Kitty’s attention had been diverted by the loud crack of gunfire. She remained for a moment frozen on the back stairs. It sounded as if it had come from inside the castle. There followed an eruption of barking. Kitty hurried into the hall to see her grandfather’s three brown wolfhounds bursting out of the library and up the staircase at a gallop. Without hesitation she ran after them, jumping two steps at a time to reach the landing. The dogs raced down the corridor, skidding on the carpet as they charged around the corner, narrowly missing the wall.
Kitty found her grandfather in his habitual faded tweed breeches and jacket at the window of his dressing room, pointing a rifle into the garden. He gleefully fired another shot. It was lost in the damp winter mist that was gathering over the lawn. “Bloody papists!” he bellowed. “That’ll teach you to trespass on my land. Now make off with you before I aim properly and send you to an early grave!”
Kitty watched him in horror. The sight of Hubert Deverill shooting at Catholics was not a surprise. He often clashed with the poachers and knackers creeping about his land in search of game and she had eavesdropped enough at the library door to know exactly what he thought of them. She didn’t understand how her grandfather could loathe people simply for being Catholic—all Kitty’s friends were Irish Catholics. Hubert’s dogs panted at his heels as he brought the gun inside and patted them fondly. When he saw his granddaughter standing in the doorway, like a miniature version of his wife, with her eyebrows knitted in disapproval, he grinned mischievously. “Hello, Kitty my dear. Fancy some cake?”
“Porter cake?”
“Laced with brandy. It’ll do you good. Put some color in those pale cheeks of yours.” He pressed the bell for his valet, which in turn rang a little bell on a board down in the servants’ quarters above the name “Lord Deverill.”
“I was born pale, Grandpa,” Kitty replied, watching him open his gun and fold it over his arm like her grandmother held her handbag when they went into Ballinakelly.
“How’s the Battle of the Boyne?” he asked.
She sighed. “That was last year, Grandpa. I’m learning about the Great Fire of London.”
“Good good,” he muttered, his mind now on other things.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love this castle?”
“Minus point for a silly question,” Hubert replied gruffly.
“I mean, would you mind if you were stuck here for all eternity?”
“If you’re referring to the Cursing of Barton Deverill, your governess should be teaching you proper history, not folklore.”
“Miss Grieve doesn’t teach me folklore, Grandma does.”
“Yes, well . . .” he mumbled. “Poppycock.”
“But you would be happy here, wouldn’t you? Grandma says you love the castle more than any Deverill ever has.”
“You know your grandmother is always right.”
“I wonder whether you’d mind terribly living on—”
He stopped her before she could continue. “Where the devil is Skiddy? Let’s go and have some cake before the mice eat it, shall we? Skiddy!”
As they made their way down the cold corridor to the staircase they were met by a wheezing Mr. Skiddy. At sixty-eight, Frank Skiddy had worked at Castle Deverill for over fifty years, originally in the employ of the previous Lord Deverill. He was very thin and frail on account of an allergy to wheat and lungs scarred by a chest infection suffered in early childhood, but the idea of retirement was anathema to the old guard, who worked on in spite of their failing bodies. “My lord,” he said when he saw Lord Deverill striding toward him over the rug, followed by his granddaughter and a trio of dogs.
“You’re slowing down, Skiddy.” Hubert handed the valet his gun. “Needs a good clean. Too many rabbits in the gardens.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Skiddy replied, accustomed to his master’s eccentric behavior and unmoved by it.
Lord Deverill strode on down the front stairs. “Fancy a game of chess with your cake, young lady?”
“Yes, please,” Kitty replied happily. “I’ll set up the board and we can play after tea.”
“Trouble is you spend too much time in your imagination. Dangerous place to be, one’s imagination. Your governess should be keeping you busy.”
“I don’t like Miss Grieve,” said Kitty.
“Governesses aren’t there to be liked,” her grandfather told her sternly, as if liking one’s governess was as odd an idea as liking a Catholic. “They’re to be tolerated.”
“When will I be rid of her, Grandpa?”
“When you find yourself a decent husband. You’ll have to tolerate him, too!”
