On the first Wednesday in June, Sir Digby and Lady Deverill attended the Derby, the most famous flat race in the world, at Epsom Racecourse in Surrey. Accompanied by Celia and Archie, Harry and Boysie and their insipid wives, Charlotte and Deirdre, whom the two young men would have preferred to have left at home, they were in high spirits. The women wore elegant cloche hats and coats yet Beatrice had chosen a larger, more Edwardian-style hat adorned with extravagant ostrich feathers and pearls that drew the eye as well as the comments, for many of the noble ladies considered Lady Deverill rather brassy. “Who does she think she is, the Queen?” they whispered behind their race cards. The gentlemen were dressed in the finest top hats and tails but somehow Digby’s shoes and hat shone with more polish than anyone else’s, the cut of his collar was slightly more flamboyant than convention dictated and his confident swagger gave the impression that he was a man of great importance. Today he felt indomitable, because, running in the race for the first time, was Digby’s colt Lucky Deverill, whom he had been training up in Newmarket. “I hope he has the luck of the London Deverills and not the County Cork Deverills,” Boysie whispered to Celia, who swiftly reproached him with a playful smack on the hand.
“You’re wicked, Boysie!”
“One cannot be chastised for telling the truth, Celia,” he replied with a sniff.
“Papa says he has a very good chance of winning.”
“I think he is alone in that belief,” said Boysie. “Judging by the odds.”
“What do they know,” Celia sniffed dismissively. “Papa says he’s bred to win the Derby.”
“And he came fourth in the 2000 Guineas at Newmarket, yes, I know, your father told me that too.”
“You will bet on him, won’t you?”
“Only for you, Celia. Though I doubt it will make me a fortune.”
“If he wins, his value at stud will soar. The covering fees will be enormous. Papa will make a fortune.”
“Another one,” said Boysie with a smirk. “Your father’s rather good at making fortunes.”
Wrapped in coats and hats, sheltering beneath umbrellas, the small party who had parked their cars behind the grandstand hurried inside. It was warm and exclusive in there and they were quick to help themselves to refreshments. “Goodness, there are so many people on the hill!” Celia groaned, looking out onto the rise of common land where the fairground loomed out of the rain like a mythological sea creature. “I do so hate the great unwashed!”
“The hoi polloi,” said Boysie. “I’m glad they’re out there and we’re in here.”
“Quite,” she agreed. “It’s hell out there. I swear the entire East End has decamped for the day.”
“Darling, the whole of London has decamped for the day,” said Boysie. “You’d have thought the rain would have put people off, but no, there’s nothing like a free day out for the great British public.”
Due to the inclement weather the trains had been restricted and the day was soon dubbed a Petrol Derby, with makeshift parking lots being set up in the large sodden fields either side of the drive to accommodate the swollen number of vehicles. The wet and dismal conditions, however, did not deter the thousands of people who arrived in cars, double-decker buses and motor coaches. Some even arrived in stagecoaches pulled by fine horses. Piled into and onto the coaches, the delighted passengers waved cheerfully at the crowds as policemen in capes and helmets tried to maintain some sort of order for the arrival of the King and Queen. When they appeared at last, in the middle of a long convoy of gleaming cars, the crowd stopped what they were doing to watch. The King sat stiffly beside the Queen, who was wearing one of her typically elaborate feathered hats, raising his hand every now and again to greet his people. The girls, however, were much more interested in the dashing Prince of Wales and erupted into a clatter of applause when they saw him.
Once in the relative calm of the stands Digby and Beatrice wandered around the gallery greeting their friends and acquaintances. It was there that Digby bumped into Stanley Baldwin, the prime minister, for Parliament was always adjourned for the Derby. “Ah, Prime Minister,” he exclaimed, striding up to him. The prime minister swept his eyes over Digby’s flamboyant purple-and-green waistcoat and pink spotted tie and grinned. For a man of his breeding there was something rather brash about Sir Digby Deverill. Mr. Baldwin lifted his top hat in salutation. “Sir Digby, Lady Deverill, I see you have a horse racing this year,” he said.
“Indeed we do,” Digby replied. “He’s a fine colt. Young but swift. I have high expectations of him.”
“I’m sure you do, Sir Digby,” said Mr. Baldwin archly. “You didn’t get to where you are today without the desire to be a winner.”
“Nor you, if I may be so bold.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Baldwin smiled, acknowledging Digby’s wit with a slight nod of the head. “What are the odds?”
“Sixteen to one,” Digby replied.
