Ashworth Hall

by Anne Perry

  “Nobody would believe them if they did,” Vespasia argued. “The powers of the legends which tell us who we are, and justify what we want to do, is far too great to take notice of a few inconvenient facts and dates.”

  “You are sure?” Charlotte urged, her fork held up in one hand. “Couldn’t Chinnery have died later? Maybe the same date, but the following year? To think her own brothers murdered her like that, cutting off her hair first, and then his people let Drystan think it was the Doyles, so he attacked them and was shot! Or did they know it was the Doyles?” She found her hand clenching on her fork, and her stomach knotted.

  “Yes, they told Drystan it was,” Vespasia answered. “With the obvious result that he went mad with rage and grief and attacked them.” Her voice was hard. “That way the Catholics could blame the Protestants for seducing one of their women and for allying with an English traitor, which resulted in her rape and murder; and the Protestants could blame the Catholics for roughly the same thing; and they could all blame us. And there was no one left alive to say otherwise.”

  “Did they know Chinnery was dead?”

  “No, I doubt that.” Vespasia shook her head. “But they knew his denial would convince no one, and after that he would be withdrawn from Ireland, which was all that mattered.”

  “But what about Chinnery’s family?” Charlotte asked. “Don’t they want his name cleared? That’s a monstrous crime he is accused of.”

  “It is cleared, as far as they are concerned. He died a hero’s death in Liverpool Harbour.”

  “But no one knows that!” Charlotte protested angrily.

  “Yes, they do. It was in the Liverpool newspapers at the time, and his family lived in Liverpool.”

  “In the newspapers?” Charlotte let her fork drop. “Then it can be proved.”

  “To whom?” Vespasia asked dryly. “The people who tell stories about Drystan and Neassa? The poets and harpists who sing songs by hearths and by moonlight to keep the myths alive? My dear, Macbeth was actually the last High King of Scotland, when Scotland extended as far south as Yorkshire, and he ruled for seventeen peaceful and prosperous years.” Her silver eyes were full of irony. “And when he died his people buried him in the sacred isle of the kings. He was succeeded by Lady Macbeth’s son Lulach, as the rightful heir through his mother’s line. She was a remarkable woman who instituted many reforms for the care of the widowed and orphaned.” She shrugged, then speared her fork into the salmon on her plate. “But to accept that would spoil one of Shakespeare’s best plays, so no one wishes to know.”

  “Well, I am going to find that newspaper and show people that that particular story is a monstrous fabrication,” Charlotte said with total conviction. “Macbeth is academic now, but this is still real!”

  Vespasia looked at her steadily. “Are you sure that is wise? Or even that it will make any difference? People get very angry when their dreams are shown to be false. The emotion is what matters, the force which sustained the dream. We believe what we need to believe.”

  “The illusion fed the hatred—” Charlotte started.

  “No, my dear, the hatred fed the dream. Take that dream away and another will be created to take its place.” Vespasia sipped her water. “You cannot solve the Irish Problem, Charlotte. But I suppose perhaps you may make a difference to one or two people. Although I doubt very much that they will accept your word for what is in a newspaper, and how you may convince them I don’t know.”

  Actually, neither did Charlotte. Her intention was rather more practical, but she did not wish to involve Vespasia in it, even by committing her to the knowledge. She merely smiled and continued with her meal.

  When Charlotte left in the early afternoon, after having thanked Vespasia for her help and her counsel, and above all for her friendship, she took a hansom to the British Museum. She went to the reading room and asked the grim and very formal attendant if she might see the Liverpool newspapers of June of the year of 1860, and then the Irish newspapers for the same period. Fortunately, she had a very small pair of nail scissors in her reticule, something she frequently carried with her because they served in a number of emergencies, along with a file, a needle and thread, a thimble, and several gold safety pins.

  “Yes, miss,” he said gravely. “If you will follow me, miss.” He led the way along narrow aisles between enormous banks of books and papers until he found her a reading desk, then promised to return with the requested newspapers.

