Charlotte went straight to see Emily, who was in the upstairs boudoir, having expected her arrival and longing to talk to her.
“I’m so glad you came!” she said, throwing her arms around her and hugging her tightly. “This is my first really important political weekend, and it’s going to be absolutely fearful. In fact, it already is.” She stood back, pulling her face into an expression of acute anxiety. “You should feel the tension. If these people are typical of the rest of the Irish, I can’t imagine how anyone thinks they are going to find peace between them. Even the women dislike each other.”
“Well, they are Irish as much as the men,” Charlotte pointed out with a smile. “And possibly they are Catholic or Protestant as much, or just as dispossessed, or just as frightened of losing what they have and have worked for.”
Emily looked surprised. “Do you know something about it?” She was wearing a morning dress of pale green, a color which suited her fair hair and complexion extraordinarily well, and she looked quite lovely in spite of her agitation.
“Only what Thomas told me,” Charlotte replied. “Which was not a great deal. Naturally he had to explain why we were here.”
“Why are you?” Emily sat down in one of the large, floral-covered chairs and pointed to another for Charlotte. “Of course you are most welcome, I don’t mean to sound ungracious. But I should like to know why anyone thinks the police should be here. They are hardly going to come to blows, are they?” She looked at Charlotte with a half smile, but there was a note of genuine alarm in her voice.
“I doubt it,” Charlotte replied candidly. “I think there is probably no danger at all, but there have been threats on Mr. Greville’s life, so they have to take every precaution.”
“Not from one of the guests here!” Emily said with horror.
“I shouldn’t think so, but naturally they were anonymous. No, I expect it’s just a matter of being careful.”
“Anyway, I am very glad you are here.” Emily relaxed a little. “It is going to be a most testing weekend, and it will be far easier with you to help than trying to do it alone. I’ve often had visitors here before, of course, but of my own choosing, and people who like each other. For goodness sake, do try to be tactful, won’t you?”
“Do you think it will make any difference?” Charlotte said with a grin.
“Yes! Don’t talk about religion, or parliamentary franchise or reform, or education … or landowning, or rents, or potatoes … or divorce ….”
“Potatoes or divorce!” Charlotte said incredulously. “Why in heaven’s name should I talk about potatoes or divorce?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t!”
“What can I talk about?”
“Anything else. Fashion … except I suppose you don’t know about it. Theater—but you don’t go to the theater, except with Mama, to watch Joshua—and you better not mention that our mother has married an actor, and a Jewish one at that. Mind, I think the Catholics are too busy hating Protestants, and the Protestants hating Catholics, to care about Jews one way or the other. But they probably all think anyone on the stage is wicked. Talk about the weather and the garden.”
“They’ll think I’m a simpleton!”
“Please!”
Charlotte sighed. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is going to be a difficult weekend, isn’t it?”
Luncheon fulfilled her prophecy. They met in the large dining room around a table long enough to seat twenty but set for twelve. Jack Radley welcomed Charlotte, and then introduced her, and of course Pitt, to the rest of the company, and they all took their places. The first course was served.
Charlotte had been placed between Fergal Moynihan on her left and Carson O’Day on her right. Fergal was a striking-looking man of slightly above average height and refined aquiline features, but she thought there seemed little humor in his face. She was not immediately drawn to him, although perhaps it was her image of an intransigent Protestant which unfairly prejudiced her.
Carson O’Day was a smaller man, far grayer, and at least fifteen or twenty years older, but there was a strength in him it did not take more than a glance to see. His manner was benign and courteous, although beneath the niceties of the social situation it was easy to see his gravity and the fact that he never for an instant forgot the reason they were met.
Opposite her was Padraig Doyle, also an older man, perhaps in his middle fifties, with a genial expression and the kind of features which could not honestly be described as handsome, being too uneven, his nose too long and slightly crooked, but there was laughter and imagination in him, and Charlotte felt even before he spoke that he might be most entertaining company.
Although Emily was the hostess, once she had seen that everyone was seated and served she made no demur about Ainsley Greville assuming a natural leadership of the occasion. His wife, Eudora, was a remarkably handsome woman, looking to be several years younger than he, with very fine, rich, auburn coloring; wide, brown eyes; high cheekbones, and a lovely mouth. She was modest of manner, and it only added to her charm.
The other two women at the table were less easy for Charlotte to see, but as soon as the opportunity offered itself, she studied them discreetly. Kezia Moynihan bore a superficial resemblance to her brother. Her coloring was also fair, with very clear, almost aqua, eyes and thick hair which looked enviably easy to dress. But unlike Fergal, there was a quickness in her expression, as if humor came to her naturally, although perhaps temper also. Charlotte found it an easier face to like.
Iona McGinley was a dramatic opposite. Her slender hands moved nervously on the white tablecloth. Her hair was almost black, and her dark blue eyes were wide, vulnerable, full of dreams and inward thoughts. She spoke very little, and when she did her voice was soft with a southern lilt almost like music itself.
The only other person present was Lorcan McGinley, fair haired with a long, narrow face, wide mouth and very blue eyes which were startling, almost sky blue, disconcertingly direct.
The conversation began with a few remarks which seemed harmless to the degree they were almost banal, especially among people who had all been present since the previous afternoon, therefore had shared at least two meals before.
“Very mild,” Kezia said with a smile. “I notice there are still a great many roses in bloom.”
“We sometimes get them right up until Christmas,” Emily replied.
“Does the rain not rot them?” Iona asked. “We find at home it tends to.”
“We are not so wet further east,” Carson O’Day put in.
There was a sudden silence, as if the remark had been critical.
Emily looked from one to the other of them.
“Yes it does, occasionally,” she said to no one in particular. “I think it is a matter of luck. There seem to be a lot of berries on the hawthorns this year.”
“Some say it means a cold winter,” Lorcan observed without looking up from his plate.
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” Kezia replied.
“Old wives are sometimes right,” her brother pointed out without a smile. He looked at Iona, and then away again quickly, but not before their eyes had met. He continued with his soup.
Emily tried again with a different subject. This time she addressed Eudora Greville.
“I hear Lady Crombie is planning to visit Greece this winter. Have you ever been?”
“About ten years ago, but in the spring,” Eudora replied, taking up the opportunity to assist. “It was very beautiful indeed.” And she proceeded to describe it. No one was really listening, and perhaps she did not care whether they were or not. It was a safe subject, and the tension eased.
Charlotte would have liked to help as well, but all she could think of was politics, divorce or potatoes. Everything seemed to lead back to these, one way or another.