Ashworth Hall

3

EMILY WAS THE FIRST to move. There was no conceivable denial to make. There was only one interpretation possible. She moved forward and took Kezia’s hand, pulling her quite sharply out of the doorway, and reaching for the handle, jerked it shut.

Charlotte unfroze and turned to face everyone else, now gathering on the landing.

“What’s happened?” Carson O’Day asked, his face filled with anxiety bordering on fear.

Charlotte felt a surge of wild laughter inside herself. She knew he had imagined an attack, the violence that had surely been at the back of everyone’s minds, the reason Pitt was here. She could see it mirrored in his eyes. And this was so utterly different, almost banal, the sort of domestic tragedy or farce that happened anywhere.

“Everyone is perfectly safe,” she said clearly and a little loudly. “No one is injured.” Then she saw Lorcan McGinley’s white face and regretted she had chosen precisely those words, but to apologize would only make it worse.

Emily had her arm around Kezia and was trying, unsuccessfully, to steer her away and back to her own bedroom.

Pitt saw her difficulty and went to Kezia’s other side.

“Come,” he said firmly, taking her arm and putting his weight behind his movement. “You’ll catch a chill out here.” It was a meaningless statement. She had a robe over her nightgown and the house was not cold, but it had the desired effect, for an instant breaking the spell of her rage. He and Emily, one on either side, led her away.

This left Charlotte alone to think of something to say to everyone else. Jack was at the top of the stairs now, but he had no idea what had happened.

“I’m very sorry for the disturbance,” she said as calmly as she could. “Something has occurred which has distressed Miss Moynihan very much, and no doubt others among us as well. But there is nothing to be done for the moment. I think it would be best if we all returned to our own bedrooms and dressed. We cannot help here, and we shall only catch cold.”

That was true; Eudora Greville had picked up a robe before responding to Kezia’s screams. Everyone else had only nightgowns or nightshirts on.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt,” Ainsley said with a sigh of relief. “That is very wise advice. I suggest we all take it.” And with a bleak smile, pale-faced, he turned around and walked back towards his bedroom. After a second’s confused hesitation, Eudora followed behind him.

Padraig Doyle looked at Charlotte in concern, then realized that the situation, whatever it was, was one which was best left alone, and he too went. The others followed, leaving only Lorcan standing facing Charlotte.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McGinley,” she said very quietly, and she meant it with a depth which surprised her. He had not been a man she liked instinctively, but now her hurt for him was real. There was nothing in his face to indicate whether he had had the slightest idea that his wife was having an affair. The shock in it now, the pallor and hollow eyes, could have been disbelief, and then the stunning realization, or simply the agonizing embarrassment and shame of having it exposed in front of the other guests in the house.

Whatever it was, there was nothing else to say which would not make it even worse.

He did not reply, and she was frightened of the look in his eyes.

Breakfast was appalling. Emily was at her wits’ end to know what to say or do to maintain even a veneer of civilized behavior. Of course it was not the first country house party where adultery had taken place. In fact, it probably happened as often as not. The differences were two: most people were discreet enough, and careful enough, not to be discovered, and if anyone did chance to interrupt something unfortunate, they kept their own counsel about it and looked the other way. Certainly they did not scream themselves hoarse and wake the entire household. And normally one took great care not to invite people who were at odds with each other. It was a principal part of a hostess’s skill to know who cared for whom, and who did not.

When Jack first ran for Parliament she had had no conception of the difficulties she might face in entertaining. She was perfectly aware of the usual social pitfalls, the problems of obtaining and keeping a good cook and good servants in general, of wearing exactly the right clothes, of learning the orders of precedence of all the various titles of aristocracy, of devising menus which were imaginative but not eccentric and entertainments which could not go wrong and yet were still interesting.

Religious and national hatreds were new to her. Even the idea of hating someone because of his or her beliefs was beyond her thoughts. Yesterday had teetered on the edge of disaster once or twice. Today seemed irredeemable. She sat at the foot of the breakfast table as people came in one by one, passing the sideboard with its chafing dishes of kedgeree, deviled kidneys, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, bacon, sausages, smoked finnan haddock, kippers, and grilled mushrooms.

Padraig Doyle helped himself generously. She had judged him aright as a man who enjoyed his physical well-being and who guarded his energy with care.

Ainsley Greville similarly did not ignore his meal, although he took little relish in it. He was absorbed in his thoughts, his face tense. There was a certain stillness about him.

O’Day ate sparingly. McGinley hardly touched his plate, merely pushing the food around every so often. He looked wretched, and excused himself after less than ten minutes. He had spoken to no one.

Fergal Moynihan was profoundly unhappy, but he remained at the table, although he spoke barely a word. Iona sipped tea and ate nothing, but she seemed less distraught than he, as if she had a kind of inner conviction which sustained her.

Piers, who had no idea what had happened, tried to make some sort of conversation, and Emily found herself delighted to ask him about his studies at Cambridge and learn that he was in his final year of medicine and hoped shortly to graduate well. Of course, it would be some time after that before he could obtain a practice of his own, but he was looking forward to it with enthusiasm.

Now and again she saw Eudora look faintly surprised, as if she had not realized the depth of his feelings. Perhaps he did not speak so fully at home, assuming she already understood.

The rest of the company struggled on in jerky conversation about trivia. Kezia did not come down at all, and after about half an hour Charlotte glanced at Emily, then arose, excused herself and disappeared. Emily was almost certain she had gone in search of Kezia. She wondered if it was wise, but perhaps it had to be done, and she shot her a smile of gratitude.

She was correct. Charlotte went partly out of concern for Kezia, whom she had liked, but more out of care for Emily and Pitt. If no one made any effort to comfort her and at least calm her mounting hysteria, if she felt totally alone, she might lose all control and behave with an even more damaging effect. She was obviously shocked.

At the top of the stairs Charlotte saw a very handsome girl with thick, honey-fair hair and a very fine figure. She looked like a parlor maid because of her beauty—and that was not too strong a word—but she wore no cap, and a parlor maid would not be upstairs. She must be someone’s lady’s maid.