  At the table next to her was a young man with a fierce mustache and a deadly earnest expression. He seemed utterly absorbed in a political pamphlet; he barely seemed to breathe, so intent was he upon it.

  On the other side of her was an elderly gentleman of military aspect who glared at her as if she had intruded in some gentleman’s club, and considering what she had it in mind to do, his suspicion was more than justified.

  Her newspapers were brought, and she thanked the attendant with a charming smile—but she hoped not so charming that he would remember her.

  It took her a quarter of an hour of diligent reading of print to discover both the articles she needed. It was a much more difficult thing to devise a way of cutting them out without being seen. For all she knew, to steal the pieces of newspaper might very well be a criminal offense. It would be most unfortunate to find herself under arrest and hauled off to Pitt’s police station charged with vandalism and common theft!

  She turned and smiled at the military gentleman.

  He looked uncomfortable and swiveled to face the other way.

  The student of revolution did not appear to notice either of them.

  Charlotte rattled the newspaper and sniffed loudly.

  The military man was startled and looked at her with disapproval.

  She smiled at him radiantly.

  He was profoundly unhappy. He blushed red and fished for a handkerchief to blow his nose.

  She pulled out a lace handkerchief and held it out towards him, smiling even more brightly.

  He regarded her with utter horror, rose from his seat and fled.

  Charlotte bent very low over the newspaper, shielding it from the side of the revolutionary, and cupped out first one piece she wanted, and then the other. She was shaking and her face was hot. She was stealing and she knew it, but there was no other way to prove the truth of what she was saying.

  She closed the huge ledgers and left them on the table. She glanced around to see if she could find the attendant. He appeared to be chastising an elderly lady in a mauve-colored hat. Charlotte put her head down, the pieces of paper in her reticule along with the scissors, and walked rapidly and as nearly silently as possible out of the reading room, her hand over her mouth as if she were about to be ill.

  A young man made a halfhearted attempt to apprehend her, then abandoned the idea. He might have been going to ask her to replace her reading material, or account for it, but he may simply have been going to offer her assistance. She would never know.

  Outside the cold air of the street was marvelous, but she was still burningly aware of the papers in her reticule and the dour face of the senior attendant. She wanted to laugh aloud at the military man, and then to run as fast as she could and be lost among the crowd. She did have a quiet chuckle, and then walked as rapidly as she could, and not attract undue attention to herself, until she saw a hansom, which she hailed, and directed it to take her to the railway station.

  It was dark and bitterly cold when Charlotte arrived back at Ashworth Hall and was met by a tired footman. All the rest of the household had retired early, shaken and frightened after the day’s events. The hall had been swept and dusted and mopped again, but the dust was still settling, and no amount of housework by maids with brooms or cloths could disguise the splintered wood of the study door, now rehung but still badly scarred, and definitely a trifle crooked.

  “Thank you,” she said politely, annoyed with herself that she was too tired to remember his name. She had been told it.

  “C
an I bring you anything, ma’am?” he asked dutifully.

  “No, thank you. Lock up and go to bed. I shall go upstairs.”

  “Your maid is waiting for you, ma’am.”

  “Oh … oh, yes. Of course.” She had forgotten that Gracie would be taking her lady’s maid duties so seriously. She had not the heart or the strength to tell her tonight that the story Finn Hennessey had told her was substantially untrue. She had to know, but the next day would be time enough. She stopped on the stairs and turned back.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, wishing again she could recall the footman’s name.

  “Yes ma’am, nothing new has happened, not since this morning.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Good night, ma’am.”

  Upstairs, Gracie was curled up in the big chair in the dressing room, sound asleep. Her scrubbed face was free of any lines, but her skin was pale, even in the light of the single lamp, and she looked like a worn-out child. She still had her cap on, but it had slid sideways and her hair was coming undone, straight and fine, shiny and impossible to curl. She had been with Charlotte and Pitt for seven years. She was as close as a member of the family, closer than most.

