Songs of Love and War (6 page)

Kitty focused hard on her friend until Bridie raised her eyes and saw her, just as the pony and trap clip-clopped past. Bridie’s face lit up and she smiled. Kitty smiled back. A little
behind Bridie, Liam O’Leary, the vet, walked beside his twelve-year-old son, Jack. Kitty smiled at him, too. Jack was more discreet. His blue eyes twinkled beneath his thick brown fringe and
the corners of his mouth gave a tiny twitch. The pony walked on. When Kitty looked back she caught eyes with him again as he tossed her another furtive glance over his shoulder.

The church of St Patrick was almost full. Here the aristocracy came together with the ordinary working-class Protestants – shopkeepers, cattle jobbers, dressmakers and the Castle Deverill
estate manager and bookkeeper, all descended from the Huguenots. Lord and Lady Deverill sat in the front pew with Bertie, Maud, Victoria and Elspeth. Miss Grieve sat in the row behind with Kitty.
Much to Kitty’s delight she found herself sitting next to Lady Rowan-Hampton, wrapped snugly in a warm coat and fur stole. Her husband, the portly and red-faced Sir Ronald, had to sit on the
aisle side in order to get out to read the lesson. ‘My dear Kitty,’ whispered Lady Rowan-Hampton happily, placing her prayer book on the ledge in front of her. ‘I haven’t
seen you for such a long time. Haven’t you grown into a pretty girl? I must say, you’ve inherited your grandmother’s good looks. You know, as a young woman her beauty was the talk
of Dublin. Now, how are we to get through the service? I know, let’s play a game. Find an animal that matches each member of your family, and Reverend Daunt, of course, let’s not forget
him. If you were an animal, Kitty, you’d be . . .’ She narrowed her soft brown eyes and Kitty was transfixed by her rosy cheeks, slightly on the plump side, her smooth powdery skin and
full, expressive mouth. Kitty thought that, if people were cakes, Lady Rowan-Hampton would be a juicy Victoria sponge cake, whereas her mother would be a dry and bitter porter cake. ‘Of
course, my dear, you’d be a fox!’ Lady Rowan-Hampton continued. ‘You’d be a very cunning and charming little fox.’

The service began with the first hymn and Kitty stood tall and sang as prettily as she could in order to impress Lady Rowan-Hampton. Miss Grieve just mouthed the words, Kitty supposed, because
her voice was inaudible. Mrs Daunt, the Rector’s wife, usually played the organ, almost as badly as Elspeth played the piano, but today, as Mrs Daunt was indisposed, their neighbour, the
porcine Mr Rowe, played the violin beautifully. Kitty could smell Lady Rowan-Hampton’s perfume, which was floral and very sweet, like tuberose, and Kitty decided that when she was grown-up
she wanted to be just like her. Of course, she didn’t want a fat old husband like Sir Ronald, who was Master of the local hunt, a loud bore and contrary when drunk – Kitty had often
heard him holding forth in the dining room after dinner when the women had gone through to the drawing room. Lady Rowan-Hampton always wore glittering diamonds about her neck and wrists and long
dresses that swished as she walked. She was the closest thing to a princess that Kitty had ever seen. Now she was sitting beside her, Kitty was more enthralled than ever.

Sir Ronald read the first lesson. His booming voice rebounded off the walls as he threw each syllable into the congregation as if he were a colonel lobbing grenades. Victoria read the second,
softly and a little too fast, swallowing the ends of the sentences so their meaning was almost entirely lost. As Reverend Daunt warmed to his sermon, Lady Rowan-Hampton leaned down and whispered a
word into Kitty’s ear. ‘Walrus.’ Kitty stifled a giggle, because
that
was the very animal Kitty had thought of when Sir Ronald had read the lesson.

During the final hymn the collection plate was passed round. Lady Rowan-Hampton handed Kitty a coin so that, when the plate reached her, she was able to drop it in among the others with a light
clink. At the end of the service Mr Rowe took up his violin and played a jig, which made most people smile in amusement, except for Maud whose tight lips pursed even tighter with disapproval.
‘So, what animal do you think your father would be?’ Lady Rowan-Hampton asked Kitty.

‘A lion,’ said Kitty.

‘Very good,’ said Lady Rowan-Hampton approvingly. ‘I think you’re right. He’s fair and handsome, just like a lion. And your mama?’

‘A white weasel.’

