Charlotte was not sure if she should be insulted. There was no time now, but she would think of it later, and wonder.
“Go on,” she prompted. He had not told her anything yet, except that he had been in love with his brother’s wife. Was that really why he hated Narraway?
As if he had seen her thought in her eyes, he continued. “Of course Narraway saw the fire in her too. He was fascinated, like any man, so we decided to use that. God knows, we had few enough weapons against him. He was clever. Some people think the English are stupid, and surely some of them are, but not Narraway, never him.”
“So you decided to use his feelings for Kate?”
“Yes. Why not?” he demanded, his eyes angry, defending that decision so many years ago. “We were fighting for our land, our right to govern ourselves. And Kate agreed. She would have done anything for Ireland.” His voice caught and for a moment he could not go on.
She waited. There was no sound outside, no wind or rain on the glass, no footsteps, no horses in the road. Even the dog at Cormac’s feet did not stir. The house could have been anywhere—out in the countryside, miles from any other habitation. The present had dissolved and gone away.
“They became lovers, Kate and Narraway,” Cormac said bitterly. “She told us what he was planning, he and the English. At least that’s what she said.” His voice was thick with grief.
“Wasn’t it true?” she said when he did not continue.
“He lied to her,” Cormac answered. “He knew what she was doing, what we all were. Somewhere she made a mistake.” The tears were running down his face and he made no effort to check them. “He fed us all lies, but we believed him. The uprising was betrayed. Stupid, stupid, stupid! They blamed Kate!” He gulped, staring at the wall as if he could see all the players in that tragedy parading in front of him.
“They saw she had led us astray,” he went on. “Narraway did that to her, used her against her own people. That’s why I’d see him in hell. But I want him to suffer further, here on earth, where I know it for certain. Can you make that happen, Mrs. Pitt? For Kate?”
She was appalled by the rage in him. It shook his body like a disease. His skin was blotchy, the flesh of his face wasted. He must once have been handsome.
“What happened to her?” It was cruel of Charlotte to ask, but she knew it was not the end of the story yet, and she needed to hear it from him, not just from Narraway.
“She was murdered,” he replied. “Strangled. Beautiful Kate.”
“I’m sorry.” She meant it. She tried to imagine the woman, all passion and dreams, as Cormac had painted her, but that vision was of a man in love with an image.
“They said it was Sean who killed her,” he went on. “But it couldn’t have been. He knew better than to believe she would have betrayed the cause. That was Narraway again. He killed her, because she would have told them what he had done. He would never have left Ireland alive.” He stared at Charlotte, his eyes brimming with tears, waiting for her to respond.
She forced herself to speak. “Why would he? Can you prove that?” she asked. “I mean, can you give me anything I can take back to London that would make them listen to me?” She was cold now too, dreading what he might say. What if he could? What would she do then? Narraway would excuse himself, of course. He would say he had had to kill her, or she would have exposed him and the uprising might have succeeded. Perhaps that was even true? But it was still ugly and terrible. It was still murder.
“He killed her because she wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know. But if I could prove it do you think he’d be alive?” Cormac asked harshly. “They’d have hanged him, not poor Sean, and Talulla’d not be an orphan, God help her.”
Charlotte gasped. “Talulla?”
“She’s Kate’s daughter,” he said simply. “Kate and Sean’s. Did you not know that? After Sean and Kate died she was cared for by a cousin, so she could be protected as much as possible from the hatred against her mother. Poor child.”
The dreadful, useless tragedy of it overwhelmed Charlotte. She wanted to say something that would redeem any part of the loss, but everything that came to her mind was banal.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m …”
He looked up at her. “So are you going back to London to tell someone?”
“Yes … yes I am.”
“Be careful,” he warned. “Narraway won’t go down easily. He’ll kill you too, if he thinks he has to, to survive.”
“I will be careful,” she promised him. “I think I have a little more to learn yet, but I promise I’ll be … careful.” She stood up, feeling awkward. There was nothing to say that completed their conversation. They moved from the desperate to the mundane as if it were completely natural, but what words were there that could be adequate for what either of them felt? “Thank you, Mr. O’Neil,” she said gravely.
He took her to the door and opened it for her, but he did not offer to find her any transport, as if for him she ceased to be real the moment she stepped out onto the pavement.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Narraway demanded as soon as she came into Mrs. Hogan’s sitting room. He had been standing by the window, or perhaps pacing. He looked exhausted and tense, as if his imagination had plagued him with fear. His eyes were hollow, and the lines in his face were deeper than she had ever seen them before. “Are you all right? Who’s with you? Where is he?”
“Nobody is with me,” she answered. “But I am perfectly all right—”
“Alone?” His voice shook. “You were out on the street alone, in the dark? For God’s sake, Charlotte, what’s the matter with you? Anything could have happened. I wouldn’t even have known!” He put out his hand and gripped her arm. She could feel the strength of him, as if he were quite unaware how tightly he held her.
“Nothing happened to me, Victor. I wasn’t very far away. And it isn’t late. There are plenty of people about,”
