Daughters of Castle Deverill (27 page)

At length Bridie appeared in a turquoise Japanese dressing gown, embellished with pictures of large colourful orchids, and a pair of crimson velvet slippers. For a moment Elaine thought she had
been deceived for Bridie’s hair was clean and shiny and combed into a fashionable bob and her carefully applied make-up gave her face a fresh and wholesome gleam. But as she approached,
Elaine noticed the unsteadiness of her step and the glassy look in her eyes that betrayed her drunkenness and her desolation, and she knew then that Bridie was simply making a great effort to
disguise the truth.

‘Well, this is a surprise,’ said Bridie, sinking into an armchair. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ But the wariness in her gaze told Elaine that she already knew.

Beaumont remained standing by the window. He turned and smiled and one could have been forgiven for thinking that this visit was simply a social one. ‘It’s been a while since
I’ve been here, Mrs Lockwood. I must say, you have a very elegant home.’

‘Indeed I do, Mr Williams,’ she replied. ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea? Imelda will bring it.’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Perhaps Elaine would like something.’

Elaine was perching nervously on the sofa, playing with her fingers. ‘Coffee would be swell.’ She didn’t dare catch eyes with her friend, in case she saw the betrayal in
them.

‘And I’ll have a cup of tea,’ said Bridie.

While Imelda made the tea and coffee Beaumont chatted easily with Bridie, and Bridie, hoping that she could fool him into believing her in the very best of health, was hopeful of delaying, or
even perhaps avoiding, the inevitable questions, for she knew why they had both come. After a while, which seemed interminable to Elaine, Imelda brought her a cup of coffee and her mistress a pot
of tea. At that point Beaumont pulled up a chair and sat close to Bridie. As she poured from the pot her hand shook so that the top rattled noisily on the porcelain. With that simple action her
poise fell apart and exposed her as surely as a mask swiped off the face of a thief. Her bottom lip trembled as she fought hard to steady her grip. Without a word Beaumont slowly and deliberately
placed his hand on hers and they locked eyes. Bridie’s were wild, like a cornered rabbit’s, but Beaumont’s were calm and full of compassion. ‘Allow me, Mrs Lockwood,’
he said gently, and Bridie blinked at him, a child again suddenly, staring wide-eyed at a father who loved and understood her. It was that small but significant gesture that caused the tears to
well. Beaumont took the pot and poured the tea and Bridie was afraid to lift the cup in case she spilt it.

‘Mrs Lockwood,’ he began. ‘Do you remember our very first meeting?’ Bridie nodded. ‘It was in Mrs Grimsby’s parlour, was it not? You were a frightened girl,
fresh off the boat from Ireland, without anyone in New York to look out for you.’ Two tears trickled down her cheeks, leaving wet trails in her make-up. ‘You’ve come so far from
that moment and been so full of courage that if I were your father, I would burst at the seams with pride.’ Bridie swallowed at the mention of her dear, dead father Tomas, killed by a
tinker’s knife. ‘You have come too far to throw it all away now.’ Bridie dropped her gaze into her teacup. She felt uncomfortably sober. With shaking hands she lifted the cup and
saucer and took a large swig of tea. ‘The remedy for your heartbreak is not to be found in the bottom of a gin bottle, Mrs Lockwood, or in any other bottle, I might add. The remedy for your
loss is within
you
. It is your choice to let this young man destroy you or make you stronger. You can drown your sorrow and yourself in the process or take life by the collar again, as you
have done before. You are wealthy, young and beautiful. Any man would give his right arm to marry you.’

‘But I don’t want anyone—’

Beaumont stopped her mid-sentence. ‘Do you remember that you once said to me that a woman without a husband has no standing in society and no protection?’ Bridie nodded slowly.
‘You were right, but you forgot one important thing. A woman without a husband is obliged to walk life’s long and often difficult road alone, and that can be a very lonely experience.
We humans are not solitary creatures. We require the company of others for comfort. What you need is a husband.’ Bridie thought of Mr Lockwood and for a fleeting moment she recalled the sense
of security he had given her. ‘You have to put this Irishman out of your mind as you have so successfully done with Ireland. Heed not the voice that calls you home, but the voice that calls
you forward. He’s out there somewhere and we’re going to find him.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and she put down her teacup. Elaine was so tense her shoulders ached. She sat
sipping her coffee, deeply proud of her wise and articulate husband – and deeply ashamed of her
un
wise and foolish infidelity.

