Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [55]
“They’re all guilty of hating each other,” Mrs. Williams said with a gleam in her eye. Her hands were shaking and her body began to quiver. “And the Good Book says that’s as bad as murder.”
“Rubbish,” Emily retorted briskly. “We are English, and we don’t panic because a collection of Irishmen dislike each other. We have a great deal more fortitude than that!”
Mrs. Williams straightened up noticeably.
“We don’t run away from our duty for any reason,” Emily went on, realizing she had said the right thing. “But if you prefer to seat the visiting staff separately, then by all means do so. For the sake of the younger maids who may be very naturally upset,” she added. “Not for you, of course. You will be perfectly all right. But you will have to look after the junior staff and ensure they don’t take fright or behave badly. We have a very important position to maintain.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hunnaker said, raising her chin. “We mustn’t let them Irish think we haven’t the stomach for it.”
“Certainly not,” the butler agreed. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll make sure everything runs as usual.”
But such a task was beyond mortal ability to accomplish. Two of the younger housemaids had hysterics and had to be put to bed, one of them after she had tipped a bucket of water down the front stairs and soaked the hall carpet. One of the junior footmen almost set fire to the library, in absentminded-ness piling more and more coals into the grate. The bootboy got into a fight with Fergal Moynihan’s valet and they both ended up with black eyes, and three dishes were broken in the scullery, and then the scullery maid had hysterics. One of the laundry maids filled the copper too full and boiled it over, and the senior laundry maid flew at her, whereupon the first one gave notice. No one peeled any potatoes or carrots, and the pies for dessert were forgotten and got burnt.
One of the footmen got drunk, tripped over the kitchen cat, and fell over. The cat was furious but unhurt. Mrs. Williams was in a monumental temper, but she did not give notice. And no one at all was interested in luncheon, so the wreckage of the meal was unnoticed upstairs. Emily was the only person who was ever aware of it.
Gracie, Charlotte’s maid, was one sane head amid the domestic chaos, although Emily did observe that every time Lorcan McGinley’s very handsome young valet passed by her, which seemed more often than was necessary, she lost her concentration and became uncharacteristically clumsy. Emily was far too astute not to understand the signs.
And Pitt’s most disobliging assistant, Tellman, was very busy asking everyone a lot of questions and looking as if someone had broken a bad egg.
In the late afternoon Cornwallis telephoned back and asked to speak to Jack.
“What is it?” Emily demanded as soon as he had replaced the receiver on the cradle. “What did you just agree to?”
They were in the library. He had gone there to answer the call, and she had followed him when she knew from Dilkes who was on the other end.
Jack looked very stiff, his eyes wide. He lifted his chin a trifle, as if his collar were suddenly tight on his throat.
“What is it?” Emily repeated, her voice rising.
Jack swallowed. “Cornwallis has said the Home Office would like me to continue the conference,” he replied very quietly, his voice not much more than a whisper. He cleared his throat. “In Greville’s place.”
“You can’t!” Emily said instantly, almost choked with fear for him.
“Thank you.” He looked as if she had hit him. She opened her mouth to tell him not to be absurd. This was no time for childish pride. Greville had just been murdered, less than twenty-four hours ago, here in this house. Jack could be next! Then like a drenching of cold water she realized that he thought she had meant that he was not capable of it, he was not fit to take Greville’s place.
Was that what he feared himself?