Daughters of Castle Deverill (20 page)

Wrapped in coats and hats, sheltering beneath umbrellas, the small party who had parked their cars behind the grandstand hurried inside. It was warm and exclusive in there and they were quick to
help themselves to refreshments. ‘Goodness, there are so many people on the hill!’ Celia groaned, looking out onto the rise of common land where the fairground loomed out of the rain
like a mythological sea creature. ‘I do so hate the great unwashed!’

‘The hoi polloi,’ said Boysie. ‘I’m glad they’re out
there
and we’re in
here
.’

‘Quite,’ she agreed. ‘It’s hell out there. I swear the entire East End has decamped for the day.’

‘Darling, the whole of London has decamped for the day,’ said Boysie. ‘You’d have thought the rain would have put people off, but no, there’s nothing like a free
day out for the great British public.’

Due to the inclement weather the trains had been restricted and the day was soon dubbed a Petrol Derby, with makeshift car parks being set up in the large sodden fields either side of the drive
to accommodate the swollen number of vehicles. The wet and dismal conditions, however, did not deter the thousands of people who arrived in cars, double-decker buses and charabancs. Some even
arrived in stage coaches pulled by fine horses. Piled into and
on
to the coaches the delighted passengers waved cheerfully at the crowds as policemen in capes and helmets tried to maintain
some sort of order for the arrival of the King and Queen. When they appeared at last, in the middle of a long convoy of gleaming cars, the crowd stopped what they were doing to watch. The King sat
stiffly beside the Queen, who was wearing one of her typically elaborate feathered hats, raising his hand every now and again to greet his people. The girls, however, were much more interested in
the dashing Prince of Wales and erupted into a clatter of applause when they saw him.

Once in the relative calm of the stands Digby and Beatrice wandered around the gallery greeting their friends and acquaintances. It was there that Digby bumped into Stanley Baldwin, the Prime
Minister, for Parliament was always adjourned for the Derby. ‘Ah, Prime Minister,’ he exclaimed, striding up to him. The Prime Minister swept his eyes over Digby’s flamboyant
purple-and-green waistcoat and pink spotted tie and grinned. For a man of his breeding there was something rather brash about Sir Digby Deverill. Mr Baldwin lifted his top hat in salutation.
‘Sir Digby, Lady Deverill, I see you have a horse racing this year,’ he said.

‘Indeed we do,’ Digby replied. ‘He’s a fine colt. Young but swift. I have high expectations of him.’

‘I’m sure you do, Sir Digby,’ said Mr Baldwin archly. ‘You didn’t get to where you are today without the desire to be a winner.’

‘Nor you, if I may be so bold.’

‘Indeed.’ Mr Baldwin smiled, acknowledging Digby’s wit with a slight nod of the head. ‘What are the odds?’

‘Sixteen to one,’ Digby replied.

‘A long shot.’ Stanley Baldwin was well-known as a plain-speaking man. The Prime Minister chuckled. It did not seem likely that Lucky Deverill would win. ‘Then I wish you
luck,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how is work progressing on that castle of yours?’

‘My daughter is pouring money into the project. If it doesn’t outshine Windsor Castle in opulence and grandeur I shall be very disappointed.’

‘Is she intending to live there?’ Mr Baldwin asked, incredulous, for Celia’s reputation as a socialite was well-documented. ‘I would have thought a lively girl like Mrs
Mayberry would find life in Co. Cork dull by comparison to London.’ He smiled at Beatrice, noticing the large diamonds that glittered on her ears and beneath her left shoulder in the form of
an elaborately crafted flower brooch.
Those Randlords!
he thought to himself with a barely perceptible shake of the head.

‘Oh, but it’s beautiful in the summer,’ Beatrice interjected emphatically.

‘But not quite so beautiful in the winter, I don’t imagine,’ Mr Baldwin argued.

‘Then we must hope that Celia shines bright enough to bring the London glamour to Ballinakelly.’ Digby gave his Brigg umbrella a couple of taps on the floor and roared a belly laugh
that sounded like gold in a prospector’s pan. ‘Because, by God, no one else can.’

Mr Baldwin laughed with him. Digby’s ebullience was shameless but irresistible. ‘Of that I have no doubt, Sir Digby. Mrs Mayberry is the very sun itself.’

Beatrice was distracted by a friend who caught her eye and Mr Baldwin raised his hat at her departure. Digby put a hand on his shoulder and moved closer. ‘Do let me know if I can help the
Party in any way,’ he said in a low voice.

