Songs of Love and War (42 page)

Slowly Bridie stood up and crossed herself. Her heart flooded with sorrow. It was both unexpected and deep. Suddenly she felt very alone, like a raft cut adrift to float on the sea, rudderless
and vulnerable to storms and high waves. Mrs Grimsby was all she had and now she had no one.

She called for Miss Ferrel, who came running. The older woman felt her mistress’s pulse and shook her head. ‘She’s dead,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘She’s
finally let go. May she rest in peace. May God forgive her sins.’ Precious had curled up in the old lady’s lap. Mr Gordon appeared in the doorway like a spectre and bowed his head, but
Bridie saw no trace of sorrow in his features. Bridie left them alone and went to the beach to walk up the sand. It was the first free moment she had enjoyed since they had arrived the month
before, but there was no pleasure in it now. What was to become of her? Would the inheritor of Mrs Grimsby’s homes continue her employment or would she be released from her duties and left to
find another job?

When she returned to the Cottage Mrs Grimsby’s body had been taken away. Her chair was vacant. The Cottage seemed big and cold and very empty. Miss Ferrel told Bridie that she had informed
the family. ‘They’ll come like vultures now and take everything she had,’ said Miss Ferrel bitterly. She sat on the steps of the veranda and hugged her knees.

‘What will become of us?’ Bridie asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Ferrel. ‘I should think they’ll want to keep you on. As for me, I’m not so sure. Everyone needs a maid. I’m harder to
place.’ Miss Ferrel smiled at Bridie. ‘She was very fond of you, you know. All that reading she asked you to do.’

‘I think she liked my accent.’

‘It touched her, for sure. Her mother was Irish.’

‘I know. She told me only today.’

‘She was ashamed of being of Irish descent. She never talked about it. I don’t think she had ever opened that book of Yeats’s poetry before you arrived. Alice used to read her
other writers, but not Yeats. You stirred something in her, Bridget, if I may call you that.’ She smiled. ‘I’d like to think we’re friends.’

Bridie was confused. ‘I thought you didn’t like me.’

Miss Ferrel frowned. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

Bridie stiffened. ‘I thought you resented me. You had worked for her for twelve years and I arrived and she asked me to read—’

‘You think I was jealous of you?’

Bridie shrugged. ‘You left money under the bed to trap me, did you not?’

Miss Ferrel was baffled. ‘What money?’

‘And the earrings . . .’

‘Earrings? What are you saying, Bridget?’

‘You were trying to show her that I was dishonest.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Bridie began to feel uncomfortable. ‘The thousands of dollars I found under her bed and a pair of diamond earrings I discovered in the pocket of one of her dresses? Who else but you left
those things there?’

‘I swear it wasn’t me, Bridget.’

‘Then who was it?’

‘Mr Gordon?’ said Miss Ferrel slowly. ‘Could it have been Mr Gordon?’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because
he
was jealous. He was closer to her than anyone, even me.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it,’ said Bridie. ‘She’s gone.’

‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ Miss Ferrel agreed, looking pensive. She said nothing about the money
she
had found on Mrs Grimsby’s floor – and kept.

Once back in New York it wasn’t long before Mrs Grimsby’s nieces arrived with their mother, just as Miss Ferrel had predicted, and walked around the mansion arguing
over which paintings, ornaments and pieces of furniture should go to whom. ‘That table will look charming in my dining room,’ said Mrs Halloway. ‘I must have the chairs
too.’

‘But I’d like the chairs,’ said Mrs Kesler, sticking out her bottom lip and appealing to their mother.

‘The chairs must go with the table, Tally. I’m afraid you’ll have to choose something else. Why don’t you have her bed? It’s a mighty fine bed.’

Mrs Kesler screwed up her nose. ‘I don’t want her bed. She’s lain in it. That great big whale of a woman. It probably sags in the middle.’

‘You can buy a new mattress,’ her sister suggested with a smirk.

‘With the money I’m going to inherit, Evie, I can buy twenty new mattresses!’ Mrs Kesler exclaimed, cheering up. ‘All right, you can have the chairs, Evie, and I’ll
have the bed, without the mattress. I want the Persian rugs. All of them.’

‘Isn’t that a little greedy?’ their mother asked.

‘Evie doesn’t need them. She already has beautiful rugs. She got the chairs. I’m choosing the rugs. I’ll
have
those rugs, do you hear!’

