Daughters of Castle Deverill Page 14

  ‘Oh, it is indeed,’ agreed Hazel, almost feeling inclined to thank him. ‘It is a lovely spring and I’m sure it will be a lovely summer.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Adeline would have adored the wild flowers on the hillside.’

  ‘Lady Deverill is enjoying the flowers in God’s great garden,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Laurel.

  ‘Adeline believed she’d be a spirit walking among us,’ Hazel added. ‘In which case, she’ll be here enjoying it all for herself.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure she is,’ Laurel agreed. ‘I’m sure she’s enjoying God’s great garden with poor Reverend Daunt who was such a good vicar. We are so pleased our humble parish has been sent such a fine replacement.’

  Reverend Maddox smiled with gratitude and ushered them into the church. ‘My dear ladies, why don’t you step inside and enjoy the music. Mrs Daunt has been practising a few new pieces and she’d love you to hear them. Music has been a consolation to her during this difficult time.’ He watched the two women walk into the church. Two more compatible sisters he had yet to find.

  Soon the church was beginning to fill up with the Ascendancy and gentry who had not been chased out of their homes by the rebels during the Troubles, and the working-class Protestants. There was an atmosphere of unity now, a sociability that hadn’t existed before. The violence had herded them together in their small minority and they found comfort in each other as if a group of sheep on a windy hillside surrounded on all sides by wolves. Shopkeepers greeted the lords and ladies with sincere smiles and the grandees returned their salutations with equal warmth.

  Lord Deverill sat in his usual place in the front row. Kitty was beside him with Robert and JP as Little Jack was now known, for Kitty had felt that, at four years old, he was too big to be called ‘little’, and considering he was christened Jack Patrick, JP suited him just as well. In truth, the name Jack gave her pain every time she uttered it.

  Kitty had noticed a change in her father, subtle like the subliminal shift of a plate beneath the earth’s crust. She couldn’t say exactly when it had happened, but it was as if he had made a decision to amend the way he saw himself and the world. This deep shift had sent ripples through his being that affected him in so many ways. Gone was the melancholy, the self-pity and the need to drink himself into forgetfulness. He seemed grateful for life, with its small blessings. Most of all he seemed grateful for her and Elspeth, and spent as much time as possible with his little son, JP, who called him ‘Papa’ and enjoyed all the outdoor pursuits that he enjoyed. The new clarity in his eyes convinced her that his feelings were genuine, but she couldn’t understand what had inspired them. He even supported Celia’s renovations of the castle with enthusiasm, wandering around the building site daily, where hundreds of men toiled away like an army of ants on an anthill. She wished she could share his interest in the rebuilding of his old home, but she couldn’t; it caused her great anguish.

  She didn’t want to think of Jack O’Leary either, for that was painful too. He had gone and life had continued. She hadn’t believed it possible, but it had happened. Celia had given birth to a baby daughter at the beginning of April, named Constance after her mother-in-law. Kitty’s child would arrive in the autumn. Robert was ecstatic. She took his hand now and squeezed it as the jumping chords of Mrs Daunt’s organ playing resounded off the stone walls of the church. Kitty had made her choice; she had now to learn to live with it.

  ‘Who’s that man sitting with Grace?’ Hazel whispered to Laurel. Laurel leaned forward and looked across the aisle to the other side of the church. There, seated beside Grace Rowan-Hampton, was a man neither Shrub had ever seen before. They both stared, and as they took in his thick silver hair, deep-set brown eyes and tidy white moustache resting above a wide and sensual mouth, time stood still. The chatter around them faded with the organ music and only their hearts, which began to race with an unfamiliar or long-forgotten tempo, resounded in their ears. United as always, the two ladies admired and feared the silver wolf in their midst. Not in the many decades of their dedicated spinster-hood had a man had such power to unbalance them. Suddenly, to their horror, he turned and his eyes met theirs, holding them captive for an excruciating moment. As they were jolted back to their senses with a flush of embarrassment, the music and chatter returned louder than before. He smiled and nodded politely. They tore their gazes away and fanned their flushed faces with their prayer books.

  ‘Lord preserve me,’ hissed Laurel.