‘I will,’ said Mr Baldwin bluffly. ‘Your help is much appreciated.’

‘I hope one day I will be rewarded,’ said Digby.

‘You’ve been very well rewarded already with your baronetcy,’ the Prime Minister reminded him.

‘Oh, that bauble,’ Digby chuckled. ‘A viscountcy is much more to my taste.’

‘Is it? Is it?’ said Mr Baldwin, embarrassed at the brashness of the Randlord. ‘I think you’ve done very well already,’ he added.

‘Up to a point,’ said Digby with that golden gravel laugh. ‘Up to a point.’

Celia threaded through the crowds with Boysie and Harry, leaving their wives discussing the weather with a tedious group of Edwardian ladies, old enough to remember the Crimean War. Archie was
with his mother, who had slipped her hand around his arm and thus staked her claim. There would be no getting away from her until luncheon. Celia, Boysie and Harry were only too delighted to find
themselves unencumbered and wandered about in search of fun people to talk to.

As they reached the steps to the upper terrace who should be coming down, surrounded by a coterie of courtiers, but the Prince of Wales himself, who had left the Royal Box to go to the paddock.
He recognized Celia at once and his handsome face creased into a debonair smile. ‘My dear Celia,’ he said and Celia dropped into a deep curtsy.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ she said. ‘May I present my cousin Harry Deverill and my friend Boysie Bancroft?’ The Prince shook hands and the boys duly bowed.

‘You know I’ve known Celia since she was this high,’ he told them, placing his hand a few feet above the floor.

‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me that I have hardly changed,’ Celia laughed.

His blue eyes twinkled at her flirtatiously. ‘You’ve certainly grown taller,’ said the Prince. ‘And prettier too.’

‘Oh sir, you’re much too kind,’ said Celia, blushing with pleasure. ‘The King looks awfully well,’ she added. ‘And the Queen . . .’

‘Mama’s hats are so ugly,’ the Prince interjected. ‘She looks hideous in those ridiculous toques!’

Celia giggled. ‘Papa has a horse running in the race.’

‘So I see. If he wins, he’ll be insufferable.’

‘He’s already insufferable,’ Celia said with a smile.

‘He’s a
bon viveur
,’ said the Prince.

Celia grinned raffishly and leaned a little closer to him. ‘It takes one to know one, sir.’

‘Celia, you’re incorrigible!’ He laughed. ‘I will go and find your papa and wish him luck.’

‘Oh do, sir. He’s quite beside himself with nerves, though he’ll never admit it.’ The Prince chuckled and moved on into the crowd of people who were all watching him out
of the corners of their eyes and hoping he’d come their way.

‘The Prince of Wales rendered me dumbstruck,’ said Boysie once he was gone. ‘He’s outrageously attractive!’

‘The wittiest tongue in London was silenced?’ said Harry, feigning astonishment.

‘I’m afraid it was, old boy,’ Boysie replied. ‘Fortunately Celia’s was adroit enough for the three of us.’

‘I’ve known him for years. He’s a darling! Come on, let’s go and find some
young
people to talk to,’ Celia suggested and they headed off up the stairs.

On the common ground that was the hill, the weather had not dampened the spirits of the thousands of people who had flocked to the racecourse. The noise was overpowering: coach horns tooting,
bookmakers hollering their odds, salesmen advertising their wares, car engines rattling and the general public shouting in different dialects. The refreshment tents were full to bursting, the
stalls busy selling wares and the fairground full of mirth. Laughter resounded from the carousel, rose up from the cockshies and was swiftly smothered in the sealed booths advertising werewolves
and other monstrosities. Gypsies lured the gullible into their colourful caravans to learn their futures (and the identity of the Derby winner) in exchange for a palm crossed with silver, and
artists positioned themselves beneath makeshift shelters to sketch portraits of those whose hats and hairdos had not been ruined by the rain. Double-decker buses and cars were parked as close to
the running rail as possible and piled with people keen to have pole position for the races while pedlars accosted them from the ground, hawking goods. The earth grew soggy but the desire to enjoy
themselves kept the spectators buoyant – as did the desire to win money, for the queues at the bookmakers’ were very long indeed.

