Songs of Love and War (50 page)

‘He still loves me.’

‘He’ll have to get over it, and you, my dear Kitty, will have to learn to live with it. You have a little boy to think of now. You’re a mother. Your child’s a
Deverill.’

‘But
you
were unfaithful to Sir Ronald.’

‘Only after I had given him sons to bear his name.’ Grace put down her glass and went over to sit next to Kitty on the sofa. ‘I loved your father very much. We enjoyed many
happy times together. Ronald understood and didn’t mind, so long as it was a private affair. Goodness,
he
had enough mistresses to keep him happy. But it’s not an ideal way to
live, Kitty.’

‘Did you stop loving my father?’

‘No, I ended our affair because of you.’

‘Me?’

‘Of course. You saved my life. I was not going to repay you by cheating with your father behind your back. Besides, it was our affair that set you against me in the first place, was it
not?’

‘It was,’ Kitty replied.

‘How did you find out?’

‘I saw you at the Summer Ball, in the bedroom.’

Grace flushed with embarrassment. ‘You
saw
us?’

‘Yes. I was playing with Celia. We came across a room with light glowing beneath the door and opened it a crack. I saw you and my father . . .’

‘Oh Kitty,’ she groaned, putting a hand against her mouth. ‘How dreadful. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s a long time ago now.’

‘Long in time, less long in memory. I hope you have forgiven me.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive. It was none of my business.’ Kitty smiled magnanimously. ‘After all you have done for me, Grace, you don’t even need to ask.’

‘I will always love your father, even though the man I fell in love with has gone and in his place a man I sometimes fail to recognize. You will always love Jack and I’m sure he will
always love you. But you have done the right thing in marrying Robert. He’s a good, kind man who will look after you and little Jack. He will give you security and hopefully children of your
own to love. Don’t be rash and lose your head because your heart is very strong, Kitty, and quite uncontrollable.’ Kitty knew Grace was right. Even
she,
with her determination to
do what was right, was afraid of her heart.

On the first Friday in March Kitty and Robert drove into Ballinakelly to buy a horse. She had taken what tack she needed from the stables at Castle Deverill but she
couldn’t very well take a horse without her father noticing.

It was a crisp day. The sun shone brightly in a cerulean sky. People had come from all around to buy and sell their animals and tinkers weaved among them, selling heather and cursing those who
refused to purchase. Children were bribed to look after the cows as they had been when Kitty was a child, and the same children grew bored of their work and ran off to play with their friends,
leaving the cows to wander, sometimes into people’s parlours if they’d left their front doors open. The pubs were full; Kitty could smell the stout in the air along with the smell of
horse sweat and manure. The noise of people’s voices rose with the squawking of seagulls perching on the rooftops, their beady black eyes searching the square for scraps to eat.

‘Do you remember the last time we came here together?’ said Robert, taking Kitty’s hand.

‘The time that man threw a potato at me,’ Kitty replied.

‘Or at me, as you so wisely suggested,’ he added with a smile.

‘I’m sorry. That was awfully mean of me.’

‘It was the truth.’

‘No, he threw a potato at
me.
I represented the British even though in my heart I’ve always considered myself Irish.’

‘It’s your heart that matters.’

Kitty felt a sudden swell of affection for this man who had given up his life in London so that she could be happy in Ireland. ‘Robert, if I haven’t thanked you properly for bringing
me here, it is only because I have been so distracted with all the arrangements. I really do want to thank you.’

He took her hands in his. ‘I know you do, my darling. You don’t need to thank me. To see you happy is thanks enough.’

‘Are you happy too?’

‘You’ve made me the happiest man on earth,’ he replied. ‘How could I suffer a moment’s unhappiness being married to you? I’m the envy of every man in London
and, I’m sure, in Ballinakelly, too.’ He led her through the crowd. ‘Let’s go and find you the best horse this town has to offer.’

As Kitty’s eyes floated over the faces of the men in caps, they suddenly rested on the familiar countenance of Michael Doyle. She gasped as if singed and dropped her gaze to the ground,
but not before
he
had seen
her.
She gripped Robert’s hand and hurried on, but the sweat gathered in her palms and her skin grew damp. Suddenly, her hand slipped out of
Robert’s. At once she found herself alone in the sea of people, frantically trying to keep her head up without catching the eye of the man who had haunted her nightmares since that fateful
morning after the fire.

