Songs of Love and War (34 page)

‘Grandma!’ Kitty exclaimed, falling at Adeline’s feet. ‘I’m so unhappy!’ She dropped her head onto her grandmother’s lap and sobbed.

Adeline put down her book and stroked her granddaughter’s hair, giving her grief time to pass. ‘My darling child, you must be strong,’ she said at length. ‘We must all be
strong. Life is full of changes but we mustn’t fear them. We must adapt.’

‘But
everything
has changed. Everything. I don’t know who I am any more.’

‘Come come now, Kitty. Just because things change around you doesn’t mean
you
are any different.’

‘But you don’t understand. I need to tell you everything. You’re the only person I can truly trust.’ Kitty told her about Jack, her involvement with the rebels, her
father’s indiscretion with Bridie and the baby left on their doorstep. When she had finished she sat up and looked at her grandmother with large, glassy eyes. Adeline’s face was serene,
as if nothing Kitty told her had been in the least surprising. ‘He’s been arrested now,’ she choked. ‘What if they execute him? What if I never see him again? I don’t
think I can go on without him, Grandma. I don’t think I can do it.’

‘You can and you must,’ said Adeline fiercely. ‘Do you think Jack would want you to lie in a heap and give up on life? Of course he wouldn’t.’

‘But he doesn’t know I was there. He thought I wasn’t coming. I shouted but he didn’t hear me.’

Adeline patted her head. ‘Then you must write to him and tell him, Kitty. When they release him you will be reunited.’

‘But will they release him? Do you
see
that, Grandma? Do you see us together? Tell me what you see because I see nothing but a void.’

Adeline looked at her granddaughter steadily. ‘Didn’t I tell you that you are a brave child of Mars? Life was never going to be an easy path but full of potholes which are of your
choosing. It’s in your nature to elect the roughest road.’ She sighed and ran a hand down Kitty’s red hair. ‘You’re my favourite grandchild. You always have been.
We’re so alike, you and I, and yet you’re far more reckless than I ever was. I don’t know who you get that from.’ She laughed. ‘Hubert says you get it from him, but I
don’t agree.’ Kitty raised her eyes to see her grandfather sitting in the armchair opposite. He looked so real for a moment she believed he hadn’t perished in the flames and her
heart gave a little jump. ‘No, my dear, I’m afraid he’s a spirit, just like all the others. Were you to marry this Jack of yours, you could come and live here and set them all
free.’

‘That would be a dream,’ said Kitty sadly.

‘The child is your destiny, Kitty. Your father wants nothing to do with him, which is very predictable. He’s a terrible coward, I’m afraid. So,
you
have to look after
him.’

‘How? Papa won’t give me a penny. He’s my half-brother. He’s Bridie’s boy . . .’

‘And he’s a Deverill. He’s one of us.’ Adeline lifted her chin. ‘I will support you. Hubert has provided for me in his will and I have more than enough. This little
boy is my grandson. You can count on me to give you everything you need.’ Kitty stood up and wiped her eyes. ‘Brace yourself, little child of Mars, for the road is a long one and it is
full of peril. I suggest you leave now. I feel an urgency suddenly. You need to leave Ireland at once. May God go with you.’

Kitty returned to the Hunting Lodge where the chauffeur waited to drive her back to the manor. With a heavy heart she climbed into the car and was driven away.

When she reached the manor, Grace was waiting for her on the doorstep, wringing her hands. From the expression on her face Kitty knew something terrible had happened. ‘Thank God
you’re back,’ Grace exclaimed, running down the steps to meet her. ‘You must come inside quickly. Jack has been arrested at the station.’

‘How do
you
know about that?’ Kitty asked in astonishment.

‘Little goes on around here that I don’t know about,’ she replied cagily, leading Kitty into the hall.

Kitty gripped Grace’s arm. ‘I was there, Grace,’ she hissed. ‘I changed my mind. I was there and I saw it all.’

‘But they didn’t see
you
?’ Grace asked anxiously.

‘No, they didn’t. What will they do to him?’ Her breaths came out in gasps. ‘They won’t hurt him, will they?’ Kitty panicked suddenly, remembering the
envelope she had given him. ‘Dear God,’ she cried, squeezing Grace’s arm harder. ‘I gave him a photograph of me . . . and a letter.’

Grace was quick to act. ‘Then you must leave immediately. There’s no time to waste.’

‘Where to?’

