Songs of Love and War (22 page)

‘I think it was entirely predictable, my dear,’ said Adeline patiently. ‘If it hadn’t been for the clumsy way the British dealt with the rebels after the Rising, Sinn
Féin wouldn’t have won the country’s support. I suspect the tide is going to turn now and the British will be swept away on the current.’

Maud returned to Cork for Christmas and the Hunting Lodge was inhabited once again. The dust sheets were lifted, the windows opened and the servants reinstalled to scrub and
polish, dust and clean. Maud dismissed Mr Trench. Kitty was eighteen now, she explained, and required a husband, not a tutor, although she didn’t think the former would be so easily found
considering that the majority of eligible young men had been slaughtered on the battlefi eld. Mr Trench’s face darkened with regret and for a moment he looked as if he might break down. Maud
was appalled. She couldn’t imagine how the young man had grown fond of such a wilful and rude child as Kitty. But before he could offer himself Maud added that there were bound to be suitably
aristocratic men in London who hadn’t been lost on the front lines. ‘We’ll be returning to London soon and I’m sure the matter will be resolved very quickly.’

When Mr Trench said goodbye to Kitty he looked defeated. Kitty thanked him politely for everything he had taught her. ‘You are a very intelligent young woman,’ he told her. ‘I
hope you don’t waste your fine intellect but put it to good use.’

‘Oh, I will, Mr Trench. I hope you have a safe journey back to England.’

Mr Trench let down his guard for a moment. His lips paled, his cheeks drained of colour and his brown eyes seemed to darken like damp suede. ‘Be safe,’ he said, and his voice,
usually so clear and strong, broke. ‘Ireland is a dangerous place, Kitty, and I’d hate you to come to harm.’

‘I will be safe,’ Kitty reassured him firmly. ‘I am Irish. No one is going to harm
me
.’

‘That’s not what Mr Murphy thought when he threw his potato.’

Kitty gave a sigh. She really couldn’t be bothered to explain and wished he’d get on and finish saying goodbye. ‘Perhaps the potato was meant for
you,
Mr Trench. Did you
not think of that?’ Mr Trench didn’t know how to respond. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it, seeing as you’re leaving us. I do hope to see you again someday.
You’d better hurry or you’ll miss your train.’ She gave him her hand and he took it, surrendering to her. Unhappily he climbed into the Daimler, now driven by a chauffeur, and
allowed himself to be parted from the woman he had grown to love.

Bertie and Harry returned to their old ways, chasing hares and shooting snipe, fishing on the sea and hunting with the Ballinakelly Foxhounds. Harry, who had never much liked
hunting, now rode as often as possible because the thrill of the gallop forced him into the moment, which was the only place he was liberated from his thoughts. And then there was his valet Joseph
who crept into his bed to hold him when the night terrors rose out of the dark to grab him by the throat.

Bertie disappeared for hours, returning late, his skin reeking of Grace’s tuberose perfume he no longer bothered to disguise. He rarely spoke to his wife and so she created little dramas
to force his attention. Bertie drank more to drown out the noise she made and little by little Grace began to grow weary of her lover’s descent into intoxication. Sir Ronald had tolerated her
affairs in the past, so long as they were conducted with discretion – after all he had mistresses of his own in both Dublin
and
London – but now Bertie was becoming increasingly
reckless and threatening to tarnish their reputation. ‘If he can’t control his drink,’ Sir Ronald told his wife, ‘you will have to find another man to amuse you for I will
not have our good name sullied.’ Grace gave Bertie an ultimatum. He had to choose between her and the bottle. But Bertie didn’t think he could live without either.

After Christmas there were the usual hunt meets and hunt balls, point to points and social gatherings that gave structure and meaning to the lives of the Anglo-Irish. The country was in a fine
state of celebration, and those to whom their sons, brothers and fathers were returned had much to be grateful for. However, while Castle Deverill reverberated with music and laughter the Irish
fight for freedom went on beyond its border.

On 22nd January 1919 Hubert was reading the
Irish Times
over breakfast when his moustache began to twitch with indignation. ‘
The Assembly gave the British
Government a formal notice to quit and proclaimed this country’s complete independence
,’ Hubert read in disbelief. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ he gasped. ‘They
won’t get away with it, y’know.’

‘I fear they will do terrible things to get their way,’ said Adeline calmly.

‘One would have thought they had learned their lesson after the Rising,’ said Hubert. ‘The British won’t accept it.’

