“No, cold will do very well.” Charlotte shook her head. She was not sending Gracie downstairs to heat water and carry jugs up at this time of night. “And trains are perfectly safe, you know,” she added. “You shouldn’t worry. How was everything here?”
“Terrible.” Gracie helped her unlace her boots, then undo her dress and slip it off. The boots could be cleaned in the morning, and the mud taken off the hem of her skirt, and of course her underclothes would be laundered. “Everyone’s scared o’ their own shadows,” she said, taking the heavy skirt. “Footman popped a cork and the parlor maid near screamed the place down. Wonder she didn’t shatter the gas mantles, them what’s left!”
“Oh dear.” Charlotte took the pins out of her hair and felt the wonderful relief as the weight of it fell and she ran her fingers through it.
Gracie unlaced her stays for her.
“I want to sleep until ten!” Charlotte said, knowing it was impossible.
“Yer like breakfast up ’ere?” Gracie asked helpfully.
“No … no, thank you. I shall have to get up in the morning and go down, even if only to watch and listen, or try to help Mrs. Radley.”
“We in’t doin’ a very good job o’ detectin’, are we?” Gracie said unhappily. “We in’t bin no ’elp ter the master at all.”
“Not so far,” Charlotte agreed with a sharp stab of unhappiness. “I’ve been more concerned about Emily and this wretched weekend.” She kept her voice low, not to disturb Pitt, in the next room, if by chance he were asleep. “I don’t know where to begin.” She frowned. “Usually we are more use if there are women involved, families, something ordinarily human. I don’t understand the issues of religion and nationalism.” She poured water from the jug into the bowl and splashed it over her face. It was cold and clean, but it took her breath away.
“I can understand ’ating wot’s done to yer family ’cos o’ religion and nationalism,” Gracie responded, handing the towel to her. “Some of them things is just tragedy like any other.”
“I know,” Charlotte said quickly, not wanting to get drawn into the Neassa and Drystan story tonight. “We’ll have to think about it tomorrow. You must be tired now, and I know I am. Good night, Gracie, and thank you for waiting up.”
“It in’t nuffink, ma’am,” Gracie replied, stifling a yawn, but she was pleased nonetheless.
Pitt was half asleep, too exhausted to stay awake but not able to rest properly until Charlotte was home.
“How was Vespasia?” he mumbled, hunching the blankets over himself and, without realizing it, pulling them away from her half of the bed.
“Very well,” she answered, climbing in and tugging back her portion.
He grunted and allowed them out of his grasp, shivering as she let in the cold air, then moved closer to him with her cold hands and feet.
“I learned a lot,” she went on, knowing he wanted only to sink back into sleep. But there might be no time the next morning, before she told Gracie. “About the old tragic romance of Neassa Doyle and Drystan O’Day.”
He took a deep breath. “Does it matter?”
“It might. Alexander Chinnery didn’t rape or kill her. He was already dead in Liverpool two days before.”
He said nothing.
“Are you asleep?” she demanded.
“I would like to be,” he replied. “It’s just one more piece of tragic farce in this whole situation.”
“And the Parnell-O’Shea divorce is finished, and Parnell seems to have behaved like a complete fool,” she went on. “And Vespasia says he’ll lose the leadership, if not straightaway, then soon. I suppose that affects the people here?”
He grunted.
“Did you learn anything?” she went on, unconsciously warming herself close to him, and making him chill. “It was very brave of Lorcan McGinley to try to defuse the bomb. Did you discover how he knew it was there?”
“No.” He opened his eyes at last and turned over onto his back. “We did everything we could to trace his movements all morning, who he spoke to, where he went. None of it is any use so far.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been much help, have I?”
“It would help a lot if you would be quiet and go to sleep,” he said with a smile, putting his arm around her. “Please!”
Obediently she snuggled even closer and put her head on the pillow, not speaking again.
In the morning it could no longer wait. As soon as Charlotte was dressed and the more physical and distracting part of preparing for the day was accomplished, she sat down in front of the glass and Gracie began to dress her hair. It could not be put off any further.
“I saw Lady Vespasia when I was in London yesterday …” she began.
“ ’Ow was she?” Gracie asked without stopping what she was doing. It was part of a lady’s maid’s job to be able to conduct a pleasant conversation while at the same time doing something useful. Anyway, she had an immense admiration for Lady Vespasia, and was more in awe of her than of anyone else she could think of, even the commissioner of police … perhaps not the Queen. But then she had never met the Queen, and she might not even like her. She had heard she was rather critical and hardly ever laughed.
“She was very well, thank you,” Charlotte replied. “I told her what was happening here, of course.”
“I expect she was upset,” Gracie said, pursing her lips. “It bein’ so nasty for the master, an’ all, an’ for Mr. Radley.”
“Yes, of course she was. She knows quite a lot about Irish politics, and all the things that have
