Daughters of Castle Deverill (13 page)

Robert was stunned. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘That idea hadn’t occurred to me. Should it?’

She flushed beneath her weathered complexion. ‘You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill. I was simply out riding, as I always do. I wasn’t alarmed by the fog.’

‘I forbid you to ride out like that again. It’s dangerous.’

Kitty sighed impatiently. ‘Oh really, Robert. You’re sounding like my tutor again!’

‘When I was your tutor you were not obliged to obey me. Now I’m your husband, you are.’

‘I won’t be told,’ she snapped, making for the stairs.

‘Yes, you will. You have a little boy who depends on you,’ he reminded her. ‘And you have me, for better or for worse. I will not have you rampaging around the countryside in
the dark. You have the entire day at your disposal. Please do me the favour of riding during daylight hours. Surely, I’m not asking too much.’

Kitty, furious that he was telling her what to do and fired up with guilt about where she had been, was all too quick to inflame the argument. If she was angry with Robert it would make it all
the more easy to leave him. She marched up the stairs without looking back. Robert remained in the hall until she had disappeared, then he turned and limped into his study, slamming the door behind
him.

Kitty read Little Jack a story and tucked him up in bed. She planted a kiss on his soft forehead and savoured for as long as possible the feel of his small arms around her neck, holding her
close. Her heart mollified at the sight of him and, when Robert came in to say goodnight, she found it hard to maintain her sulk. However, she managed to eat her supper in silence. He attempted
conversation but she thwarted it with monosyllabic answers until he gave up and only the clinking of cutlery on their plates interrupted the heavily charged silence.

Kitty went to bed alone and turned off the light. Her thoughts shifted to leaving home again and she felt the familiar sense of despair. But just as she closed her eyes she heard the door open
and the sound of her husband’s shuffling walk as he limped into the bedroom. She wished he would see that she was asleep and leave, but he didn’t. He climbed in beside her and wrapped
his arms around her, drawing her against him. ‘I don’t want to fight with you, darling,’ he whispered. ‘I love you.’

His gentle voice lured her out of her brooding and her despair was at once laid aside. She rolled over and kissed him. She kissed him tenderly, and as she did so a tear squeezed through her
lashes, for, even as she knew she was betraying Jack, she knew also that she was being guided by a deeper longing. She didn’t try to understand it, nor attempt to justify it. But as she undid
the buttons of his pyjamas and glided her hand over his chest, she knew she was sealing her fate, whichever way it would go; it was in God’s hands now.

After New Year, Digby Deverill arrived in Ballinakelly with Archie and Celia to stay with his cousin Bertie at the Hunting Lodge. He hadn’t been back since
Adeline’s funeral, when Bertie had announced to the family that he was not only selling the castle but introducing them to his bastard son, Jack Deverill.
That
had been quite a
luncheon, Digby mused with a sardonic smile. Maud had stormed out and disappeared to London in a huff, bleating humiliation and hurt. Everyone else had been left speechless, which was quite
something for a noisy family such as theirs. Now, a few months later, he was able to reflect on the whole episode with wry amusement.

Digby loved Co. Cork. He remembered with affection his boyhood summers at Castle Deverill, when he and Bertie and Bertie’s younger brother Rupert, who was later killed in the Great War,
had taken the boat out to fish with Cousin Hubert, Bertie’s formidable father. Digby was not a natural fisherman, but he had loved the drama of the ocean, the mystery of what lay beneath it,
the wide horizon and the sense of being alone in the immense blue. He was fascinated by the local fishermen in their thick sweaters, caps and boots, their craggy faces weathered from years of
exposure to the salty winds, their dry hands calloused and coarse, and loved to listen to their banter when, at the end of the day, Bertie and Rupert would take him to O’Donovan’s in
Ballinakelly for a pint of stout. Cousin Hubert had preferred the comfort of his own home – and the security of his own kind. They would find him in the library at the Hunting Lodge (because
in those days Bertie’s grandparents lived in the castle), eating porter cake in front of the fire with his wolfhounds at his feet, hoping for crumbs. ‘Anyone for bridge?’
he’d ask, and Digby would always be the first to volunteer because there had been something about Cousin Hubert that had made him long for his good opinion.

