Daughters of Castle Deverill (39 page)

‘I thought he looked incredibly well when I saw him last,’ said Celia.

‘That might well be. But he has his ups and downs. He must have been on an up. Sadly, the last few months have not been good. When one is as old as he is the decline is a sharp one. Still,
he has had a good life.’ Before Beatrice could object Augusta continued stridently. ‘As for me, I didn’t think I’d survive Archie’s suicide but I’m still here.
One more tragedy and I think my heart will simply pack it in. There is only so much a person can take. I’ve cried so much, there isn’t a tear left inside me.’ She then proceeded
to give them both a lengthy account of all her friends who were ill, dying or dead. The most gruesome tales gave her the most pleasure. ‘So you see, I must consider myself fortunate. When I
compare myself to them I realize that shame is a small thing really. After all, no one ever died of shame.’

‘None of us feel at all ashamed,’ said Beatrice. ‘We just feel desperately sad for Archie and sorry for Celia. But we’re not dwelling on sorrow.’

‘I hear from my man at Christie’s that you are selling the contents of the castle.’ Celia flushed. ‘Now why would you do that? Surely Digby won’t allow
it.’

‘Digby is not in a position to help,’ said Beatrice, enjoying the look of surprise that took hold of Augusta’s face.

‘Whatever do you mean, not in a position to help? Of course he is.’

‘I’m afraid he is not. Most of the country has been affected by the Stock Market crash and Digby is no different.’

‘Good Lord, I don’t believe it.’

‘I’m afraid it is true.’

‘I shall speak to him at once—’

‘Please don’t,’ said Beatrice swiftly. ‘He won’t want to discuss it. You know what he’s like. Like you, Augusta, he keeps everything bottled up inside. As far
as anyone is concerned he is absolutely fine. But you are his mother, so you should know. Celia has to sell the contents of the castle in order to pay off Archie’s debts, of which there are
many.’ She wanted to add ‘and his family’s debts’ but she didn’t want to embarrass her daughter. Celia winced at the thought of the money she had to find but hastily
pushed her anxieties aside. While she sat in her mother’s sumptuous drawing room she could pretend that everything was as it should be.

‘And the castle?’ Augusta asked in a tight voice.

Celia shrugged. ‘I might have to sell that too,’ she replied.

Augusta inhaled a gulp of air. ‘Then that will surely be the death of me,’ she said. ‘Shame might do me in, after all.’

Celia escaped her grandmother and the stifling heat of London and fled to Deverill Rising in Wiltshire to spend the weekend with her family. She invited Boysie and Harry who
turned up with their wives, but at least on the golf course she could be rid of them for neither Charlotte nor Deirdre played golf. Harry and Boysie seemed just as happy to be free of them as she
was.

Digby, dressed in a flamboyant pair of green checked breeches, long green socks and a bright red sleeveless sweater over a yellow shirt, was an erratic golfer. He roared with laughter when he
hit his ball into the rough and punched the air when, by some miracle, he got a hole in one. His two black Labradors headed straight into the copse like a pair of seals in search of fish, appearing
a few minutes later with their mouths full of golf balls – mostly Digby’s, from previous games.

Celia was a steady player while Boysie and Harry, fashionably dressed in pale, coordinating colours, were less interested in the actual sport. For them it was a way of spending a whole morning
together in the company of people who didn’t judge them.

‘Grandma gave me a grilling,’ Celia told her father as they walked to the next hole. ‘She’s incredibly tactless.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but she does like to have her say.’

‘She says she’ll die of shame if I sell the castle.’

‘She’ll outlive us all, mark my words,’ said Digby.

‘She thinks Grandpa is going to pop off at any minute.’

‘Grandpa is not going anywhere,’ Digby replied firmly. ‘If he’s survived sixty odd years being married to her, he’ll survive a few more.’ He chuckled.
‘I’m sure he’s built up a strong immunity to her over the years.’

Celia put her hands in her cardigan pockets. ‘Someone has made me an offer for the castle,’ she said. ‘A big offer. Much more than it’s worth.’

Digby stopped walking. ‘Do you know who?’

‘Oh I don’t know. A rich man. American.’

‘Are you asking my advice?’

‘Yes. You know my financial situation better than I do. Really, it’s such a muddle and so many noughts. I do hate all those beastly noughts.’

