The Daughters of Ireland

Dedication

To Sebag

with love and gratitude

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Barton Deverill

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Two

Barton Deverill

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part Three

Barton Deverill

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Barton Deverill

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Santa Montefiore

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

Barton Deverill

Ballinakelly, County Cork, 1662

A salty wind swept over the white beaches and rocky cliffs of Ballinakelly Bay, carrying on its breath the mournful cry of gulls and the crashing of waves. Gray clouds hung low and a gentle drizzle misted the air. Swathes of green pastures and yellow gorse rendered it hard to believe the violence of Ireland’s history, for even in that dull, early spring light, hers was a flawless, innocent beauty. Indeed, in that moment when the seemingly impenetrable canopy above thinned sufficiently to allow a beam of sunlight to filter through it, Barton Deverill, the first Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly, vowed to heal the scars of Cromwell’s brutality and bring comfort and prosperity to the people over whom he now presided. Wrapped in a velvet riding cape of the deepest crimson, a wide-brimmed hat with a swirling plume placed at a raffish angle on his head, high leather boots with silver spurs and a sword at his hip, he sat astride his horse and ran his eyes over the vast expanse of land bestowed on him by the recently restored King Charles II in gratitude for his loyalty. Indeed, Barton Deverill had been one of the leading commanders in the fight against Cromwell’s conquest of Ireland. After the defeat at Worcester he had fled across the sea with the King and accompanied him during his long exile; a title and land were satisfactory recompense for Cromwell’s confiscation of his family’s lands in England and the years he had devoted to the Crown. Now he was no longer a young man, thirsty for combat and adventure, but a man in middle age eager to put away his sword and enjoy the fruits of his endeavors. Where better to lay down his roots than here in this startlingly beautiful land?

The castle was taking shape. It was going to be magnificent, overlooking the sea with towers and turrets and high walls thick enough to repel the enemy, although Lord Deverill would have rather seen an end to the violence. Protestant though he was and an Englishman to his marrow, he didn’t see why he and the Irish Catholics couldn’t respect and tolerate each other. After all, the past lived only in one’s memory, whereas the future was forged on the attitudes of today; with understanding and acceptance in the present a peaceful land could surely be attained.

He signaled to his large retinue of attendants and the group continued slowly toward the small hamlet of Ballinakelly. It had rained heavily during the night and the road was thick with mud. The sound of squelching hooves heralded their arrival, striking fear into the hearts of the people who had witnessed too much blood to be complacent about Englishmen on horseback. Men watched them warily, having not until that moment laid eyes upon their new lord and master. Women blanched, hastily sweeping up their children and retreating into their houses and slamming the doors behind them. A few intrepid youngsters remained barefoot in the drizzle like scarecrows, wide-eyed and hungry, as the English gentlemen with fine leather boots and plumes in their hats rode into their midst.

Lord Deverill halted his steed and turned to his friend, Sir Toby Beckwyth-Stubbs, a portly man with a sweeping auburn mustache and long curly hair in the fashionable cut of the Cavaliers. So this is the heart of my empire, he said, gesticulating with his gloved hand, then added with sarcasm, I can see that I am well loved here.

Years of bloodshed have made them wary, Barton, Sir Toby replied. I’m sure with a little gentle persuasion they can be brought to heel.

There’ll be no persuasion of that nature here, my friend. Barton raised his voice. I will be a beneficent lord if they’ll swear me their allegiance.

Just then, a woman in a long black Bandon cloak stepped into the track. It seemed as if the wind dropped suddenly and a stillness came over the village. The ragged children melted away and only the woman remained, her dress trailing in the mud.

Who is this? Lord Deverill demanded.

The estate manager brought his horse alongside his master’s. Maggie O’Leary, milord, he informed him.

And who is this Maggie O’Leary?

Her family owned the land you are building on, milord.

Ah, said Lord Deverill, rubbing his beard with a gloved hand. I suppose she wants it back. His joke caused his attendants much amusement and they tossed their heads and laughed. But the young woman stared at them with such boldness the laughter faded into a few nervous chuckles and no one had the courage to outstare her. I am happy to pay her something, Lord Deverill added.

She is clearly mad, Sir Toby hissed anxiously. Let us be rid of her at once.

But Lord Deverill raised his hand. There was something in the confidence of her stance that aroused his curiosity. No. Let’s hear what she has to say.