Now Cousin Hubert was gone, killed in the fire that destroyed the castle. Adeline was gone too. It was a salutary thought and one that reconfirmed Digby’s belief that life has to be
grabbed by the collar and lived consciously, decisively and courageously, not the way Bertie was living his, drifting rudderless on a current of whiskey and disillusionment. Something had to be
done, and soon, or Bertie would be gone too and that would truly be the end of an era.

Digby had come to Co. Cork to meet Mr Leclaire, but he had also come with the secret intention of rousing his cousin out of his stupor. He knew he had to await his moment. Bertie had to be in
the right frame of mind to hear his advice, for there was always the danger that his cousin would take umbrage, for Bertie was a proud and fragile man, and the consequences could be dire.

While he waited for that elusive moment, Digby threw his enthusiasm into the plans for the castle. He’d seen the ruins the year before but he’d never taken the time to walk among
them. Now, with the effervescent Mr Leclaire leading the way through the rubble (and anticipating, with relish, his enormous bill), Digby wandered slowly from room to room like a dog sniffing for
the scent of his past. He found it lingering in the hall where the fireplace still stood, recalling with a wave of nostalgia the Summer Ball when he had stood there with his new wife, Beatrice, who
was seeing it for the first time. He remembered her face as clearly as if it had been yesterday. The wonder in it, the joy, the sheer delight at the beauty of the castle, lit up with hundreds of
candles and adorned with vast arrangements of flowers.

Mr Leclaire dragged him out of his reverie by urging him on through the hall into the remains of the drawing room. Shiny black crows hopped about the stones and squabbled among themselves. Mr
Leclaire pointed out the parts of the surviving walls which were still intact and the parts which were simply too weak and would have to be pulled down. He gesticulated extravagantly, waving his
arms in the air, while Celia chirped and chattered and thought his every suggestion ‘marvellous’. ‘I want it yesterday,’ she said in response to his every suggestion. Archie
watched closely for his father-in-law’s reaction, hoping that he’d approve,
wanting
him to approve.

‘We will use the original stone wherever possible, Sir Digby,’ said Mr Leclaire. ‘But where we are compelled to use new stone we will endeavour to match it as best we can. Mrs
Mayberry has suggested we buy old stone but I have explained, have I not, Mrs Mayberry, that the cost will soar considerably. Old stone is very dear.’

‘I’m sure Mr Mayberry would like an estimate for both, Mr Leclaire,’ said Digby. He smiled at his daughter and Celia slipped her hand around his arm, for she knew from
experience what that smile meant: she’d have her old stone one way or another.

As they moved through the ruins towards the surviving western tower where Adeline had set up residence after Hubert was gone, Celia noticed a pair of grubby faces watching them from behind a
wall. She nudged Archie. ‘Look, we’re being spied on,’ she whispered. Archie followed the line of her vision. There, partly hidden among the stones, were two little boys. As soon
as they realized they had been spotted their faces disappeared.

‘Who are they?’ Archie asked.

‘Local boys, I imagine. They must be very curious. After all, this castle has dominated Ballinakelly for centuries.’

‘Don’t you think we should say something? They’re trespassing. There’s a perfectly good sign by the gate telling them this is private property and trespassers will be
prosecuted.’

‘Darling, they don’t care about a sign. They’re children.’ She laughed, rummaging in her handbag for some chocolate. Finding a half-eaten bar, she weaved her way through
the debris and ash to where the boys were hiding. ‘Hello, you two monkeys,’ she said, leaning over with a smile. Startled, they stared up at her with wide, frightened eyes, like a pair
of cornered foxes. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to be cross. Here, it’s hungry work being spies.’ She held out the chocolate in her gloved
hand. They gazed at it warily. ‘Go on. Aren’t you hungry?’ The larger of the two boys held out his dirty fingers and took it. ‘What are your names?’ she asked.

The elder boy unwrapped the chocolate and took a bite. ‘Séamus O’Leary,’ he replied in a strong Irish brogue. ‘This is my little brother, Éamon
Óg.’ He elbowed his brother, who was staring at the otherworldly glamour of this English lady with his mouth agape. The diamonds in her ears sparkled like nothing he had ever seen
before. As his brother speared him in the ribs he closed his mouth and blinked, but he was unable to tear his gaze away.

‘I used to play as a little girl with a boy called O’Leary. Jack O’Leary,’ said Celia. ‘He must be related to you.’

