Songs of Love and War (29 page)

Kitty was sorry to see her brother leave. She had enjoyed having him at home. Not only was he good company, but he was a vital buffer between her and her mother. While Harry was around Maud was
blind to everyone else. Kitty embraced him fiercely and in that very physical moment when brother and sister held each other close, Kitty felt the intensity of their secrets bond them even tighter.
Reluctantly, she let him go. ‘Write to me, won’t you, Harry?’ she asked and he nodded, his eyes straying a moment behind her as if he was unwilling to leave the house. She waved
as he sped off down the drive to take the boat across the water to Wales. She caught sight of her mother’s hard profile as she looked ahead, her face impassive; there was nothing to keep her
in Ireland any more. Then they were gone.

When Kitty turned to walk into the house she saw Joseph’s sad face gazing out of one of the upstairs windows. He was quite still, his skin translucent behind the glass, like the ghosts of
Deverill heirs staring out onto their loss. She wondered whether in the vastness of London Harry would find his secret easier to bear. Whether he’d unearth others like him. Perhaps there were
many lost men seeking solace and acceptance out there in the metropolis. She pitied the woman who would give him her hand, because he would never give her his heart.

Bertie knew that Grace was avoiding him. She declined invitations to dine at the Hunting Lodge and spent increasingly more time in Dublin. Ronald took regular trips to London,
which frustrated Bertie because, had he and Grace still been lovers, those weeks could have been spent together. He missed her dreadfully. He missed the smell of her, the soft timbre of her voice,
the bubbling warmth of her laugh. With his wife gone the heavy atmosphere had lifted in the Hunting Lodge. It was as if the building had been holding its breath and could at last breathe easily
again. Summer flowered into long sunny days and balmy nights. Bertie slept with the windows wide open and the sweet smells from the garden rose on the air to torment him, for everything beautiful
reminded him of Grace.

Kitty was a comfort to him, accompanying him out riding, playing tennis and joining him and his parents for games of whist and bridge up at the castle. His daughter did much to take his mind off
his aching heart. Occasionally, when the desire took him, Bridie did much to take his mind off his aching loins.

Then, in mid-summer, Bridie appeared white-faced and white-lipped at the library door. She knocked so quietly he didn’t hear her at first. On her second attempt he turned to see her
standing small and trembling, eyes on the floor as if too frightened to look at him.

‘What is it, Bridget?’ he asked impatiently. He didn’t appreciate her turning up like this.

‘May I speak with you, sir?’

He sighed. It wasn’t her place to interrupt his work. ‘Come in,’ he said. He didn’t notice her flinch at his uncaring tone.

‘It’s a private matter, sir.’

‘Then close the door behind you.’ He was irritated. It was all very well taking her every now and again, but for her to come and demand his attention when he was busy at his desk was
not part of the arrangement. ‘What is it?’ He noticed her cheeks flush weakly like the remaining embers of a fire, before dying away.

She picked at the skin around her thumbnail. ‘I’m . . .’

‘You’re what?’ he asked.

‘I’m . . .’ She hesitated and he knew. Of course he knew. He should have known the moment she stepped into the doorway. He stood up and went to the cold fireplace. Placing his
hands on the mantelpiece he stared into the void.

‘You’re with child.’ His voice was a whisper but she heard the words as if they were the sound of church bells.

She swallowed her fear. ‘I am, sir,’ she replied.

Bertie felt the room spin and gripped the mantelpiece to steady himself. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Why hadn’t he been more careful? At last he turned to face her, eyes
dropping to her belly concealed behind her white apron. ‘Are you showing yet?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure you’re with child?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘How do you know it’s mine?’

Her lips parted and her cheeks burned with the light of a rekindled fire. ‘Because you are the only one, sir,’ she replied, astonished that he might think otherwise.

Bertie sniffed, unconvinced. ‘One can’t be too sure, you know.’

Bridie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘There will never be another but you, Mr Deverill.’

‘Yes yes, well, that’s all very well.’ Bertie didn’t know what to say.

‘What shall I do?’ She began to cry.

Bertie was now uncomfortable. Under normal circumstances he wasn’t good with women’s tears, especially women of Bridie’s class. Servants were not his department. ‘Does
anyone else know about this?’

