by Anne Perry
An older woman came toward 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 was so sharp she could feel it like a sweet taste in her mouth.
“May we see some blouses, please?” Narraway asked. “Suitable for attending an exhibition of art, or an afternoon soirée.”
“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 clearly expensive clothes, Charlotte’s heart sank. The woman had no doubt 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. “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, holding her firmly. If she had pulled back she would have bumped into him, and the pressure of his fingers on her arm would have hurt. 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 them was ravishing, but the most beautiful was one in black and bronze stripes that 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 that 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.
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 realized, and he smiled.
“We’ll take them both,” he said decisively, and turned away.
Unless she should contradict him in front of the saleswoman, embarrassing them all, Charlotte had no alternative but to accept. She 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 for a moment.
Suddenly his anger evaporated and she remembered the expression in his eyes only a few moments before.
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 the success 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 later.
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, magnolias or peonies.
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. Behavior was very correct, all the unwritten laws obeyed. And beneath the polite exchanges the gossip was ruthless, the cutting remark 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?”
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 daresay 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 fervor 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 toward 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 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 IT TO Narraway later that night, after dinner. They were alone in Mrs. Hogan’s sitting room with the doors open onto the garden, which was quite small, and overhung with trees. It was a mild evening, and a moon 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 theater Mr. McDaid told me something of O’Neil. And O’Neil himself implied that I was here to meddle in Irish affairs—‘like your friend Narraway,’ as he said. It is time you stopped skirting around it and told me what happened. I don’t want to know, but I have to.”
He 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.
“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 unintended victims 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 naïve 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. She could imagine herself in Kate’s place. If she herself hadn’t loved Pitt, she could easily have believed herself in love with Narraway.
“You used Kate O’Neil, didn’t you?” she said.
“Yes.” His voice was so soft she barely heard it.
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.
PITT WAS TROUBLED. HE stood in the sun in St. Malo, leaning against the buttress edge of the towering wall, and stared out over the sea. It was vivid blue, the light so dazzling that he found himself squinting. Out in the bay a sailboat heeled far over.
The town was ancient, beautiful, and at any other time he 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 nearly a week and seen nothing that led them any closer to the truth. 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. Deliverymen had come with baskets of the shellfish for which the area was famous. Scores of oysters had come, shrimp and larger crustaceans like lobsters, and bags of mussels. But then the same could be said of any of the houses in the area.
Gower wandered along the path, his face sunburned, his hair flopping forward. He stopped just inside the wall, a yard or two short of Pitt. He too leaned against the ledge as if he were watching the sailing boat.
“Where did he go?” Pitt asked quietly, without looking at him.
“Only to the same café as usual,” Gower answered, referring to Wrexham, whom one or the other of them had followed every day. “I didn’t go in because I was afraid he’d notice me. But I saw the same thin man with the mustache go in, then come back out again in about half an hour.”
There was a slight lift in his voice, a quickening. “I watched them through the window for a few minutes as if I were waiting for someone. They were talking about more people coming, quite a lot of them. They seemed to be ticking them off, as if from a list. They’re definitely planning something.”
Pitt would like to have felt the same stir of excitement, but the whole week seemed too careful, too halfhearted for the passion that inspires great political change. He and Narraway had studied revolutionaries, anarchists, firebrands of all beliefs, and this had a different feel to it. Gower was young. Perhaps he attributed to them some of the vivacity he still felt himself. And he did feel it. Pitt smiled as he thought of Gower laughing with their landlady, complimenting her on the food and letting her explain to him how it was cooked. Then he told her about such English favorites as steak-and-kidney pudding, plum duff, and pickled eels. She had no idea whether to believe him or not.
“They’ve delivered more oysters,” Pitt remarked. “It’s probably another party. Whatever Frobisher’s political beliefs about changing conditions for the poor, he certainly doesn’t believe in starving himself, or his guests.”
“He would hardly go around letting everyone know his plans … sir,” Gower replied quickly. “If everyone thinks he’s a rich man entertaining his friends in harmless idealism he never intends to act on, then nobody will take him seriously. That’s probably the best safety he could have.”
Pitt thought about it for a while. What Gower said was undoubtedly true, and yet he was uneasy about it. The conviction that they were wasting time settled more heavily upon him, yet he could find no argument that was pure reason rather than a niggling instinct born of experience.
“And all the others who keep coming and going?” he asked, at last turning and facing Gower, who was unconsciously smiling as the light warmed his face. Below him in the small square a woman in a fashionable dress, wide-sleeved and full-skirted, walked from one side to the other and disappeared along the narrow alley to the west. Gower watched her all the way, nodding very gently in approval.
Gower turned to Pitt, his fair face puzzled. “Yes, about a dozen of them. Do you think they’re really harmless, sir? Apart from Wrexham, of course?”
“Are they all wild revolutionaries pretending very successfully to be ordinary citizens living satisfied and rather pedestrian lives?” Pitt pressed.
It was a long time before Gower answered, as if he were weighing his words with intense care. He turned and leaned on the wall, staring at the water. “Wrexham killed West for a reason,” he said slowly. “He was in no present danger, except being exposed as an anarchist, or whatever he would call himself. Perhaps he doesn’t want chaos, but a specific order that he considers fairer, more equal to all people. Or it may be a radical reform he’s after. Exactly what it is the socialists want is one of the things we need to learn. There may be dozens of different goals—”
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“There are,” Pitt interrupted. “What they have in common is that they are not prepared to wait for reform by consent; they want to force it on people, violently if necessary.”
“And how long will they have to wait for anyone to hand it over voluntarily?” Gower said with an edge of sarcasm. “Who ever gave up power if they weren’t forced to?”
Pitt scanned his memory for the history he could recall. “None that I can think of,” he admitted. “That’s why it usually takes awhile. But the abolition of slavery was passed through Parliament without overt violence. Certainly without revolution.”
“I’m not sure the slaves would agree with that assessment,” Gower said with a twist of bitterness.
“It’s time we found out what we are looking at,” Pitt conceded.
Gower straightened up. “If we ask open questions it’s bound to get back to him, and he may take a great deal more care. The one advantage we have, sir, is that he doesn’t know we’re watching him. Can we afford to lose that?” He looked anxious, his fair brows drawn together, the sunburn flushing his cheeks.
“I’ve been making a few inquiries,” Pitt said.
“Already?” Suddenly there was an edge of anger in Gower’s voice.
Pitt was surprised. It seemed Gower’s easy manner hid an emotional commitment he had not seen. He should have. They had worked together for more than two months, even before the hectic chase that had brought them here.
“As to who I can ask for information without it being obvious,” he replied levelly.
“Who?” Gower said quickly.
“A man named John McIver. He’s another expatriate Englishman who’s lived here for twenty years. Married to a Frenchwoman.”
“Are you positive he’s trustworthy, sir?” Gower was still skeptical. “It’ll only take one careless word, one remark made idly, and Frobisher will know he’s being watched. We could lose the big ones, the people like Linsky and Meister.”
“I didn’t choose him blindly,” Pitt replied. He did not intend to tell Gower that he had encountered McIver before, on a quite different case.