London
Good God!” Sir Digby Deverill put down the receiver and shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed, staring at the telephone as if he wasn’t quite able to believe the news it had just delivered to him. He pushed up from his leather chair and went to the drinks tray to pour himself a whiskey from one of the crystal decanters. Holding the glass in his manicured, bejeweled fingers, he gazed out of his study window. He could hear the rattling sound of a car motoring over the leaves on Kensington Palace Gardens, that exclusive, gated street of sumptuous Italianate and Queen Anne mansions built by millionaires, like Digby, who had made their fortunes in the gold mines of Witwatersrand, hence their nickname: Randlords. There he lived in Deverill House, in stately splendor, alongside a fellow Randlord, Sir Abe Bailey, and financier, Lionel Rothschild.
He took a swig, grimacing as the liquid burned a trail down his throat. Instantly he felt fortified. He put down his glass and pulled his gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat by the chain. Deftly, he flicked it open. The shiny face gleamed up at him, giving the time as a quarter to eleven. He strode into the hall, where he was met by a butler in crimson-and-gold livery talking quietly to a footman. When they saw him the footman made a discreet exit while the butler stood to attention awaiting Sir Digby’s command. Digby hesitated at the foot of the grand staircase.
He could hear laughter coming from the drawing room upstairs. It sounded like his wife had company. That was not a surprise, she always had company. Beatrice Deverill, exuberant, big-hearted and extravagant, was the most determined socialite in London. Well, it couldn’t be helped; he was unable to keep the news to himself a moment longer. He hurried up the stairs, two steps at a time, his white spats revealed beneath his immaculately pressed gray checked trousers with every leap. He hoped to snatch a minute alone with his wife.
When he reached the door he was relieved to find that her guests were only his cousin Bertie’s wife, Maud, who was perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her severely cut blond bob accentuating the chiseled precision of her cheekbones and the ice-blue of her strikingly beautiful eyes, her eldest daughter, Victoria, who had acquired a certain poise as Countess of Elmrod; and Digby’s own mother Augusta, who presided over the group like a fat queen in a Victorian-style black dress with ruffles that frothed about her chins, and a large feathered hat.
As he entered, the four faces looked up at him in surprise. It wasn’t usual for Digby to put in an appearance during the day. He was most often at his gentlemen’s club, White’s, or tucked away in his study on the telephone to his bankers from Barings or Rothschild, or to Mr. Newcomb, who trained his racehorses in Newmarket, or talking diamonds with his South African cronies. “What is it, Digby?” Beatrice asked, noticing at once his burning cheeks, twitching mustache and the nervous way he played with the large diamond ring that sparkled on the little finger of his right hand. Digby was still a handsome man, with shiny blond hair swept off a wide forehead and bright, intelligent eyes, which now had a look of bewilderment.
He checked himself, suddenly remembering his manners. “Good morning, my dear Maud, Victoria, Mama.” He forced a tight smile and bowed, but couldn’t hide his impatience to share his news.
“Well, don’t stand on ceremony, Digby, what is it?” Augusta demanded stridently.
“Yes, Cousin Digby, we’re all frightfully curious,” said Victoria, glancing at her mother. Maud looked at Digby expectantly; she loved nothing more than other people’s dramas because they gave her a satisfying sense of superiority.
“It’s about Castle Deverill,” he said, looking directly at Maud, who reddened. “You see, I’ve just had a telephone call from Bertie.”
“What did he want?” Maud asked, putting down her teacup. She hadn’t spoken to her husband, Bertie, since he had announced to the entire family at his mother Adeline’s funeral that the supposed “foundling,” whom their youngest daughter, Kitty, was raising as her own, was, in fact, his illegitimate son. Not only was the news shocking, it was downright humiliating. In fact, she wondered whether she would ever get over the trauma. She had left for London without a word, vowing that she would never speak to him again. She wouldn’t set another foot in Ireland, either, and in her opinion the castle could rot into the ground for all the good it had done her. She had never liked the place to begin with.
