Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Oh Robert,’ she sighed, suddenly understanding everything. ‘You were unhappy because . . .’

  ‘Yes, I loved you.’ He nodded. ‘Every day was a struggle, Kitty, just like you are struggling now with your yearning for Ireland. But I survived and here I am, looking down upon the woman I love who has stars in her eyes.’ He laughed at his own foolishness. ‘One day you’ll return to Ireland and your struggle will have been worth it. For your absence will only deepen your love and increase your appreciation. When you lay eyes on your beloved Ireland again you’ll believe its splendour more intense than before, more vibrant, more uplifting, just like I believe you more beautiful than before.’

  ‘You’re going to make me cry,’ she said. ‘If your book is as moving as your words are to me now, I don’t think I’ll be able to read it.’

  He brushed away a tear with his thumb. ‘It’s inspired by you, Kitty.’

  ‘Does it have a happy ending?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t.’

  She placed her hand on top of his, holding it against her cheek. ‘Do we?’ she asked.

  ‘That depends on you.’

  She lifted her chin and he bent his head to place his lips on hers in a long and tender kiss. She squeezed her eyes shut, releasing a final tear for Jack, for that chapter had to close now. The book which contained within its pages all the tragedy and pain of Ireland’s Troubles and Kitty’s suffering must be put away on the shelf and a new book begun. A positive book, one filled with joy and light.

  She knew that, although she didn’t love Robert, she needed him. She couldn’t endure her exile alone. Robert understood her love of Ireland – he connected her to a time in her life when she had been truly happy. He knew the gardens at Castle Deverill as well as she did. He appreciated the rocky hills and their deep and enduring majesty. He knew her better than anyone else for he had taught her everything she knew. She respected his superior mind and yet, at the same time, knew he admired her for her enquiring one. There was no one more qualified than him to lay claim to her heart.

  She wrapped her arms around him and let him shelter her from the cold, from the fears that rose up from her past like monsters, from the future that was still so uncertain. She kissed him gratefully, because, having doubted she would find someone to love her, she had found someone who always had. In Robert’s arms she felt the warm comfort of the familiar and she silently thanked God for giving her a second chance.

  Grace was in the garden when the butler approached her across the lawn. Spring had breathed her sugar-scented breath over the grass, turning it a bright, vibrant green, and through the branches of the ancient oak trees, opening their delicate little buds and awakening the flowers on the horse chestnuts and elders to scatter their petals on the wind like confetti. She loved this time of year the best and it pained her to leave for London just as Ireland was blossoming in all her glory. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, m’lady, but there’s a young man in the hall. He says he needs to speak to you.’

  Grace sighed irritably. She had been enjoying the peace of the garden and the sight of birds frolicking among the new leaves, building their nests and twittering merrily. There was nothing like the sound of birdsong to lift the spirits. ‘Did he say his name?’ she enquired. Perhaps she could ask him to come back later.

  ‘Yes, m’lady. Jack O’Leary.’

  She gave a start. ‘Thank you, Brennan. I’ll see him at once.’

  Grace followed the butler across the grass and entered the house through the side door. When she reached the sitting room Jack was by the window, gazing out over the gardens. He heard her enter. ‘When I was in prison, I missed the sight of birds, the smell of soil, the budding of leaves.’ He turned round and took off his cap. ‘It’s good to be free. How are you, Lady Rowan-Hampton?’

  She stood in the doorway and took in the sight of the eager boy war had hardened into a rugged and world-weary man, older than his years. The passion she had witnessed in his eyes the night he had plunged the knife into Colonel Manley had gone and in its place a resignation and a sorrow that touched her deeply. ‘Why did they keep you so long?’ she asked.

  ‘They thought I had more information than I was giving them,’ he told her.

  Grace was astonished. ‘Did they know about Kitty?’

  ‘They found a letter she had given me in my pocket.’ He grinned and Grace noticed that one of his teeth was missing. ‘It’s lucky she left when she did.’

  ‘I’m surprised they let you live.’

  ‘Only thanks to Father Quinn. I owe him my life.’

  ‘For the second time,’ Grace added drily, remembering the aftermath of Colonel Manley’s murder.

