Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [84]
“Hello, Matthew,” she said warmly. She never abbreviated his name. “This was a fine choice. I’m in the mood for farce.” She looked up at him, her eyes so dark he could see the laughter in them, and the pain as well.
“Hello,” he replied. “Yes. It’s supposed to be a good production.”
She glanced around at the other people coming in. As so often these days, they all seemed very young, no more than in their mid-twenties, but there was a gauntness to their faces that was deeper than hunger or tiredness. It was something in the skin, a certain look to the eyes. They were men on leave from the trenches, for a few days pretending nothing existed but these lights and laughter, the jokes, the music, the girls on their arms. They wanted to have fun, to taste youth and irresponsibility again, gulping at it like a diver coming up for air.
“Poor devils,” Detta said quietly. “They know, don’t they!” She did not add any more; the soft lilt in her voice told of a long familiarity with the dark side of love. “They’re as Anglo-Saxon as you are.” Then her mouth twisted in wry laughter. “But they know, all the same. I suppose if you make it plain enough, often enough, then even an Englishman will see it eventually.”
“As opposed to an Irishman, who’ll see it immediately, whether it’s there or not?” he asked. If he were too gentle with her she would detect pity, and hate him for it.
“Something like that!” She shrugged.
They did not speak while they found their seats.
“Mr. Manhattan,” she repeated the play’s title when they were comfortable. “Your mind still on America?”
It was the opening he wanted, but actually he had chosen the show because it was a light musical comedy, with emphasis on the comedy. The star, Raymond Hitchcock, had a reputation for engaging the audience in a way that drew them in whether they intended it or not. A friend had said that Iris Hoey was excellent in the burlesque, and the music was very good.
“Hard not to be,” he answered Detta’s question. “Our men are still getting dud ammunition.”
She did not look at him. “But you’re doing something about that, aren’t you? That is, when you’re not here with me, forgetting your responsibilities and having fun!” It was more a comment than a question, and there was a play of humor around her mouth.
He knew the complexities of her thought. This was a jibe at him that he was too sober, that he had not the wild Irish imagination. His feet were earthbound, and his mind as well. And she was also leaving the opening wide for him to pursue the subject, which was what they were both here for. Was she also testing to see if he cared about her and was willing to say so? She knew he did. He was not a good enough actor to pretend otherwise. Perhaps her sudden vulnerabilities were all a pretense on her part? He should not let that thought hurt so much.
“I forget all my responsibilities when I’m with you,” he answered, allowing both honesty and laughter into his voice. He saw the pleasure in her, too real to be hidden immediately. “Until I look at the faces of the soldiers on leave,” he added. “Then I remember I’m part of it all, whether I want to be or not.” He had to remember there was a war on, to prevent his feelings for her from sweeping him away. The price of forgetting could be their lives.
She swung around to face him, eyes wide as if he had slapped her. But there was admiration as well as the sudden loss of happiness. “Of course you are,” she said quietly. “You’ve come to work, even if it has its pleasures. If I weren’t Irish, you wouldn’t be here.”
“If you weren’t Irish, you wouldn’t be here, either,” he pointed out.
“And do you imagine I know who is sabotaging your bullets and shells?” she asked, turning away so he could see only her profile.
“Possibly,” he replied. “But it hardly matters. I’m quite sure you wouldn’t tell me. But I think it’s far more likely you simply know that it’s being done, and probably how. But I don’t really