Kitty loved her grandparents more than she loved her parents or her siblings because in their company she felt valued. Unlike her mama and papa, they gave her their time and attention. When Hubert wasn’t hunting, fishing, picking off snipe around the estate with his dogs or in Dublin at the Kildare Street Club or attending meetings at the Royal Dublin Society, he taught her chess, bridge and whist with surprising patience for a man generally intolerant of children. Adeline let her help in the gardens. Although they had plenty of gardeners, Adeline would toil away for hours in the greenhouses, with their pretty blancmange-shaped roofs. In the warm, earthy air of those glass buildings she grew carnations, grapes and peaches, and nurtured a wide variety of potted plants with long Latin names. She grew herbs and flowers for medicinal purposes, taking the trouble to pass on her knowledge to her little granddaughter. Juniper for rheumatoid arthritis, aniseed for coughs and indigestion, parsley for bloating, red clover for sores and hawthorn for the heart. Her two favorites were cannabis for tension and milk thistle for the liver.
When Hubert and Kitty reached the library, Adeline looked up from the picture of the orchid she was painting at the table in front of the bay window, taking advantage of the fading light. “I suppose that was you, dear, at your dressing room window,” she said, giving her husband a reproachful look over her spectacles.
“Damn rabbits,” Hubert replied, sinking into the armchair beside the turf fire that was burning cheerfully in the grate, and disappearing behind the Irish Times.
Adeline shook her head indulgently and resumed her painting. “If you go on so, Hubert, you’ll just make them all the more furious,” said Adeline.
“They’re not furious,” Hubert answered.
“Of course they are. They’ve been furious for hundreds of years . . .”
“What? Rabbits?”
Adeline suspended her brush and sighed. “You’re impossible, Hubert!”
Kitty perched on the sofa and stared hungrily at the cake that had been placed with the teapot and china cups on the table in front of her. The dogs settled down before the fire with heavy sighs. There’d be no cake for them.
“Go on, my dear, help yourself,” said Adeline to her granddaughter. “Don’t they feed you over there?” she asked, frowning at the child’s skinny arms and tiny waist.
“Mrs. Doyle is a better cook,” said Kitty, picturing Miss Gibbons’s fatty meat and soggy cabbage.
“That’s because I’ve taught her that food not only has to fill one’s belly, but has to taste good at the same time. You’d be surprised how many people eat for satisfaction and not for pleasure. I’ll tell your mama to send your cook up for some training. I’m sure Mrs. Doyle would be delighted.”
Kitty helped herself to a slice of cake and tried to think of Mrs. Doyle being delighted by anything; a sourer woman was hard to find. A moment later the light was gone and Adeline joined her granddaughter on the sofa. O’Flynn, the doddering old butler, poured her a cup of tea with an unsteady hand and a young maid silently padded around the room lighting the oil lamps. Soon the library glowed with a soft, golden radiance. “I understand that Victoria will be leaving us soon to stay with Cousin Beatrice in London,” said Adeline.
“I don’t want to go to London when I come of age,” said Kitty.
“Oh, you will when you’re eighteen. You’ll be weary of all the hunt balls and the Irish boys. You’ll want excitement and new faces. London is thrilling and you like Cousin Beatrice, don’t you?”
“Yes, she’s perfectly nice and Celia is funny, but I love being here with you best of all.”
Her grandmother’s face softened into a tender smile. “You know it’s all very well playing with Bridie here at the castle, but it’s important to have friends of your own sort. Celia is your age exactly and your cousin, so it is natural that you should both come out together.”
“Surely, there’s a Season in Dublin?”
“Of course there is, but you’re Anglo-Irish, my dear.”
“No, I’m Irish, Grandma. I don’t care for England at all.”
“You will when you get to know it.”
“I doubt it’s as lovely as Ireland.”
“Nowhere is as lovely as here, but it comes very close.”
“I wouldn’t mind if I were cursed to remain here for all eternity.”
Adeline lowered her voice. “Oh, I think you would. Between worlds is not a nice place to be, Kitty. It’s very lonely.”
“I’m used to being on my own. I’d be very happy to be stuck in the castle forever, even if I had to pass my time with grumpy old Barton. I shouldn’t mind at all.”
After playing chess with her grandfather Kitty walked home in the dark. The air smelled of turf smoke and winter and a barn owl screeched. There was a bright sickle moon to light her way and she skipped happily through the gardens, along a well-trodden path.
When she reached the Hunting Lodge she crept in through the kitchen where Miss Gibbons was sweating over a tasteless stew. Kitty could hear the sound of the piano coming from the drawing room and recognized the hesitant rendition as sixteen-year-old Elspeth’s, and smiled at the thought of her mother, on the sofa with a cup of tea in her thin white hand, subjecting some poor unfortunate guest to this excruciating performance. Kitty tiptoed into the hall and hid behind a large fern. The playing suddenly stopped without any sensitivity of tempo. There was a flurry of light clapping, then she heard her mother’s voice enthusiastically praising Elspeth, followed by the equally enthusiastic voice of her mother’s closest friend, Lady Rowan-Hampton, who was also Elspeth’s godmother. Kitty felt a momentary stab of longing. Lady Rowan-Hampton, whom her parents called Grace, was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen and the only grown-up, besides her grandparents, who made her feel special. Knowing she wasn’t allowed downstairs unless summoned, Kitty retreated up the servants’ staircase.
