Daughters of Castle Deverill (19 page)

Once home Grace hurried upstairs to change out of her church clothes into a more comfortable dress. She spent a long time at her dressing table arranging her hair, enlivening her cheeks with
rouge and applying a little tuberose perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. She was sure that Michael would come.

Ethelred Hunt had claimed for himself a big armchair on the terrace, where, sheltered from the wind and warmed by the sun, he sat with his spectacles on his nose, reading the
Irish
Times
. A maid brought him a glass of sherry and he lit a cigarette. He inhaled in a long, satisfying breath before releasing the smoke into the air. He didn’t question his
daughter’s strange behaviour outside the pub or the unusually long time she was spending in her bedroom, for Ethelred Hunt was a man whose concern was primarily his own pleasure and right now
his attention was focused on those two birdlike ladies who had looked so startled to see him in church. He would have a great deal of fun with those two, he mused. He wasn’t known as
Ethelred-the-ever-ready for nothing! When at last Grace appeared, her father failed to notice, either, that she was on edge. She waited the rest of the day, but Michael didn’t come.

It wasn’t until the following morning that Brennan knocked on his mistress’s door and announced that there was a group of lads at the front claiming to have come to clear the copse
for Sir Ronald. Grace’s heart gave a little leap. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I have told Mr Tanner to expect them, so would you let him know and he’ll look after
them.’ As much as she wanted to run outside she knew that such a public display would be wholly inappropriate and, besides, how long had Michael been in Ballinakelly? She rather relished the
idea of making him wait, as he had made
her
wait.

Brennan disappeared to find the head gardener, leaving Grace wringing her hands and pacing the room in agitation. Ethelred had gone off with Bertie to look around the castle and was then going
to luncheon at the Hunting Lodge. There was a strong chance he would be gone all afternoon, for Grace suspected that Bertie would want to show him round the whole estate. Her father was a fine
horseman and a keen race-goer, and since Bertie was as good as widowed, the two men had much in common. Ronald was in London, where he spent so much of his time these days. She had the house to
herself until dark and was determined to make the most of it.

When Michael didn’t come to her study window, or stride into her sitting room like he used to do, she began to worry. Had he gone to the copse with the other men in order to be discreet?
Surely he could have made something up? She went out onto the terrace and gazed across the lawn. A rustle in the viburnum behind her gave her a start and she spun round, fully expecting to see
Michael there with a lusty grin on his face, but it was nothing more than a pair of squabbling pigeons. She heaved a sigh and frowned. Why was he taking so long?

Finally, driven to distraction, she went to find Brennan in the hall. Her butler had seen men come and go over the years and had never so much as raised an eyebrow. Indeed, he had let Michael
into the house many times, not bothering to announce him but letting him wander on through the hall as if he belonged there. On one occasion he had even warned him off when Sir Ronald had made an
impromptu visit home. Now she asked him if Michael had been with the group of lads. Brennan shook his head. ‘No, my lady. Michael Doyle was not among them,’ he told her. Grace’s
face darkened with fury. How dare he humiliate her?

‘Thank you, Brennan. If he does turn up, please tell him I’m indisposed.’ Then she went upstairs where she fell onto her bed, hugged her pillow and wondered what to do.

That evening her father returned in high spirits, full of talk about the splendid day he had had with Bertie. ‘Do you know he introduced me to his bastard? A bonny boy he is and as sharp
as a tack too. He told me that his wife is so furious she has refused to let him move to London where he has bought her a house in Belgravia. It looks like he’s going to be stuck here. I told
him he should exchange her for a new one.’

‘Oh really, Papa,’ said Grace. ‘She’s not a horse.’

‘From what I hear about Maud Deverill, Bertie would have had more fun with her if she was.’ Grace couldn’t help but laugh in spite of feeling miserable. At least Lord Hunt was
having fun, because
she
wasn’t. She had thought of countless reasons why Michael hadn’t turned up today but none of them assuaged her disappointment or her fury. His excuse had
better be good,
very
good, she told herself, or he would wish himself back at Mount Melleray.