Maggie O’Leary gave a quiver of her white fingers and, with a movement so light and fluid that her hands might have been a pair of snowy birds, she pulled back her hood. Lord Deverill’s breath caught in his chest for he had never before seen such beauty, not even in the French court. Her hair was long and black and shone like the wings of a raven, her face was as pale as moonlight. She curled her lips which were full and red like winterberries. But it was her light green eyes that severed the laughter from their throats and moved the factotum to cross himself vigorously and whisper under his breath. Keep your wits about you, sire, for surely she’s a witch.

Maggie O’Leary lifted her chin and settled her gaze on Lord Deverill. Her voice was low and mellifluous, like wind. "Is mise Peig Ni Laoghaire. A Tiarna Deverill, dhein tú éagóir orm agus ar mo shliocht trín ár dtalamh a thógáil agus ár spiorad a bhriseadh. Go dtí go gceartaíonn tú na h-éagóracha siúd, cuirim malacht ort féin agus d-oidhrí, I dtreo is go mbí sibh gan suaimhneas síoraí I ndomhan na n-anmharbh."

Lord Deverill turned to his estate manager. What did she say? The old factotum swallowed, afraid to repeat the words. Well? Lord Deverill demanded. Speak up, man, or have you lost your tongue?

Very well, my lord, but God protect us from this witch. He cleared his throat and when he spoke his voice was thin and trembling. Lord Deverill, you have wronged me and my descendants by taking our land and breaking our spirits. Until you right those wrongs I curse you and your heirs to an eternity of unrest and to the world of the undead. A collective gasp went up behind him and Sir Toby reached for his sword.

Lord Deverill scoffed, turning to his men with an uneasy smile. Are we to fear the empty words of a peasant woman? When he looked back she was gone.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Ballinakelly, 1925

Kitty Trench kissed the little boy’s soft cheek. As the child returned her smile, her heart flooded with an aching tenderness. Be good for Miss Elsie, Little Jack, she said softly. She patted his red hair, which was exactly the same shade as hers. I won’t be long. She turned to the nanny, the gentleness in her expression giving way to purpose. Keep a close eye on him, Elsie. Don’t let him out of your sight.

Miss Elsie frowned and wondered whether the anxiety on Mrs. Trench’s face had something to do with the strange Irishwoman who had turned up at the house the day before. She had stood on the lawn staring at the child, her expression a mixture of sorrow and longing as if the sight of Little Jack had caused her great anguish. Miss Elsie had approached her and asked if she could help, but the woman had mumbled an excuse and hurriedly bolted for the gate. It was such a peculiar encounter that Miss Elsie had thought to mention it to Mrs. Trench at once. The ferocity of her mistress’s reaction had unnerved the nanny. Mrs. Trench had paled and her eyes had filled with fear as if she had, for a long time, dreaded this woman’s arrival. She had wrung her hands, not knowing what to do, and she had looked out of the window with her brow drawn into anxious creases. Then, with a sudden burst of resolve, she had run down the garden and disappeared through the gate at the bottom. Miss Elsie didn’t know what had passed between the two women, but when Mrs. Trench had returned half an hour later her eyes were red from crying and she was trembling. She had swept the boy into her arms and held him so tightly that Miss Elsie had worried she might smother him. After that, she had taken him upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door behind her, leaving Miss Elsie more curious than ever.

Now the nanny gave her mistress a reassuring smile. I won’t let him out of my sight, Mrs. Trench. I promise, she said, taking the child’s hand. Come, Master Jack, let’s go and play with your train.

Kitty went around to the stables and saddled her mare. As she brusquely pulled on the girth and buckled it tightly, she clenched her jaw, replaying the scene from the day before, which had kept her up half the night in fevered arguments and the other half in tormented dreams. The woman was Bridie Doyle, Little Jack’s natural mother from a brief and scandalous affair with Kitty’s father, Lord Deverill, when she had been Kitty’s lady’s maid, but she had chosen to abandon the baby boy in a convent in Dublin and run off to America. He had then been taken by someone from the convent and left on Kitty’s doorstep with a note requesting that she look after him. What else was she to have done? she argued as she mounted the horse. As far as she could see she had done Bridie a great favor for which Bridie should be eternally grateful. Kitty’s father had eventually come to recognize his son, and, together with her husband, Robert, Kitty had raised her half brother as if he were her own child—and loved him just as dearly. There was nothing on earth that could separate her from Little Jack now. Nothing. But Bridie was back and she wanted her son. I had to leave him once, but I won’t do it a second time, she had said, and the cold hand of fear had squeezed Kitty’s heart.

Kitty stifled a sob as she rode out of the stable yard. It wasn’t so long ago that she and Bridie had been as close as sisters. When Kitty reflected on everything she had lost, she realized that her friendship with Bridie was one of the most precious. But with the unsolvable problem of Little Jack between them she knew that reconciliation was impossible. She had to accept that the Bridie she had loved was long gone.