‘My darling,’ said Adeline. ‘The Volunteers are growing in numbers thanks to the foolish attempt by the British Government to conscript them into the war. They’re gaining
support all over Ireland. Right here in Ballinakelly, too. I fear there will be civil war—’

Hubert cut her off. ‘I’ll deal with the traitors myself if I hear a whiff of support from anyone in
my
employ. I demand loyalty to our king and country.’ His face had
now turned the colour of a beetroot.

‘You can raise your fist and stamp your foot all you like, my dear, but you won’t stop the Irish wanting to govern themselves.’

‘They’re Bolshevists,’ he continued with a grunt. ‘Can’t they see what the bloody idiots have done in Russia? That’s no way to run a country. It’s the
way to
ruin
a country.’

‘They’re idealists, Hubert.’

‘Immature dreamers, more like. Any fool can see what Ireland will become if they get their way. They’ll destroy agriculture, industry, religion, law and order. We’ll be living
in a quagmire of lawlessness and papism. It’s a disgrace. A bloody disgrace!’

Adeline wandered into the garden. She had had enough of her husband’s huffing and puffing. It was icy cold but the sky was a clear, watery blue. She inhaled the fresh sea air and watched a
robin perch on the bird table to eat the seed she put out for them. Thrusting her hands into her pockets she wandered across the grass, her footsteps crunching on the frost, her keen eye taking in
the yew hedges and shrubs that looked like they were sprinkled with a thin dusting of icing sugar. She loved Ireland with all her heart and it pained her to think of the violence breaking out
across the country in the name of nationalism. She understood Ireland’s desire for independence, but why did they have to resort to bloodshed to achieve it? Sometimes she thought it would be
safer to leave but that would be defeatist. They belonged at Castle Deverill. Love would always bind them to it.

As she made her way to one of the greenhouses, she noticed a group of ragged children at the door. They were stuffing things into their mouths in great haste. At first she thought they were
consuming plants, for what else was there at this time of the year? But then she saw the hunks of bread in their fingers. She quickened her pace, fearing those tinkers and remembering what had
happened to poor Tomas Doyle. As she approached, one of them saw her and nudged his friends. In a moment they had run off like frightened rabbits, disappearing over the vegetable-garden wall. With
her heart beating frantically she peered round the door frame. Evidence of their feast was plain to see in the row of empty plates. Barely a crumb remained. But who was putting food out for them?
It didn’t take her long to work it out. There was only one other person in the family who cared for the poor as much as she did.

‘Kitty, I believe you have been feeding children in the greenhouse,’ she said later when her granddaughter came to the castle for tea.

Kitty looked momentarily guilty. ‘I have,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. The poor mites are so hungry. I can’t bear to see a hungry
child.’

Adeline smiled indulgently. ‘You should have said. Why don’t we organize something in one of the farm barns, rather than encouraging the children to trespass on the castle grounds?
You know what your grandfather is like. If he gets wind of it I can’t guarantee he won’t fire at them like rats and we wouldn’t want
that
on our consciences!’

‘We could talk to the school. Perhaps we can organize hot-soup lunches once or twice a week?’

‘We could get the Shrubs involved. It would give them something to do,’ Adeline suggested.

‘That’s a capital idea, Grandma.’

‘And Grace Rowan-Hampton. She’s already giving children free English lessons. I think we should rally the ladies of Ballinakelly. It’s our responsibility to look after those
who don’t have the means to feed themselves. Grace is a life force. We need women like her. Women who get things done.’

Kitty stiffened. She hadn’t seen Grace since the fair the previous spring. ‘Yes, Grandma,’ she said. ‘She’s certainly a woman who gets what she wants.’ Her
remark was lost on Adeline who was already thinking of the other ladies she could approach. ‘We must make ourselves useful,’ she said with deliberation. ‘And be seen doing
it,’ she added craftily.

Kitty wandered back to the Hunting Lodge with a heavy heart. She really didn’t want Grace involved in their soup kitchen. Her grandmother was the most perceptive of women; why hadn’t
she noticed how devious Grace was? That beneath her sugary coating she was a manipulative, conniving seductress? When she reached the house she went upstairs and threw herself onto her bed with a
sigh. A moment later there came a light knocking on the door. She knew from habit that it was Bridie. ‘Come in,’ she called.

Bridie opened the door. She didn’t have much time to gossip with Kitty now that Elspeth had returned to Cork, for she had to look after the two of them. ‘I have news,’ she said
in a low voice, hurrying over to the bed.

