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
