Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  Bridie recalled the times Kitty and Celia had dressed up for the Castle Deverill Summer Ball while she had had to help below stairs and watch the glamour of the evening through cracks in doors and gaps in curtains. She remembered their beautiful dresses and carefully braided hair, their thick leather boots and silk stockings, their fine coats and gloves, and a hatred she had never felt before seeded itself inside her like bindweed, from where it would grow, winding around and around her heart to stifle her sweetness which had never got her anywhere. She would buy pretty shoes and dresses, she thought sourly, just like Kitty and Celia’s, and marry the richest man she could find because that’s how one acquired status and respect. Now she was wealthy she was a prize worth having.

  Determined to be someone, Bridie settled into the old house on Fifth Avenue with the witch’s tower that no longer gave her the chills. She knew how to be a lady, having spent so long observing Kitty. She knew how to dress and how to stand and how to behave in company. She knew how to speak with less of an Irish accent, she knew how to walk with her chin in the air; she knew how to dissemble. Wasn’t this what she had always wanted? To be somebody else; anybody but her.

  First, she asked Rosetta to work as her maid. The role reversal gave her pleasure. Now she was the lady of the house and Rosetta her servant, just like she had been to Kitty. At first Rosetta declined her offer, explaining that it would be awkward working for her friend, but Bridie managed to persuade her by offering her a more generous wage than she would ever have earned anywhere else. ‘You can be my companion,’ Bridie told her. ‘I don’t care what title you give yourself. I want you with me. It’s as simple as that. You’re my only real friend and I need you.’ Finally, Rosetta gave in. Bridie asked Mrs McGuire for help in finding her a suitable cook and butler and paid her handsomely for her trouble. She threw open the windows and let the air blow away the stale smell of Mrs Grimsby’s aged body and the lingering remains of her sour presence. She filled the house with sunlight so that it would radiate with happiness like Castle Deverill had done in summertime, when the Irish sun had shone through the tall glass windows and turned the hall to gold.

  The news that the wealthy widow had left her entire fortune to her maid hit the newspapers and she soon became a cause célèbre. Debate ensued. There were those who thought it disgraceful that the widow had denied her family her money and denounced Bridie as a gold-digger who had manipulated an old lady, while there were others who believed the hardworking woman in Mrs Grimsby’s employ deserved every penny she had given her. After all, America was the land of prosperity through hard work and Miss Doyle had earned her riches while Mrs Grimsby’s family had done nothing to merit her fortune besides some tactical flattery in the final months of her life. The argument extended from the press to private houses where New York society discussed it ad infinitum at their grand luncheons and dinner parties. No one could agree. The grand old families of Fifth Avenue turned up their noses at this upstart from Ireland who was now their neighbour and barred their doors against her, but the brash young people who wore feathers in their hair and danced to jazz in the speakeasies where bootlegged alcohol flowed in fountains were curious to meet the now infamous Miss Doyle.

  It wasn’t long before women came calling, out of inquisitiveness and the desire to generate funds for their charities, and unscrupulous gentlemen came looking for a wealthy wife. The first young man to pay Bridie a visit was none other than Mrs Grimsby’s hyena nephew, Paul Heskin. Bridie had never liked him with his receding chin and calculating eyes. He had never so much as tossed her a thank-you when she had worked as his aunt’s maid, but now he was full of sycophancy and false charm. Bridie sat in Mrs Grimsby’s chair in the sun parlour and looked at him disdainfully, seeing him for what he was, an opportunist preying on her naivety and inexperience. But she was no fool – Mrs Grimsby had taught her to be cynical about people’s motivations. She dismissed him brutally as she believed a lady in her position would and set her sights on finding a man who could equal her in wealth. Now she had it, she wasn’t going to lose it by marrying unwisely.

  But Bridie was a young woman on her own and this made her vulnerable and exposed to all sorts of degenerates. It wasn’t possible to head out into society alone, without a companion or chaperone to accompany her. She had no father or brother to escort her and no friend to take her under her wing. However, there was one man she could call upon to advise her in this most unusual and delicate of situations.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Williams,’ she said from Mrs Grimsby’s chair in the sun parlour where the soft light of early autumn streamed through the windows, bathing Bridie in a warm golden radiance.

