Ashworth Hall

6

EMILY WAS EXHAUSTED, and yet she found it hard to sleep except fitfully. The day after Pitt had gone to Oakfield House, she was awake even before the most junior housemaid, although instead of getting up, she lay in the dark going over all the disasters of the weekend in her mind and dreading the day to come.

When she did get up she had a steady dull headache, and her first cup of tea did not help, nor did the hot water her maid brought her to wash in, but the aroma of the oil of lavender she offered was very pleasant. Emily dressed carefully in a teal-blue gown and admired her reflection in the glass, although it gave her no pleasure. She looked perfect. Her figure was completely returned after the birth of her daughter Evangeline, at present safely with her nurse and her elder half brother, Edward, in their London house. The morning dress was the latest fashion, and the color became her, as did any green or blue. Her fair hair, with its soft, natural curl which Charlotte used to envy so much, was elaborately dressed and set exactly as intended. No maid ever had difficulty with it.

But all these things were trivial. Even the wretched thought of having to cajole and persuade the staff to do their duties, calming upset nerves, soothing fears, assuring them there was no lunatic in the house, no one else was going to be killed, was merely the duty of a good hostess. What underlay everything else was her fear for Jack. Cornwallis had asked him, and he had stepped into Greville’s position as chairman as if he had no conception of the danger in which he was placing himself. If there were people who cared so intensely about preventing the conference’s success that they would murder Greville to achieve that, then they would almost certainly be prepared to murder Jack also.

And Pitt was doing nothing to protect him, except leave that wretched Tellman at Jack’s elbow … as if that were any use! He did not even know who or what he was protecting him from. They should have canceled the conference. It was the only sane thing to do. Bring in more police and question everybody until the answer was clear. Cornwallis himself should have come.

She could feel the panic rising inside her. She saw pictures in her imagination of Jack lying dead, his face white, his eyes closed, and the tears prickled her eyes, her stomach knotted and suddenly she felt sick. There was no point in any false comfort of saying it could not happen. Of course it could. It had already happened once. Eudora Greville was a widow. She was alone, she had lost the man she had loved. Presumably, she had loved him? Not that that had anything to do with it. Emily loved Jack. This morning, sitting at her dressing table with a brooch in her hand, fingers shaking, she realized how very much.

And she was furious with him for accepting the chairmanship, even though she would have done the same herself, could she ever be in such a position. She had never run away from anything she wanted in her life. She would have despised him if he had. But he would at least have been safe.

And the other fear, which she refused to look at, was that he would fail, not just because the task was probably impossible, but because he was not the diplomat Ainsley Greville had been. He had not the experience, the polish, the knowledge of Irish affairs, simply not the skill.

All that hovered on the edge of her mind, and she would not allow it to the center. She would not permit herself to put it into words. It was disloyal, and it was untrue … possibly. She loved Jack for his charm, for his gentleness with her, his ability to laugh, to be funny and brave, to see the beautiful in things and enjoy it, and because he loved her. She did not need him to be clever, to become famous or earn a great deal of money. She already had money, inherited from George.

Perhaps Jack needed to do these things for himself, or at least to try, to find his own measure, succeed or fail. She would rather have protected him … from both dangers. Her son, Edward, was George’s son, not Jack’s, and there were times when she thought of him with the same fierce desire to shield him from harm, even from the necessary pains of growing. She had never considered herself maternal. The idea was ridiculous. Nobody was less so. She was practical, ambitious, witty, quick to learn, she could adapt to almost any situation, and she never told herself comfortable lies. She was a good-natured realist.

And yet that morning she quarreled with Jack. It was the last thing she had intended to do. He came into her dressing room almost the moment Gwen left. He stood behind her, meeting her eyes in the glass and smiling. He bent and kissed the top of her head without disarranging her hair.

She swiveled around on the seat, regarding him very seriously.

“You will be careful, won’t you?” she urged. “Keep Tellman with you. I know he’s a misery, but just endure it for the present.” She rose to her feet, unconsciously putting up her hands to straighten his lapels, although they were perfect, and dust off an imaginary fleck of cotton.

“Stop fussing, Emily,” he said quietly. “Nobody is going to attack me in public. I doubt anybody is going to attack me at all.”

“Why not? Don’t you think you can do whatever Ainsley Greville began? You were there all the time. I’m sure you can do as much as he could have.” Then she changed her mind, realizing what she had implied. “Although perhaps all you should really try to accomplish is keeping everyone from giving up. It could always be continued later, in London ….”

“When they can appoint a new chairman,” he said with a smile, but she saw the hurt in his eyes, self-mocking but very real.

“When they can take better care of your safety,” she corrected him, but she knew he did not believe her. What could she say to undo it? How could she make him believe that she had confidence in him, whatever anyone else thought? If she tried too hard she would only make it worse. Why did he have to want something so difficult? Perhaps it was more than he had the skill to achieve?

How could she persuade him she believed something she was not sure of herself? And all the time the sick fear for him crawled around inside her, gnawing away at everything else, stopping her from thinking clearly. She tried to tell herself it was foolish. But it was not foolish. The body of Ainsley Greville, lying in the icehouse, was horrible testimony of that!

“Thomas will take as good care of our safety as can be done,” he said after a moment’s silence. “The house is full of people. Don’t worry. Just see if you can keep Kezia and Iona from quarreling, and look after poor Eudora.”

“Of course,” she said as if it were a simple task. He did not even appreciate that the real struggle would be to keep the servants from quarreling, having hysterics, or walking out altogether.

“Charlotte will help you,” he added.

“Of course,” she agreed with an inward shudder. Charlotte would mean well, but her idea of tact could be a disaster. She would have to make sure she did not allow Charlotte anywhere near the kitchen. Charlotte’s confronting the cook would be the ultimate domestic catastrophe.