  ‘Indeed and God was always on our side.’

  Grace knew why he had come. ‘Let’s walk around the garden,’ she suggested.

  They stepped into the sunshine where the call of a corncrake resonated across the lawn with the hum of spring’s first bees, buzzing about the dandelions that shone enticingly in the long grass. ‘How could they have bloody burned down the castle?’ Jack asked. ‘That’s a tragedy, that is. Considering what Kitty did for the cause.’ Her name hung like a weight between them. ‘She should have left when I told her to.’

  ‘You should have both left. You should have gone to America.’

  ‘It was too late.’

  ‘You should have asked for my help. The advantage of having a rich husband is that it enables me to help those who can’t afford to help themselves.’

  ‘Where is she, Lady Rowan-Hampton?’

  Grace heaved a sigh. ‘She’s in London, Jack.’

  ‘I let her go, but she continued to write to me. Now I’m free, am I a fool to hope?’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  He nodded and dropped his gaze to the ground. She could almost hear it thud onto the grass with disappointment. ‘I should have let her wait.’

  ‘You did the right thing, Jack. She has a little boy.’ Grace put a hand on his arm as he stared at her in bewilderment. ‘Oh no, he doesn’t belong to her. He was left on the doorstep of the Hunting Lodge. She made the decision to keep him. That’s why she can’t come back. Her father won’t have her in the house with an illegitimate child. She’s started a new life with him in London.’ Jack’s eyes dimmed. Grace couldn’t bear to look at him as she dealt the final blow. ‘She’s engaged to be married.’

  ‘Jaysus.’ He shook his head as if trying to shake away the image of Kitty with another man.

  ‘The boy needs a father and she needs security.’

  ‘I’d fight for her if I believed I’d win.’

  ‘I’d finance your fight if I believed it was the right thing to do. But it isn’t. Leave her, Jack. She’s found happiness. After all she’s suffered doesn’t she deserve to be happy?’

  They wandered through a wooden gate, into a field of yellow cowslips. As they walked through it they disturbed a flock of pigeons that took to the skies in fright. ‘We won our independence,’ said Jack with a wry grin. ‘The Irish Free State. Those words are sweet on the tongue. But now brother is set against brother. We’re like a hideous creature feeding on itself.’

  ‘The IRA won’t rest until Ireland is united and fully independent,’ said Grace solemnly. ‘But I’m content with what we have. My days as a rebel are over.’ She looked at him and smiled fondly. ‘So are yours.’

  ‘It’s good to walk in Ballinakelly as a free man. Our children will thank us for our sacrifice when they learn of Ireland’s history in their schools and at the family table.’

  ‘History never gives its gratitude in the right places. What are you going to do?’ Grace asked.

  He shrugged. ‘What I’ve always done. I’ll go home.’

  ‘You’ll look after animals?’

  ‘Ballinakelly needs a good vet. My father’s getting on now and the war affected him physically so he’s not as fit as he once was. I’ll pick up the pieces and carry on. What else is there for me to do?’

  ‘Y
ou’ll always find work around here. That hasn’t changed.’ He looked at her sadly. ‘Everything else has, though, hasn’t it, Lady Rowan-Hampton? The War of Independence robbed us of everything we loved.’

  ‘Yet it gave us the thing we all love the most: Ireland. Don’t forget that. Your sacrifice, Kitty’s sacrifice, God knows I’ve made my own, were not for nothing.’ She gazed around at the soft velvet hills and sighed with pleasure both bitter and sweet. ‘We have all this, Jack. It belongs to us and we all played our part in its liberation.’

  Grace returned to London for Kitty’s wedding, which was a small and modest affair. Kitty didn’t want a big society wedding like Harry was going to have. She had no father to give her away and no mother to help her choose her dress and the flowers for her bouquet. Instead, she and Robert married at Old Church in Chelsea at the end of the summer for which Elspeth and Peter travelled all the way from Co. Cork. Beatrice insisted on paying for the reception at a venue on Pavilion Road, and took the liberty of filling it with an extravagance of white roses, hoping to shame Maud into feeling guilty for having pushed her youngest daughter and the little child she loved as her own out of her life. Had Kitty married a duke Maud might have been roused out of her sulk, but as Kitty’s choice was the humble Mr Trench, the man who had once been her tutor, Maud was less than satisfied. She hadn’t been too happy about Peter MacCartain but at least he had had a castle.