“Excuse me,” Charlotte asked her. “Can you tell me which is Miss Moynihan’s room?”

“Yes ma’am,” the girl replied obediently. Her expression was pleasant, but there was a gravity, almost a sadness, in her eyes and mouth, as if she rarely smiled. “It’s the second door on the left, ’round the corner past the bowl of ivy.” She hesitated. “I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte accepted. “You are not her maid, are you?”

“No ma’am, I’m Mrs. Greville’s maid.” She led the way and Charlotte followed her.

“Do you know where Miss Moynihan’s maid is? It might be quite a good idea to have her help. She is bound to know her mistress well.”

“Yes ma’am. I believe she is in the laundry, cooking rice.”

“I beg your pardon?” The answer seemed to make no sense at all. “You mean the kitchen?”

“No ma’am, to make congee.” A ghost of amusement flickered across her face. She was not unfriendly. “That’s rice-water, ma’am, for washing muslin. Gives it body. But you have to make it first. Rice is kept in the laundry for it. Cook wouldn’t allow us in the kitchen for that. Leastways, our cook wouldn’t.”

“No,” Charlotte agreed. “No, of course not. Thank you.” They were at the bedroom door. She would just have to manage without the maid’s assistance.

She knocked.

There was no answer. She had only half expected one. She had already made up her mind what to do. She knocked again, and then, exactly as if she were a maid, she simply opened the door and went in, closing it behind her.

It was a lovely room, decorated in sunny florals, daffodil yellows and apple greens with touches of blue. On the table there was a vase of white chrysanthemums and blue asters, and a pile of papers, and Charlotte remembered that Kezia was said to be as deeply involved in politics as her brother, and perhaps at least as gifted. It was only that she was a woman, and unmarried, that had kept her from more open influence.

Kezia was standing now in front of the long window and staring out of it. Her hair was loose down her back and she had not yet bothered to dress. Presumably she had deliberately sent her maid away.

She did not even turn as Charlotte came in, although she must have heard the door opening, even if she did not hear footsteps on the soft carpet.

“Miss Moynihan …”

Kezia turned very slowly. Her face was puffed, her eyes red. She looked at Charlotte with slight surprise and the beginning of resentment.

Charlotte had expected it; after all, she was an intrusion.

“I need to speak to you,” she said with a very slight smile.

Kezia stared at her in disbelief.

Charlotte went on regardless. “I could not simply eat my breakfast as if everything were more or less all right. You must feel dreadful.”

Kezia was breathing very deeply, her breast rising and falling. On her face was a mixture of emotions: anger, and a wild desire to laugh, even an ache for physical violence of some sort to release the helpless fury inside, and a fierce contempt for Charlotte’s impertinence and utter lack of understanding.

“You haven’t the remotest idea,” she said harshly.

“No, of course I haven’t,” Charlotte agreed. She could readily comprehend shock, embarrassment and shame. A certain anger was natural, but not the rage which almost choked Kezia. Even as she stood there in her beautiful white robe with its lace edges, her body was shaking with it.

“How could he do such a thing?” she blazed, her eyes diamond bright and hard. “It is despicable beyond excuse, beyond any kind of pardon.” Her voice choked in her throat. “I thought I knew him. All these years we’ve fought for the same things, shared the same dreams, suffered the same losses. And he does this!” The last word was almost a shriek.

Charlotte could hear her control supping away again. She must talk, say something, anything, to try to soothe away some of the explosive pain inside her. She should feel she had at least one friend.

“When people fall in love they can do so many foolish things,” she began. “Even things which are quite outside their usual character—”

“Fall in love?” Kezia shouted, as if the phrase were meaningless. “People? Fergal is not just ‘people’! He is the son of one of the greatest preachers who ever taught the word of God! A just and righteous man who lived all the Commandments and was a light and a hope to all Ulster. He lived his whole life to keep the faith and the freedom of Ireland from the dominion and corruption of popery.” She waved her arm almost accusingly. “You live in England. You haven’t faced that threat in centuries. Don’t you read your history? Don’t you know how many men Bloody Mary burned at the stake because they wouldn’t forsake the reforms of the Protestant church? Because they wouldn’t get rid of superstition and indulgences and the sin that riddled the whole hierarchy from top to bottom?” She did not stop for breath. Her face was bright and ugly with rage. “From an arrogant Pope who thinks he speaks for God, right down through an Inquisition which tortures to death people who want to read the Holy Scriptures for themselves, even through a licentious and idolatrous clinging onto worship of plaster statues and thinking all their sins can be forgiven if they pay money to the church and mumble a few prayers while they count their beads!”

“Kezia …” Charlotte began, but Kezia was not listening.

“And Fergal was in bed not only with a Catholic whore …” She went on, growing more and more shrill. “Not only an adulteress, but one who tears Ireland apart by writing her poetry full of lies and firing up stupid, ignorant men’s imaginations with sentimental and maudlin songs about heroes who never were and battles that didn’t happen!”

“Kezia …”

“And you want me to understand why he did that, and overlook it? You want me to—” Her voice caught in a sob and she could barely struggle on. “You want me to say that’s all right? It’s only a human weakness, and we should forgive? Never!” She clenched her fists in front of her, her white hands smooth, the knuckles shining. “Never! It is unpardonable!”

“Isn’t anything pardonable, if you repent?” Charlotte said quietly.

“Not betrayal.” Kezia jerked her head up haughtily, her voice catching in her throat. “He has betrayed everything! He is the ultimate hypocrite. He is nothing he made me believe he was.”

“He’s fallible,” Charlotte argued. “Of course it’s wrong, but surely it is one of the most understandable of sins?”

Kezia’s hair was a bright halo around her, with the light shining gold through it.