As it happened, breakfast was tense but passed off really quite well. All the men were concentrating on returning to the discussions and were finished and leaving when the women arrived, so Kezia and Fergal were able to avoid each other. Fergal and Iona cast burning looks as they passed in the doorway, but neither spoke. Eudora was still in her room. Piers and Justine were subdued, but Justine at least conducted herself with composure and sustained an agreeable conversation about trivia which drew everyone in, to Emily’s relief.

The household management was a different matter. The butler was offended because the visiting valets were not in his control, which he felt they should have been. They dined separately, and it was greatly inconvenient. The laundry maids were overworked because one of them was in bed with the vapors and there was far too much to do. Miss Moynihan’s maid gave herself airs and had managed to quarrel with Mrs. McGinley’s maid, with the result that an entire bucketful of soap was spilled all over the laundry room floor.

The scullery maid had a fit of the giggles and was perfectly useless, not that she was much good at the best of times. Eudora’s maid was so distressed she forgot what she was doing half the time, and poor Gracie was forever picking up after her—when she wasn’t watching Hennessey, or listening to him, or wondering when he was corning back again.

Tellman was getting more and more ill-tempered, and Dilkes was fed up with him. He seemed to be neither use nor ornament, although presumably his being a policeman explained that and why Pitt endured him.

But it was Mrs. Williams, the cook, who finally broke Emily’s patience.

“It isn’t my job to be doin’ plain cookin’,” she said indignantly. “I’m a professed cook, not a general cook. I do specialities. You’ll still be wantin’ that Delilah’s trifle tonight, and baked goose, no doubt? Them kitchen maids is supposed to fetch after me, not me be runnin’ behind them as they get a fit o’ cryin’, or is hidin’ from goblins in the cupboard under the stairs. And I’m not havin’ any butler tellin’ me how to discipline girls in my own kitchen, an’ that’s a fact, Mrs. Radley!”

“Who’s in the cupboard under the stairs?” Emily demanded.

“Georgina. An’ that’s no name for a kitchen maid! I told her if she don’t come out this minute, I’ll send in worse after her than goblins! I’ll come in after ’er meself. An’ she’ll rue the day! I’m not doin’ vegetables and rice puddings an’ custards. I got venison to do, an’ apple pies, an’ turbot, an’ Lord knows what else. You put a sore trial on a decent person, Mrs. Radley, an’ that’s a fact.”

Emily was obliged to bite her tongue. She would dearly like to have fired Mrs. Williams on the spot, with considerable sarcasm, but she could not afford to. Nor could she afford to lose face. It would never be forgotten, and would open the door to all kinds of future troubles.

“There is a sore trial upon all of us, Mrs. Williams,” Emily replied, forcing her expression into one of friendliness she did not feel. “We are all frightened and worried. My greatest concern is that the household should emerge from this awful weekend with honor, so that afterwards people will remember all that was good. The rest will not be associated with us, but with Irish politics.”

“Well …” Mrs. Wilhams said, snorting through her nose, “there is that, I suppose. Although I’m sure I don’t know what’s good about it.”

“The food is more than good, it is excellent,” Emily replied with something a shade less than the truth. “This is the sort of disaster which sorts the great cook from the merely good. Test under fire, Mrs. Williams. Many people can do well when everything is fine for them and there is no invention called for, no courage or extraordinary discipline.”

“Well!” Mrs. Williams straightened up noticeably. “I daresay as you have a point, Mrs. Radley. We’ll not let you down. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I daren’t stay here talking any longer, unless there was something else? I got to be about my work if I’m to do that daft Georgina’s as well.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Williams. Thank you.”

On returning upstairs she went into the morning room, where there was a blazing fire, and found Justine talking to Kezia and Iona. The atmosphere was brittle but still within the bounds of civility. But then Kezia had kept her greatest anger for her brother, and Charlotte had explained why. Emily thought that in similar circumstances she might have felt the same.

“I was thinking of going for a walk,” Iona said dubiously, staring out of the tall windows at the gray sky. “But it looks very cold.”

“An excellent idea,” Justine agreed, rising to her feet. “It will be invigorating, and we shall return well in time for luncheon.”

“Luncheon!” Iona looked surprised and swiveled to glance at the mantel clock, which said twenty-eight minutes to eleven. “We could walk halfway to London in that time.”

Justine smiled. “Not against that wind, and not in skirts.”

“Oh, have you worn the bloomers?” Kezia asked with interest. “They look very practical, if a little immodest. I should love to try them.”

“Do you ride a bicycle?” Emily said quickly. Bicycling was surely a safe subject. It was appalling having to think so hard before even the slightest remark. “I have seen several different sorts. It must be a marvelous sensation.” She was spinning out every comment to make it last. It was pathetic. She hoped fervently that Iona would go for a walk and leave Kezia behind. She must not be seen to try too hard to bring it about. She had never in her life before spent a weekend where almost everyone was so acutely uncomfortable.

They went on discussing bicycles for several more minutes, then Justine led the way, and she and Iona left to collect canes and shawls for their walk. Emily remained with Kezia, struggling to continue some kind of conversation.

After half an hour she excused herself and went to look for Charlotte. Why was she not there helping? She must know how appallingly difficult it was. Emily relied upon her, and she was off somewhere else, presumably comforting Eudora—as if anyone could.

But when she went upstairs to the sitting room which Eudora was using, she found not Charlotte with her, but Pitt. Eudora was sitting in one of the big chairs, and Pitt was bending in front of the fire, stoking it. He should not be doing that. That was what footmen were for.

“Good morning, Mrs. Greville,” Emily said solicitously. “How are you? Good morning, Thomas.”

Pitt straightened up with a wince as his aching muscles caught him, and replied.

“Good morning, Mrs. Radley,” Eudora said with a faint smile. She looked ten years older than she had when she arrived at Ashworth Hall. Her skin had no bloom to it. Her eyes were still wonderful, but the lids were puffed. She had had too little sleep, and her hair no longer shone with the same richness. It was remarkable how quickly shock and misery dulled the looks, as rapidly as any illness.

