Songs of Love and War (51 page)

He considered her offer. It didn’t take him long. ‘I’ll marry you, Miss Doyle, and my final years will be full of pleasure.’

‘Then you’d better call me Bridget,’ she said with a smile.

‘And you’d better call me Walter.’ He kissed her again but his hand returned to her waist where it remained. ‘We’ll marry soon before you drive me insane with
desire, and before my family have the time to object.’

Walter Lockwood’s family did indeed object, but Bridie didn’t care. They were married within the month just as the first buds of spring were beginning to peep out
of the thawing winter earth. Ashley moved out of the house in disgust and Bridie sold Mrs Grimsby’s houses without a backwards glance. She brought Rosetta with her to her new home and
dismissed the cook and the butler who had worked for her for only six months. The newspapers were quick to write about this unlikely couple with nearly forty years between them, pointing out that
their combined fortune was immense. Society gossiped about the new Mrs Lockwood’s extraordinary rise with both contempt and wonder. ‘She’s not even beautiful,’ some of the
women complained.

‘It’s not like he needs the money,’ said others.

‘But she’s young and old men can’t resist the feel of young fl esh,’ commented the more vulgar observers.

The old ladies clicked their tongues and shook their heads. ‘Poor Heather Lockwood must be turning in her grave,’ they said of his first wife. But none of this was noticed by the
newly-weds, whose happiness was armour against disapproval and condemnation.

Mr Williams continued to take care of Bridie’s financial affairs, but Mr Lockwood oversaw her investments with the same cunning and skill that had made
him
so rich. The stock market
was a game the silver fox relished and he proudly boasted that he’d double her money by investing in gold. While their husbands took care of Bridie’s business affairs Bridie and Elaine
became closer than ever. Indeed, the two women were inseparable. When Bridie bought something for herself, she bought something for Elaine. When she was invited to lunch, Elaine came as well. When
her husband was too exhausted to go out in the evenings, Bridie partied with Elaine and the two of them returned to those old basement clubs, drank champagne in the speakeasies and danced until the
sun rose in the sky to turn the Hudson gold.

Bridie had never felt more secure. Mr Lockwood was a sensitive and gentle lover and Bridie managed to play the innocent without any difficulty. He spoiled her, indulged her and cherished her and
Bridie relished having a distinguished, fearless husband to escort her through all the doors of Fifth Avenue which had previously barred her. She was Mrs Lockwood, now infamous as the most
determined social climber in New York.

Walter had gained a wife but he had lost his children. Furious that he had married a girl young enough to be his daughter they refused to speak to him. His daughters wept and raged and vented
their wrath to anyone who would listen while his sons insisted he arrange his will so that
his
fortune went directly to them and not to any children he might have with his new wife. While
Bridie pressed her ear to his study door she heard the accusations his sons threw about the room. They told their father he had married an
Irish whore,
a
golddigger,
a
tramp
, a
trollop
, a
ruthless opportunist who preyed on old people.
They told him she’d wear him out with her insatiable desire for entertainment and that he’d be dead before the
year was over. They begged him to divorce her. They implored him to remember their mother whom he had dearly loved.
It’s her or us
, they told him. But Walter defended her with strong
language, accusing them of selfishness and of denying him happiness in his autumn years. The boys left the house and Walter watched them go with a hardened heart. Any hurt he felt he buried deep so
that even
he
couldn’t find it. Bridie crept out of the shadows and wrapped her arms around him. ‘They’ll accept me in the end,’ she said, kissing his beard. But she
knew they never would.

Bridie made sure she distracted her new husband sufficiently so that he didn’t have time to worry about his children. They were out most evenings and the invitations kept coming. When he
complained he was tired, she laughed and kissed his white beard, pulling him back onto the dance floor, insisting she was too happy to remain still. When they stayed at home she crept into his arms
like a needy black cat, demanding to be stroked.

