Daughters of Castle Deverill Page 30

‘It has nothing to do with you, Michael. I have moved on. You can rest assured that I will not be the temptress who diverts you from your path. I respect your devoutness. In fact, I admire it.’ She lowered her eyes demurely and hesitated, as if struggling to find the words. ‘I have done things in my life of which I am deeply ashamed,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I want to make peace with God. I want to ask forgiveness and I want to lead a better life. What we had was intense and I wouldn’t go back and change it for all the world. But I’ve started another chapter. The old one is closed, forever.’ She walked to her car. ‘It’s been nice seeing you. Really nice. I hope we can be friends, Michael.’

  He nodded, but his knitted eyebrows exposed his bewilderment. He watched her open the door and climb inside. Then she lifted her hand and gave a small wave as she set off up the track.

  She looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him watching her, the frown still etched on his forehead, and she smiled, satisfied with her plan and excited by the thrill of a new plot.

  It was hard persuading Celia to return to London for a break, but Boysie and Harry were adamant that she should not be alone at the time she needed her friends the most. She protested that she had Kitty and Bertie on her doorstep and the Shrubs made it their business to visit her every day with cake soaked in whiskey. ‘That should be reason enough to bolt for the mainland,’ Boysie had said and Celia had laughed and finally relented.

  She arrived in London at the beginning of July and Beatrice made a great fuss of her. She put fresh flowers in her bedroom and arranged lunches with her dearest friends. She knew that her daughter would not feel up to going out into society, but the company of those she loved the most would be balm to her ailing spirit. Even Leona and Vivien were kind and no one mentioned Archie’s suicide or asked whether she would have to sell Castle Deverill. Celia knew they were all burning with questions but was grateful for their tact and restraint. That is, until Augusta invited herself for tea.

  Celia’s grandmother arrived in a shiny black Bentley with a long thin nose and big round headlights that flared like nostrils. It drew up outside the house on Kensington Palace Gardens and came to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up to the grand entrance. Augusta waited for the chauffeur to open her door and offer her his hand, then she descended slowly, ducking her head sufficiently so as not to squash the feathers in her hat. The chauffeur gave her her walking stick, but knew that his mistress would not take kindly to being helped up the steps. ‘I’m not decrepit yet,’ she would say dismissively, shrugging him off.

  Looking like a Victorian lady in a long black dress with a high collar buttoned tightly about her neck and her silver hair swept loosely up and fastened beneath her hat she walked past the butler without a word and found Celia waiting dutifully for her in the hall at the foot of the staircase. Augusta, who had not seen her granddaughter since Archie’s death, pulled her against her vast bosom and held her in an emotional embrace. ‘My dear child, no one should have to suffer what you have suffered. No one. The indignity of suicide is more than I can bear.’ Celia was relieved when her mother appeared and the three of them went upstairs to the drawing room.

  Augusta settled into the sofa and pulled off her gloves, placing them on her disappearing lap. ‘The whole business has been most vexing,’ she said, shaking her head so that the feathers quivered like a startled moorhen. ‘I mean, what was I to tell my friends? If it hadn’t been all over the newspapers I could have made something up, but as it was I found myself having to admit that the poor man had hanged himself. Surely, there’s a way to do oneself in without drenching one’s family in shame?’

  Beatrice was quick to move the conversation on. They had spent enough time debating the whys and wherefores. ‘It is as it is,’ she said. ‘We have to look forward now and think of the future.’

  ‘The silly boy should have swallowed his pride and asked Digby for help. Digby is as rich as Croesus,’ Augusta said, her lips pursing into a smug smile at the thought of her son’s success. ‘Why, out of all my chicks, Digby is the one who has flown the highest and the furthest. But pride is a terrible thing.’

  Beatrice handed her a teacup. ‘I think it was more complicated than that, Augusta,’ she said. Celia caught her mother’s eye and pulled a face while her grandmother was dropping two sugar lumps into her tea. ‘How is Stoke?’

  ‘Frail,’ said Augusta. ‘He won’t last long, I’m afraid. I’m surprised when I see he’s still there in the mornings. I’m as frail myself but of course I hide it.’

