Daughters of Castle Deverill Read Online Free

heart attack,’ Bridie replied.
    ‘Surely he was too young for a heart attack?’ said Mrs Doyle.
    Bridie’s eyes flicked to Rosetta. She wasn’t about to reveal that Mr Lockwood had been old enough to be her father. ‘Indeed, it was most unfortunate that he died in his prime.
I was planning on bringing him here so that Father Quinn could give us his blessing and you could all meet him . . . but . . .’
    ‘God’s will,’ said Mrs Doyle tightly, affronted that Bridie hadn’t bothered to write and tell them of her marriage. ‘What was his name?’
    ‘Walter Lockwood and he was a fine man.’
    ‘Mrs Lockwood,’ said Old Mrs Nagle thoughtfully. She clearly liked the sound of it.
    ‘We met at Mass,’ Bridie told them with emphasis, feeling the sudden warmth of approval at the mention of the Church. ‘He courted me after Mass every Sunday and we grew fond of
each other. We were married only seven months, but in those seven months I can honestly say that I have never been so happy. I have much to be grateful for. Although my grief is deep, I am in a
position to share my good fortune with my family. He left me broken-hearted but very rich.’
    ‘Nothing is more important than your faith, Bridie Doyle,’ said Old Mrs Nagle, crossing herself again. ‘But I’m old enough to remember the Great Famine. Money cannot buy
happiness but it can surely save us from starvation and hardship and help us to be miserable in comfort, God help us.’ Her wrinkled old eyes, as small as raisins, shone in the gloomy light of
the room. ‘The road to sin is paved with gold. But tell me, Bridie, how much are we talking?’
    ‘A cross in this life, a crown in the next,’ said Mrs Doyle gravely. ‘God has seen fit to help us in these hard times, for
that
our hearts must be full of
gratitude,’ she added, suddenly forgetting her daughter’s shameful blue dress and the fact that she never wrote to tell them about her marriage. ‘God bless you, Bridie. I will
exchange the washboard for a mangle and thank the Lord for his goodness. Now, to Mass. Let us not forget your brother Michael at Mount Melleray Abbey, Bridie. Let us do another novena to St Jude
that he will be saved from the drink and delivered back to us sober and repentant. Sean, hurry up now, let us not be late.’
    Bridie sat in the cart in an elegant green coat with fur trimming, alongside her mother and grandmother, wrapped in heavy woollen shawls, and poor Rosetta who was practically falling out of the
back, for it was not made for so many. Sean sat above in his Sunday best, driving the donkey who struggled with the weight, until they reached the hill at which point Bridie and Rosetta walked with
Sean to lighten the animal’s load. A cold wind blew in off the sea, playfully seeking to grab Bridie’s hat and carry it away. She held it in place with a firm hand, dismayed to see her
fine leather boots sinking into the mud. She resolved to buy her brother a car so that he could drive to Mass, but somehow she knew her grandmother would object to what she considered
‘éirí in airde’
— airs and graces. There would be no ostentatious show of wealth in this family as long as she was alive.
    Father Quinn had heard of Bridie’s triumphant return to Ballinakelly and his greedy eyes settled on her expensive coat and hat and the soft leather gloves on her hands, and knew that she
would give generously to the church; after all, there was no family in Ballinakelly more devout than the Doyles. He decided that today’s sermon would be about charity and smiled warmly on
Bridie Doyle.
    Bridie walked down the aisle with her chin up and her shoulders back. She could feel every eye upon her and knew what they were thinking. How far she had come from the ragged and barefooted
child she had once been, terrified of Father Quinn’s hellfire visions, critical finger-wagging and bullying sermons. She thought of Kitty Deverill with her pretty dresses and silk ribbons in