‘Yes, they . . .’
‘I’m a Christian man, Miss Doyle. I would like to extend you an invitation to Christmas lunch. It’s not right that a young woman like you should be alone on Christmas Day. My son Ashley will be delighted to have a pretty girl at the table and I’d be grateful for the company. Ashley and I are an uninspiring couple, just the two of us.’
‘Isn’t there a Mrs Lockwood?’ Bridie asked.
‘I’m afraid there is no Mrs Lockwood. I’m a widower.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Bridie apologized.
‘No need. Life ebbs and flows. We all come, we all go. You’ll make an old man happy. What do you say, Miss Doyle? Will you come and share our Christmas feast?’ There was something jaunty about him. An amused twinkle in his eye, a raffish crookedness to his smile, a complete lack of self-doubt; he knew who she was and he presumably wanted her for his son. Bridie was curious. She liked this Mr Lockwood. She liked his manner. Perhaps she’d like his son. Maybe he’d be rich enough for her, but perhaps . . .
With a smile she linked her arm through his. ‘How very generous of you, Mr Lockwood. I’d love to come and share your Christmas feast and meet your son. But you know what we say in Ireland: the older the fiddle the sweeter the tune.’
Mr Lockwood chuckled and led her down the wet street. ‘You’ve clearly brought the charm of the Irish with you, Miss Doyle.’ He patted her hand. ‘We can all benefit from a touch of that.’
Chapter 31
London, England, 1925
London looked like a magical kingdom made out of sugar. The streets were covered in a thick layer of snow and the flakes were still falling, twirling on the wind, illuminated like gilded feathers in the golden aura of the street lamps. They settled onto the bare branches of the plane and horse chestnut trees in the communal gardens and insulated the spring bulbs that hibernated beneath the soil along with dormice and hedgehogs, sleeping through the cold winter in their warm holes.
Kitty gazed out of the window of her Notting Hill house on Ladbroke Square. It wasn’t a stylish address but she didn’t care. The development of the Ladbroke family farmland in the mid-nineteenth century had originally been intended as a fashionable suburb of London but it hadn’t yet attracted the wealthy Londoners who preferred to live nearer the centre in Mayfair and Belgravia. However, it appealed to the upper middle classes who could live in large Belgravia-style houses for a fraction of the price. Kitty was just happy to be far away from her mother who now resided in Victoria’s townhouse in Belgravia during the Season and in her country house in Kent for the rest of the year. Her father only appeared in London for occasions such as Harry’s wedding and Royal Ascot. Otherwise he remained at Castle Deverill in the Hunting Lodge, in which his wife hadn’t set so much as a toe since the fire. Kitty had received no correspondence from him. He hadn’t even come to her wedding. His rejection hurt her deeply but she was used to burying her pain – and she had the love of little Jack and Robert to console her. Adeline had been too frail to travel, but from her beloved grandmother Kitty received regular letters; she treasured every one.
It had been five months since Florence. Five months since she had told Robert about Michael Doyle. Five months of patience, compassion and restraint that must have been a great trial for her new husband. But Kitty couldn’t let him touch her. She reassured him that she would, but she couldn’t say when that moment would come. Sometimes, as she lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, she wondered whether it might never come. Michael Doyle had stolen more than her virginity that morning; he had stolen her essence.
Kitty did not love Robert in the way that she loved Jack, and she didn’t expect to. She and Jack’s love had been forged in the innocence of childhood and driven deeper with every test God had seen fit to send them. Robert could never compete with that. But he was a devoted father to little Jack and the boy loved him unreservedly. She hoped that, in time, she would grow to love him too.
As soon as it was light she walked out into the flurry, wrapped snugly in a thick coat. The gardens were quiet and unspoiled. A red-breasted robin hopped about in search of food, leaving barely a print in the snow, and a blackbird watched her from the top of a fir tree. Kitty inhaled the cold air and felt her spirits soar with the beauty of this secret white world in the heart of the busy city. She exhaled luxuriously and her anxiety was released into the damp atmosphere in a thick cloud of fog. The tension in her shoulders melted away as she stood in the middle of the garden, allowing the eternal stillness of nature to resonate with the eternal stillness deep inside her. How her heart ached with longing for the countryside.
