Victoria had been in the castle for no more than an hour and already the servants were exasperated by her incessant demands. She wanted all her dresses ironed and her husband’s shirts pressed. She insisted that her eight-year-old daughter, Lady Alexandra, have a lady’s maid of her own, which meant that Bessie, one of the younger housemaids, had to be removed from her usual duties to look after her.
Victoria had arrived ready to criticize her cousin’s audacious rebuilding of her father’s former home, but to her surprise she found it very much to her liking. “It has proper plumbing and electricity!” she exclaimed in delight, flouncing into the bathroom. “Goodness, Celia’s dragged it out of the Dark Ages and what a difference it makes. I think I’m going to be very happy here. I rather wish Mama had swallowed her pride and come because even she would be impressed with the comfort and luxury of the new castle.”
“My dear, she’d find something to criticize, I assure you,” said her husband, looking out of the window onto the manicured box garden below. “And her jealousy would make her stay intolerable.”
“But she’s spending Christmas alone in London.”
“That’s her choice, Victoria. She was asked and she declined.”
“Well, I’m not going to let her make me feel guilty.”
Eric laughed. “She’ll make a fine job of trying.”
HARRY AND CHARLOTTE were given the same room as they had had in the summer, which put an added strain on their already overwrought marriage. Harry hadn’t laid eyes on Boysie in all those months, and now, finding himself back at the castle, he discovered that memories of his friend shone out from every corner, which only served to make him feel even more sick with misery and longing. He too looked down onto the gardens but his mother’s jealousy was not the focus of his thoughts. No, Harry stared onto the box hedges below and contemplated the idea of hurling himself out the window. The thought of it came slowly yet steadily, creeping across his mind like an evening shadow. Death would be a release, he figured. He’d feel no more the pain of separation and the agony of guilt; he’d be free.
Charlotte left the room to go and check on the nursemaid and Little Rupert, who had been put at the other end of the house with the rest of the children. Harry lit a cigarette and allowed his memories to float before his eyes like ships on the sea. He remembered his first love, Joseph the first footman; the time Kitty had discovered them in bed together; the moment he had had to say good-bye and return to the Front. He remembered the war, the cracking sound of gunfire, the skull-shattering explosion of bombs and the yearning, the terrible yearning, when at night he had sat huddled in the trenches gazing up at the stars that twinkled like the distant lights of home. He felt that yearning now, for Boysie, and it was just as terrible.
That evening the Shrubs arrived with Kitty and Robert, Elspeth and Peter and all their children, and Bertie, who wandered up from the Hunting Lodge with a torch. Everyone embraced excitedly, for it had been so long since they had all been together, the London Deverills and the Ballinakelly Deverills, and they fell on each other with exclamations of joy. “I’m just grateful that I have been spared to see once again the magnificence of the castle restored to its former splendor,” said Augusta in her stentorian voice, sinking into an armchair like a fat bantam. Her black dress ruffled up at her neck like feathers and the diamonds on her ears weighed so heavily that her lobes hung loose and floppy. She knitted her swollen, arthritic fingers so that the large gems she had managed to force onto them clustered together in a glittering display of bright colors. “I am ready to go, now that I have seen it one last time.”
The men stood in the hall discussing the dire state of the economy while Celia showed her sisters, Vivien and Leona, around the drawing room and Kitty and Elspeth endured Augusta’s self-indulgent soliloquy about death. Beatrice chatted to the Shrubs and noticed that there was something different about them. It wasn’t the way they looked, although she had to admit that they were taking more trouble with their appearance. It was something intangible but distinctly noticeable. Something in the air between them that wasn’t pleasant.
“I gather Archie is going to host the Boxing Day Meet,” said Hazel.
“Indeed he is,” Beatrice confirmed. “I dare say he’ll be dragged off with the hunt. I don’t think he’s a very keen horseman.”
“Ethelred is a mighty fine horseman.” Laurel inhaled through her nostrils and pulled a face that could only be described as deeply admiring and reverential. “Have you met him?”
“Of course I have,” said Beatrice, noticing the air had grown suddenly chilly between the two sisters.
“He will be at the Meet, certainly,” Hazel interjected. “He’s a very fine horseman.”
Laurel smiled tensely. “He tried to persuade me to take it up again.”
