Songs of Love and War (40 page)

Kitty continued to write to Jack. Even though he had told her not to wait for him she was bewildered and hurt by his refusal to write back. Didn’t he know that she loved him enough to wait
a lifetime for him? Then, on 17th December 1922, following the creation of the Irish Free State, the last of the British forces handed over the Royal Barracks in Dublin and left. The South was
independent at last. Surely Jack would be released now.

Liberation was a tremendous moment and one which Kitty had fantasized about for so long. She was proud that she had played a small part in winning this freedom and together with Grace she
celebrated with champagne and a sumptuous dinner at the Ritz. The two women reminisced about their rebel days, the gruesome murder of Colonel Manley, the moment Kitty had realized that Grace was an
ally and not an enemy and the time Kitty had nearly been caught carrying a gun in a shoebox by the Auxiliaries. ‘Had it not been for the fast-thinking priest you might have been thrown into
jail like Countess Markievicz,’ said Grace, who clearly missed those exciting times. Kitty expected Jack’s immediate release but, as the weeks went by, she heard nothing and her sense
of triumph dissolved into bitterness and disappointment.

Little Jack Deverill was growing big and strong. No longer the frail little baby who had been left on the doorstep, he was now fat and bonny. As Kitty didn’t know his date of birth, she
decided that 1st January would be his birthday. She made him a little cake and invited Celia and Harry to celebrate with her. As she blew out the candle she wondered where Bridie was and whether
she had returned to Ballinakelly. She wanted to write to her and reassure her that her child was safe and that she loved him with all her heart because Bridie couldn’t. Sometimes, when he was
sleeping, she’d sit and gaze at him without noticing the time. Who’d have thought such a little person could bring her such joy? It pained her to think what Bridie was missing out
on.

Grace came to London from time to time but she brought no news of Jack. As for Kitty’s father, he was more adamant than ever that Kitty would never return to Castle Deverill. ‘He
does not recognize his child,’ Grace told her gently. ‘In his eyes Jack is not a Deverill.’

‘Then I cannot go back,’ Kitty declared, lifting her chin to restrain her sorrow. ‘But one day Jack Deverill will know his home. He’s more Irish than I am and I intend to
reunite him with his roots.’

‘You are always welcome to stay with me,’ Grace told her.

‘And gaze upon my home from afar? That would finish me off completely. No, Papa will have to relent, for Grandma’s sake. You have to talk some sense into him, Grace.’ She put a
hand on Grace’s arm. ‘You’re the only person who can.’

Grace didn’t tell her that Bertie was drowning himself in drink and that she barely saw him these days. He hunted only occasionally, was never seen at the races and rarely accepted
visitors. He was a husk of the charismatic man he used to be. Once dashing and insouciant, he had grown paranoid and twitchy. Only whiskey in large quantities soothed his troubled soul – soon
she feared he’d be seeing Adeline’s leprechauns and fairies.

‘Is there any news of Bridie?’ Kitty asked.

‘The last I heard was that she had started working as a maid for a woman in Manhattan. She’s well and happy, Kitty. You don’t need to worry about her,’ Grace said,
turning her eyes to the window. ‘She wanted to start a new life. Your father has been more than generous. I don’t know another man who would have looked after her so well.’

‘Will she ever come back?’

Grace looked at Kitty solemnly. ‘Do you want her to come back and claim her child?’

Kitty hadn’t thought of that. ‘No. No, I don’t. If I’m honest I want little Jack for myself. Am I a brute?’

‘You’d be a very heartless girl if you didn’t want him.’

‘I love him like my own, Grace.’ Kitty beamed a smile. ‘When I look into his face everything is right with the world and all my cares are washed away.’

‘Then think nothing more of Bridie. She chose to abandon her child. Whoever left him on your doorstep knew you’d take care of him and bring him up as a Deverill, which is what he is.
I’m sure Bridie arranged it herself. She knew she could trust you, her friend, to look after him.’

‘Yes, I’m sure she did,’ said Kitty, feeling better. ‘If our roles were reversed I know she’d do the same for me.’

As her wedding approached Celia grew increasingly nervous about the wedding night. ‘I wonder what
it’s
like,’ she said to Kitty. ‘Do you think
it
hurts?’

Michael Doyle flashed in front of Kitty’s eyes and she winced. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t hurt if the man is kind,’ she replied.

