Charlotte. “That must be wonderful in the spring. I love the perfume of them, it is almost intoxicating in the sun.”
“Yes, it’s marvelous,” Charlotte agreed. She had no idea because she had never been there in the spring, but that was irrelevant now. “And the flowering chestnuts,” she added for good measure. “Do you have them in Ireland?” She looked directly at Iona.
Iona seemed surprised. “Yes, yes, of course we do. I always think it’s a pity we can’t bring them inside,” she added.
“Why can’t you?” Fergal took the excuse to speak to her.
“It’s bad luck to bring the May blossom into the house.” She fixed him with her brilliant blue gaze, and he seemed unable to turn himself away.
“Why?” he whispered.
“It’s unlucky for the housemaid who has to clean up after them,” Charlotte said quickly. “They drop hundreds of little petals … and little black dots of something too ….”
“Insects,” Justine offered with a smile.
Padraig winced, but not with distaste.
Suddenly the conversation was easier. Charlotte found herself relaxing a little. By the time Lorcan and Carson O’Day joined them there was even a glimmer of laughter, which did not stop even when Piers came in.
Jack, Emily and Pitt came not long after, and everyone was drawn into at least a semblance of involvement.
O’Day was either in very optimistic spirits or was determined to appear so.
“Have you ever been to Egypt?” he asked Jack with interest. “I have recently been reading some most fascinating letters. They are quite old. I cannot think how I came to miss them.” He smiled at Emily, then at Charlotte. “Written by women. One was Miss Nightingale, whose name we all know, of course. But there were several other extraordinary women who traveled as far and were profoundly moved by their experiences.” And he proceeded to repeat what he had read of Harriet Martineau and Amelia Edwards, to everyone’s interest. Justine in particular was obviously fascinated. At another time, Charlotte would have been also.
Kezia was the last to come, dressed in pale green with a trimming of flowered silk. They were Emily’s colors, if not her style, and with her similarly fair hair and skin she was extremely handsome. Charlotte wondered what would happen to her. She was far nearer thirty than twenty. She was highly intelligent, at least politically if not academically. She had fallen in love once, passionately and utterly, and her family and her faith had denied her a consummation. She then made a sacrifice of her heart in order to further her conviction. Would she now feel that something bought at such a price must be made to yield her a return?
Or would she feel that Fergal’s betrayal had freed her from her own obligation?
Sitting across the table from her, Charlotte was still sharply aware of the anger in her movements, the tightness with which she gripped her fork, the rigidity of her shoulders, and the fact that she spoke pleasantly to everyone else but did not speak to her brother at all, or to Iona.
The discussion had moved from Egypt, the Nile and its temples and ruins, its hieroglyphics and tombs, to Verdi’s recent opera on the story of Othello.
“Very dark,” O’Day said appreciatively, passing the orange marmalade to Charlotte. “A truly heroic voice is required, and immense stamina.”
“And a fine actor too, I should have thought,” Justine added.
“Oh, indeed.” O’Day nodded, helping himself to more tea. “And for lago also.”
Kezia glanced across at Charlotte, as if about to speak, then hesitated. Her thoughts on adultery, betrayal, jealousy and villains in general were plain in her eyes.
“An equally great baritone role,” Justine said with a smile, looking to left and right. “I assume Othello is the tenor?”
“Naturally.” Padraig laughed. “The heroes are always tenor!”
“In
“Quite,” Kezia agreed. “A hypocritical womanizer with no morals, no honor, and no compassion.”
“But sings like an angel,” Padraig interrupted almost before she had finished speaking.
“If angels sing,” Fergal said dryly, “perhaps they dance, or paint pictures.”
“Is there paint and canvas in heaven?” Lorcan asked. “I thought it was all insubstantial … no body, parts or passions?” He looked sideways at Fergal, and then at Iona. “Sounds like hell to me … at least for some.”
“They take messages,” Charlotte stated decisively. “Which would be very difficult to make clear if you had to dance them!”
Justine burst out laughing, and almost everyone else did also, at the release in tension if nothing else. Absurd pictures of mime filled the imagination, and one or two offered suggestions in good humor. When they sobered a little, O’Day asked Jack about the local countryside.
Charlotte wondered as she watched them all if O’Day would be the next leader of the Nationalist cause if Parnell were forced to resign.
He seemed far more open to reason and to compassion. And yet he had a heritage, just as they all had, and a powerful man’s shoes to step into. His elder brother was crippled by tuberculosis, or it would have been his duty; now Carson had to achieve it for both of them. It was a heavy burden.
She looked sideways at his face, with its straight angles, smooth, rather heavy cheeks and level brows. It was in every way different from the face of Padraig Doyle; there was imagination in it, but not the wit or sudden laughter. Instead there was a directness, a concentration and a clarity. He would be a very difficult man to get to