“Hypocrisy? Cheating? Lying? Betraying all you have stood for, all those who have believed in you? No! No, it is not understandable, nor can it be forgiven. Not by me, anyway.” She turned away and stared out of the window again. Her shoulders were stiff, her whole body filled with resistance.

There was no point in arguing further. It would only increase her resolve. Charlotte was beginning to appreciate the depth of hatred in the Irish Problem. It seemed to be in the blood and the nature. There was no yielding, no exception made. It was stronger than family love or even the desire to keep the warmth and the sweetness of one’s deepest ties and companionships.

And yet she could remember her own pain of disillusion long ago when she had discovered Dominic’s feet of clay, exactly the same sort of thing. He was her elder sister Sarah’s husband, and she had adored him, quite unrealistically. For a while the loss of the dream had seemed unbearable. Then she had come to know him more truly, and they had reached a kind of friendship based on affection and forgiveness, and it had been a far cleaner, stronger thing.

“If you’d like to walk alone, I doubt there’d be anyone except perhaps a gardener in the maze,” she said aloud.

“Thank you.” Kezia did not move even her head, but stood with her robe clasped around her, as if it could protect her and she were afraid someone was going to tear it away.

Charlotte went out and closed the door again.

The ladies spent the morning writing letters, making small talk about various attractive or interesting objects of art in the house, and looking idly at the books of incidentals lying around on tables in the withdrawing room or boudoir. They were collections of designs, paintings, etchings, silhouettes or lace, and other such bits and pieces which formed designs of beauty or interest. It was a common practice for ladies of leisure to create them, and comparing one person’s skill or idea with another was a pleasure. Emily had not made it hers. She loathed such things, and took good care to see she had not the time, but she had been given them by various guests and was grateful to have them.

It was at least less difficult with Kezia absent. Had she chosen to come it would have been impossible. The previous day’s quarrel would have been little to compare with today’s.

The gentlemen resumed their deliberations, smoothly guided by Ainsley. Not surprisingly, the atmosphere was brittle, but O’Day and Padraig Doyle shared a dry laugh as they walked across the hall back to the library. And Jack, following with Fergal Moynihan, seemed to be having an agreeable enough conversation.

Pitt found Tellman trudging through the stable yard and looking grim.

“There are far too many men around here,” he said as soon as he was close enough to speak without being overheard by the grooms and coachmen in the vicinity. “Don’t know who half of them are. Could be anybody.”

“Most of them are longtime servants of the hall,” Pitt replied. He was in no mood to indulge Tellman’s prejudices. “They’ve been here for years and have no connection with Irish politics whatever. It’s strangers we need to keep a watch for.”

“What are you expecting?” Tellman raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “An army of Irish Fenians marching up the drive with guns and explosives? Judging by the atmosphere in the house, they’ll be wasting their time. That lot’ll kill each other and save them the bother.”

“That the servants’ gossip, is it?” Pitt enquired.

Tellman shot him a glance that should have withered him on the spot.

“It wouldn’t make any sense to attack each other here,” Pitt elaborated patiently. “It’s far too obvious. They’ll only make a martyr of the victim and blacken their own names, not to mention end their lives on the gallows. None of the men here are fanatic enough to want anything so pointless.”

“You think not?” Tellman walked with his head down, his hands jammed into his pockets.

Pitt saw a gardener cross the end of the path and go into the maze a hundred feet ahead of them.

“Walk properly,” he said quickly. “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

“What?” Tellman stared at him.

“You’re supposed to be a valet,” Pitt repeated tensely. “Walk like one. Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Tellman swore under his breath, but he obeyed.

“This is a waste of time,” he said bitterly. “We should be back in London finding out who killed poor Denbigh. That’s something that really matters. Nobody’s ever going to sort this lot out. They hate each other, and always will. Even the bleedin’ servants won’t talk civilly to each other.”

He swiveled to look at Pitt, his brow puckered. “Did you know servants are even more particular about rank and status than their masters?” He let out his breath in a sigh. “Everyone’s got their job, and they’d let the whole house grind to a stop sooner than let one man do another man’s duty, even if it’s as trifling as carrying a coal bucket a few yards. Footmen won’t lift a damn thing if it’s the housemaid’s job. Stand and watch the poor girl struggle with it, they will. There’s so many of them I don’t know how they ever keep it all straight.” His lean face was tight-lipped with contempt. “We all eat in the servants’ hall, but the first ten carry their pudding into the housekeeper’s sitting room. I hope you appreciate, Superintendent, that you are considered the lowest-ranking gentleman here, so I have to follow after the other valets, in strict order of precedence.” It was said with a mixture of venom and contempt.

“I can see it bothers you.” Pitt carefully put his hands in his pockets. “Just remember what we are here for. You may be a poor valet, but what matters is that you are a good policeman.”

Tellman swore again.

They were walking around the outside of the building, observing the approaches, the cover afforded by outbuildings and shrubbery.

“Is all that locked at night?” Tellman jerked his head towards the facade with its rows of windows. “Not that it’d make a lot o’ difference. A good star-glazier’d cut the glass and be inside in a moment.”

“That’s why the gamekeeper is around all night with the dogs,” Pitt replied. “And we have the local police watching the roads and keeping an eye on the fields as well. The Ashworth Hall staff know their land far better than any outsider will.”

“Spoken to the gardeners?” Tellman asked.

“Yes, and the footmen and coachmen, grooms and bootboy, in case anyone shows up at the back door.”

“Can’t think of anything else to do,” Tellman agreed. He looked sideways at Pitt. “D’you think there’s any chance they’ll agree on anything anyway?”

“I don’t know. But I have some respect for Ainsley Greville. He seems to have them talking civilly, which after this morning is a very considerable achievement.”

Tellman frowned. “What happened this morning? Your Gracie came downstairs and said there was a terrible screaming going on, but she wouldn’t say what it was about. She’s a curious one, that.” He looked away, studying the gravel they were now walking over, their feet crunching noisily. “One minute as soft as warm butter, the next like you’d stuck your hand in a bed o’ nettles, all pride and vinegar. Can’t make her out. But she’s got spirit, and for a servant, she’s quite good.”

