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Authors: Santa Montefiore
Daughters of Castle Deverill
of
Castle Deverill
Also by Santa Montefiore
The Affair
The Italian Matchmaker
The French Gardener
Sea of Lost Love
The Gypsy Madonna
Last Voyage of the Valentina
The Swallow and the Hummingbird
The Forget-Me-Not Sonata
The Butterfly Box
Meet Me Under the Ombu Tree
The House by the Sea
The Summer House
Secrets of the Lighthouse
The Beekeeper’s Daughter
Songs of Love and War
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016
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Copyright © Santa Montefiore, 2016
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To Sebag
with love and gratitude
Barton Deverill
Ballinakelly, Co. Cork, 1662
A salty wind swept over the white beaches and rocky cliffs of Ballinakelly Bay, carrying on its breath the mournful cry of gulls and the crashing of waves. Grey clouds hung low
and a gentle drizzle misted the air. Swathes of green pastures and yellow gorse rendered it hard to believe the violence of Ireland’s history, for even in that dull, early spring light, hers
was a flawless, innocent beauty. Indeed, in that moment when the seemingly impenetrable canopy above thinned sufficiently to allow a beam of sunlight to filter through it, Barton Deverill, the
first Lord Deverill of Ballinakelly, vowed to heal the scars of Cromwell’s brutality and bring comfort and prosperity to the people over whom he now presided. Wrapped in a velvet riding cape
of the deepest crimson, a wide-brimmed hat with a swirling plume placed at a raffish angle on his head, high leather boots with silver spurs and a sword at his hip, he sat astride his horse and ran
his eyes over the vast expanse of land bestowed on him by the recently restored King Charles II in gratitude for his loyalty. Indeed, Barton Deverill had been one of the leading commanders in the
fight against Cromwell’s conquest of Ireland. After the defeat at Worcester he had fled across the sea with the King and accompanied him during his long exile; a title and land were
satisfactory recompense for Cromwell’s confiscation of his family’s lands in England and the years he had devoted to the Crown. Now he was no longer a young man, thirsty for combat and
adventure, but a man in middle age eager to put away his sword and enjoy the fruits of his endeavours. Where better to lay down his roots than here in this startlingly beautiful land?
The castle was taking shape. It was going to be magnificent, overlooking the sea with towers and turrets and high walls thick enough to repel the enemy, although Lord Deverill would have rather
seen an end to the violence. Protestant though he was and an Englishman to his marrow, he didn’t see why he and the Irish Catholics couldn’t respect and tolerate each other. After all,
the past lived only in one’s memory, whereas the future was forged on the attitudes of today; with understanding and acceptance in the present a peaceful land could surely be attained.
He signalled to his large retinue of attendants and the group continued slowly towards the small hamlet of Ballinakelly. It had rained heavily during the night and the road was thick with mud.
The sound of squelching hooves heralded their arrival, striking fear into the hearts of the people who had witnessed too much blood to be complacent about Englishmen on horseback. Men watched them
warily, having not until that moment laid eyes upon their new lord and master. Women blanched, hastily sweeping up their children and retreating into their houses and slamming the doors behind
them. A few intrepid youngsters remained barefoot in the drizzle like scarecrows, wide-eyed and hungry, as the English gentlemen with fine leather boots and plumes in their hats rode into their
midst.
Lord Deverill halted his steed and turned to his friend, Sir Toby Beckwyth-Stubbs, a portly man with a sweeping auburn moustache and long curly hair in the fashionable cut of the Cavaliers.
‘So this is the heart of my empire,’ he said, gesticulating with his gloved hand, then added with sarcasm, ‘I can see that I am well loved here.’
‘Years of bloodshed have made them wary, Barton,’ Sir Toby replied. ‘I’m sure with a little gentle persuasion they can be brought to heel.’
‘There’ll be no persuasion of that nature here, my friend.’ Barton raised his voice. ‘I will be a beneficent lord if they’ll swear me their allegiance.’
Just then, a woman in a long black Bandon cloak stepped into the track. It seemed as if the wind dropped suddenly and a stillness came over the village. The ragged children melted away and only
the woman remained, her dress trailing in the mud.
‘Who is this?’ Lord Deverill demanded.
The estate manager brought his horse alongside his master’s. ‘Maggie O’Leary, milord,’ he informed him.
‘And who is this Maggie O’Leary?’
‘Her family owned the land you are building on, milord.’
‘Ah,’ said Lord Deverill, rubbing his beard with a gloved hand. ‘I suppose she wants it back.’ His joke caused his attendants much amusement and they tossed their heads
and laughed. But the young woman stared at them with such boldness the laughter faded into a few nervous chuckles and no one had the courage to outstare her. ‘I am happy to pay her
something,’ Lord Deverill added.
‘She is clearly mad,’ Sir Toby hissed anxiously. ‘Let us be rid of her at once.’
But Lord Deverill raised his hand. There was something in the confidence of her stance that aroused his curiosity. ‘No. Let’s hear what she has to say.’
Maggie O’Leary gave a quiver of her white fingers and, with a movement so light and fluid that her hands might have been a pair of snowy birds, she pulled back her hood. Lord
Deverill’s breath caught in his chest for he had never before seen such beauty, not even in the French court. Her hair was long and black and shone like the wings of a raven, her face was as
pale as moonlight. She curled her lips which were full and red like winter berries. But it was her light green eyes that severed the laughter from their throats and moved the factotum to cross
himself vigorously and whisper under his breath. ‘Keep your wits about you, sire, for surely she’s a witch.’
Maggie O’Leary lifted her chin and settled her gaze on Lord Deverill. Her voice was low and mellifluous, like wind.
‘Is mise Peig Ni Laoghaire. A Tiarna Deverill, dhein tú
éagóir orm agus ar mo shliocht trín ár dtalamh a thógáil agus ár spiorad a bhriseadh. Go dtí go gceartaíonn tú na
h-éagóracha siúd, cuirim malacht ort féin agus d-oidhrí, I dtreo is go mbí sibh gan suaimhneas síoraí I ndomhan na
n-anmharbh.’