Songs of Love and War (44 page)

One night at the end of the summer Archie came to Celia’s bedroom. He didn’t say a word. He took off his dressing gown and hung it on the back of her chair. He slid
out of his slippers and unbuttoned his pyjama top, untying the drawstring of his trousers and stepping out of them. Celia watched him from the bed, too nervous to speak. His naked body shone golden
in the glow of the street lamp that poured a fountain of light through the gap in the curtains, but his expression was cast in shadow and Celia longed to see whether he was coming in love, to take
her in his arms as she had so often dreamed, or in loathing to do his duty as a husband but nothing more.

Quietly he pulled back the covers and climbed in. Celia bit her lip and a tremor of anticipation rippled across her skin. She felt his hand glide over her belly. Tentatively she placed hers on
top of it, holding it still against her nightdress. At once she felt something silky in his grasp. She searched for his eyes through the darkness. At last he looked at her. ‘I want you to put
these on,’ he said.

She frowned. ‘What are they?’

‘White gloves,’ he replied. She made to object. ‘Celia, darling, the deal was you’d do anything I demand of you.’

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘If it’s only a pair of white gloves . . .’

‘That’s all it is,
and nothing else.’

For a moment she looked horrified . . . but then her face broke into a smile and she started to laugh. ‘If that’s your only peccadillo, then we’re going to be very happy
together.’ And he bent his head to kiss her.

London, England, autumn 1923

Kitty opened her eyes. The dark face of Michael Doyle was staring down at her, smirking triumphantly as he buttoned up his trousers. Her virtue was a prize to celebrate like the
murder of Colonel Manley and the many Auxiliaries he had no doubt killed in the name of a free Ireland. ‘I own you now,’ he was saying. ‘I filled you with my seed and, even though
it never took root, it embedded itself deep inside you like a thorn which you can never remove, however hard you try to forget.’ She blinked into the darkness, her pulse racing, her breath
scratching her throat. Had he come in death to haunt her? She blinked again then fumbled for the light. The room was empty. She realized it had only been a dream, but she could smell the blend of
alcohol and smoke as if he had really been there and shuddered. She took a sip of water. She had sworn that she would never let him go, but in truth it was
he
who had never let
her
go. The ripping of her flesh had healed but the memory of his attack remained forever branded on her soul like the mark of the Devil. If she hadn’t ridden over to confront him . . . if she
hadn’t been so arrogant . . . if only . . .

Little Jack Deverill was now one and a half and more adorable than any child Kitty had ever seen. Without restraint she poured all the love she had saved for Jack O’Leary onto the
half-brother who bore his name. Harry and Boysie visited often and spent time with the child, cooing over him like a pair of pigeons, but their regular calls only emphasized the lack of interest
from the rest of her family. In Maud’s case it was on account of her hurt; in Victoria’s her disapproval; in her father’s his shame. Kitty accepted that Jack would never be
recognized by that branch of the Deverill family. The Wiltshire branch, however, embraced him with their habitual aplomb.

Harry had got engaged to Charlotte Stalbridge at the same time that Boysie had asked Dreary Deirdre to marry him. Maud was ecstatic. The Stalbridges were a wealthy, well-established landed
family with a large estate in Norfolk, near the royal Sandringham estate. Indeed, Sir Charles Stalbridge was a friend of the King. Although Harry no longer had a grand castle to inherit, the
Stalbridges were delighted owing to Harry’s charm. There was a certain romance in the black ruins of a fortress burned by Fenian rebels during the Troubles. Harry was a Deverill, destined to
be Lord Deverill, castle or no castle, and they were perfectly satisfied with that. Besides, Charlotte was madly in love, which to Lady Stalbridge was more important than ancient stone walls and
worthless lands.

Beatrice offered to throw the happy couple a joint engagement party at Deverill Rising with Boysie and Deirdre, and set about organizing it for New Year’s Eve. Maud spent Christmas with
Victoria. Elspeth, pregnant with her second child, invited her father and grandmother for the festivities for he and Maud seemed to lead totally separate lives now. Bertie remained at the Hunting
Lodge with his increasingly eccentric mother while Maud stayed in England with Victoria, or during the Season with Beatrice. She had begged Bertie to buy her a house of her own, explaining that it
was hard to depend on the hospitality of Digby and Beatrice ‘like a poor relation’. But Bertie told her there was no money left for that sort of extravagance. If she didn’t like
it she could always return to Co. Cork. The thought of returning
there
appalled Maud. Without the castle she could no longer hold her head up in Ireland – and besides, she had severed
all ties with the country she had never really warmed to. Betrayed by her best friend, rejected by her husband, insulted by his illegitimate child Kitty had insisted on raising and chatelaine of a
heap of stones and ashes were reasons enough to never set foot in that godforsaken country again.

