She smiled at him. “What was O’Neil like, when you knew him?”
His eyes widened. “Victor didn’t tell you? How interesting.”
“Did you expect him to have?” she asked.
“Why is he asking, why now?” He sat absolutely still. All around him people were moving, adjusting position, smiling, waving, finding seats, nodding agreement to something or other, waving to friends.
“Perhaps you know him well enough to ask him that?” she suggested.
Again he countered. “Don’t you?”
She kept her smile warm, faintly amused. “Of course, but I would not repeat his answer. You must know him well enough to believe he would not confide in someone he could not trust.”
“So perhaps we both know, and neither will trust the other,” he mused. “How absurd, how vulnerable and incredibly human; indeed, the convention of many comic plays.”
“To judge by Cormac O’Neil’s face, he has seen tragedy,” she countered. “One of the casualties of war that you referred to.”
He looked at her steadily, and for a moment the buzz of conversation around them ceased to exist. “So he has,” he said softly. “But that was twenty years ago.”
“Does one forget?”
“Irishmen? Never. Do the English?”
“Sometimes,” she replied.
“Of course. You could hardly remember them all!” Then he caught himself immediately and his expression changed. “Do you want to meet him?” he asked.
“Yes—please.”
“Then you shall,” he promised.
There was a rustle of anticipation in the audience and everyone fell silent. After a moment or two the curtain rose and the play began. Charlotte concentrated so that she could speak intelligently when she was introduced to people at the intermission.
But she found following it difficult. There were frequent references to events she was not familiar with, even words she did not know, and there was an underlying air of sadness.
Was that how Cormac O’Neil felt: helpless, predestined to be overwhelmed? Everybody lost people they loved. Bereavement was a part of life. The only escape was to love no one. She stopped trying to understand the drama on the stage and, as discreetly as she could, she studied O’Neil.
He seemed to be alone. He looked neither right nor left, and the people on either side seemed to be with others.
The longer she watched him, the more totally alone did he seem to be. But she was equally sure that he was never bored. His eyes never strayed from the stage, yet at times his expression did reflect the drama.
By the time the intermission came Charlotte felt herself moved by the passion emanating from players and audience alike. But she was also confused by it. It made her feel more sharply than the lilt of a different accent, or even the sound of another language, that she was in a strange place, teeming with emotions she caught and lost again.
“May I take you to get something to drink?” McDaid asked her when the curtain fell and the lights were bright again. “And perhaps to meet one or two more of my friends? I’m sure they are dying of curiosity to know who you are, and of course how I know you.”
“I would be delighted,” she answered. “And how do you know me? We had better be accurate, or it will start people talking.” She smiled to rob the words of offense.
“But surely the sole purpose of coming to the theater with a beautiful woman is to start people talking?” He raised his eyebrows. “Otherwise one would be better to come alone, like Cormac O’Neil, and concentrate on the play, without distraction.”
“Thank you. I’m flattered to imagine I could distract you.” She inclined her head a little, enjoying the trivial play of words. “Especially from so intense a drama. The actors are superb. I have no idea what they are talking about at least half the time, and yet I am conquered by their emotions.”
“Are you sure you are not Irish?” he pressed.
“Not sure at all. Perhaps I am, and I should simply look harder. But please do not tell Mr. O’Neil that my grandmother’s name was O’Neil also, or I shall be obliged to admit that I know very little about her, and that would make me seem very discourteous, as if I did not wish to own that part of my heritage. The truth is I simply did not realize how interesting it would be.”
“I shall not tell him, if you don’t wish me to,” he promised.
“But you have not told me how we met,” she reminded him.
“I saw you across a room and asked a mutual acquaintance to introduce us,” he said. “Is that not always how one meets a woman one sees, and admires?”
“I imagine it is. But what room was it? Was it here in Ireland? I imagine not, since I have been here only a couple of days. But have you been to London lately?” She smiled at him. “Or ever, for that matter?”
“Of course I’ve been to London. Do you think I am some provincial bumpkin?” He shrugged. “Only once, mind you. I did not care for it—nor it for me. It was so huge, so crowded with people, and yet at the same time anonymous. You could live and die there, and never be seen.”
“But I have been in Dublin only a couple of days,” she said to fill the silence.
