Daughters of Castle Deverill (61 page)

‘Which would you like?’ Bertie asked Martha who was gazing at the cakes with wide, delighted eyes.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied, moving her fingers up and down the plates indecisively before settling on an egg and watercress sandwich on the lowest level.

‘That’s
my
favourite,’ said JP, reaching out to take one for himself. The two young people grinned at each other as JP popped his sandwich into his mouth and Martha
took a small bite of hers.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ said JP, when he had finished it. Martha nodded.

‘How would you like your tea, Mrs Goodwin?’’ Bertie asked.

‘With a slice of lemon, please,’ she replied. ‘Martha likes milk. Lots of milk. In fact, there’s more milk in her tea than tea.’

JP laughed. ‘That’s just how I like it too,’ he said, frowning at Martha, astonished that two strangers should have so much in common.

‘How extraordinary,’ said Mrs Goodwin, enjoying herself immensely. ‘I don’t know anyone who likes their tea as milky as Martha does.’

Bertie poured the tea. JP and Martha filled their cups to the brim with milk, taking pleasure in this shared idiosyncrasy that immediately bonded them. The conversation continued as they drank
their tea and ate their sandwiches. A while later Bertie was giving them a list of all the interesting things they should see in Dublin when JP and Martha’s hands reached for the same
chocolate sponge cake on the top level of the cake stand. They laughed as their fingers collided over the plate and withdrew as if scalded. ‘We like the same cakes too,’ said JP softly,
gazing at Martha with tenderness.

‘But there’s only one left,’ said Mrs Goodwin.

‘Then we shall share it,’ said JP. He put the cake on his plate and lifted the silver knife to cut it. Martha watched him slice it in two, now dizzy with infatuation. ‘Half for
you,’ he said, placing one piece on the plate in front of her. ‘The other half for me,’ he added. And they lifted the small pieces to their lips and smiled at each other as if
they were conspirators, sharing in a secret plot, and popped them into their mouths.

Ballinakelly

The air was thick and stuffy in the snug, arranged as it was at one end of O’Donovan’s public house and partitioned by a dividing wooden wall, which didn’t
quite reach the ceiling. The cigarette smoke and body heat from the men next door flowed freely over the top of the partition, along with the sweet smell of stout and the sound of deep voices. Set
aside for the women (for women were not permitted in the public house), this was where the six elderly members of the Legion of Mary, known as the Weeping Women of Jerusalem behind their backs, met
every week, sitting in a line along the bench like a row of hens in a hen house.

There were the Two Nellies: Nellie Clifford and Nellie Moxley, Mag Keohane, who was always accompanied by her dog, Didleen, Joan Murphy, Maureen Hurley and Kit Downey. The Legion of Mary
dedicated themselves to caring for the poor. They would cook them meals, take the elderly to Mass and stay in their houses if they needed nursing. Their weekly treat was to sit in the snug at
O’Donovan’s and have a glass of Bulmer’s Cidona or a Little Norah orange crush. Mrs O’Donovan would put a lump of ice in each glass, as she had an icebox, and provide a
plate of Mikado and Kimberley biscuits which she couldn’t sell on account of them being broken. The greatest luxury, however, was that she allowed them to use her flushing lavatory upstairs.
‘’Tis America at home, girl,’ Mag Keohane had said to Mrs O’Donovan the first time she used it. ‘You’re a lucky woman not to have to brave the elements to do
your business and all you have to do is pull the old chain and the lot disappears. God help us, ’tis a wonder we haven’t pneumonia from going out with the old chamber pot in the middle
of winter.’ The Weeping Women of Jerusalem used it, even when they didn’t need to, just for the thrill.

‘Can you believe that Bridie Doyle bought the castle?’ said Nellie Clifford now, nibbling her Mikado biscuit. ‘I remember laying out her poor dead father, God rest his soul,
when she was a little thing of nine.’

‘She’s come a long way from the streets of Ballinakelly,’ agreed Nellie Moxley, sipping her orange crush. ‘She’s a countess now, which they tell me is a fine thing
to be. Indeed, she’s made a healthy donation to our Legion, God rain his blessings on her.’

‘Her new husband is eaten alive with money. A fine-looking man even if he has a foreign look about him,’ said Joan Murphy.

‘They say that foreign cows wear long horns,’ said Kit Downey with a grin.

‘I’m not one to say, but I hear he has an eye for the ladies, God save us. Nonie Begley is a receptionist at the Shelbourne and says that when he stays there he has a regular
lady,’ said Joan Murphy.

Nellie Moxley leapt to his defence. ‘Maybe that’s a sister or a relative.’

But Nellie Clifford was quick to put her straight. ‘You’re as innocent as the suckling child, Nellie. That was no sister, girl. It’s none other than Lady Rowan-Hampton.’
The women gasped in unison. ‘They were in the dining room holding hands and making sheep’s eyes at each other.’

‘Merciful Jaysus, the maids at her place said that Michael Doyle was a regular visitor there when the master was abroad, and that he would swagger into the hall, king of all he
surveyed.’ The women shook their heads and clicked their tongues with disapproval.

‘But what does Lord Deverill make of the new mistress of the castle?’ Mag Keohane asked. ‘She was the daughter of the cook and now she owns the place.’

‘Hope for us all,’ cackled Kit Downey.

‘I heard that Kitty Deverill swore like a sailor when she heard the news.’

‘God save us!’ muttered Nellie Moxley.

‘That Michael Doyle will be above himself now. I suppose they’ll all be after moving into the castle.’

‘I heard that Mariah won’t be leaving her home for love nor money,’ said Kit Downey.

