Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [81]
“That’s terrible!” Gracie said through a tight, aching throat. Her eyes prickled with tears and she had to swallow hard. “It’s awful!”
“It’s Ireland, Gracie.” He picked another flower and handed it to her. “Even love can’t win.” He smiled as he said it, but his eyes were full of just as much pain as she felt for the people gone thirty years ago. Time did not matter. The loss was real. It could have been anybody. It could be themselves.
He leaned forward, so close to her she could feel the warmth of his skin, and he kissed her lips, slowly, gentry, as if he wanted to count every second and remember it. Then he reached forward and took the flowers from her and laid them on the bench and put his arms around her, holding her softly, and kissed her again.
When at last he moved away Gracie’s heart was hammering, and she opened her eyes to look at him, certain that what she saw would be beautiful. It was. He was smiling.
“Take your white flowers back,” he said under his breath. “And watch carefully for yourself, Gracie Phipps. There’s disaster in this house, and who’s to say there won’t be others yet. I’d hate more than you can know for you to get hurt.” He put up his hand and touched her hair for a moment, then turned and walked past her and out of the door, leaving her to pick another few chrysanthemums and go back to the house with her feet barely touching the ground, and the taste of his lips still on hers.
Charlotte bit her tongue rather than reply to Emily as she felt inclined. What she wanted to say to Kezia Moynihan made excellent sense, but she could hardly say it after quarreling with her own sister, when the better part of her knew exactly what the reason was. Emily was terrified for Jack physically, but also she was afraid he would not measure up to whatever standard she had set for him, or he had set for himself, with this wretched conference.
She found Kezia in the morning room as Emily had said. She was sitting on the padding of the club fender, her skirts puffed out around her. Charlotte went in quite casually and sat down near the fire as if she were cold, when in fact she was merely angry.
“Do you think it is going to clear?” she asked, glancing towards the window and the really quite pleasant sky.
“The weather?” Kezia said with a slight smile.
“That also,” Charlotte agreed, sinking back. “It is all rather wretched, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” Kezia shrugged slightly. “And I cannot honestly imagine it getting any better. Have you seen the newspapers?”
“No. Is there something of interest?”
“Only the latest comments on the Parnell-O’Shea divorce. I cannot see Parnell lasting long after this, whatever the verdict is.” Her face tightened. Charlotte knew what her thoughts must be, what they had to be, regarding Fergal. The risk he had taken was insane.
As if Charlotte had spoken her thoughts aloud, Kezia clenched her fists and stared into the fire.
“When I think what he’s thrown away, I could hate him,” she said bitterly. “I understand why men punch each other. It must be very relieving to be able to strike out as hard as you can when someone exasperates you beyond endurance.”
“I’m sure,” Charlotte agreed. “But I think the relief would last a very short time, then it would have to be paid for.”
“How very sensible you are,” Kezia said without an iota of admiration.
“I’ve cut off my nose to spite my face too often to think it’s clever,” Charlotte replied, keeping her temper.
“I find that difficult to imagine.” Kezia picked up the poker and leaning sideways, prodded viciously at