“Bertie has sold the castle and Celia has bought it,” Digby announced and the words rang as clear as shots. The four women stared at him aghast. There was a long silence. Victoria looked nervously at her mother, trying to read her thoughts.
“You mean Archie has bought it for her,” said Augusta, smiling into the folds of chin that spilled over the ruffles of her dress. “What a devoted husband he has turned out to be.”
“Is she mad?” Beatrice gasped. “What on earth is Celia going to do with a ruined castle?”
“Rebuild it?” Victoria suggested with a smirk. Beatrice glanced at her in irritation.
Maud’s thin fingers flew to her throat, where they pulled at the skin there, causing it to redden in patches. It was all well and good selling the castle, there was no prestige to be enjoyed from a pile of ruins and a diminishing estate, but she hadn’t anticipated a Deverill buying it. No, that was much too close for comfort. Better that it had gone to some arriviste American with more money than sense, she mused, than one of the family. It was most unexpected and extremely vexing that it had gone to a Deverill, and to flighty, frivolous and silly Celia of all people! Surely, if it was to remain in the family, it was only right that her son, Harry, the castle’s rightful heir, should have it. And why the secrecy? Celia had crawled in like a thief and bought it on the sly. For what? To humiliate her and her family no less. Maud narrowed her ice-blue eyes and wondered how she, with her sharp powers of observation, had never noticed the treachery in that dim-witted girl.
“They are both unwise,” said Digby. “That place will be the ruin of them. It’s the sort of vanity project that will swallow money with little to show for it. I wish they had discussed it with me first.” He strode into the room and positioned himself in front of the fire, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and leaning back on the heels of his debonair wingtip brogues.
“At least it’s going to remain in the family,” said Victoria. Not that she cared one way or the other. She had never liked the damp and cold of Ireland and although her marriage was just as chilly, at least she was Countess of Elmrod living in Broadmere in Kent and a townhouse here in London, where the rooms were warm and the plumbing worked to her satisfaction. She wanted to whisper to her mother that at least Kitty hadn’t managed to buy it—that would have finished their mother off for good. It would have upset Victoria too. In spite of her own wealth and position in society she was still secretly jealous of her youngest sister.
Augusta settled her imperious gaze on Maud and inhaled loudly up her nose, which signaled an imminent barrage of haughty venom. Digby’s mother was not too old to read the unspoken words behind Maud’s beautiful but bitter mouth. “How do you feel about that, my dear? I imagine it’s something of a shock to learn that the estate now passes into the hands of the London Deverills. Personally, I congratulate Celia for rescuing the family treasure, because we must all agree that Castle Deverill is the jewel in the family crown.”
“Oh yes, ‘A Deverill’s castle is his kingdom’” said Digby, quoting the family motto that was branded deep into his heart.
“Deverill Rising,” Augusta added, referring to Digby’s Wiltshire estate, “is nothing compared to Castle Deverill. I don’t know why you didn’t buy it yourself, Digby. That sort of money is nothing to you.”
Digby puffed out his chest importantly and rocked back and forth on his heels. His mother was not wrong; he could have bought it ten times over. But Digby, for all his extravagance and flamboyance, was a prudent and pragmatic man. “It is not through folly that I have built my fortune, Mother,” he retorted. “Your generation remember the days when the British ruled supreme in Ireland and the Anglo-Irish lived like kings, but those days are long gone, as we’re all very well aware. The castle was disintegrating long before the rebels burned it to the ground. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to entertain ideas of resurrecting something which is well and truly dead. The future’s here in England. Ireland is over, as Celia will learn to her cost. The family motto not only refers to bricks and mortar, but to the Deverill spirit, which I carry in my soul. That’s my castle.”