Kitty galloped across the fields toward the remains of her once glorious home, now a charred and crumbling ruin inhabited only by rooks and the spirits of the dead. Before the fire four years before, Castle Deverill had stood proud and timeless with its tall windows reflecting the clouds sweeping in over the sea like bright eyes full of dreams. She recalled her grandmother Adeline’s little sitting room that smelled of turf fire and lilac and her grandfather Hubert’s penchant for firing his gun at Catholics from his dressing-room window. She remembered the musty smell of the library where they’d eat porter cake and play bridge and the small cupboard at the bottom of the servants’ staircase where she and Bridie had met secretly as little girls. She smiled at the memory of stealing away from her home in the Hunting Lodge close by to seek entertainment in the affectionate company of her grandparents. In those days the castle had represented a refuge from her uncaring mother and spiteful governess, but now it signified only sorrow and loss and a bygone era that seemed so much more enchanting than the present.

As she galloped across the fields, memories of Castle Deverill in its glory days filled her heart with an intense longing because her father had seen fit to sell it and soon it would belong to somebody else. She thought of Barton Deverill, the first Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly, who had built the castle, and her throat constricted with emotion—nearly three hundred years of family history reduced to ash, and all the male heirs imprisoned within the castle walls for eternity as restless spirits cursed never to find peace. What would become of them? It would have been better for her father to have given the ruins to an O’Leary, thus setting them all free and saving himself, but Bertie Deverill didn’t believe in curses. Only Kitty and Adeline had had the gift of sight and the misfortune of knowing Bertie’s fate. As a child Kitty had found the ghosts amusing; now they just made her sad.

At last the castle came into view. The western tower where her grandmother had set up residence until her death was intact but the rest of it resembled the bones of a great beast gradually decaying into the forest. Ivy and bindweed pulled on the remaining walls, crept in through the empty windows and endeavored to claim every last stone. And yet, for Kitty, the castle still held a mesmeric allure.

She trotted across the ground that had once been the croquet lawn but was now covered in long grasses and weeds. She dismounted and led her horse around to the front, where her cousin was waiting for her beside a shiny black car. Celia Mayberry stood alone, dressed in an elegant cloche hat beneath which her blond hair was tied into a neat chignon, and a long black coat that almost reached the ground. When she saw Kitty her face broke into a wide, excited smile.

Oh my darling Kitty! she gushed, striding up and throwing her arms around her. She smelled strongly of tuberose and money and Kitty embraced her fiercely.

This is a lovely surprise, Kitty exclaimed truthfully, for Celia loved Castle Deverill almost as much as she did, having spent every summer of her childhood there with the rest of the London Deverills, as their English cousins had been known. Kitty felt the need to cling to her with the same ferocity with which she clung to her memories, for Celia was one of the few people in her life who hadn’t changed, and as she grew older and further away from the past, Kitty felt ever more grateful for that. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? You could have stayed with us.

I wanted to surprise you, said Celia, who looked like a child about to burst with a secret.

Well, you certainly did that. Kitty looked up at the facade. It’s like a ghost, isn’t it? A ghost of our childhood.

But it will be rebuilt, said Celia firmly.

Kitty looked anxiously at her cousin. Do you know who bought it? I’m not sure I can bear to know.

Celia laughed. Me! she exclaimed. "I have bought it. Isn’t that wonderful? I’m going to bring back the ghosts of the past and you and I can relive the glorious moments all over again through our children."

"You, Celia? Kitty gasped in astonishment. You bought Castle Deverill?"

Well, technically Archie bought it. What a generous husband he is! She beamed with happiness. Isn’t it a riot, Kitty? Well, I’m a Deverill too! I have just as much right as anyone else in the family. Say you’re happy, do!

Of course I’m happy. I’m relieved it’s you and not a stranger, but I admit I’m a little jealous too, Kitty said sheepishly.

Celia flung her arms around her cousin again. "Please don’t hate me. I did it for us. For the family. The castle couldn’t possibly go to a stranger. It would be like giving away one’s own child. I couldn’t bear to think of someone else building over our memories. This way we can all enjoy it. You can continue to live in the White House, Uncle Bertie in the Hunting Lodge if he so wishes and we can all be terribly happy again. After everything we’ve suffered we deserve to find happiness, don’t you think?"

Kitty laughed affectionately at her cousin’s fondness of the dramatic. You’re so right, Celia. It will be wonderful to see the castle brought back to life and by a Deverill no less. It’s the way it should be. I only wish it were me.