She shook her head vigorously, horrified by the suggestion. ‘No!’

Bertie was relieved. ‘Good. This must be our secret, Bridget. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He wished the problem would just go away. Then he was struck by an idea. ‘I will send you to Dublin,’ he suggested, feeling a little better. ‘Yes, I’ll find you somewhere
to go in Dublin. You can have the baby there. No one here will know anything about it. You can tell your family that I have found you a good position in the city, working for a cousin who is in
need of a lady’s maid. You can say it’s a promotion. I’ll arrange for the child to be given to a convent. Isn’t that what one does with illegitimate children? Then you can
come back. It will be as if nothing has happened.’

Bridie’s legs began to shake. She wasn’t sure she could stand much longer. She stared at him in horror and disbelief. He was going to give her baby . . .
their
baby, away? The
words echoed around her head but sounded distant and hard, like an echo from a stone thrown into a deep well.

Bertie watched her staring at him with her dark eyes as big as black holes and wondered what he had said to offend her. ‘Is that all?’ he asked, returning to his desk.

Bridie’s heart was crushed by his coldness. She tried to speak but nothing escaped her throat besides her hot, shallow breathing. He sat down and picked up his pen. Afraid to remain a
moment longer in his presence, she fled.

Bertie looked up to find she had gone. He took a fresh piece of paper. There was only one person to whom he could turn in such sensitive circumstances. One person he could trust above all
others. He began to write in his neat, looped hand.
My dearest Grace
. . .

Kitty walked down the main street in Ballinakelly. Her chin up, her gaze idle and wandering. She held a box in her hands containing a pair of shoes, a gun and a small amount of
ammunition. Occasionally she nodded as she passed an acquaintance, but mostly she allowed her eyes to browse the shops to give the impression that she had nowhere in particular to go – that
she was carefree, aimless and most importantly above suspicion.

It was a blustery summer’s day. It was lucky that she had pinned her hat firmly to her head to stop it flying away. Kitty held on to the shoebox, pressing the lid down with her hand, aware
of the consequences should the contents be revealed. She had ridden into town in the pony and trap, taking pleasure from the deep red fuchsia growing wild in the hedges along with the habitual
sight of crimson petticoats and white breeches hanging up to dry among them. She had hummed to herself as her excitement mounted. Every covert mission fired her up like a steam train, propelling
her forwards, leading her into adventure and intrigue and closer to Jack – always closer to Jack. Kitty believed she had been born for
this
.

As she walked towards the Catholic church of All Saints she began to get nervous. It was perfectly normal for her to be seen wandering around town, but why would a Protestant woman be making her
way towards the Catholic church? She hummed to herself again to hide the sound of her heart which beat against her ribs like a drum of war. She thought of Jack’s sweet, earnest face, and the
fear in his eyes at the thought of losing her gave her courage and she strode on, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth. She could taste the salt from the sea, or was it fear drying on her
tongue? She had done this many times before, but never to the Catholic church. It had been Michael’s idea. She wondered suddenly whether he had deliberately sent her on a fatal mission
because he wanted her to get caught. As she strode on she wondered whether arrogance had made her inconsiderate of the dangers.

She noted the pair of Black and Tans standing in front of the church, their hands on their guns, eyes as narrow as stoats’ as they watched the locals suspiciously. No one looked at them;
everyone hurried on as if afraid to be noticed, stopped and searched. The Tans had the power of God and they weren’t afraid of using it. Kitty felt their incisive gaze fall upon her shoulders
like an executioner’s axe. She caught her breath but continued, trying to sustain the hum which was dying in her throat. She could see them talking to each other out of the side of her
vision. Then the fat one called out to her. ‘Where are you going, Miss Deverill?’

She stopped and smiled. ‘I’m going to see Father Quinn,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Father Quinn isn’t here,’ said the other one.

‘What have you got there?’ asked the fat one.

‘Shoes,’ she replied. ‘A gift from my grandmother, Lady Deverill.’

‘On what business are you going to see Father Quinn?’

