Ashworth Hall (26 page)

“You’ll not get away from the conversation,” Fergal warned. He did not look at Iona, but Charlotte had the sense that he was acutely conscious of her, as if he had to exercise an effort of will to keep his eyes from her.

Iona was concentrating on her tea and toast as single-mindedly as if it were a complicated fish full of bones.

No one had brought in the morning newspapers. Was that because the verdict of the Parnell-O’Shea divorce would be in them?

The atmosphere was crackling stiff, like overstarched linen. Charlotte could not decide whether she should try to say something, artificial as it would sound, or if that would only make it worse.

Justine came in, greeting everyone.

“Good morning. How are you?” She hesitated a moment for the tacit reply of nods and half smiles.

“Well, thank you,” Padraig answered. “And you, Miss Baring? This can hardly be what you expected when you arrived here.”

“No, of course not,” she said gently. “No one ever expects tragedy. But we must support each other.” She took a small serving from the sideboard and then sat opposite Charlotte, smiling at her, not blindly in mere politeness, but with a sharp light of understanding, and not without a dry humor.

“I noticed a wonderful bank of hawthorn beyond the beech trees to the west,” she observed, mostly to Charlotte. “That must be wonderful in the spring. I love the perfume of them, it is almost intoxicating in the sun.”

“Yes, it’s marvelous,” Charlotte agreed. She had no idea because she had never been there in the spring, but that was irrelevant now. “And the flowering chestnuts,” she added for good measure. “Do you have them in Ireland?” She looked directly at Iona.

Iona seemed surprised. “Yes, yes, of course we do. I always think it’s a pity we can’t bring them inside,” she added.

“Why can’t you?” Fergal took the excuse to speak to her.

“It’s bad luck to bring the May blossom into the house.” She fixed him with her brilliant blue gaze, and he seemed unable to turn himself away.

“Why?” he whispered.

“It’s unlucky for the housemaid who has to clean up after them,” Charlotte said quickly. “They drop hundreds of little petals … and little black dots of something too ….”

“Insects,” Justine offered with a smile.

Padraig winced, but not with distaste.

Suddenly the conversation was easier. Charlotte found herself relaxing a little. By the time Lorcan and Carson O’Day joined them there was even a glimmer of laughter, which did not stop even when Piers came in.

Jack, Emily and Pitt came not long after, and everyone was drawn into at least a semblance of involvement.

O’Day was either in very optimistic spirits or was determined to appear so.

“Have you ever been to Egypt?” he asked Jack with interest. “I have recently been reading some most fascinating letters. They are quite old. I cannot think how I came to miss them.” He smiled at Emily, then at Charlotte. “Written by women. One was Miss Nightingale, whose name we all know, of course. But there were several other extraordinary women who traveled as far and were profoundly moved by their experiences.” And he proceeded to repeat what he had read of Harriet Martineau and Amelia Edwards, to everyone’s interest. Justine in particular was obviously fascinated. At another time, Charlotte would have been also.

Kezia was the last to come, dressed in pale green with a trimming of flowered silk. They were Emily’s colors, if not her style, and with her similarly fair hair and skin she was extremely handsome. Charlotte wondered what would happen to her. She was far nearer thirty than twenty. She was highly intelligent, at least politically if not academically. She had fallen in love once, passionately and utterly, and her family and her faith had denied her a consummation. She then made a sacrifice of her heart in order to further her conviction. Would she now feel that something bought at such a price must be made to yield her a return?

Or would she feel that Fergal’s betrayal had freed her from her own obligation?

Sitting across the table from her, Charlotte was still sharply aware of the anger in her movements, the tightness with which she gripped her fork, the rigidity of her shoulders, and the fact that she spoke pleasantly to everyone else but did not speak to her brother at all, or to Iona.

The discussion had moved from Egypt, the Nile and its temples and ruins, its hieroglyphics and tombs, to Verdi’s recent opera on the story of Othello.

“Very dark,” O’Day said appreciatively, passing the orange marmalade to Charlotte. “A truly heroic voice is required, and immense stamina.”

“And a fine actor too, I should have thought,” Justine added.

