Digby stood by the window of his study and looked furtively out onto the driveway, and beyond, to the wide avenue of leafy plane trees that ran for almost half a mile from Kensington to Notting Hill. It was, without doubt, one of the most exclusive streets in London and he was proud to live on it. He reflected on his rather less ostentatious beginnings. The youngest son of an old landed family fallen on hard times, he was always aware that his parents were more interested in climbing the social ladder than in him. Desperate to escape his mother’s stifling world, he had set out to South Africa to make his own fortune in the diamond mines. There he had lived in tents, suffered the dust and heat of summer and the crippling cold of winter and yet, somehow, found in himself a strength he hadn’t known he had. As he slid his eyes up and down the road, his mind wandered back to the South African diamond mines. He had been lucky, but to a certain extent he had made his own luck – after all, God only helps those who help themselves. Then a movement in the street caught his attention.
It was him again, standing on the opposite side of the street wearing a hat pulled low over his face, a long shabby coat and tie, a newspaper folded under his arm. He was smoking languidly, as if he had all the time in the world. Digby chuckled without mirth; if it wasn’t so dire it would be funny. He looked like a comedy crook, standing there in the shadows. Well, Digby thought resolutely, he’s not going to intimidate me. Let him do his worst and see where it gets him. But, underneath his bravado, he didn’t feel quite as strong or confident as he appeared. There had been a time when he had felt indomitable, but as the years went by his confidence was gradually being eroded by loss: loss of the people he loved, loss of his youth, loss of his sense of invulnerability, and of immortality. In the old days a man like Aurelius Dupree would barely have rattled his cage. Now, however . . .
Digby had not only built a business, he had built a reputation. He was a pillar of the community, a contributor to the Conservative Party. He counted royalty, politicians and aristocrats among his friends. Not only did he give generously to charity but he supported the arts too. He was one of the main benefactors of the Royal Opera House, for Beatrice loved opera and ballet and attended often, frequently invited to watch from the Royal Box. He was on various committees and a member of elite clubs like White’s. Of course he also had his racing commitments and since winning the Derby he was a man to be reckoned with – Lucky Deverill now commanded serious covering fees. Digby took pride in his seemingly unfaltering talent for making money. He was a gambler, a speculator, a risk-taker and most often his schemes paid off. But a man could only make so much luck. He was considering trying his hand at politics. Randlords weren’t quite respectable but he was overcoming that with his charm and money. Perhaps he would buy a newspaper like his friend Lord Beaverbrook and get into politics that way. If it wasn’t for Aurelius Dupree, he thought irritably, nothing would hold me back.
Digby watched him in the road. He looked like he had no intention of going anywhere – and he was watching Digby right back. Indeed, the two men were staring at each other like a pair of bulls, neither wanting to show weakness by being the first to look away. However, Digby had better things to do than compete in a stand-off, so he withdrew and called for his driver to take him to his club. It was a beautiful summer’s day, but Digby didn’t want to risk walking through the park to St James’s on account of Aurelius Dupree. The man could write letters to his heart’s content, but Digby would never permit him an audience. Standing outside his house was the nearest he was going to get and with any luck, he’d see the futility of it and crawl back under the rock from where he’d come.
Harry and Boysie met for lunch at White’s. It had been six months since Charlotte had permitted her husband to see his old friend again and the two of them met frequently, careful not to slip back into their morning trysts in Soho. Charlotte had given their friendship her blessing, but she hadn’t said they could sleep together, even though she hadn’t specifically prohibited it. Harry felt he owed her a deep debt of gratitude for her tolerance, a debt which would be quite wrong to repay by jumping into Boysie’s bed. If this was all that was permitted, they were both accepting of it. Harry was just happy to breathe the same air as Boysie. He told himself that he didn’t need to make love to him. But as the months passed the challenge to keep their distance grew ever greater.
They sat in the dining room, surrounded by familiar faces, for all the most distinguished men in London were members of White’s. But Boysie and Harry only had eyes for each other. ‘It is better to be ignorant like Deirdre,’ said Boysie. ‘It’s perfectly feasible to be happy that way.’
‘Charlotte is happy that we are friends again,’ said Harry firmly.