“Did you manage to sleep?” Emily asked with concern. “If you like, I can have Gwen make you something that will help a little. We have plenty of lavender, and the oil is most pleasant. Or perhaps you would like chamomile tea and a little honey with biscuits before retiring tonight?”

“Thank you,” Eudora said absently, barely looking at Emily, her attention upon Pitt.

He stood back from the fire and turned to Emily. He also looked strained, as if he were only too aware of Eudora’s distress.

“How about a little vervain tea?” Emily suggested. “Or if we don’t have it, basil or sage? I should have thought of it before.”

“I am sure Doll will take care of it, thank you,” Eudora replied. “You are very thoughtful, but you have so much to do.”

It was not dismissal, simply absentrnindedness. Her thoughts, even her eyes, were on Pitt.

“Is there anything I can offer which would help?” Emily must try. Eudora looked so deeply troubled, even though Pitt was obviously doing all he could, and seemed profoundly con cerned. There was an air of gentleness in him which was even greater than his characteristic compassion.

Eudora turned to Emily, at last looking clearly at her. “I am sorry. I did not realize how shocked I have been. There is so much that—” She stopped. “I cannot seem to think properly. So much has … changed.”

Emily remembered other violent deaths, and investigations which had discovered whole aspects of lives which were unknown before. A few were creditable, brave; most were ugly, robbing even the safety of what we thought was held inviolable. There was no future, sometimes there was not even any past as one had treasured it. Was this what Pitt had been telling Eudora now? Was that the foundation for his tenderness towards her?

“Of course,” Emily said quietly. “I’ll have a tisane sent up. And a little food. Even if it is only bread and butter, you should eat.”

She withdrew and left them together.

The men were conferring again. Jack would be in charge, trying to get them to some kind of agreement. As she was coming down the stairs she saw the butler carrying a tray into the withdrawing room, and as he opened the door she heard the sound of raised voices. Then the door closed and cut them off. One of them in there had murdered Ainsley Greville, whether he had accomplices outside or not. Why was Pitt sitting and comforting Eudora? Compassion was all very well, but it was not his task. Charlotte should be doing that. Why wasn’t she?

Emily went the rest of the way down to the hall and was crossing it towards the conservatory when she almost bumped into Charlotte coming in from the garden.

“What are you doing?” Emily said sharply.

Charlotte closed the door behind her. Her hair was ruffled, as if she had been in the wind, and there was a flush in her cheeks.

“I went for a walk,” she answered. “Why?”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Why?”

Emily’s temper snapped. “Greville has been murdered by God knows who, but someone in the house, Jack’s life is in danger and Thomas is sitting upstairs comforting the widow instead of looking after him, or even trying to find who murdered Greville. The Irish are all at each others’ throats while I am trying to keep some kind of peace, the servants are fainting, weeping, quarreling or hiding under the stairs—and you are out in the garden walking! And you ask me why! Where are your wits?”

Charlotte paled, then two spots of color burned up in her cheeks.

“I was thinking,” she said coldly. “Sometimes a little thought is a great deal more beneficial than simply rushing around to give the appearance of doing something—”

“I have not been rushing around!” Emily snapped back. “I thought that the past would have taught you, if the present does not, that running a house this size, with guests, takes a great deal of skill and organization. I relied on you at least to keep Kezia and Iona in a civil conversation.”

“Justine was doing that—”

“And Thomas to try to guard Jack, as much as it can be done, and he’s up there”—she jabbed her finger towards the stairs—“comforting Eudora!”

“He’s probably questioning her,” Charlotte said icily.

“For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t a domestic murder!” Emily made an effort to control her voice. “If she knew anything she’d have told him in the beginning. It’s one of these men in there.”

“We all know that,” Charlotte agreed. “But which one? Maybe Padraig Doyle, have you thought of that?”

Emily had not thought of it, she did not think it now.

“Well, at least go and talk to Kezia. She’s by herself in the morning room. Perhaps you can persuade her to stop this ridiculous rage against Fergal. It doesn’t help anyone.” And with that Emily straightened her shoulders and marched back to the baize door and the servants’ quarters, although she had forgotten what she was going for.

Gracie was also extremely busy that morning, not essentially on Charlotte’s affairs. The dresses she had brought were in little need of attention, and those which had been lent her needed only a slight press here or there with a flatiron. There was personal linen to launder, but that was all. She collected it and took it downstairs and through the corridors of the servants’ wing out to the laundry house.

She found Doll already there, looking unhappily at the dull surface of a flatiron and muttering under her breath.

“How is poor Mrs. Greville?” Gracie asked sympathetically.

Doll glanced at her. “Poor soul,” she said with a sigh. “Doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going at the moment. But I daresay it’ll get worse before it gets better. Have you seen the beeswax and bath brick?”

“What?”

“Beeswax and bath brick,” Doll repeated. “There’s plenty o’ salt right there. Need to clean this iron before I put it anywhere near a white camisole.” She held up the iron critically. The other one on the stove was getting hot.

“Mr. Pitt’s very clever,” Gracie assured her, seeking to comfort her. “’E’ll find out everythin’ there is ter know, an’ then ’e’ll work out ’oo done it, an’ take ’im in.”

Doll looked at her quickly, her eyes shadowed. Her hand was tight on the iron.

“Can’t need to know everything,” she said, beginning to move again, taking the other iron off the stove and putting it on the white petticoat and beginning to work, leaning her weight on it and swinging it gently backwards, smoothing the fabric.

“Yer’d be surprised wot ’as meanin’,” Gracie told her. “Ter someone clever enough ter see it an’ understand. ’E’ll catch ’ooever it is, don’ worry.”

Doll gave a little shiver and her eyes were far away. Her hand on the iron clenched hard and stopped moving.

“Yer don’ need ter look so scared.” Gracie moved a step towards her. “ ’E’s very fair. ’E’d never ’urt them wot don’ deserve it, nor tell tales wot don’ need ter be told.”