“A long shot.” Stanley Baldwin was well known as a plain-speaking man. The prime minister chuckled. It did not seem likely that Lucky Deverill would win. “Then I wish you luck,” he said. “Tell me, how is work progressing on that castle of yours?”
“My daughter is pouring money into the project. If it doesn’t outshine Windsor Castle in opulence and grandeur I shall be very disappointed.”
“Is she intending to live there?” Mr. Baldwin asked, incredulous, for Celia’s reputation as a socialite was well documented. “I would have thought a lively girl like Mrs. Mayberry would find life in County Cork dull by comparison to London.” He smiled at Beatrice, noticing the large diamonds that glittered on her ears and beneath her left shoulder in the form of an elaborately crafted flower brooch. Those Randlords! he thought to himself with a barely perceptible shake of the head.
“Oh, but it’s beautiful in the summer,” Beatrice interjected emphatically.
“But not quite so beautiful in the winter, I don’t imagine,” Mr. Baldwin argued.
“Then we must hope that Celia shines bright enough to bring the London glamour to Ballinakelly.” Digby gave his Brigg umbrella a couple of taps on the floor and roared a belly laugh that sounded like gold in a prospector’s pan. “Because, by God, no one else can.”
Mr. Baldwin laughed with him. Digby’s ebullience was shameless but irresistible. “Of that I have no doubt, Sir Digby. Mrs. Mayberry is the very sun itself.”
Beatrice was distracted by a friend who caught her eye and Mr. Baldwin raised his hat at her departure. Digby put a hand on his shoulder and moved closer. “Do let me know if I can help the Party in any way,” he said in a low voice.
“I will,” said Mr. Baldwin bluffly. “Your help is much appreciated.”
“I hope one day I will be rewarded,” said Digby.
“You’ve been very well rewarded already with your baronetcy,” the prime minister reminded him.
“Oh, that bauble.” Digby chuckled. “A viscountcy is much more to my taste.”
“Is it? Is it?” said Mr. Baldwin, embarrassed at the brashness of the Randlord. “I think you’ve done very well already,” he added.
“Up to a point,” said Digby with that golden gravel laugh. “Up to a point.”
Celia threaded through the crowds with Boysie and Harry, leaving their wives discussing the weather with a tedious group of Edwardian ladies old enough to remember the Crimean War. Archie was with his mother, who had slipped her hand around his arm and thus staked her claim. There would be no getting away from her until luncheon. Celia, Boysie and Harry were only too delighted to find themselves unencumbered and wandered about in search of fun people to talk to.
As they reached the steps to the upper terrace who should be coming down, surrounded by a coterie of courtiers but the Prince of Wales himself, who had left the Royal Box to go to the paddock. He recognized Celia at once and his handsome face creased into a debonair smile. “My dear Celia,” he said and Celia dropped into a deep curtsy.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said. “May I present my cousin Harry Deverill and my friend Boysie Bancroft?” The Prince shook hands and the boys duly bowed.
“You know I’ve known Celia since she was this high,” he told them, placing his hand a few feet above the step.
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that I have hardly changed.” Celia laughed.
His blue eyes twinkled at her flirtatiously. “You’ve certainly grown taller,” said the Prince. “And prettier too.”
“Oh sir, you’re much too kind,” said Celia, blushing with pleasure. “The King looks awfully well,” she added. “And the Queen . . .”
“Mama’s hats are so ugly,” the Prince interjected. “She looks hideous in those ridiculous toques!”
Celia giggled. “Papa has a horse running in the race.”
“So I see. If he wins, he’ll be insufferable.”
“He’s already insufferable,” Celia said with a smile.
“He’s a bon viveur,” said the Prince.
Celia grinned raffishly and leaned a little closer to him. “It takes one to know one, sir.”
“Celia, you’re incorrigible!” He laughed. “I will go and find your papa and wish him luck.”
“Oh do, sir. He’s quite beside himself with nerves, though he’ll never admit it.” The Prince chuckled and moved on into the crowd of people who were all watching him out of the corners of their eyes and hoping he’d come their way.
“The Prince of Wales rendered me dumbstruck,” said Boysie once he was gone. “He’s outrageously attractive!”
“The wittiest tongue in London was silenced?” said Harry, feigning astonishment.
“I’m afraid it was, old boy,” Boysie replied. “Fortunately Celia’s adroit enough for the three of us.”
“I’ve known him for years. He’s a darling! Come on, let’s go and find some young people to talk to,” Celia suggested, and they headed off up the stairs.
