Charlotte did not interrupt, but she found herself wanting to move closer to the fire. That kind of passion frightened her. There was no room for thought in it, and certainly no room for considering the possibility you might have something wrong. When you take a stand like that in public, you can never go back on it, no matter what you learn afterwards. You have left yourself no room to change, retreat or grow.
“He was a marvelous man,” Kezia repeated, perhaps as much to herself as to Charlotte. “He took us to see Liam O’Day. It was his brother, Drystan, who was shot by the British, so they said, for his love of Neassa Doyle.”
“Why? Who was she?”
“A papist. It’s an old story. She and Drystan O’Day fell in love. This is thirty years ago. A British soldier called Alexander Chinnery was a friend of Drystan’s, and he betrayed him, raped and murdered Neassa, then fled back to England. Drystan went to her brothers and there was a terrible fight. Two of her brothers were killed, and so was Drystan, by the English, of course, to cover up what Chinnery had done. But neither side ever forgave the other for their part in it. The Doyle family felt Drystan had seduced her, and will talk of nothing else. The O’Days thought she had seduced him. And the O’Days all hate the Nationalists. Carson is the second son, but Daniel, the eldest, is an invalid with tuberculosis. He was supposed to be the one who rose to lead the cause, but now it’s all fallen to Carson. He hasn’t the fire of Daniel.” She smiled. “I saw Daniel when he was young, before he became ill. He was so handsome, like his father. But maybe Carson is better anyway. He has a steadier head. He’s a good diplomat.”
“But you don’t agree with him entirely, do you?”
Kezia smiled widely. “No, of course not. We’re Irish! But close enough to face the papists beside him. We’ll fight among ourselves afterwards.”
“Very wise,” Charlotte agreed.
Kezia gave her a quick glance, then laughed abruptly. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
Later that morning Charlotte was not far from Jack, standing on the terrace outside the withdrawing room doors, when one of the urns on the balcony above crashed down. It missed him by about three feet and broke to smithereens on the flags, sending earth and ivy over several yards.
Jack was very pale, but he made fight of it and forbade her to say anything whatever to Emily.
She promised, but found herself shaking and suddenly desperately cold when she went inside, in spite of the sharp sunlight.
Pitt traveled on the train up to London. It was a journey which in the usual circumstances he would have enjoyed. He liked watching the countryside flying past, he liked the steam and the clatter and the sense of incredible speed. But today he was thinking of what he would say to Cornwallis, and he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
There were no excuses. He had failed to protect Ainsley Greville, and three days later he could not offer any proof as to who was responsible. By process of elimination it looked to be either Doyle or Moynihan, and he had no idea which.
“Good morning, Pitt,” Cornwallis said gravely when Pitt arrived and was shown to his office.
“Good morning, sir,” Pitt answered, taking the seat that was offered beside the fire. It was a courteous act. Rather than having Pitt sit in front of the desk with Cornwallis behind it, in a gesture he had placed them in the same situation. This did not, however, ease Pitt’s conscience or diminish his sense of having failed a trust.
“What happened?” Cornwallis asked, leaning forward a little and unconsciously placing the tips of his fingers together. The firelight glistened on his cheeks and head. He was a man in whom baldness seemed completely natural. It became him, throwing into strong relief his powerful features.
Pitt told him everything he knew that was pertinent. It seemed a lot, and yet it amounted to nothing that was conclusive.
When he had finished Cornwallis stared at him thoughtfully.
“So it might be Moynihan, for political reasons. His father was certainly a rabid enough Protestant. Conceivably, he has the idea that any settlement will reduce the Protestant Ascendancy, which I suppose it will. But it will also create a far greater justice, and therefore peace, and a greater safety and prosperity for everyone.” He shook his head. “But the hatred runs deep, deeper than reason or morality, or even hope for the future.” He bit his lip, regarding Pitt steadily. “The other possibility is Padraig Doyle, either for political reasons again, or because of Greville’s treatment of his sister.” He looked doubtful. “Do you really think it was gross enough to prompt murder? A great many men treat their wives badly. She wasn’t beaten or kept short of money, or publicly humiliated. He was always extremely discreet. She had no idea, you say?”
“No …”
Cornwallis leaned back and crossed his legs, shaking his head very slightly. “If she had found him in bed with a serious rival for his affections, she might have killed him on impulse, a crime of passion. Although women don’t often do that, especially women of the breeding of Eudora Greville. She had far too much to lose, Pitt, and nothing whatever to gain. Unless you have some idea she wanted her freedom to marry elsewhere, and you’ve shown nothing of that …?” He left it as a question.
“No,” Pitt said quickly. He had never suspected Eudora. He could not imagine her in such violence. “She is … Have you met her?”
Cornwallis smiled. “Yes. Very beautiful. But even beautiful women can have powerful feelings at having been betrayed. In fact, especially so, because they do not think it will happen to them. The outrage is greater.”
“But he didn’t do anything at Ashworth Hall,” Pitt said sharply. “All we discussed was the past, and nothing which threatened her position as his wife. As you say, it was all simply indulgence of appetite, not love.”
“Then why should Doyle murder Greville on her account?”
Pitt had no reply.
Cornwallis narrowed his eyes. “What is it, Pitt? There’s something else, or you wouldn’t have raised it. You are as capable as I am of seeing the fallacy of your argument; more so.”
“I think she is afraid it was Doyle,” Pitt said slowly, putting words to it for the first time himself. “But maybe I have the motive wrong. Perhaps it is political … Irish nationalism, like everything else.”