Bridie left the room. She couldn’t bear to listen to the women fighting over Mrs Grimsby’s possessions when they hadn’t even buried her yet. When the women had previously come
to New York they had been united in their plot to endear themselves to their aunt; now they were squabbling like crows over carrion. If Mrs Grimsby had known how disrespectful and avaricious they
were going to be she might have considered burning down her houses so they got nothing.

‘Of course they can’t take anything until the will is read,’ Miss Ferrel told Bridie later when the three women had gone. They had departed in silence, furious with each other.
‘You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if she has left everything to charity.’

‘Indeed and that would serve them right,’ Bridie agreed. ‘They don’t deserve a dollar of her money.’

‘They don’t even deserve Precious,’ Miss Ferrel added. ‘Those women will kick her out onto the street.’

‘A job’s a job, but I don’t think I’d like to work for them,’ said Bridie. ‘I never thought I’d miss Mrs Grimsby.’

Miss Ferrel raised her eyebrows and shook her head. ‘You’re an odd girl, Bridget,’ she said.

Bridie and Miss Ferrel remained at the mansion for a week. They heard nothing from the family so they continued to do their jobs as normal, even though Mrs Grimsby was no longer there. Bridie
kept the place dusted and Miss Ferrel went through her desk and tidied her papers. When she had done that she took all the books down from the shelves and rearranged them in alphabetical order just
to keep busy.

Then, at the end of the week, Mr Williams drew up outside the mansion in a shiny car. He stepped out in a pristine suit and hat and rang the bell. Miss Ferrel answered and showed him into the
hall. He asked to see Miss Doyle. He had something important to say to her.

He put his briefcase down on Mrs Grimsby’s desk in the study and smiled at Bridie. ‘Good morning, Miss Doyle. As you know, I’m Mrs Grimsby’s attorney, Beaumont Williams.
I’m sorry for your loss.’ Once the pleasantries were out of the way, he sat down and put on his spectacles in a businesslike fashion. ‘Now, you might be aware that the reading of
the will took place yesterday in the presence of Mrs Grimsby’s family.’ She dropped her gaze into her lap where her fingers fidgeted nervously. ‘It came as quite a surprise to the
family when they were told that Mrs Grimsby has left her entire estate to you, Miss Doyle.’

‘Excuse me, sir?’ Bridie had gone white with shock.

Mr Williams’ eyes twinkled in amusement. He was clearly enjoying this. ‘Let me speak plainly, Miss Doyle. Mrs Grimsby changed her will only a few months ago. She said this would be
one hell of a surprise for her family who had never given her an ounce of affection until the very end. If I recall correctly, she said, “Miss Doyle has been more loyal to me than anyone I
have ever known, in truth she is the only member of my staff to prove her honesty, therefore it gives me enormous pleasure to reward her with everything I own. But it gives me even more pleasure to
deny my family an inheritance they don’t deserve.”’ He opened his briefcase with short, nimble fingers. ‘Now, let me show you the paperwork. It is a considerable fortune by
anyone’s standards.’ He grinned at her with satisfaction. ‘She was very specific about two things, however. She requested that you cherish her book of Yeats’s poetry, and
this.’
He pulled out the gold locket on the chain that the old lady had always worn and handed it to Bridie. She held it a moment in her trembling hand. ‘Don’t be
frightened to open it, Miss Doyle,’ said Mr Williams encouragingly. As her eyes blurred with tears she clicked it open. Inside was a green shamrock set behind glass.

London, England, spring 1923

Celia Deverill and Lachlan Kirkpatrick’s scandalous flight to his father’s estate in Scotland sent waves of astonishment and disbelief through the grand drawing
rooms of London society. Digby and Beatrice were devastated by their daughter’s incomprehensible decision to abandon her new husband; Vivien and Leona furious that their sister should bring
dishonour to their family name; Kitty bewildered that her cousin had decided to run off after she had taken her marriage vows and not before, which would have been more sensible. The grandees who
smoked cigars and drank port in the exclusive London clubs rallied around Digby, patting him on the back and reassuring him that his daughter would soon come to her senses and hoof it back to
London like a runaway horse when she realized that her lover was not as exceptional as she had previously thought. If he was anything like his dishonest and puffed-up father, Porky Kirkpatrick,
she’d regret her choice and beg Archie Mayberry to have her back. Those women who envied Beatrice’s eclectic wealth and collection of friends relished her daughter’s sudden fall
from grace and gossiped maliciously in the tea rooms of Fortnum & Mason and the Ritz Hotel where the ill-fated wedding reception had taken place. No one, however, enjoyed the scandal more than
Maud Deverill.