  It was a shame to wake her up, but she would not thank anyone for assuming she was not up to her duty. And anyway, she would waken some time in the night, stiff from lying curled up, and then she would wonder what had happened. She might be terrified Charlotte had not come home.

  “Gracie,” Charlotte said, touching her sleeping hand where it lay curled under her chin. It was as small as a child’s, scrubbed clean like her face. “Gracie!”

  Gracie stirred and slipped back into sleep again.

  “Gracie,” Charlotte said more firmly. “You can’t stay there, you’ll wake up suffer than Mr. Pitt.”

  “Oh!” Gracie opened her eyes and relief flooded her face as she saw Charlotte. She straightened up and scrambled to her feet. “Oh, I’m real glad yer safe, ma’am! Yer didn’t ought ter go on them trains all by yerself. The master’s in bed, ma’am, but I’ll lay anything ’e in’t asleep yet neither.”

  “Thank you for waiting up for me,” Charlotte replied, hiding her smile and taking off her cape as Gracie reached for it to hang it up.

  “That’s me job,” Gracie said with satisfaction. “Yer like some ’ot water ter wash in?”

  “No, cold will do very well.” Charlotte shook her head. She was not sending Gracie downstairs to heat water and carry jugs up at this time of night. “And trains are perfectly safe, you know,” she added. “You shouldn’t worry. How was everything here?”

  “Terrible.” Gracie helped her unlace her boots, then undo her dress and slip it off. The boots could be cleaned in the morning, and the mud taken off the hem of her skirt, and of course her underclothes would be laundered. “Everyone’s scared o’ their own shadows,” she said, taking the heavy skirt. “Footman popped a cork and the parlor maid near screamed the place down. Wonder she didn’t shatter the gas mantles, them what’s left!”

  “Oh dear.” Charlotte took the pins out of her hair and felt the wonderful relief as the weight of it fell and she ran her fingers through it.

  Gracie unlaced her stays for her.

  “I want to sleep until ten!” Charlotte said, knowing it was impossible.

  “Yer like breakfast up ’ere?” Gracie asked helpfully.

  “No … no, thank you. I shall have to get up in the morning and go down, even if only to watch and listen, or try to help Mrs. Radley.”

  “We in’t doin’ a very good job o’ detectin’, are we?” Gracie said unhappily. “We in’t bin no ’elp ter the master at all.”

  “Not so far,” Charlotte agreed with a sharp stab of unhappiness. “I’ve been more concerned about Emily and this wretched weekend.” She kept her voice low, not to disturb Pitt, in the next room, if by chance he were asleep. “I don’t know where to begin.” She frowned. “Usually we are more use if there are women involved, families, something ordinarily human. I don’t understand the issues of religion and nationalism.” She poured water from the jug into the bowl and splashed it over her face. It was cold and clean, but it took her breath away.

  “I can understand ’ating wot’s done to yer family ’cos o’ religion and nationalism,” Gracie responded, handing the towel to her. “Some of them things is just tragedy like any other.”

  “I know,” Charlotte said quickly, not wanting to get drawn into the Neassa and Drystan story tonight. “We’ll have to think about it tomorrow. You must be tired now, and I know I am. Good night, Gracie, and thank you for waiting up.”

  “It in’t nuffink, ma’am,” Gracie replied, stifling a yawn, but she was pleased nonetheless.

  Pitt was half asleep, too exhausted to stay awake but not able to rest properly until Charlotte was home.

  “How was Vespasia?” he mumbled, hunching the blankets over himself and, without realizing it, pulling them away from her half of the bed.

  “Very well,” she answered, climbing in and tugging back her portion.

  He grunted and allowed them out of his grasp, shivering as she let in the cold air, then moved closer to him with her cold hands and feet.

  “I learned a lot,” she went on, knowing he wanted only to sink back into sleep. But there might be no time the next morning, before she told Gracie. “About the old tragic romance of Neassa Doyle and Drystan O’Day.”

  He took a deep breath. “Does it matter?”