“Oh, indeed.” O’Day nodded, helping himself to more tea. “And for lago also.”

Kezia glanced across at Charlotte, as if about to speak, then hesitated. Her thoughts on adultery, betrayal, jealousy and villains in general were plain in her eyes.

“An equally great baritone role,” Justine said with a smile, looking to left and right. “I assume Othello is the tenor?”

“Naturally.” Padraig laughed. “The heroes are always tenor!”

“In
Rigoletto
the tenor is appalling!” Emily rejoined, then blushed with anger at herself.

“Quite,” Kezia agreed. “A hypocritical womanizer with no morals, no honor, and no compassion.”

“But sings like an angel,” Padraig interrupted almost before she had finished speaking.

“If angels sing,” Fergal said dryly, “perhaps they dance, or paint pictures.”

“Is there paint and canvas in heaven?” Lorcan asked. “I thought it was all insubstantial … no body, parts or passions?” He looked sideways at Fergal, and then at Iona. “Sounds like hell to me … at least for some.”

“They take messages,” Charlotte stated decisively. “Which would be very difficult to make clear if you had to dance them!”

Justine burst out laughing, and almost everyone else did also, at the release in tension if nothing else. Absurd pictures of mime filled the imagination, and one or two offered suggestions in good humor. When they sobered a little, O’Day asked Jack about the local countryside.

Charlotte wondered as she watched them all if O’Day would be the next leader of the Nationalist cause if Parnell were forced to resign.

He seemed far more open to reason and to compassion. And yet he had a heritage, just as they all had, and a powerful man’s shoes to step into. His elder brother was crippled by tuberculosis, or it would have been his duty; now Carson had to achieve it for both of them. It was a heavy burden.

She looked sideways at his face, with its straight angles, smooth, rather heavy cheeks and level brows. It was in every way different from the face of Padraig Doyle; there was imagination in it, but not the wit or sudden laughter. Instead there was a directness, a concentration and a clarity. He would be a very difficult man to get to know, but she felt that once you had it, his loyalty would be complete. She would have understood it had Iona ever pursued him for the challenge. Except that challenges were no fun unless you believed there were some chance of success, however remote. Charlotte did not think anyone manipulated Carson O’Day, except for his own inner compulsions to succeed.

Pitt also found breakfast difficult, but not for the same reasons as Charlotte. He felt no duty to try to ease the social difficulties, although he was sorry for Emily’s predicament. He would not willingly have distressed her. His mind was absorbed in the problems of who had killed Ainsley Greville, and his fear that in spite of her protestations, Eudora did know something that she resolutely refused to say, perhaps even to herself.

He could not blame her. She had been hurt so very much; if she chose to be loyal to her brother, even in thought, it was easy to understand.

Pitt looked around the table also, weighing and judging. Doyle was talking eloquently, his face full of concentration, his hands held a little up from the white linen cloth with the Ashworth crest embroidered in self-color on the edges. He used his hands to emphasize what he was saying.

Fergal Moynihan was listening as if he were interested, but every few moments his eyes would go to Iona. He was not very good at covering his feelings.

If Lorcan McGinley noticed, he was far cleverer. His thin face with its intense expression and almost-cobalt-blue eyes stared into the far distance, then when Padraig made some especially telling point he would smile suddenly, illuminating his face, making himself dazzlingly alive. When the moment was past, he would relapse into his private world again, but it did not seem one of pain so much as dream, and not one which hurt or displeased him.

Pitt caught Charlotte’s eye several times. She looked lovely in the sharp, autumn light, her skin the warm color of honey, her cheeks very slightly flushed, her eyes dark with anxiety. She seemed to be worried for everyone. Many times she looked at Kezia, nervous of what she might say in her still-smoldering temper. She was busy supporting Emily, guiding the conversation, attempting to be cheerful and avoid the pitfalls of controversy.

He was delighted when he could acceptably excuse himself and go to look for Tellman, who would be curt and still ruffled by his situation, by the house and its wealth, by the fact that four-fifths of the people in it were servants, but Pitt would not have to defer to his feelings. He could be blunt.

