Songs of Love and War (56 page)

Bridie wanted to ask about her child. If he had taken him from the convent, where would he have brought him if not here? ‘I read that they burned the castle,’ she said numbly.

‘Oh, they did indeed. A dreadful thing it was, too. Now Lord Deverill is selling the estate.’

‘Tell her about the child, God save us!’ said Old Mrs Nagle.

‘What child?’ Bridie clung on to a small shard of hope.

‘Lord Deverill has a bastard boy,’ said Mrs Doyle, shaking her head disapprovingly. ‘No one can talk of anything else.’

‘Who’s the mother?’

‘He didn’t say. But the boy is being raised by Kitty Deverill, now Mrs Trench.’

‘God save us!’ Old Mrs Nagle exclaimed again, crossing herself more passionately.

Bridie’s spirits revived. ‘Kitty married Mr Trench?’

‘She did indeed.’

‘Are they in Ireland?’

‘In the White House. You know, where Mr Rupert Deverill used to live.’

‘Poor
Mr Rupert Deverill,’ said Old Mrs Nagle. ‘He often brought me a salmon and he always brought it gutted. A grand creature.’

‘Have you seen the boy?’

‘No, but I hear he’s a bonny lad with red hair like his sister and grandmother.’

‘Oh Michael,’ Bridie sighed, quietly thanking him for bringing her son home. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Jack,’ said Mrs Doyle.

Bridie was stung. ‘Jack?’

‘A grand name, is it not?’ Now Bridie knew who had named him and she bristled with jealousy. ‘You must be hungry.’ Mrs Doyle turned to Rosetta who still stood by the
door. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘This is Rosetta, my companion,’ Bridie replied.

‘You have a companion? God save us!’ said Mrs Doyle in disapproval. ‘Well, you might as well make yourselves at home. Bridie, you can have your old room and Rosetta will have
to share your bed or sleep on the floor. We don’t have separate rooms for servants here. ’T’was far from maids and companions you were reared.’ She shook her head in
displeasure. ‘I think America has spoiled you, Bridie. The world is gone red mad.’ Bridie caught Rosetta’s eye. If her mother knew only
half
the truth, she’d send her
off to Father Quinn to confess her sins and she’d spend the rest of her life in a heap of Hail Marys.

That evening Sean returned for tea. He took one look at the pretty, amber-skinned Rosetta and his mood lifted. She was the first Italian to ever visit Ballinakelly. Rosetta
instantly became more animated and her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Bridie sat in the familiar room, with what was left of her family, and let the memories close in around her; but they felt
distant, as if they belonged to another life long ago. She tasted the food she had loved as a child, but now it lacked flavour and she left half on her plate, much to her mother’s annoyance.
She knelt for prayer, but the floor was hard on her knees and she couldn’t concentrate on the words. She visualized her father and Michael talking at the table with their heads together,
their conflicting ideas creating sparks, and tried to feel part of that picture. But the little girl drinking buttermilk on the foot of the stair had nothing to do with her now. She might just as
well have been a stranger.

Later, as she listened to the familiar sounds of the night, she didn’t find comfort in them, but an unsettling sense of alienation. She wasn’t Bridie Doyle any more. She had grown
out of that skin, like a hairy molly out of its chrysalis. She didn’t belong here in this house either.

The following day Bridie went alone to the White House in Sean’s pony and trap, leaving Rosetta to help her mother in the house, while Sean found any excuse to keep
coming back inside. It was another warm September day. The light was soft and autumnal, the wind smelling strongly of the sea. Bridie wanted to take pleasure from the echoes of the past that came
to her from every corner of the land, but all she could think about now was her son.

The blood pumped feverishly through her veins. Her nervousness caused her stomach to churn with nausea. She didn’t know what she was going to say to Kitty, now that Kitty knew the truth.
She certainly didn’t know what she was going to say to her son. She imagined him, as a three-and-a-half-year-old now, running into her arms, and she held on to that image to stop herself from
losing heart and turning back. She tried to feel gratitude towards Kitty for looking after him; after all, he could have been sent away to strangers, lost without a trace. At least here, she knew
where he was and that he was in a good home, but she couldn’t help feeling resentful. He shouldn’t have been taken away from her in the first place.