Grace drifted through the week distracted, hiding her frustration beneath a veneer of brittle cheerfulness. It seemed everyone in the county wanted to meet her father. They dined out every night
and Ethelred entertained his hosts and their guests with hilarious stories and anecdotes, all exaggerated and embellished and some even totally invented, for Lord Hunt was a man of exceptional
imagination. He brought laughter with him wherever he went, but no one was more taken with this witty and charming old wolf than the Shrubs, who, on the following Saturday night, were placed on
either side of him at Bertie’s dining-room table. They blushed, they stammered and they giggled like schoolgirls as Ethelred ensnared them in the full glare of his attention, rendering them
powerless like a pair of guinea fowl, their little hearts aflutter as they had never fluttered before. As was their habit, they were in absolute agreement over the devilishly attractive Lord Hunt,
but for the first time in their lives they wished they weren’t.

Grace hadn’t seen Michael since the Sunday before. She went to church, trying and failing to concentrate on the service, wondering how on earth she was going to seek him out without
exposing herself. Her father seemed unconcerned about
his
focus on godly matters and far more interested in finding sport in the poor Shrubs who sat across the aisle, blushing into their
prayer books. As he grinned at the two spinsters and lifted his hand in a small greeting, Grace put her fingers to her lips and scowled into the middle distance.

She knew Michael went to O’Donovan’s, but women didn’t go to the pub and certainly not women of her class. She knew where he lived, but she couldn’t very well turn up at
the Doyle farmhouse, asking for him. The old network of note-passing that had worked so efficiently during the War of Independence had long ceased to exist, and even if it had still functioned a
note would not bring him to her door. He was avoiding her. For whatever reason – and she convinced herself that there was a very
good
reason – he wasn’t coming to see
her. So, she had no option but to engineer a meeting.

It is a sad fact that, in every affair, one party is keener than the other. Grace knew that only too well. But now
she
was the less desired and she couldn’t accept it. Once a
lover, man or woman, has given a partner unique delight it’s almost impossible to imagine they no longer want it. She would pursue him. She would force him to face her and explain
himself.

Her chance came at the Ballinakelly Fair, which took place on the first Friday of May. People had come from all over the county to look at the horses, buy and sell livestock and socialize. The
sea breeze swept through the square with playful curiosity, dancing with sunbeams and ladies’ hemlines, snatching smoke from the farmers’ pipes and the boys’ cigarettes. Spirits
were high as the men and women flirted and the children played among the chickens and goats, earning a few bob for looking after the cows while the farmers went to the pub. There was music from a
band and fortune-telling from tinker women who weaved through the crowd with baskets of heather and holy pictures. Voices rose with the peals of laughter and the mooing of cows and the bleating of
sheep. Grace usually enjoyed the fair, but today she was anxious. Nights lying awake in torment had left her nerves frayed. Her father, however, was very excited. He had already met half of
Ballinakelly society and was eager to meet the other half. When he bumped into the Shrubs he bowed formally and held out both arms, inviting them to show him around. It was fortunate that he had
two arms, for both Laurel and Hazel were determined to take one.

Grace accompanied her father and the Shrubs, commenting on this and that without really listening to the conversation or, indeed, to her own responses. Her eyes scanned the faces for
Michael’s. She knew he’d be here. As a farmer he made it his business to attend every fair. Perhaps he’d even enter one of his bulls to compete for a prize?

At last she saw him right at the other end of the square: a glimpse of his head, unmistakable with its thick black curls, towering above everyone else’s. She quickly left her father and
the Shrubs without a word and elbowed her way through the crowd, keeping her head down for fear of getting caught by someone she knew and being compelled to stop and talk. She pushed on, eager to
get to him, but it felt like she was wading through the sea, for with every step forward a wave of people came and pushed her back.

At last she lifted her gaze and there he was, right in front of her, gazing back at her with a serious look on his face. His coal-black eyes were the same but the wildness in them had gone.
‘Top of the morning to you, Lady Rowan-Hampton.’ The man he had been talking to slipped away and Grace felt as if they were alone on an island in an ocean of people.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she whispered, barely able to restrain herself from placing a trembling hand on his forearm, just to feel him solid beneath her touch. ‘Why
didn’t you come and see me? How long have you been back? I’ve been waiting . . .’ She despised the pleading tone in her voice, but she no longer had the will to
dissemble.