He was followed from the room almost immediately by Jack, and he stopped until Jack drew level with him at the foot of the stairs.

Jack pulled a slight face and smiled at him ruefully. He looked tired. Standing close to him now as Pitt was, he could see the fine lines about Jack’s eyes and mouth. He was not the same elegantly fashionable young man with whom Emily had fallen in love, and whose easy charm had rather frightened her, fearing him too shallow. His eyes were just as beautiful, his lashes as long and dark, but there was a substance to him that had been lacking before. Earlier in his life he had had no money, only a silken tongue, a quick wit, and the ability to flatter with sincerity and to entertain without ever appearing to have to try. He had moved from one home to another, always a welcome guest. He had made it his business to be liked, and taken no responsibility.

Now he had Ashworth Hall to worry about, a seat in Parliament, and far deeper than that, a standard he had set himself to live up to. He was discovering the exact nature of its weight this weekend, and Pitt had not heard him complain once. He had accepted the burden of it with unobtrusive grace. If it frightened him he gave no sign, except now, as Pitt met his eyes, there was a shadow in their depths, something he was hiding even from himself.

“My collar’s too high,” Jack said with self-mockery. He ran his finger around inside it, pulling it away from his throat. “Feels as if it’s strangling me.”

“Is it as bad in conference as it is around the meal table?” Pitt asked.

Jack hesitated and then shrugged. “Yes. You need the patience of Job even to bring them to the point where they will discuss anything that actually matters. I don’t know what Greville thought could be accomplished by this. Every time I think I have them to the brink of some kind of agreement, one of them will change direction and it all falls apart again.” He put his hand on the newel post and leaned a little against it. “I never realized the power of old hatreds until now, how deep they run. They are in the blood and the bone of these people. It is part of who they are, as if they have to cling to the old feuds or they would lose part of their identity. What do I do about that, Thomas?”

“If I knew, I would have told you already,” Pitt answered quietly. He put his hand on Jack’s arm. “I don’t think Greville could have done any better. Gladstone didn’t!” He wanted to say something better, something that would let Jack know the warmth of respect he felt for him, but none of the words that came to his mind seemed appropriate. They were too light, too flippant for the reality of the hatred and the loss that filled the conference room, and which Jack had to fight alone every morning and every afternoon.

He took his hand away and pushed it into his pocket.

“I don’t know where I am either,” he confessed.

Jack laughed abruptly. “Trying to keep our heads above a sea of insanity,” he replied. “And probably swimming in the wrong direction. I must get a better collar. By the way, yours is crooked, but don’t bother to straighten it. It’s a touch of familiarity in a world that is frighteningly unfamiliar. Don’t do up your cuff either, or take the string out of your pocket.” He smiled quickly, as lightly and easily as used to be characteristic, then before Pitt could say anything further, went up the stairs two at a time.

Pitt moved away, but as he was crossing the hall and about to turn towards the green baize door to the servants’ quarters, he heard quick footsteps on the wood behind him and his name called.

He turned to see Justine coming towards him, her face filled with concern. Instantly he was afraid it was for Eudora. She had not been at breakfast, but of course no one had expected her.

Justine caught up with him.

“Mr. Pitt, may I speak with you for a few moments, please?”

“Of course,” he agreed. “What is it?”

She indicated the morning room, which was opposite where they stood and next to Jack’s study.

“May we go in there? No one else will wish to use it so early, I think.”

He obeyed, walking ahead of her and holding the door while she went in. She moved with a unique kind of grace, head high, back very straight, and yet with more suppleness than most women, as if dancing for sheer, wild pleasure would come easily to her.

“What is it?” he asked when the door was closed.

She stood in front of him, very earnest. For the first time he noticed signs of strain in her, a momentary hesitation, a small muscle working in the side of her jaw. This must be appalling for her. She had arrived at the house of strangers, at the invitation of the man she intended to marry, in order to meet his parents. They had stumbled into a political conference of the most delicate and volatile nature. And the very next morning they had awoken to the murder of Greville, and then the long, draining task of trying to comfort and sustain Eudora when Justine should have been the center of attention and happiness herself.