‘Did you like the quilt on the bed?’ Brigid asks quietly as we ride in the carriage.
‘Oh. Yes. It’s lovely.’
‘I made it,’ she says with a smile.
‘Such clever work,’ I reply, wondering at this sudden pleasantry.
‘It’s a gift for you. You must take it home when you return to Hob’s Hallow.’
‘Yes, thank you. Of course.’
At dinner, I sit beside Aidan (in blue velvet frock coat, embroidered waistcoat, black silk trousers, highly polished shoes with gold buckles), who speaks mostly to my grandmother, occasionally to his sister, and not at all to me until we’ve finished our meal and it’s time to take our balcony seats for the performance. Then he stands, pulls out my chair and offers his arm with a smile (strange to see such an expression aimed at me). He says ‘Shall we?’ as if it’s the most agreeable idea in the world.
I hesitate for he should by rights be escorting Aoife; she’s the oldest, the most important, but my grandmother senses my hesitation and gives a curt nod (Go on, girl, don’t be an idiot), and I know better than to question. So I put my hand on his proffered arm, touch the softness of the fabric beneath my fingers (I wear no gloves for they’d cover the long lacy sleeves and ruin the effect), and the muscle beneath the fabric. I feel too close to him and my breath catches.
And so we leave the restaurant, up the small flight of steps to the foyer, which is a masterful mix of cream and gold paint, statuary and chandeliers, crimson-suited men-staff who check tickets and direct people to the correct doors, and women in low-cut ebony dresses, carrying trays heavy with drinks in crystal glasses. We cross the open space, heading towards the grand staircase.
‘Now, Brigid, don’t they look fine together?’ I hear Aoife say and glance over my shoulder at her; something’s lodged in my throat, a formless panic. Aoife’s taken my cousin by the arm and is holding her back so Aidan and I might walk on ahead, across plush red carpet. We garner glances from the other theatre-goers, curious, speculative, judgmental. (Out so soon in public after a funeral! And that dress!) Some just plain stare. I catch sight of our reflection in the mirrored walls as we ascend, and we do look very fine together, tall and well-made, towering over others. I’m caught by my own image: I’ve never been dressed in such a way before, never had make-up on, but Aoife herself painted my features – cleverly, not overdone, just highlighted what’s already there. There are heavy diamond and ruby earrings that brush against my neck, diamond and jet bracelets around each wrist; all bought with Aidan’s coin.
I’ve been told I’m lovely by my grandmother and Óisín, by Maura, the tenants… but growing up alone and mostly isolated there’s been nothing and no one to reinforce this, so it’s hard to know what it means, really. But here, now, with others watching, all these gazes, male and female, glued to me? I know at last that “lovely” means “visible”, no matter how much I might wish not to be. For a panicked moment I want to scrub the paint from my face, scrub myself out of existence, have no more eyes upon me, trying to pierce me, divine me, to know me, to take a piece of me for themselves.
But then I draw a deep breath, lift my chin, push back my shoulders. I’m Aoife O’Malley’s granddaughter and that means something, even if it’s only that I’m proud and look like I think everyone’s beneath me. I’ll take what armour I can.
Aidan sees me to my seat, then attends to Aoife and Brigid. Brigid’s expression is set: stoic, displeased. If we were friends, perhaps it wouldn’t be. Perhaps things would be different. Perhaps I could look to her for help.
But help from what? That her brother has paid me attention for the first time ever? That I’m here in this theatre, for the first time ever, and there are eyes upon me like mouths licking the flesh from me? That I can only feel my heart thudding in my chest and I think it might be rattling my ribs? I’m being a fool and I know it.
Another deep breath, and a serving girl steps into our box and offers glasses of champagne with strawberries floating in the liquid. I sip too deeply. This is my second (there was one with dinner), and it goes to my head far too quickly. I’m used to drinking winter-lemon whiskey with Óisín and Aoife, but this stuff is different, strong in another fashion. Aidan sits beside me, doesn’t look at me, but I feel myself observed and glance up.
Across from us, in another balcony seat in the rarefied air of the theatre, sits a blonde woman. Delicate features, eyes slanted like a cat’s, her dress of green even more scandalously cut than mine, her hair a tremendous confection of curls and gems. In one white-gloved hand is a champagne glass and in the other the mouthpiece of a smoking pipe, one of the exotic sort of coloured glass that bubble and puff out smoke like an intricately-shaped small dragon. She’s looking at me, at Aidan, a long considering gaze; there’s no friendliness in it, only calculation, as if I’m a prize she might sell.
On the other side of me, Brigid’s lips barely move as she whispers, ‘Bethany Lawrence.’
Our Queen of Thieves. I’ve never seen her before. She looks younger than I ever thought. Beside her is a tall handsome young man with thick ruddy hair; he’s beautifully dressed and most solicitous to her. Without knowing his function, I can still guess his position in her entourage. But he doesn’t look cheap; doesn’t look hired. So perhaps he is something else?
Before my mind can pick further at the idea there’s the smell of smoke as candles are snuffed, and the noise from the
