Ashworth Hall (36 page)

“I can’t remember,” Emily answered. “Anyway, you might wear blue slippers under another color, if it was the closest you had, or the most comfortable. None of them, except perhaps Eudora, have enough money to buy slippers for every dress.”

“How do you know?”

Emily gave her a sideways look. “Don’t be naive. Because I’m observant. You may not, but I know what is this season’s fashion and what is last … and what things cost. And I know good silk from cheap, or wool from bombazine or mixture.”

“So who wore blue?”

“I’m trying to think!”

“I don’t think it was Kezia.”

“Why not? Because you like her? I think she could have just the nerve to do it,” Emily argued. “I don’t think Iona McGinley would. She’s all dreams and romantic notions. She’d rather talk about things and prompt other people than do them herself.”

“Maybe,” Charlotte conceded. “Although that could be a pose. But I had a rather more practical reason for thinking it was not Kezia. She’s rather well built. With a maid’s dress over her own she’d look … well, pretty enormous. Gracie would have noticed her size. Anyway, whose dress would go over hers? Are any of the ladies’ maids really stout?”

“No. Maybe you’re right. That leaves Eudora herself, which is very likely, or Iona.”

“Or Justine,” Charlotte added.

“Justine? Why on earth would Justine kill Ainsley Greville?” Emily said derisively, her eyes wide. “She isn’t Irish. She’d never even met him before the previous day, and she was going to marry his son, for heaven’s sake!”

“I can’t think of any reason at all. I don’t think there is even very much money.”

“Don’t be squalid.” Emily’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“People have been known to kill for money,” Charlotte pointed out.

Emily ignored her, which expressed her opinion very clearly.

“Blue gown,” Charlotte repeated.

“I’m thinking! I haven’t seen Eudora in blue. She prefers warm colors and greens. I don’t think blue would suit her.” She shrugged. “Not that that means she wouldn’t wear it, of course. People wear the most awful things sometimes. Do you remember Hetty Appleby, with the mouse-colored hair, wearing yellow? She looked like a cheese!”

“No.”

“Really, you are so unobservant sometimes,” Emily said in disgust. “I don’t know how you are ever the least use to Thomas.”

“Justine wore cream with blue,” Charlotte replied.

“I think we agreed Justine had no earthly reason. And I remember now, Iona wore blue, dark blue like the sea at night. All very romantic. Fergal Moynihan could hardly take his eyes off her.”

“He’d have been like that whatever she wore. We’d better go and look at their shoes.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“Because Iona will be in her room, for a start,” Emily pointed out. “We can hardly interrupt her and say ‘Please may we look through your wardrobe to see if we can find a pair of blue-heeled slippers, because we think you were wearing them when you killed Ainsley Greville in his bath?’ ”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You go when we are all at luncheon,” Emily commanded. “I shall keep everyone occupied at the table. You excuse yourself, blame a headache or something.”

“What do you mean ‘keep everybody occupied’?” Charlotte said with a touch of sarcasm. “If they are at luncheon, they will be occupied anyway.”

“I’ll see they don’t leave. I can’t very well plead a headache, even if I have a real one. What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”

“No, of course not,” Charlotte replied indignantly. “I don’t want it to be Eudora, for Thomas’s sake, and I don’t want it to be Justine, because I like her.”

“I don’t want it to be anybody,” Emily agreed. “Because I think Ainsley Greville was a complete bounder. But wanting has nothing to do with it.”

“I know that! I’ll find the slippers during luncheon.”

When Pitt had left her, Grade’s brief moment of feeling better vanished. There was only one good thing about it. She was quite sure the “maid” she had seen was not Doll Evans. She had not been tall enough for Doll, she was sure of that now. And she did not think Doll would take anyone’s shoes, but if she had worn slippers with heels like that, she would have been even taller. Only now did she realize how afraid she had been that Doll had gone into the bathroom and hit Greville over the head and then pulled him under the water. She had certainly had provocation. Gracie had no sympathy with Ainsley Greville at all. Anyone who could do that to a girl, and to his own child, deserved a lot of pain in return. It was just a pity so many other people had to suffer as well. But maybe nobody ever suffered without taking other people with them.