Before the Derby Celia went down to the paddock with her father to watch the horses parading. Digby’s jockey was a five foot six Irishman of almost forty years old called Willie Maguire,
notorious for his fondness of drink. Many whispered that Willie was too unreliable and that Sir Digby had been misguided to offer him the ride, but Digby was a man wise enough to take advice from
those who knew better. In this case, his trainer, Mike Newcomb, had more experience and knowledge than he did and Digby trusted him implicitly. If Newcomb had appointed a seventy-year-old jockey
with arthritis he would have agreed wholeheartedly.

‘Oh Papa, wouldn’t it be glorious if Lucky Deverill won! Willie would most certainly win the most fetching jockey in his green and white.’

Digby chuckled. ‘He’s got more mileage under his belt than all of them put together, I suspect.’

‘And Lucky Deverill is a fine horse.’ Celia ran her eyes up and down the animal’s gleaming limbs.

‘He’s well put together, no one can deny that. He looks like he’ll get the trip as he has plenty of scope.’

‘Plenty,’ Celia agreed without understanding her father’s racing jargon.

‘This is
our
year,’ Digby said to his daughter. ‘If ever I am to win the Derby it will be today.’

‘Do you really think so?’

Digby nodded thoughtfully, remembering the day he struck lucky in the South African diamond fields. ‘When you’re lucky, Celia, you carry that luck around with you for a while. Luck
attracts more luck. That’s the time to exploit it.’

‘Can you say the same about
bad
luck?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid it works both ways. Sometimes bad luck sticks to you like mud. In that case you weather it. But we’re on a lucky roll, Celia my dear, and today we’re going to
win.’ He waved at Willie as the jockey walked Lucky Deverill past.

‘Oh Papa, you’re wonderfully confident,’ she gushed, full of admiration for her daring father.

‘Until my luck runs out,’ he added.

‘But it won’t, surely.’

‘Oh, but it will,’ he said with certainty. Then he grinned the grin of a gambler who is as much excited by the possibility of loss as he is of gain. What mattered to Digby was the
thrill of the game. ‘But sometimes one can make one’s own luck,’ he added with a wink.

The horses left the paddock and paraded in front of the grandstand where the King and Queen and the Prince of Wales observed them keenly from the Royal Box. The air grew tense as the crowd
watched them canter across the downs to take their starting positions behind the rope. Celia stood beside her father at the front of the gallery at the very top of the grandstand, directly opposite
the winning post. ‘I’m a bundle of nerves,’ she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘But terribly excited.’

Digby put his field glasses to his eyes and watched the horses arrange themselves at the start. His heart began to pound in his chest like a drum. His cheeks flushed with competitiveness and it
took a great force of will to steady his hands. He could see Lucky Deverill clearly, the green-and-white silks of Willie Maguire, right in the middle of the lineup. He muttered under his breath.
Then the flag fell and they were away.

Celia barely dared breathe as the horses thundered off up the long incline, contracting into a tight huddle. The crowd was pressed up against the rails either side of the track and the noise of
cheering was deafening. Digby said nothing. He watched through his field glasses, perfectly still, while Celia jumped and fidgeted nervously beside him. Beatrice wrung her hands while Harry and
Boysie watched Lucky Deverill fall back on the outside. ‘Digby might have to rename him
Un
lucky Deverill,’ said Boysie in a low voice and Harry chuckled. He thought of the bet
he had placed in support of Celia; he might as well have just burned the money.

The horses galloped up the hill, disappearing briefly behind the copse at the top before starting their descent towards Tattenham Corner, the most famous corner in racing. The inexperienced
horses, fearful of the steep slope, began to slow down while the more experienced horses advanced, creating a muddle. Lucky Deverill had not yet distinguished himself. He languished behind the
first six horses. Beatrice shot a surreptitious glance at her husband, inhaling sharply through her nose at the sight of his immobile profile; there was something in the barely perceptible twitch
of his lower lip that caused her heart to snag. Celia put her fingers to her mouth and began to chew her glove.

It was at that moment, when the horses slowed down just before the home stretch, that something extraordinary began to happen. The sharp bend had flung some of the horses wide into the field and
Willie Maguire, being a seasoned jockey, took advantage of this, hugging the inside. To Digby’s astonishment Lucky Deverill was gaining momentum – and gaining it fast. Digby’s
knuckles went white. He lowered his field glasses. The horses advanced up the slope towards the winning post and all Digby could see was the bright green and white edging its way past the fourth,
then the third, grabbing the rising ground. It wasn’t possible! His breath stuck in his throat. The noise grew more intense but he heard nothing, just the hammering sound of blood pulsating
against his temples.