‘But she’s watching you, make no mistake. She’s watching your every move. One slip and you’re in serious trouble, old boy.’ Boysie chuckled but his eyes betrayed his sadness. ‘Is this all it’s ever going to be?’
Harry looked into his wine glass. ‘I don’t know.’
Boysie sighed in that nonchalant way of his and pouted petulantly. ‘I’m not sure I can stand it.’
‘You have to stand it,’ Harry said in alarm. ‘It’s all we’re allowed. It’s better than nothing. I couldn’t live with nothing.’
‘After Archie did himself in I’m sure Charlotte has come to realize that.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Would you really kill yourself for me?’ he asked, leaning across the table, his pretty green eyes melting into Harry’s.
‘I thought about it,’ Harry replied quietly.
‘Don’t ever do it,’ said Boysie. ‘Because I don’t have the courage and I certainly couldn’t live without you. You won’t go and leave me on my own, will you?’
Harry smiled. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, that’s settled then. A weight off my shoulders. You know that hotel in Soho is still there. No one would ever know. Not even Charlotte with her spying would know to look there.’
‘We can’t,’ Harry hissed, glancing anxiously to his left and right for fear of being overheard.
‘You know, Celia has told me that someone has made her an offer to buy the castle, lock, stock and barrel,’ said Boysie, changing the subject because Harry’s reaction to that suggestion remained always the same. ‘News travels fast.’
Harry’s eyes widened. ‘When did she tell you?’
‘This morning. She telephoned.’
‘Well? What did she say? Is she going to sell it?’ Harry looked horrified.
‘Of course she’s not going to sell it. She adores it. She’s just going to sell the contents. Most of them. I’m sure she’ll keep a bed or two.’
Harry shook his head. ‘It’s desperate. I can’t bear it for her. She’s terribly lonely without Archie.’
‘Darling, she’s lost more than Archie. She’s lost her joie de vivre. Her esprit. I think we should persuade her to come to London for a while. She needs to get out, to see people, to remember who she really is.’
‘She shouldn’t be a widow,’ Harry agreed.
‘Unless she’s a merry widow. We’ll remind her of her merry side, won’t we, old boy.’
‘God, they were good old times,’ Harry sighed. They began to reminisce wistfully about their lives before Deirdre and Charlotte had stepped in to complicate them.
Presently, Digby walked into the dining room with a great kerfuffle. With his flashing white teeth, his slicked-back blond hair and his diamond shirt studs, he greeted his friends loudly as he moved through the tables, finding something witty or charming to say to everyone. Harry and Boysie suspended their conversation to watch as he made his way towards them, his flamboyant attire and vibrant personality creating amusement and comment among the members of this most conventional of clubs.
‘Ah, boys,’ Digby said when he reached their table. ‘At least there is one place in London where we are sure to be free of our wives.’ He laughed without realizing how true his words were to Boysie and Harry and moved on to where his guests awaited him.
Grace knocked on the door of the Doyle farmhouse. It was the first time she had ever visited for during the War of Independence she and Michael had met either at her house or Badger Hanratty’s barn in the hills. As she pushed it open her heart accelerated at the thought of seeing Michael, ‘the Pope’, whose piety repulsed her but whose physicality still thrilled her. She could feel his presence for his energy vibrated strongly, like a strain of music permeating every inch of the farm, and her excitement mounted. She heard a voice and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw an elderly woman sitting on a chair by the hearth.
‘Good day,’ said Grace and the elderly woman raised her hooded eyes and her cadaverous face registered surprise. Old Mrs Nagle had not been expecting a lady to step into their humble dwelling. ‘My name is Lady Rowan-Hampton. I’ve come to see Mrs Doyle.’
A moment later Mrs Doyle appeared at the bottom of the staircase. She stepped into the room, wringing her hands nervously. She was smaller than Grace remembered, her skin as lined as a map, her round black eyes the same colour as Michael’s. She nodded curtly. ‘Good morning, milady,’ she said.
‘Father Quinn . . .’ Grace began a little anxiously. She didn’t want anyone to know that she was here, besides Michael, of course. That was the reason she had come, after all.
‘Oh, Father Quinn, yes, he did emphasize discretion. You can be sure that Mam and I won’t breathe a word, so help me God.’ She looked unsure of what to do next, then remembering her manners she offered Grace a seat at the table. ‘Would you like tea, milady? The kettle is hot.’
