London, autumn 1929
Beatrice had noticed that Digby had been somewhat subdued since the Castle Deverill Summer Ball. The event itself had been a triumph and Celia had been a radiant and gracious hostess, charming everyone with her ready smile and obvious enthusiasm for her new position as Doyenne of Ballinakelly. No one could talk of anything else for weeks afterwards. The castle was awe-inspiring, the gardens the very manifestation of beauty and the guests, including the Shrubs, Bertie, Kitty and Harry, had nothing but praise for Celia and Archie’s efforts. But Digby had grown morose and taciturn, which was very disconcerting for his family who knew him as flamboyant, spirited and indomitable. Beatrice wondered whether he was sinking into a mild depression on account of the castle having reached completion and his role in the project drawn to a close. A natural gambler and risk-taker, Digby had relished the undertaking, but now it was over he was back at his desk in his office speculating on the markets, plotting schemes with his solicitor and his broker and taking a keen interest as usual in his horses, but he was uncharacteristically wary and ill at ease. Beatrice noticed that he spent a lot of time standing by the window, smoking his cigars and gazing out into the road as if expecting someone or something undesirable to turn into his driveway.
Beatrice tried to distract him by filling the house with people. Her Tuesday-evening Salons continued to deliver politicians, actresses, writers and socialites to her door, and she made sure that Deverill Rising was busy with Digby’s racing friends at weekends. But nothing seemed to relieve him of his anxiety and restore his joie de vivre. When she asked him about it he simply patted her hand and smiled reassuringly. ‘Nothing to worry about, my dear. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’
Whether he had anticipated the Wall Street Crash on 24th October or his gambler’s instinct sensed impending doom in the markets, she couldn’t say, but the terrible fall on the London Stock Exchange a few days after Black Thursday in New York more than fulfilled his gloomy premonition. Digby locked himself in his study and remained for most of the day on the telephone, shouting. He did not emerge until very late that evening with his face red and sweating, and for the first time in their marriage Beatrice saw real fear in his eyes.
Celia had returned to London to shop for more extravagances with which to adorn her beloved castle. She had read the newspapers and listened to her mother worrying about her father but she didn’t imagine that the Wall Street Crash had anything to do with her. When she asked Archie about the state of their finances he reassured her that they were fine, they had pots of money and no fall on the Stock Market could induce him to tell her to curb her expenditure. So she continued to shop in the usual way, flouncing up and down Knightsbridge and Bond Street without a care in the world, while the rest of London society trembled in their finely polished shoes and the city smog lingered in a portentous grey mist.
‘It’s really such a drag,’ she told Harry over lunch at Claridge’s. ‘Papa’s in a foul mood, which is so unlike him, and Mama is fussing around him, which makes him all the more bad-tempered. Leona and Vivien came round for tea yesterday and only made Mama worry all the more, repeating what their silly husbands have obviously told them, that we’re all going to be poor and penniless and miserable. Goodness, I do dislike my sisters.’ She took a swig of champagne and grinned mischievously. ‘So, to lift my spirits, I’ve just bought the most gorgeous painting for the hall, to replace the one of that crusty old general with his dog that hangs at the bottom of the stairs . . .’ As she rattled on Harry tried to concentrate on her words, but all he could see was her pretty red mouth moving against the roar of his thoughts, which carried in their tumultuous barrage the name Boysie Bancroft.
Celia hadn’t a clue of the havoc her Summer Ball had caused, although Harry readily admitted that it was all his fault. If he hadn’t taken Boysie to the room he shared with his wife . . . if he hadn’t been so reckless . . . if he hadn’t, in some deep and unconscious way, wanted to get caught. Since he had left Ballinakelly with Charlotte, he had been in a state of utter despair. Life was not worth living without Boysie. Now that he had promised his wife he wouldn’t see him again the sun no longer shone, the nights were as thick as tar and his limbs were as heavy as lead. He felt as if he were walking in water and that the current was always against him. His unhappiness had engulfed him and it seemed that, while Celia was bathed in light, he dwelt in permanent shadow – and that shadow penetrated to the marrow of his bones. His misery was total and complete and yet he couldn’t even begin to explain it to Celia. He had to be a master of theatre, smiling in the right places, quipping as he always had, laughing in his old carefree way, while inside his heart was shrivelling like a plum left on the grass at the mercy of the winter frosts.
