Ballinakelly, 1929
Celia and Kitty stood in their finest silk gowns at the top of the castle and gazed out of the window over the sea. The sun had already begun her slow descent. Her face, which had blazed a bright yellow at midday, had now mellowed into a deeper hue, transforming the sky around her into dusty pinks and rich oranges. Later she would set the horizon aflame and the soft shades would intensify into royal crimson and gold, but by then the two women would be entertaining the large number of guests who were soon to arrive from all over the county, for tonight was Celia’s first Summer Ball as mistress of the newly restored and quite splendid Castle Deverill.
The rusted gates at the entrance had been replaced by an elaborate wrought-iron creation, painted black and decorated with the Deverill coat of arms, which had been incorporated into the design in an ostentatious display of family prestige. Flares had been lit on either side of the sweeping drive, which had been resurfaced in tar and shingle and covered in gravel—an extravagance that had aroused the curiosity of the locals because tar and shingle was very new and many of the roads in County Cork were still boreens made of earth or brick. The gardens had been resuscitated, the wild, overgrown areas tamed, the tennis court reinstated and the croquet lawn mown flat and even. A kaleidoscope of colorful flowers flourished in the borders, pink roses and purple clematis climbed the walls of the herbaceous border, and raised wooden beds in the vegetable garden were home to lettuces, potatoes, carrots, parsnips and radishes and rigorously weeded by the team of men Celia had employed from Ballinakelly to train under Mr Wilcox, one of the gardeners at Deverill Rising, on loan from her father. Adeline’s greenhouses had been repainted, the broken panes of glass replaced, the blancmange-shaped roofs polished until they gleamed. Inside, Celia insisted on growing orchids, which required a complicated, not to mention costly, array of humidifiers and temperature regulation. The only plant that remained from Adeline’s day was the now giant cannabis, which Celia had, for some reason unknown even to herself, decided to keep. Digby had paid for the old stone Mr. Leclaire had recommended and sourced from a ruined castle in Bandon in order for Castle Deverill to retain its antique flavor so only the western tower and the few surviving walls that remained from the original building hinted at its tragic past. It looked just like it had before the fire, only newer—like a battle-weary soldier whose face has been scrubbed and shaved and whose uniform has been replaced and sewn with bright gold buttons.
Inside, however, was an entirely different matter. Besides the grand hall, where the stone fireplace still stood as it always had, and the sweeping wooden staircase, which was identical to the old one, little of Adeline and Hubert’s old home remained. Celia had redesigned and redecorated according to the grandiose nature of her ambition. Gone was the shabby elegance of a home that had been loved by generations of Deverills—worn thin by their affection like a child’s toy bear whose fur has all but disappeared from hugging, whose ears are ragged from games, whose nose is frayed from kisses. Celia had re-created the interiors to impress her guests, not to welcome her family home from a hard day out hunting in the rain. The hall floor was checkerboard marble, the walls papered and painted and hanging with Old Master paintings, the surfaces cluttered with Romanov antiques and Roman antiquities and anything else she could find that was fashionable. Furniture had been acquired in chateau sales in France, much of it from the First French Empire of Napoleon I and wildly opulent in rich crimsons and gold. She had bought an entire library by the yard but the cozy atmosphere of Hubert’s den, where he’d once sat smoking cigars in front of the fire, reading the Irish Times in a tatty leather armchair while Adeline painted at the table in the bay window, was gone. Everything gleamed but nothing attracted. The charm had been consumed by the fire and the opportunity to re-create it had been lost on a young woman whose inspiration was born of her shallow nature. The warm glow of love which cannot be bought had been replaced by things that can only be acquired with money.
“Do you remember when we stood here as little girls?” said Celia, her heart fuller than it had ever been.
“We were three of us then,” Kitty reminded her.
“Whatever happened to Bridie?” Celia asked.
“I believe she returned to America.”
“Isn’t life strange,” said Celia with uncharacteristic reflection. “Who would have thought that the three of us, all born in the same year, would have ended up where we are today? I am mistress of the castle with two little girls. You are married to your old tutor and have Florence and JP. Bridie is living on the other side of the world with Lord knows how many children by now. None of us had a clue what was in store for us when we stood here as girls the night of the last Summer Ball.”
Kitty was aware that Celia knew little of what she and Bridie had been through but she wasn’t about to enlighten her. “I often think of those days,” she said with a sigh. “Before things went wrong.”