Lady Rowan-Hampton was shocked. ‘My dear, are you sure you know what a weasel looks like?’

‘Of course. Don’t you think she looks just like one?’

Lady Rowan-Hampton hesitated and flushed. ‘Not really. I think she’s more like a lovely snow leopard.’ Kitty crinkled her nose and thought of the dry porter cake. ‘Your
sisters?’ Lady Rowan-Hampton asked.

‘
Little
weasels,’ said Kitty with a grin.

‘Oh dear, a very weaselly lot,’ said Lady Rowan-Hampton, smiling too. ‘I think we should keep this game to ourselves, don’t you think?’ Kitty nodded and watched the
weasels get up and file down the aisle towards the door.

Once out in the sunshine, the congregation took the opportunity to mingle. The Anglo-Irish, being such a small community, had known each other for generations and cleaved to each other for
comfort and safety. They hunted together, met at the races and enjoyed an endless circuit of hunt balls and dinner parties. They were united by a love of sport and entertainment, a loyalty to the
Crown, a wary respect for the Irish and a subliminal determination to keep going in a changing world as if their decline as a people were not inevitable.

Kitty found a spider’s web studded with raindrops on the grass not far from where her father was now talking to Lady Rowan-Hampton. Sensing they were discussing
her
, she turned her
attention away from the spider to see if she could work out what they were saying. Once or twice her father glanced in her direction and she had to pretend she was looking elsewhere. Lady
Rowan-Hampton was gesticulating in a persuasive manner, and quite crossly too, by the way she vigorously moved her hands. Kitty was surprised to see her father so contrite, as if he was being told
off. Then Kitty was diverted by another pair of eyes that watched the couple from the opposite end of the yard. They belonged to her mother and they were colder than ever.

Sunday lunch was always held up at the castle. The family gathered in the drawing room by a boisterous fire, to warm up after the freezing-cold church and blustery ride back with glasses of
sherry and large tumblers of Jameson’s whiskey. The Shrubs were always included, arriving in a trap with the ribbons of their hats flapping madly in the wind and their heads pressed together,
deep in conversation. Rupert always came alone, already tipsy, and charmed his parents’ other guests who often increased the number around the table to as many as twenty. Today, it was just
the family, however, and Kitty sat at the very end of the table, beside her sisters, who ignored her. To her surprise, her father addressed her.

‘Kitty, my dear, come and ride with me this afternoon. I’d like to see how you’re coming along.’ Elspeth turned and glared at her in surprise. It was a rare treat to be
asked to ride with their father. ‘It’s about time you rode with the grownups, eh? No more languishing in the nursery for you, my girl. How old are you now, eight?’

‘Nine,’ said Kitty.

‘Nine, eh? Where’s the time gone? When I was nearly half your age I was hunting with the Ballinakelly Foxhounds.’

‘What fun!’ exclaimed Hazel.

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Laurel. ‘Do take care to find her a gentle pony, Bertie. When I was a girl I barely escaped with my life after being thrown into a ditch by my naughty
little pony, Teasel. Do you remember, Hazel?’

‘Do I ever!’ laughed her sister. Hubert immediately launched into his favourite hunting anecdote and Kitty was quite lost again in the sudden swell of conversation. But her heart
began to thump excitedly at the thought of riding out with her father. She wondered whether her mother would come too, but decided not. After all, this impromptu arrangement was clearly Lady
Rowan-Hampton’s idea and her mother rarely rode. When she did she cut a dash in her black riding habit and hat with its diaphanous black veil reaching down to her chin.

Kitty loved to ride. She adored the wild and rugged hills, the birds of prey that hovered overhead, the gurgling streams and swelling sea. She was curious about the world
outside her own isolated existence and liked nothing more than to escape whenever the opportunity arose. Now she set off with her father at a gentle pace, he on his tall chestnut horse, she on a
small grey pony called Thruppence. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as they walked up the long avenue of tall, leafless trees.

‘Where would you like to go?’ her father replied, looking down at her with kind, smiling eyes.

‘To the Fairy Ring,’ Kitty replied.

Bertie arched an eyebrow. He knew it well but the place held no interest for him. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘I ride there with Grandma.’

‘I bet you do.’ He laughed. ‘Do you dance among the stones when there’s a full moon?’

‘Of course,’ she replied seriously. ‘We turn into wolves and howl.’