  The attorney looked Miss Doyle over with an amused and admiring eye. She was indeed an ugly duckling turned swan. ‘Might I say how well you look, Miss Doyle?’

  ‘Yes indeed, Mr Williams, money certainly enables a woman to look her best.’

  ‘Money solves nothing but it eases everything. Mrs Grimsby would be proud to see the fine young lady you have become.’

  ‘I am grateful to her for her generosity. She had no affection for her family. In fact, she used to receive them in this very room and put up with their false flattery. She knew why they visited.’

  ‘You know, she began rather like you, Miss Doyle. Her mother came over from Ireland as a little girl with her parents and siblings. They had nothing but the clothes on their backs. What she had that set her apart from the rest of her family was a love of literature. She adored to read. As a child she read everything she could get her hands on. Mr Grimsby was a well-educated, scholarly man. He was much older than she was, but he was struck by her intelligence, so they say. They met in the library of all the places!’

  ‘How did he make his money?’

  ‘Printing presses.’ Mr Williams grinned. ‘He was an entrepreneur, one of those brilliant men whose touch turns everything to gold. Before he died Mrs Grimsby was the queen of New York society. Sadly, after he passed she put her glad rags away and became increasingly morose and cynical about people. You can imagine the men who wanted to marry her for her fortune. She trusted no one. I flatter myself to think that she trusted me. I was not after her hand in marriage or eligible for her fortune. As an adviser and confidant she depended on me. She was old when you met her, Miss Doyle, but she was a beautiful woman when young.’

  ‘I used to read to her in here,’ said Bridie wistfully. ‘When I read, she softened. It was as if the words somehow got through that hard shell she hid behind and reached the real person underneath. I liked to read to her.’

  ‘Now you have all her books to choose from.’

  ‘Indeed I do, Mr Williams.’ She ran her eyes over the bookshelves. ‘They were probably more precious to her than anything else.’

  She sighed and brought her mind back to the present. ‘Mr Williams, I need your help.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Doyle. How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘I’m in a difficult position . . .’ She hesitated, not wanting to be indelicate, and knitted her fingers. ‘I’m alone in New York without a friend in society . . .’

  Mr Williams smiled sympathetically. ‘Might I suggest I introduce you to Mrs Williams? My wife is a lively, sociable young woman who would enjoy nothing more than to introduce you to people – colourful people, people who would find you interesting. What you need, Miss Doyle, is entertainment.’

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘It’s all very well having a fine house and fine clothes, but a woman in your position needs friends.’

  ‘A woman in my position needs a husband, Mr Williams, if I may speak plainly. A woman without a husband has no standing in society and no protection. I need a man of equal wealth. I will not be taken advantage of.’

  Mr Williams looked surprised by her candour. ‘I understand.’

  She stood up. ‘I know you do, Mr Williams. I think you understand everything, which is why I called you.’

  Mr Williams followed her onto the landing. ‘N
ew York is the place for you, Miss Doyle.’ He shook her hand.

  ‘I’d like to meet your wife as soon as it can be arranged.’

  ‘Dinner tomorrow night?’ he suggested enthusiastically.

  Bridie smiled. ‘I’d love to.’

  Bridie liked Mrs Williams immediately. She was a brassy, vivacious and energetic woman in her early thirties with the restlessness of a little bird. Never still, she chattered away without pause, her small white hands fluttering in the air as her laughter seemed to leave her throat in light chirrups. Her hair was short and blonde with perky curls around the hairline, her eyes wide and blue and full of spirit, her ready smile warm and mischievous.

  ‘Beaumont says the way to meet the right people,’ Elaine Williams told her, ‘is to donate money to charity. Fundraisers are where the rich mingle with other rich people. Money talks in this town, Bridget. Old money only talks to old money very quietly but new money is wonderfully noisy. There’s no reason why yours won’t talk any louder than anyone else’s!’

