurt; in Victoria’s her disapproval; in her father’s his shame. Kitty accepted that Jack would never be recognized by that branch of the Deverill family. The Wiltshire branch, however, embraced him with their habitual aplomb.

  Harry had got engaged to Charlotte Stalbridge at the same time that Boysie had asked Dreary Deirdre to marry him. Maud was ecstatic. The Stalbridges were a wealthy, well-established landed family with a large estate in Norfolk, near the royal Sandringham estate. Indeed, Sir Charles Stalbridge was a friend of the King. Although Harry no longer had a grand castle to inherit, the Stalbridges were delighted owing to Harry’s charm. There was a certain romance in the black ruins of a fortress burned by Fenian rebels during the Troubles. Harry was a Deverill, destined to be Lord Deverill, castle or no castle, and they were perfectly satisfied with that. Besides, Charlotte was madly in love, which to Lady Stalbridge was more important than ancient stone walls and worthless lands.

  Beatrice offered to throw the happy couple a joint engagement party at Deverill Rising with Boysie and Deirdre, and set about organizing it for New Year’s Eve. Maud spent Christmas with Victoria. Elspeth, pregnant with her second child, invited her father and grandmother for the festivities for he and Maud seemed to lead totally separate lives now. Bertie remained at the Hunting Lodge with his increasingly eccentric mother while Maud stayed in England with Victoria, or during the Season with Beatrice. She had begged Bertie to buy her a house of her own, explaining that it was hard to depend on the hospitality of Digby and Beatrice ‘like a poor relation’. But Bertie told her there was no money left for that sort of extravagance. If she didn’t like it she could always return to Co. Cork. The thought of returning there appalled Maud. Without the castle she could no longer hold her head up in Ireland – and besides, she had severed all ties with the country she had never really warmed to. Betrayed by her best friend, rejected by her husband, insulted by his illegitimate child Kitty had insisted on raising and chatelaine of a heap of stones and ashes were reasons enough to never set foot in that godforsaken country again.

  Kitty longed to return to Ireland with every fibre of her body and it took a great force of will to remain in England. She spent Christmas at Deverill Rising with Digby and Beatrice. The house filled once again with their family and friends and for a brief moment Kitty lost her craving for home in the excitement of endless parties. As long as she kept herself occupied she could bury Ireland beneath the buzz of activity. She could wander around their splendid gardens in Wiltshire and not yearn for the walled vegetable garden where she had looked for messages from Jack, or the greenhouses where she, Celia and Bridie had held their secret meetings in the summertime, or the box garden where she had so often lost herself as a child, her footsteps in the frost doubling up until she no longer knew where she was. She stifled her sorrow by taking pleasure from the loveliness of Deverill Rising, and it was, quite simply, magnificent.

  It was at the boys’ engagement party on New Year’s Eve that she found herself talking to Robert Trench. Seated next to him at dinner she enquired after his book. ‘I’ve finished it,’ he said happily. ‘It’s going to be published this spring.’

  ‘How delightful,’ Kitty enthused. ‘I look forward to reading it.’

  ‘I will send you a copy,’ he volunteered. ‘You can be the first to receive one.’

  ‘I’m flattered. I’m sure I shall enjoy it very much.’ He smiled and Kitty thought how handsome he was when he looked happy. He had been so terribly solemn in Ireland. He gazed at her with affection and Kitty wondered at people’s ability to change. There was something reassuring about the familiarity of him; he reminded her of home. ‘You never smiled in Ireland,’ she ventured. ‘Why?’ ‘I was unhappy,’ he confessed. ‘Didn’t Ireland make you happy?’

  ‘Those years made me more unhappy than I have ever been in my life. I should have been fighting in the war. I felt a failure. I felt less of a man.’

  She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Robert. I never knew.’ ‘You were very young. How could you have known?’ ‘I should have been more sensitive. I think I was beastly.’ ‘You weren’t beastly. You were distracted.’ Kitty thought of Jack but hastily suppressed it. ‘I was very concerned about Ireland,’ she said. ‘You were certainly idealistic’ ‘We got our Free State, though, didn’t we?’ ‘But Ireland is still divided.’ ‘Yes, but we won independence for the South.’ ‘Yet, at what cost?’

  She looked at him steadily and at once she felt the desire to share things that had remained hidden for so long. She knew that, out of all the people in her new life, Robert was the only man who would truly understand her. ‘The War of Independence robbed me of everything I have ever loved,’ she said quietly. ‘It was a war I believed in and in a small way I played a part. But I never thought I’d be personally affected.’

  ‘Might that be an understatement?’

  She lowered her eyes sadly, overwhelmed by the compassion in his voice and the emotions it provoked. ‘Oh Robert, you have no idea how true that is.’ She sighed. ‘But Ireland has her independence now.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I have lost her.’ Kitty picked up her glass of wine, rallying her strength from the deep reserves she could always count on. ‘But I’ll get her back one day. She’s not going to go away. I might have lost my home and . . .’ She hesitated. ‘But Ireland is still wild and green and beautiful.’ She stood up from the table and hurried out of the dining room, through the house to the French windows that opened onto the wintry terrace.

  The fountain was frozen, the hedges glittered with freshly fallen snow, an icy moon shone through an aura o
f mist. Stars glimmered brighter than she had ever seen them and somewhere in the woods, beyond the dovecote, an owl hooted through the darkness. ‘You’ll die of cold,’ said Robert, stepping out to join her. He took off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. He stood beside her. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you about Ireland.’

  Kitty shivered and put the jacket on. It was warm where his body had been. ‘I try so hard to suppress it, Robert. I try all the time but every day it’s a struggle. My heart bleeds for my home. I love it, you see. I love it more than anything in the world.’

  ‘I understand your love, Kitty. Castle Deverill was one of the most wonderful places I have ever been to in my life. I’ve travelled to Italy and Spain, Morocco and France and yet, those rugged green hills of Cork are among the most beautiful sights my eyes have witnessed. They seem to touch one deeply, in one’s soul. I was so lucky to have spent those years there with you.’

  ‘But you were so unhappy?’

  ‘Unhappy, yes, but surrounded by such beauty.’ Her eyes glittered in the moonlight and Robert gazed into them, his heart swelling with love. ‘I’d give you Ireland if I could,’ he said softly, looking at her earnestly through his round spectacles. ‘I’d take you back and watch you flower like the purple heather on the hills.’ He ran his fingers down her damp cheek. ‘Nothing would make me happier than to return to Castle Deverill and rebuild your home stone by stone. I’d sell my soul to do it.’