“Before we lost people we loved in the war,” said Celia quietly. She thought of her brother George, whom she rarely considered these days, and her mood took an unexpected dive. She shook her head to dispel the memories and smiled fiercely. “But everything is wonderful now, isn’t it?” she said firmly. “In fact, life has never been better.” She swung around and contemplated with satisfaction the splendor of her great vision brought to completion at last. “I have poured all my love into this place,” she told Kitty. “Castle Deverill is like my third child. I will now spend the rest of my life embellishing her. More trips to Italy and France, more shopping. It’s a never-ending project and so thrilling. I am following in the footsteps of our ancestors who went on their grand tours of Europe and brought back wonderful treasures.” She sighed happily. “And tonight everyone will admire it. Everyone will appreciate all the work I have put into it. I do hope Adeline is watching, wherever she is. And I hope she approves.”
Kitty knew her grandmother was watching, but doubted she really cared what Celia had done to her home, for Adeline was in a dimension now where the material world was no longer important. “Come, let’s go downstairs. Your guests will be arriving shortly,” she said, moving away from the window. The two women walked through the castle to the front stairs. They hesitated a moment at the top of the landing to check their reflections in the large gilt mirror that hung there. Celia, resplendent in ice blue, admired the daring cut of her dress, which exposed most of her back, while Kitty, elegant in forest-green silk, gazed upon the two faces smiling back at her and felt keenly the absence of the third. Where are you now, Bridie, and do you miss us too? she thought. Because in spite of everything, I miss you.
A long queue of cars was slowly drawing up in front of the castle. Celia’s servants were in attendance to receive the ladies in long gowns and the men in white tie who climbed the few steps up to the front door to walk beneath the lintel where the Deverill family crest had survived the fire and still resonated with Barton’s passion for his new home: Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum. The restoration of the castle had been the talk of the county for years, and the amount of money spent on it a matter of much conjecture, and they were all eager to see the results for themselves. Celia and Archie stood in front of the fireplace that had been filled with summer flowers from the gardens, shaking hands and receiving compliments. Celia enjoyed the gasps of wonder and astonishment as her guests laid eyes on the sumptuous hall for the first time. Most had been regular visitors before the fire and were quick to compare the dilapidated old building with the lavish new one. While some were delighted by the opulence there were others who found it in poor taste.
“It looks like a beautiful but impersonal hotel,” Boysie whispered to Harry as they stood on the terrace overlooking the gardens. “But for God’s sake keep that to yourself or I’ll never be invited again.”
“I’m relieved it’s nothing like it was or I should suffer terrible homesickness,” said Harry.
“No regrets then?” asked Boysie, who knew Harry well enough to know that he had plenty.
“None,” Harry replied firmly, knocking back his champagne. “Celia has done a splendid job.”
Boysie smoked languidly. “Your mama would seethe with jealousy if she were here.”
“Isn’t it lucky then that she isn’t?”
“She’d hate to see Celia lording it about the home that should, by rights, be hers. Celia is insufferably happy and Maud hates happy people. She loves nothing more than misery because she hopes that if it’s plaguing someone else it won’t have its eye on her. Digby is more puffed up than ever. Don’t you adore the way he wears his white tie? Somehow it looks brash on him. He has a talent for brash, you know. If he wasn’t Sir Digby Deverill one would assume he was frightfully common. And as for your dear Charlotte, pregnant again, I see. How do you manage it, old chap? Perhaps after two daughters you’ll be blessed with an heir.”
Harry looked into Boysie’s eyes and grinned. “You’ve had two so probably the same way you manage it, old boy.”
Boysie chuckled and a knowing look passed between them. “Is your father aware of your mother’s little friend, Arthur Arlington?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I haven’t asked him. I’m sure he is. Half of London is. Mama hasn’t asked for a divorce, but I’m sure Papa would give her one. The marriage is a farce and Arthur is a drip.”
“A very rich drip,” Boysie added.
Harry sighed resignedly. “But life is good for Papa these days.” He watched his father in a small group of people who were standing on the croquet lawn looking back at the castle. Bertie was pointing at the roof, no doubt taking them through the building process. “Strange that he takes so much delight in Celia’s success, isn’t it?” he said softly. “One would expect him to be bitter about it, but he isn’t. I truly believe he’s genuinely pleased.”
