Bridie had never felt more secure. Mr Lockwood was a sensitive and gentle lover and Bridie managed to play the innocent without any difficulty. He spoiled her, indulged her and cherished her and Bridie relished having a distinguished, fearless husband to escort her through all the doors of Fifth Avenue which had previously barred her. She was Mrs Lockwood, now infamous as the most determined social climber in New York.
Walter had gained a wife but he had lost his children. Furious that he had married a girl young enough to be his daughter they refused to speak to him. His daughters wept and raged and vented their wrath to anyone who would listen while his sons insisted he arrange his will so that his fortune went directly to them and not to any children he might have with his new wife. While Bridie pressed her ear to his study door she heard the accusations his sons threw about the room. They told their father he had married an Irish whore, a golddigger, a tramp, a trollop, a ruthless opportunist who preyed on old people. They told him she’d wear him out with her insatiable desire for entertainment and that he’d be dead before the year was over. They begged him to divorce her. They implored him to remember their mother whom he had dearly loved. It’s her or us, they told him. But Walter defended her with strong language, accusing them of selfishness and of denying him happiness in his autumn years. The boys left the house and Walter watched them go with a hardened heart. Any hurt he felt he buried deep so that even he couldn’t find it. Bridie crept out of the shadows and wrapped her arms around him. ‘They’ll accept me in the end,’ she said, kissing his beard. But she knew they never would.
Bridie made sure she distracted her new husband sufficiently so that he didn’t have time to worry about his children. They were out most evenings and the invitations kept coming. When he complained he was tired, she laughed and kissed his white beard, pulling him back onto the dance floor, insisting she was too happy to remain still. When they stayed at home she crept into his arms like a needy black cat, demanding to be stroked.
Bridie had never been so happy. She had everything she believed she wanted. She didn’t love her husband but she liked him very much. He allowed her to lead the life she had always craved. Those stars upon which she had gazed from her small bedroom window in Ballinakelly had made her wish come true. She was somebody now and no one could look down their nose at her. Not Kitty, not Celia, not Elspeth, not Victoria, Countess of Elmrod. No one would dare.
Then one night in late summer, as Bridie pressed her naked body against Walter’s, his weary old heart gave up and stopped ticking. Just as quickly as Bridie had found happiness, it was lost to her. The last seven months of Walter’s life had indeed been filled with pleasure. But Bridie’s joy had come to an untimely end.
She stared in horror as her husband’s face turned white. His lips became a dark shade of blue. His hand, which was resting on her waist, went limp and fell onto the mattress. His final breath was exhaled quietly, without any resistance as if he gave up his ghost willingly. Bridie shook him. She shouted at him. She tried everything to rouse him from death, but to no avail. He had passed away, leaving her a widow at twenty- five years old.
Sobbing hysterically, she rang for the butler. She rang and she rang and she didn’t stop ringing until he burst into the room in alarm. He found Bridie in her dressing gown clinging to the lifeless body of his master. Bridie was too distraught to see the accusation in the butler’s eyes as he lifted Mr Lockwood’s hand to feel for a pulse. He shook his head dolefully and left the room to call an ambulance. Bridie watched them cover her husband in a sheet, lift him onto a stretcher and carry him away forever. With him went her security, her social standing and her happiness, which she had thought could never be taken away on account of her enormous wealth.
She remained in her bedroom, staring out of the window onto the empty street below, wondering where she could go from here. Without Walter she didn’t belong in this house. His children would quickly reclaim it and she would have to move somewhere else. But where? Her heart flagged at the thought of summoning Mr Williams again and searching for somewhere to live. Walter’s children would make sure that every door that had opened for her on Fifth Avenue would close again and she would find herself an outcast. People would look on her with suspicion. No sooner had she arrived at Mrs Grimsby’s house than the old lady had died. No sooner had she married Mr Lockwood than the old man had died. Rosetta had come to comfort her but she had sent her away. She didn’t want to speak to anyone. Just as she had begun to feel she belonged God had seen fit to cast her adrift again.