“Don’t mistake Gracie,” Pitt said with some asperity, as well as a certain amusement. He knew Tellman’s opinion of being in service. “She’s very clever indeed, in her own way. Got far more practical sense than you have, and at least as much judgment of people.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Tellman protested. “She says she can read and write, but—”

“So she can!”

“But she’s still only a bit of a girl.”

Pitt did not bother to argue. He started up a flight of stone-flagged stairs.

“So what was the screaming?” Tellman pursued, catching up.

“Miss Moynihan found her brother in bed with Mrs. McGinley,” Pitt replied.

“What?” Tellman missed his footing and all but fell over. “What did you say?”

Pitt repeated it.

Tellman swore yet again.

They ate luncheon of cold poached salmon, pheasant in aspic, game pie or jugged hare, fresh vegetables and young potatoes. The butler came in discreetly and in a low voice announced to Emily that a Miss Justine Baring had arrived, and should he show her in or ask her to wait in the withdrawing room and offer her refreshment there.

“Oh, please ask her to join us here,” Emily said quickly, glancing around the table only to make sure that they had all heard.

Piers’s face brightened and he rose to his feet.

Eudora stiffened expectantly.

Everyone else turned towards the door out of interest or politeness.

The young woman who came in when the butler returned was of average height and very slender, too much so for many people’s taste. She had none of the luxurious curves that were fashionable, as had Kezia, for example, now sitting at table white-faced and still obviously bitterly angry. In this young woman it was her face which was arresting. She was as dark as Iona, but of a completely different cast of feature. There was nothing of the Celtic romance about her; rather, she looked Mediterranean, exotic. Her brow was smooth, her hairline a perfect arc, her eyes long-lashed and exquisite, her cheekbones high, her lips delicate. It was only when she turned sideways one noticed that her nose was very long and distinctly curved. It was the single feature of her face which was quite wrong, and it made her unique and full of character.

“Welcome to Ashworth Hall, Miss Baring,” Emily said warmly. “Would you care to join us for luncheon, or have you already eaten? Dessert perhaps? Or at least a glass of wine?”

Justine smiled, still looking at Emily. “Thank you, Mrs. Radley. I should be delighted, if I am not intruding?”

“Of course not.” Emily nodded to the butler, who was already standing beside the serving table and had extra silver in his hand. He came forward and began setting a place for Justine, next to Eudora and opposite Piers.

“May I introduce you?” Emily offered. “I believe you have not yet made the acquaintance of your future parents-in-law, Mr. Ainsley Greville …”

Justine turned to Ainsley and her body stiffened under its deep rose-pink wool, highly fashionably cut. She might have no family, but she certainly did not lack money or taste. It was a marvelous gown. She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, as if controlling herself with an intense effort. There was no color whatever in her cheeks, but her complexion was naturally olive toned, and she may have been tired from traveling. For a girl of no breeding to boast, no social connections at all, meeting her fiance’s parents for the first time must be a testing experience. When they were well-born, wealthy, and he held a high position in government, it must be doubly so. Emily did not envy her. She could still recall her first meeting with George’s cousins and aunts, which was bad enough. His parents had been no longer alive. That would have been even more difficult.

“How do you do, Miss Baring,” Ainsley said after a long moment’s hesitation. He spoke slowly, almost deliberately. “We are delighted to meet you. May I introduce my wife.” He touched Eudora lightly on the elbow, still keeping his eyes on Justine.

“How do you do, Mrs. Greville,” Justine answered, clearing her throat of a little huskiness.

Eudora smiled. She looked nervous as well. “How do you do, Miss Baring. It is delightful to meet you. I hope you will be able to stay long enough for us to become well acquainted.”

“Thank you …” Justine accepted.

“That rather depends upon Mrs. Radley, my dear,” Ainsley said quickly.

Eudora blushed deep pink.

Emily was angry with Ainsley for causing her embarrassment. It was out of character for the diplomat she had perceived.

“I have already said Miss Baring is most welcome,” she cut in firmly. “She will be a charming addition to our party for as long as she wishes and is able to remain.” She smiled at Justine. “We are two ladies short as it is—in fact, three. You will be a great asset to us. Now, may I introduce you to the other guests?” And she named them one by one around the table. Fergal was courteous, if cool, and Kezia managed a smile. Padraig was charming. Lorcan inclined his head slightly and bade her welcome. Even Carson O’Day expressed pleasure in meeting her.

Piers, of course, did not attempt to mask his feelings for her, and when she met his eyes her own emotions were as plain to see.

He was already on his feet, and pulled out her chair for her, touching her softly on the shoulder as he assisted her to take her place, then returned to his own.

Everyone, except perhaps Kezia, seemed to make an extra effort to hide their antipathies. Perhaps it was self-protection against someone who appeared to have no idea who they were or why they should be here, other than for the most usual of social reasons, as in any other country house party over a long weekend. If she had noticed an unusual number of Irish names, she gave no sign of it.

“How did you meet?” Emily asked politely.

“Quite by accident,” Piers replied, obviously happy to discuss anything to do with Justine. He could not keep from glancing at her, and when he did she colored very faintly and lowered her eyes. Emily had the distinct impression it was not shyness of him, or any ordinary self-consciousness, but a shyness of her prospective parents-in-law, sitting only two or three places away. Such modesty was what was expected, and she was going to do exactly what any young woman would, to the least thing.

Emily would have done the same.

Everyone appeared to be listening.

“I was leaving the theater with a group of friends,” Piers continued enthusiastically. “I don’t even remember what I saw, something by Pinero, I think, but it went right out of my head the moment I met Justine. She was leaving also, with one of my professors—a brilliant man, lecturer in diseases of the heart in particular, and of the circulation. It was quite appropriate that I should speak with him, and I had to seize the chance to be introduced to Justine.”

