After New Year’s, Digby Deverill arrived in Ballinakelly with Archie and Celia to stay with his cousin Bertie at the Hunting Lodge. He hadn’t been back since Adeline’s funeral, when Bertie had announced to the family that he was not only selling the castle but introducing them to his bastard son, Jack Deverill. That had been quite a luncheon, Digby mused with a sardonic smile. Maud had stormed out and disappeared to London in a huff, bleating humiliation and hurt. Everyone else had been left speechless, which was quite something for a noisy family such as theirs. Now, a few months later, he was able to reflect on the whole episode with wry amusement.
Digby loved County Cork. He remembered with affection his boyhood summers at Castle Deverill, when he and Bertie and Bertie’s younger brother, Rupert, who was later killed in the Great War, had taken the boat out to fish with Cousin Hubert, Bertie’s formidable father. Digby was not a natural fisherman, but he had loved the drama of the ocean, the mystery of what lay beneath it, the wide horizon and the sense of being alone in the immense blue. He was fascinated by the local fishermen in their thick sweaters, caps and boots, their craggy faces weathered from years of exposure to the salty winds, their dry hands callused and coarse, and loved to listen to their banter when, at the end of the day, Bertie and Rupert would take him to O’Donovan’s in Ballinakelly for a pint of stout. Cousin Hubert had preferred the comfort of his own home—and the security of his own kind. They would find him in the library at the Hunting Lodge (because in those days Bertie’s grandparents lived in the castle), eating porter cake in front of the fire with his wolfhounds at his feet, hoping for crumbs. “Anyone for bridge?” he’d ask, and Digby would always be the first to volunteer because there had been something about Cousin Hubert that had made him long for his good opinion.
Now Cousin Hubert was gone, killed in the fire that destroyed the castle. Adeline was gone too. It was a salutary thought and one that reconfirmed Digby’s belief that life has to be grabbed by the collar and lived consciously, decisively and courageously, not the way Bertie was living his, drifting rudderless on a current of whiskey and disillusionment. Something had to be done, and soon, or Bertie would be gone too and that would truly be the end of an era.
Digby had come to County Cork to meet Mr. Leclaire, but he had also come with the secret intention of rousing his cousin out of his stupor. He knew he had to await his moment. Bertie had to be in the right frame of mind to hear his advice, for there was always the danger that his cousin would take umbrage, for Bertie was a proud and fragile man, and the consequences could be dire.
While he waited for that elusive moment, Digby threw his enthusiasm into the plans for the castle. He’d seen the ruins the year before but he’d never taken the time to walk among them. Now, with the effervescent Mr. Leclaire leading the way through the rubble (and anticipating, with relish, his enormous bill), Digby wandered slowly from room to room like a dog sniffing for the scent of his past. He found it lingering in the hall where the fireplace still stood, recalling with a wave of nostalgia the Summer Ball when he had stood there with his new wife, Beatrice, who was seeing it for the first time. He remembered her face as clearly as if it had been yesterday. The wonder in it, the joy, the sheer delight at the beauty of the castle, lit up with hundreds of candles and adorned with vast arrangements of flowers.
Mr. Leclaire dragged him out of his reverie by urging him on through the hall into the remains of the drawing room. Shiny black crows hopped about the stones and squabbled among themselves. Mr. Leclaire pointed out the parts of the surviving walls that were still intact and the parts that were simply too weak and would have to be pulled down. He gesticulated extravagantly, waving his arms in the air, while Celia chirped and chattered and thought his every suggestion “marvelous.” “I want it yesterday,” she said in response to his every suggestion. Archie watched closely for his father-in-law’s reaction, hoping that he’d approve, wanting him to approve.
“We will use the original stone wherever possible, Sir Digby,” said Mr. Leclaire. “But where we are compelled to use new stone we will endeavor to match it as best we can. Mrs. Mayberry has suggested we buy old stone but I have explained, have I not, Mrs. Mayberry, that the cost will soar considerably. Old stone is very dear.”
“I’m sure Mr. Mayberry would like an estimate for both, Mr. Leclaire,” said Digby. He smiled at his daughter and Celia slipped her hand around his arm, for she knew from experience what that smile meant: she’d have her old stone one way or another.
As they moved through the ruins toward the surviving western tower where Adeline had set up residence after Hubert was gone, Celia noticed a pair of grubby faces watching them from behind a wall. She nudged Archie. “Look, we’re being spied on,” she whispered. Archie followed the line of her vision. There, partly hidden among the stones, were two little boys. As soon as they realized they had been spotted their faces disappeared.
