Ashworth Hall (8 page)

“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.

3

E
MILY 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!”