Songs of Love and War (35 page)

‘It must be someone very dear to her,’ Beatrice suggested.

‘When she arrives I will demand an explanation.’

‘She’s not staying here, Maud. She’s staying at Grace’s.’

‘In Mayfair? Why on earth isn’t she coming here?’ Maud shook her head with self-pity. ‘Of course, how silly of me. Well, that’s just another insult. I don’t
think I can bear to talk to anyone tonight. I’m going to retire to my room. Please tell Lady Stalbridge that I am unwell.’ And she disappeared to her bedroom just as the first guests
were arriving for Beatrice’s Salon.

Harry enjoyed Beatrice’s Salons. People would appear, one never knew who or how many. They would eat, drink, play cards and charades, debate and discuss and generally enjoy themselves
immensely. It was where he had first met Boysie, and fallen hopelessly in love, for Boysie seemed unaware when Harry followed him with his eyes.

Boysie Bancroft was the most beautiful man Harry had ever seen. He was tall and slim like a willow, with long tapering fingers that seemed to caress the keys when he played the piano and dance
on the air when he recited poetry. He was an aesthete who had the singing tone of a fallen angel whose voice has grown husky on late nights, cognac and cigarettes. His eyes were deep and wistful,
the colour of green tourmaline and flecked with specks of gold, and although his lips were full and pink, like a cherub’s, they were capable of delivering the put-downs of a demon. He was
twenty-four but his skin was so smooth he hadn’t yet begun to shave and his hair, a shiny mop of sugar brown, fell over his forehead like the mane of a lovely young horse. Everyone adored him
on account of his charm, acerbic wit and self-deprecating humour, but Beatrice loved him especially because he had been George’s dear friend and having him around somehow made her feel
connected to her son.

Boysie and Harry had liked each other on sight. Both were handsome and clever, fanatical about art galleries and museums, theatre and ballet, and equally fond of Celia. They were perfect
companions, laughing at the same jokes (usually each other’s) and finding the same tedious people intolerable. However, when it came to love, Harry couldn’t be sure that Boysie admired
him in the same way that
he
admired
him
. Just when he was beginning to believe that his feelings might be reciprocated, Boysie had turned up to a party with a pretty girl on his arm
and declared that
she,
this rather plump, mousy Deirdre Mortimer, was the girl he intended to marry.

Now Harry loitered in the hall, greeting guests and waiting for Boysie, trying not to let his agitation show. He was so busy thinking about the man he loved that he had quite forgotten about his
sister and the baby. When at last Boysie appeared, a simpering Deirdre Mortimer by his side in an unflattering green dress, he feigned surprise, pretending that he had only at that moment been
passing through the hall. ‘What a coincidence!’ he exclaimed, patting his friend on the back. ‘Miss Mortimer, how lovely to see you again.’

‘You’ve bought a new jacket, you devil,’ said Boysie, taking in Harry’s immaculate attire. ‘Have you been to Savile Row again?’

‘I’m afraid I have,’ Harry replied. His heart swelled with happiness now that Boysie was here.

‘I feel very shoddy by comparison. I shall have to make up for it by playing the piano with gusto! Are you ready for a song?’

Just then, as Harry was about to lead Boysie upstairs to the drawing room, who should appear in the doorway but Lady Stalbridge and her daughter Charlotte. ‘Look, darling, here’s
Harry. So sweet of you to wait for Charlotte. You know how nervous she is walking into a room full of people.’

Harry was bewildered, and secretly furious. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he replied as Charlotte handed her coat to a butler. ‘Why don’t we all go upstairs together? I
believe Boysie is going to play the piano. How is your singing voice, Charlotte?’

Charlotte blushed. ‘I can’t sing at all,’ she said.

‘Me neither,’ Deirdre agreed.

‘Then Harry and I will sing for you, and you can both clap and make us believe we’re brilliant and talented!’ said Boysie, leading the way, and Harry marvelled at how Boysie
had the ability to make everybody feel good about themselves.

It wasn’t long before the socialising descended into outright revelry. The singing grew louder, the laughter more raucous, the behaviour less decorous, and Harry more confused than ever as
Boysie gazed at him lovingly over the piano yet lavished his attentions on Deirdre. At midnight Celia started the dancing. The floor cleared and other young people joined in while the older guests
moved into quieter rooms or left altogether. The gramophone replaced the piano and jazz music drove the dancers into a fever of energetic foxtrotting. Boysie was not a good dancer. He preferred to
watch with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other, scrutinizing the revellers to gossip about later. Harry loved to dance and took Celia by the waist, much to the disappointment of
Charlotte, who wanted nothing else than to be swung around the floor in Harry’s arms.

