Justine accepted her dismissal gracefully, leaving Pitt alone with Eudora.
Eudora leaned even closer to the fire, as if in spite of the now almost oppressive heat in the room, she were still cold. The yellow light from the flames lit her cheeks and the gentle angle of her chin, and cast the shadows of her lashes on her skin.
Pitt felt brutal, but he had no choice. He forced himself to remember Greville’s dead face under the water, the indignity of his body, Doll’s screaming; and Denbigh lying dead in a London alley.
“Was Kathleen O’Brien a thief, Mrs. Greville?” he asked.
“No, I don’t believe so,” she whispered.
“Was she dismissed for refusing to accommodate your husband’s wishes regarding her?”
“That … may have been part of the reason. She was … difficult.” She would not be drawn further. He could see it in the set of her shoulders. For all its softness under the draping of her dark dress, her body was rigid. There was much in her form, her auburn coloring, which was like Charlotte, except that she was so much more vulnerable.
“Was your brother, Mr. Doyle, aware of your husband’s tastes and his indulgences?”
“I never told him,” she said instantly. It was an answer of pride. It was also evasive. “One does not discuss such things. It would be embarrassing … and disloyal.” There was criticism in her voice, and a huskiness, as if she were close to tears.
He thought of all she had endured in the last few days, the tensions of the pressure upon Greville to succeed in an almost impossible task, the fear for his life which she knew was real. Then Piers had arrived and announced his betrothal, obviously without having even told his family he was deeply in love, let alone consulting them about his plans. The day after that, her husband had been murdered. Now Pitt was forcing her to realize that much of the entire life she had known was false, marred by ugliness and betrayal of her heart, her home, her innermost values. Her pain must be all but intolerable.
And yet she sat by the fire, blank-faced, and remained polite. A lesser woman would have wept, screamed, abused him for his cruelty. He hated being the instrument of her suffering. But it was far from impossible that Padraig Doyle had killed Greville. Greville’s treatment of Eudora would free Doyle from the constraints of family loyalties which might otherwise have held his hand. He was Irish, he was Catholic, he was a Nationalist. Greville would trust him above any other man in the house. They might easily have quarreled, but Greville would never have expected violence from him. He would have sat in the bath quite unafraid until the very last moment, when it was too late to cry out.
“Has your brother stayed with you at Oakfield House?”
“No, not for years.” She did not look at him.
“In London?”
“Sometimes. A great many people stayed with us in London. My husband has … had a very important position.”
“Do you go to Ireland from time to time?”
She hesitated.
He waited. The coals settled in the fire.
“Yes. Ireland was my home. I go back occasionally.”
There was no point in pressing her. All the questions in his mind were there between them. She understood, and would not answer.
“I’m sorry to have had to speak to you of it,” he said after a few moments. “I wish I could simply have burned the letters.”
“I understand,” she replied. “At least I think I do.” She looked up at him. “Mr. Pitt? Did Piers read these letters?”
“Yes … but he was not there when I spoke to the servants. He knew nothing about Kathleen O’Brien, or that there were other women in London.”
“Will you please tell him only what he has to know? Ainsley was his father ….”
“Of course. I have no desire to damage Mr. Greville’s reputation in anyone’s eyes, least of all his family’s ….”
She smiled at him. “I know. I do not envy you your task, Mr. Pitt. It must be very distressing at times.”
“Because it causes others pain,” he said gently. “People who are too much hurt already.”
She looked at him a moment longer, then turned back to the fire.
He excused himself and went out and back downstairs to see if Jack was yet free. He was not yet ready to find Charlotte. She was so at home here, so very competent, moving easily in this great house with its high ceilings, exquisite furniture and discreet servants going about their business. He could remember too clearly being one of the servants himself ever to take them for granted. At heart he would always be an outsider.
EMILY WAS EXHAUSTED, and yet she found it hard to sleep except fitfully. The day after Pitt had gone to Oakfield House, she was awake even before the most junior housemaid, although instead of getting up, she lay in the dark going over all the disasters of the weekend in her mind and dreading the day to come.
When she did get up she had a steady dull headache, and her first cup of tea did not help, nor did the hot water her maid brought her to wash in, but the aroma of the oil of lavender she offered was very pleasant. Emily dressed carefully in a teal-blue gown and admired her reflection in the glass, although it gave her no pleasure. She looked perfect. Her figure was completely returned after the birth of her daughter Evangeline, at present safely with her nurse and her elder half brother, Edward, in their London house. The morning dress was the latest fashion, and the color became her, as did any green or blue. Her fair hair, with its soft, natural curl which Charlotte used to envy so much, was elaborately dressed and set exactly as intended. No maid ever had difficulty with it.
But all these things were trivial. Even the wretched thought of having to cajole and persuade the staff to do their duties, calming upset nerves, soothing fears, assuring them there was no lunatic in the house, no one else was going to be killed, was merely the duty of a good hostess. What underlay everything else was her fear for Jack. Cornwallis had asked him, and he had stepped into Greville’s position as chairman as if he had no conception of the danger in which he was placing himself. If there were people who cared so intensely about preventing the conference’s success that they would murder Greville to achieve that, then they would almost certainly be prepared to murder Jack also.
And Pitt was doing nothing to protect him, except leave that wretched Tellman at Jack’s elbow … as if that were any use! He did not even know who or what he was protecting him from. They should have canceled the conference. It was the only sane thing to do. Bring in more police and question everybody until the answer was clear. Cornwallis himself should have come.
She could feel the panic rising inside her. She saw pictures in her imagination of Jack lying dead, his face white, his eyes closed, and the tears prickled her eyes, her stomach knotted and suddenly she felt sick. There was no point in any false comfort of saying it could not happen. Of course it could. It had already happened once. Eudora Greville was a widow. She was alone, she had lost the man she had loved. Presumably, she had loved him? Not that that had anything to do with it. Emily loved Jack. This morning, sitting at her dressing table with a brooch in her hand, fingers shaking, she realized how very much.
And she was furious with him for accepting the chairmanship, even though she would have done the same herself, could she ever be in such a position. She had never run away from anything she wanted in her life. She would have despised him if he had. But he would at least have been safe.