Ashworth Hall

2

THE CARRIAGE, which like the clothes had been borrowed from Aunt Vespasia for the occasion, arrived at Ashworth Hall late on Thursday morning. Charlotte and Pitt had sat in the back, facing forward. Gracie and the policeman, Tellman, had sat in the front, facing the way they had come.

Gracie had never ridden in a carriage before. Normally she used the public omnibus if she needed to travel at all, and that was extremely rarely. She had never been at such a speed before, except once when she had, to her terror and amazement, ridden in the underground train. That was an experience never to be forgotten, and if she had any say in the matter, never to be repeated either. And it did not count, because it was through a black tunnel, and you could not see where you were going. To sit in a comfortably upholstered seat, with springs, in a carriage with four perfectly matched horses, and fly along the roads into the countryside was quite marvelous.

She did not look at Tellman, but she was acutely conscious of him sitting bolt upright beside her, exuding disapproval. She had never seen such a sour face on anybody before. From the look of him you would have thought he was in a house with bad drains. He never said a word from one milestone to the next.

They swept up the long, curving drive under the elm trees and stopped in front of the great entrance with its magnificent front door, the smooth, classical pillars and the flight of steps. The footman jumped down and opened the door, and another footman appeared from the house to assist.

Even Gracie, a servant, was given an arm to balance her as she alighted. Perhaps they thought she would be likely to fall without it, and they might be right. She had forgotten how far down it was to the ground.

“Thank you,” she said primly, and straightened her dress. She was a lady’s maid now, and should be treated as such. She should accept such courtesies as her due … for the weekend.

Tellman grunted as he got out, regarding the liveried footman with conceded disgust. However, Gracie noticed he could not help looking up at the house, and in spite of his best intentions, there was admiration in his eyes for the sheer magnificence of the Georgian windows, row upon row, and the smooth ashlar stone broken by the scarlet creeper which climbed it.

Charlotte and Pitt were welcomed inside.

Tellman went as if to follow Pitt.

“Servant’s entrance, Mr. Tellman,” Gracie whispered.

Tellman froze. A tide of color swept up his cheeks. At first Gracie thought it was embarrassment, then she realized from his rigid shoulders and clenched fists that it was rage.

“Don’t show up the master by making a fool o’ yerself, goin’ w’ere it in’t your place!” she said under her breath.

“He isn’t my master!” Tellman retorted. “He’s a policeman, just like any of us.” But he turned on his heel and followed Gracie, who was walking behind the footman as he showed them around to the side—a considerable way in a house the size of this one.

The footman took them in through the smaller entrance, along a wide passage, and stopped at a doorway where he knocked. A woman’s voice answered and he opened the door and showed them in.

“Tellman and Phipps, Mr. and Mrs. Pitt’s personal servants, Mrs. Hunnaker,” he said, then withdrew, closed the door behind him and left them alone in a neat, well-furnished parlor with easy chairs, a pleasant piece of carpeting, two pictures on the walls and clean antimacassars on the chair backs. Embroidered samplers hung above the mantelpiece, and there was a brisk fire burning in the wrought-iron grate surrounded by painted tiles.

Mrs. Hunnaker was in her fifties with a long, straight nose and thick gray hair which was extremely handsome, lending her face a certain charm. She looked like a well-bred governess.

“I expect you’ll find it strange,” she said, regarding them closely. “But we’ll make you welcome. Danny’ll show you your rooms. Men servants use the back stairs, women the front. Don’t forget that.” She looked particularly at Tellman. “Mealtimes are breakfast in the servants’ hall at eight o’clock. Porridge and toast. You will eat with the servants, naturally. Dinner is between twelve and one, and supper will be before the guests’. If your lady and gentleman want you at these times, Cook’ll keep you something. Ask, never take. Likewise, if your lady and gentleman wants a cup of tea, or a little something to eat, ask Cook if you can prepare it. We can’t have every servant in the house coming and going willy-nilly or we’ll never get a decent meal served. Laundry maids’ll wash for you, but expect you to do your own lady’s ironing.” She looked at Gracie.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie said obediently.

“Doubtless you’ve got all your own needles and threads, brushes and the like.” That was a statement, not a question. “If you need anything from the cellar or the pantry, ask Mr. Dilkes, he’s the butler. Don’t go outside unless someone sends you. As far as the other guests are concerned, speak when you are spoken to, but don’t let anyone put on you. If you can’t find anything as you want, ask someone. It’s a big house and folks can easy get lost. I hope you’ll be very comfortable here.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Gracie bobbed a half curtsy.

Tellman said nothing.

Gracie kicked him unobtrusively, but hard.

He drew in his breath with a hiss.

“Thank you,” he said tersely.

Mrs. Hunnaker pulled on a bell cord, and a maid answered almost immediately.

“These are Mr. and Mrs. Pitt’s servants, Jenny. Show them the laundry, the stillroom, Mr. Dilkes’s pantry and the servants’ hall. Then take Phipps to her room, and have one of the footmen take Tellman to his.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jenny bobbed a curtsy obediently and turned to lead them.

Gracie had never before been addressed by her surname, but she realized it was probably the way in a large house. Charlotte had warned her that visiting valets and ladies’ maids were sometimes known by the names of their employers. If “Pitt!” were called out by any of the senior servants, it would be she, or Tellman, who was wanted. It would all take a lot of getting used to. But it was a wonderful adventure, and she was always eager for new experiences.

Tellman, on the other hand, still looked as if he had sucked on a lemon.

The room she was shown was very pleasant, if somewhat smaller than her own in Keppel Street, and certainly not nearly as cozy. There was nothing of a personal nature in it. But then it was probably not occupied very often, and never by one person for more than a week or two at a time.

She set her bags down, opened one up, then remembered that of course she would have to go downstairs and unpack all Charlotte’s things first, hang them up and make sure all was well. That was what ladies’ maids were for. She wondered if Tellman had remembered that was what he was supposed to do too. There was no way she could help him, because she had no idea where his room was.

She found Charlotte and Pitt’s suite of rooms in the main house after asking one of the upstairs maids. She knocked and went in. There was a large bedroom with a rose-colored carpet. Huge windows overlooked a large lawn with towering blue fir trees, and to the left was a flat-topped cedar which was the loveliest thing she had ever seen. It spread wide and delicate, almost black-green against a windy sky. The curtains were splashed with roses and had wonderful swags and drapes and cords in crimson.

“Oh blimey!” she said in a gasp, then caught herself just in time. There was someone in the dressing room. She went past the round table with a bowl of chrysanthemums on it and tiptoed to the door. She was about to knock when she saw Tellman, standing and watching as Pitt unpacked his own cases and hung up his clothes. Of course, Tellman had probably never even seen a gentleman’s evening clothes like these before, let alone learned how to care for them. Still, it was shocking that in a house like this Pitt should be doing it himself. What would people think?