  ‘He must be Grace’s father,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Has he a wife, do you think?’ Laurel asked. Then she added hastily, ‘God forgive me for asking such a thing in His house. Don’t answer that, Hazel. I don’t know what’s got in to me. Must be the heat. It is terribly hot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, it is, Laurel. Terribly hot. I didn’t see a wife. It appears he’s with Grace.’

  ‘Look, Reverend Maddox is about to start the service. We must concentrate.’

  Hazel’s fingers fluttered over her mouth. ‘He smiled at us, Laurel. Did you see?’

  Laurel nudged her sister. ‘Shhh,’ she hissed. But her lips twitched with excitement.

  Reverend Maddox gave a stirring sermon which seemed to go on and on and on. He was well known for enjoying the sound of his own voice to the point of being deaf to anyone else’s, but today he was taking more pleasure from it than usual. Perhaps it was due to the sunshine, or maybe to the presence of the distinguished gentleman who was sitting beside Lady Rowan-Hampton whom he felt compelled to impress. Whichever it was, his voice rose and fell in great waves of passion, his sentences elongated like a piece of elastic only to snap back into short, brisk phrases designed to rouse the sleepy faithful.

  At last, after he said the closing prayers and the Celtic Blessing he was so fond of, the Shrubs were the first into the aisle to make their escape before this devilishly handsome gentleman was able to see what a pair of quivering fools he had reduced them to.

  Grace turned to her father, for indeed it was him. ‘I’m sorry about the Rector, Papa. He mistakes the pulpit for the stage.’

  Lord Hunt patted his daughter’s hand. ‘My dear, you needn’t worry about me. When I am bored, which I often am in church, my mind is inclined to wander. Today, however, it wasn’t my mind but my eyes that went wandering.’ He grinned mischievously.

  Grace shook her head. ‘Papa, you’re incorrigible. Mama would turn in her grave to see the way you behave. If you’re going to live with me in this small community, you have to conduct yourself with decorum. I warn you, a town like this loves nothing more than to gossip. If you’re going to misbehave you have to be discreet.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grace.’ He laughed. ‘I’m a paragon of virtue. Besides, I’m much too old for that sort of thing.’ He arched a fluffy white eyebrow and smiled a wolfs smile, which told her that he was neither too old nor disinclined to ‘that sort of thing’. Grace smiled too because in her father’s lustiness she recognized herself.

  They walked out into the sunshine and Grace introduced her father to Bertie and Kitty. The old rogue took Kitty’s hand and brought it to his moustache, where the short hairs tickled her skin. ‘I must say, the women of Ballinakelly are very easy on the eye,’ he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Kitty laughed. ‘You’re too kind,’ she said, grinning at Grace, who was shaking her head in mock embarrassment.

  ‘Papa’s been here but five minutes and he’s already misbehaving,’ she said.

  ‘A little flirtation is the secret to longevity,’ said Lord Hunt. ‘And I intend to live a very long time.’

  ‘You must come for dinner,’ said Bertie cheerfully. ‘We’d like to welcome you formally.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Lord Deverill. Grace has told me a great deal about your family and I admit that I am intrigued by your history. I was sorry to hear about the fire but curious to learn that the castle is being rebuilt.’

  ‘My cousin’s d
aughter has bought it and is in the process of renovating it. Why don’t you let me show it to you? It’s an ambitious and extravagant project, to say the least, but I believe it’s going to be magnificent when it’s finished.’

  ‘I would like that very much, thank you,’ said Lord Hunt.

  Grace looked at her former lover with tenderness. Recently she had seen glimpses of the carefree Bertie in his smile and in the light in his eyes, which seemed to her like the clear light of a new dawn. There was a fresh look about his clothes too, or perhaps it was the way he held himself in them. His tweed suit no longer looked crumpled and shabby, his hat was restored to its habitual raffish position on his head and his skin ceased to betray an excessive love of alcohol. She had noticed he had stopped drinking whiskey and wine and wondered what had come over him. She had once given him an ultimatum, her or the drink; he had been unable to live without either. Who had succeeded where she had failed?