‘You don’t have to sell.’ A shadow darkened her father’s face. ‘At least, not yet.’

‘He wants to buy the castle with everything in it.’

‘You don’t have to sell the castle,’ Digby said decisively, striding on. ‘We saved it once and we’ll save it again. Now, where are those bloody dogs?’

Her father placed the ball on the tee and shuffled his feet into position. Celia noticed that his face had gone red, but she thought it was due to the exertion of walking the course. It had been
a long way and the summer sun was blazing. She wondered whether he should take off his sweater. He lined up his club, patting it a few times on the green. Little beads of perspiration had started
to form on his brow and his breathing had grown suddenly tight, as if he was struggling to inhale. Celia looked anxiously at the boys who had also noticed and were watching him with concern.

‘Papa,’ said Celia. ‘I think perhaps we should take a break. It’s very hot and even
I’m
feeling faint.’ But Digby was determined to take the shot. He
swung his club. Just as he twisted his body, his arm went weak and he fell to his knees. Celia rushed to his side. ‘Papa!’ she cried, not knowing where to put her hands or what to do.
She felt a sickness invade her stomach. Digby was now puce. His eyes bulged and his mouth opened in a silent gasp. He pressed a hand against his chest.

Harry and Boysie helped lie him down on the grass. Harry loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. His breathing was laboured. He stared but seemed to see nothing. Then with a great force of
will he grabbed Celia by her collar and pulled her down so that her face was an inch from his. She let out a terrified squeal. ‘Burn . . . my . . .
letters,’ he wheezed. Then his hand lost its strength and fell to the ground.

Ballinakelly, Co. Cork, 1667

Charles II, six foot tall, black-eyed, black-haired, swarthy and as handsome as the Devil, was in his apartments in the rambling, ramshackle rabbit warren that was Whitehall
Palace. Attended by his mistress, Countess of Castlemaine, his friend the Duke of Buckingham, and his pack of spaniels, which he referred to as his ‘children’, he was sitting at the
card table when Lord Deverill strode into the room and bowed low. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said.

‘Oh join us, Deverill,’ said the King without looking up. ‘Take a hand. What’s y’ stake?’

The King liked winning money off his friends and Deverill tossed his into the middle of the table and sat down. ‘How are the girls out there in godforsaken Ireland, Deverill?’

‘Bonny,’ Lord Deverill replied. ‘But my mind isn’t on the girls, Your Majesty, but on the rebels . . .’

The King waved his hands and the large jewels on his fingers glittered in the candlelight and the intricate lace ruffles of his sleeve fluttered about his wrists. ‘We’ll send you
some men, of course, speak to Clarendon,’ he said and that was as much business as the King wanted to discuss. Lord Deverill knew there was a strong chance that reinforcements would come too
late, if at all, because the King was more concerned about the threat of invasion from the Dutch. ‘How considerate of you, Deverill, to marry a beautiful woman,’ the King continued, his
lips curling into a languid smile as the Countess stuck out her bottom lip and gave a loud and irritated sigh. ‘We’re all terribly tired of looking at the same faces and gossiping about
the same people. You really must bring her to Court more often.’

‘She would like that very much,’ Lord Deverill replied. The King was unable to resist the allure of a beautiful woman and had been given the nickname ‘Old Rowley’ after a
lecherous old goat that used to roam the privy garden. Lord Deverill did not believe he would wear a pair of horns well and decided that the sooner he took his wife to Ireland the better.

However, this was not the occasion to take her to Castle Deverill. Barton left his wife in the safety of their house in London and headed for home. It was a long and arduous journey across the
Irish Sea, but the weather was favourable and he reached the mainland without a hitch. With a small escort of the King’s men who had met him at the port he galloped over the hills towards
Ballinakelly.

The wind blew in strong gusts, propelling him on, and oppressive grey clouds gathered damp and heavy above him. Spring was but a few weeks away and yet the landscape looked wintry and cold and
the buds already forming on the trees remained firmly shut. Still, in spite of the bleak light and dreary skies, Ireland’s soft beauty was arresting. Her green and gently undulating fields
appealed directly to his heart and Lord Deverill feared the scene of devastation that would welcome him home.

