by Anne Perry
‘Who betrayed Mulhare?’ he asked O’Casey.
‘No idea,’ O’Casey answered. ‘And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. A man who’ll sell his own people deserves to have his thirty pieces of silver slip out of his hands. Deserves to have it put in a bag o’ lead around his neck, before they throw him into Dublin Bay.’
Narraway had not much liked Mulhare, but he needed to keep his promises; to whom they were made was irrelevant. A broken word is as self-defeating as a broken sword.
He rose to his feet. The cat by the fire stretched out and then curled up on the other side.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Don’t come back,’ O’Casey replied. ‘I’ll not harm you, but I’ll not help you either.’
‘I know,’ Narraway replied.
Charlotte did not have the opportunity to speak at any length with Narraway after returning from the theatre, nor did she the following day. They met only briefly at breakfast and there were others eating at nearby tables. Narraway said he had business to attend to, but that he had heard from Dolina Pearse that Charlotte would be most welcome to attend the opening of an art exhibition, if she cared to, and to take tea with Dolina and her friends afterwards. He had accepted on her behalf.
‘Thank you,’ she said a little coolly.
He caught the intonation, and smiled. ‘Did you wish to decline?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.
She looked at his dark face, at the mercurial amusement and awareness of the absurdity of it in his eyes. To have taken the slightest notice of his pride now would be idiotic. He was facing disgrace, and a loneliness deeper than anything she had known. If he failed in this, Pitt too might lose his ability to support his family.
‘No, of course not,’ she replied, smiling at Narraway. ‘I am just a little nervous about it. I met some of them at Bridget Tyrone’s party, and I am not sure that the encounter was entirely amicable.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said wryly. ‘But I know you, and I know something of Dolina. Tea should be interesting. And you’ll like the art. It is Impressionist, I think.’ He rose from the table.
‘Victor!’ She used his name for the first time without thinking, until she saw his face, the quickening, the sudden vulnerability. She wanted to apologise but that would only make it worse. She forced herself to smile up at him where he stood, half turned to leave. He was naturally elegant; his jacket perfectly cut, his cravat tied with care.
She hardly knew how to begin, and yet certain necessity compelled her.
He was waiting.
‘If I am to go to the exhibition I would like to purchase a new blouse.’ She felt the flush of embarrassment hot in her face. ‘I did not bring-’
‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘We will go as soon as you have finished your breakfast. Perhaps we should get two. You cannot be seen in precisely the same costume at every function. Will you be ready in half an hour?’ He glanced at the clock on the mantel.
‘Good heavens! I could have luncheon as well in that time. I shall be ready in ten minutes,’ she exclaimed.
‘Really? Then I shall meet you at the front door.’ He looked surprised, and quite definitely pleased.
They walked perhaps three hundred yards, then quite easily found a hansom to take them into the middle of the city. Narraway seemed to know exactly where he was going and stopped at the entrance to a very elegant couturier.
Charlotte imagined the prices, and knew that they would be beyond her budget. Surely Narraway must know what Pitt earned? Why was he bringing her here?
He opened the door for her and held it.
She stood where she was. ‘May we please go somewhere a little less expensive? I think this is beyond what I should spend, particularly on something I may not wear very often.’
He looked surprised.
‘Perhaps you have never bought a woman’s blouse before,’ she said a little tartly, humiliation making her tongue sharp. ‘They can be costly.’
‘I wasn’t proposing that you should buy it,’ he replied. ‘It is necessary in pursuit of my business, not yours. It is rightly my responsibility.’
‘Mine also. .’ she argued.
‘May we discuss it inside?’ he asked. ‘We are drawing attention to ourselves standing in the doorway.’
She moved inside quickly, angry with both him and herself. She should have foreseen this situation and avoided it somehow.
An older woman came towards them, dressed in a most beautifully cut black gown. It had no adornment whatever, the sheer elegance of it was sufficient. She was the perfect advertisement for her establishment. Charlotte would have loved a gown that fitted so exquisitely. She still had a very good figure, and such a garment would have flattered her enormously. She knew it, and the temptation to enquire into the purchase was so sharp she could feel it like a sweet taste in her mouth.