‘She’s a good woman, is Mariah. As for Old Mrs Nagle, it won’t be long now,’ said Nellie Moxley. There was silence for a moment as they spared their thoughts for poor Mrs
Doyle and Old Mrs Nagle.

Then Nellie Clifford put her glass on the long shelf which ran along the partition in front of them. ‘It’s poor Bridie Doyle we should be praying for. She might have married a rich
man but, mark my words, she’ll be paying for it. By Christmas he’ll have a girl in every corner of the county.’

A head suddenly poked through the gap at the top of the partition. ‘Ye are great with the prayers, girls. An example to us all. Will I walk ye home in case some blaggard tries to waylay
one of ye?’

‘Get away with you, Badger, and stop codding us,’ said Kit Downey. ‘We have miraculous medals and we are like nuns, we travel in twos for safety and we have Mag’s Didleen
to protect us. She’d tear him limb from limb, God save the mark.’ Badger’s chest rattled.

‘That’s a graveyard cough if ever I heard it,’ said Mag Keohane.

‘I’ll tell you something, girl,’ retorted Badger with a grin. ‘There’s many in the graveyard who would be glad of it.’

Just then a hush came over the pub as a cold wind swept in through the open door. ‘It’s none other than the Count,’ Badger hissed and his woolly head disappeared behind the
partition.

‘The Count,’ said Nellie Clifford, making her mouth into an O shape as she took in a long gasp. The six women strained their ears to hear what he was saying.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ Mrs O’Donovan asked behind the bar.

‘I have just arrived on the train from Dublin. I would like a cab to take me up to the castle.’

There was a shuffle as the hackney cabbies looked at one another, not wanting to rush their drinks.

‘Why don’t ye stay for a stout and a game of cards,’ ventured Badger Hanratty. ‘You’re not in a great hurry, are ye? Then one of these good men will drive you
up.’

The women heard the Count laugh. ‘A glass of stout and a game of cards? Why not? Dinner can wait. So, what are we playing?’ There ensued a scraping of chairs as he made himself
comfortable at one of the tables. A moment later he added in a loud, exuberant voice, ‘Madam, a drink for every man in the house.’ And a roar of appreciation rose up as the men hurried
to the bar to order more stout.

‘God save us, they’ll be legless and good for nothing,’ said Nellie Moxley, shaking her head.

‘He knows how to win hearts in Ballinakelly,’ said Joan Murphy with a smile. ‘I can’t wait to see what happens next.’

As I continue to follow the lives of Kitty, Celia and Bridie, I continue to rely on my dear friend and consultant Tim Kelly for research and guidance. Our regular meetings,
over porter cake and cups of Bewley’s tea, have provided me with entertainment as well as information and his wonderful stories keep me laughing long after he has left my house. I am so
grateful to my books for they have given me a great friend in Tim.

I would like to thank my mother, Patty Palmer-Tomkinson, for reading the first draft and editing out all the grammatical errors and ill-chosen words, thus saving my editor at Simon &
Schuster from what is probably the least interesting part of her job! My mother is patient and enthusiastic and her advice is always wise. She’s also a very intuitive person and a sound judge
of character, I have learned a lot from her. I’d also like to thank my father because I wouldn’t be writing these books if I hadn’t had the magical childhood they gave me in the
most beautiful corner of England. Everything that goes into my work flows directly from them.

Writing a scene about the Derby was always going to be a challenge, but I would not have attempted it without the help of David Watt. Thank you so much, Watty, for reading it through and
correcting it – and for suggesting many ways to improve it.

Thank you Emer Melody, Frank Lyons and Peter Nyhan for your warm Irish encouragement and Julia Twigg for helping me research Johannesburg.

My agent, Sheila Crowley, deserves an enormous thank you. She’s the best agent a writer can have because she’s there when I need a counsellor, when I need a friend, when I need a
strategist and when I need a warrior. Quite simply, she’s always there when I need her Full Stop. Her mantra ‘onwards and upwards’ reflects her positive and determined attitude
and every time she says it I’m grateful that she’s taking me with her!

Working with Sheila at Curtis Brown are Katie McGowan, Rebecca Ritchie, Abbie Greaves, Alice Lutyens and Luke Speed and I thank them all for working so hard on my behalf.

I’m so fortunate to be published by Simon & Schuster. I feel that it’s a family and that I belong there. I’d like to thank them all for turning my career around in 2011
with my first
Sunday Times
bestseller and for continuing to put such dedication and drive into publishing my books. A massive thank you to my editor-in-chief, Suzanne Baboneau, for editing
my novels with such good-judgement and tact. The manuscript is always hugely improved by her appraisal and pruning and my confidence lifted by her enthusiasm and encouragement. I thank Ian Chapman
for being the wind in my sails, or should I say sales! I thank him for giving me that break five years ago and for turning my books into the successes that I’d always hoped they would be.
I’d also like to thank Clare Hey, my editor, and the brilliant team she works with, for putting so much energy into my books. They all do a fantastic job and I’m so grateful to every
one of them: Dawn Burnett, Toby Jones, Emma Harrow, Ally Grant, Gill Richardson, Laura Hough, Dominic Brendon and Sally Wilks.

My husband, Sebag, has been key in plotting the Deverill Chronicles with me and encouraging me to challenge myself by venturing off my familiar path. He’s so busy with his own books but he
took the trouble to read through the manuscript and share his ideas. I’m glad I took his advice because I believe I have written something that will really entertain my readers – I have
certainly entertained myself in writing it. He’s my most cherished friend, my most honest critic, my most loyal ally and my greatest supporter. Thanks to Sebag I believe I am the best I can
be.

And finally thank you to my daughter Lily and my son Sasha for giving me joy, laughter and love.