“I’ll help wi’ that, sir,” she said briskly, pushing the door open. “You should be downstairs meeting all them people wot you’re ’ere to look after.” She gave Tellman a meaningful glance, in case he imagined that was a leave for him to go as well.

Pitt turned around, hesitated a moment, glanced at Tellman, then back at Gracie.

“Thank you,” he accepted with a wry smile, and with a nod at Tellman, he left.

Gracie turned to Charlotte’s three large trunks and opened the first. On the top was a magnificent evening gown in oyster-colored satin, stitched with pearl beads and draped with silk chiffon. A glance at the side seam of the bodice told her it had been very rapidly and very skillfully let out at the back. No doubt it belonged to Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Gracie knew every one of Charlotte’s few dresses, and this certainly was not among them. She lifted it up very carefully, a warm rush of gratitude filling her that Lady Vespasia should be so generous to save Charlotte’s self-esteem in this company—most especially before her sister, who had married so well. As far as money was concerned, that is. No one could match the master for being a person that really mattered in the world.

She found a hanger and arranged the gown so it lay properly and turned to put it in the wardrobe.

Tellman was staring at her, mesmerized.

“What’s the matter wi’ you?” she said briskly. “In’t yer never seen a lady’s gown afore? Get on ’anging up them suits an’ then you can go an’ find out where the irons are, and the upstairs stove for makin’ tea, an’ the bathroom an’ like. I don’ suppose yer know ’ow ter draw a bath?” She sniffed. “Don’t suppose yer got a bath? An’ ’ot water for the mornin’s? An’ polish for the master’s boots? They’ll ’ave ter be done every night.” She looked at the disgust in his face. “Not that yer’ve got much ter do, not like as I ’ave! Gentlemen only changes once or twice a day. Ladies change up ter five times. But yer’ll ’ave ter make sure shirts is clean … always! I’ll give yer ’ell ter pay if yer let the master down by sending ’im out wi’ a shirt wot in’t perfick.”

“He’s not my master,” Tellman said between his teeth. “And I’m not a bleedin’ nursemaid!”

“You’re not any bleedin’ use!” she snapped back at him. “And we’ll ’ave no language in ’ere, Mr. Tellman. It in’t done. D’you ’ear me?”

He stood still, glaring at her.

“If yer too proud ter do yer job proper, then yer a fool,” she said tartly, turning back to the trunk and taking out the next gown, one in autumn gold taffeta. This was plainer, one of Charlotte’s own, but very becoming to her auburn coloring. “Pass me one o’ them ’angers,” she instructed.

He passed it grudgingly.

“Look, Mr. Tellman,” she said, putting the dress on the hanger carefully, then handing it to him to hang in the wardrobe and moving to the next garment, a day dress in deep blue gabardine. Below that was a morning dress, and another, and another. There were three more dinner dresses and several morning and day dresses in the other trunk, plus blouses, camisoles and other underwear, and of course plenty of petticoats. But she would not take them out until Tellman had gone. It was none of his affair what a lady wore beneath her gowns. “Look,” she started again, “you an’ me is ’ere ter ’elp the master do ’is job an’ protect whoever it is wot’s in danger. To do that right, we got ter look like we come ter this kind of ’ouse reg’lar an’ knows wot we’re doin’.”

She handed him the next gown and fixed him with a strict stare.

“You may think it’s terrible beneath yer ter be a servant, an’ by the curl o’ yer lips yer do ….”

“I don’t believe in one man being servant to another,” he said stiffly. “I don’t wish to insult you, because it isn’t your fault you were born poor, any more than it’s mine I was. But you don’t have to accept it as if you deserved it, or treat other people as if they were better just ’cos they have money. All this bowing and doffing turns my stomach. I’m surprised to see you do it like it comes natural.”

“Think too much o’ yerself, you do,” she said philosophically. “Got more prickles than one o’ them little beasts wot five in ’edges. Seems ter me yer got two choices. You can be a good servant and make a fair job of it, or yer can be a bad one an’ make a mess of it. I think enough o’ meself ter make the best of it I can.” She grunted, then went back to the second trunk and began to take the dresses out of it and lay them carefully on the bed before looking for more hangers.

Teliman thought about it for a few more moments, then apparently appreciated that, at least for now, he had little choice in the matter. Dutifully, he hung up the rest of Pitt’s clothes, then set out his brush, shirt studs, collar studs and cuff links, then his shaving soap, brush, razor and strop.

“I’m going to look around the house,” he told her stiffly when he had finished. “I’d better do my proper job as well. That’s what Mr. Cornwallis sent me here for.” He looked very slightly down at her, which, since he was the best part of a foot taller, was not difficult. He was also fourteen years older, and was not going to let some twenty-year-old slip of a girl take liberties just because she knew how to unpack a trunk.

“Good idea,” she said crisply. “Now yer done that”—she nodded towards Pitt’s empty case—“you in’t no use ’ere. These things in’t your place ter see. But you can come back an’ put these cases in the boxroom later on. An’ yer better not go around givin’ yerself no airs,” she added as he reached the door. “Yer don’ want them thinking as yer more’n a valet, although a valet is very superior as servants go. An’ don’t forget that neither, an’ go mixin’ familiar wi’ the like o’ footmen an’ bootboys.”

“And how do you know all that?” he asked, his eyebrows raised high. “Seeing as you only just arrived, same as I did.”

“I bin in service for years,” she said expansively. It was none of his business that all of it had been with Charlotte, and she had her ideas of a house like this from bits and pieces she had overheard and the very occasional visit, and to be honest, more than a little guesswork. She gave him a level stare. “ ’Ow long are yer goin’ ter stand there then, like one o’ them things gentlemen puts their umbrellas on?”

“Service,” he said grimly, then turned and marched out.

“In’t nothin’ wrong in service,” she said to his retreating back. “I’m warm and comfortable every night an’ I eat every day, an’ that’s mor’n a lot can say! An’ I keep company wi’ decent folks, not like wot you do!”

He did not reply.

Gracie finished the rest of Charlotte’s unpacking, enjoying the touch and the luxurious colors of the borrowed gowns, hanging them carefully, smoothing the skirts to stay without creasing, touching her fingers to the beading and the lace and the silk chiffon so fine one could read a book through it.

She was very nearly at the end of the undergarments when there was a knock at the door. She was all ready to face Tellman again and give him another piece of her mind if he was still so contrary, but when she answered, it was not Tellman who came in but a dark-haired rather handsome woman of about thirty, in a maid’s dress, but with the bearing of one who is very sure of herself. Gracie guessed immediately it must be another lady’s maid. Only a lady’s maid or a governess would behave with such superiority, and there were no governesses here.

“Morning,” the woman said cautiously. “I’m Gwen, Mrs. Radley’s maid. Welcome to Ashworth Hall.”

“Good morning,” Gracie replied with a hesitant smile. This woman had achieved what Gracie would most like to be. She would need her help, and example, if she were not to let Charlotte down. “Thank you very much.”

“Mrs. Radley said there might be some things Mrs. Pitt would care to borrow, for the occasion. If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you and let you hang them in here.”