‘May we see some elegant blouses, please?’ Narraway asked. ‘Suitable for attending an exhibition of art, or an afternoon tea party.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ the woman agreed. She regarded Charlotte for no more than a minute, assessing what might both fit and suit her, then another mere instant at Narraway, perhaps judging what he would be prepared to pay.
Looking at his elegant, and no doubt expensive clothes, Charlotte’s heart sank. The woman had probably jumped to the obvious conclusion that they were husband and wife. Who else would a respectable woman come shopping with, for such intimate articles as a blouse? She should have insisted that he take her somewhere else, and wait outside. Except that she would have to borrow the money from him anyway.
‘Victor, this is impossible!’ she said under her breath, as soon as the woman was out of earshot.
‘No it isn’t,’ he contradicted her. ‘It is necessary. Do you want to draw attention to yourself by wearing the same clothes all the time? People will notice, which you know even better than I do. Then they will wonder what our relationship is — that I do not take better care of you.’
She tried to think of a satisfactory argument, and failed.
‘Or perhaps you want to give up the whole battle?’ he suggested.
‘No, of course I don’t!’ she retaliated. ‘But-’
‘Then be quiet and don’t argue.’ He took her arm and propelled her forward a little, holding her firmly. She determined to have words with him later, in no uncertain fashion.
The woman returned with several blouses, all of them beautiful.
‘If madame would care to try them, there is a room available over here,’ she offered.
Charlotte thanked her and followed immediately. Every one of the garments was ravishing, but the most beautiful was one in black and bronze stripes, which fitted her as if it had been both designed and cut for her personally; and one in white cotton and lace with ruffles and pearl buttons, which was outrageously feminine. Even as a girl, in the days when her mother was trying to marry her to someone suitable, she had never felt so attractive, even verging on the really beautiful.
Temptation to have them both ached inside her like a physical hunger.
The woman returned to see if Charlotte had made a decision, or if perhaps she wished for a further selection.
‘Ah!’ she said, drawing in her breath. ‘Surely madame could not wish for anything lovelier.’
Charlotte hesitated, glancing at the striped blouse on its hanger.
‘An excellent choice. Perhaps you would like to see which your husband prefers?’ the woman suggested.
Charlotte started to say that Narraway was not her husband, but she wanted to phrase it graciously, and not seem to correct the woman. Then she saw Narraway just beyond the woman’s shoulder, and the admiration in his face. For an instant it was naked, vulnerable and completely without guard. Then he must have realised, and he smiled.
‘We’ll take them both,’ he said decisively, and turned away.
Without contradicting him in front of the saleswoman, and embarrassing them all, Charlotte had no alternative but to accept. S
he stepped back, closed the door, and changed into her own very ordinary blouse.
‘Victor, you shouldn’t have done that,’ she said as soon as they were outside in the street again. ‘I have no idea how I am going to repay you.’
He stopped and looked at her crossly for a moment.
Suddenly his anger evaporated and she remembered the expression in his eyes only a few moments before, and she was very afraid.
He reached up and with his fingertips touched her face. It was only her cheek, but it was an extraordinarily intimate gesture, with a great tenderness.
‘You will repay me by helping me to clear my name,’ he replied. ‘That is more than enough.’
To argue would be pointlessly unkind, not only to his very obvious emotion, but also to the hope of success that they both needed so much.
‘Then we had better set about it,’ she agreed, then moved a step away from him and started walking along the pavement again.
The art exhibition was beautiful, but Charlotte could not turn her attention to it and knew that to Dolina Pearse she must have appeared terribly ignorant. Dolina seemed to know each artist at least by repute, and be able to say for what particular technique he was famous. Charlotte simply listened with an air of appreciation, and hoped she could remember enough of it to recite back as if she had been interested.
