A Christmas Grace (9 page)

E
mily and Daniel walked home slowly along the road. Daniel seemed tired, and she knew from the way he kept adjusting Hugo's coat on his shoulders that his body still ached from the bruises. Perhaps he was lucky that the wreckage hurled about by the sea had not injured him more. He seemed lost in thought, as if the underlying pain of the village had added to his own.

It could not go on like this. Someone must find the truth of Connor Riordan's death. Whatever it was, it had to be better than the corroding doubt. Daniel's presence had made the fear sharper than before, as if he had unknowingly woken it from sleeping.

He spoke suddenly, startling her. “You're not Catholic, are you.” It was a statement.

“No,” she said with surprise. “Sorry. Was I so out of place?”

He grinned. He had beautiful teeth, very white and a little uneven. “Not at all. It's good to see it through the eyes of a stranger once in a while. We take it all for granted too easily. Was your aunt a Catholic before she came here and married?”

“No.”

“That's what I thought. It's a big thing she did. She must have loved him very much. I'd lay money—if I had any—that Connemara is not like where she came from.”

“You'd win,” she conceded, smiling back at him.

“More than double, I expect,” he said ruefully. “And your family wouldn't be pleased.”

“No. My father—he's dead now—he was very upset.”

He looked at her, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew she was evading the truth, making her part in it look kinder than it had been.

“You're Church of the English,” he concluded.

“Yes.”

“It's a big thing, so I've heard, this difference between us. I don't know enough about the Church of the English to understand that. Is it so very different, then?”

“It's a matter of loyalty,” she replied, repeating what her father had said. “The first is to our country.”

“I see.” He looked puzzled.

“No you don't!” She was not managing to say what she meant. “It's your loyalty to Rome that's the problem.”

“Rome, is it? I thought it was to God…or Ireland?”

He was laughing at her, but she found it impossible to resent. Put like that, it was absurd. The whole estrangement was foolish, not about loyalties at all. Obedience and conformity were closer to the truth of it.

“You've not visited her here before?” he observed.

It would be pointless to deny it. She was obviously a stranger.

“She's ill now.” That was obvious too. She had made it sound as if that was the only reason she had come, and would not have were Susannah well. But then that also was true. In fact she would not even have now if Jack had not coerced her. It was his opinion of her that had made the difference. She cared what he thought of her more than she had realized. But that was none of Daniel's business either.

“And you've come to look after her?” he said.

“No. I've come to be with her over Christmas.”

“It's a good time to forgive,” he said with a slight nod.

“I'm not forgiving her,” Emily snapped.

He winced.

“I'm not forgiving her because there's nothing to forgive,” she said angrily. “She's a right to marry anyone she chooses.”

“But your father had someone else in mind for her? Someone from the Church of the English? Perhaps with money?” He looked at Emily's fine woolen cape with its neat fur collar, then at her polished leather boots, suffering a little on the rough road.

“No, he didn't. Our family is comfortable, not more than that. My first husband had money, and a title. He died.”

“I'm sorry.” His compassion was instant.

“Thank you. But I love my second husband very much.” She sounded defensive and she heard it in her own voice.

“Has he money and a title as well?” Daniel asked.

“No he hasn't!” She said it as if it had been faintly insulting to ask. “He has neither, nor any prospects. I married him because I love him. He is a Member of Parliament and he does some very fine work.”

“And is your father very happy, then? Oh…I forgot. You said he was dead too. Did he mind you marrying a man with no title or prospects?” He was keeping exact step with her on the rough road. “Did you dare his anger, like your aunt Susannah? I see now why you are here with her. You have a natural sympathy. Not exactly a black sheep of the family, but at least one of a different color?”

She wanted to laugh, and be furious, and she was embarrassed because she had taken a wild risk in marrying Jack Radley. He had had no money at all, and she had had a great deal, but even more than that, he flirted outrageously, and made his way by being such an entertaining guest at other people's house parties that he hardly ever had to pay towards the roof over his head. But he was fun, he was kind, and when things were hard and dangerous, he was brave. The best qualities within himself he had discovered after they were married.

