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.