“Perhaps the responsibility of being Lord Deverill of Castle Deverill has secretly weighed heavily on his shoulders all these years. Who knows, maybe he’s relieved to be shot of it. I know you are.”
“I couldn’t be myself here,” said Harry, recalling the brief affair he’d enjoyed with Joseph, the first footman. “It would hardly have been appropriate to put you up in one of the estate cottages. I dare say you’re used to finer things.”
“I am indeed, old boy. Ireland is much too damp for my tastes.” He took Harry’s empty glass and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter. “Now, why don’t we go and pay some attention to those wives of ours, eh? For better or for worse and all that . . .”
“Capital idea,” said Harry, and the two men set off into the castle.
HAZEL AND LAUREL stood in the ballroom and gazed about them in wonder. Celia had decorated it in an opulent rococo style, with white walls and lavish gold stucco designed in flamboyant, asymmetrical patterns. The chandeliers no longer held candles but blazed with electricity, which was reflected in the large mirrors that embellished the room like golden stars. “But look at the flowers, Hazel,” said Laurel. “I’ve never seen so many lilies.” She inhaled through dilated nostrils. “The smell is wonderful. Really, Celia should be very proud of herself. Tonight is a triumph.”
Just as Hazel was about to agree with her, they heard the familiar and nervously anticipated voice of Lord Hunt as he strode into the room, greeting them enthusiastically. They swung around, their delight at seeing him ill-concealed. “The dear Misses Swanton,” he said, taking each Shrub in turn by her white-gloved hand and drawing it to his lips with a formal and slightly exaggerated bow. Both ladies shivered with pleasure, for Lord Hunt had the ability to make them feel young and beautiful and deliciously frivolous. In the three years that he had been living with his daughter, he had gained notoriety in Ballinakelly for his breezy charm, his jocular wit and his incorrigible flirting. “May I be permitted to say how radiant you both look tonight?” He ran his astute brown eyes up and down their almost identical dresses and Hazel and Laurel felt as if he had somehow got beneath the fabric and caressed with a tender finger the long-neglected skin there.
“Thank you, Ethelred,” Laurel croaked when, after a short struggle, she managed to find her voice.
“I’m going to have a terrible decision to make later this evening,” he said, pulling a mournful face.
“Oh dear,” interjected Hazel. “What might that be, Ethelred?”
He looked from one to the other, then sighed melodramatically. “Whom to dance with first, when I want to dance with both of you.” Laurel glanced at Hazel and they both tittered with shy delight. “Is there not a dance for three?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” said Laurel. “Although Celia is very modern, so one never knows.”
“I see neither of you has a glass of champagne. Let me escort you into the garden. It’s the most splendid evening. Wouldn’t it be nice to enjoy our drinks in the beauty of sunset?”
“Oh, it would,” said Hazel.
“It certainly would,” Laurel echoed.
Lord Hunt offered them each an arm. But as Laurel slipped her hand through his left she felt the first stirring of something deeply alarming and unpleasant: competitiveness. She glanced at Hazel and for a fleeting moment she wished her sister ill. With a shocked gasp she forced the feeling away. Hazel was smiling at the object of her most ardent desire, but as he turned to smile on Laurel, she too felt the beginnings of something of which she was too ashamed to even acknowledge. Both sisters turned their eyes sharply to the double doors that led into the wide corridor and through to the hall. They could never reveal to the other the degree of their passion for Ethelred, never. For the first time in their lives they harbored a secret they were unwilling to share.
DIGBY STOOD IN the garden and gazed upon the castle with a gratifying sense of achievement, as if he had reconstructed it from the rubble with his own hands. It was the jewel in his family’s crown, the culmination of a lifelong desire. He looked back on the years he had struggled to make his fortune in South Africa and smiled with satisfaction at how far he had come and how high he had risen. A hearty pat on the back jolted him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Sir Ronald Rowan-Hampton’s red face beaming at him happily. “My dear Digby,” Sir Ronald exclaimed. “What a triumph the castle is. Celia and Archie have done you credit. It’s a great success, a masterpiece, an example of courage in the face of adversity. You have raised it from the ashes and, my, what a palace it is. Fit for the King himself.”
“I cannot take all the credit,” he replied smoothly. “It is all Celia and her vision.”