The following day she telephoned Elaine to tell her the news. Elaine was horrified. ‘I’m coming over,’ she said, putting down the telephone. Shortly after, Elaine arrived at the house to comfort her friend while her husband came to discuss Bridie’s future. Mr Williams spoke plainly as Bridie had spoken to him when she had set out to find a husband. ‘I strongly advise you to leave New York,’ he said. ‘Mr Lockwood’s family will make it their business to make your life here very difficult. They know everyone in this town.’
‘Indeed and they’ll want their revenge.’
‘I’m afraid they will,’ said Mr Williams.
‘Where am I to go?’ Bridie asked, wringing her hands and throwing her gaze out of the window. ‘I have nowhere to go!’
‘This is a very big country, Mrs Lockwood. With your fortune you can settle anywhere you want.’
‘But I don’t know anyone. You and Elaine are my only friends in the world.’
‘Beaumont is right, Bridget,’ Elaine replied, shaking her head. ‘You’ve done it before, you can do it again. What about Texas? It’s sunny there.’
‘Texas? I don’t even know where that is on a map!’ Bridie swallowed a sob.
‘You tell me where you want to go and I’ll make the arrangements,’ said Mr Williams, standing up.
‘I’ll help you decide. It’ll be fun,’ enthused Elaine, glancing anxiously at her husband. ‘You can buy a big house and start afresh where no one knows you.’
‘But that’s just it. I don’t want to go where no one knows me. I don’t want to start again. I ache for the familiar, Elaine.’
When they had gone Rosetta appeared in the doorway holding a book. ‘What is it, Rosetta?’ Bridie asked.
‘I thought you might like this.’ She handed Bridie the old book of Yeats’s poems.
Bridie took it and gazed down at it sadly. ‘Thank you, Rosetta,’ she said softly. ‘You’re quite right. I do need it.’ She curled up on the sofa beside the fire in the most beautiful room of the house and opened the first page. Slowly she began to read:
‘I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
‘Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.’
Bridie stared at the words until they had all blurred into one dark stain. She knew where she had to go. She knew what she had to do. It was no use moving to another part of the country because her past would only go with her, for it was locked away in the secret chambers of her heart. Wherever she went it would follow, and in the quiet moments when she dared gaze into her soul she would see the child she had given away who was part of her and always would be. She had the money now to give him a finer home than she had ever had. She could give him a world-class education and a future in a country where he belonged; she could deny Ireland in loud protestations but that beautiful land was in her veins and, with every heartbeat, was calling her home.
Bridie attended her husband’s funeral hidden behind a black veil. She did not meet the eyes of any of his children but she felt their loathing like little knives on her skin, viciously prodding. The large congregation of his friends who had fawned over her when she had been married to him now turned their cold shoulders and ignored her. Bridie felt more isolated and alone than ever.
When it was over she left the house on Fifth Avenue forever. Her bags were already on their way to the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin. She embrac
ed Elaine fiercely and thanked Mr Williams for his advice and friendship, then with Rosetta to accompany her, she boarded the boat for Ireland.
Bridie had arrived in America as a naive and penniless child; now she was leaving as a shrewd and wealthy woman. The thought of seeing her homeland again gave her a thrilling sense of anticipation. She was returning for the child who belonged to her. Surely God could not deny her him.
Chapter 34
London, England, 1925
When Celia heard that Kitty and Robert had moved to Ireland she was devastated. Furious that her cousin hadn’t told her, she complained bitterly to Harry and Boysie, who, in spite of each being married, were more together than ever. ‘Does she have so little respect for our friendship that she makes this decision without me?’ she moaned into her wine glass. ‘Our lunches aren’t the same without her.’ Indeed, their table for four at Claridge’s was achingly incomplete.
‘I imagine she told no one, so that there was minimal chance of the one person she really didn’t want to know finding out,’ said Boysie.
