When Beatrice was told the news of Digby’s death she was overcome with grief. Once before she had clawed herself back from the brink of hopelessness, but she knew she didn’t have the inner reserves to do that again. Digby had been her sails and her rudder and the captain at the helm; now he was gone life was a wild and lonely ocean that threatened to consume her. She withdrew to her bedroom and took to her bed where she remained in semi-darkness, afraid of facing the world without him. Death would be preferable to living, she thought bleakly as she lay curled up beneath the quilt, and the velvet-black allure of oblivion called to her in whispers promising sanctuary in silence.
Celia was devastated and bewildered by such a great loss, coming as it did so soon after Archie’s suicide. Her father had been as solid as the ground beneath her feet; dependable, unshakeable, immortal. It was impossible to imagine her world without him in it. How would she get by? She had never had to think for herself. Her husband and her father had taken care of everything. She had never looked at a bill or even spoken to her bank manager – and if she had ever had a problem one of those two capable men had sorted it out for her. To whom could she turn now? Celia had no one. She dug deep to find her inner strength and found nothing but weakness.
Boysie and Harry took their wives back to London, aware that the two women would only irritate Celia and conscious of the fact that the family needed to be together. Celia enveloped them with needy arms and copious tears, promising to let them know when the funeral would be. She waved forlornly on the steps as the taxi motored down the drive.
‘Death stalks the Deverills like a relentless predator,’ said Boysie grimly as Celia’s small figure receded and finally disappeared as they turned out into the lane.
‘It certainly seems so,’ Harry replied.
‘Do your best to elude him, old boy,’ Boysie added under his breath.
‘If a man as indomitable as Cousin Digby yields so readily what hope is there for the rest of us?’
Celia grieved with her sisters, Leona and Vivien. Tragedy brought them closer as only tragedy can. They moved into Deverill Rising to help Celia look after their mother and Celia was grateful; her mother’s collapse had been almost as shocking as her father’s death and she was relieved that she didn’t have to cope with it on her own. During the week that followed the sisters reminisced about the old days when they had been children, shedding tears of both joy and sorrow as they remembered their father, his ostentatious and oftentimes gaudy attire and his irrepressible spirit. Digby had been a man whose glass was always overflowing. They remembered too their brother George, when he had been a little boy following Harry around Castle Deverill like a loyal dog, and they all longed to be transported back to those summers in Ballinakelly before the Great War and the War of Independence had swept them away. They took long walks over the Wiltshire hills, finding solace in the peaceful serenity of nature, comfort in their memories and strength in each other.
Augusta did not die then as everyone, particularly she herself, was sure she would. In the great British tradition she stiffened her jaw, lifted her chin and refused to let her son’s death get the better of her. She accepted condolences with fortitude – she knew that if she gave in to sorrow she might never again recover her composure – and she clung to her religion, putting her faith in God and giving up any resistance to what is. ‘Acceptance is the only way,’ she told Maud, who paid her a visit as soon as she heard the terrible news. ‘Stoke will go now, I’m sure of it. He cannot accept that Digby is gone and therein lies the folly. It is through acceptance that one finds peace. Digby’s time was up and God has gathered him into His keeping. There’s no point fighting it; God won’t send him back. One has to accept, that’s the key.’ Maud had always found Augusta trying, but she had to admire her philosophy. She wondered, though, whether the old lady let go of her control in private. The red rims around her eyes, which one might have assumed were simply the signs of her great age, told Maud that she did.
The funeral took place in the village church a few miles from Deverill Rising. It was a small, family affair. Bertie, Kitty and Robert, Elspeth and Peter and the Shrubs came from Ireland while Augusta and Stoke, Maud and Victoria travelled down from London with Boysie and Harry and their wives. Digby’s two brothers came with their spouses and some of their children, but the jealousy that had seeped poison into their hearts when Digby had made his fortune in South Africa still prevented reconciliation, even in the event of their brother’s death, and they left as soon as the service was over.