With trepidation he cantered to the crest of the hill and looked down into the valley where his castle stood, overlooking the ocean. His heart plummeted to his feet as he gazed upon the
manifestation of all his ambitions, now a grisly wreck, still leaking a ribbon of smoke into the wind. Fury rose in him then like a latent beast suddenly awoken by the sharp prod of a sword. He dug
his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped down the track. His gut twisted with anguish as he approached the scene of battle. Although the castle was still standing it had taken a
terrible battering and the eastern tower had been completely lost to fire.

He recognized his friend, the Duke of Ormonde’s, colours at once and when the soldiers saw him they were quick to take him to their captain. ‘Lord Deverill,’ he said as Barton
strode into the hall.

‘What the devil has happened?’ he asked, his feverish eyes scanning the room for damage and finding none. At least they hadn’t fought their way
into
the building, he
reflected.

‘His grace rushed to your aid as soon as he heard the news. We arrived just in time to secure the castle. Your men were on the back foot. Had it not been for his grace’s quick
response you wouldn’t have had a home to come back to.’

‘I cannot express my gratitude. I am forever indebted to the Duke,’ said Lord Deverill quietly. As loyal supporters of King Charles II during his exile in France, the Duke and Lord
Deverill had become firm friends. At the restoration Ormonde had recovered his vast estates in Ireland confiscated by Cromwell and been reinstated Lieutenant of Ireland, a position he had held
under King Charles I. He was consequently the most powerful man in the country. An important ally most certainly but he was also a trusty friend; when Lord Deverill had needed him most Ormonde had
not let him down.

‘Who’s behind this?’ Lord Deverill growled. ‘By God I shall have their heads.’

‘Those who survived are imprisoned in the stables. You can be sure that the Duke will see that they are severely castigated. This is not simply a rebellion against your lordship, but a
revolt against the King and they shall be duly punished.’

‘We must make an example of them,’ said Lord Deverill fiercely. ‘Let the people of Co. Cork see what happens when they rise up against their English lords.’

The Captain rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘There is a woman at the heart of the plot, Lord Deverill, and she will be tried as a witch.’

Lord Deverill’s face drained of colour. ‘A woman?’ he said slowly, but he knew very well who she was.

‘Indeed. A pagan woman called O’Leary, my lord. It is she who started the rebellion. The men are quick to accuse her of bewitching them. After all, this was her land, was it not,
Lord Deverill, and it has been reported that she cursed you and your descendants. There are many who witnessed it.’

Lord Deverill didn’t know what to say. He could not deny the curse and any word in her favour could be counterproductive, considering what he had done to her in the woods. He pictured her
face, as it appeared to him in daydreams and night terrors, and nodded sharply. ‘She did,’ he replied. His mind searched wildly for a way to help her, scurrying about his head like a
rabbit in a pen, but found nothing. His jaw tensed at the thought of her inciting rebellion, at the horror of his ruined home and at her betrayal. He had no business in helping her, no business in
loving her. Yet, she had crawled beneath his skin and insinuated herself into his heart like an exquisite caterpillar, exploding upon his consciousness like a beautiful butterfly. Perhaps that was
witchcraft too?

‘What will become of her?’ Lord Deverill asked.

The Captain pulled a face and shrugged. ‘She’ll most likely burn,’ he replied and his words made Lord Deverill wince.

‘Most likely?’

‘Aye, it’s the decision of his grace, His Majesty’s representative, and yourself.’

‘Very well,’ he replied with a shudder, knowing there was no decision to be made; no reason to save her that would not expose
him
. ‘I will leave it to his grace. I
have no wish to see her.’ He didn’t want her throwing accusations at him, although he doubted anyone would believe them; he was ashamed of having taken her in the wood.

‘She was pregnant, Milord, almost to term.’

‘Pregnant?’ Lord Deverill repeated, making a great effort to keep his voice steady. But the panic that suddenly gripped his stomach was as potent as a physical blow.

‘Aye, but she lost it,’ the Captain added. ‘She’ll be tried now and God save her soul.’

Lord Deverill took his bottom lip between his teeth and ran his tongue along the soft inside part where she had bitten him. He could still almost taste the blood. The thought of laying eyes on
her, bound like a captured animal, made him recoil. He was afraid, not just because she was a witch, but because he was frightened of his own heart and what it might rouse him to do. ‘Then
let it be done,’ he said and left the room.