Celia put a gloved hand on her stomach. I’m going to have a baby, Kitty, she announced, smiling.

Goodness, Celia, how many more surprises have you in store for me?

Just that and the castle. How about you? Do hurry up. I pray we are both blessed with girls so that they can grow up here at Castle Deverill just like we did. And Kitty realized then that Celia had placed herself here within these castle walls for more than merely the annual month of August. She was one of those shallow people who rewrote their own history and believed in the absolute truth of their version. Come on, Celia continued, taking Kitty’s hand and pulling her through the doorframe into the space where once the great hall had been. Let’s explore. I have grand plans, you know. I want it to be just the same as it was when we were girls, but better. Do you remember the last Summer Ball? Wasn’t it marvelous?

Kitty and Celia waded through the weeds that grew up to their knees, marveling at the small trees that had seeded themselves among the thistles and thorns and stretched their spindly branches toward the light. The ground was soft against their boots as they moved from room to room, disturbing the odd rook and magpie that flew indignantly into the air. Celia chattered on, reliving the past in colorful anecdotes and fond reminiscences, while Kitty was unable to stop the desolation of her ruined home falling upon her like a heavy black veil. With a leaden heart she remembered her grandfather Hubert, killed in the fire, and her grandmother Adeline who had died alone in the western tower only a month ago. She thought of Bridie’s brother, Michael Doyle, who had set the castle ablaze, and her own foolish thirst for recrimination, which had only led to her shame in his farmhouse where no one had heard her cries. Her thoughts drifted to her lover, Jack O’Leary, and their meeting at the wall where he had held her tightly and begged her to flee with him to America, then later, on the station platform, when he had been arrested and dragged away. Her head began to spin. Her heart contracted with fear as the monsters of the past were roused from sleep. She left Celia in the remains of the dining room and fled into the library to seek refuge among the more gentle memories of bridge and whist and porter cake.

Kitty leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes with a deep sigh. She realized she was ambivalent about this canary, chattering away about a house whose past she barely understood. Celia’s voice receded, overwhelmed by the autumn wind that moaned about the castle walls. But as Kitty shut off her sight, her sixth sense at once became sensitive to the ghosts now gathering around her. The air, already chilly, grew colder still. There was no surer feeling than this to drag her back to her childhood. Gingerly, she opened her eyes. There, standing before her, was her grandmother, as real as if she were made of flesh and blood, only younger than she had been when she had died and dazzlingly bright as if she were standing in a spotlight. Behind her stood Kitty’s grandfather, Hubert, Barton Deverill, the first Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly, and other unfortunate Deverill heirs who were bound by Maggie O’Leary’s curse to an eternity in limbo, shifting in and out of vision like faces in the prism of a precious stone.

Kitty blinked as Adeline smiled on her tenderly. You know I’m never far away, my dear, she said and Kitty was so moved by her presence that she barely noticed the hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

I miss you, Grandma, she whispered.

Come now, Kitty. You know better than anyone that we are only separated by the boundaries of perception. Love binds us together for eternity. You’ll understand eternity when it’s your turn. Right now there are more earthly things to discuss.

Kitty wiped her cheeks with her leather glove. What things?

The past, said Adeline, and Kitty knew she meant the prison of the long dead. "The curse must be lifted. Perhaps you have the strength to do it; perhaps only you."

But Celia’s bought the castle, Grandma.

Jack O’Leary is the key that will unlock the gates and let them all fly out.

But I can’t have Jack and I don’t have the castle. The words gripped her throat like barbed wire. With all the will in the world I can’t make that happen.

Who are you talking to? It was Celia. She swept her eyes over the empty room suspiciously and frowned. You’re not speaking to those ghosts of yours, are you? I hope they all go away before Archie and I move in. She laughed nervously. I was just thinking, I might start a literary salon. I do find literary people so attractive, don’t you? Or maybe we’ll hire a fashionable spiritualist from London and hold séances. Gosh, that would be amusing. Oliver Cromwell might show up and scare the living daylights out of us all! I’ve got so many capital ideas. Wouldn’t it be a riot to bring back the Summer Ball? She linked her arm through Kitty’s. Come, let’s leave the car here and walk with your horse to the Hunting Lodge. I left Archie to tell Uncle Bertie about us buying the castle. What do you think he’ll say?

Kitty took a deep breath to regain her composure. Those who have suffered develop patience and she had always been good at hiding her pain. I think he’ll be as happy as I am, she said, making her way back through the hall at her cousin’s side. Blood is thicker than water. That’s something we Deverills all agree on.