‘London, of course. Where else?’ Grace took her by the hand and led her briskly upstairs. ‘You must take the baby with you. You can stay in my house in Mayfair for as long as
you like. Ireland is no longer a safe place for you, my dear. Now pack your bag and hurry.’

Just before they disappeared onto the landing Grace glanced over her shoulder into the hall below where a man stepped out of the shadows. He ran a rough hand through his thick, curly hair then
began to button up his shirt. Their eyes met and a silent understanding passed between them. Grace hurried Kitty on down the corridor. Michael Doyle replaced his cap, slipped into his jacket, then
vanished.

Bridie was in her narrow bunk in the steerage cabin she shared with three other Irish girls when she was woken by a loud commotion coming from the deck. She blinked a moment,
remembering where she was with a sinking feeling. The emerald hills of home had been no more than a dream. She sat up, stiff from the hard mattress, feeble after nearly two weeks of tiny portions
of tasteless food, and listened. The disturbance grew into a roar. Her heart was seized with terror. Was the boat sinking? She called for Eileen, the girl from Co. Wicklow she had befriended on the
voyage, but when she got up and looked onto the top bunk, Eileen’s bed was empty. Urgently she dressed and gathering her small case of belongings she hurried out into the corridor and
upstairs to the deck as fast as her trembling legs could carry her.

It seemed as if every single passenger was out on deck. Dawn had broken misty and cold but out of the gloom she could see the magnificent figure of a monumental statue rising out of the sea.
Suddenly, a reverential silence fell upon the crowd. They stared at this symbol of liberty as if it were some kind of benevolent god, bestowing upon them a new and positive future. Christians fell
to their knees and crossed themselves. Jews began to pray in their talliths. Old men and women cried with happiness. Children sobbed because their parents did. Bridie began to cry too, not for the
sight of this Promised Land, but for the one she had left behind and the baby she had abandoned there. She stood, engulfed by this crowd of strangers all seeking a new life as she was, and cried
for everything she had lost.

London, England, 1922

Celia sat at her dressing table as Marcie, her maid, arranged her hair in preparation for her mother’s regular Tuesday evening Salon. She glanced absent-mindedly at that
morning’s
Express
newspaper where Viscount Castlerosse, the gossip columnist, had written in his London Log: ‘
I can never bear to miss one of my dear friend Lady
Deverill’s weekly Salons at her gorgeous residence on Kensington Palace Gardens where American film actors mix with aristocrats and politicians, and drink the new American cocktails to jazz
music. This week I saw Mr Douglas Fairbanks and his new wife Mary Pickford, talking about his new film
Robin Hood
while Ivor Novello, the upcoming songwriter from Wales, was singing one of
his hit tunes at the piano, accompanied by The Sax, the black musician from New Orleans who has won many intimate fans among our lady hostesses. In another corner the Russian émigré,
Prince Yusopov, was telling the Foreign Secretary, Lord Curzon, about how he killed Rasputin (for the tenth time). Also there was
. . .’

Harry lounged on the chaise longue in his silk dressing gown, smoking one of Beatrice’s Turkish cigarettes he had stolen from the pearl box in the drawing room. Since moving to London he
had developed a close friendship with Celia and was rarely out of her company. With their angel-blond hair, alabaster skin and blue eyes they might easily have passed for siblings were it not for
George’s memory which remained clear and strong in the minds of all who had known him. While Maud trawled the scene for a suitable bride for her son, a bigger challenge than ever considering
there was no castle to use as bait, Harry partied incessantly with his tireless cousin and George’s childhood friend, the beautiful and laconic Boysie Bancroft.

‘What did you think of Charlotte Stalbridge?’ Celia asked. ‘Your mama was pushing her in your direction all evening.’

Harry took a long drag of his cigarette and blew out a ring of smoke. ‘Frightfully dull,’ he replied.

‘But she’s pretty enough, isn’t she?’

‘What’s the good of an attractive shop window if there’s nothing worth buying in the shop?’

Celia giggled. ‘She might have lots of money but she doesn’t have a clue how to dress herself.’

‘That pale pink was awfully unbecoming,’ Harry agreed. ‘A girl with her colouring should avoid pale colours. You, on the other hand, look exquisite in every shade.’

‘Will you write a poem about me one day? I’d like to be immortalized in verse. A long and musical poem like
The Lady of Shalott
.’