  She climbed behind the wheel of her car and waited for her father to join her. He was enjoying meeting the locals and soaking up the attention the women gave him, for even at seventy-four he was a fine-looking man. Her gaze drifted out of the window. A skinny dog limped along the street on three legs, his sharp nose in the air for he was after a whiff of something savoury. Men in caps walked in groups, hands in pockets, eyes still dark with a residual wariness left over from the Troubles. Women stood chatting beneath the clear skies while children played in the road, their laughter bouncing off the walls of the houses. Then she saw Michael Doyle.

  She caught her breath. Her heart stalled. The sensation was so acute it was visceral. For a moment she couldn’t move. Only her eyes followed him as he ambled nonchalantly up the street with his brother Sean. She blinked, unable to believe what she was seeing, not trusting her sight, for surely, if he was back in Ballinakelly, she would have been his first stop? She willed him to look at her, but he didn’t even toss her a glance. He strolled on, deep in conversation with his brother. She took in the face she had so often caressed, clear-skinned and glowing now that he was cured of the drink like Bertie. But she wasn’t thinking about Bertie. Cast in the shadow of Michael Doyle, Bertie was invisible, as was every other lover she had ever taken. Michael Doyle was back from Mount Melleray and nothing else mattered. He was taller, broader, more rugged and attractive than ever before. A hot, prickling sensation crept over her skin and gathered in her belly. She gripped the steering wheel. He was past her now. She watched his back. Her eyes stung from the staring. How could he not feel her gaze through his jacket? How could he not sense that she was here? Why didn’t he turn round? She wanted to run to him; to throw herself at him; to press herself against him and feel his rough hands upon her skin and his hungry mouth upon her lips. But she knew she had to restrain herself. She had to wait. He was only too aware of where she lived. She was certain he would come as soon as he could. Surely, his need for her was as urgent as hers for him?

  ‘That Lord Deverill is a charming young man,’ said Lord Hunt, climbing stiffly into the passenger seat. He didn’t notice his daughter’s pale face, or the raw craving in her eyes. ‘Jolly nice of him to invite me to take a look at the castle. As you know, I have an enormous interest in history.’

  No sooner had her father closed the door than Grace started the engine and began to drive slowly up the street, her eyes frantically searching. Her father continued to share his thoughts but she wasn’t listening. She was determined to see her lover; and for him to see her and the message in her gaze that told him to come to her. At last, as the car motored towards O’Donovan’s, she spotted him. Then she was right beside him. She slowed down, so slow that she was crawling at the same speed as his walking pace. Sean glanced at her, but Michael was so busy talking that he was unaware of the car trailing him and of the desperate woman inside willing him to look at her.

  Unable to bear it a moment longer, she tooted the horn. Both men, and the others in the street besides, turned to her in surprise. She leaned out of the window and gave a smile that exposed nothing of the torment beneath it. Desperate she might be, but Grace Rowan-Hampton was a seasoned actress and, when it came to dissembling, no one could surpass her. ‘Mr Doyle,’ she said, without so much as a quiver in her voice.

  ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton.’ Michael looked astonished to see her there. He doffed his cap and waited to hear what she had to say.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re back. My husband is looking for strong men to clear a copse behind the house. Several trees were brought down in the winter storms. If you and your friends would like some work, will you come up to the house and see me?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll ask in O’Donovan’s,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, hoping he was reading the message in her eyes as he always used to. ‘I will wait for you up at the house. Sir Ronald would like the work to be done as soon as possible. I trust you’ll find a few willing volunteers.’

  She drove on then, for there was nothing else to be said. Her father looked on in bewilderment as she checked her rear-view mirror to see if he was watching the car, but he wasn’t. He had disappeared inside O’Donovan’s and only a cluster of scruffy youths remained in the road, admiring her shiny motor car as it rattled off.

  Once home Grace hurried upstairs to change out of her church clothes into a more comfortable dress. She spent a long time at her dressing table arranging her hair, enlivening her cheeks with rouge and applying a little tuberose perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. She was sure that Michael would come.

