And the other fear, which she refused to look at, was that he would fail, not just because the task was probably impossible, but because he was not the diplomat Ainsley Greville had been. He had not the experience, the polish, the knowledge of Irish affairs, simply not the skill.
All that hovered on the edge of her mind, and she would not allow it to the center. She would not permit herself to put it into words. It was disloyal, and it was untrue … possibly. She loved Jack for his charm, for his gentleness with her, his ability to laugh, to be funny and brave, to see the beautiful in things and enjoy it, and because he loved her. She did not need him to be clever, to become famous or earn a great deal of money. She already had money, inherited from George.
Perhaps Jack needed to do these things for himself, or at least to try, to find his own measure, succeed or fail. She would rather have protected him … from both dangers. Her son, Edward, was George’s son, not Jack’s, and there were times when she thought of him with the same fierce desire to shield him from harm, even from the necessary pains of growing. She had never considered herself maternal. The idea was ridiculous. Nobody was less so. She was practical, ambitious, witty, quick to learn, she could adapt to almost any situation, and she never told herself comfortable lies. She was a good-natured realist.
And yet that morning she quarreled with Jack. It was the last thing she had intended to do. He came into her dressing room almost the moment Gwen left. He stood behind her, meeting her eyes in the glass and smiling. He bent and kissed the top of her head without disarranging her hair.
She swiveled around on the seat, regarding him very seriously.
“You will be careful, won’t you?” she urged. “Keep Tellman with you. I know he’s a misery, but just endure it for the present.” She rose to her feet, unconsciously putting up her hands to straighten his lapels, although they were perfect, and dust off an imaginary fleck of cotton.
“Stop fussing, Emily,” he said quietly. “Nobody is going to attack me in public. I doubt anybody is going to attack me at all.”
“Why not? Don’t you think you can do whatever Ainsley Greville began? You were there all the time. I’m sure you can do as much as he could have.” Then she changed her mind, realizing what she had implied. “Although perhaps all you should really try to accomplish is keeping everyone from giving up. It could always be continued later, in London ….”
“When they can appoint a new chairman,” he said with a smile, but she saw the hurt in his eyes, self-mocking but very real.
“When they can take better care of your safety,” she corrected him, but she knew he did not believe her. What could she say to undo it? How could she make him believe that she had confidence in him, whatever anyone else thought? If she tried too hard she would only make it worse. Why did he have to want something so difficult? Perhaps it was more than he had the skill to achieve?
How could she persuade him she believed something she was not sure of herself? And all the time the sick fear for him crawled around inside her, gnawing away at everything else, stopping her from thinking clearly. She tried to tell herself it was foolish. But it was not foolish. The body of Ainsley Greville, lying in the icehouse, was horrible testimony of that!
“Thomas will take as good care of our safety as can be done,” he said after a moment’s silence. “The house is full of people. Don’t worry. Just see if you can keep Kezia and Iona from quarreling, and look after poor Eudora.”
“Of course,” she said as if it were a simple task. He did not even appreciate that the real struggle would be to keep the servants from quarreling, having hysterics, or walking out altogether.
“Charlotte will help you,” he added.
“Of course,” she agreed with an inward shudder. Charlotte would mean well, but her idea of tact could be a disaster. She would have to make sure she did not allow Charlotte anywhere near the kitchen. Charlotte’s confronting the cook would be the ultimate domestic catastrophe.
As it happened, breakfast was tense but passed off really quite well. All the men were concentrating on returning to the discussions and were finished and leaving when the women arrived, so Kezia and Fergal were able to avoid each other. Fergal and Iona cast burning looks as they passed in the doorway, but neither spoke. Eudora was still in her room. Piers and Justine were subdued, but Justine at least conducted herself with composure and sustained an agreeable conversation about trivia which drew everyone in, to Emily’s relief.
The household management was a different matter. The butler was offended because the visiting valets were not in his control, which he felt they should have been. They dined separately, and it was greatly inconvenient. The laundry maids were overworked because one of them was in bed with the vapors and there was far too much to do. Miss Moynihan’s maid gave herself airs and had managed to quarrel with Mrs. McGinley’s maid, with the result that an entire bucketful of soap was spilled all over the laundry room floor.
The scullery maid had a fit of the giggles and was perfectly useless, not that she was much good at the best of times. Eudora’s maid was so distressed she forgot what she was doing half the time, and poor Gracie was forever picking up after her—when she wasn’t watching Hennessey, or listening to him, or wondering when he was corning back again.
Tellman was getting more and more ill-tempered, and Dilkes was fed up with him. He seemed to be neither use nor ornament, although presumably his being a policeman explained that and why Pitt endured him.
But it was Mrs. Williams, the cook, who finally broke Emily’s patience.
“It isn’t my job to be doin’ plain cookin’,” she said indignantly. “I’m a professed cook, not a general cook. I do specialities. You’ll still be wantin’ that Delilah’s trifle tonight, and baked goose, no doubt? Them kitchen maids is supposed to fetch after me, not me be runnin’ behind them as they get a fit o’ cryin’, or is hidin’ from goblins in the cupboard under the stairs. And I’m not havin’ any butler tellin’ me how to discipline girls in my own kitchen, an’ that’s a fact, Mrs. Radley!”
“Who’s in the cupboard under the stairs?” Emily demanded.
“Georgina. An’ that’s no name for a kitchen maid! I told her if she don’t come out this minute, I’ll send in worse after her than goblins! I’ll come in after ’er meself. An’ she’ll rue the day! I’m not doin’ vegetables and rice puddings an’ custards. I got venison to do, an’ apple pies, an’ turbot, an’ Lord knows what else. You put a sore trial on a decent person, Mrs. Radley, an’ that’s a fact.”
Emily was obliged to bite her tongue. She would dearly like to have fired Mrs. Williams on the spot, with considerable sarcasm, but she could not afford to. Nor could she afford to lose face. It would never be forgotten, and would open the door to all kinds of future troubles.
“There is a sore trial upon all of us, Mrs. Williams,” Emily replied, forcing her expression into one of friendliness she did not feel. “We are all frightened and worried. My greatest concern is that the household should emerge from this awful weekend with honor, so that afterwards people will remember all that was good. The rest will not be associated with us, but with Irish politics.”
“Well …” Mrs. Wilhams said, snorting through her nose, “there is that, I suppose. Although I’m sure I don’t know what’s good about it.”
“The food is more than good, it is excellent,” Emily replied with something a shade less than the truth. “This is the sort of disaster which sorts the great cook from the merely good. Test under fire, Mrs. Williams. Many people can do well when everything is fine for them and there is no invention called for, no courage or extraordinary discipline.”
“Well!” Mrs. Williams straightened up noticeably. “I daresay as you have a point, Mrs. Radley. We’ll not let you down. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I daren’t stay here talking any longer, unless there was something else? I got to be about my work if I’m to do that daft Georgina’s as well.”