Songs of Love and War by Santa Montefiore Read Free Book Online Page B

right. He’s fair and handsome, just like a lion. And your mama?’
    ‘A white weasel.’
    Lady Rowan-Hampton was shocked. ‘My dear, are you sure you know what a weasel looks like?’
    ‘Of course. Don’t you think she looks just like one?’
    Lady Rowan-Hampton hesitated and flushed. ‘Not really. I think she’s more like a lovely snow leopard.’ Kitty crinkled her nose and thought of the dry porter cake. ‘Your
sisters?’ Lady Rowan-Hampton asked.
    ‘
Little
weasels,’ said Kitty with a grin.
    ‘Oh dear, a very weaselly lot,’ said Lady Rowan-Hampton, smiling too. ‘I think we should keep this game to ourselves, don’t you think?’ Kitty nodded and watched the
weasels get up and file down the aisle towards the door.
    Once out in the sunshine, the congregation took the opportunity to mingle. The Anglo-Irish, being such a small community, had known each other for generations and cleaved to each other for
comfort and safety. They hunted together, met at the races and enjoyed an endless circuit of hunt balls and dinner parties. They were united by a love of sport and entertainment, a loyalty to the
Crown, a wary respect for the Irish and a subliminal determination to keep going in a changing world as if their decline as a people were not inevitable.
    Kitty found a spider’s web studded with raindrops on the grass not far from where her father was now talking to Lady Rowan-Hampton. Sensing they were discussing
her
, she turned her
attention away from the spider to see if she could work out what they were saying. Once or twice her father glanced in her direction and she had to pretend she was looking elsewhere. Lady
Rowan-Hampton was gesticulating in a persuasive manner, and quite crossly too, by the way she vigorously moved her hands. Kitty was surprised to see her father so contrite, as if he was being told
off. Then Kitty was diverted by another pair of eyes that watched the couple from the opposite end of the yard. They belonged to her mother and they were colder than ever.
    Sunday lunch was always held up at the castle. The family gathered in the drawing room by a boisterous fire, to warm up after the freezing-cold church and blustery ride back with glasses of
sherry and large tumblers of Jameson’s whiskey. The Shrubs were always included, arriving in a trap with the ribbons of their hats flapping madly in the wind and their heads pressed together,
deep in conversation. Rupert always came alone, already tipsy, and charmed his parents’ other guests who often increased the number around the table to as many as twenty. Today, it was just
the family, however, and Kitty sat at the very end of the table, beside her sisters, who ignored her. To her surprise, her father addressed her.
    ‘Kitty, my dear, come and ride with me this afternoon. I’d like to see how you’re coming along.’ Elspeth turned and glared at her in surprise. It was a rare treat to be
asked to ride with their father. ‘It’s about time you rode with the grownups, eh? No more languishing in the nursery for you, my girl. How old are you now, eight?’
    ‘Nine,’ said Kitty.
    ‘Nine, eh? Where’s the time gone? When I was nearly half your age I was hunting with the Ballinakelly Foxhounds.’
    ‘What fun!’ exclaimed Hazel.
    ‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Laurel. ‘Do take care to find her a gentle pony, Bertie. When I was a girl I barely escaped with my life after being thrown into a ditch by my naughty
little pony, Teasel. Do you remember, Hazel?’
    ‘Do I ever!’ laughed her sister. Hubert immediately launched into his favourite hunting anecdote and Kitty was quite lost again in the sudden swell of conversation. But her heart
began to thump excitedly at the thought of riding out with her father. She wondered whether her mother would come too, but decided not. After all, this impromptu arrangement was clearly Lady
Rowan-Hampton’s idea and her mother rarely rode. When she did she cut a dash in her black riding habit