He smiled a little self-mockingly. “I knew she could not be his wife. He is a fellow of the college. I was afraid she might be a niece and he would not approve of a mere student seeking an acquaintance with her.”

Justine glanced up at Ainsley, who was looking at her. He looked down again immediately. She seemed uncomfortable.

“And was she?” Eudora enquired.

“No,” Piers said with relief. “She was merely a friend. He said she was the daughter of an old student of his with whom he had kept in touch, until he had unfortunately died young.”

“How very sad.” Eudora shook her head a little.

“And you did not allow the single introduction to be the end to it?” Emily deduced with a smile.

“Of course he didn’t.” Padraig looked from one to the other of them. “No young man worth his salt would. If you see the one woman in the world who is right for you, you follow her wherever she goes, through cities and countryside, mountains and high seas, to the ends of the earth, if need be. Isn’t that so?” He was addressing the table at large.

Piers grinned. “Of course it is.”

Iona kept her eyes on her plate.

“Wherever it takes you,” Fergal agreed suddenly, looking up at Padraig, then at Piers. “Grip your courage in both hands, and to the devil with fears.”

Kezia ground her fork into the last piece of her game pie.

“Come heaven or hell, honor or dishonor,” she said very clearly. “Just go on, take what you want, never count the cost or look to see who pays it.”

Piers looked disconcerted. He was one of the few who had no idea what had happened that morning, but he was not so blinded by his own happiness that he missed the pain in her voice—and no one at all could have missed the anger, even not knowing what it was for.

“I didn’t mean that, Miss Moynihan,” he answered. “Of course, I would not have pursued her had there been anything dishonorable in it, for her or for me. But thank heaven, she was as free as I am, and seems to return my feelings.”

“Congratulations, my boy,” Padraig said sincerely.

The butler served Justine with a little cold salmon, sliced cucumber and potatoes with herbs, and offered her chilled white wine.

Somebody made a comment about an opera currently playing in London. Someone else said they had seen it in Dublin. Padraig remarked on the difficulty of the soprano role, and O’Day agreed with him.

Emily glanced at Jack, and he smiled back guardedly.

The butler and footmen were waiting to serve the next course, as were one or two of the valets. Finn Hennessey was there. Tellman was not, which was almost certainly a good thing.

The men returned to their political discussions. At least outwardly there appeared very little rancor. If they had even approached argument on anything at all it was not hinted at.

The ladies decided to go for a walk in the woods. It was a bright afternoon with a few light clouds and a mild breeze. It could not be counted upon to last. Even the evening could change and bring rain or a sudden drop in temperature. The next day there could be gales, frost, steady drumming sleet, or it could be as pleasant as today.

The six of them set out across the lawn. Emily led the way with Kezia. She tried a conversation but it very quickly became apparent that Kezia did not wish to speak, and Emily allowed it to lapse into a polite silence.

Eudora took Justine and they followed a few yards behind, a marked contrast to each other: Eudora handsome figured, the light bright in her auburn hair, walking with her head high; Justine very slender, almost thin, her hair black as a crow’s wing, her movements peculiarly graceful, and when she turned in profile to speak, the extraordinary nose.

Charlotte was left to walk with Iona. It was not something she wished to do, but social duty required it, and loyalty to Emily made it a necessity. She wished she knew the woods better so that they might furnish some subject to discuss. All she could think of was Emily’s warnings not to discuss politics, religion, divorce, or potatoes. Almost everything that came to her mind seemed to lead to one or the other of them. It was better to walk in silence than be reduced to making remarks about the weather.

She could see Eudora talking to Justine, apparently asking her questions. It was as if she were hungry to learn of a courtship she knew nothing about. Charlotte wondered why Piers had said nothing to her before.

Some remark about Piers and Justine was on her lips, then she bit it off, realizing romance must now be another forbidden subject. What on earth did one say to a married woman one had surprised in bed with another man only that morning? It was a subject no etiquette manual broached. Presumably, well-bred ladies made sure they never did such a thing. If one should be so unfortunate, or so careless, one pretended it had not happened. But that was not possible when someone was screaming at the top of her lungs.

A magpie flew across their path just as they reached the end of the lawn and started down the rhododendron walk.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” Charlotte exclaimed.

“One for sorrow,” Iona answered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is unlucky to see a single magpie,” Iona elaborated. “One should see either a pair or none.”

“Why?”

Now Iona looked mystified. “It just … is!”

Charlotte kept her tone polite and interested. “Unlucky for whom? Do farmers say so, or bird-watchers?”

“No, for us. It is a …”

“A superstition?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry. How silly of me. I thought you were serious.”

Iona frowned, but said nothing, and Charlotte realized with a jolt that she had been serious. Perhaps she was as much mystic Celt as modern Christian. There was a romantic bravado about her, a recklessness, as if she could see some reality beyond the physical or social world. Perhaps that was the quality in her which had most captured the rather literal-minded Fergal. She must represent for him a realm of magical possibilities, dreams and ideas that had never crossed his thoughts. In a sense he had come newly alive. Charlotte wondered what he gave Iona. He seemed a trifle unyielding. Perhaps it was the challenge. Or perhaps she imagined in him something that was not there?

She cast about for something else to say. The silence was uncomfortable. She noticed the rich quantities of hips on the wild roses as they entered the woods.

“A hard winter coming,” Iona said, then flashed a sudden smile. “General knowledge, not superstition!”

Charlotte laughed, and suddenly they were both easier. “Yes, I’ve heard that too. I’ve never remembered what they were like long enough to see it if was true.”

“Actually,” Iona agreed, “neither have I. Looking at all those berries, I hope it isn’t.”

They walked under the smooth trunks of the beeches, the wind in the bare branches overhead, their feet crunching on the carpet of rust and bronze fallen leaves.

“There are bluebells here in the spring,” Charlotte went on. “They come before the leaves do.”

“I know,” Iona said quickly. “It’s like walking between two skies ….”

They accomplished the rest of the journey sharing knowledge of nature, Iona telling her stories from Irish legend about stones and trees, heroes and tragedies of the mystic past.