She jumped as she felt a hand grab her arm. She turned in fright. Michael Doyle was bearing down upon her just like he had done in the farmhouse, before he had thrown her onto the table and
violated her. His malevolent face was so close to hers she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She stepped back in horror and cried out. The crowd parted as she fell into the mud. When she
opened her eyes Michael had melted into the throng. Jack was gazing down at her in confusion, but it was Robert who was beside her, pulling her to her feet, putting his arm around her shoulders and
leading her away.

New York, America, 1924

Bridie was impressed with Mr Lockwood’s house. It was a five-storey, white-stone palace with ornate pediments over the windows like eyebrows and a partially curved
façade, which gave it a warm, inviting look as if it were smiling.

‘It ain’t much but it’s home,’ joked Mr Lockwood as he stepped up to the front door. It opened at once and a butler in a crisp white shirt and black tail coat stepped
aside with a courteous bow. Mr Lockwood helped Bridie out of her coat and handed it to the butler, who took his master’s camel-hair coat, felt hat and umbrella, hooking the polished wooden
crook over his arm. Underneath, Mr Lockwood’s three-piece suit was expensively cut with a gold pocket watch on a chain hanging loosely across his somewhat rounded stomach. Bridie noticed the
large gold signet ring he wore on his left hand and the diamond cufflinks at his wrists. Even Mr Deverill at his most debonair had never looked as refined as Mr Lockwood. Bridie’s heart began
to race. ‘Now, let me introduce you to my son,’ he said as a young man stepped into the hall.

If Mr Lockwood was an impressive figure, his son was a disappointment. It wasn’t that he was plain or chinless like the hyena Paul Heskin, but he lacked his father’s gravitas. He
shook her hand and it was soft like dough and a little damp. His eyes were watery and wistful, his lips full and pink, his smile very handsome indeed, but Bridie thought him boyish and a little too
fresh-faced for her tastes. He looked like he had no experience of life, as if everything had come to him much too easily. He looked weak. ‘I found Miss Doyle at Mass,’ Mr Lockwood
explained. ‘I thought she’d brighten up our Christmas. Who needs a tree when we have a pretty girl like Miss Doyle at our table?’

They climbed the grand staircase which led up to a vast corridor with tall ceilings and heavy wooden doors with big brass knobs. Through one of those doors was a drawing room dominated by a
glittering crystal chandelier and a merry fire. The walls were lined with wooden bookcases full of books bound in dark brown leather, embossed in gold, the floors covered in rich Persian rugs. The
furniture was not unlike the furniture at Castle Deverill but everything here was shiny like new. The crimson silk chairs were spotless, the gilt on the mirror hanging above the marble fireplace
was as bright as the sun and the walls themselves shimmered, setting off the paintings so that they shimmered too. What struck her most was the light that streamed in through the tall windows,
infusing the room with happiness and a soft femininity. She was certain that this room had been decorated by Mr Lockwood’s late wife and she presumed she had been a woman of the finest
taste.

Bridie was offered a glass of champagne, which she eagerly drank, allowing the bubbles to calm her self-doubt. ‘You have so many books, Mr Lockwood,’ she said, walking up to run her
hands over their spines. ‘I love books. I love to read more than anything in the world,’ she told him deliberately.

Mr Lockwood looked surprised. ‘Do you?’

‘Oh yes!’ she exclaimed.

‘What books do you like to read?’ he asked, standing beside her.

She listed all the titles she had read to Mrs Grimsby. ‘Yeats is my favourite poet. Of course he’s Irish, which is probably why I love him. He reminds me of home.’ She looked
up at Mr Lockwood and smiled sweetly.
‘He’ll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest . . .’

‘Well, Miss Doyle, you surprise me. I know that Mrs Grimsby collected books but if you would like to borrow mine I’d be happy to lend them to you,’ he offered, his eyes now
full of admiration.

‘Oh, I’d love that, thank you. Mr Lockwood, do you like to read too?’ she asked his son.

Ashley looked bashful. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very interested in books. Father encouraged me as a boy, but I prefer more physical entertainment.’

