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 goodbye. 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 parlour 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 honour 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 judgement over anybody. I’m sorry, Bridie,’ he said to
his sister and his voice was heavy with sympathy. ‘How did he die?’
‘A
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 goodbye. 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 parlour 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 honour 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 judgement over anybody. I’m sorry, Bridie,’ he said to
his sister and his voice was heavy with sympathy. ‘How did he die?’
‘A