  Elspeth took one look at little Jack and gasped. ‘But he’s yours!’ she exclaimed, just like her mother had.

  Kitty grinned. ‘He does look like me, doesn’t he?’

  ‘When did you have him?’

  ‘He’s not mine, Elspeth.’ Kitty laughed at the astonished look on her sister’s face.

  Elspeth sat down. ‘Then whose is he?’

  Kitty was tired of keeping secrets. ‘He’s Papa’s,’ she stated coolly. She watched Elspeth’s mouth open and draw in a horrified gasp. ‘Papa was a little indiscreet with one of the maids,’ she told her carefully. ‘Jack is our half-brother.’

  ‘Oh Kitty! No wonder he won’t let you come home!’

  ‘Jack is his son. He has to let us come home eventually.’

  ‘God, Kitty. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘You’ve held this in all this time?’

  ‘Harry knows. Robert too, of course. So does Mama . . .’

  ‘No wonder she looked so miserable at your wedding.’

  ‘She can’t look at Jack. She sees Papa’s betrayal. I can’t blame her for that.’

  ‘She’s a deeply unhappy woman but I feel no compassion for her, Kitty. She deserves her unhappiness. You, on the other hand, deserve every happiness. I’m so pleased you’ve found a decent, kind man.’ She took her sister’s hands. ‘Please come back to Ireland. I miss you, Kitty. You can stay with us for as long as you like.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There’s always Uncle Rupert’s old house. It’s all boarded up and no one’s been in there since he died, but I’m sure if Robert talks to Papa, he’ll let you have it. Please try,’ she implored. ‘I know you miss Ireland. No one loved Castle Deverill more than you.’

  Kitty had dreaded the wedding night for some time. Robert had chosen a small hotel in Chelsea and Kitty had arranged for Jack to remain at home with his nanny. When at last they were alone, Robert had taken her by the hand and led her into the bedroom. But after a few kisses Kitty had put him off, complaining of tiredness, and changed into her nightdress behind a screen, slipping modestly into bed and pulling the covers around her chin. Robert had lain beside her, holding her in his arms, gently pressing his lips to her forehead, respecting her need for sleep. If he was disappointed he didn’t show it. The following morning they had travelled to Italy by boat and train, arriving in Florence in a pony and trap two days later, and Kitty could put him off yet again, for the journey had been long and arduous.

  The foreign smells of parched earth, eucalyptus trees, wild rosemary and thyme filled Kitty’s nostrils and lifted her out of her pining for home. Gone were the rugged green hills and chuckling streams of Ballinakelly, the soft rain and tempestuous skies of Ireland. She allowed herself to be relieved of the past and committed to the present with a sense of reprieve. She took in the splendour of that ancient city of pale buildings, terracotta roofs, narrow cobbled streets, and colonnaded squares with the excitement of a person starved of culture and beauty. From her balcony she could see the magnificent basilica rising above the city like a glorious ship in an ocean of red tiles. The gigantic dome seemed to defy the laws of gravity and human limitation. Kitty gazed on it in wonder as the setting sun cloaked the city in a soft veil of dusty pink.

  Robert wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Kitty sighed, attempting to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

  ‘I want you, Kitty,’ he murmured. ‘I want to make love to my wife.’

  Kitty was almost paralysed with fear. Robert must have felt her stiffen for he lifted his head from her neck. ‘What is it, darling?’ She gripped his arms. ‘Are you frightened? I won’t hurt you, I promise.’ When she didn’t reply he turned her round so he could read the expression on her face. He was astonished to see her eyes so full of real terror. ‘Kitty, what is it?’

  Her natural pallor had turned to grey and her lips trembled with the secret that balanced upon them. But she didn’t know how to articulate what Michael Doyle had done to her that day in the farmhouse. If she did, would the words unleash the memory to feed on her happiness? Would it rob her of everything that was now good in her life?