Maud sniffed through dilated nostrils and lifted her delicate chin in a display of self-pitying fortitude. She sighed. “I must admit that this is quite a shock. Another shock. As if I haven’t had enough shocks to last me a lifetime.” She smoothed her silver-blond bob with a tremulous hand. “First, my youngest daughter shames me by insisting on bringing an illegitimate child to London and then my husband announces to the world that the boy is his. And if that isn’t enough to humiliate me he then decides to sell our son’s inheritance . . .” Augusta caught Beatrice’s eye. It didn’t suit Maud to remember that it was at her insistence that her husband had finally agreed to be rid of it. “And now it will belong to Celia. I don’t know what to say. I should be happy for her. But I can’t be. Poor Harry will be devastated that his home has been snatched from under his nose by his cousin. As for me, it is another cross that I will have to bear.”
“Mama, once Papa decided to sell it, it was never going to be Harry’s,” said Victoria gently. “And I really don’t think Harry will mind. He and Celia are practically inseparable and he made it very clear that he didn’t want to have anything to do with the place.”
Maud shook her head and smiled with studied patience. “My darling, you’re missing the point. Had it gone to someone else, anyone else, I would not have a problem with it. The problem is that it’s gone to a Deverill.”
Beatrice jumped to her daughter’s defense. “Well, it’s done now, isn’t it? Celia will restore it to its former glory and we shall all enjoy long summers there just like we used to before the war. I’m sure Archie knows what he’s doing, darling,” she added to Digby. “After all, it’s his money. Who are we to say how he spends it.”
Digby raised a quizzical eyebrow, for one could argue that it wasn’t Archie Mayberry’s money, but Digby’s. No one else in the family knew how much Digby had paid Archie to take Celia back after she had ditched him at their wedding reception and bolted up to Scotland with the best man. In so doing Digby had saved the Mayberry family from financial ruin, and salvaged his daughter’s future. “No good will come of it,” Digby insisted now with worldly cynicism. “Celia’s flighty. She enjoys drama and adventure.” He didn’t have to convince the present company of that. “She’ll tire of Ireland when it’s finished. She’ll crave the excitement of London. Ballinakelly will bore her. Mark my words, once everyone stops talking about her audacity she’ll go off in search of something else to entertain herself with and poor Archie will be left with the castle—and most likely an empty bank account—”
“Nonsense,” Augusta interrupted, her booming voice smashing through her son’s homily like a cannonball. “She’ll raise it from the ashes and restore the family’s reputation. I just hope I live long enough to see it.” She heaved a labored breath. “Although the way I’m going I don’t hold out much hope.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes with annoyance. Her mother-in-law enjoyed nothing more than talking about her own, always imminent, death. Sometimes she rather wished the Grim Reaper would call her bluff. “Oh, you’ll outlive us all, Augusta,” she said with forced patience.
Victoria glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I think it’s time we left,” she said, standing up. “Mama and I are going to look at a house in Chester Square this afternoon,” she announced happily. “That will cheer you up, Mother.”
Maud pushed herself up from the sofa. “Well, I’ll need somewhere to live now we’ve lost the castle,” she replied, smiling on her eldest daughter with gratitude. “At least I have you, Victoria, and Harry. Everyone else in my family seems intent on wanting to wound me. I’m afraid I won’t come to your Salon tonight, Beatrice. I don’t think I’m strong enough.” She shook her head as if the weight of the world lay between her ears. “Having the whole of London society talking about me behind my back is another cross I have to bear.”
HARRY DEVERILL LAY back against the pillow and took a puff of his cigarette. The sheet was draped across his naked hips, but his stomach and chest were exposed to the breeze that swept in through the open bedroom window. Making love to his wife, Charlotte, was a loathsome duty he endured only because of the mornings he was able to spend with Boysie Bancroft in this nondescript Soho hotel where no one even bothered to question their regular visits. He made his mouth into an O shape and ejected a circle of smoke. If it wasn’t for Boysie he didn’t think he’d be capable of living such a despicable lie. If it wasn’t for Boysie his life wouldn’t be worth living because his job selling bonds in the City gave him no pleasure at all. Without Boysie life would have little point.
“My dear fellow, are you going to lie in bed all day?” asked Boysie, wandering into the room from the bathroom. He had put on his underwear and was buttoning up his shirt. His brown hair fell over his forehead in a thick, disheveled fringe, and his petulant lips curled at the corners with amusement.