On the common ground that was the hill, the weather had not dampened the spirits of the thousands of people who had flocked to the racecourse. The noise was overpowering: coach horns tooting, bookmakers hollering their odds, salesmen advertising their wares, car engines rattling and the general public shouting in different dialects. The refreshment tents were full to bursting, the stalls busy selling wares and the fairground full of mirth. Laughter resounded from the carousel, rose up from the game tables and was swiftly smothered in the sealed booths advertising werewolves and other monstrosities. Gypsies lured the gullible into their colorful caravans to learn their futures (and the identity of the Derby winner) in exchange for a palm crossed with silver, and artists positioned themselves beneath makeshift shelters to sketch portraits of those whose hats and hairdos had not been ruined by the rain. Double-decker buses and cars were parked as close to the running rail as possible and piled with people keen to have pole position for the races while pedlars accosted them from the ground, hawking goods. The earth grew soggy but the desire to enjoy themselves kept the spectators buoyant—as did the desire to win money, for the queues at the bookmakers’ were very long indeed.
Before the Derby Celia went down to the paddock with her father to watch the horses parading. Digby’s jockey was a five-foot-six Irishman of almost forty years of age called Willie Maguire, notorious for his fondness of drink. Many whispered that Willie was too unreliable and that Sir Digby had been misguided to offer him the ride, but Digby was a man wise enough to take advice from those who knew better. In this case, his trainer, Mike Newcomb, had more experience and knowledge than he did and Digby trusted him implicitly. If Newcomb had appointed a seventy-year-old jockey with arthritis he would have agreed wholeheartedly.
“Oh Papa, wouldn’t it be glorious if Lucky Deverill won! Willie would most certainly win the most fetching jockey in his green and white.”
Digby chuckled. “He’s got more mileage under his belt than all of them put together, I suspect.”
“And Lucky Deverill is a fine horse.” Celia ran her eyes up and down the animal’s gleaming limbs.
“He’s well put together, no one can deny that. He looks like he’ll get the trip as he has plenty of scope.”
“Plenty,” Celia agreed without understanding her father’s racing jargon.
“This is our year,” Digby said to his daughter. “If ever I am to win the Derby it will be today.”
“Do you really think so?”
Digby nodded thoughtfully, remembering the day he struck lucky in the South African diamond fields. “When you’re lucky, Celia, you carry that luck around with you for a while. Luck attracts more luck. That’s the time to exploit it.”
“Can you say the same about bad luck?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it works both ways. Sometimes bad luck sticks to you like mud. In that case you weather it. But we’re on a lucky roll, Celia my dear, and today we’re going to win.” He waved at Willie as the jockey walked Lucky Deverill past.
“Oh Papa, you’re wonderfully confident,” she gushed, full of admiration for her daring father.
“Until my luck runs out,” he added.
“But it won’t, surely.”
“Oh, but it will,” he said with certainty. Then he grinned the grin of a gambler who is as much excited by the possibility of loss as he is of gain. What mattered to Digby was the thrill of the game. “But sometimes one can make one’s own luck,” he added with a wink.
The horses left the paddock and paraded in front of the grandstand where the King and Queen and the Prince of Wales observed them keenly from the Royal Box. The air grew tense as the crowd watched them canter across the downs to take their starting positions behind the rope. Celia stood beside her father at the front of the gallery at the very top of the grandstand, directly opposite the winning post. “I’m a bundle of nerves,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “But terribly excited.”
Digby put his field glasses to his eyes and watched the horses arrange themselves at the start. His heart began to pound in his chest like a drum. His cheeks flushed with competitiveness and it took a great force of will to steady his hands. He could see Lucky Deverill clearly, the green-and-white silks of Willie Maguire, right in the middle of the line-up. He muttered under his breath. Then the flag fell and they were away.
Celia barely dared breathe as the horses thundered off up the long incline, contracting into a tight huddle. The crowd was pressed up against the rails either side of the track and the noise of cheering was deafening. Digby said nothing. He watched through his field glasses, perfectly still, while Celia jumped and fidgeted nervously beside him. Beatrice wrung her hands while Harry and Boysie watched Lucky Deverill fall back on the outside. “Digby might have to rename him Unlucky Deverill,” said Boysie in a low voice and Harry chuckled. He thought of the bet he had placed in support of Celia; he might as well have just burned the money.