Suddenly, something bright caught her eye. She turned to see a small, vibrating orb dancing above the bushes. She stared at it in wonder, recognizing it at once as a nature spirit. She hadn’t seen one of those since childhood. There had been plenty playing about the flowers at Castle Deverill. With rising excitement she walked softly through the snow and crouched down, smiling with the innocence of her girlhood long gone.
It was at that moment of finally rediscovering her gift that she realized with all clarity of mind and certainty of heart that her future was not here in this concrete metropolis, but at Castle Deverill. She felt her chest expand with a bubbling joy, like the chuckling stream that wound its way through Ballinakelly to the sea, and she laughed out loud. The blackbird began to sing from the fir tree and the robin flew off into the snow-covered bushes. She knew now that it didn’t matter what her father thought, or that the castle was no longer fit to live in, because she belonged there. She loved it unconditionally. She would never be happy anywhere else.
With her heart full of optimism she ran back into the house where Robert was sitting at the dining-room table, reading the papers. He looked up from The Times with surprise. He hadn’t seen Kitty this animated since they married. ‘Robert!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him and making him put the paper down. ‘You remember you said you’d give me Ireland if you could?’
‘Yes?’ he replied, taking off his reading glasses.
‘Well, you can.’
‘Can I?’
She pulled out the chair beside him. ‘I want to go home,’ she told him. ‘I know we can be happy there. You can write. You’ll be inspired in Ireland much more than in this dreary city.’
Robert smiled and touched her face. ‘If that’s what you want, Kitty, we’ll go,’ he said.
‘I want Jack to know where he comes from. Castle Deverill is in his blood. But I need you to go and talk to Papa. I know you can persuade him. Uncle Rupert’s house is vacant. No one’s lived in it for ten years. Elspeth told me it’s all boarded up. Grandma couldn’t bear to go in there after Uncle Rupert was killed, so she left it just as it was. But it’s part of the estate. It’s in my father’s power to gift it to me. I know he will if you ask.’
Robert was so keen to please his new wife that he made the arrangements to travel immediately. They decided not to tell anyone of their plans. They would simply leave quietly and then, when everything was sorted out, inform Harry, Beatrice and Celia. Kitty packed with the help of her maid. When they were ready Kitty and Robert left London with little Jack and Hetty, Kitty’s lady’s maid and Robert’s valet Bridgeman – a small retinue of servants made possible by the modest annuity Robert received from his father. Robert would send for the rest of the household when they had found a home. In the meantime they would stay with Elspeth and Peter.
When Kitty stepped off the boat onto Irish soil the great swell of longing, which had been confined for so long behind a dam of restraint, rose beyond all control, bringing tears of joy and relief. She turned her face towards the soft rain and felt the opening of her heart, like the gentle unfolding of a poppy in the heat of the sun. She was home at last.
Elspeth had sent their chauffeur to pick them up. Bridgeman would follow in a hackney cab with the luggage. Kitty sat in the back seat holding Robert’s hand, gazing out of the window at the velvet green hills whose heather-coated summits we
re shrouded in mist. The trees were bare, their branches knobbly and glistening in the drizzle. Big black rooks hopped about the roof of an abandoned farmhouse. Cows grazed in fields of thick grass and woolly sheep were white dots on the hillsides, camouflaged among the rocks. Kitty was too emotional to speak. Occasionally she put her hand to her chest and sighed, as if every sight triggered memories she wanted to hold on to and savour. In spite of all the violence that had taken place there, Ireland still had the power to seize her heart with its constant beauty.
Peter and Elspeth MacCartain’s neo-Palladian castle was a weathered old building of little charm. The grey walls were austere and bleak, the tall windows foggy like the failing eyes of an old man. It sat on the top of a hill without the luxury of trees to shelter it from the sharp winter winds and enhance its appeal. It looked isolated and abandoned, like a colonel deserted by his soldiers, alone with the years that had gradually robbed him of his gloss. Once it had rivalled Castle Deverill in its splendour, but now there were no gardens, no lovingly tended lawns, nothing that alluded to its former prestige, only fields of sheep. It made Kitty feel a tremendous sorrow, as if this castle was symbolic of all that the Anglo-Irish had lost in the War of Independence.