‘It’s a delicate matter,’ she replied, stepping closer to the men and lowering her voice. ‘It’s one of my lady’s maids.’ She pulled a sorry face.
‘She’s . . . I think it would be indelicate to give you the details. I need Father Quinn’s advice.’

The fat one dropped his eyes onto the shoebox and Kitty felt the weight of it in her hands. ‘My wife likes shoes,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got there,
then.’

Kitty’s head flooded with blood. It crashed against her temples like waves against rock. ‘I don’t think you’ll find these very exciting,’ she said, making to lift
the lid.

At that moment there came a loud hollering. The three turned to see Father Quinn striding furiously towards them, his grey hair wild about his head, his black robes billowing around him like an
avenging angel’s. In his hand was a white petticoat. He held it up as if it were the embodiment of carnal sin. ‘I found
this
on the beach,’ he raged. ‘God save
us!’ The Tans looked at him in bewilderment. ‘When I find the culprit I will voice God’s displeasure at such an unholy show of disrespect and vulgarity. On the beach it was, in
full view of the children playing there. What is the world coming to when people indulge their desires out in the open?’ He settled his fiery gaze on Kitty. ‘And what might I ask are
you
doing at my door, Miss Kitty? I believe you have mistaken
my
church for
yours
.’

Kitty paled. ‘Father Quinn, I have something I need to talk to you about. It’s a delicate matter regarding a member of your church. May we talk in private or shall I come back when
you have . . .’ She hesitated and looked at the petticoat. ‘When you’ve found the owner of that petticoat?’

He scrunched the petticoat into a ball and tucked it under his arm. ‘I have time now. Come with me. Good day to you.’ He nodded at the Black and Tans who watched them disappear into
the church, not knowing what to make of the scene.

‘Only in Ireland,’ said the fat one, shaking his head.

‘They’re all as mad as bloody snakes,’ said the other one, popping a cigarette between his lips.

Kitty followed Father Quinn down the aisle to the sacristy. He closed the door behind him and took the shoebox out of her hands. ‘You’re a bold girl, Miss Kitty.’

‘I thought they’d caught me,’ she said, suddenly feeling weak in the legs. She sank into a chair.

‘So did I. I thought you were done for.’ He looked at the petticoat. ‘I’ll have to return this to Mrs O’Dwyer or she’ll think a seagull stole it. Though,
I’ll need another word of inspiration in order to explain how I came by it!’ He dropped it onto the table.

Kitty looked at him in astonishment. ‘You invented that whole scene just to distract them?’

‘Of course I did. I saw you were in trouble and it was the first thing that came into my head. Divine Inspiration,’ he said, crossing himself. ‘Thanks be to God.’ He took
out the gun and ammunition and gave her back the box. ‘You’d better take the shoebox home, just in case.’

‘Thank you, Father Quinn.’

‘Say no more, Miss Kitty. We are all fighting this war together and it appears that God is on our side, does it not?’

‘It does indeed,’ Kitty agreed.

‘You’re a brave young woman. But I would say it was near suicidal for you to bring a gun into my church. That Michael is a reckless man. He’s so busy gazing at the goal
he’s often unaware of the perils of the game. I will have to have a quiet word with him.’ He smiled at Kitty warmly. ‘You’re not to do this again, do you understand?
You’re too valuable to us to get caught being reckless.’

‘I won’t,’ she replied.

‘Grand. Now, you’d better leave by the side door. At least if they stop you this time you’ll only have a pair of shoes to show them.’

‘Thank you, Father Quinn.’

‘May God go with you, Miss Kitty.’

Kitty returned to her patient pony. She stroked his muzzle affectionately then mounted the trap. As she was leaving Ballinakelly, Michael was walking into town with his brother Sean, hands in
his pockets, cap hiding his mop of unruly curls. Kitty kept her eyes on the track ahead and ignored them both, which cost her dearly because she liked Sean very much. She shook the reins and the
pony broke into a trot. As she passed Michael she felt a rising sense of triumph. She had pulled off the impossible. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lift his chin and drop his heavy gaze
upon her with a jolt. But she didn’t waver and continued on up the track without so much as a twitch. Only the small smile that curled her lips betrayed her jubilation.