‘I’d rather make love with Lachlan,’ Celia said, referring to Archie’s best man.

‘Celia!’ Her cousin’s confession distracted her for a blessed moment.

‘Oh I know, I shouldn’t think of these things. But when he looks at me all the hairs stand up on my body like little soldiers standing to attention, just waiting for a command. That
doesn’t happen when Archie looks at me, handsome though he is.’

‘What are you saying, Celia?’

‘I’m not saying anything. I’m getting married in a fortnight and that’s all there is to it. Perhaps when I’ve given Archie an heir and a spare I’ll fall in
love with Lachlan Kirkpatrick.’

Celia Deverill’s wedding might have been one of the most exciting events of the Season had it not been for the marriage of Prince George, Duke of York to Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon that
April. The royal wedding was held at Westminster Abbey rather than the more traditional Royal Chapel, which made it a grand public affair, presumably to lift the spirits of the nation after the
misery of the war. Beatrice was put out that Celia’s wedding in May should be overshadowed by a wedding with which she was unable to compete, even with Digby’s millions and her unique
cocktail of guests. Still, the marriage was held in St Peter’s in Belgravia with the reception at the Ritz. Celia was resplendent in an ivory silk dress with an impressive diamond tiara Digby
had commissioned for Leona’s wedding, and which her sister Vivien had worn later at her wedding. Both marriages had been written up in the newspapers with a photograph in
The Tatler
.
Beatrice expected no less for her youngest daughter’s wedding.

Kitty was a bridesmaid with jasmine threaded through her hair and a long white dress to complement Celia’s. Her bouquet was fragrant with lilies and cherry blossom which she kept pressing
against her nose and remembering with a touch of sadness springtime at Castle Deverill. Celia vowed to love and obey Archie Mayberry and the choir sang hymns which had the power to melt the iciest
heart. Or so Kitty thought, but one look at her mother’s taut profile reminded her that the only thing capable of melting her mother’s heart would be her own marriage to an aristocrat
who met Maud’s impossibly high expectations. What a shame Prince George had just been snapped up, she thought wickedly, masking a smile.

After the marriage the guests went to the Ritz for tea. This Kitty found rather dull, considering that the guest list comprised mostly of Digby and Beatrice’s friends and not Celia’s
or Archie’s, which was customary. She mingled with her cup of tea and humoured old Augusta who was as disagreeable as ever, giving her, with ill-concealed relish, a long list of friends who
had recently died. ‘Bunny Spencer died in the flower border last week,’ she told her eagerly. ‘One minute she was smelling the roses, the next she was compost! Arthur Sillars is
terribly ill. They say it’s only a matter of time. Look at Stoke over there.’ She pointed at her husband who had never looked more spritely with his sweeping moustache and ruddy face.
‘One can’t imagine him dying, can one? But it could come at any moment.’

Kitty managed to extricate herself with the excuse of attending the bride and hurried out onto the terrace. She took a deep breath and leant on the balustrade to look into Green Park at the
people wandering aimlessly beneath the plane trees. ‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Deverill,’ came a voice beside her.

She turned to find Mr Trench standing next to her. She was surprised at how happy she was to see him. ‘Mr Trench, how unexpected . . .’

He took her hand and bowed. ‘It’s a great pleasure to see you after all this time. Might I say how lovely you look.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled: something about him had changed. He was less stiff, more sure of himself, perhaps, less solemn. ‘This is the last place I would expect to see
you,’ she said.

‘Why, was it not through your cousin Beatrice that your mother employed me to be your tutor? Digby and Beatrice are very dear friends of my family.’

‘Then why have we not met before? I’ve been in London over a year.’

‘I’ve just returned from Italy.’

‘Italy, how marvellous. What were you doing in Italy?’

‘I’m writing a book.’

‘An academic book?’

He shook his head and grinned bashfully. ‘A novel.’

‘Why, Mr Trench, how very exciting. What’s it about?’

‘Love.’

‘Love?’

‘Don’t look so startled. What else in the world is more important than that?’

Kitty didn’t know what to say. ‘Goodness, Mr Trench, I don’t know. I don’t think anything in the world is more important than that.’

‘Please, you must stop calling me Mr Trench. I’m not your tutor now. My name is Robert.’

‘Robert then. You must call me Kitty.’

His face became suddenly serious. ‘I heard about the castle and your poor grandfather. I’m so sorry.’