So focused on her castle, Celia didn’t even ask him about Boysie. If she had taken more notice she might have wondered why Boysie hadn’t joined them for lunch. She would have questioned why he wasn’t at her mother’s Tuesday Salons and why, when he was such a regular visitor to Deverill House, he hadn’t crossed the threshold since the summer. If she hadn’t been so staunchly single-minded about herself and embellishing her new home, she might have been concerned by her cousin’s pallor, by the raw pain in his eyes that no amount of dissembling could hide and by the downward twist to one corner of his mouth when his sorrow caught him off guard; but she wasn’t. Celia was only too happy to tell Harry about her purchases and the fabulous plans she had for Christmas. The crowds of children they were going to have because ‘in a castle of that size it’s only proper to fill it with family’. Christmas was going to be ‘a riot’ because they were all going to be there together instead of spending their usual fortnight at Deverill Rising.
At last she stopped motoring on about herself and put down her empty wine glass. ‘Darling, I meant to ask, how is Charlotte? She was a miserable old thing at my ball. Has she cheered up?’
Harry wiped his mouth with his napkin even though it was clean. ‘She has,’ he lied. ‘She’s had a difficult pregnancy. Spending the rest of the summer in Norfolk really cheered her up. I think she just needed to be with her family. Ours can be a little overpowering.’
The truth was that Charlotte had not forgiven him. She had not invited him into her bedroom since they had returned from Norfolk and she had most definitely not forgotten what she had seen, nor did she intend to. She was just as unhappy as he was. Combined with the natural fatigue of pregnancy her wretchedness was even more desperate. They existed as if in different dimensions, only coming together for the sake of the children and at social functions where their efforts went undetected and any irritability was put down to anxiety about the imminent birth on her part and the dire state of the markets on his. Most of London society felt the same about the declining economy and everyone, except Celia, was worrying about their future.
The only other person who was even more careless with money than Celia was Maud, Harry’s mother. Having found a house to buy in Chester Square she had promptly set about furnishing it with the help of Mr Kenneth Leclaire, the famous designer who had worked such magic on Castle Deverill, without a thought for her husband who had bought it for her with the proceeds of the sale of his ancestral home. Maud didn’t want Bertie anywhere near her so he remained in the Hunting Lodge, courtesy of Archie and Celia who charged him a peppercorn rent. Harry had met Maud’s lover, Arthur Arlington, who was the younger brother of the Earl of Pendrith and a well-known scoundrel, twice divorced with a notorious gambling habit. They had met at the ballet and Harry had been appalled. For a woman so desperate to be seen to be doing the right thing, Maud was very careless with Arthur, whom everyone knew was escorting her to bed as well as to the Royal Opera House. Perhaps it was because he was of aristocratic lineage, Harry mused. Nothing excited his mother more than a title.
‘Perhaps you can leave Charlotte in Norfolk for Christmas,’ Celia continued. ‘She will have just had the baby. The last thing she’ll want is to travel the choppy Irish Sea to Ballinakelly. Much better that she rest at home with her mama to look after her. Do you think we can persuade Boysie to leave Dreary Deirdre behind too? Perhaps he can come for New Year. Really, why did you two have to marry? You were much more fun on your own.’
‘You married, old girl,’ said Harry flatly.
‘That’s different. Archie’s such fun. Your wives are very tiresome.’ Her face lit up as she expressed her admiration for her husband in glowing terms: ‘He’s denied me nothing for the castle. You should have seen the wonderful things I bought in France. We had to have it all shipped over and it took weeks – you would have thought they were sailing the Atlantic, not the English Channel! There’s a sale coming up at Christie’s. They’re auctioning the most stunning things from Russia. After the Revolution those beastly Bolsheviks sold all the treasures. You wouldn’t believe the opulence of those Russian princes. I’ve got my eye on a few things. I’m so excited. Would you like to come with me? I shall be bidding like crazy, waving my little hand at every opportunity. It’s all so much fun. I get an enormous buzz out of it.’
‘I’m surprised Archie isn’t reining you in, considering the present climate,’ said Harry, calling the waiter for the bill.
‘Darling, he says there’s nothing to worry about. You have to remember that I married a very clever man.’
Harry wasn’t convinced. ‘He’ll have been affected by the Crash like everyone else.’
‘Then he must have secret reserves,’ she giggled. ‘Because I’m spending them!’
But Celia’s confidence was shaken a few weeks later when her favourite couturier in Maddox Street failed to give her credit. Pale with concern she waited for Archie to return home, having enjoyed a long lunch at his club, and then she asked him.
‘My darling Celia, it’s simply a reflection of the times,’ he explained coolly. ‘Everyone is being extra cautious.’
‘So there’s nothing to worry about?’
‘Nothing.’