‘She came to a nasty end.
To look down to Camelot she knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
’

‘Oh, how romantic it is and how clever of you to know it by heart.’ Her hair done, she waved away her maid, who left the room, closing the door behind her. ‘I saw you’d
written a poem for Boysie.’ Harry sat up and took his ashtray to the window where he stared onto the garden below at a pair of portly pigeons pecking the grass. ‘I didn’t mean to
pry. I saw it on your bedside table. Of course I didn’t read it,’ she added hastily. ‘Only, I’d like you to write one about me. You’re awfully talented. One day
you’ll be famous, like Oscar Wilde.’

The comparison was not lost on Harry. He took a final drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘Oscar Wilde is remembered for more than his writing, poor, tragic man,’ he said
quietly.

‘He was wonderfully scandalous. There’s nothing wrong with a man loving another man, is there? It’s a brotherly love of sorts, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I don’t love Boysie, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I admire him. He’s a very intelligent man. I write poems about everybody.’

‘I know that. But if you did love him, there’d be no harm in it. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘You do speak nonsense sometimes, old girl.’ He left the ashtray on the windowsill. ‘I suppose I’d better change. People will be arriving soon.’

As he was about to leave the room Beatrice flung open the door and marched in, holding a telegram in her pudgy, bejewelled hand. ‘Celia, Harry, sit down. I have some extraordinary
news.’ Harry glanced at Celia and returned to the chaise longue. ‘Your sister Kitty is on her way to London.’

‘But that’s wonderful news, Mama!’ Celia exclaimed.

Beatrice’s eyes widened. ‘She’s bringing a baby!’

‘A baby!’ Harry repeated. ‘Whose baby?’

‘A foundling.’

‘Really, her social conscience is a riot!’ Celia laughed. ‘Do you remember that summer we had to pick and pod for the poor?’

‘Who’s the telegram from?’ Harry asked. Beatrice handed it to him. ‘Ah, Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said. ‘I suppose Papa is having nothing to do with it,
otherwise she’d be staying in Ireland. I didn’t think anything would induce her to leave Castle Deverill.’

‘She was adamant she wasn’t going to leave when I suggested it at Cousin Hubert’s funeral. I tried every sort of persuasion but she wouldn’t have it.’ Celia
narrowed her eyes. ‘I wonder whose baby it is.’

‘Well, it’s not hers,’ said Beatrice.

‘Is she coming here?’ Celia asked hopefully.

‘No, she’s staying at Grace’s in Mayfair.’

‘Does Mama know?’ Harry asked.

‘Not yet. The duty has fallen to me to tell her,’ said Beatrice glumly.

‘Ah,’ said Harry. ‘The best of luck, then.’

‘Why would she care?’ Celia asked. ‘Your mother’s never given a stuff about Kitty.’

‘Her unmarried daughter arriving in London with a baby will be scandalous. Everyone will assume it’s hers,’ he told her.

‘And so what?’ said Celia, who enjoyed being avant-garde. ‘It’s 1922, not 1822!’

‘All the same, Mama’s very conscious of her reputation,’ said Harry.

‘Because it’s all she has left,’ Celia added spitefully.

When Maud heard the news she sat down and put her delicate white hand to her lips. ‘Why on earth would Kitty bring a baby to London? Does she want to ruin me?’

Beatrice had anticipated Maud’s reaction and was ready to console her. ‘She’s taken in a foundling. I think it’s admirable.’

‘It’s not admirable, Beatrice. It’s downright foolish! How’s she going to find a husband with a baby in tow? How could Bertie allow her to leave like this? Couldn’t
she have stayed in Ireland?’

‘The telegram came from Grace, Maud. I don’t imagine Bertie wants anything to do with it.’

‘Of course he doesn’t. Whose baby is it anyway?’

‘I don’t know. The telegram only says—’

Maud stood up. ‘How could she! Everything was going well for me at last. Victoria is expecting a baby. I think I might have found a bride for Harry. What will Lady Stalbridge think when
Harry’s sister appears with an illegitimate child? Will she want her only daughter to marry him then? I think not! After all I have suffered, how could she arrive to stain our family
name?’

‘I’m sure there’s an explanation. Let’s wait until she gets here before we pass judgement.’

‘She’s always been a thorn in my side,’ said Maud bitterly. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it. But she hates me. My own daughter hates me.
There’s no other explanation. It would have been better if it were her child, then at least we could all pretend her husband had died! There’s honour in that.’