‘I’ve changed my ways,’ he replied solemnly, glancing about him to make sure they weren’t being overheard. ‘I’ve repented of my sins.’

‘What are you talking about? You went to be cured of the drink, not to become a monk!’

He lowered his eyes to hide his shame. ‘I’ve changed,’ he repeated, this time with emphasis. ‘The Michael Doyle you knew is dead. God has cured me of the drink and opened
my eyes to the wickedness of my past.’

Grace shook her head, unable to comprehend what he was saying. ‘You’re still a man, Michael,’ she whispered, stepping closer. ‘God can’t change that.’

‘I will not break His Commandments. You are a married woman, Lady Rowan-Hampton.’

‘But I
need
you.’ Even now she wanted to offer herself to him. To taste him, to kiss the sweat off his forehead, and she could scarcely keep her hands from reaching out and
stroking him.

‘I’m sorry, Grace,’ he said, this time with more tenderness.

‘I waited for you, God damn it. I’ve waited
months
and
months.
’ Her voice was pleading, bordering on hysterical. ‘What am I? A jezebel?’

‘Yes,’ he said with a solemnity that shocked her. ‘I must never look at a jezebel again. I shall never again visit Babylon.’

Michael looked down at this woman who had always been so in control, of herself as well as everybody else. She had been a deadly weapon during the War of Independence, and many a British soldier
had lost his life because of her, but here she was standing before him, a woman like any other, appealing to a man. He shook his head. ‘I think you should go before you draw attention to
yourself,’ he said, not unkindly. Grace stared at him in disbelief, hating her submissive aching for him, longing to be rid of her dependence. Her vision began to blur but she searched his
face for signs of amusement, for surely this was a joke. Surely, this was a bloody-minded joke. But Michael’s face didn’t change. He looked back at her with the righteous expression of
a priest. She backed away, her cheeks aflame with mortification and fury.
If Mount Melleray could cure me of
you
, Michael, I’d be there like a shot.

On the first Wednesday in June, Sir Digby and Lady Deverill attended the Derby, the most famous flat race in the world, at Epsom Racecourse in Surrey. Accompanied by Celia and
Archie, Harry and Boysie and their insipid wives, Charlotte and Deirdre, who the two young men would have preferred to have left at home, they were in high spirits. The women wore elegant cloche
hats and coats yet Beatrice had chosen a larger, more Edwardian-style hat adorned with extravagant ostrich feathers and pearls that drew the eye as well as the comments, for many of the noble
ladies considered Lady Deverill rather brassy. ‘Who does she think she is, the Queen?’ they whispered behind their race cards. The gentlemen were dressed in the finest top hats and
tails but somehow Digby’s shoes and hat shone with more polish than anyone else’s, the cut of his collar was slightly more flamboyant than convention dictated and his confident swagger
gave the impression that he was a man of great importance. Today he felt indomitable, because, running in the race for the first time, was Digby’s colt Lucky Deverill whom he had been
training up in Newmarket. ‘I hope he has the luck of the
London
Deverills and not the
Co. Cork
Deverills,’ Boysie whispered to Celia, who swiftly reproached him with a
playful smack on the hand.

‘You’re wicked, Boysie!’

‘One cannot be chastised for telling the truth, Celia,’ he replied with a sniff.

‘Papa says he has a very good chance of winning.’

‘I think he is alone in that belief,’ said Boysie. ‘Judging by the odds.’

‘What do they know,’ Celia sniffed dismissively. ‘Papa says he’s bred to win the Derby.’

‘And he came fourth in the 2000 Guineas at Newmarket, yes, I know, your father told me that, too.’

‘You will bet on him, won’t you?’

‘Only for you, Celia. Though I doubt it will make me a fortune.’

‘If he wins, his value at stud will soar. The covering fees will be enormous. Papa will make a fortune.’

‘Another one,’ said Boysie with a smirk. ‘Your father’s rather good at making fortunes.’