Songs of Love and War (39 page)

But she didn’t. She pondered on Bridie’s words, then said, ‘Miss Kitty Deverill?’

‘Yes.’

‘She was your
friend
?’

‘She was . . .’ Bridie’s voice died. Kitty was her friend no longer.

‘How very unusual.’ Mrs Grimsby opened her eyes. ‘I don’t imagine Kitty’s mother was very happy about your friendship.’

‘She never knew.’

Mrs Grimsby arched her eyebrows. ‘Of course she didn’t. How very sly of you!’ Bridie felt ashamed, but Mrs Grimsby only laughed. ‘Tell me about Kitty?’

‘She’s very bold.’

‘And . . . ?’ Mrs Grimsby wanted more. ‘What does she look like? What is her nature?’

Bridie put the book on her lap. ‘She has Titian-red hair and a wild character. She sees ghosts, too. That’s a gift she inherited from her grandmother.’

‘Ghosts? What sort of ghosts?’ Mrs Grimsby leaned forward on her chair.

Bridie closed the book. ‘There are many ghosts at Castle Deverill.’

‘How so?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘We’ve got all afternoon.’ The old lady sat back in her chair and seemed to settle into it like a nesting hen. ‘Start at the beginning.’

Bridie took a breath, still mistrustful of Mrs Grimsby’s enthusiasm. ‘Then let me tell you about the Cursing of Barton Deverill.’

London, England, 1922

Kitty waited for news of Jack. It was agony not knowing what had become of him. She took solace in the baby, named after him, and in the social events that Celia dragged her to,
but Jack was never far from her thoughts. Then, at last, in March she received a letter, passed on by Grace.

Kitty’s tears splashed onto the paper, smudging the ink. Hastily she put the letter down and hung her head in her hands. She’d wait for Jack. For as long as it took. The idea of
falling in love with someone else was an anathema. Her heart belonged to him and always would.

Since she had arrived in London with baby Jack she had been pleasantly surprised by people’s reactions. Celia thought it ‘a riot’ for an unmarried woman to have a baby.
Beatrice admired her ‘charity’, Digby thought he looked just like her, to which Maud replied tartly that half of Ireland had red hair. Victoria wasn’t in the least interested.
Harry, on the other hand, took Kitty to one side and, in their tradition of keeping each other’s secrets, demanded to know the truth. When she told him, he criticized their father for being a
fool, but supported Kitty’s decision to raise the baby. ‘I might be grateful for him one day, considering my chances of fathering a child,’ he whispered with a smirk.

‘Mama will be very disappointed if you don’t further the family line,’ said Kitty.

‘Poor Mama, so many disappointments. I’m beginning to feel rather sorry for her.’

‘Don’t be fooled, Harry. Mama’s like a weed, very resilient and spreading her influence in all the places one doesn’t want it.’

Kitty wrote to her sister Elspeth explaining that she had taken in a foundling child left on the doorstep of the Hunting Lodge in an act of charity. She told her that she had gone to London
because their father refused to have her in the house with a child that didn’t belong to her. It was as close to the truth as she dared go and she didn’t want her hearing rumours from
other sources. She knew Elspeth would support her. If she ever needed a refuge in Ireland she could count on her sister.

If London society gossiped about her, Kitty never knew – nor did she care. With Ireland behind her she threw herself onto London’s party scene with such abandon it was as if she was
trying to lose herself in the process. She attended Beatrice’s Tuesday night Salons and charmed and bewildered the other guests in equal measure for she was outspoken and intelligent and
debated the issues of the day with the boldness of a man. If anyone was imprudent enough to challenge her on Irish politics they soon wished they hadn’t, for she was unafraid to show her
support for the IRA and was better informed than most. Beatrice welcomed her outrageous niece for she added pepper to her Salons. Kitty lunched with Celia and her large circle of friends in
London’s most fashionable restaurants and danced the nights away in the clubs where live bands played jazz, recently imported from America. She learned to dance the Charleston, adopted the
latest attire of dropped waists and shorter hemlines and took up smoking. She visited museums and the theatre with Harry and Boysie and pretended she didn’t see their secret looks and furtive
caresses. She was like sunshine to the social butterflies who clamoured to have her at their parties, even though the old dowagers condemned her for being both ‘fast’ and Irish, which
was, to them, a dangerous combination.