‘He’s our cousin,’ said Séamus. ‘His da just died,’ he added, enjoying the taste of chocolate on his tongue.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Celia.

At that moment, Archie called to her. ‘Darling, we’re going back now to look at the plans.’

‘You’d better run home before Lord Deverill sees you,’ she said to the boys. They scurried off without a word, disappearing behind the western tower. Celia returned to
Bertie’s car where Mr Leclaire was standing with Digby, looking up at the front door.
‘Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum,’
said Mr Leclaire, reading the inscription
still visible in the charred remains of the stone.

‘Now it’s Celia’s kingdom,’ said Digby.

‘I’ll be a beneficent landlord,’ she said, striding over the grass with Archie. ‘Once the castle is finished I’ll throw a small party for the people of
Ballinakelly. It will mark a new beginning.’

‘The people of Ballinakelly have always been loyal to the Deverills,’ said Digby. ‘The fire wasn’t their doing but the actions of Irish nationalists from other parts of
the county, certainly not from here. I’m sure the people of Ballinakelly will be delighted to see it restored to its former splendour. Now, let’s go and have a look at those plans, Mr
Leclaire.’ They climbed into the car, and, with Digby at the wheel, driving much too fast in his usual daredevil manner, they made their way back to the Hunting Lodge.

It wasn’t until the last day of Digby’s stay that his moment came to talk to Bertie. During the fortnight Digby had watched his cousin closely. He lacked enthusiasm for anything. His
heart had been sapped of its juice, his
joie de vivre
turned sour, as if life had disappointed him to the point where he resented fun. He had only gone shooting once and that was because
Digby had persuaded him to. They had tramped out with the dogs and shot some snipe, but Bertie had found little enjoyment in the sport he once loved. Pleasure was no longer part of his experience
but something enjoyed by other people and he begrudged them for it. The only time he had grown animated was when Kitty had brought his son Little Jack over to see him. The child had the natural
charm of the Deverills, Digby thought, and he was certain that Bertie could see himself in the boy, the carefree exuberance that he had lost. Otherwise, his cousin drank too much and oftentimes was
so distracted that it was impossible even to converse with him.

As it was Digby’s last day in Co. Cork, Bertie could not deny him an excursion on the boat. The weather was fine, warm even for January, and the sea calm. It was the perfect day to take
the boat out, Digby exclaimed heartily, hoping to inject his cousin with enthusiasm. Bertie agreed, reluctantly, and the two of them set off for the harbour where Bertie’s boat was moored
– Digby in an eye-catching yellow-and-brown Tattersall jacket, waistcoat and breeches, thick yellow socks and matching cap, Bertie in a more discreet tweed suit. Digby waited for the jokes at
his expense but Bertie wasn’t forthcoming. He had lost his sense of humour too.

Once out on the sea Digby seized his moment. ‘Now listen here, old chap,’ he began, and Bertie listened because there was nothing else to do but watch his fishing line and wait for
it to tremble. ‘You’ve had a tough couple of years, there’s no doubt about it,’ said Digby. ‘You’ve suffered terrible losses: the castle, your parents and Maud.
But you cannot dwell on the negatives or you’ll drown in them. You have to think positively and pull yourself back from the brink. You understand what I’m saying?’ Bertie nodded
without taking his eyes off the fishing line, or somewhere thereabouts. Digby realized he had made no impression but pressed on valiantly. ‘What’s the core of the problem, Bertie, old
chap? It’s me, Digby, you’re talking to. Eh? Your cousin and friend. I see you’re in trouble and I want to help.’ Still no response. Digby felt his resolve deflate. Like
most Englishmen he wasn’t good at talking about emotions and rather dreaded having to. But he sensed his cousin’s survival depended on him somehow and was determined to press on even
though he had rarely felt so uncomfortable. He decided to try another tack. ‘You remember when we were boys? Your father used to take us out on this very boat and teach us to fish. Of course,
he made no headway with me.’ Digby chuckled joylessly. ‘I’ve never been the sporting type.’

To his surprise memories began to rouse Bertie from his languor. The corners of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. ‘You were pretty useless on a horse too,’ he
said.

Encouraged, Digby continued to delve into the adventures of their boyhood. ‘Hubert always claimed to give me a gentle horse, but one look at me and the bloody animal was off. I think he
gave me the highly strung ones on purpose.’