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of course, which had always been at the heart of her contentment.
    Now she walked her horse round to the stables where the groom gave it water and hay. Celia chatted excitedly about her plans for the rebuilding. ‘We’re going to put in proper
plumbing and electricity. No expense will be spared. Above all, it’s going to be much more comfortable than before,’ she said, taking Kitty by the arm and walking towards the house.
‘And more beautiful than it ever was. I will hire the finest architect London has to offer and raise this phoenix from the ashes. It’s all so thrilling, I can barely breathe!’
    They found Kitty’s father, Bertie, and Celia’s husband, Archie, drinking sherry with Bertie’s friend and former lover, Lady Rowan-Hampton, in the drawing room. A turf fire
burned weakly in the grate, giving out little heat, and they could barely see one another for the smoke. ‘Ah, Kitty, what a lovely surprise,’ said Archie, standing up and kissing her
affectionately. ‘I suppose Celia has told you the good news.’
    ‘Yes she has. I’m still trying to take it in.’ Kitty resented Archie’s enthusiasm. It was all she could do to smile in the wake of such devastating news. ‘Hello,
Papa, hello, Grace.’ She bent down to kiss her friend Grace Rowan-Hampton and reflected on the miraculous healing power of time. Once, she had despised Grace for her long-standing affair with
her father, but now she was grateful to her for her constant loyalty to her former lover, who looked more bloated with booze than ever. Besides Grace, Kitty didn’t think her father had many
friends left. In his youth Bertie Deverill had been the most dashing man in West Cork, but now he was a wreck, destroyed by whiskey and disillusionment and a nagging sense of his own failings. Even
though he had formally recognized Little Jack, the child was a persistent reminder of a shameful moment of weakness.
    ‘My dear Kitty, will you stay for lunch?’ Bertie asked. ‘We must celebrate Celia and Archie’s jubilant purchase of the castle.’
    Kitty thought of Little Jack and her stomach cramped with anxiety. But she dismissed her fears and took off her hat. After all, Miss Elsie had promised not to let him out of her sight.
‘I’d love to,’ she replied, sitting down beside Grace.
    Grace Rowan-Hampton looked as radiant as a ripe golden plum. Although she was almost fifty, her light brown hair showed only the slightest hint of grey and her molasses-coloured eyes were alert
and bright and full of her characteristic warmth. Kitty scrutinized her closely and decided that it was the plumpness of her skin and the flawlessness of her complexion that were the key to her
beauty; a lifetime of soft rain and gentle sunshine had been kind to her face. ‘Celia and Archie have taken us all by surprise,’ Grace said with a smile. ‘We’ve been eaten
up by curiosity over the last weeks, but now we know we must celebrate. The castle is not lost to the Deverills, after all, but regained. Really, Bertie, I couldn’t bear to think of it being
bought by someone with no understanding of its history.’
    ‘That’s what I said to Archie,’ Celia replied, taking his hand. ‘I said that it would haunt me for the rest of my days if the place fell into the hands of strangers. I
just love the history. All that stuff about Henry VIII or whoever it was. So romantic’ Kitty winced. No one with any real connection to the place would get it all so wrong.
    ‘And I decided then that my wife’s happiness was more important than anything else in the whole world. We hoped it would make you happy, too, Lord Deverill.’
    Bertie nodded pensively, although Kitty didn’t think her father’s thoughts contained anything much. He had a distant look in his rheumy eyes, the look of a man to whom little matters
beyond the contents of a bottle. ‘And Celia’s having a baby too,’ Kitty said, changing the subject.
    ‘Yes, as if we didn’t have enough to