  “It might. Alexander Chinnery didn’t rape or kill her. He was already dead in Liverpool two days before.”

  He said nothing.

  “Are you asleep?” she demanded.

  “I would like to be,” he replied. “It’s just one more piece of tragic farce in this whole situation.”

  “And the Parnell-O’Shea divorce is finished, and Parnell seems to have behaved like a complete fool,” she went on. “And Vespasia says he’ll lose the leadership, if not straightaway, then soon. I suppose that affects the people here?”

  He grunted.

  “Did you learn anything?” she went on, unconsciously warming herself close to him, and making him chill. “It was very brave of Lorcan McGinley to try to defuse the bomb. Did you discover how he knew it was there?”

  “No.” He opened his eyes at last and turned over onto his back. “We did everything we could to trace his movements all morning, who he spoke to, where he went. None of it is any use so far.”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t been much help, have I?”

  “It would help a lot if you would be quiet and go to sleep,” he said with a smile, putting his arm around her. “Please!”

  Obediently she snuggled even closer and put her head on the pillow, not speaking again.

  In the morning it could no longer wait. As soon as Charlotte was dressed and the more physical and distracting part of preparing for the day was accomplished, she sat down in front of the glass and Gracie began to dress her hair. It could not be put off any further.

  “I saw Lady Vespasia when I was in London yesterday …” she began.

  “ ’Ow was she?” Gracie asked without stopping what she was doing. It was part of a lady’s maid’s job to be able to conduct a pleasant conversation while at the same time doing something useful. Anyway, she had an immense admiration for Lady Vespasia, and was more in awe of her than of anyone else she could think of, even the commissioner of police … perhaps not the Queen. But then she had never met the Queen, and she might not even like her. She had heard she was rather critical and hardly ever laughed.

  “She was very well, thank you,” Charlotte replied. “I told her what was happening here, of course.”

  “I expect she was upset,” Gracie said, pursing her lips. “It bein’ so nasty for the master, an’ all, an’ for Mr. Radley.”

  “Yes, of course she was. She knows quite a lot about Irish politics, and all the things that have happened.”

  “I wish she ’ad an answer for it,” Gracie said with
feeling. “Some of them things is enough to make the angels weep.” Her face tightened as she spoke, and an overwhelming sadness engulfed her. “When I think o’ that poor girl wot got raped an’ killed ’cos she were beautiful and loved someone on the other side, an’ wot we English done to ’er, I’m fair ashamed.”

  “You don’t need to be,” Charlotte said clearly. “We—”

  “Oh, I know it weren’t us,” Gracie interrupted, her voice urgent and a little hoarse. “But it were still English, so that’s kind of us.”

  “No, that’s what I mean.” Charlotte swiveled on the seat till she was facing Gracie. “Listen to me! We’ve done plenty of things that are wrong in Ireland. There’s no arguing that. But the murder of Neassa Doyle was nothing to do with us. Look!” And she stood up and went to her reticule, from which she pulled the two pieces of newspaper she had stolen in London. “You can read this, most especially you can read the dates. Alexander Chinnery died in Liverpool two days before Neassa Doyle was killed by her own brothers. And thank God, she wasn’t raped at all.”

  Gracie looked at the pieces of paper, sounding out the words. She stared at them so long Charlotte was on the verge of offering to read them for her, if perhaps she found the print difficult or some of the words too long.

  Then Gracie looked up, her eyes wide and troubled.

  “That’s wicked, that is,” she said slowly. “Think of all them people wot believed that lie. All them songs an’ stories, an’ all them people ’atin’ Chinnery, an’ ’e never done it at all. Wot about all them other stories? ’Ow many o’ them is lies?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Charlotte answered. “Probably some, not all. The thing is that hatred can become a habit until you do it for its own sake, long after you’ve forgotten the reason. You begin to look for reasons to justify the way you feel, and then you create them. Don’t let them make you feel guilty for something that has nothing to do with you, Gracie. And don’t accept that all the songs and stories are true.”