“Nobody would believe them if they did,” Vespasia argued. “The powers of the legends which tell us who we are, and justify what we want to do, is far too great to take notice of a few inconvenient facts and dates.”
“You are sure?” Charlotte urged, her fork held up in one hand. “Couldn’t Chinnery have died later? Maybe the same date, but the following year? To think her own brothers murdered her like that, cutting off her hair first, and then his people let Drystan think it was the Doyles, so he attacked them and was shot! Or did they know it was the Doyles?” She found her hand clenching on her fork, and her stomach knotted.
“Yes, they told Drystan it was,” Vespasia answered. “With the obvious result that he went mad with rage and grief and attacked them.” Her voice was hard. “That way the Catholics could blame the Protestants for seducing one of their women and for allying with an English traitor, which resulted in her rape and murder; and the Protestants could blame the Catholics for roughly the same thing; and they could all blame us. And there was no one left alive to say otherwise.”
“Did they know Chinnery was dead?”
“No, I doubt that.” Vespasia shook her head. “But they knew his denial would convince no one, and after that he would be withdrawn from Ireland, which was all that mattered.”
“But what about Chinnery’s family?” Charlotte asked. “Don’t they want his name cleared? That’s a monstrous crime he is accused of.”
“It is cleared, as far as they are concerned. He died a hero’s death in Liverpool Harbour.”
“But no one knows that!” Charlotte protested angrily.
“Yes, they do. It was in the Liverpool newspapers at the time, and his family lived in Liverpool.”
“In the newspapers?” Charlotte let her fork drop. “Then it can be proved.”
“To whom?” Vespasia asked dryly. “The people who tell stories about Drystan and Neassa? The poets and harpists who sing songs by hearths and by moonlight to keep the myths alive? My dear, Macbeth was actually the last High King of Scotland, when Scotland extended as far south as Yorkshire, and he ruled for seventeen peaceful and prosperous years.” Her silver eyes were full of irony. “And when he died his people buried him in the sacred isle of the kings. He was succeeded by Lady Macbeth’s son Lulach, as the rightful heir through his mother’s line. She was a remarkable woman who instituted many reforms for the care of the widowed and orphaned.” She shrugged, then speared her fork into the salmon on her plate. “But to accept that would spoil one of Shakespeare’s best plays, so no one wishes to know.”
“Well, I am going to find that newspaper and show people that that particular story is a monstrous fabrication,” Charlotte said with total conviction. “Macbeth is academic now, but this is still real!”
Vespasia looked at her steadily. “Are you sure that is wise? Or even that it will make any difference? People get very angry when their dreams are shown to be false. The emotion is what matters, the force which sustained the dream. We believe what we need to believe.”
“The illusion fed the hatred—” Charlotte started.
“No, my dear, the hatred fed the dream. Take that dream away and another will be created to take its place.” Vespasia sipped her water. “You cannot solve the Irish Problem, Charlotte. But I suppose perhaps you may make a difference to one or two people. Although I doubt very much that they will accept your word for what is in a newspaper, and how you may convince them I don’t know.”
Actually, neither did Charlotte. Her intention was rather more practical, but she did not wish to involve Vespasia in it, even by committing her to the knowledge. She merely smiled and continued with her meal.
When Charlotte left in the early afternoon, after having thanked Vespasia for her help and her counsel, and above all for her friendship, she took a hansom to the British Museum. She went to the reading room and asked the grim and very formal attendant if she might see the Liverpool newspapers of June of the year of 1860, and then the Irish newspapers for the same period. Fortunately, she had a very small pair of nail scissors in her reticule, something she frequently carried with her because they served in a number of emergencies, along with a file, a needle and thread, a thimble, and several gold safety pins.
“Yes, miss,” he said gravely. “If you will follow me, miss.” He led the way along narrow aisles between enormous banks of books and papers until he found her a reading desk, then promised to return with the requested newspapers.
At the table next to her was a young man with a fierce mustache and a deadly earnest expression. He seemed utterly absorbed in a political pamphlet; he barely seemed to breathe, so intent was he upon it.
On the other side of her was an elderly gentleman of military aspect who glared at her as if she had intruded in some gentleman’s club, and considering what she had it in mind to do, his suspicion was more than justified.
Her newspapers were brought, and she thanked the attendant with a charming smile—but she hoped not so charming that he would remember her.
It took her a quarter of an hour of diligent reading of print to discover both the articles she needed. It was a much more difficult thing to devise a way of cutting them out without being seen. For all she knew, to steal the pieces of newspaper might very well be a criminal offense. It would be most unfortunate to find herself under arrest and hauled off to Pitt’s police station charged with vandalism and common theft!
She turned and smiled at the military gentleman.
He looked uncomfortable and swiveled to face the other way.
The student of revolution did not appear to notice either of them.
Charlotte rattled the newspaper and sniffed loudly.
The military man was startled and looked at her with disapproval.
She smiled at him radiantly.
He was profoundly unhappy. He blushed red and fished for a handkerchief to blow his nose.
She pulled out a lace handkerchief and held it out towards him, smiling even more brightly.
He regarded her with utter horror, rose from his seat and fled.
Charlotte bent very low over the newspaper, shielding it from the side of the revolutionary, and cupped out first one piece she wanted, and then the other. She was shaking and her face was hot. She was stealing and she knew it, but there was no other way to prove the truth of what she was saying.
She closed the huge ledgers and left them on the table. She glanced around to see if she could find the attendant. He appeared to be chastising an elderly lady in a mauve-colored hat. Charlotte put her head down, the pieces of paper in her reticule along with the scissors, and walked rapidly and as nearly silently as possible out of the reading room, her hand over her mouth as if she were about to be ill.
A young man made a halfhearted attempt to apprehend her, then abandoned the idea. He might have been going to ask her to replace her reading material, or account for it, but he may simply have been going to offer her assistance. She would never know.
Outside the cold air of the street was marvelous, but she was still burningly aware of the papers in her reticule and the dour face of the senior attendant. She wanted to laugh aloud at the military man, and then to run as fast as she could and be lost among the crowd. She did have a quiet chuckle, and then walked as rapidly as she could, and not attract undue attention to herself, until she saw a hansom, which she hailed, and directed it to take her to the railway station.
It was dark and bitterly cold when Charlotte arrived back at Ashworth Hall and was met by a tired footman. All the rest of the household had retired early, shaken and frightened after the day’s events. The hall had been swept and dusted and mopped again, but the dust was still settling, and no amount of housework by maids with brooms or cloths could disguise the splintered wood of the study door, now rehung but still badly scarred, and definitely a trifle crooked.