Beatrice, helped by her strong sons-in-law who took an arm each, was escorted to the church then straight back home again where she retreated once more to her bed. She didn’t feel up to speaking to anyone. One more word of condolence and she would break like a flimsy raft on a wave. Sobbing quietly into her pillow, she allowed the effects of the cannabis tea Kitty had brought from Ireland to pull her under where it was still, cool and quiet.
‘Hello, Maud,’ said Bertie, approaching his estranged wife with caution as they gathered outside the church.
But she smiled sympathetically and he saw that her icy eyes had thawed a little more since they had met at Christmas. ‘Why is it that we are always brought together by tragedy?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Bertie replied. ‘We’ve had rather a lot of it lately, haven’t we?’
‘Poor Beatrice, how she must be suffering.’ Bertie was astonished. For once Maud was not thinking of herself. ‘I remember when she lost George. I didn’t think she’d ever recover, but somehow she pulled herself back from the edge. Now I fear she has toppled over it.’
‘It was so sudden and unexpected. He was only sixty-five.’
Maud’s eyes shone suddenly and a shadow of fear passed across them, or perhaps it was just the reflection of the clouds. ‘Death could come to us at any moment. Never before have I felt so keenly a sense of my own mortality. If Digby . . .’ She caught her breath. ‘If Digby, so strong and powerful . . . If he . . .’ Her voice thinned. Bertie put a hand on her arm. She didn’t shrug it off, but gazed at him with a benign expression softening the chiselled contours of her face.
‘One has to seize the day, Maud,’ he said, suddenly remembering with a jolt the time Digby had shouted to him as he was on the point of perishing in the sea, demanding that he choose between life and death. ‘Digby saved my life,’ he said quietly.
‘He did?’ said Maud.
‘Yes. If it wasn’t for Digby I would have drowned myself in a bottle of whiskey.’
‘Oh Bertie,’ she gasped.
‘I chose life. I pulled myself together. I vowed never to waste my God-given existence again.’
Maud wiped away a tear with her glove. ‘I did wonder.’
‘Did you?’ he asked, feeling his spirits soar with something close to happiness.
She nodded. ‘I did, Bertie, and I was pleased to see the man I married again.’
‘Had he really gone so very far away?’ She nodded again. ‘Perhaps we can reach a time in our lives when we can let bygones be bygones,’ he ventured.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, afraid to step back into a place which had been so dark. ‘Perhaps.’
Kitty watched her parents talking in the sunshine and wondered what they had to say to each other. As far as she knew, Maud was still being escorted round the London party circuit by Arthur Arlington. ‘We’re going back to the house for a cup of tea,’ said Hazel, tapping Kitty on the shoulder. ‘Are you going to come with us?’
‘I could do with something stronger than tea,’ said Kitty, searching the faces for Robert’s. She saw him talking to Bruce and Tarquin and presumed that he would hitch a lift with them. ‘I’ll wait for Harry and Boysie,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk you to your taxi.’
‘Do you remember Adeline’s cannabis tea?’ Laurel asked as they walked down the path.
‘Do I ever!’ said Hazel.
‘If we all drank it all of the time wouldn’t we be the happier for it?’ Laurel said.
‘Life would pass us by,’ said Kitty. ‘As pleasant as that would sometimes be, I think we are all the better for our suffering. It drives us deeper, makes us more compassionate towards others. What selfish beings we would be if we were untouched by sorrow.’
Hazel frowned. ‘You sound just like Adeline,’ she said.
Kitty smiled. ‘Do I?’ She watched the Shrubs climb into the back of the cab. ‘She’s here, you know,’ she said with certainty. ‘I’m sure she’s seen to it that Digby has found his way home.’
Celia watched the cab motor off and then swept her eyes over the sombre faces of the locals who had come out to pay their respects. The men stood with their hats in their hands while the women, some with small children, looked on with sympathetic faces. Among them was an old man who caught her attention on account of the fact that he hadn’t removed his hat. His cadaverous face had none of the compassion or sorrow of the others; rather it had a cold, defiant expression which offended her. The man noticed that she was watching him and narrowed his eyes with contempt. He looked right at her as if his intention was to intimidate, and Celia, shocked by his visible wrath, and bewildered by it, turned away sharply and went to find Boysie and Harry. When she found them the unpleasant man swiftly slipped from her mind.
