Daughters of Castle Deverill Page 3

  He was pushing through the throng, smiling at her reassuringly. His dark brown hair fell over his forehead as it always had, and his pale wintry eyes shone out blue and twinkling with their habitual humour. His lips were curled and Bridie’s heart gave a little start at the intimacy in his smile. It took her back to the days when they had been friends. ‘Jack!’ she uttered when he reached her.

  He took her arm and walked her across the graveyard to a place far from the crowd where they could speak alone. ‘Well, would you look at you, Bridie Doyle,’ he said, shaking his head and rubbing the long bristles on his jaw. ‘Don’t you look like a lady now!’

  Bridie basked in his admiration. ‘I am a lady, I’ll have you know,’ she replied and Jack noticed how her Irish vowels had been worn thin in America. ‘I’m a widow. My husband died,’ she added and crossed herself. ‘God rest my husband’s soul.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Bridie. You’re too young to mourn a husband.’ He ran his eyes over her coat. ‘I’ve got to say that you look grand,’ he added and as he grinned Bridie noticed that one of his teeth was missing. He looked older too. The lines were deeper around his eyes and mouth, his skin dark and weathered, his gaze deep and full of shadows. Even though his smile remained undimmed, Bridie sensed that he had suffered. He was no longer the insouciant young man with the arrogant gaze, a hawk on his arm, a dog at his heel. There was something touching about him now and she wanted to reach out and run her fingers across his brow.

  ‘Are you back for good?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Jack.’ She turned into the gale and placed her hand on top of her hat to stop it blowing away. Fighting her growing sense of alienation she added, ‘I don’t know where I belong now. I came back expecting everything to be the same, but it is I who have changed and that makes everything different.’ Then aware of sounding vulnerable, she turned back to him and her voice hardened. ‘I can hardly live the way I used to. I’m accustomed to finer things, you see.’ Jack arched an eyebrow and Bridie wished she hadn’t put on airs in front of him. If there was a man who knew her for what she really was, it was Jack. ‘Did you marry?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied. A long silence followed. A silence that resonated with the name Kitty Deverill, as if it came in a whisper on the wind and lingered there between them. ‘Well, I hope it all turns out well for you, Bridie. It’s good to see you home again,’ he said at last. Bridie was unable to return his smile. Her loathing for her old friend wound around her heart in a twine of thorns. She watched him walk away with that familiar jaunty gait she knew so well and had loved so deeply. It was obvious that, after all these years, he still held out for Kitty Deverill.

  Chapter 2

  London

  ‘Good God!’ Sir Digby Deverill put down the receiver and shook his head. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ he exclaimed, staring at the telephone as if he wasn’t quite able to believe the news it had just delivered to him. He pushed himself up from his leather chair and went to the drinks tray to pour himself a whiskey from one of the crystal decanters. Holding the glass in his manicured, bejewelled fingers, he gazed out of his study window. He could hear the rattling sound of a car motoring over the leaves on Kensington Palace Gardens, that exclusive, gated street of sumptuous Italianate and Queen Anne mansions built by millionaires, like Digby, who had made their fortunes in the gold mines of Witwatersrand, hence their nickname: Randlords. There he lived in Deverill House, in stately splendour, alongside a fellow Randlord, Sir Abe Bailey, and financier, Lionel Rothschild.

  He took a swig, grimacing as the liquid burned a trail down his throat. Instantly he felt fortified. He put down his glass and pulled his gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat by the chain. Deftly, he flicked it open. The shiny face gleamed up at him, giving the time as a quarter to eleven. He strode into the hall where he was met by a butler in crimson-and-gold livery talking quietly to a footman. When they saw him the footman made a discreet exit while the butler stood to attention awaiting Sir Digby’s command. Digby hesitated at the foot of the grand staircase.

  He could hear laughter coming from the drawing room upstairs. It sounded like his wife had company. That was not a surprise, she always had company. Beatrice Deverill, exuberant, big-hearted and extravagant, was the most determined socialite in London. Well, it couldn’t be helped; he was unable to keep the news to himself a moment longer. He hurried up the stairs, two steps at a time, his white spats revealed beneath his immaculately pressed grey checked trousers with every leap. He hoped to snatch a minute alone with his wife.