The Hunting Lodge was not as large and imposing as the castle, but it was suitably palatial for the eldest son of Lord Deverill, and much larger than its modest name suggested. It was a rambling gray-stone house partly covered by ivy, as if it had made a halfhearted attempt to protect itself from the harsh winter winds. Unlike the castle, whose soft, weathered stone gave the building a certain warmth, the Hunting Lodge looked cold and austere. It was icy and damp inside, even in summer, and turf fires were lit only in the rooms that were going to be used. The many that weren’t smelled of mildew and mold.
Kitty’s bedroom was on the top floor at the back, with a view of the stables. It was the part of the house referred to as the nursery wing. Victoria, Elspeth and Harry had long since moved into the elegant side near the hall and had large bedrooms overlooking the gardens. Left alone with Miss Grieve, Kitty felt isolated and forgotten.
As she made her way down the narrow corridor to her bedroom she saw the glow of light beneath the door of Miss Grieve’s room. She walked on the tips of her toes so as not to draw attention to herself. But as she passed her governess’s room she heard the soft sound of weeping. It didn’t sound like Miss Grieve at all. She didn’t think Miss Grieve had it in her to cry. She stopped outside and pressed her ear to the door. For a moment it occurred to her that Miss Grieve might have a visitor, but Miss Grieve would never break the rules; Kitty’s mother did not permit visitors upstairs. Kitty didn’t think Miss Grieve had friends anyway. She never spoke of anyone other than her mother, who lived in Edinburgh.
Kitty knelt down and put her eye to the keyhole. There, sitting on the bed with a letter lying open in her lap, was Miss Grieve. Kitty was astonished to see her with her brown hair falling in thick curls over her shoulders and down her back. Her face was pale in the lamplight, but her features had softened. She didn’t look wooden as she did when she scraped her hair back and drew her lips into a thin line until they almost disappeared. She looked like a sensitive young woman and surprisingly pretty.
Kitty longed to know what the letter said. Had someone died, perhaps Miss Grieve’s mother? Her heart swelled with compassion so that she almost turned the knob and let herself in. But Miss Grieve looked so different Kitty felt it might embarrass her to be caught with her guard down. She remained transfixed a while by the trembling mouth, wet with tears, and the dewy skin that seemed to relax away from the bones which usually held it so taut and hard. She was fascinated by Miss Grieve’s apparent youth and wondered how old she really was. She had always assumed her to be ancient, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was quite possible that she was the same age as Kitty’s mother.
After a while Kitty retreated to her bedroom. Nora, one of the housemaids, had lit her small fire and the room smelled pleasantly of smoke. An oil lamp glowed on the chest of drawers against the wall, beneath a picture of garden fairies her grandmother had painted for her. Kitty opened the curtains wide and sat on the window seat to stare out at the moon and stars.
Kitty did not recognize loneliness because it was so much part of her soul as to blend in seamlessly with the rest of her nature. She felt the familiar tug of something deep and stirring at the bottom of her heart. Even though she was aware of a sense of longing she didn’t know it for what it was—a yearning for love. It was so familiar she had mistaken it for something pleasant and those hours staring into the stars had become as habitual to Kitty as howling at the moon to a craving wolf.
At length Miss Grieve appeared in the doorway, stiff and severe with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, as if she had beaten her emotions into submission and restrained them within her corset. There was no evidence of tears on her rigid cheeks or about her slate-gray eyes and Kitty wondered for a moment whether she had imagined them. What was it that had made Miss Grieve so bitter? “It’s time for your supper, young lady,” she said to Kitty. “Have you washed your hands?” Kitty dutifully presented her palms to her governess, who sniffed her disapproval. “I didn’t think so. Go and wash them at once. I don’t think it’s right for a young lady to be running about the countryside like a stray dog. I’ll have a word with your mother. Perhaps piano lessons will be a good discipline for you and keep you out of trouble.”
“Piano lessons have done little for Elspeth,” Kitty replied boldly. “And when she sings she sounds like a strangled cat.”
“Don’t be insolent, Kitty.”