Doll swallowed. “Course not. I never thought …” She looked down suddenly and moved the iron. The scorch mark was brown on the linen. She took a deep breath and tears filled her eyes.

Gracie snatched the iron up and put it aside on the hearth.

“There must be a way fer takin’ that out,” she said with more assurance than she felt. “There’s a way fer everythin’, if yer jus’ know it.”

“Mr. Wheeler said as Mr. Pitt rode over to Oakfield House yesterday!” Doll stared at Gracie. “Why? What’s he want there? It was someone here who killed him.”

“I know that,” Gracie agreed. “ ’Ow do yer get scorch marks out? What’s the best way? We better do that afore it’s too late.”

“Onion juice, fuller’s earth, white soap and vinegar,” Doll replied absently. “They’re bound to have some made up. Look in that jar.” She pointed to one on the shelf next to the blue, behind Gracie’s head. It was between the bran, rice for congee, borax, soap, beeswax and ordinary tallow candle, used for removing inkspots.

Gracie took it down with two hands and passed it over. It was heavy. Scorches must be quite a common occurrence. But there was something in Doll’s unhappiness which was more than ordinary. Gracie felt a need to understand it, not only for the sake of Doll, whom she liked, but because it might be important. Murder was not always as simple as people thought, especially if they were people who had not as much experience as Gracie had.

However, she was foiled in her intent by one of the laundry maids’ coming in to iron table linen for dinner that evening, and the conversation suddenly became about the senior groom, and what he had said to Maisie, and what Tillie had said about that, and why the bootboy had repeated it anyway.

* * *

At mid-morning Pitt changed clothes. Gracie polished his boots for him. Tellman was otherwise occupied, and anyway he did not really make a good enough job of it, the great useless article! Gracie would not have Pitt leave the hall less well-dressed than any other gentleman there. He took an overcoat and a very smart hat, borrowed from Mr. Radley, and was driven to the railway station to catch the ten forty-eight up to London. She knew it was not a journey he could possibly enjoy. He was going to see the assistant commissioner, who would likely be very upset that Mr. Greville had been murdered after all. She wished there were something comforting she could say to him, but anything she thought of only sounded empty or not her place to say.

And Miss Charlotte was not around to see him off, which she ought to have been. She was busy with that Miss Moynihan who had taken such a temper. If country house parties were usually like this, it was a wonder anybody would go to one.

She decided to throw out the old flowers in the dressing room vase. They were droopy, probably from the fire. She would fill in a little time by going to find the gardener and see if she might pick some fresh ones. Anything would do, even leaves, as long as they were green and crisp-looking.

She obtained permission to choose something, not more than a dozen, mind, from the cold greenhouse. It was just the occasion to put on the new overcoat Charlotte had bought for her. It was even the right size. She went upstairs and found it, and was making her way through the kitchen garden in the general direction indicated when she saw Finn Hennessey. She recognized him immediately, even though he had his back to her. He was watching a ginger-and-white cat walking along the top of the high garden wall towards the branches of the apple tree. From its low, silent tread, she thought it had seen a bird.

She straightened herself a little more, held her chin high, and almost unconsciously swayed her hips a trifle. She must attract his attention without seeming to wish to. She was not very good at playing games; she did not have sufficient practice. She had noticed how skilled the other ladies’ maids were. They could flirt so well it came to them like nature. But then they had nothing of real seriousness to do. They couldn’t solve a crime if the answer were under their noses. Lot of silly little creatures, sometimes, giggling at nothing.

She was level with Finn Hennessey. She would have to walk past him and say nothing. She ached inside with the frustration of it, but she would not let herself down by playing games any child could see through.

The cat leaped from the tree, an arc of some ten feet. Its claws scraped the bark, sliding another two feet, but it eventually held fast, and it scrambled onto the branch just as the bird flew away.

“Oh!” she gasped involuntarily, afraid it would fall.

Finn swung around. His face lit up with a smile.

“Hello, Gracie Phipps. Looking for herbs, are you?”

“No, Mr. Hennessey, I came for some flowers. The ones we got are lookin’ faded so I put ’em out. I don’ mind what I get, so long as it’s fresh. Sooner ’ave leaves than flowers what’s droopin’.”

“I’ll carry them for you,” he offered, moving over to walk beside her.

She laughed. “I’m only gettin’ a few. Gardener said I could ’ave a dozen out o’ the cold ’ouse. But you can carry ’em for me if you like.”

“I’d like,” he accepted, smiling back.

They walked side by side along the path, through the gate and the high box hedge, and on towards the cold greenhouses, the gray light reflecting on the glass panes irregularly as it caught them at different angles. The earth was dark and wet, well-manured and ready for planting in the spring. There were cobwebs gleaming in the clipped branches of the hedge, and a gardener’s boy was cutting the dead stalks of perennials and putting them into a barrow about twenty yards away. It was chilly, and she was glad not only of the smartness of the coat but of its warmth.

“Smells like winter coming,” Finn said with pleasure. “Wood fires, that’s something I love, bonfires with old leaves on, and blue smoke in the frosty air, crackle of twigs, breathe out and it hangs white in front of you.” He looked sideways at her, keeping step exactly. “How ’bout an early morning, when the sky’s all pale blue and the light’s as clear as the beginning o’ the world, red berries in the hedge, air so crisp it prickles in your nose, tangle of bare branches against the light, and time to walk as long as you like?”

“You ’ave some wonderful dreams,” she said hesitantly. She loved the way he spoke, not only the wild things he said but the soft lilt of his voice, foreign and full of music. But she did not begin to understand him.

“That’s the things we can have for nothing, Gracie, and if you fight hard enough, no one can take from you. But you have to fight, and you have to hand them on, to your children and your children’s children. That’s the way we survive. Never forget that. Knowing your dreams is knowing who you are.”

She said nothing, just walked beside him, happy that he was there.