  When he reached the door he was relieved to find that her guests were only his cousin Bertie’s wife, Maud, who was perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her severely cut blonde bob accentuating the chiselled precision of her cheekbones and the ice-blue of her strikingly beautiful eyes, her eldest daughter Victoria, who had acquired a certain poise as Countess of Elmrod, and Digby’s own mother Augusta, who presided over the group like a fat queen in a Victorian-style black dress with ruffles that frothed about her chins, and a large feathered hat.

  As he entered, the four faces looked up at him in surprise. It wasn’t usual for Digby to put in an appearance during the day. He was most often at his gentlemen’s club, White’s, or tucked away in his study on the telephone to his bankers from Barings or Rothschild, or to Mr Newcomb, who trained his racehorses in Newmarket, or talking diamonds with his South African cronies. ‘What is it, Digby?’ Beatrice asked, noticing at once his burning cheeks, twitching moustache and the nervous way he played with the large diamond ring that sparkled on the little finger of his right hand. Digby was still a handsome man with shiny blond hair swept off a wide forehead and bright, intelligent eyes, which now had a look of bewilderment.

  He checked himself, suddenly remembering his manners. ‘Good morning, my dear Maud, Victoria, Mama.’ He forced a tight smile and bowed, but couldn’t hide his impatience to share his news.

  ‘Well, don’t stand on ceremony, Digby, what is it?’ Augusta demanded stridently.

  ‘Yes, Cousin Digby, we’re all frightfully curious,’ said Victoria, glancing at her mother. Maud looked at Digby expectantly; she loved nothing more than other people’s dramas because they gave her a satisfying sense of superiority.

  ‘It’s about Castle Deverill,’ he said, looking directly at Maud, who reddened. ‘You see, I’ve just had a telephone call from Bertie.’

  ‘What did he want?’ Maud asked, putting down her teacup. She hadn’t spoken to her husband Bertie since he had announced to the entire family at his mother Adeline’s funeral that the supposed ‘foundling’, whom their youngest daughter Kitty was raising as her own, was, in fact, his illegitimate son. Not only was the news shocking, it was downright humiliating. In fact, she wondered whether she would ever get over the trauma. She had left for London without a word, vowing that she would never speak to him again. She wouldn’t set another foot in Ireland, either, and in her opinion the castle could rot into the ground for all the good it had done her. She had never liked the place to begin with.

  ‘Bertie has sold the castle and Celia has bought it,’ Digby announced and the words rang as clear as shots. The four women stared at him aghast. There was a long silence. Victoria looked nervously at her mother, trying to read her thoughts.

  ‘You mean Archie has bought it for her,’ said Augusta, smiling into the folds of chin that spilled over the ruffles of her dress. ‘What a devoted husband he has turned out to be.’

  ‘Is she mad?’ Beatrice gasped. ‘What on earth is Celia going to do with a ruined castle?’

  ‘Rebuild it?’ Victoria suggested with a smirk. Beatrice glanced at her in irritation.

  Maud’s thin fingers flew to her throat where they pulled at the skin there, causing it to redden in patches. It was all well and good selling the castle, there was no prestige to be enjoyed from a pile of ruins and a diminishing estate, but she hadn’t anticipated a Deverill buying it. No, that was much too close for comfort. Better that it
had gone to some arriviste American with more money than sense, she mused, than one of the family. It was most unexpected and extremely vexing that it had gone to a Deverill, and to flighty, frivolous and silly Celia of all people! Surely, if it was to remain in the family, it was only right that her son Harry, the castle’s rightful heir, should have it. And why the secrecy? Celia had crawled in like a thief and bought it on the sly. For what? To humiliate her and her family no less. Maud narrowed her ice-blue eyes and wondered how she, with her sharp powers of observation, had never noticed the treachery in that dim-witted girl.

  ‘They are both unwise,’ said Digby. ‘That place will be the ruin of them. It’s the sort of vanity project that will swallow money with little to show for it. I wish they had discussed it with me first.’ He strode into the room and positioned himself in front of the fire, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and leaning back on the heels of his debonair wingtip brogues.