BRIDGET LOCKWOOD SAT at the wooden table in the farmhouse where she had been raised as Bridie Doyle and felt awkwardly out of place. She was too big for the room, as if she had outgrown the furniture, low ceilings and meager windows from where she had once gazed upon the stars and dreamed of a better life. Her clothes were too elegant, her kid gloves and fine hat as incongruous in this house as a circus pony in a cowshed. As Mrs. Lockwood she had become too refined to derive any pleasure from her old simple way of life. Yet the girl in her who had suffered years of clawing homesickness in America longed to savor the familiar comfort of the home for which she had pined. How often had she dreamed of sitting in this very chair, drinking buttermilk, tasting the smoke from the turf fire and the sweet smell of cows from the barn next door? How many times had she craved her feather bed, her father’s tread on the stair, her mother’s good night kiss and her grandmother’s quiet mumbling of the rosary? Too many to count and yet here she was in the middle of all that she had missed. So why did she feel so sad? Because she was no longer that girl. Not a trace of her remained except Little Jack.

The farmhouse had filled with locals keen to welcome Bridie back from America and everyone had commented on her pretty blue tea dress with its beads and tassels and her matching blue T-bar shoes, and the women had rubbed the fabric of her skirt between rough fingers, for only in their dreams would they ever possess such luxuries. There had been dancing, laughter and their neighbor Badger Hanratty’s illegal poteen, but Bridie had felt as if she were watching it all from behind a pane of smoked glass, unable to connect with any of the people she had once known and loved so well. She had outgrown them. She had watched Rosetta, her Italian maid and companion whom she had brought back from America, and envied her. The girl had been swung about the room by Bridie’s brother Sean, who had clearly lost his heart to her, and by the look on her face she had felt more at home than Bridie had. How Bridie had wished she could kick off her shoes and dance as they did, and yet she couldn’t. Her heart was too heavy with grief for her son—and hatred for Kitty Deverill.

Bridie yearned to slip back into the skin she had shed when she had left as a twenty-one-year-old, pregnant and terrified, to hide her secret in Dublin. But the trauma of childbirth, and the wrench of leaving Ireland and her son, had changed Bridie Doyle forever. She had been expecting one baby, but was astonished when another, a little girl the nuns had later told her, had arrived, tiny and barely alive, in his wake. They had taken her away to try and revive her, but returned soon after to inform Bridie that the baby had not lived. It was better, they had said, that she nurture the living twin and leave the other to God. Bridie hadn’t even been allowed to kiss her daughter’s face and say good-bye. Her baby had vanished as if she had never been. Then Lady Rowan-Hampton had persuaded Bridie to leave her son in the care of the nuns and she had been sent off to start a new life in America.

No one who has given away a child can know the bitter desolation and burning guilt of that act. She had already lived more lives than most do in their entire lifetime, and yet to Sean, her mother and her grandmother, she was still their Bridie. They knew nothing of the sorrows she had suffered in America or the anguish she suffered now as she realized her son would never know his mother or the wealth she had, by accident and guile, amassed. They believed she was their Bridie still. She didn’t have the heart to tell them that their Bridie was gone.

She reflected on her attempt to buy Castle Deverill, and wondered, if it had succeeded, would she have been willing to stay? Had she tried to buy it as an act of revenge for the wrongs inflicted on her by Bertie and Kitty Deverill, or because of a purer sense of nostalgia? After all, her mother had been the castle’s cook and she had grown up running up and down its corridors with Kitty. How would they have reacted on discovering that poor, shoeless Bridie Doyle had become Doyenne of Castle Deverill? The smile that crept across her face confirmed that her intention had been born out of resentment and motivated by a desire to wound. If the opportunity ever arose again, she would take it.

When Sean, Rosetta, Mrs. Doyle and her grandmother Old Mrs. Nagle appeared in the parlor ready for Mass, Bridie asked them all to sit down. She took a deep breath and knitted her fingers. The faces stared anxiously at her. Bridie looked from her mother to her grandmother, then to Rosetta who sat beside Sean, her face flushed with the blossoming of love. When I was in America I got married, she declared.

Mrs. Doyle and Old Mrs. Nagle looked at her in astonishment. You’re a married woman, Bridie? said Mrs. Doyle quietly.

I’m a widow, Mam, Bridie corrected her.

Her grandmother crossed herself. Married and widowed at twenty-five, God save us! And not chick or child to comfort. Bridie winced but her grandmother did not know the hurt her words had caused.