As soon as the car drew up outside the front door, Elspeth flew down the steps to greet them. She embraced her sister with excitement, barely pausing for breath. ‘I’m so happy you’ve come to stay, Kitty. It’s lovely to see you and little Jack. We’re going to have such fun. Peter has the perfect mare for you to ride. You’ll love her, she goes like the wind. I’m sure you’re going to want to hunt. There are plenty of snipe for you, Robert. Do you shoot? I can’t recall. Do come inside. There’s a lovely fire in the drawing room.’ She laughed nervously. ‘We tend to use only a small number of rooms because it’s so cold! We run from one to the other like mice. But of course you don’t mind the damp, do you, Kitty?’
They entered the hall. It was just as chilly as outside in spite of the threadbare rugs that covered the flagstone floor. The vast fireplace was empty. Dusty portraits of ancestors in fine silks and suits of armour hung on the walls to remind the family of their illustrious heritage, which was now frayed and shabby like the moth-eaten tapestry of the MacCartain history that hung on the opposite wall. The place had a feeling of deprivation that would have horrified Maud. Kitty noticed there was no butler to greet them. Even if there had been she would have been reluctant to relinquish her coat. A scruffy maid stepped out of the shadows to take Hetty and little Jack upstairs. Robert informed her that the luggage was about to arrive but she just blinked at him dumbly, like a sweet cow.
The drawing room was surprisingly charming. It seemed to Kitty that Elspeth and Peter must have lived only in that room for it was warm, thanks to a lively turf fire, and full of family photographs, books, objects and other paraphernalia belonging to a married couple who never threw anything away. The sofa had a hole in the back, which Elspeth had tried to conceal behind a cushion, and the velvet on the chairs had worn away on the arms and was markedly stained. There clearly wasn’t the money for repairs.
Peter appeared at once with two large dogs at his heels. His face was ruddy from outdoors, his boots leaving mud on the carpets. His tweed coat was as shabby as Hubert’s had been. He embraced Kitty with affection and shook Robert’s hand. ‘Welcome to Dunderry Castle,’ he said jovially. ‘You haven’t got a drink?’ He looked at Robert’s empty hands with dismay. ‘Where’s O’Malley?’
‘Parking the car, darling,’ said Elspeth. She turned to Kitty sheepishly. ‘O’Malley is our butler, driver and odd-job man. Whatever we need him for, really. He’s wonderful. He can do anything.’
‘Except be in two places at once,’ said Peter drily. ‘Right, what can I get you? Sherry? Whiskey and soda?’
‘I’m sure Kitty will have sherry,’ Robert replied.
‘I’ll join you for a glass of whiskey then,’ Peter added happily. He trailed mud all the way to the drinks tray which was placed at the other end of the room near a dilapidated grand piano. ‘How was your crossing? Rough as usual, no doubt!’
‘Quite rough,’ said Kitty. ‘It’s lovely to be here though.’
‘Ireland doesn’t change, does it?’ said Elspeth. ‘People come and go and do such awful things to each other, but Ireland is always the same. As it’s been for thousands of years.’
Kitty sat near the fire. A log of turf had fallen onto the front of the grate and was smoking into the room but neither Elspeth nor Peter seemed to notice. ‘Have you seen Papa?’ Kitty asked, waving a hand in front of her nose to clear the smoke.
‘Yes, I’m afraid he’s much changed, Kitty,’ Elspeth told her, her forehead creasing into a frown. ‘He drinks too much. Has terrible mood swings and is altogether very disagreeable. Grandma spends all day in the castle talking to herself. It’s all very sad. Not like it used to be. I go and see the Shrubs every day. You must come. They’ll be so happy to see you. They barely leave their house, so I do the shopping for them and make sure they have everything they need. They seem to think everyone in Ballinakelly is the enemy, even though I’ve told them hundreds of times that the wars are over and any animosity now is between the Irish. We Anglo-Irish have never been safer. But they miss the security of the British Army’s presence on the streets and they complain that there’s a distinct feeling of unrest and suspicion.’
‘I’d like to go today and see Grandma,’ said Kitty. ‘I thought perhaps Robert could talk to Papa about Uncle Rupert’s house. I don’t want to be a burden to you and Peter.’