The horses galloped up the hill, disappearing briefly behind the copse at the top before starting their descent toward Tattenham Corner, the most famous corner in racing. The inexperienced horses, fearful of the steep slope, began to slow down while the more experienced horses advanced, creating a muddle. Lucky Deverill had not yet distinguished himself. He languished behind the first six horses. Beatrice shot a surreptitious glance at her husband, inhaling sharply through her nose at the sight of his immobile profile; there was something in the barely perceptible twitch of his lower lip that caused her heart to snag. Celia put her fingers to her mouth and began to chew her glove.
It was at that moment, when the horses slowed down just before the home stretch, that something extraordinary began to happen. The sharp bend had flung some of the horses wide into the field and Willie Maguire, being a seasoned jockey, took advantage of this, hugging the inside. To Digby’s astonishment Lucky Deverill was gaining momentum—and gaining it fast. Digby’s knuckles went white. He lowered his field glasses. The horses advanced up the slope toward the winning post and all Digby could see was the bright green and white edging its way past the fourth, then the third, grabbing the rising ground. It wasn’t possible! His breath stuck in his throat. The noise grew more intense but he heard nothing, just the hammering sound of blood pulsating against his temples.
Everyone was now on their feet. Celia was screaming, Beatrice gasping, Harry and Boysie mute with astonishment, mouths agape, as Lucky Deverill inched ahead of the second. With only a hundred yards to go Willie Maguire rode Sir Digby’s hope as if he were riding the wind. A moment later he was parallel to the first. The two horses were now neck and neck. But Lucky Deverill was propelled by the luck of the London Deverills and with one last valiant thrust Willie Maguire rode him first past the winning post.
Digby was on his feet, punching the air. Celia was throwing her arms around him. Beatrice was dabbing her eyes with Boysie’s handkerchief. Harry shook his head and wanted to throw his arms around Boysie, but he thrust his hands into his pockets and swept his eyes over the crowd now pouring onto the racecourse.
Suddenly Digby was besieged. Hands patted his back, faces smiled at him, lips congratulated him. He was swept down the grandstand like a leaf on a waterfall, carried by the hundreds of surprised spectators, both friends and strangers alike. When at last he reached the ground he hastened off to the finish to meet his horse and jockey, the victorious Willie Maguire. When he saw his triumphant horse, nostrils flaring, his coat sodden with rain and sweat, he stroked his wet nose, then took him by the reins to lead him into the winners’ enclosure. He was at once surrounded by journalists asking him questions and photographers clicking their cameras, the flash bulbs momentarily blinding him. “Really, it had very little to do with me,” he heard himself saying. “Willie Maguire rode with great courage and skill and Lucky Deverill proved everyone wrong. It is Newcomb, Lucky Deverill’s trainer, who should be congratulated and, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to go and do that myself.” And with the help of the police he extracted himself from the throng of press.
“By God, he won!” said Boysie to Celia. “He really does have the luck of the Devil!”
“Papa makes his own luck,” said Celia proudly.
Beatrice had now composed herself and was graciously receiving congratulations when she was interrupted by an official-looking man with a neatly trimmed mustache and spectacles. He coughed into his hand. “Lady Deverill, may I ask you to follow me. The King would like to offer you his personal congratulations.”
Beatrice beamed. “But of course. Excuse me,” she said to those awaiting her attention. “I have been summoned by the King.” The people stepped aside to allow her to pass and Beatrice was escorted up to the Royal Box where His Majesty was waiting in the anteroom, surrounded by courtiers. A small, bearded, gruff man in tails and top hat with a row of military medals across his chest, the King had the air of a retired military colonel.
“My dear Lady Deverill,” he said when she entered. He extended his hand. Beatrice took it and allowed the King to plant a kiss on her cheek, tickling her face with his beard. She then dropped into a low curtsy. “You must be very proud,” he said.
“Oh I am, sir. Very.” Unlike his son, the King was a man of few words, so Beatrice found herself overcompensating to disguise any awkwardness. “I shall have a hard time keeping his feet on the ground now that he’s got a Derby winner.” She laughed to fill the silence that ensued.
“Oh yes, indeed,” said the King finally, settling his watery blue eyes on her.
“We remember with great affection your visit to Ireland,” she said, recalling his state visit to Southern Ireland fifteen years before. “Did you know that Celia is now restoring Castle Deverill?”
“Is she now?”
“Oh yes,” Beatrice gushed. “It is a tragedy that some of the most beautiful houses in Ireland were razed to the ground during the Troubles. It’s just wonderful to think of possibly the most beautiful of all rising once again.”
“Indeed,” the King muttered. “Damn good shoot at Castle Deverill.” At that moment an equerry sidled over and whispered something into the King’s ear. “Ah, I must go and hand Sir Digby his trophy,” he said.