Bridie had never been so happy. She had everything she believed she wanted. She didn’t love her husband but she liked him very much. He allowed her to lead the life she had always craved.
Those stars upon which she had gazed from her small bedroom window in Ballinakelly had made her wish come true. She was somebody now and no one could look down their nose at her. Not Kitty, not
Celia, not Elspeth, not Victoria, Countess of Elmrod. No one would dare.

Then one night in late summer, as Bridie pressed her naked body against Walter’s, his weary old heart gave up and stopped ticking. Just as quickly as Bridie had found happiness, it was
lost to her. The last seven months of Walter’s life had indeed been filled with pleasure. But Bridie’s joy had come to an untimely end.

She stared in horror as her husband’s face turned white. His lips became a dark shade of blue. His hand, which was resting on her waist, went limp and fell onto the mattress. His final
breath was exhaled quietly, without any resistance as if he gave up his ghost willingly. Bridie shook him. She shouted at him. She tried everything to rouse him from death, but to no avail. He had
passed away, leaving her a widow at twenty- five years old.

Sobbing hysterically, she rang for the butler. She rang and she rang and she didn’t stop ringing until he burst into the room in alarm. He found Bridie in her dressing gown clinging to the
lifeless body of his master. Bridie was too distraught to see the accusation in the butler’s eyes as he lifted Mr Lockwood’s hand to feel for a pulse. He shook his head dolefully and
left the room to call an ambulance. Bridie watched them cover her husband in a sheet, lift him onto a stretcher and carry him away forever. With him went her security, her social standing and her
happiness, which she had thought could never be taken away on account of her enormous wealth.

She remained in her bedroom, staring out of the window onto the empty street below, wondering where she could go from here. Without Walter she didn’t belong in this house. His children
would quickly reclaim it and she would have to move somewhere else. But where? Her heart flagged at the thought of summoning Mr Williams again and searching for somewhere to live. Walter’s
children would make sure that every door that had opened for her on Fifth Avenue would close again and she would find herself an outcast. People would look on her with suspicion. No sooner had she
arrived at Mrs Grimsby’s house than the old lady had died. No sooner had she married Mr Lockwood than the old man had died. Rosetta had come to comfort her but she had sent her away. She
didn’t want to speak to anyone. Just as she had begun to feel she belonged God had seen fit to cast her adrift again.

The following day she telephoned Elaine to tell her the news. Elaine was horrified. ‘I’m coming over,’ she said, putting down the telephone. Shortly after, Elaine arrived at
the house to comfort her friend while her husband came to discuss Bridie’s future. Mr Williams spoke plainly as Bridie had spoken to him when she had set out to find a husband. ‘I
strongly advise you to leave New York,’ he said. ‘Mr Lockwood’s family will make it their business to make your life here very difficult. They know everyone in this
town.’

‘Indeed and they’ll want their revenge.’

‘I’m afraid they will,’ said Mr Williams.

‘Where am I to go?’ Bridie asked, wringing her hands and throwing her gaze out of the window. ‘I have nowhere to go!’

‘This is a very big country, Mrs Lockwood. With your fortune you can settle anywhere you want.’

‘But I don’t know anyone. You and Elaine are my only friends in the world.’

‘Beaumont is right, Bridget,’ Elaine replied, shaking her head. ‘You’ve done it before, you can do it again. What about Texas? It’s sunny there.’

‘Texas? I don’t even know where that is on a map!’ Bridie swallowed a sob.

‘You tell me where you want to go and I’ll make the arrangements,’ said Mr Williams, standing up.

‘I’ll help you decide. It’ll be fun,’ enthused Elaine, glancing anxiously at her husband. ‘You can buy a big house and start afresh where no one knows
you.’

‘But that’s just it. I don’t want to go where no one knows me. I don’t want to start again. I ache for the familiar, Elaine.’

When they had gone Rosetta appeared in the doorway holding a book. ‘What is it, Rosetta?’ Bridie asked.

‘I thought you might like this.’ She handed Bridie the old book of Yeats’s poems.

