“Of course,” she said with instant sobriety. “When it is hurtful it is quite a different matter. I suppose a great deal of it is. A lot of people are ill informed, and their remarks better not made. I was thinking only of trivia, and perhaps I spoke too lightly anyway.” She accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman, as did the others.
“Oh no, it is I who should apologize,” Kathleen said, blushing a little. “I did not mean to be so contrary. It is only that I am acquainted with people who have been hurt by unthinking repetition of matters which were not fully true, or were of a deeply private nature. And of course those are the things gossips delight in most.”
Around the room there was a murmur of expectation, and then a lessening of sound. Apparently something was about to begin. Instinctively they turned towards the piano, where a large lady with a gown winking with beads at the bosom was attempting to command attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. There was a murmur of polite applause. The evening’s entertainment had commenced. Charlotte smiled at Kathleen and deliberately took a seat beside her, aware of Clio’s eyes on her, and then her head turning away as she engaged Devlin O’Neil in whispered conversation.
The pianist began to play, without flourish or more than a single glance at his audience. He seemed to be rapt in his music and to be conjuring it out of his instrument solely for his own enjoyment. Or perhaps enjoyment was the wrong word. Watching him, Charlotte felt as if it were a necessity for him, more of a sustenance to his soul than the dainty sandwiches and pastries were to the bodies of his assembled listeners. She was not highly educated in music, but she did not need an experienced critic to tell her that this young man was excellent, far beyond the ability of his fashionable audience to appreciate.
When he finished his final piece before the interval there was a courteous applause. He rose, took a very slight bow—no more than was necessary to acknowledge their presence—and left, walking with long strides under the archway into the room beyond.
The silence filled with chatter again, and pretty maids in white caps and lace-trimmed aprons came around with trays of sweetmeats, and liveried footmen came with chilled champagne. Charlotte did not care in the slightest for either, but she accepted automatically because it was easier than the constant refusal. She was too full of the glory of the music to wish to make a comment which could not possibly do it justice.
“Very good, don’t you think?” Devlin O’Neil said, almost at her elbow. She had not heard him approach. He was smiling again. She judged it an expression which came to him very readily, out of a great good nature and an expectancy of being liked, rather than any particular pleasure.
“Brilliant,” she replied, hoping she did not sound gushing.
Before he could reply to her, they were joined by a large thick-chested man with the appearance of unusual strength. His face was remarkable, with a great hatchet nose and small, very bright, intelligent eyes. On his arm, clinging to him for actual physical support, as well as a certain air of possession, was a woman a generation older. A facial resemblance about the eyes and brow made it instantly apparent she must be his mother.
“Oh, Grandmama-in-law,” Devlin O’Neil said, his smile broadening. “Did you enjoy the music? May I present to you …” He hesitated, realizing for the first time that he did not know Charlotte’s full name. He overcame the inconvenience by glancing at Clio and introducing her first. It was so smooth that if Adah Harrimore noticed, she gave no sign of it.
“How do you do, Miss Farber.” She inclined her head graciously, but there was no interest in her face. “How do you do, Miss Pitt,” she added, when Clio had supplied the missing name. Charlotte did not bother to correct the title (something she would normally have leaped to do), but any possible connection with Thomas was to be avoided.
“How do you do, Mrs. Harrimore,” she replied, regarding the old lady curiously. She had a remarkable countenance, powerful, and yet with a knowledge of fear, a guardedness about it that was at the same time belied by its boldness. There was iron will in it, and yet also anxiety, a looking for reassurance to her son. It was full of contradictions.
“I did enjoy the music.” Charlotte summoned her thoughts to the present. “Did you not think the pianist was excellent?”
“Very gifted,” Adah conceded with the slightest pucker between her brows. “Many of them are, in that field.”
Charlotte was lost. “I beg your pardon. Many of whom, Mrs. Harrimore?”
“Jews, of course,” Adah replied, her frown increasing as she looked at Charlotte more closely, surveying her strong face and rich, deep coloring, her hair like polished chestnut. “Not that I suppose that has anything to do with it,” she added inconsequentially.
Charlotte knew at least a smattering of history in the matter.
“It might have. Did we not in the past deny them most other occupations apart from medicine and the arts?”
“I don’t know what you mean—deny them!” Adah said sharply. “Would you have Jews into everything? It’s hard enough they are in all the finances of the nation, and I daresay the whole Empire, without being everywhere else as well. We know what they do in Europe.”
Devlin O’Neil smiled briefly, first at Adah, then at his father-in-law. He stood very close to his wife. “It’s as bad as the Irish, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Let them in to build the railways, and now they’re all over the place. One is even obliged now and then to meet them socially. And into politics too, I’ll wager.”
“That is not at all the same thing,” Prosper Harrimore said, without even the faintest flicker of answering humor in his face. “The Irish are just like us, my dear boy. As you know perfectly well.”
“Oh indeed,” O’Neil agreed, putting his arm around Kathleen. “For some they even are us. Was not the great Iron Duke himself an Irishman?”
“Anglo-Irish,” Prosper corrected, this time the shadow of a smile on his narrow lips. “Like you. Not the same thing, Devlin.”
“Well, he certainly wasn’t a Jew,” Adah said decisively. “He was good blood, the best. One of the greatest leaders we ever had. We might all be speaking French now without him.” She shivered. “And eating obscenities out of the garden, and heaven only knows what else, with morals straight from Paris. And what goes on there is not fit to mention.”
Charlotte did not know what possessed her to say it, except perhaps a desire to break the careful veneer of good manners and reach some deeper emotion.
“Of course Mr. Disraeli was a Jew,” she said distinctly into the silence. “And he was one of the best prime ministers we ever had. Without him we would forever be having to sail all the way ’round the bottom of Africa to get to India or China, not to mention getting our tea coming back. Or opium.”
“I beg your pardon!” Adah’s eyebrows shot up and even Devlin O’Neil looked startled.
“Oh.” Charlotte recollected herself quickly. “I was thinking of various medicines for the relief of pain, and the treatment of certain illnesses, which I believe we fought China very effectively in order to obtain—in trade …”
Kathleen looked polite but confused.
“Perhaps if we hadn’t gone meddling in foreign places,” Adah said tartly, “then we would not have acquired their diseases either! A person is better off in the country in which God placed him in the first instance. Half the trouble in the world comes out of people being where they do not belong.”