She did not take her eyes from his face. She did not hear the gust of wind drive the falling leaves against the glass, or see them flurry over.
“What ’appened?”
“Neassa was beautiful,” he said softly. “Like Mrs. Greville, warm as sunlight on the autumn trees.” His eyes filled with tears. “Chinnery met her, as he said he would. She trusted him, you see. She went with him to the place where they were to meet Drystan. She couldn’t go alone because it was too dangerous.” He spat out the last word as if it scorched his tongue. “A woman alone at night.”
She waited while he struggled to regain control of himself and continue.
“He took her to the place on the headland where the boat was supposed to be, there with the wind above the sea.” His voice cracked. “And he raped her ….”
Gracie felt as if she had been struck.
“And cut off her beautiful hair,” he went on, his eyes fixed on hers as if the greenhouse with all its reflecting glass, the rows of flowers, the bright color, the wind outside, did not exist. “And left her there for her people to find,” he finished.
“Oh, Finn! That’s terrible!” She breathed out in horror too great for long and passionate words. She felt numb inside. The betrayal was like a blackness that swallowed everything. “What did ’e do, poor Drystan?” She dreaded the answer, but she had to know.
“He found her,” he answered in little above a whisper, his fist clenched white. “He went mad with grief. The poor, trusting soul, he never dreamed even then that it was Chinnery.”
A starling hopped across the roof, its feet rattling on the glass, but neither of them heard it.
“What’d ’e do?” she asked again.
“He lost his head completely, and went and attacked the Catholic community, anyone he could find. He’d killed two of her brothers and injured the third before the English army caught up with him and shot him too.” He took a deep breath. “That was on the seventh of June, thirty years ago. Of course, in a little while both sides realized what had happened. The English took Chinnery back to England and covered it all up. Nobody ever heard of him again. It was probably for his own protection,” he added bitterly. “If any Irishman had found him, he’d have killed him and been hailed as a hero by both sides.”
“That’s terrible!” Gracie said through a tight, aching throat. Her eyes prickled with tears and she had to swallow hard. “It’s awful!”
“It’s Ireland, Gracie.” He picked another flower and handed it to her. “Even love can’t win.” He smiled as he said it, but his eyes were full of just as much pain as she felt for the people gone thirty years ago. Time did not matter. The loss was real. It could have been anybody. It could be themselves.
He leaned forward, so close to her she could feel the warmth of his skin, and he kissed her lips, slowly, gentry, as if he wanted to count every second and remember it. Then he reached forward and took the flowers from her and laid them on the bench and put his arms around her, holding her softly, and kissed her again.
When at last he moved away Gracie’s heart was hammering, and she opened her eyes to look at him, certain that what she saw would be beautiful. It was. He was smiling.
“Take your white flowers back,” he said under his breath. “And watch carefully for yourself, Gracie Phipps. There’s disaster in this house, and who’s to say there won’t be others yet. I’d hate more than you can know for you to get hurt.” He put up his hand and touched her hair for a moment, then turned and walked past her and out of the door, leaving her to pick another few chrysanthemums and go back to the house with her feet barely touching the ground, and the taste of his lips still on hers.
Charlotte bit her tongue rather than reply to Emily as she felt inclined. What she wanted to say to Kezia Moynihan made excellent sense, but she could hardly say it after quarreling with her own sister, when the better part of her knew exactly what the reason was. Emily was terrified for Jack physically, but also she was afraid he would not measure up to whatever standard she had set for him, or he had set for himself, with this wretched conference.
She found Kezia in the morning room as Emily had said. She was sitting on the padding of the club fender, her skirts puffed out around her. Charlotte went in quite casually and sat down near the fire as if she were cold, when in fact she was merely angry.
“Do you think it is going to clear?” she asked, glancing towards the window and the really quite pleasant sky.
“The weather?” Kezia said with a slight smile.
“That also,” Charlotte agreed, sinking back. “It is all rather wretched, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” Kezia shrugged slightly. “And I cannot honestly imagine it getting any better. Have you seen the newspapers?”
“No. Is there something of interest?”
“Only the latest comments on the Parnell-O’Shea divorce. I cannot see Parnell lasting long after this, whatever the verdict is.” Her face tightened. Charlotte knew what her thoughts must be, what they had to be, regarding Fergal. The risk he had taken was insane.
As if Charlotte had spoken her thoughts aloud, Kezia clenched her fists and stared into the fire.
“When I think what he’s thrown away, I could hate him,” she said bitterly. “I understand why men punch each other. It must be very relieving to be able to strike out as hard as you can when someone exasperates you beyond endurance.”
“I’m sure,” Charlotte agreed. “But I think the relief would last a very short time, then it would have to be paid for.”
“How very sensible you are,” Kezia said without an iota of admiration.
“I’ve cut off my nose to spite my face too often to think it’s clever,” Charlotte replied, keeping her temper.
“I find that difficult to imagine.” Kezia picked up the poker and leaning sideways, prodded viciously at the fire.
“That is because you leap to judgments about other people and find it very difficult to imagine their feelings at all,” Charlotte replied, letting go her temper with considerable satisfaction. “It seems to me the fault you criticize in your brother is exactly the one you suffer from yourself.”
Kezia froze, then turned around very slowly, her face red, although it was impossible to tell whether it was with anger or the heat from the fire.
“That is the stupidest thing you have said so far! We ate exact opposites. I followed my faith and was loyal to my people at the cost of the only person I have ever loved, as Fergal commanded me to. But he’s thrown everything away, betrayed all of us, and committed adultery with a married woman, as well as a Roman Catholic actually representing the enemy!”
“I meant the inability to place yourself in anyone else’s situation and imagine how they feel,” Charlotte explained. “Fergal did not understand that you truly loved Cathal. He saw it only as a matter of obedience to your faith and loyalty to your people’s way of life. Without any compassion at all, he ordered you to give him up.”
“And I did! God forgive me.”
“Perhaps he has never been really in love, wildly, utterly and madly in love, as you were—until now?”
“Is that an excuse?” Kezia demanded, her pale eyes blazing.
“No. It is a lack of understanding, or even the effort to imagine,” Charlotte answered.
Kezia was surprised. “What are you saying?”
“That you have been so in love, why can’t you imagine how he feels now about Iona, even if you can’t condone it?”
Kezia said nothing, turning away again, the flames’ reflection warm on her cheek.
“If you are honest, absolutely honest,” Charlotte went on, “would you be so bitterly angry if you had not loved Cathal and been forced to give him up? Isn’t a lot of your rage really your own pain?”
“What if it is?” Kezia still had the poker in her hand, gripped like a sword. “Is that not fair?”