While they walked around the rooms looking at one picture after another, Charlotte watched the other women, who were fashionably dressed exactly as they would have been in London. Sleeves were worn large at the shoulder this season, and slender from the elbow down. Even the most unsophisticated were puffed, or flying like awkward wings. Skirts were wide at the bottom, padded and bustled at the back. It was very feminine, like flowers in full bloom — large ones, like magnolias or peonies. With the movement of walking, parasols high to shade the face when outside, however briefly, a group of women gave the fleeting impression of a herbaceous border in the wind. One of the painters should have tried such a thing! Or perhaps they had, and she had been too inattentive to notice.
Tea reminded her of the days before she was married, accompanying her mother on suitable ‘morning calls’, which were actually always made in the afternoon. Behaviour was very correct, all the unwritten laws obeyed. And beneath the polite exchanges the gossip was ruthless, the cutting remarks honed to a razor’s edge.
‘How are you enjoying Dublin, Mrs Pitt?’ Talulla Lawless asked courteously. ‘Do have a cucumber sandwich. Always so refreshing, don’t you think?’
‘Thank you,’ Charlotte accepted. It was the only possible thing to do, even if she had not liked them. ‘I find Dublin fascinating. Who would not?’
‘Oh, many people,’ Talulla replied. ‘They think us very unsophisticated.’ She smiled. ‘But perhaps that is what you enjoy?’ She left it hanging in the air as to whether Charlotte herself were unsophisticated, or if perhaps this was a rustic escape for her from the rigours of London society.
Charlotte smiled back, utterly without warmth. ‘Either they were not serious, or if they were, then they missed the subtlety of your words,’ she replied. ‘I think you anything but simple,’ she added for good measure.
Talulla laughed. It was a brittle sound. ‘You flatter us, Mrs Pitt. It is “Mrs”, isn’t it? I do hope I have not made the most awful mistake.’
‘Please don’t concern yourself, Miss Lawless,’ Charlotte replied. ‘It is very far from the most awful mistake. Indeed, were it a mistake, which it isn’t, it could still quite easily be put right. Would that all errors were so simply mended.’
‘Oh dear!’ Talulla affected dismay. ‘How much more exciting your life must be in London than ours is here. You imply dark deeds. You have me fascinated.’
Charlotte hesitated, then plunged in. ‘I dare say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. After watching the play last night I imagined life was full of passion and doom-laden love here. Please don’t tell me it is all just the fervour of a playwright’s imagination. You will entirely ruin the reputation of Ireland abroad.’
‘I didn’t know you had such influence,’ Talulla said drily. ‘I had better be more careful of what I say.’ There was mocking and anger in her face.
Charlotte cast her eyes down towards the floor. ‘I am so sorry. I seem to have spoken out of turn, and struck some feeling of pain. I assure you, it was unintentional.’
‘I can see many of your actions are unintentional, Mrs Pitt,’ Talulla snapped. ‘And cause pain.’
There was a rustle of silk against silk as a couple of the other women moved slightly in discomfort. Someone drew breath as if to speak, glanced at Talulla, and changed her mind.
‘Just as I am sure yours are not, Miss Lawless,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I find it easy to believe that every word you say is entirely both foreseen, and intended.’
There was an even sharper gasp of breath. Someone giggled nervously.
‘May I offer you more tea, Mrs Pitt?’ Dolina asked. Her voice was quivering, but whether it was with laughter or tears it was impossible to say.
Charlotte held out her cup. ‘Thank you. That is most kind.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Talulla said tartly. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s a pot of tea!’
‘The English answer to everything,’ Dolina ventured. ‘Is that not so, Mrs Pitt?’
‘You would be surprised what can be done with it, if it is hot enough,’ Charlotte looked straight at her.
‘Scalding, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Dolina muttered.
Charlotte relayed the exchange to Narraway later that night, after dinner. They were alone in Mrs Hogan’s sitting room with the doors open on to the garden, which was quite small, and overhung with trees. It was a mild evening, and a moon almost full cast dramatic shadows. In unspoken agreement they stood up and walked outside into the balmy air.