“And me,” added Hazel, not to be outdone. “He tried to persuade me too. But I believe I’m too old.”
“Well, I’m not,” snapped Laurel. “I am considering it.”
“You’re not!” said Hazel.
“Why, do you think me incapable? I was a very competent horsewoman in my day, don’t forget. Lord Hunt even told me that I would cut a dash in a riding habit.” Laurel blushed and smiled smugly. “He does take liberties.”
Hazel pursed her lips. “Ah, there’s Charlotte,” she said. “I’m longing to see Little Rupert. Do excuse me.” And she stalked over to Charlotte, who was standing pale and shy in the doorway. Beatrice watched her go with a sense of helplessness. She turned back to Laurel and asked for news of Reverend Maddox—anything to draw the conversation away from Lord Hunt, who seemed to her like a fox in a henhouse.
Digby patted Archie hard on the back. “You’re a good man, Archie, to host Christmas for my family. I do believe it’ll be the best Christmas any of us have ever had.” Archie basked in his father-in-law’s admiration. “I must say,” Digby continued, “I couldn’t have asked for a better man for my daughter. You’ve made her very happy, which is no easy feat. She’s flighty and easily distracted, but she’s kept her eye on the castle all these years without deviation, which surprises no one more than me. You’re the wind in her sails, Archie. You’ve got the measure of her, I daresay.”
“Thank you, Digby,” said Archie.
“Tell me, man to man. How are your affairs?”
“Very good,” Archie replied.
Digby nodded thoughtfully, letting his eyes lose their focus in the middle distance. “Nothing I should worry about?”
“Nothing,” Archie reassured him.
“These are trying times. I’m a gambling man, Archie. A speculator. I enjoy taking risks, but even I’ve had my fingers burned.”
“I won’t say we’ve come out of this unscathed,” Archie conceded. “But I’ve been shrewd in my dealings.”
“Good.” Digby patted him on the back again, then he added, “If you were ever in financial difficulty, you wouldn’t be too proud to come to me, I hope.”
“Of course not,” said Archie. Digby went to refill his glass and hoped he’d never be called upon; he was in no position to help anyone at the moment.
ON CHRISTMAS DAY the family attended church, then returned for lunch and the opening of gifts. The children, dressed in their very best velvet and silk, tore open the wrapping paper and ribbon with squeals of delight before being taken away by their nannies to play with their new toys in the children’s wing of the castle. The grown-ups drank sherry, played charades and card games and watched the afternoon darken outside the drawing-room windows.
“Christmas should be a happy time,” said Kitty to Harry as they stood together, looking out. “But it makes me feel nostalgic and a little sad for all that we have lost.” She glanced at her brother, who was struggling to find the words to express his own sense of desolation. “You have done the right thing,” she told him quietly. “Hard though it is. You have saved your family.” He nodded, straining to hold back his emotion. His face flushed pink and his eyes sparkled but they remained locked, gazing out onto the slate-gray skies and inky gardens. “It will get better, you know,” she continued. “The hurt never goes away, but the sharp pain you feel now will turn into a dull ache. Most of the time you’ll be able to ignore it. Life has its many distractions, thankfully. Then, suddenly, when you least expect it, something will trigger it again and you’ll be cut to the quick. But you push through those moments and they eventually pass. I think of Adeline and what she would say. These things are sent to test us, Harry. Life isn’t meant to be easy.” She looked at him again and his profile was so grave she wanted to take his hand and squeeze it, but she knew that, for his sake, she couldn’t; her touch would only make him lose control.
The day after Christmas the Ballinakelly Foxhounds gathered on the lawn outside the castle for the Boxing Day Meet. It was a damp day, warm for December. Soft rain floated on the breeze that carried with it the scent of pine, wet soil and sea. Crows hopped on the grass, pecking the ground for grubs as the horses snorted smoke into the moist air. Women in their navy riding habits and hats sat sidesaddle, except for Kitty who had made a resolution the morning of the fire never to ride like that again. She sat astride her mare in a pair of breeches and navy jacket, a starched white stock about her neck, her fire-red hair falling in a thick plait down her back, almost reaching her waist. Beside her JP sat confidently on his pony. Almost eight years old he had the bold gray gaze of his half sister, Kitty, and the same red hair, but his face was broad and handsome like his father’s, and, to Bertie’s pride, he had already been blooded with his first kill. Eager to get going, JP fidgeted excitedly in the saddle while Robert looked on with their daughter, Florence, who was afraid of the horses. Peter had persuaded Archie to join the hunt and he sat awkwardly on his horse, trying not to show his fear. He pulled his silver flask out of his pocket and took a large swig of sloe gin, which didn’t make him feel any better.