  ‘I thought he looked incredibly well when I saw him last,’ said Celia.

  ‘That might well be. But he has his ups and downs. He must have been on an up. Sadly, the last few months have not been good. When one is as old as he is the decline is a sharp one. Still, he has had a good life.’ Before Beatrice could object Augusta continued stridently. ‘As for me, I didn’t think I’d survive Archie’s suicide but I’m still here. One more tragedy and I think my heart will simply pack it in. There is only so much a person can take. I’ve cried so much, there isn’t a tear left inside me.’ She then proceeded to give them both a lengthy account of all her friends who were ill, dying or dead. The most gruesome tales gave her the most pleasure. ‘So you see, I must consider myself fortunate. When I compare myself to them I realize that shame is a small thing really. After all, no one ever died of shame.’

  ‘None of us feel at all ashamed,’ said Beatrice. ‘We just feel desperately sad for Archie and sorry for Celia. But we’re not dwelling on sorrow.’

  ‘I hear from my man at Christie’s that you are selling the contents of the castle.’ Celia flushed. ‘Now why would you do that? Surely Digby won’t allow it.’

  ‘Digby is not in a position to help,’ said Beatrice, enjoying the look of surprise that took hold of Augusta’s face.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, not in a position to help? Of course he is.’

  ‘I’m afraid he is not. Most of the country has been affected by the Stock Market crash and Digby is no different.’

  ‘Good Lord, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is true.’

  ‘I shall speak to him at once—’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Beatrice swiftly. ‘He won’t want to discuss it. You know what he’s like. Like you, Augusta, he keeps everything bottled up inside. As far as anyone is concerned he is absolutely fine. But you are his mother, so you should know. Celia has to sell the contents of the castle in order to pay off Archie’s debts, of which there are many.’ She wanted to add ‘and his family’s debts’ but she didn’t want to embarrass her daughter. Celia winced at the thought of the money she had to find but hastily pushed her anxieties aside. While she sat in her mother’s sumptuous drawing room she could pretend that everything was as it should be.

  ‘And the castle?’ Augusta asked in a tight voice.

  Celia shrugged. ‘I might have to sell that too,’ she replied.

  Augusta inhaled a gulp of air. ‘Then that will surely be the death of me,’ she said. ‘Shame might do me in, after all.’

  Celia escaped her grandmother and the stifling heat of London and fled to Deverill Rising in Wiltshire to spend the weekend with her family. She invited Boysie and Harry who turned up with their wives, but at least on the golf course she could be rid of them for neither Charlotte nor Deirdre played golf. Harry and Boysie seemed just as happy to be free of them as she was.

  Digby, dressed in a flamboyant pair of green checked breeches, long green socks and a bright red sleeveless sweater over a yellow shirt, was an erratic golfer. He roared with laughter when he hit his ball into the rough and punched the air when, by some miracle, he got a hole in one. His two black Labradors headed straight into the copse like a pair of seals in search of fish, appearing a few minutes later with their mouths full of golf balls – mostly Digby’s, from previous games.

  Celia was a steady player while Boysie and Harry, fashionably dressed in pale, coordinating colours, were less interested in
the actual sport. For them it was a way of spending a whole morning together in the company of people who didn’t judge them.

  ‘Grandma gave me a grilling,’ Celia told her father as they walked to the next hole. ‘She’s incredibly tactless.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but she does like to have her say.’

  ‘She says she’ll die of shame if I sell the castle.’

  ‘She’ll outlive us all, mark my words,’ said Digby.

  ‘She thinks Grandpa is going to pop off at any minute.’

  ‘Grandpa is not going anywhere,’ Digby replied firmly. ‘If he’s survived sixty odd years being married to her, he’ll survive a few more.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m sure he’s built up a strong immunity to her over the years.’

  Celia put her hands in her cardigan pockets. ‘Someone has made me an offer for the castle,’ she said. ‘A big offer. Much more than it’s worth.’

  Digby stopped walking. ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. A rich man. American.’

  ‘Are you asking my advice?’