“Thank you. That would be very good,” Gracie accepted. She thought of making some remark as to why Charlotte needed to borrow gowns, then changed her mind. Gwen probably knew perfectly well the reason. Few people had any secrets from ladies’ maids. She followed obediently and was shown half a dozen gowns, morning dresses, afternoon dresses and an evening dress of rich wines and rose, which in her private opinion would not have suited Mrs. Radley’s delicate fair coloring at all. Either she had made a very bad purchase or she had got it with the intention of giving it to Charlotte at some time.

“Very handsome,” she said, trying to hide at least some of her awe. She did not want to appear ignorant.

“I’m sure it will become Mrs. Pitt very well,” Gwen said generously. “Then if you like, I’ll show you around the upstairs and have you meet the other ladies’ maids.”

“Thank you very much,” Gracie accepted. It was most important she learn everything she could. One never knew when it might be needed. And if there really were danger, even a crime in the offing, she must know the house, the people, their natures and loyalties. “I’d like that,” she added with a smile.

Gwen proved most agreeable. Perhaps Mrs. Radley had confided in her something of the true nature of the weekend. Gracie found herself liking her—and the task of becoming familiar with the upstairs of the house, the staircases, the quickest way to the kitchens or the laundry room, the ironing room and the stillroom, and how to avoid the footmen, the bootboys and the butler, whose authority was absolute and whose temper was uncertain.

Charlotte had told her something of the guests who were expected, and she met Miss Moynihan’s maid, who was a pleasantly spoken French girl with a nice sense of humor. Mrs. McGinley’s maid was an older woman with a habit of shaking her head as if in premonition of some disaster, and Doll, a very handsome girl in her mid-twenties, was Mrs. Greville’s maid. She was tall, a good six inches taller than Gracie, and with a fine figure. She reminded Gracie of what a really excellent parlor maid should look like, except for a certain sadness in her, or perhaps it was aloofness. Gracie would have to know her better to decide.

She was on her way upstairs, having parted from Gwen, when she saw a young man starting down. Her first thought was what a charming face he had. His hair was very dark, black in the inside fight, and his mouth was gentle, as if his mind might be full of dreams.

Then her second thought was that she must have mistaken the stairs and be on the wrong flight. She stopped, feeling the blood rush up her face. She would have to meet such a person when she had made such a foolish error. And yet looking up at the landing above, it was exactly like the one she had come down from. The small table had white chrysanthemums on it in a green vase, against pale green-and-white wallpaper. There was even a gas bracket with a frosted-glass mantle exactly like the one she had seen on the way down. How confusing to have two stairs so much the same.

He had stopped also.

“Beggin’ your pardon,” he said in a soft Irish accent, quite different from that of Miss Moynihan’s maid. He must be from another part of the country. He stood aside for her to pass, smiling and meeting her eyes. His were very dark, the darkest she had ever seen.

“I … I think I’m on the wrong stair,” she stammered. “I’m sorry.”

“The wrong stair?” he asked.

“I … I must be on the menservants’ stairs, not the women’s,” she said, feeling the heat burning in her cheeks.

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I’m sure it’s me on the wrong one. Sure I didn’t even think of it. You must be visiting here, like me, or you’d know for certain.”

“Yes. Yes, I belong to Mrs. Pitt. I’m her lady’s maid.”

He smiled at her again. “I’m Mr. McGinley’s valet. My name’s Finn Hennessey. I come from County Down.”

She smiled back at him. “I’m Gracie Phipps.” She came from the back streets of Clerkenwell, but she wasn’t going to say so. “I’m from Bloomsbury.” That was where she lived now, so it was true enough.

“How do you do, Gracie Phipps.” He inclined his head in a very slight bow. “I think there is going to be a rare party this weekend, especially if this fine weather holds. I’ve never seen such a garden, so many great trees. It’s a lovely land.” He sounded vaguely surprised.

“Have you never been to England before?” she asked.

“No, I never have. It’s not much like I expected.”

“What did you think it’d be, then?”

“Different,” he said thoughtfully.

“Different how?” she pressed.

“I don’t think as I know,” he confessed. “Different from Ireland, I suppose. And at least for this one bit of it, it could be Ireland, with all those trees, and the grass, and flowers.”

“Is Ireland very beautiful?”

His face softened and his whole body seemed to ease, till instead of standing to attention there was a grace in him as he leaned against the rail, his eyes bright.

“It’s a sad country, Gracie Phipps, but it’s the most beautiful God ever made. There’s a wildness to it, a richness of color, a sweetness on the wind you couldn’t know unless you’d smelled it. It’s a very old land, where once heroes and saints and scholars lived, and now the memory of those days aches in the color of the earth, the standing stones, the trees against the sky, the sound of a storm. But there’s no peace in it now. Its children go cold and hungry, and the land belongs to strangers.”

“That’s terrible,” she said softly. She did not know what he was talking about that was different from the harshness and the poverty there was anywhere, but the pain in his voice moved her to a swift compassion, and his words conjured a vision of something precious and lost. Injustice always angered her, more since she had worked for Pitt, because she had seen him fight it.

“Of course it is.” He smiled at her with a little shake of his head. “But maybe we’ll do something about it this time. We’ll win one day, that I promise you.”

She was prevented from replying by Mrs. Moynihan’s lady’s maid coming along the top corridor and reaching the head of the stairs.

“Sure I’m in the wrong place,” Finn Hennessey apologized to her. “It’s that easy to get lost in a house this size. I’m sorry, ma’am.” After a quick look at Gracie, he went back up and disappeared. Gracie continued on her way, but her head was whirling, and five minutes later she had taken a wrong turning and did not know where she was either.

Upon arriving Pitt had gone almost immediately to talk to Jack Radley about the situation which faced them, and to inform Ainsley Greville that he was there, as was Tellman. He must also learn what other provisions had been made by the local police, and by Ashworth Hall’s own menservants, and what Greville had told them of the situation and its dangers.

Charlotte went straight to see Emily, who was in the upstairs boudoir, having expected her arrival and longing to talk to her.

“I’m so glad you came!” she said, throwing her arms around her and hugging her tightly. “This is my first really important political weekend, and it’s going to be absolutely fearful. In fact, it already is.” She stood back, pulling her face into an expression of acute anxiety. “You should feel the tension. If these people are typical of the rest of the Irish, I can’t imagine how anyone thinks they are going to find peace between them. Even the women dislike each other.”

“Well, they are Irish as much as the men,” Charlotte pointed out with a smile. “And possibly they are Catholic or Protestant as much, or just as dispossessed, or just as frightened of losing what they have and have worked for.”

Emily looked surprised. “Do you know something about it?” She was wearing a morning dress of pale green, a color which suited her fair hair and complexion extraordinarily well, and she looked quite lovely in spite of her agitation.

“Only what Thomas told me,” Charlotte replied. “Which was not a great deal. Naturally he had to explain why we were here.”