‘You’re not a burden,’ Elspeth gushed. ‘We’ve been longing for you to come.’
Peter handed them both a glass of sherry. ‘I’ll drive Kitty over myself,’ he suggested.
‘I’d prefer to meet you there,’ said Kitty, knowing that when she returned to Castle Deverill she’d want to be alone. ‘Elspeth says you have a mare I’ll like,’ she added hopefully.
‘I do. She’s called Tempest and she goes like the wind,’ Peter replied.
‘So I heard. She sounds perfect. I can’t think of anything nicer than riding out on my own. Just like the old days.’
Elspeth smiled shyly. ‘I’d come with you, Kitty,’ she said, placing a hand on her belly. ‘But I’m expecting another baby.’
‘Oh Elspeth!’ Kitty exclaimed. ‘Your third!’
‘It’s early days, but I want you to be the first to know.’
Peter raised his glass. ‘To my clever wife,’ he said, beaming with pleasure. Robert and Kitty raised theirs, too. ‘It’ll be you next,’ Peter added to Kitty.
Kitty smiled tightly. ‘When shall we go?’ she asked, swiftly changing the subject. At this rate the only chance of a child for her was by immaculate conception.
‘We’ll go to Castle Deverill after lunch. I’ll take Robert in the car. Kitty will meet us there and you, my darling, will rest.’
‘Then I will show Kitty around before lunch and introduce her to her nephews!’ She turned to her sister. ‘The castle is rather run down, I’m afraid. But I love it. Peter and I are so very happy here with the boys.’ She patted her stomach again. ‘I do so hope this one’s a girl. I’ll cherish her in the way a mother should cherish her daughter.’
‘So Mama doesn’t know?’
Elspeth grinned. ‘I’ll tell her when the baby’s born. The only response I got after the boys’ births was rather stilted telegrams of congratulations. She’s never shown the slightest interest in meeting them.’
’Come, I want to meet John and Jasper,’ said Kitty, getting up. ‘Let’s not depress ourselves by talking about Mama. I want you to show me everything!’
Later, dressed in a pair of slacks, tweed jacket and riding boots, Kitty rode like a man over the hills towards Castle Deverill. The last time she had worn a long skirt to ride had been the day she had confronted Michael Doyle at the farmhouse. Afterwards, she had shed it like a snake sheds its skin and cast it into the furnace of oblivion, along with everything else that
had happened that morning. Never again would she be that woman. Now, the feeling of sitting astride a horse gave her a reassuring sense of control and disconnected her from the girl she had lost.
When the sight of the charred ruins of the castle came into view Kitty’s throat constricted with emotion. She stopped her horse and remained for a long moment gazing down with glassy eyes on what had once been her home, rising forlornly out of the mist that edged in over the water. Nestled among the trees, its dull, lifeless eyes looked out over the gardens where its memories lay scattered among the rooks and crows that hopped about among the weeds. There was no sign of life in those blind windows. No sign of life behind those walls, only a thin ribbon of smoke that slipped out of the chimney in the western wing to be carried off by an unforgiving wind.
Kitty cantered as fast as she could down the hill and over the fields. She jumped the wall with ease, halting where once the croquet lawn had been and dismounting. She walked her horse round to a suitable tree and tied it there. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she took in the ruins, fighting the memories that crept out of every corner of the building like ghosts. With a heart full of sorrow she walked round to the old kitchen entrance. Inside, there was much that was untouched by the fire. The flagstone corridor was as it had been when Kitty and Bridie had run up and down it. Their little cupboard beneath the stairs was unchanged. The kitchen itself, where Mrs Doyle had cooked for the family and the maids and footmen had dashed in and out with heavy trays, had only gathered a thick layer of dust. The long oak table was still there, the pots and pans hanging from a rack on the ceiling as they always had, the stove cold with a light sprinkling of ash, but the tall chests and dressers were unharmed. It was a small oasis of normality. Kitty almost expected Mrs Doyle to bustle out of the larder and look at her with surprise. What are you doing staring at me with eyes the size of saucers, Miss Kitty? Can’t you see I’m busy!
Songs of Love and War Page 37