A real woman had warmth, vulnerability, fears and blemishes of her own, or else how could she have any gentleness towards yours? Without experience, one was a cup waiting to be filled — well-crafted perhaps, but empty. And to a soul of any courage or passion, experience also meant a degree of pain, false starts, occasional bad judgements, a knowledge of loss. Young women were charming for a short while, but very soon they bored him.
He was used to loneliness, but there were times when its burden ached so deeply he could never be unaware of it. After all, that had happened in Ireland. Now, standing on the deck with Charlotte, watching the wind unravel her hair and blow it across her face was another such time.
She had already told him what she had learned of Talulla, John Tyrone and the money, and of Fiachra McDaid. It was complicated. Some of the situation he had guessed from what O’Casey had told him, but he had not understood Talulla’s place in it. Without her and Fiachra having convinced her that her parents were innocent, she would not have blamed Cormac. She would still have blamed Narraway, of course, but that was fair. Kate’s death was as much his fault as anyone’s, in so far as it was foreseeable. He had known how Sean felt about her.
What did Talulla imagine Cormac could have done to save Sean? Sean was a rebel whose wife gave him up to the English. Was that betrayal, treason to the spirit of Ireland, or just a practical decision to avoid more pointless, heart-breaking bloodshed? How many people were still alive who would not have been if the uprising had happened? Perhaps half the people she knew.
But of course she wouldn’t see it that way. She couldn’t afford to. She needed her anger, and it was justified only if her parents were the victims.
And Fiachra? Narraway winced at his own blindness. How desperately he had misread him! He had concealed the passion of his Irish nationalism inside what had seemed to be a concern for the disenfranchised of all nations. The more Narraway thought about it, the more it made sense. Odd how often a sweeping love for all could be willing to sacrifice the one, or the ten, or the score, almost with indifference. Fiachra would see the glory of greater social justice, freedom for Ireland — and the price would slip through his fingers uncounted. He was a dreamer who stepped over the corpses without even seeing them. Under the charm there was ice — and by God, he was clever. In law he had committed no crime. If justice ever reached him, it would be for some other reason, at another time.
Narraway looked at Charlotte again. She became aware of it and turned to him.
‘There’s no one anywhere on the whole sea,’ she said with a slightly rueful smile. ‘I think we’re safe.’
The inclusion of herself in his escape gave him a sort of warmth that he was aware was ridiculous. He was behaving like a man of twenty.
‘So far,’ he agreed. ‘But when we get on the train at Holyhead you would be safer to be in a different carriage. I doubt there will be anyone looking for me, but it’s not impossible.’
‘Who?’ she said, as if dismissing the idea. ‘No one could have got here ahead of us.’ Before he could answer she went on, ‘And don’t tell me they anticipated your escape. If they had, they’d have prevented it. Don’t be naive, Victor. They wanted you hanged. It would be the perfect revenge for Sean.’
He winced. ‘You’re very blunt.’
‘I suppose you just noticed that!’ She gave a tiny, twisted smile.
‘No, of course not. But that was unusual, even for you.’
‘This is an unusual situation,’ she said. ‘At least for me. Should I be trite if I asked you if you do it often?’
‘Ah, Charlotte!’ He brushed his hand through his heavy hair and turned away, needing to hide the emotion in his face from her. He needed it to be private, but — far more than that — he knew that it would embarrass her to realise how intense were his feelings for her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly.
Hell, he swore to himself. He had not been quick enough.
‘I know it’s serious,’ she went on, apparently meaning something quite different.
A wave of relief swept over him, and, perversely, of disappointment. Did some part of him want her to know? If so, it must be suppressed. It would create a difficulty between them that could never be forgotten.
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
‘Will you go to Lisson Grove?’ Now she sounded anxious.
‘No. I’d rather they didn’t even know I was back in England, and certainly not where.’ He saw the relief in her face. ‘There’s only one person I dare trust totally, and that is Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I shall get off the train one or two stations before London and find a telephone. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get hold of her straight away. It’ll be long after dark by then. If not, I’ll find rooms and wait there until I can.’
His voice dropped to a more urgent note. ‘You should go home. You won’t be in any danger. Or else you could go to Vespasia’s house, if you prefer. Perhaps you should wait and see what she says.’ He realised as he spoke that he had no idea what had happened to Pitt, even if he were safe. To send Charlotte back to a house with no one there but a strange maid was possibly a cruel thing to do. She had said before that her sister Emily was away somewhere, similarly her mother. God! What a mess. But if anything had happened to Pitt, no one would be able to comfort her. He could not bear to think of that.
Please heaven whoever was behind this, they did not think Pitt a sufficient danger to have done anything drastic to him. ‘We’ll get off a couple of stations before London,’ he repeated. ‘And call Vespasia.’
‘Good idea,’ she agreed, turning back to watch the gulls circling over the white wake of the ship. The two of them stood side by side in silence, oddly comforted by the endless, rhythmic moving of the water and the pale wings of the birds echoing the curved line of it.
Narraway was connected with Vespasia immediately. Only when he heard the sound of her voice, which was thin and a little crackly over the line, did he realise how overwhelmingly glad he was to speak with her.
‘Victor! Where on earth are you?’ she demanded. Then the instant later: ‘No. Do not tell me. Are you safe? Is Charlotte safe?’
‘Yes, we are both safe,’ he answered her. She was the only woman since his childhood who had ever made him feel as if he were accountable to her. ‘We are not far away, but I thought it better to speak to you before coming the rest of the journey.’
‘Don’t,’ she said simply. ‘It would be far better if you were to find some suitable place, which we shall not name, and we shall meet there. A very great deal has happened since you left, but there is far more that is about to happen. I do not know what that is, except that it is of profound importance, and it may be tragically violent. But I dare say you have deduced that for yourself. I rather fear that your whole trip to Ireland was designed to take you away from London. Everything else was incidental.’
‘Who’s in charge now?’ he asked. A chill seeped into him, even though he was standing in a very comfortable hotel hallway, looking from left to right every few moments to make sure he was still alone and not overheard. ‘Charles Austwick?’
‘No,’ she answered, and there was a heaviness in her voice, even over the wires. ‘That was only temporary. Thomas is back from France. That trip was entirely abortive. He has replaced Austwick, and is now in your office, and hating it.’
Narraway was so stunned for a moment he could think of no words that were adequate to his emotions, certainly none that he could repeat in front of Vespasia, or Charlotte, were she close enough to hear.
‘Victor!’ Vespasia said sharply.