They reached the greenhouse and he opened the door for her. It was surprisingly easy to behave like a lady when she was with him, to accept such courtesies.

“Thank you.” She went through and stopped in wonder at the rows of flowers all in pots on benches. The colors were vivid, like hundreds of silks. She did not know the names of them, except the chrysanthemums and the Michaelmas daisies and late asters. She let out a long sigh of pure pleasure.

“Do you want a dozen the same, or a dozen all different?” he asked, standing just behind her.

“I never seen anything like this,” she said softly. “Even flower sellers in the market in’t got this much.”

“They’ll all be over soon.”

“Yeah, but they in’t over now!”

He smiled. “Sometimes, Gracie, you’re very wise.” He put his hand lightly on her shoulder. She could feel its weight, and she imagined she could feel the warmth of it too. He had said she was wise, and yet there was a shadow in his voice.

“You thinkin’ about winter?” she asked. “Don’ forget there’ll be spring too. There ’as to be all sorts, or it don’ work.”

“For the flowers, yes, but there are winters of the heart there don’t have to be, and winters for the hungry. Not everyone lives to see the spring.”

She still kept facing the rows of flowers.

“Yer talkin’ about Ireland again?” she asked. She did not want to know, but she could not stay there with him and go around the subject as if there were nothing there. She had never avoided the real.

“If you knew the sadness of it,” he said softly. “The crying sadness of it, Gracie. Seeing all these flowers makes me think of laughter and dancing, then of graves. They follow each other so quick sometimes.”

“That ’appens in London too,” she reminded him. She did not know if it was a comfort or a contradiction. But she was going to remember who she was also, and Clerkenwell had seen its share of hunger and cold, landlords who cheated and were greedy, moneylenders, bullies, rats, overspilling drains and bouts of cholera and the typhus. Everyone knew somebody with rickets or tuberculosis. “London in’t all paved wi’ gold, yer know. I see dead babies in doorways too, all froze up, an’ men so ’ungry they’d slit your throat for a loaf o’ bread.”

“Have you?” He sounded surprised.

“Not in Bloomsbury,” she assured him. “In Clerkenwell, where I were before I came ter Mrs. Pitt.”

“I suppose there’s poverty in most places,” he conceded. “It’s the injustice that makes you weep.”

It rose to her tongue to argue. All kinds of things made her furious, sad, twisted up inside with helplessness. But she did not want to disagree with Finn Hennessey. She would like to be able to share with him everything that mattered, to look at the flowers, smell the damp earth, and talk of good things, of today and tomorrow, not yesterday.

“What sort of flowers are you getting?” he asked.

“I dunno. I in’t made up me mind yet. What der you think?” She turned around for the first time and looked at him. He was beautiful, with his black hair as soft as a night and his dark eyes that laughed one minute and drowned you the next. She found herself a little breathless, and confused with feelings.

“How about some of these big shaggy chrysanthemums?” he suggested, but without moving.

She had to concentrate on the room they were to go into. Her mind was a whirl. She could only remember florals. She had better not get lots of colors.

“I’ll take them big white ones,” she said, with no idea if they would be right, but she had to say something. “They look just about openin’ nicely. Them red ones is too far on.”

“What about the golden brown?” he asked.

“Color don’t go wi’ much. I’ll take the white ones.”

“I’ll pick them for you.” He stepped around her and started to examine the individual blooms for the best ones. “Funny we should have Padraig Doyle here, and Carson O’Day,” he said, smiling at her as he plucked the first flower.

“Is it? In’t they the right people for doin’ whatever it is?”

“Oh, probably, if there can be ‘right people.’ It’s all happened lots of times before, you know?”

“ ’As it? You mean it din’t work out?”

He picked another bloom, smelling its earthy fragrance with a sigh, then offering it to her.

She took it and held the damp petals to her face. It was like breathing heaven.

“No, it didn’t work,” he said in little more than a whisper. “It was a love story. Neassa Doyle was a young Catholic girl, about nineteen she was, same as you.”

She did not interrupt to tell him she was twenty now.

“Full of laughter and hope,” he went on, holding the flower still as if he had forgotten it. “She met Drystan O’Day by chance. It should never have happened. He was Protestant, as fierce as the north wind in January, all keen, cutting edge, his family was.” He laughed but there was no humor in it. “Saw the Pope as the devil on earth and all the church’s ways as scarlet as sin itself. They met and fell in love for all the age-old human reasons: they saw the same beauty and magic on the earth, the same tenderness in the sky, loved to sing the old songs, dance till they were too tired even to laugh at themselves.”

He was leaning against the door jamb, watching her, searching her eyes as he spoke. She knew he was sharing what mattered to him most, some part of the inner core of himself, the beliefs which drove him. “They hoped for peace, an honorable work,” he went on. “A small home and children to raise, same as you might, or me. Long evenings together when the day was done, time to talk, or just to sit and each to know the other was there.” He passed her the flower and started to look for another.

“What happened?”

“When it was too late they discovered they were on opposite sides. By then it didn’t matter to them, but of course it mattered to everyone else.”

“Their families?” she asked in awe. “But ’ow could they stop it? Nobody can stop ’oo you love. Was it her father stopped ’er?”

“No.” He looked at her very directly. “It never came to that. The English got to know of it. We were almost at agreement then, but they wanted to keep us divided. Divide and rule.” His face was pinched with pain. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “They used them both.”

“ ’Ow?” she whispered.

“It was mainly one English soldier. His name was Alexander Chinnery. He was an officer, a lieutenant in one of the Anglo-Irish regiments. He pretended to be a friend of Drystan O’Day’s.” His young face was filled with grief and hatred till he looked so different it almost frightened her. “That’s the duplicity of it,” he said hoarsely. “He was free to carry messages to Neassa as well. No one thought anything of it. He promised to help them both to run away. He was going to get a boat for them. It was summer. Drystan was a good mariner. He could have sailed across to the Isle of Man, that’s where they were supposed to go.”