‘Ashley plays tennis and golf,’ said Mr Lockwood. ‘He put his last book down about five years ago and hasn’t picked one up since.’

Bridie turned back to the elder Mr Lockwood. ‘Will you recommend me something to read?’ she asked, remembering that it was through books that Mrs Grimsby had won Mr Grimsby.
‘What is your favourite novel?’

Mr Lockwood began to look through his library. ‘Well now, let me see. I’m not certain that you’d be partial to my tastes, Miss Doyle, being a woman of female sensibility. But
my wife loved to read so let me offer you one of her favourites.’ He searched the spines for a moment then pulled one out and handed it to Bridie. ‘
The Scarlet Letter
. I think
you will enjoy it. It’s an American classic and is very popular.’

‘Thank you so much,’ she gushed, holding it against her chest as if it were a treasure. ‘I can’t think of anything nicer than curling up in front of the fire and reading
a good novel while winter blows cold outside.’

Mr Lockwood looked pleased. ‘Let’s eat,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m ravenous.’

It was clear right from the start that Bridie had no interest in Ashley Lockwood. Ashley, it appeared, was not very interested in her, either, but he dutifully courted her as
his father commanded. Bridie read
The Scarlet Letter
, which was full of notes written in the margins in pencil by Mrs Lockwood, which helped Bridie to make intelligent comments when she
discussed the book with the elder Mr Lockwood. She made sure that Ashley invited her to the house as much as possible, which enabled her to borrow more books from his father and to discuss them
with him in front of the fire in that beautiful drawing room. When she talked to Mr Lockwood Ashley would slip away, relieved to be left to his own devices, and Mr Lockwood didn’t seem to
mind.

Bridie sensed that this silver fox was quite taken with her. Sometimes he had the same look in his eyes that Mr Deverill had had the day he seduced her in his bedroom. Mr Lockwood would gaze at
her admiringly, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth, and she would return his gaze with as much sweetness as she could muster, before lowering it demurely and parting her lips a little
to show that she was fighting her growing feelings for him, but only just managing to keep them under control.

It was on one of these occasions that Mr Lockwood lost his composure. They were looking through the bookcase when he suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed his lips to hers. Bridie
hadn’t expected him to pounce so soon but she was not surprised; she had prepared for this moment. She closed her eyes, allowed her knees to buckle slightly and opened her mouth a little as
if her desire was overpowering. He kissed her deeply and Bridie found she didn’t have to pretend because she liked the feeling of his wet tongue curling around hers and his soft beard
brushing against her face. It felt like years since she had been held by a man.

‘Oh, Mr Lockwood,’ she breathed, opening her eyes. ‘We shouldn’t!’

‘Why? Because of Ashley?’ He chuckled and kissed her again. Bridie had not expected to feel so aroused. She thought of Mr Deverill and longed for Mr Lockwood to put his hand up her
skirt and touch her like Mr Deverill had done.

‘Oh, Mr Lockwood,’ she said again. ‘You’re a devil, you are, for making me feel things I’ve never felt before. I’m going dizzy in the head.’

Mr Lockwood smiled and buried his beard in her neck. She could feel the hardness of his own arousal pressing against her pelvis and she moved her hips, rubbing herself softly against him. This
seemed to drive Mr Lockwood into a hot fever of desire. ‘You smell so nice, Mr Lockwood,’ she whispered and indeed the very male lemon and spice scent of his cologne did enhance her
excitement. His hand found her breast as his tongue explored her mouth again with increasing ardour. His nostrils dilated and his breathing grew louder as he cupped her bosom. He pressed her
against the bookcase and began to lift her skirt. ‘Oh, Mr Lockwood,’ she protested, pushing him away. ‘We mustn’t.’

‘Are you worried about my son?’ he asked again. ‘Forget my son, Miss Doyle. I want you for myself.’ His hand began to wander to the tops of her stockings where they
lingered a moment against her bare skin. She almost let him, so delicious were the feelings his fingers provoked. But she remembered her goal. She didn’t want him to treat her like Mr
Deverill had treated her, but like he’d treat a lady of class.

‘Then marry me, Mr Lockwood,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Because I intend to go to my marital bed intact.’