  Elaine wasted no time in taking Bridie to the salon to have her short hair trimmed into a fashionable bob with gentle waves curling at the temples. She helped her choose the most glamorous, loose-fitting dresses that reached as high as the knee, rayon stockings, cloche hats, feather boas, sequinned headbands and heeled shoes, and taught her how to paint her face with make-up as they sat in Elaine’s untidy bedroom listening to jazz on the wireless. Bridie was quick to learn. She applied the same dedication to her new role as she had done all those years ago at Castle Deverill when she had been promoted to lady’s maid. While Mr Williams advised her on financial matters, his wife saw to her personal life. Both revelled in associating with the girl the whole of New York City seemed to be talking about.

  In Elaine’s company Bridie was unafraid to shine. She relished the attention she received at the charity fundraisers. Photographers took her picture on arrival and everyone made a fuss of her inside. She was treated with respect, as if she was important. No one except the old New York families seemed to care that she had been a maid only a very short time ago. No one imagined the life she had lived in Ballinakelly and how very far she had come. She played the role like a seasoned actress and they all accepted it as truth. Bridie accepted it as truth too, because she had to. She threw herself into the part for it was the greatest performance of her life. Soon she began to forget who Bridie Doyle really was and where she had come from. Bridget Doyle was beautiful, fabulous and, most thrilling of all, in demand. She had no past, no pain, no cares at all for she had enough money to buy happiness. With such a vast fortune she was confident she would never be unhappy again.

  In the new year Bridie was swept up into a thrilling new world of excess. She suddenly had more friends than she could count and suitors all vying for her hand. There were parties, lots of parties, where illegally bought alcohol was enjoyed in spite of Prohibition. Bridie discovered to her delight that alcohol made her feel more confident. With a gin cocktail she was able to impersonate Kitty Deverill to perfection. She liked who she was with a little liquor inside her to loosen her tongue and liberate her laughter. A dash of alcohol ensured she lost her inhibitions. She loved to dance. She loved to feel a man’s hands on her waist, she loved to be admired; she thought of those mean girls in Ballinakelly and wished they could see who she had become. She wondered whether this had been inevitable right from the start. That it had truly been written in her stars. That it was all meant to be.

  The young men who courted her were as diverse as chocolates in a box. There were the simply wrapped ones. They tended to be more romantic though lacking in the only thing important to Bridie: money. There were the elaborately wrapped ones who had the money, but they were vulgar and pushy and much too pleased with themselves. Then there were the unusual ones who came wrapped in bright colours and tasted spicy and those frightened Bridie, who wasn’t used to Europeans, although their grand foreign titles held a certain appeal. She was careful to share all her adventures with Rosetta, who patiently waited up for her at night, helped her into her nightdress when she had drunk too much and seemed to enjoy her stories of unsuitable suitors. When they laughed together in Bridie’s bedroom, lying across the bed, they both forgot their new positions and they were simply friends again, as they had been before.

  Once or twice Bridie was led astray by a poet or a writer whose sensitive face and gentle manners made her think of Jack, but she quickly reminded herself of her mission and coldly rebuffed them. She’d never fall in love again, she vowed. Not with anyone. Love had got her nowhere. It had only hurt her irrevocably. She would marry for security, partnership and because that was what society demanded of women. But she would never love again.

  At Christmas she went to Mass alone. Rosetta had gone to spend the day with her family. Bridie’s thoughts turned to her mother and nanna, Sean and Michael and she stifled a sharp longing for home. It was quiet in the church. So quiet she could hear the small, distant voice of her conscience. Without the noise of music, dancing, talking and laughing to distract her, Bridie remembered Ballinakelly. She remembered the farmhouse, the warm hearth, the cowsheds, the cold, the mud, the damp, the poverty. Yes, she remembered the poverty. It wasn’t so long ago that she hadn’t a pair of shoes for her feet save the ones from Lady Deverill which she still kept in their box. She stared at the marble sculpture of Christ on the cross that was placed above the altar and remembered how she had prayed twice a day at the sound of the Angelus, how they had all knelt in prayer after tea, how her mother had led it with the words: Thou oh Lord will open my lips . . . Did she miss her daughter? Did she pray for her? Bridie bent her head in shame and resolved to attend Mass more often. She might forget who she was but she must not forget who God was.