In the downstairs study Beatrice played bridge with her inner circle of friends, boldly smoking Turkish cigarettes and lamenting the tragic state of Ireland. ‘Why don’t
you
buy the castle?’ one of her friends suggested. ‘After all, Digby has the wealth to buy it ten times over.’

Beatrice sighed heavily and hesitated over her cards. ‘Digby loves Ireland but Castle Deverill does not belong to him. It’s Bertie’s and he’s very proud. If Digby bought
the castle, that is, assuming Bertie wanted to sell, or even paid for its renovation, it would ruin everything between them. I’m sorry to say that Bertie will have to rebuild the castle
himself, or abandon it altogether. I fear that it’s all over for the Anglo-Irish.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Oh but we had some very good times.’

‘Better to come back to England than be murdered in his bed,’ her friend added. ‘I hear the Irish are an uncivilized lot.’

‘Quite so,’ Beatrice agreed. ‘But there’s no country more beautiful. If Bertie loses Castle Deverill it will be a very great tragedy indeed.’

As Harry danced around the room he felt the heavy weight of Boysie’s stare following him like a shadow. When he managed to look at him he saw that his face was serious and desperately sad.
Harry stopped dancing only for Celia to tug his arm and insist he continue. ‘You’re not tired, are you, Harry?’

‘Certainly not!’ Harry exclaimed, but he was watching Boysie leaving the room. ‘Give me a moment, old girl. I’ll be back in a tick.’ He set off after his friend.
Once out on the landing he saw a glimpse of Boysie’s black shoe on the stairs as he disappeared onto the floor above. Harry called but there came no reply. He sprang up the steps two at a
time. Once he was there, Boysie was nowhere to be seen. He called again. No response. He put his hands in his pockets and slowly wandered down the corridor, his heartbeat accelerating with every
stride. At last he reached his own bedroom. He hesitated a moment before turning the knob. A hand grabbed him and pulled him inside. ‘Boysie?’ he hissed. Before he could say anything
else Boysie’s mouth had found his and he was kissing him passionately. Harry’s heart flooded with joy. He cupped Boysie’s beautiful face and kissed him back. He tasted the soap on
his skin and inhaled the spicy scent that was Boysie’s alone and they were so familiar it was as if he had known them all his life. ‘But what about Deirdre?’ he asked when they
came up for air.

‘I can’t fool myself any longer, Harry. It’s killing me. I love you, old boy. That’s all there is to it. I know you love me.’

‘I do love you, Boysie,’ Harry replied. The word ‘love’ had never sounded so sweet.

Boysie pressed his forehead to Harry’s. ‘Then there’s nothing more that needs saying.’

At last Kitty arrived at Grace’s red-brick mansion on Mount Street. The train journey from Fishguard to Paddington had been long and tiring but Grace had sent a maid with
her to help with the baby. Kitty had never been to England before and the countryside, which she had imagined so ugly, had surprised her with its beauty. Even in February there was a charm to the
rich green hills and soft pastures of grazing sheep. Wales reminded her very much of Ireland and soothed her tormented soul that ached already with homesickness. She stared out of the window of the
train and wondered where Jack was. She recalled the urgency in his voice when he had said,
I have to leave before they bloody shoot me
. And the tears fell again for the man she loved above
all others, and for herself and her broken dreams. Where had her courage got her? She had thought she was indomitable. She had believed she could do anything. But in the end she was nothing but a
weak and useless woman, no different from her sisters. Jack had been arrested. She had abandoned her home. Her father had all but disowned her. Only Grace and her grandmother were there for her
now. But she couldn’t live off them forever. When, oh when, would she be able to return to Ireland? And when she returned, would Jack be there?

It was dark by the time Kitty arrived at Paddington. A chauffeur had been sent to pick them up from the station and the drive to Mayfair had been short. Kitty had gazed around at this new city
in wonder. The streets near the station had been busy with people, cars and omnibuses and in the middle of it all the odd horse and cart slowly plodding home, but as they had entered Mayfair the
bustle had been left behind and the streets were suddenly empty, but for the odd Daimler and Bentley driving beneath the street lamps as couples left to go out for dinner.