Harry groaned. “I’m not going in to work today. I find the whole thing a terrific bore. I can’t stand it. Besides, I don’t want the morning to end.”
“Oh, I do,” said Boysie, tracing with his eyes the large pink scar on Harry’s shoulder where he had been shot in the war. “I have lunch at Claridge’s with Mama and Aunt Emily, then I shall mosey on down to White’s and see who I bump into. Tonight I might pop into your delightful Cousin Beatrice’s ‘at home.’ Last Tuesday her Salon was rather racy with the entire cast of No, No, Nanette. All those chorus girls squawking like pretty parrots. It was a ‘riot,’ as Celia would say. I dare say your Cousin Digby gets a leg over here and there, don’t you think?”
“I don’t doubt he has a mistress in every corner of London but one can’t criticize his devotion as a husband.” Harry sighed with frustration and sat up. “I wish I could join you and your mama, but I promised Charlotte I’d take her for lunch at the Ritz. It’s her birthday.”
“You could always bring her to Claridge’s and we could make eyes at each other across the room, perhaps sneak a private moment in the men’s room. Nothing beats the thrill of deception.”
Harry grinned, his morale restored. “You’re wicked, Boysie.”
“But that’s why you love me.” He bent down and kissed him. “You’re much too pretty for your own good.”
“I’ll see you tonight at Cousin Beatrice’s then.”
Boysie sighed and his heavy eyes settled on Harry’s face. “Do you remember the first time I kissed you? That night at Beatrice’s?”
“I’ll never forget it,” said Harry seriously.
“Neither will I.” He bent down and kissed him again. “Until tonight, old boy.”
Harry walked home through St. James’s Park. The light was dull, the bright summer sun having packed up and gone to shine on a more southern shore. Clouds gathered damp and gray and the wind caught the browning leaves and sent them floating to the ground. He pulled his hat firmly onto his head and put his hands in his trouser pockets. Soon it would drizzle and he hadn’t bothered to bring a coat. It hadn’t looked like rain when he had set out that morning.
When he reached his house in Belgravia Charlotte was waiting for him in the hall. She looked agitated. Guiltily, he panicked that he might have been found out but when he stepped inside she looked so delighted to see him he realized to his relief that he was still above suspicion.
“Thank goodness you’re home, darling! I telephoned the office but they said you weren’t coming in.”
Harry averted his gaze nervously, waiting for her to ask him where he had been. But as he gave his hat to the butler she grabbed his arm. “I’ve got some news,” she blurted.
“Really? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“It’s about the castle. I know who’s bought it.”
“You do?” Harry followed her into the sitting room.
“You won’t believe it.”
“Well, go on!”
“Celia!”
Harry stared at her. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m deadly serious. Your cousin Celia has bought it.”
“Good Lord. Who told you?”
“Your father telephoned about an hour ago. I didn’t know where to reach you. I’ve been desperate to tell you. You’re not angry, are you? You know I adore you with or without a castle and anyway, I wouldn’t want to live in Ireland.”
“My darling Charlotte, I’m not angry. I’m just rather surprised she didn’t tell me herself.”
“I’m sure she meant to. Bertie said she’d gone to meet Kitty. I presume she was going to tell her first. You know how close they are.”
He sank into a chair and put his elbows on his knees and knitted his fingers. “Well, who’d have thought it, eh? Archie must be mad.”
“Madly in love!” Charlotte gushed.
“It’ll take a fortune to rebuild it.”
“Oh, but Archie’s fabulously rich, isn’t he?” said Charlotte, not knowing that Archie’s fortune came from Digby.
“You never saw Castle Deverill. It’s enormous.” He felt a sudden, unexpected pain deep inside his chest, as if something were slashing open his heart and releasing memories he hadn’t even realized were there.
“Are you all right, darling? You’re very flushed.” She crouched beside his chair. “You’re upset. I can tell. It’s only natural. Castle Deverill was your home and your inheritance. But isn’t it better that it’s gone to someone in the family? It’s not lost. You’ll still be able to go and visit.”
“Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum,” he said.
“What, darling? Is that Latin?”
He looked at her steadily, feeling like a little boy on the brink of tears. “The family motto. It was written above the front door, that is, before the fire. I didn’t think I cared,” he told her quietly. “I don’t want to live in Ireland, but good Lord, I think I do care. I think I care very much. Generations of my family have lived there. One after the other after the other in an unbroken line.” He sighed and shook his head. “Papa doesn’t speak about it but I know selling it has caused him enormous pain. I can tell by the amount of alcohol he consumes. Happy people don’t lose themselves in drink. This has broken the family line which has continued since Barton Deverill was given the land in 1662.” He gazed down at his hands. “I’m the broken link.”
“Darling, you haven’t broken it, your father has,” Charlotte reminded him. “And it wasn’t his fault the rebels burned it down.”
“I know you’re right. But still, I feel guilty. Perhaps I should have done more.”
“What could you have done? Even my money wouldn’t be enough to rebuild it. You have to leave it to Celia now and be grateful that it’s being kept in the family. I’m sure Barton Deverill would be pleased that his castle is still in the hands of a Deverill.”
“Celia will do her best to put it back together again, but it’ll never be the same.” Charlotte was being so kind but her sweetness curdled. He wished he could share his pain with the man he loved.
Charlotte brushed his cheek with a tender hand. “She will do her best to make it lovely, I’m sure,” she said soothingly. “And one day you will be Lord Deverill. Give me a son, my darling, and you won’t be breaking the family line.” She gazed at him with fond eyes, oblivious to the fact that the thought of fathering children turned his stomach. “After all, it’s only a house.”
Harry looked at her and frowned. Charlotte was his wife and yet she would never understand him. How could she? “No, my darling Charlotte,” he said and smiled sadly. “It is so much more than that.”
KITTY RETURNED TO the Hunting Lodge, which was a short walk from the castle, with Celia, leading her horse by the reins. She held little affection for this austere, ugly house that had once been her home. It was dark and charmless with small windows and gables that pointed aggressively toward the sky like spears. Although its situation was pretty, it having been built near the river, the water seemed to penetrate the walls and infuse the entire building with a residual damp. Unlike the castle she did not cherish her memories here. She could still feel the sour presence of her Scottish governess in the nursery wing along with the unhappy traces of longing that seemed to linger in the shadows with the damp. Happiness had come naturally for Kitty in the gardens, greenhouses, woodlands and hills, and in the castle, of course, which had always been at the heart of her contentment.
Now she walked her horse around to the stables, where the groom gave it water and hay. Celia chatted excitedly about her plans for the rebuilding. “We’re going to put in proper plumbing and electricity. No expense will be spared. Above all, it’s going to be much more comfortable than before,” she said, taking Kitty by the arm and walking toward the house. “And more beautiful than it ever was. I will hire the finest architect London has to offer and raise this phoenix from the ashes. It’s all so thrilling, I can barely breathe!”
They found Kitty’s father, Bertie, and Celia’s husband, Archie, drinking sherry with Bertie’s friend and former lover, Lady Rowan-Hampton, in the drawing room. A turf fire burned weakly in the grate, giving out little heat, and they could barely see one another for the smoke. “Ah, Kitty, what a lovely surprise,” said Archie, standing up and kissing her affectionately. “I suppose Celia has told you the good news.”
“Yes, she has. I’m still trying to take it in.” Kitty resented Archie’s enthusiasm. It was all she could do to smile in the wake of such devastating news. “Hello, Papa, hello, Grace.” She bent down to kiss her friend Grace Rowan-Hampton and reflected on the miraculous healing power of time. Once, she had despised Grace for her long-standing affair with her father, but now she was grateful to her for her constant loyalty to her former lover, who looked more bloated with booze than ever. Besides Grace, Kitty didn’t think her father had many friends left. In his youth Bertie Deverill had been the most dashing man in West Cork, but now he was a wreck, destroyed by whiskey and disillusionment and a nagging sense of his own failings. Even though he had formally recognized Little Jack, the child was a persistent reminder of a shameful moment of weakness.