Having made sure, even in her grief, that Charlotte and Deirdre had gone with Maud and Augusta, Celia returned to the house with Harry and Boysie. ‘Do you know what Papa’s last words to me were?’ she said, staring down at her black gloves as the car rattled up the road. The boys shook their heads. ‘“Burn my letters,” ’ she told them solemnly. ‘That’s the last thing he said. It’s been bothering me, but do you think he had a mistress? I mean, I’d be naïve to believe he didn’t entertain himself here and there, but do you think he loved somebody else?’
Harry caught Boysie’s eye but Boysie knew better than to add to Celia’s unhappiness by speaking his mind. ‘No, I don’t imagine he did,’ said Boysie. ‘He loved your mama. That was very clear.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘So, are you going to burn them?’ Harry asked.
‘I don’t know where they are.’ She laughed helplessly.
‘You could start by looking in his study.’
‘If he has a safe I wouldn’t have a clue of the code. I’m not about to break in, you know.’ She sighed. ‘If you were to keep love letters, where would you hide them?’ She looked at Boysie and then at Harry and the world seemed to still for a long-drawn-out moment. She saw the two young men as if from a distance and from that fresh perspective she suddenly experienced a moment of clarity. Why had she never thought of it before, she wondered. It seemed so obvious now. Harry loved Boysie and, judging by the way they were always inseparable – and by the way Boysie’s face lit up when he was with Harry – Boysie loved Harry back. They probably always had. Everything now made sense. Charlotte’s grumpiness, the months Harry and Boysie didn’t see each other, the fact that Boysie declined her invitation to Castle Deverill and stopped attending her mother’s Salons. The two of them looked more of a couple than they did with their wives. She dropped her gaze, afraid that they might see the realization in it and be ashamed. But they had nothing to fear. When it came to love, she believed she loved them more than anyone else in the whole world. ‘Don’t answer that,’ she said quickly, vigorously shaking her head. ‘It’s a silly question. Where does anyone hide anything? In a bottom drawer? Behind a book in the bookcase? Really, they could be anywhere. I’ll start in the obvious places and work my way through his study, inch by inch.’ She pressed a glove to her mouth and shut her eyes. ‘Oh, I do miss him.’ Both Harry and Boysie put an arm around her and squeezed her tightly.
‘Of course you do, darling,’ said Harry. ‘But you’re not alone.’
‘Lord no,’ Boysie rejoined. ‘You’re never alone. You’ll always have us.’
After the funeral Celia left her mother in the care of her sisters and returned to London with Boysie and Harry. Her father’s last words had been delivered with urgency – it was her responsibility to see that his final wish was granted.
It felt strange to be in the house on her own. She could hear the reassuring rumble of motor cars down on Kensington High Street and the scuffling sound of the servants who inhabited the top floor of the building and the hidden recesses behind the green baize door. The street lights bathed the road outside her father’s study window in an amber glow that somehow made her feel less lonely. She closed the curtains. She could detect the sweetness of her father’s cigars, the rich scent of whiskey and the musty smell of papers, ink and books. Or was she imagining it because she wanted to feel his presence so badly?
She slumped into his leather chair and ran her eyes over his desk. Digby was not a tidy man. There were books, documents, newspapers and notes strewn across it. He seemed to scrawl comments and observations on everything. She picked up a letter he had been writing and ran her fingers over the ink. He had flamboyant handwriting, like an artist’s calligraphy. Dreading that it might be a love letter she held her breath, but it was only a thank-you letter to Lady Fitzherbert for a dinner party he had been to. She sighed helplessly. There were drawers, cupboards and bookcases, full of her father’s life. Where was she to start looking for these incriminating letters?
