“Does one forget?”
“Irishmen? Never. Do the English?”
“Sometimes,” she replied.
“Of course. You could hardly remember them all!” Then he caught himself immediately and his expression changed. “Do you want to meet him?” he asked.
“Yes—please.”
“Then you shall,” he promised.
There was a rustle of anticipation in the audience and everyone fell silent. After a moment or two the curtain rose and the play began. Charlotte concentrated so that she could speak intelligently when she was introduced to people at the intermission.
But she found following it difficult. There were frequent references to events she was not familiar with, even words she did not know, and there was an underlying air of sadness.
Was that how Cormac O’Neil felt: helpless, predestined to be overwhelmed? Everybody lost people they loved. Bereavement was a part of life. The only escape was to love no one. She stopped trying to understand the drama on the stage and, as discreetly as she could, she studied O’Neil.
He seemed to be alone. He looked neither right nor left, and the people on either side seemed to be with others.
The longer she watched him, the more totally alone did he seem to be. But she was equally sure that he was never bored. His eyes never strayed from the stage, yet at times his expression did reflect the drama.
By the time the intermission came Charlotte felt herself moved by the passion emanating from players and audience alike. But she was also confused by it. It made her feel more sharply than the lilt of a different accent, or even the sound of another language, that she was in a strange place, teeming with emotions she caught and lost again.
“May I take you to get something to drink?” McDaid asked her when the curtain fell and the lights were bright again. “And perhaps to meet one or two more of my friends? I’m sure they are dying of curiosity to know who you are, and of course how I know you.”
“I would be delighted,” she answered. “And how do you know me? We had better be accurate, or it will start people talking.” She smiled to rob the words of offense.
“But surely the sole purpose of coming to the theater with a beautiful woman is to start people talking?” He raised his eyebrows. “Otherwise one would be better to come alone, like Cormac O’Neil, and concentrate on the play, without distraction.”
“Thank you. I’m flattered to imagine I could distract you.” She inclined her head a little, enjoying the trivial play of words. “Especially from so intense a drama. The actors are superb. I have no idea what they are talking about at least half the time, and yet I am conquered by their emotions.”
“Are you sure you are not Irish?” he pressed.
“Not sure at all. Perhaps I am, and I should simply look harder. But please do not tell Mr. O’Neil that my grandmother’s name was O’Neil also, or I shall be obliged to admit that I know very little about her, and that would make me seem very discourteous, as if I did not wish to own that part of my heritage. The truth is I simply did not realize how interesting it would be.”
“I shall not tell him, if you don’t wish me to,” he promised.
“But you have not told me how we met,” she reminded him.
“I saw you across a room and asked a mutual acquaintance to introduce us,” he said. “Is that not always how one meets a woman one sees, and admires?”
“I imagine it is. But what room was it? Was it here in Ireland? I imagine not, since I have been here only a couple of days. But have you been to London lately?” She smiled at him. “Or ever, for that matter?”
“Of course I’ve been to London. Do you think I am some provincial bumpkin?” He shrugged. “Only once, mind you. I did not care for it—nor it for me. It was so huge, so crowded with people, and yet at the same time anonymous. You could live and die there, and never be seen.”
“But I have been in Dublin only a couple of days,” she said to fill the silence.
“Then I was bewitched at first sight,” he said reasonably, suddenly smiling again. “I’m sorry I insulted your home. It was unforgivable. Call it my own inadequacy in the midst of three million English.”
“Oh quite a few Irishmen, believe me,” she said with a smile. “And none of them in the least inadequate.”
He bowed.
“And I accepted your invitation because I was flattered, and irresponsible?” she challenged.
“You are quite right,” he conceded. “We must have mutual friends—some highly respectable aunt, I daresay. Do you have any such relations?”
“My great-aunt Vespasia, by marriage. If she recommended you I would accompany you anywhere on earth,” she responded unhesitatingly.
“She sounds charming.”
“She is. Believe me, if you had met her really, you would not dare to treat me other than with the utmost respect.”
“Where did I meet this formidable lady?”
“Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. It doesn’t matter. Any surroundings would be instantly forgotten once you had seen her. But London will do.”
“Vespasia Cumming-Gould.” He turned the name over on his tongue. “It seems to find an echo in my mind.”
“It has set bells ringing all over Europe,” she told him. “You had better be aware that she is of an indeterminate age, but her hair is silver and she walks like a queen. She was the most beautiful and most outrageous woman of her generation. If you don’t know that, they will know that you never met her.”
“I am now most disappointed that I did not.” He offered her his arm, and they began to descend the stairway.
Together they walked down to the room where refreshments were already being served, and the audience had gathered to greet friends and exchange views on the performance.
It was several minutes of pleasant exchange before McDaid introduced her to a woman with wildly curling hair named Dolina Pearse and a man of unusual height whom he addressed as Ardal Barralet. Beside them, but apparently not with them, was Cormac O’Neil.
“O’Neil!” McDaid said with surprise. “Haven’t seen you for some time. How are you?”
Barralet turned as if he had not noticed O’Neil standing so close as to brush coattails with him.
“ ’Evening, O’Neil. Enjoying the performance? Excellent, don’t you think?” he said casually.
O’Neil had either to answer or offer an unmistakable rebuff.
“Very polished,” he said, looking straight back at Barralet. His voice was unusually deep and soft, as if he too were an actor, caressing the words. He did not even glance at Charlotte. “Good evening, Mrs. Pearse.” He acknowledged Dolina.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Neil,” she said coldly.
“You know Fiachra McDaid?” Barralet filled in the sudden silence. “But perhaps not Mrs. Pitt? She is newly arrived in Dublin.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt,” O’Neil said politely, but without interest. McDaid he looked at with a sudden blaze of emotion.
McDaid stared back at him calmly, and the moment passed.
Charlotte wondered if she had seen it, or merely imagined it.
“What brings you to Dublin, Mrs. Pitt?” Dolina inquired, clearly out of a desire to change the subject. There was no interest in either her voice or her face.
“Good report of the city,” Charlotte replied. “I have made a resolution that I will no longer keep on putting off into the future the good things that can be done today.”
“How very English,” Dolina murmured. “And virtuous.” She added the word as if it were insufferably boring.
Charlotte felt her temper flare. She looked straight back at Dolina. “If it is virtuous to come to Dublin, then I have been misled,” she said drily. “I was hoping it was going to be fun.”
McDaid laughed sharply, his face lighting with sudden amusement. “It depends how you take your pleasures, my dear. Oscar Wilde, poor soul, is one of us, of course, and he made the world laugh. For years we have tried to be as like the English as we can. Now at last we are finding ourselves, and we take our theater packed with anguish, poetry, and triple meanings. You can dwell on whichever one suits your mood, but most of them are doom-laden, as if our fate is in blood. If we laugh, it is at ourselves, and as a stranger you might find it impolite to join in.”