“Then she is a chip off the old block,” said Sir Ronald. “She has your style and your sense of proportion. Isn’t it true that everything you do is larger than life, Digby?” Sir Ronald gazed at the castle and shook his head. “It must have cost a small fortune.”
“It cost a great fortune,” said Digby, unabashed. “But it is worth every penny. This is Celia’s now and will be her son’s one day and his son’s after that, and so it will go on. She has not only rebuilt a castle but she has created a legacy that will long outlive her. I’m mightily proud of her.” He privately wondered whether, now the project was complete, his daughter would grow bored of life here and hotfoot it back to London. He was aware of her restless nature, because she had inherited it from him. He only hoped she was able to stifle it.
GRACE STOOD IN the French doors of the drawing room, watching her husband talking to Digby on the lawn. The guests were now beginning to make their way upstairs to dinner in the long gallery where Adeline had always held her dinners—except it wasn’t the same long gallery because Celia had chosen to design hers differently. For one the faces of Deverill ancestors did not watch them impassively from the walls, as many of the paintings had been lost in the fire; Celia had bought paintings of other people’s ancestors, simply to fill the gaps. It would take years to build a collection—it had taken the Deverills over two hundred.
Grace thought of Michael Doyle. She always thought of Michael Doyle. He plagued her thoughts, tormented her and drove her to distraction. She thought she might go mad with lust and longing. Never before had a man made such a fool of her and yet, she couldn’t help her foolish behavior. She had lost her pride that day at the fair for she had later followed him around the back of O’Donovan’s public house and thrown herself at him like a mad and wanton woman, trying all the tricks that would normally have ensured he lost control and became putty in her hand. But he had shaken her off. “I have sinned,” he had told her.
“You cannot blame yourself for things you did in the war. Lord knows I’ve done my share,” she had replied.
“No, you don’t understand. The things I’m ashamed of have nothing to do with war.”
“Then with what?”
At that point he had turned away. “I’m sorry, Grace. I’ll speak no more about it.” He had left her then, wondering what he had done that was so terrible, that he couldn’t ever speak of, that he couldn’t tell her. Now she gazed out onto the lawn at her husband and Digby as Kitty walked over to tell them to come in for dinner, and wondered again, what did he do and how could she find out? Surely, if she could get to the root of his guilt, she could figure a way to dig him out of it.
AT THE END of dinner, when the coffee was being served, Bertie stood up and a hush fell over the guests. This was quite a different Bertie to the swaying drunkard who had announced to the family at his mother’s funeral that he was not only selling the castle but legitimizing his bastard son Jack. Now he was sober, fresh-faced, groomed and slim—dashing even. “Never before have we Deverills been so united,” he said, then raised his glass. “To Celia and Archie.” Everyone jumped to their feet and toasted the audacious young couple, then Digby gave a speech, thanking Bertie for his generosity of spirit and repeating, once again, the family motto, which, he explained, referred not only to the castle but to their family spirit. “Which lives in all of us,” he said. Beatrice wiped her eye with her napkin. Harry smiled at Celia. Kitty looked lovingly at her father and Elspeth thought how fortuitous it was that neither Maud nor her older sister, Victoria, were here to sour the sweet feeling that encompassed their family. Suddenly, a loud snort punctured the silence. Augusta glared at her husband from the other side of the table. “Do me a favor, dear,” she said to the lady sitting on his left. “Give him a sharp prod in the ribs, will you?”
Archie led Celia onto the dance floor where a jazz band, brought in from London, was playing. The Shrubs restrained themselves from squabbling over who danced first with Ethelred by both pretending to give way to the other: “No really, Laurel, you must go first.” “No, Hazel, I insist. You must.” At length Ethelred had tossed a coin and Hazel had won, much to the chagrin of Laurel, who had to smile and act as if she didn’t care, which she did, very much. Boysie and Harry danced with their spouses, secretly longing to be rid of them and free to enjoy each other in one of the flamboyantly decorated bedrooms upstairs. Kitty threw herself into the music as she danced with her father while Robert looked on longingly for his stiff leg made dancing impossible. She tried to shake herself out of her gloom—her father was happy for Celia so why couldn’t she be? “Our daughters will grow up here as we did and enjoy all the things we enjoyed,” Celia had said when Kitty had given birth to Florence. And she was right, history would indeed repeat itself and Florence would enjoy the castle just as she had done. So why did Kitty feel so bitter?