Lord Hunt, dashing in his black jacket and tan-topped boots, raised his hat to the Shrubs, who buzzed about his horse’s head like a pair of flies. “It’s a fine day for the chase,” Ethelred told them jovially. “The air is mild. Those hounds will pick up a good scent. I really must find a way to persuade you both to take to the saddle again, if only to see you in your riding habits and veils.” He grinned down at them as they elbowed each other to get closer.
Grace looked elegant in her black habit, her pale face half-hidden behind a diaphanous black veil. Her waist was, however, thinner than normal and her mouth, usually so full of sensuality, was drawn into a hard line. Ever since Michael Doyle had rebuffed her she had felt more keenly than ever the passing of her youth. She lamented that she was no longer the beauty she had once been, for surely, if she was, Michael would not have been able to resist her. Try as she might, Michael was rarely out of her thoughts and her body still ached for him with every memory of his touch. Dare she admit, even to herself, that Michael had stolen her heart as well as her desire? She hadn’t taken a lover since and had to endure her husband strutting about with the smugness of a man who has a pretty woman in every city. She glanced at Sir Ronald, talking to Bertie, astride a horse that looked as if it was buckling beneath his great weight, and felt her irritation rise as he tossed back his head and laughed heartily.
Celia, who had thrown herself with zeal into the role of Doyenne of Ballinakelly, sat sidesaddle in her riding habit, her shiny blond hair tied into a neat chignon at the back of her neck and contained within a hairnet, a black hat set at a raffish angle on the side of her head. She walked her horse among the riders, greeting everyone with the graciousness of a queen. Bertie, distinguished in a pink hunting jacket, asked one of the servants passing around glasses of port to give one to Digby, who, he had noticed, was a little off-color. Leona and Vivien’s husbands, Bruce and Tarquin, sat solidly in their saddles, for they were both accomplished riders in the Army, while their wives, who did not like horses, looked on.
Peter, as the Master of Foxhounds, blew his horn and the hunt was off. The hounds ran ahead, their noses to the ground, eager for the scent of fox. The lawn was suddenly empty but for the crows. Hazel and Laurel stood forlornly on the terrace. “Well, that’s it then,” said Hazel.
“Until tea,” said Laurel.
“I’m going to go and sit by the fire in the drawing room.”
“And suffer Augusta? Not for me.”
“Then what are you going to do, Laurel?” Hazel asked, put out.
“I shall find three friends to play a rubber of bridge. I know Robert will join me at the table and I’m sure, with a little coaxing, Leona and Vivien will be game.”
Hazel looked wounded. They had always played bridge together when Adeline and Hubert were alive. “Very well,” she said, lifting her chin bravely. “As you wish. And, by the way, I like Augusta.” The two women walked into the castle together, stinging from their unusual discord.
HARRY ENJOYED HUNTING because it forced him into the moment, just as it had done after the war when he had wanted to flee from the aftereffects of the brutality he had witnessed. Now he wanted to lose himself again. He had never liked hunting as a boy for he had been a coward then, but now he relished the speed and rode without a care for his safety, jumping hedges and fences and streams. The hounds picked up the scent and followed the trail excitedly. Harry galloped at the front, his veins pumping with adrenaline and his heart pounding against his chest, drowning out his longing for Boysie. In a moment he was beside Kitty, who rode with the fearlessness of a man, and she smiled at him as they took a hawthorn hedge and cleared it with a thundering of hooves. Brother and sister rode together relishing the danger that put them firmly in the moment, obliterating for a blessed day their impossible loves.
At length Grace, her face splattered with mud and her hair breaking out of the pins, came across a group of local men and boys in fancy dress, wandering slowly along the track that led from Ballinakelly to other small towns up the coast. With them was a small band and they were singing. She slowed down to a trot until she saw Michael Doyle among the faces and drew her horse to a halt. A young boy was holding a long stick covered in ribbons with a small bundle hanging off the end of it. She looked at Michael through her veil and he looked right back at her with his black and steady gaze. “Good morning, Mr. Doyle,” she said. Then, dropping her eyes to the child, she asked him what it was that swung from the end of his stick.