They returned in different order, except that Eudora still walked with Justine, still asking about Piers. Emily shot Charlotte a look of gratitude and exchanged Kezia for Iona.

They saw bright pheasants picking over the fallen grain at the edge of the fields bordering the woods, and Charlotte remarked on them. Kezia answered, but with only a word.

The sun was low in the west, burning flame and gold. The shadows lengthened across the plowed field to the south, its furrows dark and curving gently over the rise and fall of the land. The wind had increased and the starlings were whirled up like driven leaves against the ragged sky, spreading wide and wheeling back in again.

The sunset grew even brighter, the clear stretches of sky between the clouds almost green.

The thought of hot tea and crumpets by the fire began to seem very pleasant.

Gracie was very preoccupied as she helped Charlotte dress for dinner in the oyster silk gown.

“It looks very beautiful, ma’am,” she said sincerely, and the magnitude of her admiration for it was in her eyes. Then the moment after she added, “I learned a bit more about why them folks is ’ere today. I ’ope they really can make peace and give Ireland its freedom. There’s bin some terrible wrongs done. I in’t proud o’ bein’ English w’en I hear some o’ their stories.” She put a final touch to Charlotte’s hair, setting the pearl-beaded ornament straight. “Not as I believes ’em all, o’ course. But even if any of ’em is true, there’s bin some awful cruel men in Ireland.”

“On both sides, I expect,” Charlotte said carefully, regarding her reflection in the glass, but her mind at least half upon what Gracie had said. She looked at Gracie’s small face, pinched now with anxiety and compassion. “They’re working as hard as they can,” she assured her. “And I think Mr. Greville is very skilled. He won’t give up.”

“ ’E better ’adn’t.” Gracie stopped all pretense of attending to the shawl she had in her hands. “There’s terrible things ‘appenin’ ter all kinds o’ people, old women and children, not just men as can fight. Maybe them Fenians an’ the like is wrong, but they wouldn’t a bin there if’n it weren’t fer us bein’ in Ireland when we got no place there in the beginnin’.”

“There’s no point in going back to the beginning, Gracie,” Charlotte said levelly. “We probably shouldn’t be here either. Who should? The Normans, the Vikings, the Danes, the Romans? The Scots all came from Ireland in the first place.”

“No ma’am, the Scots is in Scotland,” Gracie corrected.

Charlotte shook her head. “I know they are now, but before that the Picts were. Then the Scots came across from Ireland and drove the Picts out.”

“Where’d they go to, then?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe they were almost all killed.”

“Well, if the Scots came from Ireland and took over Scotland”—Gracie was thinking hard—“who’s all in Ireland? Why don’t they get on wi’ each other, like we do?”

“Because some of the Scots went back again, and by this time they were Protestant and the rest were Catholic. They’d grown very different in the meantime.”

“Then they shouldn’t oughta gone back.”

“Possibly not, but it’s too late now. We can’t go forward from anywhere except where we are at the moment.”

Gracie thought about that for a long time before she conceded it as Charlotte was about to go out of the door.

Charlotte met Pitt at the bottom of the stairs and was caught by surprise at how pleased she was at the start of admiration in his eyes when he saw her. She felt a heat in her cheeks. He offered his arm, and she took it as she sailed into the withdrawing room.

Dinner was again uncomfortable, but eased in some part by the addition of Piers and Justine, which gave everyone something to talk about other than their own interests, or trivia, which were embarrassingly meaningless.

There were too few of them at the table to separate all those between whom there was friction. It was a hostess’s nightmare. There was order of precedence to consider. People might be insulted if one did not. If there was no title or office to dictate, then there was age. And yet one could not sit Fergal either next to or opposite Lorcan McGinley, nor could one sit him close to Iona, for reasons which were excruciatingly clear to some and quite unknown to others. Similarly, one could not sit Kezia near to her brother. The rage still simmered in her only just below the heat of explosion.

Carson O’Day was the savior of the situation. He seemed both able and willing to conduct agreeable conversations with everyone, finding subjects to discuss from areas as diverse and innocuous as designs of Georgian silver and the last eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

Padraig Doyle told amusing anecdotes about an Irish tinker and a parish priest and made everyone laugh, except Kezia, a failure which he ignored.

Piers and Justine had real attention only for each other.

Eudora looked a trifle sad, as if she had just realized the loss of something she had thought she possessed, and Ainsley appeared bored. Every now and then Charlotte observed an expression of anxiety in his eyes, a difficulty swallowing, a moment to steady his hand. He would miss something someone had said to him, as if his mind were elsewhere, and have to ask to have it repeated. It must be an appalling responsibility to be in charge of such a conference as this. The burden of succeeding at the impossible had broken both greater and lesser men than he.

And if he was also afraid, he had good reason. There was still the threat of violence which perhaps only he and Pitt really understood.

No one had mentioned the Parnell-O’Shea divorce. If there had been anything of it in the newspapers, it was not referred to.

They were rather more than halfway through the removes—a shoulder of lamb, stuffed beef in pastry, or cold pickled eel with cucumber and onions—when the quarrel began. It was Kezia who started it. All evening she had been barely suppressing her anger. She spoke civilly enough to everyone else, and she ignored Iona as if she had not been there. Her rage was for her brother.

He made a rather sweeping statement about Protestant ethics.

“There is much of it that is personal,” he said, leaning forward a little across the table, speaking to Justine. “It has to do with individual responsibility, direct communication between man and God, rather than always through the intermediary of a priest, who, after all, is only mortal, and fallible like all human beings.”

“Some more fallible than others,” Kezia said bitterly.

Fergal colored very slightly and ignored her.

“The Protestant preacher is merely the leader of his flock,” he went on, fixing his gaze on Justine. “Faith is of the utmost importance, simple and utter faith, but not in miracles and magic, in the redeeming power of Christ to save souls.”