  Robert was alarmed. He held her upper arms and gazed anxiously into her eyes. ‘Kitty, you have to tell me. I’m your husband and I love you. Whatever it is, I won’t love you less.’

  Kitty swallowed. A calmness came over her. A surreal tranquillity as if she were floating somewhere over Brunelleschi’s heavenly dome. ‘I was raped,’ she whispered. The words were a mere ribbon of sound but Robert heard them.

  He too paled. ‘Who?’ he gasped. ‘When . . . ?’

  A hot tear slowly trickled down her cheek. ‘In Ireland. The day the castle burned. I knew who had done it, Robert. So, I went to find him.’

  ‘Oh Kitty.’ He pulled her into his arms and held her more fiercely than he had ever done. ‘My darling, darling, sweet Kitty. No one will ever hurt you again. As God is my witness, no one will ever hurt you again.’ She closed her eyes and gave in to the suffering Michael Doyle had inflicted. With a giant, shuddering breath, she released it into Robert’s chest.

  Chapter 30

  New York, America, 1923

  Bridie sat in the garden of Mrs Grimsby’s mansion on Fifth Avenue and hugged the shoebox she had brought all the way from Ballinakelly. It was all she had to connect her to her past, and to herself. The vast inheritance should have made her the happiest girl in the world but she felt afraid; small, lost and very very far from home.

  Bridie had never been in charge of her destiny. She had done what she was told. She had obeyed orders. She had allowed life’s current to carry her down the stream and she had always known where it ended. But Mr Deverill had changed its course and she had been carried off to a foreign country the other side of the world. In spite of the uncertainty, she had taken comfort from the boundaries imposed upon her by Mrs Grimsby’s autocracy. Now, with the old lady’s death and her sudden independence, Bridie was adrift; there was no one to tell her what to do.

  Slowly she opened the box. Inside shone the pair of dancing shoes with their bright buckles and fine black patent leather which Lady Deverill had given her all those years ago. A sob escaped her throat and a fat tear dropped onto her hand as she lifted out one of the shoes and held it up to the light. She looked at the silver buckle that glinted in the sunshine and remembered her father. She’d give away all the money she had inherited just to have him back for a day. He would know what to do. She tried to rouse her drooping spirits, but her heart remaine
d leaden, full of homesickness and the emptiness of her solitude that weighed heaviest of all.

  Just as she was about to unravel she suddenly saw the faces of the girls at school reflected in the metal buckles, taunting her for wearing her fine shoes ‘like a tinker’ and her misery swiftly turned to resentment. She lifted her chin in defiance and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She was no tinker. She was a wealthy woman now; a lady of means and property at the age of twenty-three. She could buy a hundred pairs of fine shoes if she so wanted. At that moment all the fear that made her soft inside hardened like clay. She’d show them all, she resolved, even Kitty who had stolen Jack’s heart and broken hers. If it hadn’t been for Kitty she would not have been vulnerable to Mr Deverill’s advances. None of this would have happened. She’d be by the hearth still, with her mother and her nanna and, who knows, perhaps Jack would be there too and perhaps he’d love her back.

  She stood up and walked into the house. Miss Ferrel, Mr Gordon and Mrs Gottersman had all departed, their lips pursed with bitterness, their unspoken words burning with their sense of injustice. Bridie realized that they had all hoped for a slice of Mrs Grimsby’s fortune, depended on it even. Those little pats and ‘confidential chats’ had led them each to believe they were special in her eyes. The old spider had enjoyed manipulating them, Bridie mused, and ultimately disappointing them. She realized, too, that it hadn’t been Mr Gordon or Miss Ferrel who had left the money under the bed but Mrs Grimsby herself; a test, perhaps, to see if she was trustworthy; a trial to see if she was deserving of her fortune. Well, she was far less deserving than they were, of that she was certain. Now she was rich, she would share her money with them. It would give her pleasure to thwart the old lady’s plan. After all, Mrs Grimsby had inflicted misery on her servants during her lifetime; it seemed right that with her death they should be rewarded for their suffering.