“Who are they?” Archie asked.
“Local boys, I imagine. They must be very curious. After all, this castle has dominated Ballinakelly for centuries.”
“Don’t you think we should say something? They’re trespassing. There’s a perfectly good sign by the gate telling them this is private property and trespassers will be prosecuted.”
“Darling, they don’t care about a sign. They’re children.” She laughed, rummaging in her handbag for some chocolate. Finding a half-eaten bar, she weaved her way through the debris and ash to where the boys were hiding. “Hello, you two monkeys,” she said, leaning over with a smile. Startled, they stared up at her with wide, frightened eyes, like a pair of cornered foxes. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m not going to be cross. Here, it’s hungry work being spies.” She held out the chocolate in her gloved hand. They gazed at it warily. “Go on. Aren’t you hungry?” The larger of the two boys held out his dirty fingers and took it. “What are your names?” she asked.
The elder boy unwrapped the chocolate and took a bite. “Séamus O’Leary,” he replied in a strong Irish brogue. “This is my little brother, Éamon Óg.” He elbowed his brother, who was staring at the otherworldly glamour of this English lady with his mouth agape. The diamonds in her ears sparkled like nothing he had ever seen before. As his brother speared him in the ribs he closed his mouth and blinked, but he was unable to tear his gaze away.
“I used to play as a little girl with a boy called O’Leary. Jack O’Leary,” said Celia. “He must be related to you.”
“He’s our cousin,” said Séamus. “His da just died,” he added, enjoying the taste of chocolate on his tongue.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Celia.
At that moment, Archie called to her. “Darling, we’re going back now to look at the plans.”
“You’d better run home before Lord Deverill sees you,” she said to the boys. They scurried off without a word, disappearing behind the western tower. Celia returned to Bertie’s car, where Mr. Leclaire was standing with Digby, looking up at the front door. “Castellum Deverilli est suum regnum,” said Mr. Leclaire, reading the inscription still visible in the charred remains of the stone.
“Now it’s Celia’s kingdom,” said Digby.
“I’ll be a beneficent landlord,” she said, striding over the grass with Archie. “Once the castle is finished I’ll throw a small party for the people of Ballinakelly. It will mark a new beginning.”
“The people of Ballinakelly have always been loyal to the Deverills,” said Digby. “The fire wasn’t their doing but the actions of Irish nationalists from other parts of the county, certainly not from here. I’m sure the people of Ballinakelly will be delighted to see it restored to its former splendor. Now, let’s go and have a look at those plans, Mr. Leclaire.” They climbed into the car, and, with Digby at the wheel, driving much too fast in his usual daredevil manner, they made their way back to the Hunting Lodge.
It wasn’t until the last day of Digby’s stay that his moment came to talk to Bertie. During the fortnight Digby had watched his cousin closely. He lacked enthusiasm for anything. His heart had been sapped of its juice, his joie de vivre turned sour, as if life had disappointed him to the point where he resented fun. He had only gone shooting once and that was because Digby had persuaded him to. They had tramped out with the dogs and shot some snipe, but Bertie had found little enjoyment in the sport he once loved. Pleasure was no longer part of his experience but something enjoyed by other people and he begrudged them for it. The only time he had grown animated was when Kitty had brought his son Little Jack over to see him. The child had the natural charm of the Deverills, Digby thought, and he was certain that Bertie could see himself in the boy, the carefree exuberance that he had lost. Otherwise, his cousin drank too much and oftentimes was so distracted that it was impossible even to converse with him.
As it was Digby’s last day in County Cork, Bertie could not deny him an excursion on the boat. The weather was fine, warm even for January, and the sea calm. It was the perfect day to take the boat out, Digby exclaimed heartily, hoping to inject his cousin with enthusiasm. Bertie agreed, reluctantly, and the two of them set off for the harbor where Bertie’s boat was moored—Digby in an eye-catching yellow-and-brown Tattersall jacket, waistcoat and breeches, thick yellow socks and matching cap, Bertie in a more discreet tweed suit. Digby waited for the jokes at his expense but Bertie wasn’t forthcoming. He had lost his sense of humor too.