  ‘Yes. You know my financial situation better than I do. Really, it’s such a muddle and so many noughts. I do hate all those beastly noughts.’

  ‘You don’t have to sell.’ A shadow darkened her father’s face. ‘At least, not yet.’

  ‘He wants to buy the castle with everything in it.’

  ‘You don’t have to sell the castle,’ Digby said decisively, striding on. ‘We saved it once and we’ll save it again. Now, where are those bloody dogs?’

  Her father placed the ball on the tee and shuffled his feet into position. Celia noticed that his face had gone red, but she thought it was due to the exertion of walking the course. It had been a long way and the summer sun was blazing. She wondered whether he should take off his sweater. He lined up his club, patting it a few times on the green. Little beads of perspiration had started to form on his brow and his breathing had grown suddenly tight, as if he was struggling to inhale. Celia looked anxiously at the boys who had also noticed and were watching him with concern.

  ‘Papa,’ said Celia. ‘I think perhaps we should take a break. It’s very hot and even I’m feeling faint.’ But Digby was determined to take the shot. He swung his club. Just as he twisted his body, his arm went weak and he fell to his knees. Celia rushed to his side. ‘Papa!’ she cried, not knowing where to put her hands or what to do. She felt a sickness invade her stomach. Digby was now puce. His eyes bulged and his mouth opened in a silent gasp. He pressed a hand against his chest.

  Harry and Boysie helped lie him down on the grass. Harry loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. His breathing was laboured. He stared but seemed to see nothing. Then with a great force of will he grabbed Celia by her collar and pulled her down so that her face was an inch from his. She let out a terrified squeal. ‘Burn . . . my . . . letters,’ he wheezed. Then his hand lost its strength and fell to the ground.

  PART THREE

  Barton Deverill

  Ballinakelly, Co. Cork, 1667

  Charles II, six foot tall, black-eyed, black-haired, swarthy and as handsome as the Devil, was in his apartments in the rambling, ramshackle rabbit warren that was Whitehall Palace. Attended by his mistress, Countess of Castlemaine, his friend the Duke of Buckingham, and his pack of spaniels, which he referred to as his ‘children’, he was sitting at the card table when Lord Deverill strode into the room and bowed low. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said.

  ‘Oh join us, Deverill,’ said the King without looking up. ‘Take a hand. What’s y’ stake?’

  The King liked winning money off his friends and Deverill tossed his into the middle of the table and sat down. ‘How are the girls out there in godforsaken Ireland, Deverill?’

  ‘Bonny,’ Lord Deverill replied. ‘But my mind isn’t on the girls, Your Majesty, but on the rebels . . .’

  The King waved his hands and the large jewels on his fingers glittered in the candlelight and the intricate lace ruffles of his sleeve fluttered about his wrists. ‘We’ll send you some men, of course, speak to Clarendon,’ he said and that was as much business as the King wanted to discuss. Lord Deverill knew there was a strong chance that reinforcements would come too late, if at all, because the King was more concerned about the threat of invasion from the Dutch. ‘How considerate of you, Deverill, to marry a beautiful woman,’ the King continued, his lips curling into a languid smile as the Countess stuck out her bottom lip and gave a loud and irritated sigh. ‘We’re all terribly tired of looking at the same faces and gossiping about the same people. You really must bring her to Court more often.’

  ‘She would like that very much,’ Lord Deverill replied. The King was unable to resist the allure of a beautiful woman and had been given the nickname ‘Old Rowley’ after a lecherous old goat that used to roam the privy garden. Lord Deverill did not believe he would wear a pair of horns well and decided that the sooner he took his wife to Ireland the better.

  However, this was not the occasion to take her to Castle Deverill. Barton left his wife in the safety of their house in London and headed for home. It was a long and arduous journey across the Irish Sea, but the weather was favourable and he reached the mainland without a hitch. With a small escort of the King’s men who had met him at the port he galloped over the hills towards Ballinakelly.