‘Mother!’ Harry drew on his cigarette. ‘Mama despises Ireland now that my inheritance is gone.’
‘It’s not gone,’ Celia reminded him. ‘It’s a pile of rubble, but rubble can always be rebuilt.’
‘Who has the money to do that?’ Harry asked.
‘Your dreary wife,’ Boysie chuckled, winking at Celia.
‘Yours is more dreary than mine,’ Harry laughed. ‘In fact, I think we’ve both married the most insipid girls in London.’
‘At least yours has money. I should think her father would happily rebuild your castle,’ said Boysie.
Harry pulled a face. ‘You know I don’t want to live in Ireland. My inheritance was an unwelcome bind. I was never happy there,’ he said, forgetting Joseph. ‘My life is in England now.’
‘What will happen to the castle? I was at my most happy there,’ said Celia, sipping her wine and suddenly smelling the scent of tomatoes in the greenhouses at Castle Deverill.
‘Mother says she’s going to persuade Father to sell it.’
Celia was appalled. ‘You can’t sell your family home, however much you don’t want to live in it! It’s your inheritance. It’s the Deverill family heritage. I’ve been boasting about our Irish castle since I was a little girl! What will I boast about if it’s sold to a stranger?’
‘Darling, it’s over. Ireland is over. It belongs to the Irish now and we Anglo-Irish have no business to be there. It’ll be bought by some Irishman with more money than sense.’
‘There aren’t any with money, are there?’ Celia said.
‘There certainly aren’t many with sense,’ Boysie added. ‘From what I understand they’re still killing each other.’
Celia threw her hands up in despair. ‘They can’t sell it. Your grandmother will die!’
‘She’s going to die anyway. Mother says she’s gone mad with grief. As soon as she’s gone, Mother will go to Ireland and persuade Papa that they need a proper house in England. She can’t go on living with Victoria.’
Boysie arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s an accident waiting to happen. I don’t know who will turn who mad first – Victoria or your mother. They’re both equally dreadful.’ Boysie flicked his fingers at the waiter and ordered another bottle of wine.
‘Before they sell it, let’s go and spend one last summer there!’ Celia suggested excitedly. ‘Oh, do let’s! It’ll be such a hoot. We can rummage around the rubble. Goodness knows what we might find. We can stay with Kitty. Do you have to bring your wives? Can’t you say it’s a family-only affair and they must remain at home? Can’t you hurry up and get them pregnant? I simply couldn’t stomach them all summer!’
Harry looked at Boysie through the veil of smoke. ‘What do you say, old boy?’
Boysie shrugged. ‘It’s certainly possible.’ The waiter came and filled their glasses with wine. ‘Could you leave Archie behind?’
‘Of course I can,’ Celia answered without hesitation. ‘He disappears to Scotland from the 12th of August to shoot, stalk and fish and goodness knows what else. You both know how I feel about Scotland. I can leave him to his pleasure and I can take mine. Oh, do let’s. Harry, you can tell Charlotte that you have to go home to discuss family matters which don’t concern her. Boysie, you can tell Deirdre anything you like so long as you come on your own. You’re ingenious – you’ll think of something.’
The three of them raised their glasses. ‘To our last summer,’ they said.
Celia was forced to send Kitty a letter for there was yet to be a telephone line installed in Dunderry Castle. After that moment at the fair Kitty had not left the house for fear of seeing Michael Doyle again. She had lied to Robert about her sudden ‘turn’, explaining it away as an unexpected bout of claustrophobia. He had taken her home and returned later with Peter, who knew more about horses than he did, and chosen a fine grey mare which had delighted Kitty, not least because it meant she didn’t have to return to Ballinakelly.
When she received the letter from Celia her spirits lifted with excitement. She hurried into the nursery where Elspeth was playing with the children and announced that Celia, Harry and Boysie were coming to stay in August. ‘I can hardly wait!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘To think, we can all be together again. Just like old times.’