At last she saw the White House through the trees. It was positioned up a drive on a hill, with a clear view of the sea. She climbed down and tethered her pony to the gate post. As she walked up
the drive she wondered what had become of Jack. Kitty had married her tutor, the man she had written off as dull and humourless. She wondered why she hadn’t eloped with Jack. The fact that
she hadn’t gave her a small sense of triumph, a malicious feeling of satisfaction. Neither of them had been able to have him. There was a certain justice in that.

Suddenly she heard the sound of voices. A woman’s laughter and a child’s squeals of delight. Bridie walked towards it. As the sounds grew louder she realized that she hadn’t
dared breathe. She was holding her breath in dread and fear and anticipation. Then she saw him and she let out a deep moan. A little boy in a pair of brown trousers and a white shirt, a cap on his
head like the one Jack used to wear, trotted along beside a woman, holding her hand, but it wasn’t Kitty. Bridie clutched her heart and stopped walking, taking in the sight of this small
stranger who carried her blood in his veins. He was handsome and his smile broke her heart all over again. Then Kitty appeared in the doorway. She opened her arms and grinned. The little boy
shouted ‘Kitty’ and ran unsteadily towards her. With a whoop of delight Kitty swept him up and cuddled him against her bosom. She took off his cap and put it on her own head. The boy
giggled and reached up to grab it. Before Bridie could digest the scene, Kitty had retreated inside, taking the boy with her.

Bridie stood rooted to the ground with a deep and searing pain burning in her chest. The woman who had been holding Jack’s hand turned and saw her. Bridie must have cut an unlikely figure
there on the drive, alone, clearly distraught. The woman shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and walked towards her. ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’

Bridie struggled to find her voice. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’ve come to the wrong address,’ she managed before turning and fleeing down the drive. The woman frowned as she
watched her disappear in a hurry through the gate at the bottom.

Once out of the gate Bridie slumped onto the grass, put her face in her hands and sobbed. Her hope had turned to vapour. In her dreams she had imagined him a baby still. But he was a little boy
and in his eyes Kitty was his mother, even though he hadn’t called her by that name. Had she really believed that Kitty would rejoice at seeing her and hand the child back? Had she really
been so foolish as to expect Kitty not to love the child as her own? Bridie might be the boy’s natural mother but Kitty was his mother in every other way and with that thought her heart
twisted with a fierce and desperate jealousy. She clutched her stomach and let her despair engulf her.

After a while she stood up shakily. As she untied the horse’s reins she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. She turned. It was Kitty, pale and serious in the sunlight.
‘Bridie?’ she said, stepping forward. ‘Is that you?’

Bridie stared back at the woman who had once been as dear to her as a sister and recognized the fear in her eyes. It was wild and undisguised, like the foxes people had always likened her to,
and it opened a canyon between them. ‘Aye, it’s me, Kitty.’

‘You’ve come back,’ Kitty croaked.

‘I’ve come back for my son,’ Bridie replied with emphasis, lifting her chin, and Kitty noticed how the years in America had hardened her face almost beyond all recognition.

‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ Kitty reminded her. ‘He’s a little boy now.’

‘He’s
my
little boy.’

‘You gave him to
me,
Bridie. You left him on my doorstep and I vowed to raise him and love him as my own. I sacrificed everything for him, for
you.’

‘I didn’t give him to you,’ Bridie replied tightly. ‘Michael did.’

‘Michael?’ The mention of her brother’s name made Kitty shudder.

‘The nuns took him away from me. They stole my child.’ Bridie’s voice rose a tone in anguish. ‘Michael rescued him and put him into your safekeeping so that, one day,
when I was able, I could come back and find him. Well, I’m here now. He’s my child, Kitty. Where is your compassion?’

‘It was compassion that propelled me to give up the man I loved and do my duty for your son. He was left on my doorstep because he’s a Deverill. My father has recognized him. He is
my brother and he belongs with me.’

‘But
I
am his mother,’ Bridie insisted.

‘You gave birth to him but you abandoned him.’

‘I was left no choice.’

‘Jack believes he doesn’t have a mother, Bridie.’

Kitty’s words, although delivered softly, dealt Bridie a mighty blow. Her hand flew to her throat and she stifled a cry. ‘You told him I was dead?’ she gasped.

‘What would you have had me do? I could not have told him that his mother abandoned him in a convent.’

‘There had to be another way?’ Bridie groaned.

‘He prays for you,’ Kitty said softly, suddenly suffering a pang of guilt at the sight of Bridie’s distress. ‘He prays every night for his mother who looks down on him
from the stars.’