“It’s St. Stephen’s Day, milady,” said the boy, surprised that she didn’t know. “This here’s a wren.”
Grace recoiled. “A wren? A dead wren?”
“Yes, indeed,” volunteered one of the men.
“Why did you kill it?” she asked, directing her question at Michael, whose head and shoulders rose above the group with an air of authority and importance.
“There are three stories about the celebration to bury the wren,” he said. “The first is that the wren drew attention to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, which betrayed him to the Romans. The second is that a wren betrayed the Fenians when it landed on a drum and alerted Cromwell’s army.” Then the corners of his lips curled into a smile and he looked at her with more intensity. “But there is another story, a legend that tells of Cliona, a temptress, who lured men to their deaths in the sea with her wiles. A charm was discovered that protected them from her. Her only escape was to turn herself into a wren, to be hunted forever more for her skulduggery.” He was staring at Grace with a knowing look on his face.
She lifted her chin. “Then you’d better be on your way,” she said, giving her horse a gentle squeeze. The group wandered on down the track, but she called out to Michael.
He hung back until the other wrenboys were out of earshot. “Lady Rowan-Hampton?”
“I am that wren hanging from the stick,” she said and bit her lip. “Your faith is your charm and I am that poor wren.”
“Grace . . .”
She strained the muscles in her neck to hold back her emotions. “You know it is possible to be so heavenly as to be no earthly good, have you thought of that?”
“Then let it be thus,” he said.
“You will come to your senses. I know you will.”
He shook his head. “When one has experienced the light, Grace, there’s no going back to the darkness.”
She gave a furious groan, turned her horse roughly and galloped off to catch up with the hunt.
At dusk, when the weak winter sun smoldered through the latticework of trees like a blacksmith’s furnace, the hunt made its way home. They had caught their fox and everyone was high on the thrill of the chase and the drama of the kill. Archie walked his horse down the hill toward the castle whose windows glowed with the welcoming lights that promised tea and cake and turf fires. As he approached, the towers and turrets of his home were silhouetted against a clear indigo sky, for the wind had blown the clouds inland and sent the drizzle with it. The sight was arresting. He wanted to stop awhile to savor it before the sun dipped below the horizon and the outline was lost to the dark, but the others were keen to get home to their baths and their tea so he continued, his shoulders suddenly heavy with the weight of responsibility. Castle Deverill was more than a castle and he knew it. It was at the heart of the Deverill spirit and it was now up to him to keep that spirit alive. Celia loved the castle but she didn’t understand why she loved it. Archie did. He was well aware that it was more than the memory of good times; it was the Deverills’ very soul.
When they reached the stables they handed their horses to the grooms and hurried into the castle to change for tea. Their breeches were splattered with mud, their faces stained with sweat and earth kicked up by the hooves. As Harry made his way across the hall toward the stairs, Celia hurried out of the sitting room, her face red and shining. “You’ll never believe who’s just turned up!” she hissed, grabbing his arm. For a moment Harry’s heart gave a little leap. Could Boysie have changed his mind and come after all? “Maud!” Celia declared, trembling with excitement. “She says she’s bored in London on her own and that Christmas is about family. Truly, I feel as if the wicked fairy has turned up to ruin the party!” But she didn’t look at all unhappy about it. “What’s your father going to say—and Kitty?”
Harry concealed his disappointment. “She hasn’t brought Arthur Arlington with her, I trust?” he asked, trying to inject some humor into his voice.
“God no! Now that would be scandalous. She came on her own. She said she wanted to surprise us.”
“She’ll do that all right,” said Harry, setting off up the stairs.
“Aren’t you going to say hello?”
“And cover her immaculate dress in mud? I think not. I’ll come down after my bath and relieve you.”
“Ah, there’s Papa!” She rushed over to Digby. “You’re never going to guess who’s shown up . . .”