‘What news?’ Kitty asked, propping herself up on her elbow.

‘It’s Miss Elspeth. She’s being courted by Mr MacCartain.’

‘Peter MacCartain?’

‘Yes, that’s him.’

Kitty sat up. ‘Goodness. How did you find out?’

Bridie flushed. ‘Because he just came to the back door asking for her.’

‘The
back
door?’

‘Miss Elspeth winked at me and put her finger over her lips.’

‘Mama will kill her if she finds out.’ Kitty grinned. ‘Well, I’m happy for her. I didn’t think she was cut out for a convent.’

‘I think she’s in love, Kitty. Her face was all pink and smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.’

‘I’m astonished she’s managed to hide it from Mama.’ Kitty lay down on the bed again and sighed heavily.

‘What’s the matter, Kitty?’ Bridie asked, perching on the end. ‘You’re not missing Mr Trench, are you now?’

‘Mr Trench? Goodness, Bridie, whatever gave you that idea?’

‘So, you’re not in love with him?’

‘In love with him? With Mr Trench?’ Kitty sat up again. ‘I couldn’t be less in love with him. He’s the dullest man I’ve ever met.’

Bridie frowned. ‘Then what’s all the sighing for?’

Kitty laughed. ‘You thought I was sighing over Mr Trench?’

‘Well, you’ve been sighing a lot recently.’

‘I think I’d have to be desperate to want to marry Mr Trench.’

Bridie looked at her seriously. ‘Do you ever think of marriage, Kitty?’

‘Sometimes,’ Kitty said dismissively as if it was of no importance. ‘Do you?’

Bridie smiled shyly. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Who would you like to marry, Bridie?’ Bridie looked down at her fingers nervously. Kitty narrowed her eyes. ‘There is someone, isn’t there?’ She was appalled that
she hadn’t noticed. ‘Tell me, who is he? Does he love you back?’

Bridie’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘I don’t think he loves me back, Kitty. But I know he likes me, which is a start, isn’t it?’

‘Is it one of the servants? Is it John McGivern?’ she asked, referring to the second footman.

‘No!’ Bridie screwed up her nose. ‘It’s Jack.’

Kitty stared at Bridie. So deft was she at keeping secrets that her face gave away nothing of the horror she felt at Bridie’s confession. ‘Jack O’Leary?’ she said.

‘The very same.’

‘How long have you loved him?’

‘Years and years,’ Bridie replied and her face flowered into a faraway smile. ‘I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I thought you’d laugh.’

‘Why would I laugh?’

‘Because I’m not good enough for the likes of him. His mother would want better for Jack.’

‘Has he given you any encouragement?’ Kitty asked, averting her eyes because she felt bad for asking when she already knew the answer.

‘No.’ Bridie lowered her eyes. ‘But we’re friends, so . . .’ She gave a helpless shrug.

‘Oh Bridie,’ Kitty sighed, sitting up again. ‘Do you think it’s wise to pin your hopes on someone you might not be able to have?’

‘There’s no one else, Kitty. No one else like Jack.’ Bridie’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I’d follow him to the ends of the earth, I would.’

‘Does he know?’

‘He does not.’

‘Does anyone else know?’

‘No.’

Kitty took a deep breath, trying to think what advice she would give were she not in love with Jack herself. ‘Surely there must be someone else in Ballinakelly?’

Bridie shook her head. ‘Jack’s not like the others.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he is,’ said Kitty.

Bridie put her hand on Kitty’s knee. ‘One day you’ll know what it is to love a man like I love Jack. I hope you’ll be luckier than me, Kitty.’

When Bridie left, Kitty flopped back onto her pillows again, in despair. She put her hand to her forehead and groaned. What a mess! The irony was that neither of them could have Jack. Bridie was
too low born, Kitty too high. If her mother baulked at the idea of Elspeth marrying Peter MacCartain how would she feel about Kitty marrying Jack O’Leary? Maud had no interest in her
daughters for themselves but for how they reflected on
her.
Victoria, Countess of Elmrod, enabled her to hold up her head in London society. Elspeth MacCartain would bring her shame. Kitty
O’Leary would finish her off completely. The thought made Kitty laugh out loud. But it was a hollow, miserable laugh. And what of her father? She stopped laughing. He was too busy drinking
himself into oblivion in the arms of Lady Rowan-Hampton to notice what his daughters got up to.