Kitty longed to return to Ireland with every fibre of her body and it took a great force of will to remain in England. She spent Christmas at Deverill Rising with Digby and Beatrice. The house
filled once again with their family and friends and for a brief moment Kitty lost her craving for home in the excitement of endless parties. As long as she kept herself occupied she could bury
Ireland beneath the buzz of activity. She could wander around their splendid gardens in Wiltshire and not yearn for the walled vegetable garden where she had looked for messages from Jack, or the
greenhouses where she, Celia and Bridie had held their secret meetings in the summertime, or the box garden where she had so often lost herself as a child, her footsteps in the frost doubling up
until she no longer knew where she was. She stifled her sorrow by taking pleasure from the loveliness of Deverill Rising, and it was, quite simply, magnificent.

It was at the boys’ engagement party on New Year’s Eve that she found herself talking to Robert Trench. Seated next to him at dinner she enquired after his book. ‘I’ve
finished it,’ he said happily. ‘It’s going to be published this spring.’

‘How delightful,’ Kitty enthused. ‘I look forward to reading it.’

‘I will send you a copy,’ he volunteered. ‘You can be the first to receive one.’

‘I’m flattered. I’m sure I shall enjoy it very much.’ He smiled and Kitty thought how handsome he was when he looked happy. He had been so terribly solemn in Ireland. He
gazed at her with affection and Kitty wondered at people’s ability to change. There was something reassuring about the familiarity of him; he reminded her of home. ‘You never smiled in
Ireland,’ she ventured. ‘Why?’ ‘I was unhappy,’ he confessed. ‘Didn’t Ireland make you happy?’

‘Those years made me more unhappy than I have ever been in my life. I should have been fighting in the war. I felt a failure. I felt less of a man.’

She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Robert. I never knew.’ ‘You were very young. How could you have known?’ ‘I should have been more sensitive. I think I was
beastly.’ ‘You weren’t beastly. You were distracted.’ Kitty thought of Jack but hastily suppressed it. ‘I was very concerned about Ireland,’ she said. ‘You
were certainly idealistic’ ‘We got our Free State, though, didn’t we?’ ‘But Ireland is still divided.’ ‘Yes, but we won independence for the South.’
‘Yet, at what cost?’

She looked at him steadily and at once she felt the desire to share things that had remained hidden for so long. She knew that, out of all the people in her new life, Robert was the only man who
would truly understand her. ‘The War of Independence robbed me of everything I have ever loved,’ she said quietly. ‘It was a war I believed in and in a small way I played a part.
But I never thought I’d be personally affected.’

‘Might that be an understatement?’

She lowered her eyes sadly, overwhelmed by the compassion in his voice and the emotions it provoked. ‘Oh Robert, you have no idea how true that is.’ She sighed. ‘But Ireland
has her independence now.’

‘And you?’

‘I have lost her.’ Kitty picked up her glass of wine, rallying her strength from the deep reserves she could always count on. ‘But I’ll get her back one day. She’s
not going to go away. I might have lost my home and . . .’ She hesitated. ‘But Ireland is still wild and green and beautiful.’ She stood up from the table and hurried out of the
dining room, through the house to the French windows that opened onto the wintry terrace.

The fountain was frozen, the hedges glittered with freshly fallen snow, an icy moon shone through an aura of mist. Stars glimmered brighter than she had ever seen them and somewhere in the
woods, beyond the dovecote, an owl hooted through the darkness. ‘You’ll die of cold,’ said Robert, stepping out to join her. He took off his jacket and placed it over her
shoulders. He stood beside her. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you about Ireland.’

Kitty shivered and put the jacket on. It was warm where his body had been. ‘I try so hard to suppress it, Robert. I try all the time but every day it’s a struggle. My heart bleeds
for my home. I love it, you see. I love it more than anything in the world.’