Kitty embraced her new life, but she never forgot Jack. Every few days she wrote him another letter, posting it to the prison in Cork. She waited anxiously for his replies, but they never
came.

If Maud had feared Kitty would never find a husband, her fears were unfounded. The war might have depleted London’s supply of young men, but the ones there quickly lost their hearts to
Kitty. It didn’t seem to matter that she was caring for a child; it wasn’t hers and, besides, the way she loved the little foundling only made them admire her more. But Kitty teased
them and encouraged them and like the wind was one moment warm, the next moment cold, but always fanning their interest because they couldn’t quite pin her down.

Summer came and with it Victoria’s baby girl, pompously named Lady Alexandra Mary Victoria Casselwright. ‘Could she not have thought of a name that wasn’t a
queen’s,’ Kitty complained to Celia.

‘Next she’ll have a boy – George William Edward
Eric,’
Celia replied with a snigger. ‘Eric will have to go in there somewhere, poor child!’

‘At least Mama won’t be spending the summer with us, now Victoria’s got a baby for her to coo over,’ said Kitty. ‘Elspeth’s son doesn’t count, because
he’s plain John MacCartain, and Mama doesn’t care for Elspeth or Ireland. How she must relish having a legitimate, aristocratic child in the family she can boast about.’

The summer was spent at Deverill Rising, Digby’s large estate nestled in the Wiltshire hills. When Kitty was driven up the impressive drive that swept through undulating meadows of wild
flowers and long grasses and over a pretty stone bridge that straddled the Deverill stream, she realized how much she had missed the countryside. Sheep dotted the hills like fluffy dandelions,
birds flew in and out of hedges of blackthorn and beech, towering chestnut trees gave shelter to horses as the summer sunshine grew intense and fat flies braved their nodding heads to gather at
their eyes and on their mouths. Kitty’s heart swelled at the prospect of riding once again and she gazed over the chalk hills with longing.

The house itself was an imposing stately home of natural stone with a giant pediment crowning the façade and a bold balustrade circling the roof with vast ornamental urns punctuating it
at intervals. Tall windows looked out over gardens that had been expensively planted and lovingly nurtured. Celia jumped out of the car as soon as it pulled up on the gravel and took Kitty by the
hand to show her around, leaving Hetty to look after the baby and see to the luggage. They ran through the house to the back where French windows opened onto a paved garden where wild thyme grew in
abundance with
Alchemilla mollis
and forget-me-nots, and vast urns sprouted great heaps of rosemary. Beyond, on the horizon, a circular white dovecote with a thatched roof was positioned
serenely in front of a thick wood.

They ran through all the gardens, under wire arches of climbing roses, down meandering paths that led them between wide borders of campanula and peony, into the walled vegetable gardens where
sweet peas grew among rows of carrots and spinach. Celia pulled Kitty on, keen to show her the tennis court and croquet lawn and the elaborate tree-house which her father had commissioned for her
tenth birthday. At last they sat down on a wooden bench that circled a pear tree. They were both out of breath and laughing excitedly. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ Celia exclaimed.

‘I didn’t think anywhere could be as beautiful as home, but Deverill Rising has taken my breath away,’ Kitty replied, panting heavily.

‘We’re going to have such fun. Just like we did in Ireland. Vivien and Leona are coming with their boring husbands and squeaking babies. Harry and Boysie arrive tonight with Archie
Mayberry, who I think is going to propose to me at any minute.’

‘What’ll you say?’ Kitty asked.

Celia shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose. After all, I have to marry somebody and Archie’s no worse than anyone else. He has heaps of money. Heap and heaps and heaps.’

‘And he’s handsome at least,’ said Kitty helpfully.

‘Yes, he’s not unpleasant to look at, is he? I don’t love him, but I think he loves me. One has to be practical in choosing a husband. He’s rich, comes from a good family
and is intelligent, which is important because I can’t bear to be bored. God forbid I’m bored. I can behave very badly if I’m not entertained. So, I’ll have a couple of
babies and then fall in love with someone else.’ Celia gave a contented sigh. ‘Isn’t that how it all works?’

‘I’ve never really considered it. I know Papa has strayed from his marital bed.’

