“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
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.