‘I understand your love, Kitty. Castle Deverill was one of the most wonderful places I have ever been to in my life. I’ve travelled to Italy and Spain, Morocco and France and yet,
those rugged green hills of Cork are among the most beautiful sights my eyes have witnessed. They seem to touch one deeply, in one’s soul. I was so lucky to have spent those years there with
you.’

‘But you were so unhappy?’

‘Unhappy, yes, but surrounded by such beauty.’ Her eyes glittered in the moonlight and Robert gazed into them, his heart swelling with love. ‘I’d give you Ireland if I
could,’ he said softly, looking at her earnestly through his round spectacles. ‘I’d take you back and watch you flower like the purple heather on the hills.’ He ran his
fingers down her damp cheek. ‘Nothing would make me happier than to return to Castle Deverill and rebuild your home stone by stone. I’d sell my soul to do it.’

‘Oh Robert,’ she sighed, suddenly understanding everything. ‘You were unhappy because . . .’

‘Yes, I loved you.’ He nodded. ‘Every day was a struggle, Kitty, just like you are struggling now with your yearning for Ireland. But I survived and here I am, looking down
upon the woman I love who has stars in her eyes.’ He laughed at his own foolishness. ‘One day you’ll return to Ireland and your struggle will have been worth it. For your absence
will only deepen your love and increase your appreciation. When you lay eyes on your beloved Ireland again you’ll believe its splendour more intense than before, more vibrant, more uplifting,
just like I believe you more beautiful than before.’

‘You’re going to make me cry,’ she said. ‘If your book is as moving as your words are to me now, I don’t think I’ll be able to read it.’

He brushed away a tear with his thumb. ‘It’s inspired by you, Kitty.’

‘Does it have a happy ending?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t.’

She placed her hand on top of his, holding it against her cheek. ‘Do we?’ she asked.

‘That depends on you.’

She lifted her chin and he bent his head to place his lips on hers in a long and tender kiss. She squeezed her eyes shut, releasing a final tear for Jack, for that chapter had to close now. The
book which contained within its pages all the tragedy and pain of Ireland’s Troubles and Kitty’s suffering must be put away on the shelf and a new book begun. A positive book, one
filled with joy and light.

She knew that, although she didn’t love Robert, she needed him. She couldn’t endure her exile alone. Robert understood her love of Ireland – he connected her to a time in her
life when she had been truly happy. He knew the gardens at Castle Deverill as well as she did. He appreciated the rocky hills and their deep and enduring majesty. He knew her better than anyone
else for he had taught her everything she knew. She respected his superior mind and yet, at the same time, knew he admired her for her enquiring one. There was no one more qualified than him to lay
claim to her heart.

She wrapped her arms around him and let him shelter her from the cold, from the fears that rose up from her past like monsters, from the future that was still so uncertain. She kissed him
gratefully, because, having doubted she would find someone to love her, she had found someone who always had. In Robert’s arms she felt the warm comfort of the familiar and she silently
thanked God for giving her a second chance.

Grace was in the garden when the butler approached her across the lawn. Spring had breathed her sugar-scented breath over the grass, turning it a bright, vibrant green, and
through the branches of the ancient oak trees, opening their delicate little buds and awakening the flowers on the horse chestnuts and elders to scatter their petals on the wind like confetti. She
loved this time of year the best and it pained her to leave for London just as Ireland was blossoming in all her glory. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, m’lady, but there’s a
young man in the hall. He says he needs to speak to you.’

Grace sighed irritably. She had been enjoying the peace of the garden and the sight of birds frolicking among the new leaves, building their nests and twittering merrily. There was nothing like
the sound of birdsong to lift the spirits. ‘Did he say his name?’ she enquired. Perhaps she could ask him to come back later.

‘Yes, m’lady. Jack O’Leary.’

She gave a start. ‘Thank you, Brennan. I’ll see him at once.’

Grace followed the butler across the grass and entered the house through the side door. When she reached the sitting room Jack was by the window, gazing out over the gardens. He heard her enter.
‘When I was in prison, I missed the sight of birds, the smell of soil, the budding of leaves.’ He turned round and took off his cap. ‘It’s good to be free. How are you, Lady
Rowan-Hampton?’