‘Of course he has. So has mine. If Mama has had lovers she’s been more discreet. I say, when the boys arrive, let’s go riding? I bet you miss it.’

‘I do,’ said Kitty. ‘I miss it terribly.’

‘No hunting at this time of year, but we can gallop over the hills and I can show you the Man. He’s a giant carving on the hillside, for there’s chalk beneath the grass.
It’s not as impressive as your Fairy Ring because the Man doesn’t come alive at sunset.’ Celia took Kitty’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I do wish we could turn the clock
back and spend just one more summer at Castle Deverill, don’t you?’ Kitty’s eyes dimmed so Celia changed the subject. ‘Come on, let me show you the inside.’

It wasn’t long before the house was filled with guests. They seemed to come unexpectedly and stay for days on end. Beatrice didn’t mind. She sat on the terrace in a wide sunhat
holding court, while Digby, in a brand new yellow checked jacket and breeches, took the men off round the estate to show them the farm. Sir Digby Deverill might have come from an old family but he
lived like a complete nouveau riche, glittering with the splendour of a South African diamond millionaire. Beatrice enjoyed the young people best. They motored down in their shiny new cars, the
girls with their fashionably short haircuts and low-waisted dresses, long red nails and lipstick to match, the men in pale suits or stripy jackets, cricket sweaters and boater hats, fun-loving and
cheerful, seemingly without a care. She watched them play croquet and tennis, charades and kick the can, picnic on the hill, tease each other, flirt, smoke, dance and banter.
Oh to be young
again
, she thought wistfully.
These young people have it all.

Archie took Celia by the hand one starry night in August and asked her to marry him. Celia accepted and they ran into the house, breaking up a game of Cocky Ollie which the Deverills had
invented and which had, over time, become legendary, and announced it to the entire house-party. Champagne was popped, congratulations given and Celia hurried off with her girlfriends to discuss
the Dress and choose her bridesmaids. ‘You, Kitty, will catch my bouquet, because you’re going to be next.’ But Kitty knew that the only man she’d ever marry would be Jack.
When, oh when, would he be released?

On the 22nd August Michael Collins, the Irish leader who had negotiated the partition of Ireland, was ambushed by diehard nationalists in Co. Cork and murdered. Kitty was
devastated when she read about it in the newspaper. ‘How could they murder Michael Collins!’ she wailed, throwing
The Times
onto the breakfast table, thinking of Jack rotting
away in prison. ‘When will the violence end?’

‘Wasn’t he just another Irish terrorist?’ Celia asked, wondering what the fuss was about.

Kitty shook her head in astonishment. ‘I despair of you, Celia,’ she cried out. ‘Michael Collins was a hero. He was a rebel, a freedom-fighter, a brave and selfless man. I hope
they find the people who did this and string them up by their necks!’ The house-party glanced at each other uncomfortably. None of them, besides Harry, cared what happened in Ireland. Harry
took the paper and read it in silence. Boysie’s face darkened with concern. The room was plunged into an awkward stillness.

‘Oh dear, well, it’s all very sad, isn’t it? I tell you what, let’s have a picnic today. That’ll cheer you up, Kitty. We can play rounders on the hill,’ Celia
suggested.

‘Capital idea, darling,’ Archie agreed, gazing at her with soppy eyes. ‘We’ll take your mind off your Michael Collins.’

The wedding date was set for the following spring. Autumn was filled with endless engagement parties and the usual revelry. Kitty kept in close contact with her grandmother,
whose letters were long and poetic and increasingly mad. She wrote of the leprechauns in the hedges and the fairies in the flowerbeds and said that Bertie had made her move into the Hunting Lodge
on account of the cold weather. She said she only went there to eat and sleep, because Hubert was very demanding and insisted on her company during the day. The Shrubs were too afraid to visit and
had become virtual recluses in their home in Ballinakelly. She sent them cannabis to calm their nerves but who would know if they died in their beds? She asked whether the allowance she had set up
for Kitty was enough.
I don’t want you to live like a pauper, my darling Kitty, you deserve to live well. As for me, I need very little now my life is confined to the tower. I feel like
Rapunzel, except there is no witch, and Hubert, my prince, is in no position to rescue me. Be safe and pray for an end to the violence so that you can come back with the baby and bring him up here
at Castle Deverill, where he belongs.