“Victoria sounds even worse when she plays the violin. More like a chorus of strangled cats. I should like to sing.” Kitty poured cold water from the jug into the water bowl and washed her hands with carbolic soap. So far there had been no piano or violin lessons for her, because music was her mother’s department and Kitty was invisible to Maud Deverill. The only reason she had enjoyed riding lessons since the age of two was due to her father’s passion for hunting and racing. As long as he lived no child of his would be incompetent in the saddle.
“You’re nine now, Kitty, it’s about time you learned to make yourself appealing. I don’t see why music lessons can’t be afforded to you as they are to your sisters. I will speak to your mother tomorrow and see that it is arranged. The less free time you have, the better. The Devil makes work for idle hands.”
Kitty followed Miss Grieve into the nursery where dinner for two was laid up at the table otherwise used for lessons. They stood behind their chairs to say grace and then Miss Grieve sat down while Kitty brought the dish of stew and baked potatoes to the table from the dumbwaiter which had been sent up from the kitchen. “What is it about you that your parents don’t wish to see you at mealtimes?” Miss Grieve asked as Kitty sat down. “I understand from Miss Gibbons that luncheon was always a family affair when your siblings were small.” She helped herself to stew. “Perhaps it’s because you don’t yet know how to behave. In my previous position for Lady Billow I always joined the family for luncheon, but I ate my dinner alone, which was a blessed relief. Are we to share this table until you come of age?”
Kitty was used to Miss Grieve’s mean jibes and tried not to be riled by them. Wit was her only defense. “It must be for your pleasure, Miss Grieve, because otherwise you might get lonely.”
Miss Grieve laughed bitterly. “And I suppose you consider yourself good company, do you?”
“I must be better company than loneliness.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. For a nine-year-old you have an inappropriate tongue. It’s no wonder your parents don’t wish for the sight of you. Victoria and Elspeth are young ladies, but you, Kitty, are a young ragamuffin in need of taming. That the task should fall to me is a great trial, but I do the best I can out of the goodness of my heart. We’ve a long way to go before you’re in any fit state to find a husband.”
“I don’t want a husband,” said Kitty, forking a piece of meat into her mouth. It was cold in the center.
“Of course you don’t want one now. You’re a child.”
“Did you ever want a husband, Miss Grieve?”
The governess’s eyes shifted a moment uncertainly, revealing more to the sharp little girl than she meant to. “That’s none of your business, Kitty. Sit up straight; you’re not a sack of potatoes.”
“Are governesses allowed to marry?” Kitty continued, knowing the answer but enjoying the pained look in Miss Grieve’s eyes.
The governess pursed her lips. “Of course they’re allowed to marry. Whatever gave you the idea that they weren’t?”
“None of them ever are.” Kitty chewed valiantly on the stringy piece of beef.
“Enough of that lip, my girl, or you can go to bed without any supper.” But Miss Grieve had suddenly gone very pink in the face and Kitty saw a fleeting glimpse of the young woman who had been crying over a letter in her bedroom. She blinked and the image was gone. Miss Grieve was staring into her plate, as if trying hard to control her emotions. Kitty wished she hadn’t been so mean but took the opportunity to spit her beef into her napkin and fold it onto her lap without being seen. She tried to think of something nice to say, but nothing came to mind. They sat awhile in silence.
“Do you play the piano, Miss Grieve?” Kitty asked at last.
“I did, once,” she replied tightly.
“Why do you never play?”
The woman glared at Kitty as if she had touched an invisible nerve. “I’ve had enough of your questions, young lady. We’ll eat the rest of the meal in silence.” Kitty was astonished. She hadn’t expected such a harsh reaction to what she felt had been a simple and kind turn of conversation. “One word and I’ll drag you by your red hair and throw you into your bedroom.”
“It’s Titian, not red,” Kitty mumbled recklessly.
“You can use all the fancy words you can find, my girl, but red is red and if you ask me, it’s very unbecoming.”
Kitty struggled through the rest of dinner in silence. Miss Grieve’s face had hardened to granite. Kitty regretted trying to be nice and resolved that she would never be so foolish as to give in to compassion again. When they had finished, Kitty obediently loaded the plates onto the dumbwaiter and pressed the bell to send it down to the kitchen.
She washed with cold water because Sean Doyle, Bridie’s brother, only carried hot water to the nursery wing every other night. Miss Grieve watched over her as she said her prayers. Kitty prayed dutifully for her mama and papa, her siblings and grand-parents. Then she added one for Miss Grieve: “Please, God, take her away. She’s horrid and unkind and I hate her. If I knew how to curse like Maggie O’Leary, I’d put one on her so that unhappiness would follow her all the days of her life and never let her go.”