“Why are you?” Emily sat down in one of the large, floral-covered chairs and pointed to another for Charlotte. “Of course you are most welcome, I don’t mean to sound ungracious. But I should like to know why anyone thinks the police should be here. They are hardly going to come to blows, are they?” She looked at Charlotte with a half smile, but there was a note of genuine alarm in her voice.

“I doubt it,” Charlotte replied candidly. “I think there is probably no danger at all, but there have been threats on Mr. Greville’s life, so they have to take every precaution.”

“Not from one of the guests here!” Emily said with horror.

“I shouldn’t think so, but naturally they were anonymous. No, I expect it’s just a matter of being careful.”

“Anyway, I am very glad you are here.” Emily relaxed a little. “It is going to be a most testing weekend, and it will be far easier with you to help than trying to do it alone. I’ve often had visitors here before, of course, but of my own choosing, and people who like each other. For goodness sake, do try to be tactful, won’t you?”

“Do you think it will make any difference?” Charlotte said with a grin.

“Yes! Don’t talk about religion, or parliamentary franchise or reform, or education … or landowning, or rents, or potatoes … or divorce ….”

“Potatoes or divorce!” Charlotte said incredulously. “Why in heaven’s name should I talk about potatoes or divorce?”

“I don’t know. Just don’t!”

“What can I talk about?”

“Anything else. Fashion … except I suppose you don’t know about it. Theater—but you don’t go to the theater, except with Mama, to watch Joshua—and you better not mention that our mother has married an actor, and a Jewish one at that. Mind, I think the Catholics are too busy hating Protestants, and the Protestants hating Catholics, to care about Jews one way or the other. But they probably all think anyone on the stage is wicked. Talk about the weather and the garden.”

“They’ll think I’m a simpleton!”

“Please!”

Charlotte sighed. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is going to be a difficult weekend, isn’t it?”

Luncheon fulfilled her prophecy. They met in the large dining room around a table long enough to seat twenty but set for twelve. Jack Radley welcomed Charlotte, and then introduced her, and of course Pitt, to the rest of the company, and they all took their places. The first course was served.

Charlotte had been placed between Fergal Moynihan on her left and Carson O’Day on her right. Fergal was a striking-looking man of slightly above average height and refined aquiline features, but she thought there seemed little humor in his face. She was not immediately drawn to him, although perhaps it was her image of an intransigent Protestant which unfairly prejudiced her.

Carson O’Day was a smaller man, far grayer, and at least fifteen or twenty years older, but there was a strength in him it did not take more than a glance to see. His manner was benign and courteous, although beneath the niceties of the social situation it was easy to see his gravity and the fact that he never for an instant forgot the reason they were met.

Opposite her was Padraig Doyle, also an older man, perhaps in his middle fifties, with a genial expression and the kind of features which could not honestly be described as handsome, being too uneven, his nose too long and slightly crooked, but there was laughter and imagination in him, and Charlotte felt even before he spoke that he might be most entertaining company.

Although Emily was the hostess, once she had seen that everyone was seated and served she made no demur about Ainsley Greville assuming a natural leadership of the occasion. His wife, Eudora, was a remarkably handsome woman, looking to be several years younger than he, with very fine, rich, auburn coloring; wide, brown eyes; high cheekbones, and a lovely mouth. She was modest of manner, and it only added to her charm.

The other two women at the table were less easy for Charlotte to see, but as soon as the opportunity offered itself, she studied them discreetly. Kezia Moynihan bore a superficial resemblance to her brother. Her coloring was also fair, with very clear, almost aqua, eyes and thick hair which looked enviably easy to dress. But unlike Fergal, there was a quickness in her expression, as if humor came to her naturally, although perhaps temper also. Charlotte found it an easier face to like.

Iona McGinley was a dramatic opposite. Her slender hands moved nervously on the white tablecloth. Her hair was almost black, and her dark blue eyes were wide, vulnerable, full of dreams and inward thoughts. She spoke very little, and when she did her voice was soft with a southern lilt almost like music itself.

The only other person present was Lorcan McGinley, fair haired with a long, narrow face, wide mouth and very blue eyes which were startling, almost sky blue, disconcertingly direct.

The conversation began with a few remarks which seemed harmless to the degree they were almost banal, especially among people who had all been present since the previous afternoon, therefore had shared at least two meals before.

“Very mild,” Kezia said with a smile. “I notice there are still a great many roses in bloom.”

“We sometimes get them right up until Christmas,” Emily replied.

“Does the rain not rot them?” Iona asked. “We find at home it tends to.”

“We are not so wet further east,” Carson O’Day put in.

There was a sudden silence, as if the remark had been critical.

Emily looked from one to the other of them.

“Yes it does, occasionally,” she said to no one in particular. “I think it is a matter of luck. There seem to be a lot of berries on the hawthorns this year.”

“Some say it means a cold winter,” Lorcan observed without looking up from his plate.

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” Kezia replied.

“Old wives are sometimes right,” her brother pointed out without a smile. He looked at Iona, and then away again quickly, but not before their eyes had met. He continued with his soup.

Emily tried again with a different subject. This time she addressed Eudora Greville.

“I hear Lady Crombie is planning to visit Greece this winter. Have you ever been?”

“About ten years ago, but in the spring,” Eudora replied, taking up the opportunity to assist. “It was very beautiful indeed.” And she proceeded to describe it. No one was really listening, and perhaps she did not care whether they were or not. It was a safe subject, and the tension eased.

Charlotte would have liked to help as well, but all she could think of was politics, divorce or potatoes. Everything seemed to lead back to these, one way or another.

She was happy to look agreeable and affect a great interest in travel, asking questions every time it seemed the discussion might flag. It looked as though it would be a very long weekend indeed. Five or six days of this, with at least three meals every day, not counting afternoon tea, would seem like the best part of a year.

She watched the others around the table as one course was removed and the next served. Ainsley Greville appeared very much at ease, but looking more closely at his hands, she saw that when he had no food they did not lie loosely on the cloth beside his place, but one finger drummed silently, and now and then the smile on his face became fixed, as if there by effort not instinct. The responsibility for this conference must lie heavily upon him. For all his experience, and no doubt the rewards, she felt a moment’s pity for him.

Eudora, on the other hand, seemed quite comfortable. Was she a far better actress? Or had she little idea of the true nature of the weekend?

Padraig Doyle also seemed to find genuine satisfaction in his meal and ate it with enjoyment, giving sincere compliments to the cook, through Emily. But since he was the representative of a major cause, he must be aware of the task which faced them and the difficulties of finding any semblance of a solution. He was simply a very fine actor. Regarding him while the main course was removed and dessert was served, Charlotte thought she saw in his face the quick emotions of an artist, the wit of a raconteur. He certainly told a very lively tale of his own travels in Turkey, mimicking various people he had met and describing their clothes and general appearance with poetic detail. Several times he set them laughing.

Charlotte noticed he spoke to Eudora very easily, as if he had known her for some length of time.

