“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hunnaker said, raising her chin. “We mustn’t let them Irish think we haven’t the stomach for it.”
“Certainly not,” the butler agreed. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll make sure everything runs as usual.”
But such a task was beyond mortal ability to accomplish. Two of the younger housemaids had hysterics and had to be put to bed, one of them after she had tipped a bucket of water down the front stairs and soaked the hall carpet. One of the junior footmen almost set fire to the library, in absentminded-ness piling more and more coals into the grate. The bootboy got into a fight with Fergal Moynihan’s valet and they both ended up with black eyes, and three dishes were broken in the scullery, and then the scullery maid had hysterics. One of the laundry maids filled the copper too full and boiled it over, and the senior laundry maid flew at her, whereupon the first one gave notice. No one peeled any potatoes or carrots, and the pies for dessert were forgotten and got burnt.
One of the footmen got drunk, tripped over the kitchen cat, and fell over. The cat was furious but unhurt. Mrs. Williams was in a monumental temper, but she did not give notice. And no one at all was interested in luncheon, so the wreckage of the meal was unnoticed upstairs. Emily was the only person who was ever aware of it.
Gracie, Charlotte’s maid, was one sane head amid the domestic chaos, although Emily did observe that every time Lorcan McGinley’s very handsome young valet passed by her, which seemed more often than was necessary, she lost her concentration and became uncharacteristically clumsy. Emily was far too astute not to understand the signs.
And Pitt’s most disobliging assistant, Tellman, was very busy asking everyone a lot of questions and looking as if someone had broken a bad egg.
In the late afternoon Cornwallis telephoned back and asked to speak to Jack.
“What is it?” Emily demanded as soon as he had replaced the receiver on the cradle. “What did you just agree to?”
They were in the library. He had gone there to answer the call, and she had followed him when she knew from Dilkes who was on the other end.
Jack looked very stiff, his eyes wide. He lifted his chin a trifle, as if his collar were suddenly tight on his throat.
“What is it?” Emily repeated, her voice rising.
Jack swallowed. “Cornwallis has said the Home Office would like me to continue the conference,” he replied very quietly, his voice not much more than a whisper. He cleared his throat. “In Greville’s place.”
“You can’t!” Emily said instantly, almost choked with fear for him.
“Thank you.” He looked as if she had hit him. She opened her mouth to tell him not to be absurd. This was no time for childish pride. Greville had just been murdered, less than twenty-four hours ago, here in this house. Jack could be next! Then like a drenching of cold water she realized that he thought she had meant that he was not capable of it, he was not fit to take Greville’s place.
Was that what he feared himself? Had she pushed him too far, out of her own ambition, her expectations of him? Without meaning to, by her admiration for other people, her dreams, had she tacitly asked of him more than he could give? Was he reaching for this to prove himself to her, to please her, to be, in his own way, all he imagined George Ashworth had been? George had had money, title, charm, but no skills. He had not needed them.
Was Jack trying to excel in political life to match the Ashworth family?
And did he feel he had been driven to take on more than he was capable of fulfilling?
And did he really think she also doubted him?
She looked at him, his handsome face which had earned him his place in society, was now grave, his wide eyes fixed on hers.
He did think she doubted him!
“I mean it’s too dangerous!” she said hoarsely. “You must call Cornwallis back and tell him you can’t do it … until Thomas has found out who murdered Greville. They can’t expect you just to pick up where he left it the night he was killed.” She moved towards him. “Jack, don’t they understand what happened here? These people are murderers—or at least one of them is.” She put her hands up to his shoulders.
He took her by the wrists and put her arms down again, still keeping hold of her.
“I know that very well, Emily. I knew it when I accepted. One does not refuse a job because it may be dangerous. What do you think would happen to our country if a general was killed in battle and the next officer in turn refused to take command?”
“You are not in the army!”
“Yes, I am—”
“You’re not! Jack …” She stopped.
“Emily, don’t argue with me,” he said with a firmness she had never heard in his voice before. She knew she could not persuade him, and it frightened her, because she admired him more than she wished to. A certain element of control had slipped away from her. Her emotions were racing. There was a shivering of real fear inside her, and it was a terrible feeling. There was nothing exciting about it at all, just a sickness.
“Thank you,” he said gently. “You will have a great deal to do. This is about the worst house party I expect you will ever attend, let alone have to host. I shall not be able to help you. You will have to rely on Charlotte. I’m sorry.”
She forced herself to smile. She felt guilty. She had not known his courage, and she had thought him unequal to the task. Worse than that, she had allowed him to see it.
“Of course,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. “If you can take over the leadership of the conference, the least I can do is see that the party is … bearable. It can hardly be fun, but we can at least avoid any further social disasters.”
He smiled back at her with a flash of real humor. “With Iona McGinley in Moynihan’s bed, and Greville dead in