  ‘At least it’s going to remain in the family,’ said Victoria. Not that she cared one way or the other. She had never liked the damp and cold of Ireland and although her marriage was just as chilly, at least she was Countess of Elmrod living in Broadmere in Kent and a townhouse here in London where the rooms were warm and the plumbing worked to her satisfaction. She wanted to whisper to her mother that at least Kitty hadn’t managed to buy it – that would have finished their mother off for good. It would have upset Victoria too. In spite of her own wealth and position in society she was still secretly jealous of her youngest sister.

  Augusta settled her imperious gaze on Maud and inhaled loudly up her nose, which signalled an imminent barrage of haughty venom. Digby’s mother was not too old to read the unspoken words behind Maud’s beautiful but bitter mouth. ‘How do you feel about that, my dear? I imagine it’s something of a shock to learn that the estate now passes into the hands of the London Deverills. Personally, I congratulate Celia for rescuing the family treasure, because we must all agree that Castle Deverill is the jewel in the family crown.’

  ‘Oh yes, “A Deverill’s castle is his kingdom,” ’ said Digby, quoting the family motto that was branded deep into his heart.

  ‘Deverill Rising,’ Augusta added, referring to Digby’s Wiltshire estate, ‘is nothing compared to Castle Deverill. I don’t know why you didn’t buy it yourself, Digby. That sort of money is nothing to you.’

  Digby puffed out his chest importantly and rocked back and forth on his heels. His mother was not wrong; he could have bought it ten times over. But Digby, for all his extravagance and flamboyance, was a prudent and pragmatic man. ‘It is not through folly that I have built my fortune, Mother,’ he retorted. ‘Your generation remember the days when the British ruled supreme in Ireland and the Anglo-Irish lived like kings, but those days are long gone, as we’re all very well aware. The castle was disintegrating long before the rebels burnt it to the ground. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to entertain ideas of resurrecting something which is well and truly dead. The future’s here in England. Ireland is over, as Celia will learn to her cost. The family motto not only refers to bricks and mortar, but to the Deverill spirit, which I carry in my soul. That’s my castle.’

  Maud sniffed through dilated nostrils and lifted her delicate chin in a display of self-pitying fortitude. She sighed. ‘I must admit that this is quite a shock. Another shock. As if I haven’t had enough shocks to last me a lifetime.’ She smoothed her silver-blonde bob with a tremulous hand. ‘First, my youngest daughter shames me by insisting on bringing an illegitimate child to London and then my husband announces to the world that the boy is his. And if that isn’t enough to humiliate me he then decides to sell our son’s inheritance . . .’ Augusta caught Beatrice’s eye. It didn’t suit Maud to remember that it was at her insistence that her husband had finally agreed to be rid of it. ‘And now it will belong to Celia. I don’t know what to say. I should be happy for her. But I can’t be. Poor Harry will be devastated that his home has been snatched from under his nose by his cousin. As for me, it is another cross that I will have to bear.’

  ‘Mama, once Papa decided to sell it, it was never going to be Harry’s,’ said Victoria gently. ‘And I really don’t think Harry will mind. He and Celia are practically inseparable and he made it very clear that he didn’t want to have anything to do with the place.’

  Maud shook her head and smiled with studied patience. ‘My darling, you’re missing the point. Had it gone to someone else, anyone else, I would not have a problem with it. The problem is that it’s gone to a Deverill.’

  Beatrice jumped to her daughter’s defence. ‘Well, it’s done now, isn’t it? Celia will restore it to its former glory and we shall all enjoy long summers there just like we used to before the war. I’m sure Archie knows what he’s doing, darling,’ she added to Digby. ‘After all, it’s his money. Who are we to say how he spends it.’