  Ethelred Hunt had claimed for himself a big armchair on the terrace, where, sheltered from the wind and warmed by the sun, he sat with his spectacles on his nose, reading the Irish Times. A maid brought him a glass of sherry and he lit a cigarette. He inhaled in a long, satisfying breath before releasing the smoke into the air. He didn’t question his daughter’s strange behaviour outside the pub or the unusually long time she was spending in her bedroom, for Ethelred Hunt was a man whose concern was primarily his own pleasure and right now his attention was focused on those two birdlike ladies who had looked so startled to see him in church. He would have a great deal of fun with those two, he mused. He wasn’t known as Ethelred-the-ever-ready for nothing! When at last Grace appeared, her father failed to notice, either, that she was on edge. She waited the rest of the day, but Michael didn’t come.

  It wasn’t until the following morning that Brennan knocked on his mistress’s door and announced that there was a group of lads at the front claiming to have come to clear the copse for Sir Ronald. Grace’s heart gave a little leap. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I have told Mr Tanner to expect them, so would you let him know and he’ll look after them.’ As much as she wanted to run outside she knew that such a public display would be wholly inappropriate and, besides, how long had Michael been in Ballinakelly? She rather relished the idea of making him wait, as he had made her wait.

  Brennan disappeared to find the head gardener, leaving Grace wringing her hands and pacing the room in agitation. Ethelred had gone off with Bertie to look around the castle and was then going to luncheon at the Hunting Lodge. There was a strong chance he would be gone all afternoon, for Grace suspected that Bertie would want to show him round the whole estate. Her father was a fine horseman and a keen race-goer, and since Bertie was as good as widowed, the two men had much in common. Ronald was in London, where he spent so much of his time these days. She had the house to herself until dark and was determined to make the most of it.

  When Michael didn’t come to her study window, or stride into her sitting room like he used to do, she began to worry. Had he gone to the copse with the other men in order to be discreet? Surely he could have made something up? She went out onto the terrace and gazed across the lawn. A rustle in the viburnum behind her gave her a start and she spun round, fully expecting to see Michael there with a lusty grin on his face, but it was nothing more than a pair of squabbling pigeons. She heaved a sigh and frowned. Why was he taking so long?
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  Finally, driven to distraction, she went to find Brennan in the hall. Her butler had seen men come and go over the years and had never so much as raised an eyebrow. Indeed, he had let Michael into the house many times, not bothering to announce him but letting him wander on through the hall as if he belonged there. On one occasion he had even warned him off when Sir Ronald had made an impromptu visit home. Now she asked him if Michael had been with the group of lads. Brennan shook his head. ‘No, my lady. Michael Doyle was not among them,’ he told her. Grace’s face darkened with fury. How dare he humiliate her?

  ‘Thank you, Brennan. If he does turn up, please tell him I’m indisposed.’ Then she went upstairs where she fell onto her bed, hugged her pillow and wondered what to do.

  That evening her father returned in high spirits, full of talk about the splendid day he had had with Bertie. ‘Do you know he introduced me to his bastard? A bonny boy he is and as sharp as a tack too. He told me that his wife is so furious she has refused to let him move to London where he has bought her a house in Belgravia. It looks like he’s going to be stuck here. I told him he should exchange her for a new one.’

  ‘Oh really, Papa,’ said Grace. ‘She’s not a horse.’

  ‘From what I hear about Maud Deverill, Bertie would have had more fun with her if she was.’ Grace couldn’t help but laugh in spite of feeling miserable. At least Lord Hunt was having fun, because she wasn’t. She had thought of countless reasons why Michael hadn’t turned up today but none of them assuaged her disappointment or her fury. His excuse had better be good, very good, she told herself, or he would wish himself back at Mount Melleray.

  Grace drifted through the week distracted, hiding her frustration beneath a veneer of brittle cheerfulness. It seemed everyone in the county wanted to meet her father. They dined out every night and Ethelred entertained his hosts and their guests with hilarious stories and anecdotes, all exaggerated and embellished and some even totally invented, for Lord Hunt was a man of exceptional imagination. He brought laughter with him wherever he went, but no one was more taken with this witty and charming old wolf than the Shrubs, who, on the following Saturday night, were placed on either side of him at Bertie’s dining-room table. They blushed, they stammered and they giggled like schoolgirls as Ethelred ensnared them in the full glare of his attention, rendering them powerless like a pair of guinea fowl, their little hearts aflutter as they had never fluttered before. As was their habit, they were in absolute agreement over the devilishly attractive Lord Hunt, but for the first time in their lives they wished they weren’t.