‘Now, we’re going to do this in simple steps. The first step being your commitment to giving up the booze.’ A shadow of anxiety passed across Bridie’s face. She had been
prepared to deny it, but there was no point now. Mr Williams knew the truth. She couldn’t conceal who she really was from him. ‘I want you to take me around your apartment and show me
where it’s all hidden,’ he said kindly. ‘Then we will dispose of it, bottle by bottle. It will signify the beginning of a new chapter.’

With reluctance at first, then with growing enthusiasm, Bridie showed Mr Williams the places where she had secreted her gin. Both Elaine and Beaumont were surprised by Bridie’s ingenuity
but neither let that show. The gin was disposed of with solemn ritual, as if they were performing an exorcism. Once again Bridie felt a sense of renewal and embraced it with both arms. Mr Williams
had thrown her a rope and she told herself that she would be foolish, suicidal even, not to take it.

Slowly and with immense effort Bridie pulled herself out of her pit. She forced herself to forget about Jack, to swallow her disappointment and regret and to focus her eyes on the future. There
was a certain familiarity in her determination to leave the past behind and move forward. She had done it countless times, but it didn’t get any easier; she just recognized the path for it
was so well-trodden. Elaine was a constant support and companion and on the various occasions that Bridie fell back, Elaine was there to encourage her without judgement.

Eventually Bridie began to take pride in herself again. She derived enjoyment from shopping and dancing, going to movie theatres and parties as she had done before, although now she was a little
more subdued and a lot more cautious. She allowed a few men to court her. Her heart was still fragmented, the tears still tender, the memory of Jack still vivid. But as the months passed and the
summer of 1929 blossomed into bright flowers and warm breezes, that memory dimmed and the edges of her pain were blunted. Count Cesare di Marcantonio saw her, ripe for love as a golden peach on a
tree, from across the crowded garden at the Reynoldses’ annual summer party in Southampton and decided to pluck.

‘Who is that beautiful woman?’ he asked his friend, Max Arkwright, who had brought him to the party.

‘Why, that’s the infamous Mrs Lockwood,’ Max replied, sweeping a hand through his thick flaxen hair. ‘Everyone knows about
her.
’

‘She is married?’ the Count’s disappointment was palpable.

‘No, widowed.’ This pleased the Count and Max proceeded to tell him the story, as he had read it in the newspapers and heard it in the grand dining rooms on Fifth Avenue. The Count
listened intently, an eyebrow arched, his interest fanned with every enthralling detail.

Aware that she was being watched by the mysterious stranger at the other side of the garden, Bridie asked Elaine who he was. Elaine squinted in the evening sunshine and frowned. ‘I
don’t know,’ she confessed; she knew who most people were. ‘But I know the man he is with. That’s Max Arkwright, a notorious womanizer. He’s from a wealthy Boston
family, spends most of his time in Argentina and Europe playing polo and seducing women. Unmarried scoundrel and charmer, too. Birds of a feather flock together. You have been warned.’

‘Oh, I’m not interested in either,’ said Bridie dismissively, concealing her interest in
one.
‘Only curious. His friend is staring at me. I can almost feel his
eyes beneath my dress.’

‘Then you’d better move away, Bridget, before you get burned.’ And the two women escaped through the crowd to the wide steps that swept up to the terrace and the magnificent
Italianate mansion behind. When Bridie chanced to look back over her shoulder she saw that the man was still watching her and she felt the long-forgotten frisson of excitement ripple across her
skin.

Once on the terrace Bridie wandered among the vast pots of blue and white hydrangeas and mingled with friends and new acquaintances. She smiled and chatted with grace acquired over years through
practice and persistence, while her dark eyes darted here and there in search of the handsome man who had caught her eye across the garden. The sun sank slowly in the western sky, bathing the lawn
in a warm amber light, and the loud twittering of roosting birds died down as they settled on their positions in the branches and watched the activity below with a passive interest.