Grace’s home was palatial, five-storeys high with a tall grey portico and imposing black door. Rows of large windows with elegant stone pediments glowed golden in the darkness and Kitty
felt an immediate sense of relief, knowing that once inside she would feel safe.

She was shown to her room by a gentle-faced, rotund lady called Mrs Blythe. ‘As soon as you’ve freshened up there will be supper downstairs in the little sitting room. Lady
Rowan-Hampton often eats in there when she is on her own. It’s less formal and nice and warm. We’ll take care of the baby so you can get some rest. Lady Rowan-Hampton has given us
strict instructions to make sure you are as comfortable as possible.’ She opened the door to a large bedroom with a big brass bed and a cheery fire. On the bedside table was a small
arrangement of heather. ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton specifically asked for that,’ Mrs Blythe told her importantly. ‘She said it would remind you of home.’

Kitty picked it up and brought it to her nose. ‘It does remind me of home,’ she said, but she was now too weary to feel homesick.

‘Can I draw you a bath?’

‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ said Kitty, expecting Mrs Blythe to ring for a man to bring up the water in containers. To her surprise she walked into the bathroom and Kitty
heard the gush of water. She remembered Victoria complaining of the lack of efficient plumbing and electricity and now knew what she had meant. She wandered into the bathroom to watch the tub fill
up. Mrs Blythe poured a green liquid into the water and Kitty’s battered spirit was immediately calmed by the soothing scent of pine. She realized how dirty she must be from her journey and
her limbs felt suddenly unbearably heavy with fatigue. ‘You have a bath now while Becky and I unpack for you. You only brought the one bag?’ Mrs Blythe was surprised. ‘It
won’t take us long, then, will it.’

Kitty lay luxuriating in the bath for such a long time that Mrs Blythe must have worried because she knocked on the door to check that she hadn’t drowned. After her bath she dressed for
supper and went downstairs. The house was large, but Grace’s raffish charm and flirtatious personality ensured that it was cosy in spite of its grandeur. Kitty ate alone in the little sitting
room with its bookcases, soft sofa and armchairs. The fire had been lit and her place laid at the round table, in the middle of which was a bright arrangement of red flowers. The food tasted
scrumptious. As she forked the chicken and mashed potato into her mouth she realized how hungry she was. The meat was tender and succulent, the gravy full of flavour, not like the meals she’d
had to endure in Ireland. Regretfully, she scraped the last remains of it off her plate and rose to go to bed. When her head hit the pillow she was too tired to miss home. Too emotionally exhausted
to even think of Jack. Kitty closed her eyes and allowed the sweetness of sleep to release her from her troubles and the uncertainty of her future.

In the morning she was awoken by Mrs Blythe knocking on her door. ‘Good morning, Miss Deverill. I’m sorry to wake you but Lady Deverill is in the hall. She asked me to tell you right
away.’

‘What time is it, Mrs Blythe?’ Kitty asked sleepily.

‘Eleven o’clock, Miss Deverill.’

‘Good Lord, I’ve slept the morning away.’

‘You have indeed. It’s a lovely sunny day,’ she said, opening the curtains. ‘Perhaps you might enjoy a walk around the park later?’

‘That would be very nice,’ said Kitty. ‘But first I think I’d better go and see my mother.’

‘I’ve laid up breakfast in the morning room. It’s a lovely room, overlooking the gardens. Lady Rowan-Hampton likes to watch the birds. I’ll ask Lady Deverill to wait for
you in there.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Blythe,’ said Kitty, her stomach already cramping with nerves at the thought of seeing her mother.

She dressed in the clothes Mrs Blythe had put out for her. She noticed her travelling clothes had been taken away to be washed. She’d have to ask for the rest of her wardrobe to be sent
over from Ireland as soon as possible. When she had made herself presentable she left her room and walked downstairs, wondering what she was going to tell her mother about the baby – she
certainly couldn’t tell her the truth.

Maud stood in the morning room in an ivory-coloured dress with a fashionably low waist and tidy black hat. Her blonde hair had been cut to her jaw line which made her face look much more severe,
but most notable were her scarlet lips now drawn into a tight, thin line. ‘Hello, Mama,’ said Kitty, taking a seat at the table where her place had been set with a pretty blue mat and
matching china. She poured herself a cup of tea. ‘Would you like one?’