“My dear Kitty, will you stay for lunch?” Bertie asked. “We must celebrate Celia and Archie’s jubilant purchase of the castle.”
Kitty thought of Little Jack and her stomach cramped with anxiety. But she dismissed her fears and took off her hat. After all, Miss Elsie had promised not to let him out of her sight. “I’d love to,” she replied, sitting down beside Grace.
Grace Rowan-Hampton looked as radiant as a ripe golden plum. Although she was almost fifty, her light brown hair showed only the slightest hint of gray and her molasses-colored eyes were alert and bright and full of her characteristic warmth. Kitty scrutinized her closely and decided that it was the plumpness of her skin and the flawlessness of her complexion that were the key to her beauty; a lifetime of soft rain and gentle sunshine had been kind to her face. “Celia and Archie have taken us all by surprise,” Grace said with a smile. “We’ve been eaten up by curiosity over the last weeks, but now we know we must celebrate. The castle is not lost to the Deverills, after all, but regained. Really, Bertie, I couldn’t bear to think of it being bought by someone with no understanding of its history.”
“That’s what I said to Archie,” Celia replied, taking his hand. “I said that it would haunt me for the rest of my days if the place fell into the hands of strangers. I just love the history. All that stuff about Henry VIII or whoever it was. So romantic.” Kitty winced. No one with any real connection to the place would get it all so wrong.
“And I decided then that my wife’s happiness was more important than anything else in the whole world. We hoped it would make you happy too, Lord Deverill.”
Bertie nodded pensively, although Kitty didn’t think her father’s thoughts contained anything much. He had a distant look in his rheumy eyes, the look of a man to whom little matters beyond the contents of a bottle. “And Celia’s having a baby too,” Kitty said, changing the subject.
“Yes, as if we didn’t have enough to celebrate.” Celia beamed, placing a hand on her stomach and sliding her bright eyes to her husband. “We’re both very, very happy.”
“A baby!” Grace exclaimed. “How very exciting! We must raise our glasses to that too.”
“Isn’t it wonderful. Everything is just wonderful,” said Celia as they lifted their glasses in a toast.
IT WAS LATE afternoon when Kitty rode over the hills to Jack O’Leary’s house. The setting sun left a trail of molten gold on the waves as the ocean darkened beneath the pale autumn sky. She had briefly stopped off at home to check on Little Jack, whom she had found happily playing in the nursery with his nanny. Kitty had been relieved to find her husband, Robert, working in his study nearby. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was writing and she was only too happy to leave him and get away. She’d tell him about Celia and the castle later. As she left the White House she was content that Little Jack was safe with Miss Elsie and Robert.
In her haste to see her lover she had forgotten her hat, so that now her long red hair flew out behind her, curling in the gusty wind that swept in off the water. When at last she reached the whitewashed cottage, she hurriedly dismounted and threw herself against the door. “Jack!” she shouted, letting herself in. She sensed at once that he wasn’t there. The place felt as quiet and empty as a shell. Then she saw his veterinary bag sitting on the kitchen table and her heart gave a little leap, for he wouldn’t have gone visiting without it.
She ran out of the house and hastened down the well-trodden path to the beach, cutting through the wild grasses and heather that eventually gave way to rocks and pale yellow sand. The roar of the sea battled competitively against the bellowing of the gale and Kitty pulled her coat tightly about her and shivered with cold. A moment later she noticed a figure at the other end of the cove. She recognized him immediately, shouted and waved, but her voice was lost in the din of squawking gulls squabbling about the cliffs. She strode on, leaning into the wind, brushing the hair off her face with futile swipes. Jack’s dog noticed her first and bounded over the sand to greet her. Her spirits lifted when Jack finally saw her and quickened his pace. The sight of him in his old brown coat, heavy boots and tweed cap was so reassuring that she began to cry, but the wind caught her tears before they could settle and whipped them away.