Just when she was beginning to suspect that the man had gone, she felt a light touch on her bare shoulder and turned round to see him standing before her, with an apologetic, almost sheepish
look on his irresistibly attractive face. ‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ he said and his accent was so foreign that Bridie had to take a moment to understand what he was saying.
‘Count Cesare di Marcantonio,’ he said and he pronounced Cesare as ‘Chesaray’ and the rest so smoothly that she failed to catch a single syllable. His name ran over her like
warm honey and her spirits soared on the sweetness of it. ‘I saw you in the garden and had to come and introduce myself. It is probably not what a man should do in polite American society,
but in Argentina, where I was raised, or in Italy, where I spent the first ten years of my life, it is rude not to pay homage to a beautiful woman.’

Bridie blushed the colour of fuchsia as his gaze swept across her face, caressing her skin. ‘Bridget Lockwood,’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t sound as exotic as your
name.’

‘But I’m not as beautiful as you, so there, you see, we are equal.’ He smiled and the lines around his mouth creased like a lion’s, his big white teeth shining brightly
against his brown and weathered skin. The crow’s feet were long and deep at his temples, his eyes the colour of green agate, shining with mischief that at once appealed to Bridie’s own
sense of fun. His hair was seal-black and shone with a gloss that looked almost waxy, but the sun had caught the top of his head and bleached the hair there to a light sugar-brown and Bridie would
have liked to run her fingers through it. Instead she held on to her glass of lemonade and tried not to let her nervousness show.

‘So, what are you doing in Southampton?’ she asked, aware that it was an inane question and wishing she could think of something better to say.

‘Playing polo,’ he replied. ‘I confess, Mrs Lockwood, I am a man of leisure.’ Bridie smiled, noticing how he had called her ‘Mrs’ Lockwood when she
hadn’t volunteered that information. She was thrilled that he had been asking about her. ‘My family owns a large and highly profitable farm in Argentina so I take my pleasure where I
find it. I have decided to spend the summer here, playing polo and seeing friends – one day I will take over from my father so, why not have fun before I have to take on responsibility,
no?’

‘Do you live in Argentina?’

He shrugged non-committally. ‘I am a man of the world. I live a little in Argentina, a little in Rome, sometimes in Monte Carlo, sometimes in Paris . . . now here, in New
York. Perhaps I will buy a house in Southampton; the people are certainly very charming, no?’ With that he gave her a long and lingering look that made her stomach flip over like a
pancake.

Impressed by his obviously moneyed and carefree existence, which was also apparent in his expensive clothes, the gleaming gold bee cufflinks and matching tie pin, and in the general air of
luxury and privilege that surrounded him, Bridie felt her excitement grow. She had never before met a man who exuded such mystery or had such a delightfully exotic flavour. As the conversation
rattled on with ease she found herself liking him more and more. Since she had lost Jack she hadn’t even tried to put back together the broken pieces of her heart, but now, suddenly, she
wanted to. She wanted this stranger to have it, to hold it in his large hands and to keep it for always. Bridie allowed his gaze to consume her, and for once she didn’t even think about the
road home.

Curious to see that her friend had been talking to Max Arkwright’s mysterious friend for longer than was decent Elaine decided to interrupt. Bridie smiled when she approached and quickly
introduced her, admitting with a flirtatious smile, which Elaine hadn’t seen in months, that she couldn’t pronounce his name. ‘Cesare di Marcantonio,’ he repeated with a
grin. ‘Now you say it.’

‘Cesare di Marc . . .’ Bridie began slowly.

‘Marcantonio,’ he repeated.

‘Marcantonio,’ she said, then smiled triumphantly. Elaine watched with mounting unease. She might very well not have been there for these two people had eyes only for each other.

‘This is my dear friend, Elaine Williams,’ Bridie said, putting her arm around her. ‘When I was new in Manhattan and had not a single friend, Elaine came to my rescue and has
been by my side ever since. I don’t know what I would have done without her.’

Elaine looked him over coolly. ‘Yes, and I’m by your side right now,’ she said firmly. ‘Let’s go get something to eat, Bridget. The buffet looks
delicious.’

‘I will accompany you both,’ volunteered the Count to Elaine’s dismay. ‘It will be my greatest pleasure to dine with two such charming ladies.’

They made their way across the terrace and down the steps to where the tables of food were lined up on the grass. ‘He’s certainly dishy, Bridget, but I wouldn’t trust him as
far as I could throw him,’ Elaine hissed, as they descended the steps together.