She was also aware of the brittleness between Lorcan McGinley and Fergal Moynihan, as if they could barely bring themselves to agree even upon complete irrelevances, such as the exorbitant price of decent accommodation abroad or the discomforts of travel in bad weather.

Kezia seemed very close to her brother, supporting whatever view he offered, while she never directly agreed with or contradicted O’Day.

Iona McGinley, on the other hand, seemed self-conscious when she spoke either directly to Fergal Moynihan or gave an opinion on something he had said.

Several times Charlotte caught Pitt’s eye and saw the flicker of anxiety in his gaze as he too studied the guests. And she saw Jack and Emily look at one another more than once in silent understanding and sympathy.

The meal was drawing to a grateful close when one of the footmen came to Jack’s side and announced that there was a Mr. Piers Greville arrived, and should he show him in.

Jack hesitated only a moment. “Yes, of course.” He looked across at Ainsley, then at Eudora, and saw the complete surprise in their eyes.

“I don’t know,” Eudora said simply. “I thought he was still up at Cambridge. I do hope nothing is wrong!”

“Of course not, my dear,” Ainsley assured her, although his expression belied his words. “I daresay he went home, which is only about eleven miles away, after all, and when he was told we were here, he decided to come and see us. He could have no idea it would be unsuitable.” He turned to Emily. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Radley. I hope it does not inconvenience you?”

“Of course not. He is most welcome.” Emily said the only thing she possibly could. In high society people frequently turned up at country house parties uninvited. Hospitality was always given, and could be equally reciprocated when the host should return the visit at some other time. People came and went as suited them, although less so now that train travel stretched easily and conveniently all over the country. In earlier days one might be obliged to stay for a month or two at a time, simply because of the physical trial of moving, especially on appalling roads, heavily rutted by rain and sometimes unpassable in winter. “It will be charming to meet him,” she added.

Charlotte looked across the table to Pitt. He smiled back at her ruefully. It was just one of the many unexpected possibilities that could arise. No one had asked him, but then to do so would have betrayed his importance, which would immediately rob him of the only advantage he had.

The footman bowed and retreated to obey.

Piers Greville came in a moment later. He was not quite as tall as his father but he had the same coloring, and a regularity and charm of feature which were more like that of his mother. On this occasion his whole being was alight with excitement and anticipation. There was a flush in his cheeks and his gray-blue eyes were bright. He spoke first to Emily.

“Mrs. Radley, how do you do? It really is very generous of you to allow me to burst in on you like this. I appreciate it enormously. I shall try to be the least possible inconvenience, I promise.” He turned to Jack, still smiling. “And to you too, sir. In advance, I thank you profoundly.” He looked swiftly around the table, acknowledging each of them although he could have no idea who they were.

Everyone smiled back, some with genuine warmth, like Kezia Moynihan, others gradually, without more than courtesy, like her brother and Lorcan McGinley.

Piers turned to his father.

“Papa, I had to come because this week is the only opportunity I have within the next two months, and I felt the news could not wait.” He swiveled around to his mother. “Mama …”

“What news?” Ainsley asked, his voice very level, noncommittal.

Eudora looked puzzled. Obviously, whatever Piers had to say was not expected. Presumably it could not concern his studies or any examinations he was to take.

“Well?” Ainsley asked, his eyebrows raised.

“I am betrothed to be married!” Piers said with happiness filling his face and ringing in his voice. “She is the most unique and marvelous person I have ever known. She is quite beautiful and you will love her.”

“I didn’t even know you had met anyone,” Eudora said with a mixture of surprise and anxiety. She made herself smile, but there was a flicker of pain behind it. Watching her, Charlotte thought for a flying moment of her own son, Daniel, and wondered if she too would be caught unaware when he fell in love, if she would not be close enough to him for him to have confided in her long before asking a woman to marry him. It gave her a sharp feeling of fear for the loss.

Ainsley was more practical.

“Indeed. Then I imagine congratulations would be appropriate. We shall discuss the arrangements at a more suitable time, and of course we shall wish to meet her and her parents. Your mother will no doubt have much to ask her mother, and to tell her.”

A shadow passed over Piers’s face. He looked very young, and suddenly also vulnerable.

“She has no parents, Papa. They died of fever when she was a child. She was brought up by grandparents, who are unfortunately also dead now.”

“Oh dear!” Eudora looked startled.

“As you say, unfortunate,” Ainsley agreed. “But obviously it cannot be helped. And there is plenty of time. You cannot consider marriage until you are qualified and have purchased a practice, and possibly not for the first year or two after that.”

Piers’s expression tightened and some of the light faded from his eyes. The thought of waiting so long would be hard for any young man in love, as he so clearly was.

“When may we meet her?” Eudora asked. “Is she in Cambridge? I imagine she is.”

“No … no, she is in London,” Piers said quickly. “But she is coming here tomorrow.” He swung around to Emily. “If I have your permission, Mrs. Radley? I realize it is a fearful impertinence, but I do so badly want her to meet my family, and for them to meet her, and this is the only chance for at least another two months.”

Emily swallowed. “Of course.” Again she made the only answer she could. “She will be most welcome. Congratulations, Mr. Greville.”

He beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Radley. You are terribly generous.”

After the meal was over the men adjourned to begin their discussions, and Emily went to inform the housekeeper that there was an extra guest and require that a room be prepared for him, and one for the following day for the young lady who was expected.

After that she joined the other women in a gentle stroll around the gardens in the late sunshine, showing them the maze, the orangery, the long lawn with its herbaceous borders, now full of chrysanthemums and late asters, the water lily pools and the woodland walk with its ferns, wild white foxgloves, and then back through the beech walk and ending in the rose garden.

Afternoon tea in the green room offered the first opportunity, and necessity, for conversation. Until then, comments on flowers and trees had been sufficient. Emily had walked with Eudora and Iona, Charlotte had followed a step or two behind with Kezia. It had all seemed very agreeable.

Now, in the green room, with its French windows onto the terrace and the grass sloping down to the rose garden, the fire crackling brightly and the silver tray of hot crumpets and butter, delicate sandwiches and small iced cakes, it was impossible to avoid speaking to each other.

The maid had passed the teacups and withdrawn. After the exercise Charlotte was hungry and found the crumpets delicious. It was not easy to eat them in a ladylike fashion and not drip hot butter onto the bosom of her dress. It required a degree of concentration.

Kezia looked at Emily gravely. “Mrs. Radley, do you think it will be possible to purchase a newspaper in the village tomorrow—if I sent one of the footmen for it, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“The Times is delivered here every day,” Emily replied. “I expect we have already arranged to have several copies sent, but I will make sure that it is so.”

Kezia smiled dazzlingly. “Thank you very much. That is most generous.”

“I don’t imagine there will be much news of Ireland in it,” Iona observed, her eyes wide. “It will be all English affairs, English social news and theaters and financial dealings, and of course a certain amount of what is happening abroad.”

Kezia returned her stare. “The English Parliament governs Ireland, or had you forgotten that?”