  Digby raised a quizzical eyebrow, for one could argue that it wasn’t Archie Mayberry’s money, but Digby’s. No one else in the family knew how much Digby had paid Archie to take Celia back after she had ditched him at their wedding reception and bolted up to Scotland with the best man. In so doing Digby had saved the Mayberry family from financial ruin, and salvaged his daughter’s future. ‘No good will come of it,’ Digby insisted now with worldly cynicism. ‘Celia’s flighty. She enjoys drama and adventure.’ He didn’t have to convince the present company of that. ‘She’ll tire of Ireland when it’s finished. She’ll crave the excitement of London. Ballinakelly will bore her. Mark my words, once everyone stops talking about her audacity she’ll go off in search of something else to entertain herself with and poor Archie will be left with the castle – and most likely an empty bank account—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Augusta interrupted, her booming voice smashing through her son’s homily like a cannonball. ‘She’ll raise it from the ashes and restore the family’s reputation. I just hope I live long enough to see it.’ She heaved a laboured breath. ‘Although the way I’m going I don’t hold out much hope.’

  Beatrice rolled her eyes with annoyance. Her mother-in-law enjoyed nothing more than talking about her own, always imminent, death. Sometimes she rather wished the Grim Reaper would call her bluff. ‘Oh, you’ll outlive us all, Augusta,’ she said with forced patience.

  Victoria glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I think it’s time we left,’ she said, standing up. ‘Mama and I are going to look at a house in Chester Square this afternoon,’ she announced happily. ‘That will cheer you up, Mother.’

  Maud pushed herself up from the sofa. ‘Well, I’ll need somewhere to live now we’ve lost the castle,’ she replied, smiling on her eldest daughter with gratitude. ‘At least I have you, Victoria, and Harry. Everyone else in my family seems intent on wanting to wound me. I’m afraid I won’t come to your Salon tonight, Beatrice. I don’t think I’m strong enough.’ She shook her head as if the weight of the world lay between her ears. ‘Having the whole of London society talking about me behind my back is another cross I have to bear.’

  Harry Deverill lay back against the pillow and took a puff of his cigarette. The sheet was draped across his naked hips, but his stomach and chest were exposed to the breeze that swept in through the open bedroom window. Making love to his wife Charlotte was a loathsome duty he endured only because of the mornings he was able to spend with Boysie Bancroft in this nondescript Soho hotel where no one even bothered to question their regular visits. He made his mouth into an O shape and ejected a circle of smoke. If it wasn’t for Boysie he didn’t think he’d be capable of living such a despicable lie. If it wasn’t for Boysie his life wouldn’t be worth living because his job selling bonds in the City gave him no pleasure at all. Without Boysie life would have little point.

  ‘My dear fellow, are you going to lie in bed all day?’ asked Boysie, wandering into the room from the bathroom. He had put on his underwear and was buttoning up his shirt. His brown hair fell over his forehead in a thick, dishevelled fringe, and his petula
nt lips curled at the corners with amusement.

  Harry groaned. ‘I’m not going in to work today. I find the whole thing a terrific bore. I can’t stand it. Besides, I don’t want the morning to end.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Boysie, tracing with his eyes the large pink scar on Harry’s shoulder where he had been shot in the war. ‘I have lunch at Claridge’s with Mama and Aunt Emily, then I shall mosey on down to White’s and see who I bump into. Tonight I might pop into your delightful Cousin Beatrice’s “at home”. Last Tuesday her Salon was rather racy with the entire cast of No, No, Nanette. All those chorus girls squawking like pretty parrots. It was a “riot”, as Celia would say. I dare say your Cousin Digby gets a leg over here and there, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t doubt he has a mistress in every corner of London but one can’t criticize his devotion as a husband.’ Harry sighed with frustration and sat up. ‘I wish I could join you and your mama, but I promised Charlotte I’d take her for lunch at the Ritz. It’s her birthday.’

  ‘You could always bring her to Claridge’s and we could make eyes at each other across the room, perhaps sneak a private moment in the men’s room. Nothing beats the thrill of deception.’

  Harry grinned, his morale restored. ‘You’re wicked, Boysie.’

  ‘But that’s why you love me.’ He bent down and kissed him. ‘You’re much too pretty for your own good.’

  ‘I’ll see you tonight at Cousin Beatrice’s then.’

  Boysie sighed and his heavy eyes settled on Harry’s face. ‘Do you remember the first time I kissed you? That night at Beatrice’s?’