Once out on the sea Digby seized his moment. “Now listen here, old chap,” he began, and Bertie listened because there was nothing else to do but watch his fishing line and wait for it to tremble. “You’ve had a tough couple of years, there’s no doubt about it,” said Digby. “You’ve suffered terrible losses: the castle, your parents and Maud. But you cannot dwell on the negatives or you’ll drown in them. You have to think positively and pull yourself back from the brink. You understand what I’m saying?” Bertie nodded without taking his eyes off the fishing line, or somewhere thereabouts. Digby realized he had made no impression but pressed on valiantly. “What’s the core of the problem, Bertie, old chap? It’s me, Digby, you’re talking to. Eh? Your cousin and friend. I see you’re in trouble and I want to help.” Still no response. Digby felt his resolve deflate. Like most Englishmen he wasn’t good at talking about emotions and rather dreaded having to. But he sensed his cousin’s survival depended on him somehow and was determined to press on even though he had rarely felt so uncomfortable. He decided to try another tack. “You remember when we were boys? Your father used to take us out on this very boat and teach us to fish. Of course, he made no headway with me.” Digby chuckled joylessly. “I’ve never been the sporting type.”
To his surprise memories began to rouse Bertie from his languor. The corners of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “You were pretty useless on a horse too,” he said.
Encouraged, Digby continued to delve into the adventures of their boyhood. “Hubert always claimed to give me a gentle horse, but one look at me and the bloody animal was off. I think he gave me the highly strung ones on purpose.”
“If he hadn’t, you’d have lagged behind with the old ladies,” said Bertie.
“I hate to admit it but those aunts of yours, the Shrubs, were more accomplished in the saddle than I was.”
“Do you remember when Rupert scaled down the front of the castle?”
“Adeline nearly had a seizure!”
“So did your mama. I’m sure I remember her fainting flat on her back and someone calling for her smelling salts.” The two men laughed. Then Bertie turned serious. “I miss Rupert,” he said wistfully.
“He was a good man,” said Digby. “If he was here now, and finding solace in whiskey as you do, Bertie, what would you say to him?”
Bertie’s face reddened. “I’d tell him to give it up. I’d make him see reason.”
“I want you to give it up, Bertie,” said Digby softly. “It’s destroying you and I can’t sit back and let you do that to yourself.”
There was a long silence as Bertie digested his words. Then he stiffened. “I don’t have a problem,” he said crisply. “We Irish like our whiskey.”
“You’re not Irish,” Digby retorted. “And you drink too much of it.”
“With all due respect, Digby, what business is it of yours?”
“I’m family,” he replied with emphasis.
Bertie heaved a sigh. He turned and stared at his cousin with rheumy, bloodshot eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like. I’ve lost everything.”
“That’s no excuse to drown your sorrows in drink.”
“Oh, it’s easy for you to say, Digby. You with all your millions, a good wife and Deverill Rising that hasn’t been burned to the ground by rebels intent on pushing you out of the country your family has lived in for over two hundred and fifty years. You have your parents still. You have the golden touch, Digby. The Devil’s luck and probably a blonde in every port. In fact, life is just dandy, isn’t it? Well, for some of us it’s a struggle. I had a mistress, you know. I loved her. But I lost her too.”
Digby was losing patience. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. The truth is, you’re not very attractive when you’re drunk—and you seem to be drunk most of the time. She probably got sick of the stench of alcohol on your breath.” Digby saw it coming, the punch that would have hit him in the jaw had he not reacted like quicksilver and caught Bertie’s arm with surprising strength and agility. Bertie stared at him in bewilderment, breathing heavily like a bull at bay.
Digby bore down on him. “You’re a damned idiot, Bertie Deverill. I’m not surprised Maud left you and as for your mistress, well, you’ve brought it all on yourself, haven’t you? Weak, that’s what you are, weak. You’re not even fit to carry the Deverill name. If your father could see you now he’d probably punch you one himself. As he isn’t here, I’m going to do it for him.” Digby drew back his fist and landed a blow beneath Bertie’s ribs. Bertie bent double and gasped for breath, but managed to swipe at Digby’s legs, causing him to reel off balance. The boat rocked from side to side as the two men fought like boys in a playground dispute. But Digby goaded him with every insult he could think of, hoping that Bertie would eventually collapse with exhaustion and see the error of his ways. He didn’t collapse, however. He flung himself upon his cousin and they both tumbled over the edge of the boat into the cold sea. A moment later their heads bobbed up, taking in large mouthfuls of salty water and air. Shocked by the cold they were unable to speak.