Her shoulders sagged with relief. ‘I’m so pleased. I’d be utterly devastated if I couldn’t go to the Russian sale at Christie’s. I asked Harry to come with me, but he’s cried off so Mama is coming instead. Really, everyone is making a fuss about nothing!’ She put her arms around her husband and kissed him. ‘You’re a wonderful man, Archie. Just wonderful. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
He frowned and in her happiness she missed a certain shiftiness that made him avert his eyes. ‘Do you know what gives me the most pleasure, darling?’
‘You tell me,’ he replied.
‘Watching Papa enjoying Castle Deverill. He grew up in the shadow of that place and he loved it and yearned to belong there as his cousins Bertie and Rupert did. All those summers in Ballinakelly made such a deep impression on him, Mama told me, that his pleasure at my ownership of it is all the more satisfying. It’s as good as owning it himself, I think. You have done a wonderful thing, not only restoring the family seat, but giving it to the London Deverills. You can’t imagine what that means. The prestige is enormous. I love Cousin Bertie and cherish the memories of having enjoyed the place when Hubert and Adeline were alive, but I’m happy it’s fallen into my hands. I love it dearly and Papa does too. Thank you, my darling, for making it possible. You’ve made us incredibly happy.’
Archie pulled her into his arms and held her close. ‘That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,’ he said and she felt him nuzzling his face against her hair.
At the end of November Charlotte Deverill was delivered of a boy who was immediately named Rupert after Harry’s uncle who was killed at Gallipoli. The birth of their son mollified a little Charlotte’s hostility towards her husband. After two daughters the arrival of a boy gave both parents something about which they could be truly happy. For a brief moment they could forget their resentment and celebrate the arrival of the heir to the centuries-old title and the future hope that Little Rupert would one day father a son who would secure the title for another generation. Harry loved his daughters but the arrival of his son affected him in a very different way. The child distracted him from his constant pining for Boysie and revived his withered heart. Little Rupert’s innocence touched him profoundly and every wriggle he made induced smiles that came from deep inside him. But then as December brought windy nights and cold, dark mornings, the black dog of despair began to hound him once again.
Celia’s busy little white hand impressed everyone at the Christie’s Russian sale. With the encouragement of her mother she bid for almost everything and won all the pieces she had so desired. To celebrate, mother and daughter lunched in Mayfair and discussed Celia’s plans for her grand New Year Ball. ‘It’s going to be even more wonderful than the summer one,’ she told Beatrice. ‘I’m going to ask Maud and Victoria, even though I can’t bear either. I think it’s time to hold out the olive branch, don’t you? I’d love Maud to see what I’ve done and to like it.’
‘Darling, I doubt very much she’ll ever set foot in Ballinakelly again. I think it would be too much for her to see her husband’s inheritance in your hands. But I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture. I think your sisters might come this time. They spent Christmas with their husbands’ families last year so it’s our turn this year. I’ve told them you intend to host Christmas and they’re rather curious to see what you and Archie have done to the place. I think they’re the only members of the family who are yet to see it, having not been able to come in the summer.’ Beatrice smiled contentedly. ‘To think of all those children running around the castle gardens. They’re going to have a wonderful time.’ Then her smile faded and concern furrowed her brow. She toyed with the stem of her wine glass. ‘I think it will be good for your father to get away from London. He’s been very distracted lately. He’s even told me to cut back where I can . . .’
‘You mean to stop spending?’ Celia asked, aghast.
‘I’m afraid so. I’m doing my best. I’m sure the trouble will blow over, but until it does I’m being careful.’ She chuckled wistfully. ‘I haven’t been careful since before I married. You know your father was a very wealthy man when I met him. He’d struck lucky in the diamond mines and then in the gold rush. He was such a dashing adventurer. But he’s a risk-taker. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I fear some of his gambles haven’t paid off and that the crash has robbed him of some of his wealth. I’m sure it’s not too serious. I hope it’s not too serious. But we’ll weather it, won’t we?’
‘Papa will be fine,’ said Celia emphatically. The idea of her father being anything less than solid, rich and unshakeable was an abhorrence. ‘He’s much too clever to let something like this pull him down. But you’re right, Christmas at Castle Deverill will make him feel much better. It makes us all feel better. It’s that sort of place.’
In the grand tradition of the Deverills who had occupied Castle Deverill before her, Celia invited the entire family to stay for two weeks over Christmas and New Year, ending the festive period with a sumptuous ball which promised to eclipse all the previous parties ever held there.