Bertie stared at her in astonishment. His daughter held his gaze for a long moment with her unsettling grey eyes, then her face broke into a grin and Bertie realized, to his relief, that she was
joking. ‘What a sense of humour you have for an eight-year-old.’

‘Nine,’ Kitty said emphatically.

He shook his head and thought how irregular it was for such a young child to be so unnaturally grown-up. Grace had been right to berate him. It wasn’t fitting for his youngest to languish
alone in the nursery with her austere Scottish governess. He knew full well that Maud had no interest in the child, but he hadn’t bothered to find out the extent of her neglect. Now he felt
guilty. He should have intervened earlier. ‘You’re a weak man,’ Grace had scolded him and her words had stung. ‘Your aversion to confrontation has meant that Maud has been
allowed to do as she pleases. Now take charge, Bertie, and
do
something about it.’

‘Then let’s go to the Fairy Ring and you can show me what you and Mother get up to when you’re alone together,’ he said, and the smile Kitty gave him made him wonder why
he didn’t seek her company more often.

The Fairy Ring was an ancient and mystical formation of seventeen large grey rocks positioned on the summit of a hill, overlooking the patchwork of fields that stretched all the way to the
ocean. From up there they could see cottages shivering in the dusk, thin ribbons of smoke rising from their chimneys as the farmers’ families huddled by their turf fires to keep warm.

‘All this is Deverill land,’ said Bertie, sweeping his eyes over the vast acres of farmland. ‘We had ten times as much before the Wyndham Act enabled tenants to buy their own
land. We’ve lived well for over two hundred years, but life as we know it will one day come to an end as our diminishing estates will no longer be able to support our lifestyle. I don’t
suppose Miss Grieve has taught you anything about
that.’
Kitty shook her head. Her father had no idea how to talk to a nine-year-old. ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ said
Bertie dolefully. ‘What does she teach you?’

‘The Great Fire of London and the Plague.’

‘It’s time you learned about your own heritage.’

‘Barton Deverill?’ she said eagerly.

Her father smiled. ‘You already know about him. Of course you should know about your ancestors, but you should also know about the Irish nationalists’ struggle for independence,
Kitty. The Irish people don’t want to be ruled by the British. They want to govern themselves.’

‘I know about that,’ she said, remembering what Bridie had told her. ‘They hate that the British have all the power and the taxes are too high.’

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘So you know something already?’

She knew not to reveal that she played with the Catholic children and listened to their patriotic chatter. ‘I know that the Irish don’t like us, even though we are Irish
too.’

‘We’re
Anglo-Irish,
Kitty.’

‘I’m not,’ she said defiantly, folding her arms. ‘I don’t like England.’

‘It’s England that enabled you to live here. If it wasn’t for Charles II Barton Deverill would never have been given these lands in the first place.’

‘They belonged to the O’Learys,’ she said boldly.

Bertie narrowed his eyes and thought a moment before replying, as if working out the best way to be tactful. ‘The land he built the castle on was indeed O’Leary land.’

‘Do they want it back?’

‘I’m sure they did at the time, Kitty. But that all happened over two hundred years ago. Liam O’Leary is a vet, as was his father before him. They haven’t been farmers
for generations.’

‘So, there’s no fighting then?’

‘No fighting, no.’

‘Then you’re friends?’

He shuffled uneasily on his horse, thinking of Liam’s resentful wife. ‘Quite friendly, yes.’

‘Then there’s the possibility that a Deverill might one day marry an O’Leary, after all?’

‘I think that’s highly unlikely,’ Bertie replied tightly. ‘You’ve been listening to your grandmother, haven’t you? Her stories are great fun, Kitty, but
it’s important that you understand that they are just fun and not real. They’re like Greek myths and Irish legends like “The Children of Lir”, to be enjoyed but not taken
literally. So, what do you and Grandma do here?’ He pointed his riding crop at the rocks.

‘This was an ancient place of worship for pagans,’ said Kitty confidently. ‘Each one of these stones is a person cursed to live as stone by day. When the sun sets they come
alive.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Bertie, not in the least interested in magic. He turned his mind to the bottle of gin and the cheery fire that awaited him on his return.

‘Don’t you want to see it?’ Kitty turned her face to the sun. It was already melting into the sea on the horizon and setting the sky aflame with rich reds and golds.

‘Another time,’ he replied patiently, realizing that even Maud had a point when she complained that Kitty was spending too much time talking nonsense with her grandmother.