MAUD SAT PRIMLY on the club fender in her pale tweed dress over which she wore a luxurious fur stole. Her blond hair was cut off sharply at her jawline, which accentuated the severe angles of her face. She passed her icy eyes around the room, missing nothing. Beatrice could almost hear the clicking of her mind as she calculated the cost of everything. Augusta watched her warily from the armchair while Charlotte, who had always been a little scared of her mother-in-law, remained on the sofa with Leona and Vivien hoping that she wouldn’t direct any conversation her way. The Shrubs, who could think of nothing but Lord Hunt, sat on the other sofa, momentarily stunned like a pair of mice in the presence of a snake. Victoria sat beside her mother on the fender, a cigarette smoking in the holder that balanced between her fingers, enjoying the warmth of the fire on her back and the varying expressions on the faces of the ladies, which ranged from surprise to ill-concealed horror.
At last Maud spoke. “It’s nice,” she said tightly. Beatrice’s mouth twitched.
Augusta gave a snort. “We were always taught that ‘nice’ is a most unimaginative word, Maud,” she said imperiously.
“It’s lovely then,” Maud added. “It’s certainly warm, which is a welcome change. Fortunately Adeline isn’t alive to see how much it’s changed.”
“It had to change, Mama. One couldn’t very well have made a replica of everything that was lost in the fire,” said Victoria.
“But it’s so different. The soul is missing.”
“It’s modern,” Victoria told her. “I like it very much. In fact, it’s just the way I would have done it, had I had the opportunity.”
Beatrice smiled at Victoria. “You have always had such beautiful taste, my dear,” she said, trying not to allow Maud to irritate her.
“I can see that no expense has been spared. Really, I had no idea that Archie was such a tycoon,” Maud added.
Augusta snorted again. “It’s very vulgar to talk about money.”
“But hard to ignore in such lavish surroundings,” Maud replied swiftly. “I do believe it’s even more sumptuous than the days when Hubert’s father lived here. It was extremely luxurious then.”
Before Augusta could object the men appeared washed and dressed for tea. When Harry greeted his mother, Maud’s resentment at Celia’s inappropriate rebuilding of her son’s inheritance evaporated like mist in sunlight. She embraced him fiercely and smiled with a rare display of warmth. “You will bring Rupert down, won’t you, darling? I’m just dying to give that little baby a squeeze.” Charlotte winced; Maud barely knew how to hold a baby. Digby hid his surprise and asked after her crossing. He wondered how Bertie was going to react to his wife setting foot in Ireland again, having sworn she never would.
Celia sat on the floor beside her grandmother for safety. She knew that Augusta would defend her from Maud’s barbed comments. Part of her wished Maud hadn’t come, but the other part found the drama of her surprise appearance thrilling.
When at last Bertie arrived for tea with Kitty and Robert a hush fell over the room. Maud had not spoken directly to her husband since Adeline’s funeral over four years before, and everyone was curious to see what she would say, as well as a little anxious for Bertie, of whom they were all very fond.
Bertie saw Maud at once and his face flushed. Maud, who had prepared herself for this very moment, and loved nothing more than to draw the attention of the entire room, smiled sweetly. “Bertie,” she said evenly. “How very good to see you.” She believed her delivery to be gracious yet cool—the sort of delivery one might use when greeting the vicar or an old family friend of whom one is not particularly fond.
Bertie stalled in the doorway. He stared at her in amazement. Digby wanted to give him a nudge. Instead, he decided to break the awkward silence himself. “Isn’t this a nice surprise,” he said, hoping Bertie would agree. But Bertie cleared his throat and seemed to be searching for something to say—and failing miserably.
“Hello, Mama,” said Kitty. But Maud’s youngest daughter did not even pretend that she was pleased to see her.
“Hello, Kitty,” said Maud. “How was the hunt?”
“Frightfully good. Fast and dangerous. Just the way I like it.” She turned to her father. “Let me get you a cup of tea, Papa. After the day we’ve had, we both need to warm up.” She laughed and Maud flinched; the affection between father and daughter was very apparent. She watched Bertie as the conversations in the room started up again and the awkwardness was lost in the murmur of voices. The last time she had seen him he had been fat and bloated and swollen with alcohol. Now he was slim, fit and clear-skinned. His hands didn’t shake and his pale eyes were focused with the old intensity that had at first attracted her to him. He had been living well—and obviously very contentedly—without her.