Mrs. Doyle ran her eyes over her daughter’s blue dress and crossed herself as well. Why aren’t you in mourning, Bridie? Any decent widow would wear black to honor her husband.

I am done with black, Bridie retorted. Believe me, I have mourned my husband enough.

Be thankful that your brother Michael isn’t here to witness your shame. Mrs. Doyle pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a sob. I have worn black since the day your father was taken from us, God rest him, and I will wear it until I join him, God help me.

Bridie is too young to give up on life, Mam, said Sean gently. And Michael is in no position to stand in judgment over anybody. I’m sorry, Bridie, he said to his sister, and his voice was heavy with sympathy. How did he die?

A heart attack, Bridie replied.

Surely he was too young for a heart attack? said Mrs. Doyle.

Bridie’s eyes flicked to Rosetta. She wasn’t about to reveal that Mr. Lockwood had been old enough to be her father. Indeed, it was most unfortunate that he died in his prime. I was planning on bringing him here so that Father Quinn could give us his blessing and you could all meet him . . . but . . .

God’s will, said Mrs. Doyle tightly, affronted that Bridie hadn’t bothered to write and tell them of her marriage. What was his name?

Walter Lockwood and he was a fine man.

Mrs. Lockwood, said Old Mrs. Nagle thoughtfully. She clearly liked the sound of it.

We met at Mass, Bridie told them with emphasis, feeling the sudden warmth of approval at the mention of the Church. He courted me after Mass every Sunday and we grew fond of each other. We were married only seven months, but in those seven months I can honestly say that I have never been so happy. I have much to be grateful for. Although my grief is deep, I am in a position to share my good fortune with my family. He left me broken-hearted but very rich.

Nothing is more important than your faith, Bridie Doyle, said Old Mrs. Nagle, crossing herself again. But I’m old enough to remember the Great Famine. Money cannot buy happiness but it can surely save us from starvation and hardship and help us to be miserable in comfort, God help us. Her wrinkled old eyes, as small as raisins, shone in the gloomy light of the room. The road to sin is paved with gold. But tell me, Bridie, how much are we talking?

A cross in this life, a crown in the next, said Mrs. Doyle gravely. "God has seen fit to help us in these hard times, for that our hearts must be full of gratitude, she added, suddenly forgetting her daughter’s shameful blue dress and the fact that she never wrote to tell them about her marriage. God bless you, Bridie. I will exchange the washboard for a mangle and thank the Lord for his goodness. Now, to Mass. Let us not forget your brother Michael at Mount Melleray Abbey, Bridie. Let us do another novena to St. Jude that he will be saved from the drink and delivered back to us sober and repentant. Sean, hurry up now, let us not be late."

Bridie sat in the cart in an elegant green coat with fur trimming, alongside her mother and grandmother, wrapped in heavy woolen shawls, and poor Rosetta who was practically falling out of the back, for it was not made for so many. Sean sat above in his Sunday best, driving the donkey who struggled with the weight, until they reached the hill at which point Bridie and Rosetta walked with Sean to lighten the animal’s load. A cold wind blew in off the sea, playfully seeking to grab Bridie’s hat and carry it away. She held it in place with a firm hand, dismayed to see her fine leather boots sinking into the mud. She resolved to buy her brother a car so that he could drive to Mass, but somehow she knew her grandmother would object to what she considered "éirí in airde"—airs and graces. There would be no ostentatious show of wealth in this family as long as she was alive.

Father Quinn had heard of Bridie’s triumphant return to Ballinakelly and his greedy eyes settled on her expensive coat and hat and the soft leather gloves on her hands, and knew that she would give generously to the church; after all, there was no family in Ballinakelly more devout than the Doyles. He decided that today’s sermon would be about charity and smiled warmly on Bridie Doyle.

Bridie walked down the aisle with her chin up and her shoulders back. She could feel every eye upon her and knew what they were thinking. How far she had come from the ragged and barefooted child she had once been, terrified of Father Quinn’s hellfire visions, critical finger-wagging and bullying sermons. She thought of Kitty Deverill with her pretty dresses and silk ribbons in her hair and that fool Celia Deverill who had asked her, How do you survive in winter without any shoes? and then the girls at school who had called her a tinker for wearing the dancing shoes Lady Deverill had given her after her father’s death, and the seed of resentment that had rooted itself in her heart sprouted yet another shoot to stifle the sweetness there. Her great wealth gave her a heady sense of power. No one will dare call me a tinker again, she told herself as she took the place beside her brother, for I am a lady now and I command their respect.

