“And very beautiful it is too,” Padraig agreed. “But how about we exercise the good manners we’re famous for and sing some of our host’s songs as well, eh? What do you say to a few happier love songs? We’ll not send you to bed in tears, shall we? Self-pity never was a handsome thing.”
“You think Ireland’s woes are self-pity?” Lorcan said dangerously.
Padraig smiled. “Our woes are real enough, man. God and the world know that. But courage sings a gay song, as well as a sad one. How about ‘Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes’? Is that not a fine song?” He turned to Eudora. “I’ve heard you play that one from memory. Let’s be hearing it now.”
Obediently she moved into its lovely, soaring melody, and he began to sing in a lyrical Irish tenor, sweet and true, filled with joy. Without meaning to, Emily began to hum along with him, and he heard her and beckoned with his hands to encourage her.
Within ten minutes they were all singing from Gilbert and Sullivan, happy, dancing music, and all the room was obliged to let go of anger and tragedy, at least for an hour.
* * *
Charlotte slept in emotional exhaustion, but her sleep was not restful. She was disturbed by dreams of anxiety, and for seconds it only seemed like a continuation when she heard the screaming.
She was emerging from the webs of sleep when Pitt was already out of bed and striding towards the door.
The screaming went on, high and shrill with rage. There was no terror in it, only uncontrollable, hysterical fury.
Charlotte almost fell out of bed, tripping over the full skirts of her nightgown, her hair in a loose braid and half undone.
Pitt was on the landing, staring at the doorway of the room opposite, where Kezia Moynihan stood, her eyes wide, blazing, her face white but for two spots of hectic color in her cheeks.
Emily was coming from the west wing, her hair loose, her nightgown covered by a pale green robe, her face ashen. Jack had obviously risen earlier and was running up the stairs from below.
Padraig Doyle emerged from a door further down, and then a second after, Lorcan McGinley.
“What in God’s name has happened?” Jack demanded, looking from one to another of them.
Charlotte stared beyond Pitt in through the open door, still held wide by Kezia. She saw a huge brass-ended bed, its cover rumpled, and half sitting up, her black hair falling over her shoulders, Iona McGinley. Beside her, his striped nightshirt askew, was Fergal Moynihan. Iona made a halfhearted attempt to shuffle under the bedclothes.
The scene admitted no explanation.
EMILY WAS THE FIRST to move. There was no conceivable denial to make. There was only one interpretation possible. She moved forward and took Kezia’s hand, pulling her quite sharply out of the doorway, and reaching for the handle, jerked it shut.
Charlotte unfroze and turned to face everyone else, now gathering on the landing.
“What’s happened?” Carson O’Day asked, his face filled with anxiety bordering on fear.
Charlotte felt a surge of wild laughter inside herself. She knew he had imagined an attack, the violence that had surely been at the back of everyone’s minds, the reason Pitt was here. She could see it mirrored in his eyes. And this was so utterly different, almost banal, the sort of domestic tragedy or farce that happened anywhere.
“Everyone is perfectly safe,” she said clearly and a little loudly. “No one is injured.” Then she saw Lorcan McGinley’s white face and regretted she had chosen precisely those words, but to apologize would only make it worse.
Emily had her arm around Kezia and was trying, unsuccessfully, to steer her away and back to her own bedroom.
Pitt saw her difficulty and went to Kezia’s other side.
“Come,” he said firmly, taking her arm and putting his weight behind his movement. “You’ll catch a chill out here.” It was a meaningless statement. She had a robe over her nightgown and the house was not cold, but it had the desired effect, for an instant breaking the spell of her rage. He and Emily, one on either side, led her away.
This left Charlotte alone to think of something to say to everyone else. Jack was at the top of the stairs now, but he had no idea what had happened.
“I’m very sorry for the disturbance,” she said as calmly as she could. “Something has occurred which has distressed Miss Moynihan very much, and no doubt others among us as well. But there is nothing to be done for the moment. I think it would be best if we all returned to our own bedrooms and dressed. We cannot help here, and we shall only catch cold.”
That was true; Eudora Greville had picked up a robe before responding to Kezia’s screams. Everyone else had only nightgowns or nightshirts on.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt,” Ainsley said with a sigh of relief. “That is very wise advice. I suggest we all take it.” And with a bleak smile, pale-faced, he turned around and walked back towards his bedroom. After a second’s confused hesitation, Eudora followed behind him.
Padraig Doyle looked at Charlotte in concern, then realized that the situation, whatever it was, was one which was best left alone, and he too went. The others followed, leaving only Lorcan standing facing Charlotte.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McGinley,” she said very quietly, and she meant it with a depth which surprised her. He had not been a man she liked instinctively, but now her hurt for him was real. There was nothing in his face to indicate whether he had had the slightest idea that his wife was having an affair. The shock in it now, the pallor and hollow eyes, could have been disbelief, and then the stunning realization, or simply the agonizing embarrassment and shame of having it exposed in front of the other guests in the house.
Whatever it was, there was nothing else to say which would not make it even worse.
He did not reply, and she was frightened of the look in his eyes.
Breakfast was appalling. Emily was at her wits’ end to know what to say or do to maintain even a veneer of civilized behavior. Of course it was not the first country house party where adultery had taken place. In fact, it probably happened as often as not. The differences were two: most people were discreet enough, and careful enough, not to be discovered, and if anyone did chance to interrupt something unfortunate, they kept their own counsel about it and looked the other way. Certainly they did not scream themselves hoarse and wake the entire household. And normally one took great care not to invite people who were at odds with each other. It was a principal part of a hostess’s skill to know who cared for whom, and who did not.
When Jack first ran for Parliament she had had no conception of the difficulties she might face in entertaining. She was perfectly aware of the usual social pitfalls, the problems of obtaining and keeping a good cook and good servants in general, of wearing exactly the right clothes, of learning the orders of precedence of all the various titles of aristocracy, of devising menus which were imaginative but not eccentric and entertainments which could not go wrong and yet were still interesting.
Religious and national hatreds were new to her. Even the idea of hating someone because of his or her beliefs was beyond her thoughts. Yesterday had teetered on the edge of disaster once or twice. Today seemed irredeemable. She sat at the foot of the breakfast table as people came in one by one, passing the sideboard with its chafing dishes of kedgeree, deviled kidneys, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, bacon, sausages, smoked finnan haddock, kippers, and grilled mushrooms.
Padraig Doyle helped himself generously. She had judged him aright as a man who enjoyed his physical well-being and who guarded his energy with care.
Ainsley Greville similarly did not ignore his meal, although he took little relish in it. He was absorbed in his thoughts, his face tense. There was a certain stillness about him.