Digby was the first to make it back. He heaved himself up with difficulty for his clothes were waterlogged and heavy. His boots were like rocks attached to his feet, pulling him down. He flopped onto the bottom of the boat like a fat walrus, fighting for breath. Then he remembered his cousin. He scrambled up and threw himself against the side. Bertie was struggling. His clothes and boots were making it almost impossible for him to tread water. “Do you want to die?” Digby shouted. “Is that what you want? Because if you do, I’ll let you go. But if you choose to live you have to give up the drink, Bertie. Do you hear me? It’s your choice.” Bertie coughed and gagged, sinking suddenly only to propel himself up with a desperate kicking of his legs and flapping of his arms. “What will it be, Bertie?” Digby shouted.
Bertie did not want to die. “Life!” he managed to shout, taking a gulp of salty water and coughing madly. “Please . . . Digby . . . Help . . .”
Digby lifted one of the oars out of its oarlock and carefully held it over the water so that Bertie could grab the blade and haul himself toward the boat. He remained for a moment with his arms flung over the edge, panting. “Come on, old chap. We’ve got to get you home before you die of exposure,” said Digby gently. He grabbed Bertie’s sodden jacket and heaved him over into the body of the boat, where he lay shivering with fear as well as cold.
“You bastard,” Bertie gasped, but he was smiling.
“You chose life, Bertie, and I’m going to hold you to it.” Digby held out his hand and after a moment’s hesitation his cousin took it. Digby pulled him to his feet.
Bertie tottered, then found his balance. “I won’t let you down, Digby.”
“I know you won’t.”
The two men embraced, wet and frozen to their bones, but the feeling of camaraderie had never been warmer.
KITTY HADN’T BEEN able to see Jack since their hasty meeting at his cottage after his father’s death. He had been staying with his mother, who was inconsolable with grief. They sent each other notes, just as they had done in the old days when they had used the loose stone in the wall in the vegetable garden, but this time Kitty sent the stable boy. They met at the Fairy Ring and snatched stolen kisses, witnessed only by the gulls that wheeled above them like kites on the wind. As the day of their departure loomed Kitty felt it more like the steady approach of an ax, poised to sever her from her home. She dreaded it and longed for it in equal measure. She grew short-tempered with Robert. She snapped at Celia and she cried at the smallest thing.
And then God intervened.
Once she knew her fate a calmness came over her. A resignation that comes from total surrender. It was as if she was letting out a long, slow breath and with it came a sense of peace. She was certain now of what she was going to do. There was no question, no doubt, no indecision, her mind was as clear as crystal. Even the pain of knowing how much hurt she was going to inflict seemed dislocated, belonging to someone else.
The morning before they were due to take the train to Queenstown, Kitty rode over the hills to Jack’s cottage. She didn’t allow herself to cry. She set her jaw and clenched her teeth and let the cold wind numb her emotions. When she arrived she tied her horse to the fence as usual and pushed open the door. Jack wasn’t there, but his bag was packed and ready in the hall. She sat down at the table and waited as the weak winter light retreated slowly across the floorboards.
At last she heard him outside, whistling for his dog. A moment later he opened the door and said her name. “Kitty.”
Then he knew. Even before he saw the expression on her face, he knew. This time he didn’t sweep her into his arms, promise her he’d wait for her and kiss the pain away. He stared at her in utter disbelief and exasperation, knowing that what she was about to tell him would wound him as surely as a bullet. “Why?” he demanded.
Kitty stared at her fingers, knitted on the table before her. “I’m pregnant,” she replied. Jack swayed as if struck. Then she added in a quiet, steady voice, “It’s Robert’s.”
Jack sat down opposite her and put his face in his hands. There ensued a heavy silence. So heavy that Kitty’s shoulders dropped beneath the weight and her head began to ache. “Are you sure?” he asked finally.
“I’m sure,” she replied.
“How could you?” He looked at her in desperation.
“He’s my husband. I couldn’t deny him.”
“You could have. You could have, Kitty.” He raised his voice. “If you had wanted to.”
She lifted her chin and dared to look at him. Every twist and turn of their ill-fated love affair seemed to have dulled the light in his eyes a little further and he looked entirely desolate. He shook his head. “So this is it?” he said. “This is what it’s come to? After all we’ve been through. After all the years we’ve loved each other. This is where we are?”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He banged his fist on the table. “Sorry! You’re sorry!”
Kitty’s eyes stung with tears. “I am sorry.”