It wasn’t until she was lighting a candle at the end of Mass that she was struck with a daring yet brilliant idea. If Kitty didn’t allow her to see her child she would simply take him. It wouldn’t be stealing because you couldn’t steal what already belonged to you. She was his mother; it was right and natural that he should be with her. She would take him to America and start a new life. It was so obvious she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of it before. She smiled, blowing out the little flame at the end of the taper. Of course such inspiration had come directly from God. She had been given it at the very moment she had lit the candle for her son. That was no coincidence; it was divine intervention, for sure. She silently crossed herself and thanked the Lord for his compassion.

Outside, the locals gathered together on the wet grass as they always did, to greet one another and share the gossip, but today they stood in a semicircle like a herd of timid cows, curious eyes trained on the church door, eagerly awaiting the extravagantly dressed Bridie Doyle to flounce out in her newly acquired finery. In hushed tones they could talk of nothing else: They say she married a rich old man. But he died, God rest his soul, and left her a fortune. He was eighty. He was ninety, for shame. She always had ideas above her station, did she not? Ah ha, she’ll be after another husband now, God save us. But none of our sons will be good enough for her now. The old people crossed themselves and saw no virtue in her prosperity, for wasn’t it written in Matthew that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God? But the young were both resentful and admiring in equal measure and longed with all their hearts to sail as Bridie had done to this land of opportunity and plenty and make fortunes for themselves.

When Bridie stepped out she was startled to find the people of Ballinakelly huddled in a jumble, waiting to see her as if she were royalty. A hush fell about them and no one made a move to meet her. They simply stared and muttered to each other under their breaths. Bridie swept her eyes over the familiar faces of those she had grown up with and found in them a surprising shyness. For a moment she was self-conscious and anxiously looked around for a friend. That was when she saw Jack O’Leary.

He was pushing through the throng, smiling at her reassuringly. His dark brown hair fell over his forehead as it always had, and his pale wintry eyes shone out blue and twinkling with their habitual humor. His lips were curled and Bridie’s heart gave a little start at the intimacy in his smile. It took her back to the days when they had been friends. Jack! she uttered when he reached her.

He took her arm and walked her across the graveyard to a place far from the crowd where they could speak alone. Well, would you look at you, Bridie Doyle, he said, shaking his head and rubbing the long bristles on his jaw. Don’t you look like a lady now!

Bridie basked in his admiration. "I am a lady, I’ll have you know, she replied and Jack noticed how her Irish vowels had been worn thin in America. I’m a widow. My husband died, she added and crossed herself. God rest my husband’s soul."

I’m sorry to hear that, Bridie. You’re too young to mourn a husband. He ran his eyes over her coat. I’ve got to say that you look grand, he added and as he grinned Bridie noticed that one of his teeth was missing. He looked older too. The lines were deeper around his eyes and mouth, his skin dark and weathered, his gaze deep and full of shadows. Even though his smile remained undimmed, Bridie sensed that he had suffered. He was no longer the insouciant young man with the arrogant gaze, a hawk on his arm, a dog at his heel. There was something touching about him now and she wanted to reach out and run her fingers across his brow.

Are you back for good? he asked.

I don’t know, Jack. She turned into the gale and placed her hand on top of her hat to stop it blowing away. Fighting her growing sense of alienation she added, "I don’t know where I belong now. I came back expecting everything to be the same, but it is I who have changed and that makes everything different. Then aware of sounding vulnerable, she turned back to him and her voice hardened. I can hardly live the way I used to. I’m accustomed to finer things, you see. Jack arched an eyebrow and Bridie wished she hadn’t put on airs in front of him. If there was a man who knew her for what she really was, it was Jack. Did you marry?" she asked.

No, he replied. A long silence followed. A silence that resonated with the name Kitty Deverill, as if it came in a whisper on the wind and lingered there between them. Well, I hope it all turns out well for you, Bridie. It’s good to see you home again, he said at last. Bridie was unable to return his smile. Her loathing for her old friend wound around her heart in a twine of thorns. She watched him walk away with that familiar jaunty gait she knew so well and had loved so deeply. It was obvious that, after all these years, he still held out for Kitty Deverill.

Chapter 2

London

Good God! Sir Digby Deverill put down the receiver and shook his head. Well, I’ll be damned!" he exclaimed, staring at the telephone as if he wasn’t quite able to believe the news it had just delivered to him. He pushed up from his leather chair and went to the drinks tray to pour himself a whiskey from one of the crystal decanters. Holding the glass in his manicured, bejeweled fingers, he gazed out of his study window. He could hear the rattling sound of a car motoring over the leaves on Kensington Palace Gardens, that exclusive, gated street of sumptuous Italianate and Queen Anne mansions built by millionaires, like Digby, who had made their fortunes in the gold mines of Witwatersrand, hence their nickname: Randlords. There he lived in Deverill House, in stately splendor, alongside a fellow Randlord, Sir Abe Bailey, and financier, Lionel Rothschild.