A little while later Grace arrived with Sir Ronald and her father and the Shrubs were rescued from the snake by their gallant, who drew them away from the sofa to the window, where he was keen to show them the stars, which, he explained, were shining unusually bright this evening. “The temperature has dropped considerably,” Ethelred said. “I believe it will snow.”
“Oh, we love snow,” said Hazel, thinking how romantic it would be to take a moonlit stroll around the gardens with Lord Hunt.
“We do indeed,” Laurel agreed, wishing Hazel would entertain herself elsewhere so she and the silver wolf could gaze at the moon together. Lord Hunt sipped his tea and, in spite of their hopes, neither Shrub moved an inch.
Maud noticed how thin Grace was. She noticed too, much to her pleasure, that her old friend and rival was beginning to lose her beauty. She stood up and advanced. “My dear Grace,” she said. “It’s been much too long.”
“Why, Maud. What a lovely surprise,” said Grace with a faultless smile.
“I couldn’t very well sit in London while my entire family is over here, celebrating without me.”
“Of course not. You look well. London must suit you.”
Maud smiled smugly. “Oh it does. But you, my dear, look a little thin. Being so terribly thin is very aging. Are you not eating?”
“I’m in fine health, thank you,” Grace replied smoothly. “But this is the first time you have seen the castle since Celia bought it. Isn’t it marvelous? I don’t think there’s a house in the whole of Ireland that can equal it. Everyone thinks so.”
Maud stiffened. “I hope it doesn’t all go horribly wrong,” she said with an insincere frown. “Many a fortune has been wiped out due to the Crash. I hope theirs is secure. After all they’ve put into this place, it would be a great shame to lose it.”
“You always were a positive person, Maud,” said Grace.
“And you were always a dear friend, Grace,” said Maud.
IT SNOWED THAT night. Thick white feathery flakes were released onto the frozen countryside by an army of cloud that advanced silently over the ocean under the cover of dark. The Deverills and their families slept undisturbed in their beds, oblivious of the flurry occurring right outside their windows. The castle was quiet, the winds had abated, the stars withdrawn; the snow fell softly and without a sound and yet, in the peaceful stillness, the spirits of Castle Deverill were restless; they sensed something terrible in the calm. And then, just as the first light of dawn glowed pink in the eastern sky, one of the men got up.
He dressed, taking care not to wake his sleeping wife. He buttoned his shirt and arranged his tie. He slipped into his jacket and shoes, making sure that his socks were pulled up beneath his trousers. His breathing was calm, his hand steady as he reached beneath the bed for the rope he had put there earlier. Without hesitation he crept to the door. He turned the knob without a squeak and stepped into the corridor. With the stealth of a cat he crept through the castle and out into the cold.
It was a beautiful dawn. The pink glow was turning golden right before his eyes as the sun heralded another day, cracking like a duck’s egg onto the sky. He walked deliberately across the lawn, leaving a trail of indigo-colored footprints in the snow. The skies were clear now, the last of the stars peeping out from where the clouds had drifted away. Yet he was unmoved by it. He had a purpose and nothing would distract him from it. Neither the loveliness of the dawn nor the people he was going to leave behind. He was calm, resolute and relieved.
When he reached the tree, which was marked with a plaque that said Planted by Barton Deverill 1662, he climbed it with ease. He sat astride the branch that extended parallel to the ground and set about tying the rope around its girth. Making a noose was easy, he had enjoyed making knots as a boy. He pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a swig. The alcohol burned his throat and warmed his belly, giving him the last sense of pleasure he would experience on this earth. He didn’t allow himself to feel sad or regretful: that might have prevented him from carrying out his plan. He thought of what he would have to face were he to continue living and knew, without any doubt, that death was preferable. Death was the only way out.
He put the noose around his neck and carefully rose to his feet with the slow agility of a tightrope walker. Pressing his hand against the trunk he held his balance. He lifted his eyes and gazed upon the castle one last time. The rising sun threw her rays upon the stone walls and like flames they slowly moved upward, consuming the purple shadows as they went. Soon it would be morning and the place would come to life. But now it was still and silent and ghostly somehow in the snow. He closed his eyes, lifted his hand off the tree and let himself fall. The rope gave a soft squeak as it jarred, then a rhythmic creaking as the body swayed a few feet off the ground.
A spray of crows took to the skies, their loud caws echoing through the woods with the eerie cry of the Banshee.