“We believe in hard work, obedience and a chaste and honorable life,” Kezia said, staring at Justine as if no one else had spoken. “At least that’s what they say.” She swung around to Fergal. “Isn’t it, my dear brother? Chastity is next to godliness. No unclean thing can enter into the kingdom of heaven. We are not like people of the Church of Rome, who can sin from Monday to Saturday as long as they tell the priest all about it on Sunday, when he sits in his dark little room behind a grill, and listens to all your grubby little secrets, and tells you to say so many prayers, and it’s all washed away—until next time, when you’ll do the same thing all over again. I’ll wager he could say it for you, he’s heard it so many times—”

“Kezia …” Fergal interrupted.

She ignored him, fixing Justine with blazing eyes, high spots of color in her cheeks. Her hands, holding her knife and fork, were shaking.

“We are not like that at all. We don’t tell anyone our sins, except God … as if He didn’t already know! As if He didn’t know every dirty little secret of our dirty little hearts! As if He couldn’t smell the stink of a hypocrite a thousand miles away!”

There was a hot silence around the table. Padraig cleared his throat, but at the last moment could think of nothing to say.

Eudora gave a little moan.

“Really …” Ainsley began.

Justine smiled, looking straight back at Kezia. “It seems to me that the only thing that matters is whether you are sorry or not. Whom you tell is beside the point.” Her voice was very soft. “If you see that what you have done is ugly, and you no longer wish to do anything like it, then you have to change, and surely that is what matters?”

Kezia stared at her.

It was Fergal who spoiled it. There was a flush of embarrassment on his fair cheeks, but also of self-defense.

“The idea that you are accountable to someone other than God, that any human being is in a position to judge you, to forgive or condemn—”

Kezia swung around in her seat. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She laughed harshly, her voice rising out of control. “Nobody is fit to judge you. For God’s sake, who do you think you are? We judge you! I judge you, and I find you guilty, you hypocrite!”

“Kezia, go to your room until you have calmed down,” he said between his teeth. “You are hysterical. It is …”

His words were lost as she flung back her chair, picked up her half-empty glass and threw the dregs in his face. Then she rose to her feet and ran from the room, almost bumping into a maid, coming in with fresh gravy, who moved out of the way only just in time.

The silence burned with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Fergal said unhappily. “She is … very … nervously disposed at the moment. I’m sure she will be profoundly sorry tomorrow. I apologize for her, Mrs. Radley … ladies ….”

Charlotte glanced at Emily, then stood up. “I think I should go and see if she is all right. She seemed in a state of some distress.”

“Yes, yes, that is a good idea,” Emily agreed, and Charlotte caught in her eye a glimpse of envy for her escape.

Charlotte left the dining room and, after a glance at the empty hallway, started up the stairs. The only place Kezia could be sure of privacy would be her bedroom. It was where Charlotte herself would have gone had she just made such a scene. She certainly would not want to risk anyone coming after her in some other public place such as the conservatory or the withdrawing room.

On the landing she saw one of the young tweenies, about the age Gracie had been when she had first come to them.

“Did Miss Moynihan come past here?” she asked the girl.

The girl nodded, eyes wide, hair poking out in wisps from under her lace cap.

“Thank you.” Charlotte already knew which was Kezia’s room, and as before, she went to it and opened the door without waiting for admittance.

Kezia was lying on the bed, curled over, her shoulders hunched, her skirts billowing around her.

Charlotte closed the door and went over and sat on the end of the bed.

Kezia did not move.

There was nothing Charlotte could say which would alter what Kezia had seen and the only possible meaning anyone could attach to it. All that could be changed was how Kezia would feel about it.

“You are very unhappy indeed, aren’t you …?” she began quietly, in a calm, unemotional voice.

For several minutes Kezia did not move, then slowly she turned around and sat up, propping herself against the pillows, and stared at Charlotte with profound contempt.

“I am not ‘unhappy’ ”—she pronounced the word distinctly—“as you so quaintly put it. I don’t know what your moral beliefs are, Mrs. Pitt. Perhaps fornicating with someone else’s wife is perfectly acceptable in your circle, although I should prefer not to think so.” She hunched her shoulders, as if she were cold, although the room was warm. “To me it is abhorrent. To anyone at all, it is a sin. In someone who knows the values my brother does, who was raised in a God-fearing household by one of the most honorable, righteous and courageous preachers of his day, it is unforgivable.” Her face was ugly with rage as she said it, her clear eyes, red-rimmed with weeping, blazed her fury.

Charlotte looked at her steadily, trying to think of something to say which would reach through the tide of emotion.

“I don’t have a brother,” she said, searching for ideas. “But if my sister were to do such a thing, I should be hurt and grieved more than anything. I would want to argue with her, ask her why she threw away so much in return for so very little. I don’t think I would refuse to speak to her. But then she is younger than I am. I feel defensive for her. Is Fergal older than you?”

Kezia looked at her as if the question was nonsensical.

“You don’t understand.” Her patience was wearing thin. “I am trying hard to be reasonably civil to you, but you come into my room uninvited and sit here preaching platitudes to me about what you would do in my place, and you haven’t the remotest idea what you are talking about. You are not in my place, or anything like it. You have no political ambition or flair. You don’t even know what it is for a woman. You are very comfortably married—with children, I expect. You are obviously very fond of your husband, and he of you. Please go away and leave me alone.”

Both the condescension and the assumptions galled Charlotte, but she controlled her tongue with an effort.

“I came because I could not go on happily eating my dinner when you are in such distress,” she answered. “I suppose what I would do is irrelevant. I just wanted you to see that by refusing to talk to your brother, you are hurting yourself most of all.” She frowned. “If you think about it, what is the result of your withdrawing from him going to be?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Kezia leaned back, her eyes narrowed.

“Do you think he is going to stop seeing Mrs. McGinley?” Charlotte asked. “Do you think he will realize how wrong it is, that it is morally against all he has believed throughout his life, and certainly politically unwise if he hopes to represent his people? For heaven’s sake, isn’t Mr. Parnell’s situation evidence enough of that?”