‘Poor Beatrice,’ she sighed disingenuously, bringing the delicate china teacup to her lips. ‘People are fickle. I doubt her salons will be so well attended in
future.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ said Victoria, sitting opposite her mother in the pretty green sitting room of her London home that looked out onto pink camellias and white
viburnum blossoming brightly in her lavish garden. ‘Celia always had a wild streak. Don’t you remember those summers when she and Kitty would run off like feral dogs and get up to all
sorts of mischief?’

‘They were as bad as each other but Beatrice was much too indulgent. Anything Celia did was amusing in her eyes. Frankly, I wanted to give her a good smack.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure that Beatrice’s Salons will be diminished by the scandal. There’s nothing people love more than a drama and everyone will be longing to be in the
know. I predict they’ll be flocking there in droves just to be at the centre of it all.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Maud was disappointed.

‘At least it’s distracted everyone from Kitty’s baby. You should be grateful to Celia for that.’

Maud sighed. ‘Kitty’s baby. I don’t want to speak of it. She’s irresponsible and selfish. She hasn’t considered me for a minute. Or you, for that matter. What does
Eric think?’

‘Oh Eric couldn’t give a monkey. He doesn’t relish gossip and like most men he finds Kitty compelling.’

‘She needs to marry,’ said Maud firmly. ‘A strong man will put her in her place.’

Victoria wasn’t convinced. ‘Then she needs to find a
very
strong man indeed.’

As soon as Harry discovered where Celia was he and Boysie took the Flying Scotsman to Edinburgh. ‘Who wants to live in Scotland?’ said Boysie, settling into the
seat of the first-class dining carriage. ‘It’s full of Scottish people.’

Harry laughed at Boysie’s irreverence. ‘I doubt Celia thought of that before she ran off with him.’

‘It’s all very well going north to fish and stalk but a week of wet feet and cold toes is enough to send anyone in their right mind shooting back down south. I really can’t
abide those dreadful kilts. Most of the men who wear them have bulging calves and knobbly knees. I find the knee the least attractive part of the human body. It shouldn’t ever be on
show.’

‘I hate to think what part of the body you
do
want on show. I suppose Lachlan wears a kilt, does he?’

‘Most certainly. He’s without doubt a kilt-wearer and offensive with it. No one but the King should wear a kilt. Kings are meant to dress up, it’s what they do, and tourists
love the pageantry. But aristocrats harping on about their clans and their tartans and their silly Scottish reels are really very tiresome.’ He pulled a face at Harry. ‘Remind me, old
boy, why we’re going to Scotland!’

The station master blew his whistle and a puff of steam billowed up the platform in a quickly evaporating cloud. Slowly the wheels screeched and the train began to move out of the station.
‘We have to make Celia see the error of her ways,’ said Harry. ‘She might have to beg but I’m sure Archie will take her back. They’re married, after all. For better or
for worse and all that.’

‘Lachlan might be devilishly handsome and unconventional, but really, one doesn’t want
that
every day of one’s life. He’s a terrible egoist. Poor Celia!’

‘If he had given
her
a thought he wouldn’t have encouraged her to run off with him. Her reputation is in tatters.’

‘On the contrary, old boy, she’s become much more interesting because of it. If she returns to Archie they’ll be the toast of the town. You wait, there won’t be a hostess
in London who won’t want them at her table – excluding a few stuffy old dowagers, of course. There are always those.’ Boysie extracted his silver cigarette case from the inside
pocket of his jacket and opened it. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ Harry took one and popped it between his lips. Boysie flicked his lighter and Harry puffed on the flame. ‘I hope she sees
sense,’ Boysie added, lighting a cigarette for himself. ‘I’m not going all the way to Scotland for nothing.’

‘Then you’d better hone your powers of persuasion,’ said Harry.

‘I’m hoping that pea-size brain of hers will have worked it out already. Darling Celia, I do love her most ardently, but it seems to me that the brains in the Deverill family went
directly to Kitty. No offence, old boy, but it’s not for your brains that I love you.’