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!”
“Kezia …” Charlotte began, but Kezia was not listening.
“And Fergal was in bed not only with a Catholic whore …” She went on, growing more and more shrill. “Not only an adulteress, but one who tears Ireland apart by writing her poetry full of lies and firing up stupid, ignorant men’s imaginations with sentimental and maudlin songs about heroes who never were and battles that didn’t happen!”
“Kezia …”
“And you want me to understand why he did that, and overlook it? You want me to—” Her voice caught in a sob and she could barely struggle on. “You want me to say that’s all right? It’s only a human weakness, and we should forgive? Never!” She clenched her fists in front of her, her white hands smooth, the knuckles shining. “Never! It is unpardonable!”
“Isn’t anything pardonable, if you repent?” Charlotte said quietly.
“Not betrayal.” Kezia jerked her head up haughtily, her voice catching in her throat. “He has betrayed everything! He is the ultimate hypocrite. He is nothing he made me believe he was.”
“He’s fallible,” Charlotte argued. “Of course it’s wrong, but surely it is one of the most understandable of sins?”
Kezia’s hair was a bright halo around her, with the light shining gold through it.
“Hypocrisy? Cheating? Lying? Betraying all you have stood for, all those who have believed in you? No! No, it is not understandable, nor can it be forgiven. Not by me, anyway.” She turned away and stared out of the window again. Her shoulders were stiff, her whole body filled with resistance.
There was no point in arguing further. It would only increase her resolve. Charlotte was beginning to appreciate the depth of hatred in the Irish Problem. It seemed to be in the blood and the nature. There was no yielding, no exception made. It was stronger than family love or even the desire to keep the warmth and the sweetness of one’s deepest ties and companionships.
And yet she could remember her own pain of disillusion long ago when she had discovered Dominic’s feet of clay, exactly the same sort of thing. He was her elder sister Sarah’s husband, and she had adored him, quite unrealistically. For a while the loss of the dream had seemed unbearable. Then she had come to know him more truly, and they had reached a kind of friendship based on affection and forgiveness, and it had been a far cleaner, stronger thing.
“If you’d like to walk alone, I doubt there’d be anyone except perhaps a gardener in the maze,” she said aloud.
“Thank you.” Kezia did not move even her head, but stood with her robe clasped around her, as if it could protect her and she were afraid someone was going to tear it away.
Charlotte went out and closed the door again.
The ladies spent the morning writing letters, making small talk about various attractive or interesting objects of art in the house, and looking idly at the books of incidentals lying around on tables in the withdrawing room or boudoir. They were collections of designs, paintings, etchings, silhouettes or lace, and other such bits and pieces which formed designs of beauty or interest. It was a common practice for ladies of leisure to create them, and comparing one person’s skill or idea with another was a pleasure. Emily had not made it hers. She loathed such things, and took good care to see she had not the time, but she had been given them by various guests and was grateful to have them.
It was at least less difficult with Kezia absent. Had she chosen to come it would have been impossible. The previous day’s quarrel would have been little to compare with today’s.
The gentlemen resumed their deliberations, smoothly guided by Ainsley. Not surprisingly, the atmosphere was brittle, but O’Day and Padraig Doyle shared a dry laugh as they walked across the hall back to the library. And Jack, following with Fergal Moynihan, seemed to be having an agreeable enough conversation.
Pitt found Tellman trudging through the stable yard and looking grim.
“There are far too many men around here,” he said as soon as he was close enough to speak without being overheard by the grooms and coachmen in the vicinity. “Don’t know who half of them are. Could be anybody.”
“Most of them are longtime servants of the hall,” Pitt replied. He was in no mood to indulge Tellman’s prejudices. “They’ve been here for years and have no connection with Irish politics whatever. It’s strangers we need to keep a watch for.”
“What are you expecting?” Tellman raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “An army of Irish Fenians marching up the drive with guns and explosives? Judging by the atmosphere in the house, they’ll be wasting their time. That lot’ll kill each other and save them the bother.”
“That the servants’ gossip, is it?” Pitt enquired.
Tellman shot him a glance that should have withered him on the spot.
“It wouldn’t make any sense to attack each other here,” Pitt elaborated patiently. “It’s far too obvious. They’ll only make a martyr of the victim and blacken their own names, not to mention end their lives on the gallows. None of the men here are fanatic enough to want anything so pointless.”
“You think not?” Tellman walked with his head down, his hands jammed into his pockets.
Pitt saw a gardener cross the end of the path and go into the maze a hundred feet ahead of them.
“Walk properly,” he said quickly. “Take your hands out of your pockets.”