She did not take her eyes from his face. She did not hear the gust of wind drive the falling leaves against the glass, or see them flurry over.

“What ’appened?”

“Neassa was beautiful,” he said softly. “Like Mrs. Greville, warm as sunlight on the autumn trees.” His eyes filled with tears. “Chinnery met her, as he said he would. She trusted him, you see. She went with him to the place where they were to meet Drystan. She couldn’t go alone because it was too dangerous.” He spat out the last word as if it scorched his tongue. “A woman alone at night.”

She waited while he struggled to regain control of himself and continue.

“He took her to the place on the headland where the boat was supposed to be, there with the wind above the sea.” His voice cracked. “And he raped her ….”

Gracie felt as if she had been struck.

“And cut off her beautiful hair,” he went on, his eyes fixed on hers as if the greenhouse with all its reflecting glass, the rows of flowers, the bright color, the wind outside, did not exist. “And left her there for her people to find,” he finished.

“Oh, Finn! That’s terrible!” She breathed out in horror too great for long and passionate words. She felt numb inside. The betrayal was like a blackness that swallowed everything. “What did ’e do, poor Drystan?” She dreaded the answer, but she had to know.

“He found her,” he answered in little above a whisper, his fist clenched white. “He went mad with grief. The poor, trusting soul, he never dreamed even then that it was Chinnery.”

A starling hopped across the roof, its feet rattling on the glass, but neither of them heard it.

“What’d ’e do?” she asked again.

“He lost his head completely, and went and attacked the Catholic community, anyone he could find. He’d killed two of her brothers and injured the third before the English army caught up with him and shot him too.” He took a deep breath. “That was on the seventh of June, thirty years ago. Of course, in a little while both sides realized what had happened. The English took Chinnery back to England and covered it all up. Nobody ever heard of him again. It was probably for his own protection,” he added bitterly. “If any Irishman had found him, he’d have killed him and been hailed as a hero by both sides.”

“That’s terrible!” Gracie said through a tight, aching throat. Her eyes prickled with tears and she had to swallow hard. “It’s awful!”

“It’s Ireland, Gracie.” He picked another flower and handed it to her. “Even love can’t win.” He smiled as he said it, but his eyes were full of just as much pain as she felt for the people gone thirty years ago. Time did not matter. The loss was real. It could have been anybody. It could be themselves.

He leaned forward, so close to her she could feel the warmth of his skin, and he kissed her lips, slowly, gentry, as if he wanted to count every second and remember it. Then he reached forward and took the flowers from her and laid them on the bench and put his arms around her, holding her softly, and kissed her again.

When at last he moved away Gracie’s heart was hammering, and she opened her eyes to look at him, certain that what she saw would be beautiful. It was. He was smiling.

“Take your white flowers back,” he said under his breath. “And watch carefully for yourself, Gracie Phipps. There’s disaster in this house, and who’s to say there won’t be others yet. I’d hate more than you can know for you to get hurt.” He put up his hand and touched her hair for a moment, then turned and walked past her and out of the door, leaving her to pick another few chrysanthemums and go back to the house with her feet barely touching the ground, and the taste of his lips still on hers.

Charlotte bit her tongue rather than reply to Emily as she felt inclined. What she wanted to say to Kezia Moynihan made excellent sense, but she could hardly say it after quarreling with her own sister, when the better part of her knew exactly what the reason was. Emily was terrified for Jack physically, but also she was afraid he would not measure up to whatever standard she had set for him, or he had set for himself, with this wretched conference.

She found Kezia in the morning room as Emily had said. She was sitting on the padding of the club fender, her skirts puffed out around her. Charlotte went in quite casually and sat down near the fire as if she were cold, when in fact she was merely angry.

“Do you think it is going to clear?” she asked, glancing towards the window and the really quite pleasant sky.

“The weather?” Kezia said with a slight smile.

“That also,” Charlotte agreed, sinking back. “It is all rather wretched, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.” Kezia shrugged slightly. “And I cannot honestly imagine it getting any better. Have you seen the newspapers?”

“No. Is there something of interest?”

“Only the latest comments on the Parnell-O’Shea divorce. I cannot see Parnell lasting long after this, whatever the verdict is.” Her face tightened. Charlotte knew what her thoughts must be, what they had to be, regarding Fergal. The risk he had taken was insane.

As if Charlotte had spoken her thoughts aloud, Kezia clenched her fists and stared into the fire.

“When I think what he’s thrown away, I could hate him,” she said bitterly. “I understand why men punch each other. It must be very relieving to be able to strike out as hard as you can when someone exasperates you beyond endurance.”

“I’m sure,” Charlotte agreed. “But I think the relief would last a very short time, then it would have to be paid for.”

“How very sensible you are,” Kezia said without an iota of admiration.

“I’ve cut off my nose to spite my face too often to think it’s clever,” Charlotte replied, keeping her temper.

“I find that difficult to imagine.” Kezia picked up the poker and leaning sideways, prodded viciously at the fire.

“That is because you leap to judgments about other people and find it very difficult to imagine their feelings at all,” Charlotte replied, letting go her temper with considerable satisfaction. “It seems to me the fault you criticize in your brother is exactly the one you suffer from yourself.”

Kezia froze, then turned around very slowly, her face red, although it was impossible to tell whether it was with anger or the heat from the fire.

“That is the stupidest thing you have said so far! We ate exact opposites. I followed my faith and was loyal to my people at the cost of the only person I have ever loved, as Fergal commanded me to. But he’s thrown everything away, betrayed all of us, and committed adultery with a married woman, as well as a Roman Catholic actually representing the enemy!”

“I meant the inability to place yourself in anyone else’s situation and imagine how they feel,” Charlotte explained. “Fergal did not understand that you truly loved Cathal. He saw it only as a matter of obedience to your faith and loyalty to your people’s way of life. Without any compassion at all, he ordered you to give him up.”

“And I did! God forgive me.”