Bridie took it and gazed down at it sadly. ‘Thank you, Rosetta,’ she said softly. ‘You’re quite right. I
do
need it.’ She curled up on the sofa beside the
fire in the most beautiful room of the house and opened the first page. Slowly she began to read:

Bridie stared at the words until they had all blurred into one dark stain. She knew where she had to go. She knew what she had to do. It was no use moving to another part of the country because
her past would only go with her, for it was locked away in the secret chambers of her heart. Wherever she went it would follow, and in the quiet moments when she dared gaze into her soul she would
see the child she had given away who was part of her and always would be. She had the money now to give him a finer home than she had ever had. She could give him a world-class education and a
future in a country where he belonged; she could deny Ireland in loud protestations but that beautiful land was in her veins and, with every heartbeat, was calling her home.

Bridie attended her husband’s funeral hidden behind a black veil. She did not meet the eyes of any of his children but she felt their loathing like little knives on her skin, viciously
prodding. The large congregation of his friends who had fawned over her when she had been married to him now turned their cold shoulders and ignored her. Bridie felt more isolated and alone than
ever.

When it was over she left the house on Fifth Avenue forever. Her bags were already on their way to the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin. She embraced Elaine fiercely and thanked Mr Williams for his
advice and friendship, then with Rosetta to accompany her, she boarded the boat for Ireland.

Bridie had arrived in America as a naive and penniless child; now she was leaving as a shrewd and wealthy woman. The thought of seeing her homeland again gave her a thrilling sense of
anticipation. She was returning for the child who belonged to her. Surely God could not deny her
him.

London, England, 1925

When Celia heard that Kitty and Robert had moved to Ireland she was devastated. Furious that her cousin hadn’t told her, she complained bitterly to Harry and Boysie, who,
in spite of each being married, were more together than ever. ‘Does she have so little respect for our friendship that she makes this decision without me?’ she moaned into her wine
glass. ‘Our lunches aren’t the same without her.’ Indeed, their table for four at Claridge’s was achingly incomplete.

‘I imagine she told no one, so that there was minimal chance of the one person she really didn’t want to know finding out,’ said Boysie.

‘Mother!’ Harry drew on his cigarette. ‘Mama despises Ireland now that my inheritance is gone.’

‘It’s not gone,’ Celia reminded him. ‘It’s a pile of rubble, but rubble can always be rebuilt.’

‘Who has the money to do that?’ Harry asked.

‘Your dreary wife,’ Boysie chuckled, winking at Celia.

‘Yours is more dreary than mine,’ Harry laughed. ‘In fact, I think we’ve both married the most insipid girls in London.’

‘At least yours has money. I should think her father would happily rebuild your castle,’ said Boysie.

Harry pulled a face. ‘You know I don’t want to live in Ireland. My inheritance was an unwelcome bind. I was never happy there,’ he said, forgetting Joseph. ‘My life is in
England now.’

‘What will happen to the castle? I was at my
most
happy there,’ said Celia, sipping her wine and suddenly smelling the scent of tomatoes in the greenhouses at Castle
Deverill.

‘Mother says she’s going to persuade Father to sell it.’

Celia was appalled. ‘You can’t sell your family home, however much you don’t want to live in it! It’s your inheritance. It’s the
Deverill
family heritage.
I’ve been boasting about our Irish castle since I was a little girl! What will I boast about if it’s sold to a stranger?’

‘Darling, it’s over. Ireland is over. It belongs to the Irish now and we Anglo-Irish have no business to be there. It’ll be bought by some Irishman with more money than
sense.’

‘There aren’t any with money, are there?’ Celia said.

‘There certainly aren’t many with sense,’ Boysie added. ‘From what I understand they’re still killing each other.’

Celia threw her hands up in despair. ‘They can’t sell it. Your grandmother will die!’

‘She’s going to die anyway. Mother says she’s gone mad with grief. As soon as she’s gone, Mother will go to Ireland and persuade Papa that they need a proper house in
England. She can’t go on living with Victoria.’

Boysie arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s an accident waiting to happen. I don’t know who will turn who mad first – Victoria or your mother. They’re both equally
dreadful.’ Boysie flicked his fingers at the waiter and ordered another bottle of wine.