She could not keep Finn from her mind. His pain engulfed her. Disillusion was one of the hardest things to bear. If he had been so wrong about the murder of Neassa Doyle and what he believed of his own people, then what else had he been wrong about? What else was lies? If they could murder their own sister, who and what were they? What was the cause they were really fighting for? If Finn had given so much of his emotional loyalty to them, how could he cope with it if they were unworthy of him, or of anyone? How much of it all was lies?

He must be asking himself that now. He would be terribly alone and confused. In one brief quarter hour or so, she had robbed him of his lifetime’s beliefs, belonging to his people, loyalties, angers, all that he thought he was. She should not have done that. Some truths should be told gently, maybe even little by little.

She had no urgent jobs. Charlotte’s clothes were all in excellent repair. And Charlotte certainly did not want Gracie to sit and talk to her, read to her, which was sometimes a real lady’s maid’s job. Charlotte always had more to do than she had time for anyway. But then her life was not like that of a lady. Gracie would find it terrible to look after real gentry after the excitement of being with the Pitts. How did people like Gwen and Doll bear the sameness of it?

She should go and find Finn and make up her quarrel with him. He would need all the friendship she could offer now. And she wanted to apologize. She had acted without thinking hard enough.

The decision was made. She left the ironing room and went to look for him.

He was not in any of the places where he would normally be carrying out his duties. She did not like to ask for him. It was bad enough to imagine people knew how she felt. She was painfully self-conscious. She knew how observant she was of other people’s behavior. There was rather a lot to be said for working with only a casual woman who came in to do the “heavy,” as she did at home. One had a great deal more privacy, even if there was less company, and most of the time less day-to-day interest in others. All told, it was better.

After three quarters of an hour searching, inside and out, there was only one place left, his bedroom. She had never been there, of course. But perhaps on this extraordinary occasion it would be the best place. Even if she were caught, Charlotte would not dismiss her for such a thing when Gracie explained to her why she had gone there. And McGinley couldn’t dismiss Finn because he was dead anyway, poor creature. The worst thing that could happen would be the others whispering and laughing. And even that would be better than leaving Finn to suffer his loss and disillusion without telling him she was sorry.

She looked very carefully to see there was no one around before she ran up the first staircase. The regular Ashworth Hall servants had the rooms nearest the stairhead; the senior ones had the best, naturally. The footmen, bootboy and the like had the smaller ones, further away. Visiting valets and other servants were another floor up again, right under the roof.

But which was Finn’s room? Think! Everything in the servants’ hall went by order of precedence. The servants went in to dinner, sat down, were served, even served the sweet, in order of the importance of their masters. That would make Mr. Wheeler the most senior up here. He belonged to Mr. Greville, the chairman of this miserable conference. Who was next? Be quick! Mustn’t get caught up here. No one was going to believe she was stupid enough to be lost.

Mr. Doyle and Mr. O’Day. That meant Finn and Mr. Moynihan’s valet would be further away, then probably Tellman. The thought of running into Tellman by mistake was enough to knot up her stomach so tight she could hardly breathe!

Maybe it was not worth it after all?

Come on! Don’t be a coward! Take a chance. Try one. Don’t just stand here like one of the pieces of statuary in the garden! Knock!

There was no answer.

She tried the next one, her hands shaking.

There was a moment’s silence, then footsteps.

Her heart was beating so loudly it seemed to pound in her ears.

The door opened. It was Finn.

Thank heavens! Now, what was she going to say?

“I’m sorry!” she burst out.

“Gracie!” He looked startled, and momentarily confused, uncertain what to say or do.

“I’m sorry I told you about Chinnery,” she explained. If she did not say it now she might lose her courage. “I shouldn’t oughter said it out like that. Perhaps maybe I shouldn’t oughter said it at all. One lie don’t make the ’ole cause wrong.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes wide and puzzled.

There was nothing more she could say. She could not deny the truth, and he had no business to expect that. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to have come. But he did look so miserable, surely there was something she could do? Love had to be worth something?

He smiled very slowly.

“You’d better come in.” He stood aside. “If they catch you up here you’ll be in trouble.”