“I remember that even in my sleep,” Iona replied. “Every true Irish man or woman does. It’s only you who want to remain in the English pockets who let yourselves forget what it means, the shame and the grief of it, the hunger, the poverty and the injustice.”

“Yes, the whole of England is riding on Ireland’s back, I know that,” Kezia said sarcastically. “So small as Catholic Ireland is, it’s no wonder it finds the weight too much! You must work like galley slaves to keep us all going.”

Emily leaned forward to say something, but Eudora spoke first.

“The hunger was to do with the potato blight,” she said firmly. “And that was neither Catholic nor Protestant. It was an act of God.”

“Who is neither Catholic nor Protestant …” Emily added in.

“ ‘A plague on both your houses!’ ” Charlotte quoted, then wished she had bitten her tongue.

They all turned to stare at her, eyes wide.

“Are you an atheist, Mrs. Pitt?” Eudora asked incredulously. “You don’t follow Mr. Darwin, do you?”

“No, I’m not an atheist,” Charlotte said hastily, the color burning up her cheeks. “I just think to watch two supposedly Christian peoples hating each other over the nature of their beliefs must make God absolutely furious and exasperated with us all It’s ridiculous!”

“You wouldn’t say that, you couldn’t, if you had any understanding of what the real differences are!” Kezia leaned forward, her face filled with emotion, her hands clenched on her deep-wine colored skirts. “Great evils are taught: intolerance, pride, irresponsibility, immorality of all sorts, and the great and beautiful truths of God, of purity, diligence and faith are denied! Can there be a greater evil than that? Can there be anything more worth fighting against? If you care about anything at all, Mrs. Pitt, you surely must care about that? What else on the face of the earth can be as important, as precious, and worth living or laboring for? And if you lose that, what else is left that is of any value at all?”

“Faith and honor, loyalty to one’s own,” Iona answered, her voice thick with emotion. “Pity for the poor of the earth, and the power to forgive, and the love of the true Church. All things which you wouldn’t understand, with your hard heart and your self-satisfied quickness to judge others. If you were to find a man who’ll watch the poor starve and tell them it’s their own fault, go look for a Protestant, preferably a Protestant preacher. He’ll talk about hellfire and light the coals while he’s speaking. There’s nothing pleases him so much, while he’s at his Sunday dinner, as to think some Catholic child’s starvin’, or makes him sleep so sweet as to believe we’ll all be freezin’ in a ditch when he’s driven us out of our homes and repossessed the land that was ours from birth, and our fathers’ fathers’ before that back to the beginnin’ o’ time.”

“That’s a load o’ romantic nonsense, and you know it!” Kezia said, her pale eyes brilliant, almost turquoise in the light. “There’s many a Protestant landlord went bankrupt tryin’ to feed his Catholic tenants during the famine. I know that, my grandfather was one of them. Not a ha’penny did he have left when it was over. The famine was half a century ago. That’s the trouble with you, you all live in the past. You nurture old pains like you’re frightened to let them go. You carry around your griefs as if they were your children! Catholic emancipation’s a fact.”

“Ireland is still ruled by a Protestant Parliament in London!” Iona spoke only to Kezia; there might not have been anyone else in the room.

“And what is it you want?” Kezia shot back at her. “A Catholic Curia in Rome? That is what you want, isn’t it? That we all have to answer to the Pope? You want papist doctrine to be the law of the land, not just for those that believe in it but for everyone. That’s it! That’s the core of it! Well, I’d sooner die than give up my right to freedom of religion.”

Iona’s eyes burned with derision. “So you’re afraid that if we get power, we’ll persecute you—just the way you persecuted us. Then you’ll have to fight for a Protestant emancipation, so you can own your own land instead of centuries of being at the mercy of landlords, so you can vote on the laws of your own land, or practice in the professions like any other man. That’s what frightens you, isn’t it? We’ve learned what oppression is, God knows, we had good enough teachers!”

Eudora intervened, her face pale, her voice tight in her throat.

“Do you want to live in the past forever? Do you want to spoil the chance we have now of ending the hatred and the bloodshed and creating a decent country, under Home Rule at last?”

“Under Parnell?” Kezia said harshly. “Do you think he’ll survive this? Katie O’Shea put an end to that!”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite,” Iona retorted. “Sure he’s as guilty as she is. It’s Captain O’Shea who is the only innocent one.”

“The way I read it,” Charlotte interrupted, “Captain O’Shea threw them together for his own political advancement. Which makes him as guilty as anyone, and for a less honorable reason.”

“He didn’t commit adultery,” Kezia lashed out, her face flushed with anger and indignation. “That is a sin next to murder.”

“And manipulating another man to fall in love with your wife, and then selling her to him for your profit, and when it doesn’t work, pillorying her in public is all right?” Charlotte asked incredulously.

Emily let out a long groan.

Eudora looked around the room frantically.

Suddenly Charlotte wanted to laugh. The whole scene was absurd. But if she did, they would all think she had taken leave of her senses. Perhaps that would not be a bad thing. Anything might be better than this.

“Have another crumpet?” she offered Kezia. “They really are delicious. This conversation is appalling. We have all been unpardonably rude and placed ourselves in positions from which we have no way of retreating with any dignity at all.”

They stared at her as if she had spoken in tongues.

She took a deep breath. “The only way would be to pretend none of it happened and start again. Tell me, Miss Moynihan, if you had a considerable sum of money, and the time to indulge yourself, where would you most like to travel, and why?”

She heard Emily gulp.

Kezia hesitated.

The fire sank with a shower of sparks. In a minute or two Emily would have to ring for the footman to come and stoke it up again.

“Egypt,” Kezia replied at last. “I should like to sail up the Nile and visit the Great Pyramids and the temples at Luxor and Karnak. Where would you like to go, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Venice,” Charlotte said without thinking. “Or …” She had been going to say “Rome,” and then bit her tongue. “Or Florence,” she said instead. She could feel hysteria rising in her. “Yes, Florence would be marvelous.”

Emily relaxed and rang the bell for the footman.

Gracie had a very busy afternoon. She found Gwen continuously helpful, but it was Doll, Eudora Greville’s maid, who taught her how to make silk stockings look flesh colored by adding, to the washing a little rose-pink and thin soap, then rubbing them with a clean flannel and mangling them nearly dry. The result was excellent.

“Thank you very much,” she said enthusiastically.

Doll smiled. “Oh, there’s a few tricks as are worth knowing. Got plenty of blue paper, have you? Or blue cloth will do as well.”

“No. What for?”

“Always put white clothes away in a box or drawer lined with blue. That way they won’t go all yellow. Nothing looks worse than whites as ’ave gone yellow. Come to that, I s’pose you know how to care for pearls?” She saw from Gracie’s face that she didn’t. “It’s easy when you know how, but make a mistake an’ you could ruin ’em—or worse, lose ’em altogether. Like in vinegar!” She gave a wry little laugh. “You boil bran in water, then strain it, add a little tartar and alum, hot as you can stand. Then rub the pearls in your ’ands till they’re white again. Then rinse ’em in lukewarm water and set ’em on white paper and leave ’em in a dark drawer to cool off. Works a treat.”