  Then the thought of going home floated to the surface of her mind like a cork. For a fleeting moment her heart lurched with yearning for the farmhouse and her grandmother’s stew, the smell of wet soil and cows, the sound of her brothers discussing the sorry state of Ireland over tumblers of stout. She longed for the taste of buttermilk and soda bread, the thud of dancing feet, the stirring crescendo of singing voices, the heart-wrenching strains of a lone fiddle. But the cork sank as quickly as it had risen. Going home now was impossible. She was no longer the girl she had been. She had no life left in Ireland. All that remained there was pain and loss, memories of Jack, Mr Deverill and the baby she had been forced to give away and the one who had died. Here she had reinvented herself. She liked who she was. How could she go back in all her fine clothes and sleep in her old bed with the straw mattress? Her life was so different now and she was used to certain luxuries. As much as she tried to avoid it, her wealth would inevitably set her apart from Rosetta; what would it do to her family? She had moved on and the door had closed behind her, this time for good.

  When the service was over she went to the front and lit four candles for her family, two for the children she had given birth to and a seventh for her father’s soul, may he rest in peace. Despondently, she began to walk out of the church. Just as she neared the door she caught eyes with a silver-haired gentleman with a tidy grey beard, who smiled at her kindly. ‘You’re not meant to look sad at Christmas, young lady,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sad,’ she replied, putting her head down and walking into the December sunshine.

  ‘Like hell you’re not sad,’ he persisted, walking alongside her. ‘I’ve been watching you. If that’s your happy face what does your sad face look like?’ He put out his hand. ‘Mr Lockwood.’

  Bridie looked at his fine coat, expensive suit and hat, the umbrella with the silver collar engraved with initials and shook his hand. ‘Miss Doyle,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, I know who you are.’ He grinned. ‘Quite a famous lady, aren’t you?’ Bridie blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You just look so alone. I don’t like to see a woman on her own, looking sad. Especially such a pretty one.’ She smiled, won over by his charm and the shiny green car that wai
ted for him on the kerb with a watchful chauffeur standing to attention in his starched uniform and cap, even on Christmas Day. ‘There, that’s better. Now, you only live a block away from here so allow me to walk you to your door.’ Mr Lockwood waved at the chauffeur. ‘I’m going to walk, Maxwell, so you might as well go home,’ he said. The chauffeur climbed into the car and motored off through the slush.

  Bridie cast her eyes around the street. It was empty now. Everyone had returned home for Christmas lunch. She put her hands in her coat pockets and walked on. ‘You look like you’re on your own too, Mr Lockwood,’ she said with a grin.

  ‘My son has run on ahead. He’s keen to put something in his stomach. I have four children but three are scattered all over. A son in Canada and two daughters, one on the West Coast, the other down South. Ashley is my youngest.’ He settled his twinkling grey eyes on Bridie’s house. ‘We’re almost neighbours, you and I. I knew Mrs Grimsby. She was a strong-willed woman, that’s for sure. No one pushed her around. I always found this house a little austere, though. Something about the tower. It looks like a witch’s hat.’

  Bridie laughed. ‘That’s just what I thought when I first saw it. But it doesn’t frighten me now.’

  ‘I don’t imagine much frightens you, Miss Doyle.’ He looked down at Bridie and smiled sympathetically. ‘You sure you’re not lonely in there all on your own?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not on my own, Mr Lockwood. I have lots of friends and—’

  ‘Of course you do,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘A pretty, wealthy young woman such as yourself must have hundreds of friends.’ He chuckled in a world-weary manner. ‘But who are you spending Christmas with? From what I understand your family is in Ireland.’