She hesitated only a moment. They had not said all there was to say between them yet. And he was right. Anyone else could possibly go up there at this time in the afternoon. If she were caught it would be very embarrassing. She stepped past him into the room. It was simple, like her own, a place made comfortable for a short time, almost warm enough, a bed with sheets and blankets, a wooden chair, cotton curtains at the garret window, a washstand with a jug and basin, a small cupboard for coats and trousers, a three-drawer chest for underclothes and anything else which might fold. There was a knotted rag mat on the floor. There was a small desk against the wall to the right and a second wooden chair in front of it. There was a paper on the desk now, with writing like a short letter, and beside it an envelope, an open book, a leather satchel, some blue paper and a heap of candles.

He stood still, looking at her.

“I don’t care what anyone says the Doyle brothers did, or what it looks like,” he said a little stiffly. “Perhaps they were wrong when they said it was Chinnery, but the spirit is true. The hunger and the tragedy is real.” He faced her as if she were denying that, his eyes bright and hard, his chin raised a little, jaw tight.

She must be patient. She must remember how hurt he was. It was easy for her. No one had broken her dreams about her people, the ones she most admired and cared for, the people who defined who she was and what she had given her time and care to.

She took a deep breath.

“Course,” she agreed. “I spoke ’asty if I said diff’rent.”

He relaxed a trifle.

She must be careful she did not give so much away he thought she was weak, or disloyal to her own. He would not admire that, and she would not do it anyway. It was very painful to care so much about someone who was on the other side of such a division of beliefs, of honor, of loyalties which could not now be changed. There were too many debts, too many shared experiences, losses to be comforted and borne together, wept over. How were Mr. Moynihan and Mrs. McGinley ever going to manage?

“You don’t understand at all,” he said thoughtfully. “You can’t, and that isn’t your fault. You’d have to be Irish to have seen it, the suffering and the injustice.”

“Everybody suffers, one way or another,” she said reasonably. “It in’t just the Irish wot gets cold and ’ungry, or scared, or lonely, or wot gets put out on the street, or locked in gaol for summink they din’t do, or couldn’t ’elp doin’. It ’appens to all sorts. Sometimes even English gents gets ’ung for summink wot they din’t do.”

He regarded her with open disbelief.

“Course they do!” she said urgently. “I work for a policeman. I know fings wot you don’t. You in’t got the Ole world’s lot o’ sufferin’ all to yerself, yer know.”

His face darkened.

“Not that yer in’t right ter fight for fings better!” she went on quickly. “Or that it in’t important that Ireland be free ter look arter itself any way it wants. But wot about folk like Mr. O’Day and Mr. Moynihan? They got ter be done fair ter as well. Yer wouldn’t want it unfair, would yer?”

“Irish freedom is not unfair,” he said with an effort to control the anger in his voice. “Gracie, listen to me!” He sat down on the edge of the bed and pointed to the chair for her to sit, which she did. “You can’t understand in a week, or in a year, all the stealing of land, the killing of people that has gone on in Ireland over the centuries, or why the hatred runs so deep.” He shook his head, his face pinched and tense. “I can’t tell it to you. You would need to see it to believe people could treat other living, breathing beings that way, people who are their own kind, who hunger and shiver like they do, who work and sleep and love their children the same, who have the same dreams and fears for the future. It’s inhuman but it happened for hundreds of years, and it’s still happening.” He leaned further forward, his eyes brilliant, his voice urgent and angry. “We’ve got to put a stop to it, for all time, whatever it costs. All the past cries out to us not just to think of ourselves, but to think of those who are children now, or who are to be our children in the future.”

She said nothing, staring at him.

“Listen, Gracie!” His hand trembled with emotion. “Nothing precious is bought without a price. If we care enough, we must be prepared to pay!”

“O’ course,” she said quietly. But his words troubled her the instant after she had agreed with them.

He was going on, not seeing the hesitation in her face.

“History can be cruel, Gracie.” He was smiling at her now, some of the shadows gone from his eyes. “We have to have the courage of our beliefs, and sometimes that can be very difficult, but great changes are not made by cowards.”