Gracie was very impressed. A few days at Ashworth Hall, paying attention, and she was going to be on the way to becoming a real lady’s maid. And she could read and write as well.

“Thank you,” she said again, lifting her chin a little higher. “That’s very gracious of you.”

Doll smiled, and something of the guardedness in her relaxed.

Gracie would like to have stayed and talked longer with her, learned more, but in displaying her own lack of experience she was inviting speculation as to why Charlotte should have such an ignorant maid.

“I’ll make a note o’ that, for if any of our pearls should get dull or lose their color,” she said with aplomb. Then she excused herself and returned upstairs.

However, she very quickly became bored, as there was nothing for her to do, so she decided to explore the rest of the servants’ parts of the hall. In the laundry wing, she found the maids relaxing and giggling together after a hard morning’s toil with steamy sheets and towels. One of the housemaids was ironing. The others, she was told, were carrying coals up to the dressing rooms to light the fires in time for changing for dinner.

She saw Tellman walking across the yard back from the stable, looking grim. She felt sorry for him. He was out of his depth. He probably had not the least idea how to do his job; all the well-trained valets of the other gentlemen would be bound to notice it. She really ought to offer him a little help. At the moment he looked like a spoilt child about to throw a tantrum. She had found with Charlotte’s children, once they were out of the three-year-old frustration tempers, such incidents usually occurred because they felt somehow overlooked or unimportant.

“Beginning to find your way around, Mr. Tellman?” she said cheerfully. “I never bin in such a big place before, an’ I don’t even ’ave ter bother wi’ outside.”

“Well I do,” he said tartly, looking sour. “If we do get any trouble it won’t be blacking boots an’ carrying coals they’ll be thanking me for!”

“You shouldn’t be carrying coals,” she said quickly. “You’re an upper servant, not a lower one. In fact, you are one of the top ten, so don’t let anyone take advantage of you.”

His face twisted with disgust. “One of the top ten! Don’t be ridiculous. If you spend your time waiting on other folk and taking orders, you’re a servant, and that’s all there is to it.”

“It most certainly is not!” she said indignantly. “That’s like saying if you’re a policeman it’s all the same whether you’re a senior detective wi’ knowledge and cleverness or a rozzer wot walks the beat carryin’ a lantern an’ don’t know a robber from a priest less someone shouts ‘Stop thief!’ ”

“But you’re at other people’s beck and call,” he said.

“An’ you in’t?”

He started to deny it, then met her blunt, candid gaze and changed his mind.

“An’ if yer don’t know wot ter do, I’ll find out for yer,” she said generously. “You don’t want ter look like yer don’t know yer job. I’ll show yer ’ow ter brush a gentleman’s coat proper, an’ ’ow ter take orff spots. Do yer know Ow ter get grease orff?”

“No,” he said grudgingly.

“An ’ot iron an’ thick brown paper, but not too ’ot. Lay it on a piece o’ white paper first, an if it don’t scorch, it’s a’ right. If that don’t ’move it all, a little bit o’ clean cloth an’ spirit o’ wine. If’n yer get stuck, come an’ ask me. Don’t let ’em see as yer don’ know. I’ll find out for yer.”

She could see from his face that he resented it profoundly, yet he could appreciate the point of her argument.

“Thank you,” he said between his teeth, then turned and walked into the house without looking back.

She shook her head and went on with her explorations.

She was in the stillroom when she saw Finn Hennessey again, his dark head and slender shoulders unmistakable. He stood with a grace unlike anyone else’s.

He turned the moment he heard her step, and his face lit up with pleasure when he saw her.

“Hello, Gracie Phipps. Looking for someone?”

“No, just discoverin’ the ’ouse, so I know where ter find things,” she replied, delighted to have encountered him, and yet now tongue-tied for something sensible to say.

“Very wise,” he agreed. “So am I. Funny isn’t it, how we work so hard for days preparing to come, and when we’re here, at least today, there’s almost nothing to do until dinner.”

“Well, at Orne I ’ave children ter care for as well,” she said, then realized that categorized her as a maid of all work, and wished she had kept silence.

“Do you like that?” he asked with interest.

“Oh yeah. They’re pretty much obedient, an’ ever so bright.”

“And healthy?”

“Yeah,” she said with surprise. She saw the shadow in his face. “Isn’t children ’ealthy where you come from?”

“Where I come from?” he repeated. “The village my mother lived in, and her mother before her, is a ruin now. It was abandoned after the famine. There used to be close to a hundred people there, men, women and children. Now it looks like the tombs of a departed race crumbling back into the earth.”

She was genuinely shocked. “That’s terrible. Yer ma married an’ moved then? Din’ she ’ave no brothers wot stayed there?”

“She had three. Two of them were evicted when the land was sold and the new landlords put it to grazing. The third, the youngest, was hanged by the British because they thought he was a Fenian.”

She heard the pain in him, but she did not understand the story. She was perfectly familiar with poverty. The London streets in some areas could equal anything Ireland could offer. She had seen children starved, or frozen to death. She had been cold and sick often enough herself before she had been taken into service by Pitt.

“Was a wot?” she said quietly.

“A Fenian,” he explained. “A secret brotherhood of Irishmen who want freedom for Ireland, to rule themselves and follow our own ways—those of us that are left. God knows how many that is. We’ve been driven from the land by greedy landlords till there are only ghost villages left in the west and the south.”

“Driven where to?” She tried to imagine it. It was the only part of his story which was outside her own experience.

“America, Canada, anywhere as’ll have us, where we can find honest work, and food and shelter at the end of it.”

She could think of nothing to say. It was tragic and unjust. She could understand his anger.

He saw the compassion in her face.

“Can you imagine it, Gracie?” he said softly, his voice little more than a whisper. “Whole villages dispossessed of the land and the homes where they were born and where they’d labored and built, driven out with nowhere to go, even in winter. Old men and women with babies in arms, children at their skirts, sent out into the wind and the rain to fend for themselves any way they could. What kind of a person would do that to another creature?”

“I dunno,” she answered solemnly. “I in’t never met no one as’d do nothing like that. I only know landlords wot throw out a family ’ere or there. It in’t ’uman.”

“You’re right about that, Gracie. Believe me, if I were to tell you all Ireland’s ills, we would still be here long after this weekend party is over and the politicians have gone back to London or Dublin or Belfast. And that would be barely the beginning of it. Poverty’s everywhere, I know that. But this is the slow murder of a nation. No wonder it rains in Ireland till the very earth shimmers green. It must be the angels of God weeping at the suffering and the pity of it.”

She was still picturing it in her mind and trying to work her way through the sadness when they were interrupted by Gwen coming in to find some of the ingredients for making “Lady Conyngham’s lip honey.”