‘Except there’s no castle,’ said Elspeth sadly.
‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll all be together.’ She thought of Bridie suddenly and her heart gave a little wince. ‘Well, almost all. It doesn’t matter, we’ll have Celia and Harry and Boysie’s such fun. We can picnic on the beach, paddle in the water, ride out over the hills and do all the things we used to do.’ She sat down on the floor and drew little Jack into her arms. He was busy playing with a toy engine. ‘I must show Jack how to find nature spirits.’ She kissed his fat cheek. ‘I wonder whether he has the gift.’
Elspeth rolled her eyes. ‘You and your fanciful imagination,’ she said. But Kitty raked her fingers through the little boy’s red hair and wondered.
By the middle of March the White House was ready. Kitty moved in with Robert and little Jack and set about making it into a home. She left her dresses in the cupboard and spent most of the time in a pair of slacks with her sleeves rolled up, digging up the garden and planting seeds for vegetables and flowers. Her uncle Rupert had employed labourers, who had created and maintained beautiful gardens overlooking the sea, but Robert didn’t have the money to waste on unnecessary pleasures, so Kitty was forced to do it all herself. But she enjoyed getting her hands dirty and watching little Jack scouring the overturned earth for worms and snails. The two of them spent many hours watching the birds that came to nest in the hawthorn bushes and the rabbits that nibbled at the little green shoots just as soon as they came up. Jack especially loved the flowers and Kitty wondered whether he could see the little dancing lights that hovered around them. She couldn’t tell whether he sensed those happy spirits or whether it was the bees and butterflies that grabbed his attention.
Although Kitty was busy creating a home she could love, her thoughts were never far from Jack O’Leary. His face swam to the front of her mind in both memories and fantasies and instead of fighting them she let them come. It was impossible for her to be in Ireland without Jack being part of her world. Jack was Ireland and Ireland was Jack and the one was incomplete without the other. It was no use trying to restrain her feelings because she loved him in the same way she loved the soft rain, the craggy hills, the white sands and tempestuous sea: with her whole being.
Seeing Michael Doyle had opened a chamber in her memory that she had long ago sealed and now he too surfaced with his threatening face and ominous presence when she lost control of her thoughts. She had been struck by the murky aura that had surrounded him at the fair, as if he were an evil spirit trapped in a limbo like Egerton Deverill. But she sensed he was still very much alive and the thought of seeing him again struck her heart with fear. She wished she could overcome her terror
. She’d overcome so much already. But Miss Grieve’s unpleasantness was nothing compared with the violence of that morning at the farmhouse. He still lived in Ballinakelly and that marred the joy of her homecoming.
It wasn’t long, however, before her fears began to materialize. At first she thought she was seeing things, shadows and plays of light in the distant shrubbery that made her feel Michael was there, watching her. She retreated inside the house then peered like a spy from behind the curtain at her bedroom window. At night she lay in bed believing the wind rattling the glass was Michael climbing up the wall to steal in through the window and rape her all over again. She took to sleeping with Robert every night, curling up against him, which was the only place she really felt safe. When she gardened she asked Hetty to stay outside with her and, when the girl went inside to give little Jack his lunch, she dug with sweat on her brow and her heart thumping in her chest, keeping her eyes on the ground, telling herself she was just being silly: Michael wouldn’t dare to come here.
But Michael did dare. He strode up to the door one morning and rang the bell. Kitty hid and told Bridgeman to send him away. If he had the audacity to come to her door, what might he do next? In a fever of panic she sent the stable boy into Ballinakelly with a note for Jack. He must come to the house at once on the pretence of attending a lame horse. She needed his help and she needed it now.
Kitty waited, pacing the garden impatiently, wringing her hands. At last Jack’s small car trundled up the drive. She ran across the lawn to meet him. He climbed out and took off his cap. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Trench,’ he said, sliding his eyes to the house to see if they were being watched.
Songs of Love and War Page 40