He took a swig, grimacing as the liquid burned a trail down his throat. Instantly he felt fortified. He put down his glass and pulled his gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat by the chain. Deftly, he flicked it open. The shiny face gleamed up at him, giving the time as a quarter to eleven. He strode into the hall, where he was met by a butler in crimson-and-gold livery talking quietly to a footman. When they saw him the footman made a discreet exit while the butler stood to attention awaiting Sir Digby’s command. Digby hesitated at the foot of the grand staircase.

He could hear laughter coming from the drawing room upstairs. It sounded like his wife had company. That was not a surprise, she always had company. Beatrice Deverill, exuberant, big-hearted and extravagant, was the most determined socialite in London. Well, it couldn’t be helped; he was unable to keep the news to himself a moment longer. He hurried up the stairs, two steps at a time, his white spats revealed beneath his immaculately pressed gray checked trousers with every leap. He hoped to snatch a minute alone with his wife.

When he reached the door he was relieved to find that her guests were only his cousin Bertie’s wife, Maud, who was perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her severely cut blond bob accentuating the chiseled precision of her cheekbones and the ice-blue of her strikingly beautiful eyes, her eldest daughter, Victoria, who had acquired a certain poise as Countess of Elmrod; and Digby’s own mother Augusta, who presided over the group like a fat queen in a Victorian-style black dress with ruffles that frothed about her chins, and a large feathered hat.

As he entered, the four faces looked up at him in surprise. It wasn’t usual for Digby to put in an appearance during the day. He was most often at his gentlemen’s club, White’s, or tucked away in his study on the telephone to his bankers from Barings or Rothschild, or to Mr. Newcomb, who trained his racehorses in Newmarket, or talking diamonds with his South African cronies. What is it, Digby? Beatrice asked, noticing at once his burning cheeks, twitching mustache and the nervous way he played with the large diamond ring that sparkled on the little finger of his right hand. Digby was still a handsome man, with shiny blond hair swept off a wide forehead and bright, intelligent eyes, which now had a look of bewilderment.

He checked himself, suddenly remembering his manners. Good morning, my dear Maud, Victoria, Mama. He forced a tight smile and bowed, but couldn’t hide his impatience to share his news.

Well, don’t stand on ceremony, Digby, what is it? Augusta demanded stridently.

Yes, Cousin Digby, we’re all frightfully curious, said Victoria, glancing at her mother. Maud looked at Digby expectantly; she loved nothing more than other people’s dramas because they gave her a satisfying sense of superiority.

It’s about Castle Deverill, he said, looking directly at Maud, who reddened. You see, I’ve just had a telephone call from Bertie.

What did he want? Maud asked, putting down her teacup. She hadn’t spoken to her husband, Bertie, since he had announced to the entire family at his mother Adeline’s funeral that the supposed foundling, whom their youngest daughter, Kitty, was raising as her own, was, in fact, his illegitimate son. Not only was the news shocking, it was downright humiliating. In fact, she wondered whether she would ever get over the trauma. She had left for London without a word, vowing that she would never speak to him again. She wouldn’t set another foot in Ireland, either, and in her opinion the castle could rot into the ground for all the good it had done her. She had never liked the place to begin with.

Bertie has sold the castle and Celia has bought it, Digby announced and the words rang as clear as shots. The four women stared at him aghast. There was a long silence. Victoria looked nervously at her mother, trying to read her thoughts.

"You mean Archie has bought it for her, said Augusta, smiling into the folds of chin that spilled over the ruffles of her dress. What a devoted husband he has turned out to be."

Is she mad? Beatrice gasped. What on earth is Celia going to do with a ruined castle?

Rebuild it? Victoria suggested with a smirk. Beatrice glanced at her in irritation.

Maud’s thin fingers flew to her throat, where they pulled at the skin there, causing it to redden in patches. It was all well and good selling the castle, there was no prestige to be enjoyed from a pile of ruins and a diminishing estate, but she hadn’t anticipated a Deverill buying it. No, that was much too close for comfort. Better that it had gone to some arriviste American with more money than sense, she mused, than one of the family. It was most unexpected and extremely vexing that it had gone to a Deverill, and to flighty, frivolous and silly Celia of all people! Surely, if it was to remain in the family, it was only