Kezia looked faintly surprised, as if she had not yet even thought of that. And yet she must have been aware of the divorce presently being heard in London where Captain William O’Shea was citing Charles Stewart Parnell, the leader of the Irish Nationalist party as corespondent. Perhaps she had refused to realize what O’Shea’s victory would mean.

“It doesn’t look like it to me,” Charlotte continued. “When people fall in love, madly, obsessively, they frequently do not stop to weigh the cost if they are found out. If all that he stands to lose has not held him back, will your displeasure?”

“No,” Kezia said with a harsh laugh, as if the idea were funny in a twisting, hurting fashion. “No, of course not! I’m not doing it because of anything I expect him to feel or to do. I’m just so … so furious with him I can’t help myself. It’s not even the denial of his beliefs, the throwing away of his career, or the betrayal of the people who believe in him. It’s the sheer damnable hypocrisy that I can never forgive!”

“Can’t you?” Charlotte asked with a slight lift of question. “When people you love fall far below what is even honorable, much less what one knows they could be, it hurts appallingly.” Swift memories returned of past pain of her own, discoveries she would much rather not have made, and then of the learning to accept afterwards, the slow forgetting of the worst of it, the gentleness that followed for her own sake, to keep the parts that were precious and good. “One is angry because one feels it didn’t have to be. But perhaps it did. Perhaps he has to work his way through his weakness in order to conquer it. Eventually he may be less quick to condemn others. He—”

Kezia let out a bark of disgust. “Oh, for heaven’s sake be quiet. You have no idea what you are saying!” She moved around and raised her knees, almost protectively. “You are talking pompous rubbish. I could forgive him easily enough if he were merely weak. God knows, we all are.”

Her face, with all its soft, generous lines, was twisted hard with pain and the memory of pain. “But when I fell in love with a Catholic man, loved him with all my heart and soul, just after Papa died, Fergal wouldn’t even listen to me. He forbade me from seeing him. He wouldn’t even let me tell him myself.” Her voice was so harsh with remembered pain the words were indistinct. “He told him! He told Cathal I would never be permitted to marry him. It would be blasphemy against my faith. He told me that, too!

“I was too young to marry without permission. He was my legal guardian, and I couldn’t have run away without forfeiting the Church’s blessing. I listened to Fergal and obeyed him. I let Cathal go.” Her eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks, not in fury this time, but remembered sweetness and the reminding of its loss. “He’s dead now. I can’t ever find him again.”

Charlotte said nothing.

Kezia looked at her. “So you see, I can’t forgive Fergal for going and lying with a Catholic woman, and somebody else’s wife to add to it. When I put flowers on Cathal’s grave, how can I explain that to him?”

“I’m not sure I could forgive that either,” Charlotte confessed, not moving from where she sat. “I’m sorry I was so quick to presume.”

Kezia shrugged, and searched for a handkerchief.

Charlotte handed her one from the bedside cabinet.

Kezia blew her nose fiercely.

“But what I said is still true,” Charlotte added apologetically. “He is your only brother, isn’t he? Do you really want to cut the bonds that hold you to each other? Won’t that hurt you as much as it does him? He’s done a terrible thing. He’ll suffer for it, sooner or later, won’t he?”

“Divine justice?” Kezia raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure that I believe in it.” She tightened her lips, more in self-knowledge than bitterness. “Anyway, I don’t think that I’m prepared to wait for that.”

“No, quite ordinary human guilt,” Charlotte corrected. “And that doesn’t usually take that long to come, even if it is not recognized as such immediately.’’

Kezia thought in silence.

“Do you really want to create a gulf between you that you cannot cross?” Charlotte asked. “Not for him, for yourself?”

Again it was a long time before Kezia replied.

“No …” She said at last, reluctantly. She smiled very slightly. “I suppose you are not quite as pompous as I thought. I apologize for that.”

Charlotte smiled back. “Good. Pomposity is such a bore, and so masculine, don’t you think?”

This time Kezia did actually laugh.

The rest of the evening was strained. Kezia did not return, which was probably as well, but even so, Lorcan’s presence was sufficient to keep the disaster in everyone’s minds. The subject of the Parnell-O’Shea divorce was studiously ignored, which meant a great deal of political speculation had also to be avoided. The conversation degenerated into platitudes, and everyone was glad to retire early.

Charlotte sat on the dressing stool in the sanctuary of her bedroom.

“This is ghastly,” she said, running a silk scarf over her hair to keep it smooth and make it shine. “With this atmosphere one hardly needs to worry about Fenian dynamiters or assassins from outside.”

Pitt was already sitting in bed.

“What did Kezia Moynihan say? Is she going to make scenes all weekend?”

“She has a certain amount of justice on her side.” She repeated what Kezia had told her.

“Perhaps I should be protecting him,” Pitt said dryly. “From Kezia and from Lorcan McGinley, who has even more justice on his side; from Iona, if they quarrel or he breaks it off or she wants to and he won’t … or from Carson O’Day, for his jeopardizing the Protestant cause.”

“Or Emily,” Charlotte added, “for making a bad party into a complete nightmare.” She put the scarf down and turned out the gas lamp above the dressing table, leaving no light in the room except the glow from the last embers of the fire. She climbed into bed beside him and snuggled down.

For a second morning in a row they were woken by a shrill, tearing screaming.

Pitt swore and stirred, burying his head in the pillow.

The scream came again, high and terrified.

Reluctantly Pitt got out of bed and stumbled across the floor, grasping for his robe. He opened the door and went out onto the landing. Twenty feet away the handsome maid, Doll, was standing in the open doorway of the Grevilles’ bathroom, her face ashen, her hands to her throat as if she could barely breathe.

Pitt strode over, put both hands on her shoulders to move her aside, and looked in.

Ainsley Greville lay in the bath, naked, his chest, shoulders and face under the water. There could be no question whatever that he was dead.