‘I didn’t learn anything more,’ she admitted finally. ‘Except that we are still disliked. But how could we imagine anything else? At the theatre Mr McDaid told me something of O’Neil. It is time you stopped skirting around it and told me what happened. I don’t want to know, but I have to.’
Narraway was silent for a long time. She was acutely aware of him standing perhaps a yard away from her, half in the shadow of one of the trees. He was slender, not much taller than she, but she had an impression of physical strength, as if he were muscle and bone, all softness worn away over the years. She did not want to look at his face, partly to allow him that privacy, but just as much because she did not want to see what was there. It would be easier for both of them, and allow a certain pretence to be rebuilt after the moments in the couturier and, after, in the street.
‘I can’t tell you all of it, Charlotte,’ he said at last. ‘There was quite a large uprising planned. We had to prevent it.’
‘How did you do that?’ She was blunt.
Again he did not answer. She wondered how much of the secrecy was to protect her, and how much was simply that he was ashamed of his role in it, necessary or not.
Why was she standing out here shivering? What was she afraid of? Victor Narraway? It had not occurred to her before that he might hurt her. She was afraid that she would hurt him. Perhaps that was ridiculous. If he had loved Kate O’Neil, and still been able to sacrifice her in his loyalty to his country, then he could certainly sacrifice Charlotte. She could be one of the casualties of war that Fiachra McDaid had referred to — just part of the price. She was Pitt’s wife, and Narraway had shown a loyalty to Pitt, in his own way. She was also quite certain now that he was in love with her. But how naive of her to imagine that it would change anything he had to do in the greater cause.
She thought of Kate O’Neil, wondering what she had looked like, how old she had been, if she had loved Narraway. Had she betrayed her country, and her husband to him? How desperately in love she must have been. Charlotte should have despised her for that, and yet all she felt was pity, and a belief that she could have been in the same place, but for a grace
of circumstance. If she hadn’t loved Pitt, she could easily have believed herself in love with Narraway.
That was a stupid equivocation! She would have been in love, cared totally, and completely. What other way was there to care?
‘You used Kate O’Neil, didn’t you?’ she said aloud.
‘Yes.’ His voice was so soft she barely heard it. The faint rustling of the night wind in the leaves was almost as loud. She had no doubt at all that he was ashamed, but it had not stopped him. Thank goodness, at least, he had not lied.
But was this old case really the reason for the present manufactured charge of embezzlement against him?
What were they missing?
What was Pitt doing in France?
Should she and Narraway be here in Ireland? Or had Narraway, the brilliant, devious schemer, been outplayed by someone who knew his vulnerability too well, and the real issue was somewhere else altogether?
She turned quietly and walked back the few steps into Mrs Hogan’s sitting room. There wasn’t anything more to say, not here, in the soft night wind and the scents of the garden.
Chapter Six
Pitt was troubled. He stood in the sun in St Malo, leaning against the buttress edge of the towering wall around the town, and stared out over the sea. It was vivid blue, the light so dazzling on it that he found himself squinting. Out in the bay a sail boat heeled far over as the man at the helm brought it about, swung the boom and the canvas fell slack.
The town was ancient, beautiful, and at any other time Pitt would have found it interesting. Were he here on holiday with his family, he would have loved to explore the medieval streets and alleys, and learn more of its history, which was peculiarly dramatic.
As it was, he had the strong feeling that he and Gower were wasting time. They had watched Frobisher’s house for well over a week, and seen nothing that led them any closer to whatever Wrexham had killed West to prevent him from telling Special Branch. Visitors came and went; not only men but women also. Neither Pieter Linsky nor Jacob Meister had come again, but there had been dinner parties where at least a dozen people were present. Delivery men had come with baskets of the shellfish for which the area was famous. Scores of oysters had come, shrimps and larger crustaceans like lobsters, and bags of mussels. But then the same could be said of any of the other larger houses in the area.