Slowly and meticulously she began to rifle through his drawers. No one had tidied them, ever. She smiled as she remembered his continuous battle with her mother. He hadn’t wanted the servants to invade his private room but she had been adamant that it had needed dusting at the very least. ‘It’ll end up smelling like a hamster cage,’ she had said, to which he had replied, ‘Hamsters don’t smoke cigars and drink whiskey, my dear, and I’m not opposed to a thin layer of dust.’ At first Celia was careful to lift everything out, piece by piece, and study it. Attached to each item must be an anecdote she’d never hear, she thought, rubbing her thumb over the surfaces, wondering how her father had come by these things and what they had meant to him. Old coins, pens, business cards, travel documents, racing cards, menus and other mementoes, all thrown in together. Eventually she lost patience and poured the contents of the drawers onto the rug.
There were no letters, or he had hidden them in a very clever place. If she couldn’t find them, her mother certainly wouldn’t. She was relieved; she didn’t want to read love letters from a mistress. Of course she suspected that he had had mistresses, or certainly taken lovers. After all, he had been a very wealthy, attractive man who had mixed with socialites and actresses – and women of ill repute no doubt, it would have been odd if he hadn’t cast his eye about. But that was a man’s business. She didn’t want to know anything about it. She wanted to remember him as a good husband to her mother. She didn’t want anything to change the way she thought about him.
Celia went through the cupboards beneath the bookcases. She felt his presence strongly as she looked through old sepia photographs stuck into thickly bound albums. There were photographs of him in his youth: sitting on top of a camel in a panama hat, on safari in Africa, at Ascot Races in top hat and tails, standing in front of the Taj Mahal and the Pyramids of Giza. He had been dashing even then, always with a raffish smile on his face and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. There were a few photographs of his brothers, but they were strangers to Celia. Her grandmother Augusta, on the other hand, had been surprisingly beautiful then but her grandfather hadn’t changed at all. Even his sweeping moustache was the same. She dwelt on the pictures of her father. He had always been jovial as if he had found everything in the world amusing.
With the rug almost entirely covered in her father’s clutter she didn’t know where to look next. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly midnight, and she was beginning to feel tired. But she was frightened to go to bed in the mansion with only the servants upstairs, sleeping like mice beneath the floorboards. The place felt uneasy, as if it understood that the master had gone and didn’t know quite what to do with itself. She wished she had asked Boysie or Harry to stay with her.
Wearily she stood in the middle of the study, casting her eye about the room in search of a secret place where her father might have hidden letters he didn’t want anyone to find. She hadn’t even come across a safe and she had opened every drawer. Then her eyes rested on the library of books her father had never read, because it was well known in the family that her father had never read a book in his life. Why so many? For a man who never read it suddenly seemed odd. Then an idea struck her. She hurried to the shelves and began pulling out all the books and tossing them onto the floor. They clattered about her feet, releasing clouds of dust into the air. And then she found it, the safe hidden in the wall behind the row of innocent-looking books. Her excitement injected her with energy and she no longer felt tired. She didn’t take long to find the key. It was sitting in an ashtray on the desk among various coins, golf tees and paperclips. Behind the door were three letters, sitting loosely on top of other documents.
With her heart thumping in her chest she took the letters to the armchair where her father used to sit and read the papers beside the fire, inhaled deeply and pulled the first out of the envelope. Just as she began to read, her father’s voice came back to her on a wave of guilt. He had told her to burn them; he hadn’t told her to read them. But, she reasoned, he hadn’t told her not to read them. After a moment’s hesitation her curiosity overcame any reservations and she continued to run her eyes down the page.
Her greatest fear had been love letters from a mistress but now, reading the terrible words written on the page, love letters would have been preferable to this. Her heart plummeted into her stomach and the blood drained from her face. The floor seemed to spin away from her as she drew the other two letters from their envelopes and hurried to read them. How she wished she had just done what her father had asked and burned them. Hadn’t she been taught that curiosity killed the cat? Now she knew what these letters contained she could never unknow it. She felt tainted by the poison contained within the words. Cursed. There was only one thing to do.
Hastily, as if the letters had a life of their own and might suddenly make off out of the house and into the public gaze, she screwed them into tight balls and threw them into the grate. She found matches on the mantelpiece and struck one. Bending down she put the flame to the paper and watched it grow into a small fire. The blaze consumed the letters until all that was left was ash, sinking into the pile of cinders left over from her father’s many fires.
Aurelius Dupree. She never wanted to see or hear that name again.