“Yes, of course, Mrs. Williams. Thank you.”
On returning upstairs she went into the morning room, where there was a blazing fire, and found Justine talking to Kezia and Iona. The atmosphere was brittle but still within the bounds of civility. But then Kezia had kept her greatest anger for her brother, and Charlotte had explained why. Emily thought that in similar circumstances she might have felt the same.
“I was thinking of going for a walk,” Iona said dubiously, staring out of the tall windows at the gray sky. “But it looks very cold.”
“An excellent idea,” Justine agreed, rising to her feet. “It will be invigorating, and we shall return well in time for luncheon.”
“Luncheon!” Iona looked surprised and swiveled to glance at the mantel clock, which said twenty-eight minutes to eleven. “We could walk halfway to London in that time.”
Justine smiled. “Not against that wind, and not in skirts.”
“Oh, have you worn the bloomers?” Kezia asked with interest. “They look very practical, if a little immodest. I should love to try them.”
“Do you ride a bicycle?” Emily said quickly. Bicycling was surely a safe subject. It was appalling having to think so hard before even the slightest remark. “I have seen several different sorts. It must be a marvelous sensation.” She was spinning out every comment to make it last. It was pathetic. She hoped fervently that Iona would go for a walk and leave Kezia behind. She must not be seen to try too hard to bring it about. She had never in her life before spent a weekend where almost everyone was so acutely uncomfortable.
They went on discussing bicycles for several more minutes, then Justine led the way, and she and Iona left to collect canes and shawls for their walk. Emily remained with Kezia, struggling to continue some kind of conversation.
After half an hour she excused herself and went to look for Charlotte. Why was she not there helping? She must know how appallingly difficult it was. Emily relied upon her, and she was off somewhere else, presumably comforting Eudora—as if anyone could.
But when she went upstairs to the sitting room which Eudora was using, she found not Charlotte with her, but Pitt. Eudora was sitting in one of the big chairs, and Pitt was bending in front of the fire, stoking it. He should not be doing that. That was what footmen were for.
“Good morning, Mrs. Greville,” Emily said solicitously. “How are you? Good morning, Thomas.”
Pitt straightened up with a wince as his aching muscles caught him, and replied.
“Good morning, Mrs. Radley,” Eudora said with a faint smile. She looked ten years older than she had when she arrived at Ashworth Hall. Her skin had no bloom to it. Her eyes were still wonderful, but the lids were puffed. She had had too little sleep, and her hair no longer shone with the same richness. It was remarkable how quickly shock and misery dulled the looks, as rapidly as any illness.
“Did you manage to sleep?” Emily asked with concern. “If you like, I can have Gwen make you something that will help a little. We have plenty of lavender, and the oil is most pleasant. Or perhaps you would like chamomile tea and a little honey with biscuits before retiring tonight?”
“Thank you,” Eudora said absently, barely looking at Emily, her attention upon Pitt.
He stood back from the fire and turned to Emily. He also looked strained, as if he were only too aware of Eudora’s distress.
“How about a little vervain tea?” Emily suggested. “Or if we don’t have it, basil or sage? I should have thought of it before.”
“I am sure Doll will take care of it, thank you,” Eudora replied. “You are very thoughtful, but you have so much to do.”
It was not dismissal, simply absentrnindedness. Her thoughts, even her eyes, were on Pitt.
“Is there anything I can offer which would help?” Emily must try. Eudora looked so deeply troubled, even though Pitt was obviously doing all he could, and seemed profoundly con cerned. There was an air of gentleness in him which was even greater than his characteristic compassion.
Eudora turned to Emily, at last looking clearly at her. “I am sorry. I did not realize how shocked I have been. There is so much that—” She stopped. “I cannot seem to think properly. So much has … changed.”
Emily remembered other violent deaths, and investigations which had discovered whole aspects of lives which were unknown before. A few were creditable, brave; most were ugly, robbing even the safety of what we thought was held inviolable. There was no future, sometimes there was not even any past as one had treasured it. Was this what Pitt had been telling Eudora now? Was that the foundation for his tenderness towards her?
“Of course,” Emily said quietly. “I’ll have a tisane sent up. And a little food. Even if it is only bread and butter, you should eat.”
She withdrew and left them together.
The men were conferring again. Jack would be in charge, trying to get them to some kind of agreement. As she was coming down the stairs she saw the butler carrying a tray into the withdrawing room, and as he opened the door she heard the sound of raised voices. Then the door closed and cut them off. One of them in there had murdered Ainsley Greville, whether he had accomplices outside or not. Why was Pitt sitting and comforting Eudora? Compassion was all very well, but it was not his task. Charlotte should be doing that. Why wasn’t she?
Emily went the rest of the way down to the hall and was crossing it towards the conservatory when she almost bumped into Charlotte coming in from the garden.
“What are you doing?” Emily said sharply.
Charlotte closed the door behind her. Her hair was ruffled, as if she had been in the wind, and there was a flush in her cheeks.
“I went for a walk,” she answered. “Why?”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Why?”
Emily’s temper snapped. “Greville has been murdered by God knows who, but someone in the house, Jack’s life is in danger and Thomas is sitting upstairs comforting the widow instead of looking after him, or even trying to find who murdered Greville. The Irish are all at each others’ throats while I am trying to keep some kind of peace, the servants are fainting, weeping, quarreling or hiding under the stairs—and you are out in the garden walking! And you ask me why! Where are your wits?”
Charlotte paled, then two spots of color burned up in her cheeks.
“I was thinking,” she said coldly. “Sometimes a little thought is a great deal more beneficial than simply rushing around to give the appearance of doing something—”
“I have not been rushing around!” Emily snapped back. “I thought that the past would have taught you, if the present does not, that running a house this size, with guests, takes a great deal of skill and organization. I relied on you at least to keep Kezia and Iona in a civil conversation.”
“Justine was doing that—”
“And Thomas to try to guard Jack, as much as it can be done, and he’s up there”—she jabbed her finger towards the stairs—“comforting Eudora!”
“He’s probably questioning her,” Charlotte said icily.
“For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t a domestic murder!” Emily made an effort to control her voice. “If she knew anything she’d have told him in the beginning. It’s one of these men in there.”
“We all know that,” Charlotte agreed. “But which one? Maybe Padraig Doyle, have you thought of that?”
Emily had not thought of it, she did not think it now.
“Well, at least go and talk to Kezia. She’s by herself in the morning room. Perhaps you can persuade her to stop this ridiculous rage against Fergal. It doesn’t help anyone.” And with that Emily straightened her shoulders and marched back to the baize door and the servants’ quarters, although she had forgotten what she was going for.