She lowered her eyes. ‘Yes, it was dreadful.’

‘Is that why you left?’

‘No.’ Kitty hesitated and felt a weariness descend upon her. ‘It’s a long story. A sad story. I don’t think I’m quite ready to share it.’

‘I understand. Forgive me. May I . . .’

At that moment someone stepped onto the terrace, looking about frantically. ‘Has anyone seen the bride? We’ve looked everywhere!’

‘Dear God!’ Kitty exclaimed.

‘Miss Deverill, you’re a bridesmaid. When did you last see her? She’s meant to be cutting the cake.’

‘Are you sure she’s not powdering her nose?’ Kitty suggested.

The man looked desperate. ‘We’ve searched everywhere.’

‘You don’t think she’s done a runner, do you?’ said Robert under his breath, watching the panic ripple through the room as heads turned and people whispered behind their
hands.

‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Kitty anxiously. ‘But I suggest we start by looking for Lachlan Kirkpatrick, the best man.’

New York, America, 1922

Bridie discovered that, beneath Mrs Grimsby’s hard outer coating, there was a soft and sentimental woman. She knew nothing of the old lady’s past to understand why
she had become embittered and unhappy, but she discovered that poetry and stories in the present were the nutcracker which occasionally exposed this vulnerable centre. Mrs Grimsby loved beautiful
words. She’d repeat them, rolling them on her tongue like boiled sweets, savouring their taste. She made Bridie read every afternoon on the veranda overlooking the ocean and demanded more
stories of Ireland. Mrs Grimsby loved stories of Castle Deverill best of all. She was fascinated by the ghosts imprisoned by a curse within the castle walls and gripped by Lady Deverill and
Kitty’s extraordinary gift of sight. Thus Bridie was forced into the past. The door she had shut with such determination opened a crack and her memories were at once exposed like the secret
corners of a darkened room suddenly thrown into light. At night she dreamed of her father, the smell of smoked herring, the sound of the fiddle and the old Irish songs that had accompanied her
growing up. Sometimes she dreamed of the Banshee, the tinkers and the awesome black figure of Father Quinn, his eyes burning into her soul in search of sin, and she’d awake with tears rolling
down her cheeks and soaking into her pillow.

The smells of the sea in America were nothing like the smells in Ireland and Bridie was grateful for the difference. She didn’t allow herself to pine. America was her home now and her past
existed only in her mind. Ireland was so far away – the other side of a world that was too enormous for Bridie to fully comprehend. She didn’t read the newspapers, she didn’t
listen to gossip in church and when she did hear snippets of conversation in the drawing room about the civil war she suppressed her curiosity and smothered her sense of dismay. The only contact
she had with her country of birth were the regular letters she wrote to her mother and the money she sent home; the only sign of surrender her pillow wet with tears.

Miss Ferrel, Mrs Gottersman and Mr Gordon were Bridie’s only companions although none of them was her friend. Bridie remembered helping her mother in the kitchen of the castle as a child.
There had been a strong sense of unity among Lord Deverill’s servants and a genuine affection for the Deverill family. She remembered her mother laughing with the kitchen maids, chiding them
as they gossiped but secretly enjoying their spirited banter. She remembered Skiddy, Lord Deverill’s aged valet, and O’Flynn the butler who had been older than Mr Gordon. Skiddy had
allowed her to help him polish the gold buttons on Lord Deverill’s hunting coat and O’Flynn had once chased her around the kitchen table with a dishcloth, until she had collapsed onto
the flagstone floor in a fit of giggles. Those two men had been full of affection and mirth. Mrs Grimsby’s houses were silent and cold, like tombs, and laughter was never heard anywhere, only
the occasional cynical chuckle from Mrs Grimsby as she considered her greedy family. Bridie thought Mrs Gottersman was as sour as a lemon, Mr Gordon as stiff as a stick of celery and Miss Ferrel,
though friendly enough, was as formal as a dinner service. They attended to Mrs Grimsby’s every need and, one after the other, were summoned to her presence for ‘confidential little
chats’. They eyed each other with suspicion. They trusted no one. They lived for that pat on the hand and that ‘confidential little chat’. Mrs Grimsby sat on her grand chair like
a fat spider contemplating the flies caught in her web. And Bridie observed them all, kept her head down and got on with her job.