Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [27]
“Drystan O’Day,” Carson agreed bleakly. “One tragedy among many, but this one immortalized in music and poetry.”
“And very beautiful it is too,” Padraig agreed. “But how about we exercise the good manners we’re famous for and sing some of our host’s songs as well, eh? What do you say to a few happier love songs? We’ll not send you to bed in tears, shall we? Self-pity never was a handsome thing.”
“You think Ireland’s woes are self-pity?” Lorcan said dangerously.
Padraig smiled. “Our woes are real enough, man. God and the world know that. But courage sings a gay song, as well as a sad one. How about ‘Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes’? Is that not a fine song?” He turned to Eudora. “I’ve heard you play that one from memory. Let’s be hearing it now.”
Obediently she moved into its lovely, soaring melody, and he began to sing in a lyrical Irish tenor, sweet and true, filled with joy. Without meaning to, Emily began to hum along with him, and he heard her and beckoned with his hands to encourage her.
Within ten minutes they were all singing from Gilbert and Sullivan, happy, dancing music, and all the room was obliged to let go of anger and tragedy, at least for an hour.
* * *
Charlotte slept in emotional exhaustion, but her sleep was not restful. She was disturbed by dreams of anxiety, and for seconds it only seemed like a continuation when she heard the screaming.
She was emerging from the webs of sleep when Pitt was already out of bed and striding towards the door.
The screaming went on, high and shrill with rage. There was no terror in it, only uncontrollable, hysterical fury.
Charlotte almost fell out of bed, tripping over the full skirts of her nightgown, her hair in a loose braid and half undone.
Pitt was on the landing, staring at the doorway of the room opposite, where Kezia Moynihan stood, her eyes wide, blazing, her face white but for two spots of hectic color in her cheeks.
Emily was coming from the west wing, her hair loose, her nightgown covered by a pale green robe, her face ashen. Jack had obviously risen earlier and was running up the stairs from below.
Padraig Doyle emerged from a door further down, and then a second after, Lorcan McGinley.
“What in God’s name has happened?” Jack demanded, looking from one to another of them.
Charlotte stared beyond Pitt in through the open door, still held wide by Kezia. She saw a huge brass-ended bed, its cover rumpled, and half sitting up, her black hair falling over her shoulders, Iona McGinley. Beside her, his striped nightshirt askew, was Fergal Moynihan. Iona made a halfhearted attempt to shuffle under the bedclothes.
The scene admitted no explanation.
3
EMILY WAS THE FIRST to move. There was no conceivable denial to make. There was only one interpretation possible. She moved forward and took Kezia’s hand, pulling her quite sharply out of the doorway, and reaching for the handle, jerked it shut.
Charlotte unfroze and turned to face everyone else, now gathering on the landing.
“What’s happened?” Carson O’Day asked, his face filled with anxiety bordering on fear.
Charlotte felt a surge of wild laughter inside herself. She knew he had imagined an attack, the violence that had surely been at the back of everyone’s minds, the reason Pitt was here. She could see it mirrored in his eyes. And this was so utterly different, almost banal, the sort of domestic tragedy or farce that happened anywhere.
“Everyone is perfectly safe,” she said clearly and a little loudly. “No one is injured.” Then she saw Lorcan McGinley’s white face and regretted she had chosen precisely those words, but to apologize would only make it worse.
Emily had her arm around Kezia and was trying, unsuccessfully, to steer her away and back to her own bedroom.
Pitt saw her difficulty and went to Kezia’s other side.
“Come,” he said firmly, taking her arm and putting his weight behind his movement. “You’ll catch a chill