  The wind blew in strong gusts, propelling him on, and oppressive grey clouds gathered damp and heavy above him. Spring was but a few weeks away and yet the landscape looked wintry and cold and the buds already forming on the trees remained firmly shut. Still, in spite of the bleak light and dreary skies, Ireland’s soft beauty was arresting. Her green and gently undulating fields appealed directly to his heart and Lord Deverill feared the scene of devastation that would welcome him home.

  With trepidation he cantered to the crest of the hill and looked down into the valley where his castle stood, overlooking the ocean. His heart plummeted to his feet as he gazed upon the manifestation of all his ambitions, now a grisly wreck, still leaking a ribbon of smoke into the wind. Fury rose in him then like a latent beast suddenly awoken by the sharp prod of a sword. He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped down the track. His gut twisted with anguish as he approached the scene of battle. Although the castle was still standing it had taken a terrible battering and the eastern tower had been completely lost to fire.

  He recognized his friend, the Duke of Ormonde’s, colours at once and when the soldiers saw him they were quick to take him to their captain. ‘Lord Deverill,’ he said as Barton strode into the hall.

  ‘What the devil has happened?’ he asked, his feverish eyes scanning the room for damage and finding none. At least they hadn’t fought their way into the building, he reflected.

  ‘His grace rushed to your aid as soon as he heard the news. We arrived just in time to secure the castle. Your men were on the back foot. Had it not been for his grace’s quick response you wouldn’t have had a home to come back to.’

  ‘I cannot express my gratitude. I am forever indebted to the Duke,’ said Lord Deverill quietly. As loyal supporters of King Charles II during his exile in France, the Duke and Lord Deverill had become firm friends. At the restoration Ormonde had recovered his vast estates in Ireland confiscated by Cromwell and been reinstated Lieutenant of Ireland, a position he had held under King Charles I. He was consequently the most powerful man in the country. An important ally most certainly but he was also a trusty friend; when Lord Deverill had needed him most Ormonde had not let him down.

  ‘Who’s behind this?’ Lord Deverill growled. ‘By God I shall have their heads.’

  ‘Those who survived are imprisoned in the stables. You can be sure that the Duke will see that they are severely castigated. This is not simply a rebellion against your lordship, but a revolt against the King and they shall be duly punished.’

  ‘We must make an example of them,’ said Lord Deverill fiercely. ‘Let the people of Co. Cork see what happens when they rise up against their
English lords.’

  The Captain rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘There is a woman at the heart of the plot, Lord Deverill, and she will be tried as a witch.’

  Lord Deverill’s face drained of colour. ‘A woman?’ he said slowly, but he knew very well who she was.

  ‘Indeed. A pagan woman called O’Leary, my lord. It is she who started the rebellion. The men are quick to accuse her of bewitching them. After all, this was her land, was it not, Lord Deverill, and it has been reported that she cursed you and your descendants. There are many who witnessed it.’

  Lord Deverill didn’t know what to say. He could not deny the curse and any word in her favour could be counterproductive, considering what he had done to her in the woods. He pictured her face, as it appeared to him in daydreams and night terrors, and nodded sharply. ‘She did,’ he replied. His mind searched wildly for a way to help her, scurrying about his head like a rabbit in a pen, but found nothing. His jaw tensed at the thought of her inciting rebellion, at the horror of his ruined home and at her betrayal. He had no business in helping her, no business in loving her. Yet, she had crawled beneath his skin and insinuated herself into his heart like an exquisite caterpillar, exploding upon his consciousness like a beautiful butterfly. Perhaps that was witchcraft too?

  ‘What will become of her?’ Lord Deverill asked.

  The Captain pulled a face and shrugged. ‘She’ll most likely burn,’ he replied and his words made Lord Deverill wince.

  ‘Most likely?’

  ‘Aye, it’s the decision of his grace, His Majesty’s representative, and yourself.’

  ‘Very well,’ he replied with a shudder, knowing there was no decision to be made; no reason to save her that would not expose him. ‘I will leave it to his grace. I have no wish to see her.’ He didn’t want her throwing accusations at him, although he doubted anyone would believe them; he was ashamed of having taken her in the wood.

  ‘She was pregnant, Milord, almost to term.’