“How do you do that?” Gracie asked, ever eager to learn.

“Take two ounces of honey, one of purified wax, half an ounce of silver litharge and the same of myrrh,” Gwen answered obligingly, happy to share her knowledge. “Mix this over a slow fire, and add any perfume you care for. I’m going to use milk of roses. It should be up on that shelf.” She nodded to a point just above Grade’s head. She smiled at Finn Hennessey, and quickly he opened the cupboard and passed the container down to her.

She flashed him a warm glance and looked disposed to remain a few moments longer. Gracie considered standing her ground, then decided it would look childish. She excused herself and went off, but wondering if he was watching her or if he had already lost himself in conversation with Gwen.

At the corner of the corridor she could not resist turning her head, and felt a soaring of her heart to meet his eyes and know that his mind was still upon her.

* * *

Dinner was a very stilted affair to begin with. None of the women had forgotten the bitterness of the conversation over afternoon tea, and both Charlotte and Emily were dreading a similar scene.

Fergal Moynihan arrived looking grim, but maintained a very formal courtesy with absolute, almost studied equality towards everyone.

Iona McGinley looked beautiful in an intense way. She had chosen a very dramatic gown of blue, almost purple, and it made the skin of her neck and shoulders look very white and fragile. Charlotte had been told Iona was a poetess, and looking at her now she could well believe it. She seemed a figment of some romantic dream herself, and a curious, faraway smile played about her lips as though she were more often dreaming than thinking of the mundane politeness of a dinner party.

Piers Greville sat in his own little island of happiness. His parents were both fully occupied trying to behave as if the company were at ease and making small talk about innocuous matters.

Kezia also looked very fine in an utterly different manner. It would have been difficult to find two women more wildly in contrast than she and Iona McGinley. She wore a shimmering aquamarine gown with delicate embroidery asymmetrically down one side. Her shoulders were rich and milky smooth, her bosom very handsome. Her fair hair caught the light, and she seemed almost to glow with the richness of her coloring. Charlotte saw a flicker of appreciation on Ainsley Greville’s face, and on Padraig Doyle’s, and was not surprised.

Charlotte had dressed with Gracie’s help. She wore one of Aunt Vespasia’s gowns, not the oyster satin—she was keeping that for the most important occasion—but one in a deep forest green, very severely cut, which was a great deal more flattering than she would have supposed. It all lay in the cut of the bosom, the waist, and the way the skirt draped over the hips and under the tiny bustle, most fashionably reduced from previous years. She saw a flash of admiration in the eyes of more than one of the men, but more satisfying than that, a swift glance of envy from the women.

Fergal spoke to Iona, some trivial politeness, then Lorcan interrupted. Padraig Doyle smoothed over the situation with an anecdote about an adventure on the western frontiers of America and set everyone laughing, if somewhat nervously.

The next course was served.

Emily introduced some harmless subject, but she was obliged to work very hard to keep it so. Charlotte did all she could to help.

After the last course was completed the ladies adjourned to the withdrawing room, but were very soon followed by the gentlemen, and someone suggested a little music. Possibly it was intended to flatter Iona.

She did indeed sing beautifully. She had a haunting voice, far deeper than one might have expected from such a fragile figure. Eudora played the piano for her, with a surprisingly lyrical touch, and seeming at ease even with old Irish folk tunes which fell in unusual cadences, quite different from English music.

At first Charlotte enjoyed it very much, and after half an hour began to find herself relaxing. She looked across at Pitt and caught his eye. He smiled back at her, but she saw he was still sitting upright and every now and again his eyes would wander around the room from face to face, as if he expected some unpleasantness.

It came from the one quarter she had not foreseen. Iona’s songs became more emotional, more filled with the tragedy of Ireland, the lost peace, the lovers parted by betrayal and death, the fallen heroes of battle.

Ainsley shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening.

Kezia was growing more flushed in the face, her mouth set in a thinning line.

Fergal never took his eyes from Iona, as if the music’s beauty had entered his soul and both the pain of it and the accusations against his own people were inextricably mixed, paralyzing his protest.

Then Emily moved as though to speak, but Eudora kept on playing, and Lorcan McGinley stood between her and Iona, his fair face transfixed with the old stories of love betrayed and death at British hands.

It was Padraig Doyle who intervened.

“Sure an’ that’s a lovely sad song,” he said with a smile. “All about a relative o’ mine too. The heroine, Neassa Doyle, was an aunt o’ mine, on my mother’s side.” He looked across at Carson O’Day, who so far had said nothing, his expression impossible to read. “And the hero, poor man, could be a relative o’ yours, I’ll swear?”

“Drystan O’Day,” Carson agreed bleakly. “One tragedy among many, but this one immortalized in music and poetry.”

“And very beautiful it is too,” Padraig agreed. “But how about we exercise the good manners we’re famous for and sing some of our host’s songs as well, eh? What do you say to a few happier love songs? We’ll not send you to bed in tears, shall we? Self-pity never was a handsome thing.”

“You think Ireland’s woes are self-pity?” Lorcan said dangerously.

Padraig smiled. “Our woes are real enough, man. God and the world know that. But courage sings a gay song, as well as a sad one. How about ‘Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes’? Is that not a fine song?” He turned to Eudora. “I’ve heard you play that one from memory. Let’s be hearing it now.”

Obediently she moved into its lovely, soaring melody, and he began to sing in a lyrical Irish tenor, sweet and true, filled with joy. Without meaning to, Emily began to hum along with him, and he heard her and beckoned with his hands to encourage her.

Within ten minutes they were all singing from Gilbert and Sullivan, happy, dancing music, and all the room was obliged to let go of anger and tragedy, at least for an hour.

* * *

Charlotte slept in emotional exhaustion, but her sleep was not restful. She was disturbed by dreams of anxiety, and for seconds it only seemed like a continuation when she heard the screaming.

She was emerging from the webs of sleep when Pitt was already out of bed and striding towards the door.

The screaming went on, high and shrill with rage. There was no terror in it, only uncontrollable, hysterical fury.

Charlotte almost fell out of bed, tripping over the full skirts of her nightgown, her hair in a loose braid and half undone.

Pitt was on the landing, staring at the doorway of the room opposite, where Kezia Moynihan stood, her eyes wide, blazing, her face white but for two spots of hectic color in her cheeks.

Emily was coming from the west wing, her hair loose, her nightgown covered by a pale green robe, her face ashen. Jack had obviously risen earlier and was running up the stairs from below.

Padraig Doyle emerged from a door further down, and then a second after, Lorcan McGinley.

“What in God’s name has happened?” Jack demanded, looking from one to another of them.

Charlotte stared beyond Pitt in through the open door, still held wide by Kezia. She saw a huge brass-ended bed, its cover rumpled, and half sitting up, her black hair falling over her shoulders, Iona McGinley. Beside her, his striped nightshirt askew, was Fergal Moynihan. Iona made a halfhearted attempt to shuffle under the bedclothes.

The scene admitted no explanation.