“Of course you must,” said Beatrice, dropping once again into a low curtsy. She left his presence in high spirits in spite of the uneasiness of their conversation, because, after all, the King’s the King and Beatrice was dazzled by royalty.
“ONE COULD NOT really ask for very much more,” said Digby to his wife when they arrived back at Deverill House at the end of the day. He poured himself a drink while Beatrice fell into the sofa, exhausted by all the excitement.
“Where do you go from here, Digby?” she asked, sighing with the pleasure of taking the weight off her legs.
“What do you mean? I’m going to win the 2000 Guineas and the Gold Cup,” he replied. Digby brought his glass to his nose and inhaled the sweet smell of whiskey. His ambition would be greatly served by entering into the public arena, but he was only too aware of the skeletons rattling about in his cupboard to risk threatening his reputation by putting his head so high above the parapet. Aware that his wife was not referring to horses he added, “I have no desire to encumber my life with politics, my dear.” He sank into an armchair as a maid brought in a tray of tea.
“Rubbish,” said Beatrice with a smile. “You can’t resist the limelight!” The maid handed her a teacup. “Ah, thank you. Just what I need to restore my energy. What a day. What a perfect day. Celia is mistress of Castle Deverill and my husband has won the Derby. It’s all too wonderful to be true.” She watched the maid pour the tea, then dug her teeth into a shortbread biscuit. “I am aware of our blessings, Digby, and I take none of them for granted. When we lost our beloved George in the war I thought my life was over. But it’s possible to rise out of the ashes and live, isn’t it? One simply has to keep going in a different way. One part of me shut down, but I discovered that I am more than I believed I was. Other parts of me came to the fore. So here we are, enormously fortunate, and here am I, grateful and proud.” She sipped her tea, dislodging the lump that had unexpectedly formed in her throat.
Digby looked steadily at his wife. “I think about George every day, Beatrice,” he said quietly. “And I miss him. He would have relished today. He loved horses and he had a competitive spirit. He would have enjoyed the thrill of the race. But it was not to be. I hope he was watching from wherever he is.”
They withdrew into silence as they both remembered their son, and while they both felt blessed, they knew that nothing, no accomplishment, success or triumph on any level, could make up for the devastation of so great a loss.
KITTY STRUGGLED TO live with the choice she had made. She waded through her days against an incoming tide of grief and regret, the bleeding in her heart staunched only by the burgeoning life growing inside her belly. It was as if she had prized open the very body of Ireland and ripped out its soul. Without Jack the landscape was bereft, weeping golden tears onto the damp grass as autumn stole the last vestiges of summer. She kept herself busy, looking after JP and preparing the nursery for the new baby, and she tried not to succumb to the memories of the man she loved which lingered on every hill and in every valley like mist that just won’t lift. Yet, in late October, hope arrived with the first frosts as Kitty was delivered of a little girl. They called her Florence, after their honeymoon in Italy, and Kitty found, to her joy, that the overwhelming love she felt for her daughter eclipsed the longing she felt for Jack.
Robert stood at the bedside and held the tiny baby in his arms. He gazed into her face with wonder. “She is so pretty,” he said to Kitty, who lay in bed propped up against the pillows.
“What do you think, JP?” she asked the little boy who was snuggled up beside her.
JP screwed up his nose. “I think she’s ugly,” he said. “She looks like a tomato.”
Robert and Kitty laughed. “You looked like a tomato too, when you were a baby,” Kitty told him. “And look what a handsome boy you are now.”
“She doesn’t have much hair,” said JP.
“Not now, darling, but it will grow,” said Kitty. “You’ll have to look after her and teach her to ride.”
“She’ll look up to you,” Robert added, handing Florence back to her mother and sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’ll be her big brother.”
“Although, you’re really her uncle,” Kitty said.
“Think of that. Uncle JP. How does that sound?” Robert asked him.
The boy grinned proudly and peered into Florence’s face. The baby wriggled and began to cry. JP screwed up his nose again in distaste.
Robert put out his hand. “I think you and I should leave Kitty to feed the baby,” he said.
“Is she always going to make that noise?” asked JP, jumping down from the bed.
“I hope not,” said Robert.
Kitty watched them wander from the room, JP’s small hand in Robert’s big one, his bouncy walk full of childish vigor beside Robert, whose labored stride was slow due to his stiffened leg. Her heart buckled. As hard as it had been to make her choice, she knew she had done the right thing. She gazed into the innocent face of her child and knew that this was where she belonged.