“This is all marvelous,” said Beatrice to Grace as they watched the dancing in front of the glittering mirrors.
“Oh, it truly is,” Grace agreed. “Celia said she would bring back the old days and so she has.” Although both women knew that bringing back the past was never possible they were content to indulge in nostalgia and to secretly long for a time before the Great War when Ballinakelly summers had been so golden.
IT WAS WELL after midnight when Boysie and Harry found themselves alone in the hall. The grand staircase beckoned them upstairs as if the banisters were malevolent demons whispering encouragement. Their heads were light with champagne bubbles, their hearts tender with nostalgia, their longing all the more acute on account of the impossibility of their affair and their weariness of living a life of secrecy and deceit. Without a word they stepped nimbly up the stairs. The rumbling of music, thumping feet and voices receded as they made their way down the long corridors, deeper and deeper into the depths of the castle. Celia had spent a lot of money installing electricity and Harry was quite unused to bright lights where once it had only been candlelight and oil lamps. The plumbing worked too, which was miraculous considering that once the water had to be brought up in buckets by the servants. Harry was wistful for those times and, as he passed the bedroom door where Kitty had discovered him in bed with Joseph the first footman, he had to steel himself not to lose control of his emotions.
Suddenly the castle meant more to him than his lost inheritance; it also represented his failures: what had he done with his life? He had married a woman he didn’t love and loved a man he couldn’t have. He drifted aimlessly in London, from his club to home and home to his club, and there was no purpose to the endless round of social obligations. His job in the City was so dull and monotonous that he sometimes found himself wishing he was back in the Army where at least he had had a purpose. It seemed that the fire had taken more than his home; it seemed to have taken his rudder too. As he walked through the castle he no longer recognized, he felt a great pain expanding in his chest. A longing for what he had lost and for the man he knew he could never be.
“Boysie,” he groaned.
Boysie turned around. “What is it, old boy?”
Harry couldn’t put into words the sense of desolation he felt. Instead, he took Boysie’s hand and retreated back the way they had come, eventually stopping outside the bedroom Celia had allocated him. Without a word he pulled his lover into the darkness inside and closed the door behind them. “This is madness,” Boysie protested, but he was too giddy with champagne to resist Harry’s insistent mouth kissing his.
Suddenly the light went on. They swung around in surprise to see Charlotte sitting up in the four-poster bed, her face white against the pink of her nightdress and her mouth open in a silent gasp. They stared at each other in horror. As the bubbles evaporated and Boysie and Harry were swiftly shocked into sobriety there was a part of Harry that experienced a profound sense of relief.
HIGH UP AT the top of the western tower Adeline and Hubert looked out into the starlit sky. The moon was almost full, encircled by a halo of silver mist, its eerie light throwing sharp shadows across the lawn below. “Do you remember those Summer Balls of our youth, Hubert?” Adeline asked. “Of course people came in their fine carriages back then, with men in livery driving the horses. I remember the sound of hooves on the drive as they all drew up,” she reflected. “Now the guests arrive in motorcars. How times have changed.” She looked at Hubert and smiled wistfully. “We lived well, didn’t we?”
Hubert turned to his wife and his face was cast in shadow like the back of the moon. “But are we destined to remain here for . . .” He hesitated because he could barely utter so terrifying a word. “For eternity, Adeline? Is that what our destiny is now? Our lives were as short as a blink on the eye of time, but the eye . . . how long is the eye, Adeline?”
She put her hand against his cheek and tried to look positive. “The curse will be broken,” she said firmly. “I promise you.”
A voice interrupted from the armchair. “That’s as likely as them putting men on the moon.” It was Barton Deverill, grumpier than ever.
Adeline ignored him. His bitterness was infectious and bringing Hubert’s spirits down. “Don’t listen to him, my darling. He’s a sour old man with a heavy conscience.”
“You know nothing of my conscience, woman,” Barton growled.
“I sense it,” Adeline retorted. He was really trying her patience.
“All you sense is the near two hundred and fifty years I’ve been rotting in this place.”
“You can’t rot if you don’t have a body, Barton,” she told him briskly, turning back to her husband. “I promise you, my darling, I’ll get you out of this place. I will stay with you for as long as you are here and then we will move on, together. All of us.”
Barton laughed cynically from his armchair. “So help you God.”