At that time his cases had been rooted in human passions, and occasionally social ills, but never secrets of state. There had been no reason why he would not discuss them with her and benefit from her greater insight into Society’s rules and structures, and especially the subtler ways of women whose lives were so different from his own he could not guess what lay behind their manners and their words.
At times it had been dangerous. But she had loved the adventure of both heart and mind, the cause for which to fight. She had never for an instant been bored, or suffered the greater dullness of soul that comes when one does not have a purpose one believes in passionately.
Charlotte laid out her toiletries both on the dressing table and in the very pleasant bathroom that she shared with another female guest. Then she took off her traveling skirt and blouse, removed the pins from her hair, and lay down on the bed in her petticoat.
She must have fallen asleep because she woke to hear a tap on the door. She sat up, for a moment completely at a loss as to where she was. The furniture, the lamps on the walls, the windows were all unfamiliar. Then it came back to her and she rose so quickly she was dragging the coverlet with her.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Victor,” he replied quietly, perhaps remembering he was supposed to be her brother, and Mrs. Hogan might have excellent hearing.
“Oh.” She looked down at herself in her underclothes, hair all over the place. “A moment, please,” she requested. There was no chance in the world of redoing her hair, but she must make herself decent. She was suddenly self-conscious about her appearance. She seized her skirt and jacket and pulled them on, misbuttoning the latter in her haste and having then to undo it all and start anew. He must be standing in the corridor, wondering what on earth was the matter with her.
“I’m coming,” she repeated. There was no time to do more than put the brush through her hair, then pull the door open.
He looked tired, but it did not stop the amusement in his eyes when he saw her, or a flash of appreciation she would have preferred not to be aware of. Perhaps she was not beautiful—certainly not in a conventional sense—but she was a remarkably handsome woman with fair, warm-toned skin and rich hair. And she had never, since turning sixteen, lacked the shape or allure of womanhood.
“You are invited to dinner this evening,” he said as soon as he was inside the room and the door closed. “It is at the home of John and Bridget Tyrone, whom I dare not meet yet. My friend Fiachra McDaid will escort you. I’ve known him a long time, and he will treat you with courtesy. Will you go … please?”
“Of course I will,” she said instantly. “Tell me something about Mr. McDaid, and about Mr. and Mrs. Tyrone. Any advantage I can have, so much the better. And what do they know of you? Will they be startled that you suddenly produce a half sister?” She smiled slightly. “Apart from someone looking for distant family in Ireland. And how well do you and I know each other? Do I know you work with Special Branch? We had better have grown up quite separately, because we know too little of each other. Even one mistake would arouse suspicion.”
He leaned against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. He looked completely casual, nothing like the man she knew professionally. She had a momentary vision of how he must have been twenty years ago: intelligent, elusive, unattainable—but to some women that in itself was an irresistible temptation. Before her marriage, and occasionally since, she had known women for whom that was an excitement far greater than the thought of a suitable marriage, even than a title or money.
She stood still, waiting for his reply, conscious of her traveling costume and extremely untidy hair.
“My father married your mother after my mother died,” he began.
She was about to express sympathy, then realized she had no idea whether it was true, or if he was making it up for the story they must tell. Perhaps better she was not confused with the truth, whatever that was.
“By the time you were born,” he continued. “I was already at university—Cambridge—you should know that. That is why we know each other so little. My father is from Buckinghamshire, but he could perfectly well have moved to London, so you may have grown up wherever you did. Always better to stay with the truth where you can. I know that area. I would have visited.”
“What did he do—our father?” she asked. This all had an air of unreality about it, even ridiculousness, but she knew it mattered, perhaps vitally.
“He had land in Buckinghamshire,” he replied. “He served in the Indian army. You don’t need to have known him well. I didn’t.”
She heard the sharpness of regret in his voice. “He died some time ago. Keep the mother you have. You and I have become acquainted only recently. This trip is in part for that purpose.”
“Why Ireland?” she asked. “Someone is bound to ask me.”
“My mother was Irish,” he replied.
“Really?” She was surprised, but perhaps she should have known it.
“No.” This time he smiled fully, with both sweetness and humor. “But she’s dead too. She won’t mind.”
She felt a strange lurch of pity inside her, an intimate knowledge of loneliness.
“I see,” she said quietly. “And these relatives I am looking for—how is it that I remain here without finding them? In fact, why do I think to find them anyway?”
“Perhaps it is best if you don’t,” he answered. “You merely want to see Dublin. I have told you stories about it, and we have seized the excuse to visit. That will flatter them, and be easy enough to believe. It’s a beautiful city and has a character that is unique.”
She did not argue, but she felt that nothing very much would happen if she did not ask questions. Polite interest could be very easily brushed aside and met with polite and uninformative answers.
CHARLOTTE COLLECTED HER CAPE. They left Molesworth Street and in the pleasant spring evening walked in companionable silence the half mile to the house of Fiachra McDaid.
Narraway knocked on the carved mahogany door, and after a few moments it was opened by an elegant man wearing a casual velvet jacket of dark green. He was quite tall, but even under the drape of the fabric Charlotte could see that he was a little plump around the middle. In the lamplight by the front door his features were melancholy, but as soon as he recognized Narraway, his expression lit with a vitality that made him startlingly attractive. It was difficult to know his age from his face, but he had white wings to his black hair, so Charlotte judged him to be close to fifty.
“Victor!” he said cheerfully, holding out his hand and grasping Narraway’s fiercely. “Wonderful invention, the telephone, but there’s nothing like seeing someone.” He turned to Charlotte. “And you must be Mrs. Pitt, come to our queen of cities for the first time. Welcome. It will be my pleasure to show you some of it. I’ll pick the best bits, and the best people; there’ll be time only to taste it and no more. Your whole life wouldn’t be long enough for all of it. Come in, and have a drink before we start out.” He held the door wide and, after a glance at Narraway, Charlotte accepted.
Inside, the rooms were elegant, very Georgian in appearance. Their contents could easily have been found in a home in any good area of London, except perhaps for some of the pictures on the walls, and a certain character to the silver goblets on the mantel. She was interested in the subtle differences, but had no time to indulge in such trivial matters anyway.
“You’ll be wanting to go to the theater,” Fiachra McDaid went on, looking at Charlotte. He offered her sherry, which she merely sipped. She needed a very clear head, and she had eaten little.