‘God save us,’ Bridie wailed.

‘I’m only thinking of Jack.’

Bridie rounded on her friend with fury. ‘You’re only thinking of yourself, Kitty. You stole Jack O’Leary and now you have stolen my son as well!’ she cried.

‘Don’t bring Jack O’Leary into this,’ Kitty retorted, any sympathy for Bridie suddenly evaporating. ‘He never belonged to you in the first place.’

‘Well, now he belongs to neither of us,’ said Bridie with grim satisfaction. ‘I will not let this matter go, Kitty. Do you hear? This is not over.’ She climbed into the
trap and shook the reins. ‘The years in America have given me not only great wealth but great strength. Jack Deverill is my son. He belongs to me. I had to leave him once, but I won’t
do it a second time.’

When she had gone, and only when she had gone, did Kitty give in to her pain. She fell to her knees, wrapped her arms around her body and howled.

Bertie put down the telephone and stared into his glass of whiskey with an aching sense of hopelessness. So, the castle was sold. Just like that. It hadn’t taken long.
The buyer was very insistent that the whole business be done as quickly as possible, according to his solicitor, and in the utmost secrecy. He had paid the full price. He hadn’t even tried to
negotiate. Bertie wasn’t sure why the buyer wanted the purchase to be secret, but he didn’t enquire. He was so full of sorrow he just wanted the deal signed so that he didn’t have
to think about it any more.

‘The castle’s sold? Already?’ Maud exclaimed into the telephone. ‘Who’s bought it, Bertie?’ When she hung up she strode into the sitting room where Victoria
and Eric sat in evening dress, drinking sherry. ‘Can you believe it, somebody’s already bought the castle!’

‘Good Lord,’ said Eric. ‘That was swift.’

‘The buyer is very keen to have it as quickly as possible,’ Maud informed them. She sat down and picked up her half-drunk glass of sherry. ‘Well, so long as we get our money, I
don’t care.’

‘Do we know who’s bought it?’ Victoria asked.

‘No, Bertie says it’s a secret.’

‘How silly. Why would anyone want to keep the purchase of a castle secret?’ Victoria sniffed.

‘I don’t know but we’ll find out in the end,’ said Maud.

‘Perhaps he thinks you won’t sell it to him if you know who he is,’ said Eric, scratching his beard.

‘That’s a good point,’ Victoria agreed. ‘Who
wouldn’t
we want to buy it?’

Maud shook her head. Her white-blonde hair, cut into a stylish bob, didn’t move. ‘I don’t think I’d mind who bought it.’

‘Really?’ said Victoria. ‘Oh, I think you’d be a bit peeved if a member of the family bought it. Like Digby, for example.’

‘Well, of course I wouldn’t like Digby to buy it, because if a Deverill is going to live in there it’s going to be Harry. But Digby doesn’t want it. Beatrice certainly
doesn’t want it, either. They have Deverill Rising. Why on earth would they want a pile of old stones?’

‘Kitty?’ Victoria suggested.

‘They don’t have the money,’ said Maud meanly.

‘Grace?’

Maud turned to Victoria and blanched. ‘Grace Rowan-Hampton? Is that a joke?’

Victoria shrugged. ‘She’s rich enough to buy it.’

‘Why would
she
want it?’

‘Because it’s beautiful,’ said Victoria. ‘I wouldn’t want it because I don’t want to live in Ireland, but, if you love Ireland like she does, you’d
prize Castle Deverill above everywhere else. Of course she’d want it.’

Grace loved Bertie so it would make sense to rebuild his castle. Maud put her fingers to her lips and gasped. ‘Do you think . . . ?’ The implications were too horrible to
consider.

Digby returned to the dining room where his wife was enjoying dinner with Stoke and Augusta. ‘Somebody’s already bought the castle,’ he said, sitting down and
flicking his napkin over his knee. ‘But Bertie says he doesn’t know who.’

‘How wonderful for Maud,’ said Beatrice. ‘She must be delighted it’s all happened so quickly. You know she was looking at a house in Chester Square only
yesterday.’

‘What’s poor Bertie going to do?’ Stoke asked. ‘He can’t abide the woman.’

‘I don’t imagine they’ll have the money to buy two houses,’ said Beatrice. ‘They’re just going to have to learn to live with each other again.’

‘Maud is a very avaricious woman,’ said Augusta. ‘I could have told him that before he married her and saved him all the trouble.’