Pearse she must have appeared terribly ignorant. Dolina seemed to know each artist at least by repute, and be able to say for what particular technique he was famous. Charlotte simply listened with an air of appreciation, and hoped she could remember enough of it to recite back as if she had been interested.
While they walked around the rooms looking at one picture after another, Charlotte watched the other women, who were fashionably dressed exactly as they would have been in London. Sleeves were worn large at the shoulder this season, and slender from the elbow down. Even the most unsophisticated were puffed, or flying like awkward wings. Skirts were wide at the bottom, padded and bustled at the back. It was very feminine, like flowers in full bloom — large ones, like magnolias or peonies. With the movement of walking, parasols high to shade the face when outside, however briefly, a group of women gave the fleeting impression of a herbaceous border in the wind. One of the painters should have tried such a thing! Or perhaps they had, and she had been too inattentive to notice.
Tea reminded her of the days before she was married, accompanying her mother on suitable ‘morning calls’, which were actually always made in the afternoon. Behaviour was very correct, all the unwritten laws obeyed. And beneath the polite exchanges the gossip was ruthless, the cutting remarks honed to a razor’s edge.
‘How are you enjoying Dublin, Mrs Pitt?’ Talulla Lawless asked courteously. ‘Do have a cucumber sandwich. Always so refreshing, don’t you think?’
‘Thank you,’ Charlotte accepted. It was the only possible thing to do, even if she had not liked them. ‘I find Dublin fascinating. Who would not?’
‘Oh, many people,’ Talulla replied. ‘They think us very unsophisticated.’ She smiled. ‘But perhaps that is what you enjoy?’ She left it hanging in the air as to whether Charlotte herself were unsophisticated, or if perhaps this was a rustic escape for her from the rigours of London society.
Charlotte smiled back, utterly without warmth. ‘Either they were not serious, or if they were, then they missed the subtlety of your words,’ she replied. ‘I think you anything but simple,’ she added for good measure.
Talulla laughed. It was a brittle sound. ‘You flatter us, Mrs Pitt. It is “Mrs”, isn’t it? I do hope I have not made the most awful mistake.’
‘Please don’t concern yourself, Miss Lawless,’ Charlotte replied. ‘It is very far from the most awful mistake. Indeed, were it a mistake, which it isn’t, it could still quite easily be put right. Would that all errors were so simply mended.’
‘Oh dear!’ Talulla affected dismay. ‘How much more exciting your life must be in London than ours is here. You imply dark deeds. You have me fascinated.’
Charlotte hesitated, then plunged in. ‘I dare say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. After watching the play last night I imagined life was full of passion and doom-laden love here. Please don’t tell me it is all just the fervour of a playwright’s imagination. You will entirely ruin the reputation of Ireland abroad.’
‘I didn’t know you had such influence,’ Talulla said drily. ‘I had better be more careful of what I say.’ There was mocking and anger in her face.
Charlotte cast her eyes down towards the floor. ‘I am so sorry. I seem to have spoken out of turn, and struck some feeling of pain. I assure you, it was unintentional.’
‘I can see many of your actions are unintentional, Mrs Pitt,’ Talulla snapped. ‘And cause pain.’
There was a rustle of silk against silk as a couple of the other women moved slightly in discomfort. Someone drew breath as if to speak, glanced at Talulla, and changed her mind.
‘Just as I am sure yours are not, Miss Lawless,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I find it easy to believe that every word you say is entirely both foreseen, and intended.’
There was an even sharper gasp of breath. Someone giggled nervously.
‘May I offer you more tea, Mrs Pitt?’ Dolina asked. Her voice was quivering, but whether it was with laughter or tears it was impossible to say.
Charlotte held out her cup. ‘Thank you. That is most kind.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Talulla said tartly. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s a pot of tea!’
‘The English answer to everything,’ Dolina ventured. ‘Is that not so, Mrs Pitt?’
‘You would be surprised what can be done with it, if it is hot enough,’ Charlotte looked straight at her.
‘Scalding, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Dolina muttered.
Charlotte relayed the exchange to Narraway later that night, after dinner. They were alone in Mrs Hogan’s sitting room with the doors open on to the garden, which was quite small, and overhung with trees. It was a mild evening, and a moon almost full cast dramatic shadows. In unspoken agreement they stood up and walked outside into the balmy air.
‘I didn’t learn anything more,’ she admitted finally. ‘Except that we are still disliked. But how could we imagine anything else? At the theatre Mr McDaid told me something of O’Neil. It is time you stopped skirting around it and told me what happened. I don’t want to know, but I have to.’
Narraway was silent for a long time. She was acutely aware of him standing perhaps a yard away from her, half in the shadow of one of the trees. He was slender, not much taller than she, but she had an impression of physical strength, as if he were muscle and bone, all softness worn away over the years. She did not want to look at his face, partly to allow him that privacy, but just as much because she did not want to see what was there. It would be easier for both of them, and allow a certain pretence to be rebuilt after the moments in the couturier and, after, in the street.
‘I can’t tell you all of it, Charlotte,’ he said at last. ‘There was quite a large uprising planned. We had to prevent it.’
‘How did you do that?’ She was blunt.
Again he did not answer. She wondered how much of the secrecy was to protect her, and how much was simply that he was ashamed of his role in it, necessary or not.
Why was she standing out here shivering? What was she afraid of? Victor Narraway? It had not occurred to her before that he might hurt her. She was afraid that she would hurt him. Perhaps that was ridiculous. If he had loved Kate O’Neil, and still been able to sacrifice her in his loyalty to his country, then he could certainly sacrifice Charlotte. She could be one of the casualties of war that Fiachra McDaid had referred to — just part of the price. She was Pitt’s wife, and Narraway had shown a loyalty to Pitt, in his own way. She was also quite certain now that he was in love with her. But how naive of her to imagine that it would change anything he had to do in the greater cause.
She thought of Kate O’Neil, wondering what she had looked like, how old she had been, if she had loved Narraway. Had she betrayed her country, and her husband to him? How desperately in love she must have been. Charlotte should have despised her for that, and yet all she felt was pity, and a belief that she could have been in the same place, but for a grace of circumstance. If she hadn’t loved Pitt, she could easily have believed herself in love with Narraway.
That was a stupid equivocation! She would have been in love, cared totally, and completely. What other way was there to care?
‘You used Kate O’Neil, didn’t you?’ she said aloud.
‘Yes.’ His voice was so soft she barely heard it. The faint rustling of the night wind in the leaves was almost as loud. She had no doubt at all that he was ashamed, but it had not stopped him. Thank goodness, at least, he had not lied.
But was this old case really the reason for the present manufactured charge of embezzlement against him?
What were they missing?
What was Pitt doing in France?
Should she and Narraway be here in Ireland? Or had Narraway, the brilliant, devious schemer, been outplayed by someone who knew his vulnerability too well, and the real issue was somewhere else altogether?
She turned quietly and walked back the few steps into Mrs Hogan’s sitting room. There wasn’t anything more to say, not here, in the soft night wind and the scents of the garden.
Chapter Six