“What’s the matter?” Jack asked, pulling her into his arms. His melodious Irish brogue was like balm to her soul and she rested her cheek against his coat and reminded herself that home was here, in Jack O’Leary’s embrace. Their adultery had started as a lightning strike of passion but now had become a way of life—none the less joyful for that. It was the pearl in her oyster.
“Celia has bought Castle Deverill,” she told him. She felt him press his bristly face against her head and squeeze her tighter. “I shouldn’t mind, but I do.”
“Of course you mind, Kitty,” he replied with understanding.
“She’s going to rebuild it and then she’s going to live there and I’m going to be like the poor relation in the White House. Am I being very unworldly?”
“You’ve suffered worse, Kitty,” he reminded her.
“I know. It’s only a castle but . . .” She dropped her shoulders and Jack saw the defeat in her eyes.
“It is only a castle. But to you, it’s always been much more than that, hasn’t it?” He kissed her temple, remembering sadly the time he had tried and failed to persuade her to leave it and run off with him to America. Had it been nothing more than a castle they might have been happily married by now, on the other side of the Atlantic.
“And Bridie’s back,” she added darkly.
“I know. I saw her at Mass this morning, swanking about in her fine clothes and jewelry. Indeed, she found a rich husband in America—and lost him. Word has it she’s made a healthy donation to the church. Father Quinn will be delighted.”
“She’s come back for Little Jack,” said Kitty, her stomach clenching again with fear. “She says she had to leave him once and she won’t do it again.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That she left him in my safekeeping. But she said it was Michael who left him on my doorstep with the note. She said she’s his mother and that he belongs with her. But I’ve told Little Jack that his mother is in Heaven and that I’ll love him and look after him in her stead. I can’t now tell him that she’s suddenly come back to life.”
“She can’t have him, Kitty. She would have signed papers in the convent, giving up her right.”
Kitty remembered the old Bridie, her dear friend, and her heart buckled for her. “She probably didn’t know what she was signing,” she said softly.
“Don’t feel sorry for her,” he reproached. “She’s done well for herself, has she not?” He took Kitty’s hand and began to walk back up the beach toward his cottage.
“I’m terrified she’s going to try and steal him,” Kitty confessed with a shy smile. She knew how ridiculous that sounded.
Jack looked down at her and grinned affectionately. “You’ve always had a fanciful imagination, Kitty Deverill. I don’t think Bridie would be foolish enough to attempt kidnap. She’d get as far as Cork and the Garda would be all over her.”
“You’re right, of course. I’m just being foolish.”
He swung her around and kissed her. “What was that for?” she laughed.
“Because I love you.” He smiled, revealing the gap where his tooth had been knocked out in prison. He curled a tendril of hair behind her ear and kissed her more ardently. “Forget about the castle and Bridie Doyle. Think about us. Concentrate on what’s to come, not what has passed. You said this wasn’t enough for you anymore. You know it’s not enough for me.”
“It’s not enough, but I don’t know how to resolve it.”
“Remember I once asked you to come with me to America?”
Kitty’s eyes began to sting at the memory. “But they arrested you and you never even knew I had decided to come.”
He slipped his fingers around her neck beneath her hair and ran rough thumbs over her jawline. “We could try again. Take Little Jack and start afresh. Perhaps we wouldn’t have to go as far as America. Perhaps we could go somewhere else. I understand that you don’t want to leave Ireland, but now Celia has bought the castle it’s going to be tough living next door, on the estate that once belonged to your father.”
Kitty gazed into his pale blue eyes and the sorry sequence of their love story seemed to pass across them like sad clouds. “Let’s go to America,” she said suddenly, taking Jack by surprise.
“Really?” he gasped.
“Yes. If we go we must go far, far away. It will break Robert’s heart. Not only will he lose his wife but he will lose Little Jack, who is like a son to him. He will never forgive me.”
“And what about Ireland?”
She put her hands on top of his cold ones and felt the warmth of his Irish vowels wrapping around her like fox’s tails. “I’ll feel close to Ireland with you, Jack. Because every word you speak will bring me back here.”