“Well, sorry doesn’t cut it, Kitty Deverill. You’re sorry for spilling tea. Sorry for putting mud on the rug. Sorry for every little fecking thing. But sorry isn’t a word that even begins to put right the wrong you’re doing to me. Do you understand? I’ve waited for you.” His face contorted with disgust. “But I’m done waiting.”
A tear splashed onto the table. “There’s nothing more I can say.”
“Did you ever truly love me, Kitty?”
A flood of emotion filled her chest. She pressed her hand against the pain. “Oh yes, I did, Jack,” she gasped. “And I do, with all my heart.”
“No, you don’t. If you loved me you’d be ready to give up everything for me.” He stood up and walked to the window, turning his back to her to throw his gaze over the sea. “God knows I’ve loved you, Kitty Deverill,” he said wearily. “God knows too that I’ll probably never stop loving you. It’ll be a curse I’ll just have to live with, but I’ve survived worse, so I’ll survive this.”
Kitty got up slowly, her body aching. She walked over and slipped her hands around his waist. He said nothing as she rested her forehead between his shoulder blades. She could smell the past on him. The scent of turf fires, hot tea, porter cake and horse sweat. The aroma of damp earth and brine. She closed her eyes and saw themselves as children, balancing on the wall, pottering about the river in search of frogs, kissing at the Fairy Ring, watching the sun sinking into Smuggler’s Bay. Then she heard the guns, the cries of men, the shouts of the Black and Tans dragging him off the station platform and she wanted to cling to him and never let him go. He invaded her every sense until she was too overcome to hold back her grief. She held him fiercely, but he remained with his hands on the window frame, gazing stiffly out to sea, and she knew that she had lost him.
She left the cottage. Jack didn’t turn around. If he had she might have buckled. She might have run to him; she might even have changed her mind. But he didn’t. She mounted her horse and slowly rode back up the path, her heart a boulder in her chest. The wind dried her tears and the sight of those velveteen fields of County Cork soothed her beleaguered spirits as they always had done. Ireland was the one love she could count on.
As she headed for the hills she knew that Jack was right. A pregnancy was the only thing that could keep her from running away with him—and she had known it and allowed it to happen. Fate had played no part nor had Destiny. Kitty had prayed for a child to save her from herself. She knew as surely as she lived and breathed that she belonged here, at Castle Deverill. Not even Jack O’Leary, with the extraordinary power he had over her heart, could tear her from her home.
KITTY’S DESPAIR WAS Adeline’s frustration. If Kitty married Jack and somehow returned to claim the castle from Celia, the spirits caught in limbo might at last be released. She watched Kitty ride for home and knew, as well as she knew her own heart, that Kitty’s could not be changed. She had chosen Ireland, as she always had.
Adeline stood on the hill overlooking the sea. The wind blew inland off the water in chilly gusts. The waves rose and fell in ever-changing swells and their peaks extended upward as hands reaching toward Heaven. They crashed against the rocks, their efforts reduced to white foam that bubbled and boiled as the water rolled in and out in a rhythm that only God understood. But Adeline heard the melody beneath the roaring and her soul swelled like the sea as she contemplated the land she loved so dearly.
Ireland. Wild, mysterious and deeply beautiful.
“If only Hubert could inhabit these hills as I can,” she thought sadly, contemplating the red sky and fiery clouds that seemed to flee the setting sun like sheep with their wool aflame. But instead he had to remain in the castle with the other Lord Deverills and in her opinion the place really wasn’t big enough for the lot of them.
Death had changed them little. They were still the people they had been in life, only unencumbered by their earthly bodies. They still grumbled and moaned, argued and complained and generally made a nuisance of themselves. Adeline wondered whether Celia would rue the day she’d decided to rebuild, for Barton’s son, Egerton, could be very tiresome when taken by the desire to create mischief. He enjoyed treading heavily down the corridors, making the doors creak and rattling the furniture. It was frustrating not being either on earth or in Heaven, burdened by all the grievances one had in life, only no longer limited in perspective. They had at least gained a little understanding of what their existences had been all about. Life after death was no longer an uncertainty. Time was simply an illusion. Yet, while their souls were drawn to a higher state, they were imprisoned behind bars they could not see, cursed to glimpse the light but remain in shadow, their mortal egos balls and chains about their necks.
Adeline, on the other hand, could go where she pleased. Heaven awaited her with the gates flung wide. Only love tied her to Hubert. While she waited for the curse to be lifted she could see the whole world and as she turned her thoughts to other lands she was once again drawn to the small part of Ireland, and herself, that had strayed across the water . . .