“Perhaps he has never been really in love, wildly, utterly and madly in love, as you were—until now?”

“Is that an excuse?” Kezia demanded, her pale eyes blazing.

“No. It is a lack of understanding, or even the effort to imagine,” Charlotte answered.

Kezia was surprised. “What are you saying?”

“That you have been so in love, why can’t you imagine how he feels now about Iona, even if you can’t condone it?”

Kezia said nothing, turning away again, the flames’ reflection warm on her cheek.

“If you are honest, absolutely honest,” Charlotte went on, “would you be so bitterly angry if you had not loved Cathal and been forced to give him up? Isn’t a lot of your rage really your own pain?”

“What if it is?” Kezia still had the poker in her hand, gripped like a sword. “Is that not fair?”

“Yes, it is fair. But what will be the result?”

“What do you mean?”

“What will be the result of your not forgiving Fergal?” Charlotte elaborated. “I don’t mean you should say it is all right—of course it isn’t. Iona is married. But that will carry its own cost. You don’t need to exact it. I mean your cutting yourself off from Fergal.”

“I … I don’t know ….”

“Will it make you happy?”

“No … of course not. Really, you ask the strangest questions.”

“Will it make anyone happy, or wiser, or braver, or kinder, or anything you want?”

Kezia hesitated.

“Well … no …”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because … he’s so … unjust!” she said angrily, as if the answer should have been apparent to everyone. “So self-indulgent! He’s a total hypocrite, and I hate hypocrisy!”

“Nobody likes it. Although it is funny, sometimes,” Charlotte rejoined.

“Funny!” Kezia’s brows rose very high.

“Yes. Don’t you have any sense of the ridiculous?”

Kezia stared at her. At last her turquoise eyes began to sparkle a little and her hands unclenched.

“You are the oddest person I ever met.”

Charlotte shrugged lightly.

“I suppose I shall have to be content with that.”

Kezia smiled. “Not a wholehearted compliment, I admit, but at least there is no hypocrisy in it!”

Charlotte glanced at the newspaper lying on the table where it had been left.

“If Mr. Parnell loses his leadership, who do you think will succeed him?”

“Carson O’Day, I imagine,” Kezia answered. “He has all the qualities. And he has the family as well. His father was brilliant, but he’s an old man now. He was a great leader in his day. Absolutely fearless.” She relaxed, retreating into memory, her inner vision far away. “I remember my father taking Fergal and me to hear him at a political meeting. Papa was one of the finest preachers in the north. He could stand there in the pulpit and his voice rolled all around you like a breaking sea with all the foam white and the tide so strong it took you off your feet.” Her voice grew stronger, rich with feeling. “He could make you see heaven and hell, the shining pavements and the angels of God, the endless joy and the singing; or the darkness and the fire which consumes everything, and the stench of sin like sulfur which chokes the breath out of you.”

Charlotte did not interrupt, but she found herself wanting to move closer to the fire. That kind of passion frightened her. There was no room for thought in it, and certainly no room for considering the possibility you might have something wrong. When you take a stand like that in public, you can never go back on it, no matter what you learn afterwards. You have left yourself no room to change, retreat or grow.

“He was a marvelous man,” Kezia repeated, perhaps as much to herself as to Charlotte. “He took us to see Liam O’Day. It was his brother, Drystan, who was shot by the British, so they said, for his love of Neassa Doyle.”

“Why? Who was she?”

“A papist. It’s an old story. She and Drystan O’Day fell in love. This is thirty years ago. A British soldier called Alexander Chinnery was a friend of Drystan’s, and he betrayed him, raped and murdered Neassa, then fled back to England. Drystan went to her brothers and there was a terrible fight. Two of her brothers were killed, and so was Drystan, by the English, of course, to cover up what Chinnery had done. But neither side ever forgave the other for their part in it. The Doyle family felt Drystan had seduced her, and will talk of nothing else. The O’Days thought she had seduced him. And the O’Days all hate the Nationalists. Carson is the second son, but Daniel, the eldest, is an invalid with tuberculosis. He was supposed to be the one who rose to lead the cause, but now it’s all fallen to Carson. He hasn’t the fire of Daniel.” She smiled. “I saw Daniel when he was young, before he became ill. He was so handsome, like his father. But maybe Carson is better anyway. He has a steadier head. He’s a good diplomat.”

“But you don’t agree with him entirely, do you?”

Kezia smiled widely. “No, of course not. We’re Irish! But close enough to face the papists beside him. We’ll fight among ourselves afterwards.”

“Very wise,” Charlotte agreed.

Kezia gave her a quick glance, then laughed abruptly. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

Later that morning Charlotte was not far from Jack, standing on the terrace outside the withdrawing room doors, when one of the urns on the balcony above crashed down. It missed him by about three feet and broke to smithereens on the flags, sending earth and ivy over several yards.

Jack was very pale, but he made fight of it and forbade her to say anything whatever to Emily.

She promised, but found herself shaking and suddenly desperately cold when she went inside, in spite of the sharp sunlight.

Pitt traveled on the train up to London. It was a journey which in the usual circumstances he would have enjoyed. He liked watching the countryside flying past, he liked the steam and the clatter and the sense of incredible speed. But today he was thinking of what he would say to Cornwallis, and he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

There were no excuses. He had failed to protect Ainsley Greville, and three days later he could not offer any proof as to who was responsible. By process of elimination it looked to be either Doyle or Moynihan, and he had no idea which.

“Good morning, Pitt,” Cornwallis said gravely when Pitt arrived and was shown to his office.

“Good morning, sir,” Pitt answered, taking the seat that was offered beside the fire. It was a courteous act. Rather than having Pitt sit in front of the desk with Cornwallis behind it, in a gesture he had placed them in the same situation. This did not, however, ease Pitt’s conscience or diminish his sense of having failed a trust.

“What happened?” Cornwallis asked, leaning forward a little and unconsciously placing the tips of his fingers together. The firelight glistened on his cheeks and head. He was a man in whom baldness seemed completely natural. It became him, throwing into strong relief his powerful features.