Maud declined, as was expected. However, Victoria wrote to say that she would come, because, having done her duty by her husband’s side entertaining the tenants and estate workers, followed by his mother, the dowager Countess, at Broadmere, their stately home in Kent, for the last fifteen years, she deserved to spend Christmas wheresoever she desired. Celia’s grandparents, Stoke and Augusta, accepted too, which was a great surprise because Augusta had given every indication that she would be dead by Christmas. Celia’s sisters agreed to come as did Harry and Charlotte, which dismayed Celia for she had hoped Harry might manage to leave his grumpy wife in England. Her biggest disappointment, however, was Boysie. He had written back in his beautiful brown calligraphy on luxuriously thick ivory paper from Mount Street that it was with great regret that he was unable to accept, for Celia Mayberry was undoubtedly unsurpassed not only in Ballinakelly but in London too as the greatest hostess of their age. Flattered though she was it saddened her that one of her dearest friends would not be present for her first Christmas at Castle Deverill and her first New Year Ball.
Kitty and Robert would come for Christmas Day with the Shrubs and Bertie, and Elspeth with her ruddy-faced, Master of the Foxhounds husband Peter, who now insisted on introducing Archie to the joys of Irish country living, thinking nothing of lending him a horse and sending him off with the hunt. The castle promised to be full of children – Deverill cousins all doing what Deverill cousins had always done: run around the grounds like wild dogs. Celia was as excited as a thoroughbred at the Derby and couldn’t wait for everyone to arrive.
At last the cars swept up the drive and halted in front of the impressive entrance, which Celia had decorated with a wreath made of fir and red-berried holly. The butler was by the door to greet them and three footmen ready to carry the luggage to the bedrooms. The wet wind blew in off the sea and grey clouds gathered in heavy folds above the towers of the castle, but nothing could dampen Celia’s joy at welcoming everyone into her expensively heated home.
The first to arrive were Augusta and Stoke. Augusta waited for the chauffeur to help her out of the car and then she stood a moment, gazing up at the walls, her face full of wistfulness as she remembered the days when she had come to stay with Adeline and Hubert, before the fire had done unspeakable things to the family. For a moment she thought she saw a face in the window of the western tower and she blinked to clear her vision. Perhaps it was a child playing up there, or a trick of light. Distracted by her husband, who walked round to offer her his arm, she turned her eyes to the entrance where the open door gave a glimpse of the lavish hall and roaring fire beyond.
‘She’s still alive,’ Adeline commented to Hubert as their spirits gazed down from the tower window. ‘I suspect she’ll outlive all of them.’
‘I hope not,’ said Hubert.
‘She’ll certainly outlive her husband. Stoke is more rickety in the legs than ever. Ah, there’s another car. Let’s see. Who’s that?’ She waited beside Hubert who was getting increasingly difficult to entertain in the monotonous limbo that had been his for too many years now to count. Adeline smiled. ‘It’s Harry and Charlotte.’ She sighed and dropped her head to one side. ‘Poor Harry, he’s desperately miserable. Life is difficult.’
‘Life after life is worse,’ grumbled Hubert.
‘Well, you had better get used to it,’ came Barton’s voice from the armchair. ‘You have nothing to complain about.’
‘Don’t bicker,’ said Adeline patiently. ‘You might as well get along because by the looks of things you’re all here to stay for the foreseeable future. Ah, there’s Digby and Beatrice. Do you remember, darling, how Digby used to bring you the finest Cuban cigars?’ Hubert grunted. ‘And Beatrice brought all of us the most exquisite silks. They were always so generous. Poor Digby’s finding life difficult too. But these things are sent to test us, are they not? We were tested, weren’t we, Hubert?’
‘Wish I’d listened to you, Adeline,’ he said suddenly. ‘I just thought you were . . .’ He hesitated then chuckled at the irony. ‘I thought you were a bit mad, but it was I who was mad. I thought your ghosts were in your imagination but now I’m one of them. How blind we human beings are and how misled. Look at them all.’ He stared down as another car slowly made its way over the gravel. ‘They’re blind too. All of them. Only death can open their eyes.’
There came a loud tut from behind them. ‘Be of good heart, Hubert. At least you’re not in Hell.’
Hubert turned to Barton. ‘I don’t believe in the Hell that I was taught. Hell is on earth. That’s very clear now.’
‘And that is Hell right now,’ said Adeline mischievously. Hubert smiled, for there, stepping out of the car, was Victoria, Countess of Elmrod, with her desperately dull and humourless husband, Eric. ‘Now that’s going to set the cat among the pigeons,’ she said. ‘We’re all in for a fortnight of entertainment. Isn’t that fun!’