Songs of Love and War Read Free Page B

because he was greedy and pompous and
prone to spouting unsolicited sermons from his seat at her table. Lady Deverill didn’t think much of him, but it was her duty as Doyenne of Ballinakelly and a member of the Church of Ireland,
so she instructed the cook, brought in flowers from the greenhouses and somewhat mischievously invited her sisters to divert him with their tedious and incessant chatter.
    When Mrs Doyle saw Bridie she pursed her lips. ‘Bridie, what are you doing loitering in the corridor when I have a banquet to cook? Come and make yourself useful and pluck this
partridge.’ She held up the bird by its neck. Bridie pulled a face at Kitty and went to join the kitchen maids at the long oak table in the middle of the room. Mrs Doyle glanced at Kitty, who
was standing in the doorway with her long white face and secretive mouth that always curled at the corners, as if she had exclusive knowledge of something important, and wondered what she was
thinking. There was something in that child’s eyes that put the heart crossways in her. She couldn’t explain what it was and she didn’t resent the girls playing together, but
Bridie’s mother didn’t think any good would come of their friendship when, as they grew older, their lives would inevitably take them down different paths and Bridie would be left
feeling the coldness and anguish of Kitty’s rejection. She went back to her butter. When she looked up again Kitty had gone.

Chapter 2
    Kitty’s attention had been diverted by the loud crack of gunfire. She remained for a moment frozen on the back stairs. It sounded like it had come from inside the castle.
There followed an eruption of barking. Kitty hurried into the hall to see her grandfather’s three brown wolfhounds bursting out of the library and heading off up the staircase at a gallop.
Without hesitation she ran after them, jumping two steps at a time to reach the landing. The dogs raced down the corridor, skidding on the carpet as they charged round the corner, narrowly missing
the wall.
    Kitty found her grandfather in his habitual faded tweed breeches and jacket at the window of his dressing room, pointing a rifle into the garden. He gleefully fired another shot. It was lost in
the damp winter mist that was gathering over the lawn. ‘Bloody papists!’ he bellowed. ‘That’ll teach you to trespass on my land. Now make off with you before I aim properly
and send you to an early grave!’
    Kitty watched him in horror. The sight of Hubert Deverill shooting at Catholics was not a surprise. He often clashed with the poachers and knackers creeping about his land in search of game and
she had eavesdropped enough at the library door to know exactly what he thought of
them
. She didn’t understand how her grandfather could loathe people simply for being Catholic –
all Kitty’s friends were Irish Catholics. Hubert’s dogs panted at his heels as he brought the gun inside and patted them fondly. When he saw his granddaughter standing in the doorway,
like a miniature version of his wife with her eyebrows knitted in disapproval, he grinned mischievously. ‘Hello, Kitty my dear. Fancy some cake?’
    ‘Porter cake?’
    ‘Laced with brandy. It’ll do you good. Put some colour in those pale cheeks of yours.’ He pressed the bell for his valet, which in turn rang a little bell on a board down in
the servants’ quarters above the name ‘Lord Deverill’.
    ‘I was born pale, Grandpa,’ Kitty replied, watching him open his gun and fold it over his arm like her grandmother held her handbag when they went into Ballinakelly.
    ‘How’s the Battle of the Boyne?’ he asked.
    She sighed. ‘That was last year, Grandpa. I’m learning about the Great Fire of London now.’
    ‘Good good,’ he muttered, his mind now on other things.
    ‘Grandpa?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you love this castle?’
    ‘Minus point for a silly question,’ Hubert replied gruffly.
    ‘I mean, would you mind if you were stuck