‘Thank you. That would be lovely,’ said Grace, sitting down. She could smell Michael, as if he had only a moment ago stood before her, dwarfing the room with his wide shoulders and powerful authority. She wondered where he had gone and whether he’d be coming back soon. She didn’t know how long she could sustain talking to his mother about God.
Mrs Doyle placed a basin of tea and a plate of currant soda bread on the table in front of her and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. She waited for Grace to begin. Grace wrenched her thoughts away from Michael and tried to concentrate on the charade. She had no wish to convert to Catholicism, but if that’s what it took to win Michael’s heart she’d go the whole way and beyond.
‘As Father Quinn will have told you, I would like to become a Catholic,’ she said. ‘This will be against the wishes of my family, but I feel I am being called, Mrs Doyle, and I want to answer that call.’
‘So, how can I help you?’ Mrs Doyle asked with a frown.
‘I want to know what it means to live a Catholic life. Father Quinn suggested you as a role model. You are a good Catholic, Mrs Doyle. I would like you to set me an example.’
Mrs Doyle’s face relaxed when she realized that was all that was expected of her. She certainly believed herself to be a good Catholic and was happy to tell Lady Rowan-Hampton how she lived a pious life. ‘Shall I—’ Mrs Doyle began but Grace interrupted.
‘Tell me about your life from the beginning, yes, that would be most interesting. What was it like growing up a Catholic?’ Mrs Doyle began to reminisce and Grace’s mind wandered through the house in search of Michael. Old Mrs Nagle had fallen asleep in her chair and her head had slumped forward like a rag doll’s. A dribble escaped one corner of her mouth and ran down the grey hairs of her chin, dropping onto the loose fabric about her scrawny chest. Mrs Doyle warmed to her subject. She spoke of the angelus, her daily prayers, the rosary, Mass and the little things she did every day that were all part of her devotion. Grace listened with half an ear, nodding when appropriate. With one eye on the door she let Mrs Doyle talk on, silently willing that door to open and Michael to stride in.
When Mrs Doyle finally drew breath Grace had finished her tea. The room had grown a little darker and Old Mrs Nagle had woken herself up with a snort. Grace realized that she couldn’t stay any longer. She didn’t think she could endure a minute more of Mrs Doyle’s flat voice and her piety. Then the door was flung open and she knew it was Michael even before she saw him. She pushed out her chair and jumped to her feet, forgetting for a moment that Old Mrs Nagle and Mrs Doyle were watching her with fascination, as if she were a rare bird that had chosen to mingle with geese.
Michael stared at her in surprise. He had seen her car parked outside and wondered what the devil she was doing in his house. Had she gone mad? ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said and his tone demanded an explanation.
Grace smiled sweetly. ‘Hello, Mr Doyle.’ She relished holding him in suspense for a moment.
He looked at his mother, who had now pushed herself to her feet. ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton and I have much to talk about,’ she said and, true to her word, she was careful to be discreet.
‘About what?’ he asked.
‘Would you like tea?’ she said, making for the fireplace. ‘I will boil the kettle.’
‘I must be going,’ said Grace. Her mood had lifted considerably. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Doyle. I really appreciate your time. Might we perhaps be able to meet again?’
‘As you wish,’ said Mrs Doyle, flattered. She had enjoyed talking about herself to someone who listened with such concentration.
Michael was perplexed. ‘I will escort you to your car, Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said, opening the door. Grace walked past him with her chin up, a gratified smile curling the corners of her lips.
Outside, the sun was on the wane. The tweeting of birds filled the air with the sound of summer. A light breeze drifted in over the cliffs. Michael turned to her, his face cast in shadow. ‘What’s going on, Grace?’
‘I’m converting to Catholicism,’ she stated simply.
Michael scowled. ‘The devil you are,’ he replied.
‘Oh, I am,’ she insisted with a smile. ‘Your mother is helping me along my spiritual path. Father Quinn suggested I come and talk to her. She’s an inspiring woman.’
‘You’re not going to convert to Catholicism. Sir Ronald would divorce you.’
‘Ronald won’t know,’ she said breezily. ‘As you’re well aware we lead very separate lives. That suited you once.’
He pulled a sympathetic face. ‘What’s this all about, Grace?’ he asked gently.
‘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.