Pitt told him everything he knew that was pertinent. It seemed a lot, and yet it amounted to nothing that was conclusive.

When he had finished Cornwallis stared at him thoughtfully.

“So it might be Moynihan, for political reasons. His father was certainly a rabid enough Protestant. Conceivably, he has the idea that any settlement will reduce the Protestant Ascendancy, which I suppose it will. But it will also create a far greater justice, and therefore peace, and a greater safety and prosperity for everyone.” He shook his head. “But the hatred runs deep, deeper than reason or morality, or even hope for the future.” He bit his lip, regarding Pitt steadily. “The other possibility is Padraig Doyle, either for political reasons again, or because of Greville’s treatment of his sister.” He looked doubtful. “Do you really think it was gross enough to prompt murder? A great many men treat their wives badly. She wasn’t beaten or kept short of money, or publicly humiliated. He was always extremely discreet. She had no idea, you say?”

“No …”

Cornwallis leaned back and crossed his legs, shaking his head very slightly. “If she had found him in bed with a serious rival for his affections, she might have killed him on impulse, a crime of passion. Although women don’t often do that, especially women of the breeding of Eudora Greville. She had far too much to lose, Pitt, and nothing whatever to gain. Unless you have some idea she wanted her freedom to marry elsewhere, and you’ve shown nothing of that …?” He left it as a question.

“No,” Pitt said quickly. He had never suspected Eudora. He could not imagine her in such violence. “She is … Have you met her?”

Cornwallis smiled. “Yes. Very beautiful. But even beautiful women can have powerful feelings at having been betrayed. In fact, especially so, because they do not think it will happen to them. The outrage is greater.”

“But he didn’t do anything at Ashworth Hall,” Pitt said sharply. “All we discussed was the past, and nothing which threatened her position as his wife. As you say, it was all simply indulgence of appetite, not love.”

“Then why should Doyle murder Greville on her account?”

Pitt had no reply.

Cornwallis narrowed his eyes. “What is it, Pitt? There’s something else, or you wouldn’t have raised it. You are as capable as I am of seeing the fallacy of your argument; more so.”

“I think she is afraid it was Doyle,” Pitt said slowly, putting words to it for the first time himself. “But maybe I have the motive wrong. Perhaps it is political … Irish nationalism, like everything else.”

“Not everything.” Cornwallis shrugged. He looked faintly embarrassed. There was a very slight flush in his lean cheeks. “The O’Shea divorce verdict is due in today.”

“What will it be, do you know?”

“Legally, I think they’ll grant Willie O’Shea’s petition. His wife was unquestionably guilty of a long-standing adultery with Parnell. The only question was did Captain O’Shea collude in the affair, or was he actually a deceived party.”

“And was he?” Pitt had read little of it. He had not had time, and until now, not the interest either. He was still uncertain what bearing it had upon events at Ashworth Hall.

“Thank God it’s not mine to judge,” Cornwallis replied unhappily. “But if it were …” He hesitated. This sort of thing made him acutely uncomfortable. He thought there were aspects of life a man should keep private. He was embarrassed by the exposure of that part of a man’s life which should be personal to himself.

“But I would find it hard to believe anyone as gullible as he claims to be,” he finished. “Even though some of the evidence seems to border upon the farcical.” His lips twitched in a curious mixture of irony and distaste. “Climbing out of fire escapes while the husband came in at the front door, then a few minutes later presenting yourself at the same front door as if you have just arrived, is beneath the dignity of anyone who would presume to lead a national movement for unity and represent his people in the Houses of Parliament.”

Pitt was astonished. It must have shown in his face.

Cornwallis smiled very slightly. “It isn’t even as if the man had a sense of humor and could be presented as a charming rogue who got away with it. He has done it with a sanctimoniously straight face and been caught!”

“Will it ruin him?” Pitt asked, watching Cornwallis closely.

“Yes,” Cornwallis replied unequivocally, then thought for a moment. “Yes, I am almost sure it will.”

“Then the Nationalist movement will be seeking a new leader?”

“Yes, if not immediately, then within a relatively short time. He may stagger on as long as he can, but his power is finished … I believe. Others must believe so too, if that is what you mean. But either way, the case will have set back the cause of Irish unity, unless the Ashworth Hall Conference can come to an agreement. That rests primarily upon Doyle and O’Day, helped or hurt by Moynihan and McGinley.”

Pitt took a deep breath. “The first morning I was there Moynihan’s sister went to talk to him about their strategy—apparently she is just as politically minded as he—and she found him in bed with McGinley’s wife.”

“What?” Cornwallis looked as if he had not understood.

Pitt repeated what he had said.

Cornwallis stared into the fire and rubbed his slim, strong hand over his head, then he turned and looked at Pitt.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot send you more men,” he said quietly. “We’re keeping Greville’s death secret for the moment. I hope by the time we have to make it public we will be able to say that we have also caught the man who killed him.”

Pitt had known he must say that, but it still tightened the knot inside him, the sense of being pressed into a steadily decreasing space.

“Any further information about Denbigh?” he asked.

“A little.” Now it was Cornwallis’s turn to look apologetic. “We’ve traced his movements for several days before he was killed, and we know that that evening he was at the Dog and Duck on King William Street. He was seen talking with a young man with fair hair, and then they were joined by an older man, broad-shouldered with an unusual walk, from the sound of it a bit bowlegged.” He looked at Pitt steadily. “The barkeeper said he had unusual eyes, very pale and bright.”

“Greville’s murderous coach driver …” Pitt let out his breath with a sigh. “That gives me two reasons for finding the devil.”

“Us, Pitt,” Cornwallis corrected. “We’ll find him in London. You put all your mind to proving which of those four Irishmen killed Ainsley Greville. We need to know that before they leave Ashworth Hall, and we can’t keep them there more than another few days.”

“Yes, sir.”