But she had accepted him without having to dare her father's wrath, or lose a penny of her own money inherited as a widow. Would she have had the courage to marry Jack even if it had not been so easy? She hoped so, but she had not had to prove it. Compared with Susannah she was shallow, and yet she had passed judgment so easily.

“It's very good of you to be here, over Christmas especially,” Daniel interrupted her thoughts. “Your husband will miss you.”

“I hope so,” she said with an intensity of feeling that surprised her. Would Jack be missing her? He had been very quick to insist that she go. She tried to recall the last few weeks before that letter from Thomas had arrived. How close had she and Jack been, beyond the courtesy of habit? He was always agreeable. But then he was to everyone. And as she had just reminded herself, it was she who had the money. Or more correctly, it was her son Edward—George's son, not Jack's. Ashworth Hall, and all that went with it, was her inheritance only through him.

Was Jack missing her? Or might he perhaps be enjoying himself accepting the sympathy, and the hospitality, of half the women in London who found him nearly as attractive as Emily did?

She became unpleasantly aware that Daniel was watching her, studying her face as if he could read her emotions in it. She had given herself away with “I hope so.”

“He will be looking after my children,” she said a little abruptly. Then she wished she had said “our children.” “Mine” sounded proprietorial, defensive. But to go back and correct it would make her sound even more vulnerable.

“Very good of you,” he repeated. “Has Susannah children? She does not speak of them, and there are no pictures.”

“No, she doesn't.”

“So there is only you?”

“Not at all!” That sounded awful, as if she had abandoned Susannah all those years. “My mother is traveling in Europe and my sister is unwell.”

“She is an invalid?”

“Not at all. She is very healthy indeed, she simply has a touch of bronchitis.”

“So she will miss the Christmas parties too.”

“She does not go to parties very much. She is married to a policeman—of high rank.” She did not know why she added that last bit. Pitt had been quite lowly when Charlotte had married him. She too had married for love, not caring much what anyone else thought. And looking back, Emily missed the days when she and Charlotte had played a part in some of Pitt's most difficult cases. Since he had been in Special Branch, such help had been rarely possible. Balls, theater, dinners were all fun, but lacking in depth after a while, a superficial world, full of wit and glamour, but no passion.

“I've hurt you,” Daniel said with contrition. “I'm sorry. You have been so kind to me I wished to know you better. I think I asked insensitive questions. Please forgive me.”

“Not at all,” Emily lied, needing immediately to deny that he had struck any truths. She had no unhappiness, and he mustn't think she had. She looked at him to make sure he understood. He was smiling, but she could not read what lay behind his eyes. She was left thinking that he had understood her far better than she wished.

With a sudden and very painful clarity she remembered what Father Tyndale had said about Connor Riordan asking questions, exposing the vulnerable so it could no longer be lied about or ignored. Whose dreams had he stripped so unbearably? Had he even known he was doing it? Was it now happening again, beginning with her?

Should she pursue it? Dare she? The alternative might be worse: cowardice that would allow the village to die. She would have to bend her mind very seriously to detecting, not merely skirt around the edges, beginning fears and doubts, and completing nothing. She could awaken even uglier things than were stirring. Once begun, it would be morally impossible to stop before all the truth was laid bare. Was she ready for that? Was she even competent to do such a thing, let alone deal with the results?

She would very much rather not tell Susannah—she had more than enough distress to deal with—and yet Emily could not succeed without her help. She realized as she said that to herself that she had already made up her mind. Failure might be a tragedy, but not to attempt it was defeat.

E
mily did not get the opportunity to speak to Susannah alone until afternoon teatime when Daniel had gone back to sleep, still aching from his deep bruises and finding himself overcome by tiredness, and perhaps as much by grief. She had given little thought to the loneliness he must be feeling, the loss to which he could put no names or faces, only a consuming void.

Emily and Susannah sat by the fire with tea and scones, butter, jam, and cream. Emily missed the bright flames of a coal or log fire, but she was growing used to the earthy smell of peat.

She told Susannah of the morning at church, and then of her walk back with Daniel, the questions he had asked and how his probing had disturbed her thoughts, making her realize what Father Tyndale had meant of Connor Riordan.

Susannah sat still for a long time without replying, her face bleak and troubled.

“Is that not what you wanted me here for really?” Emily asked gently, leaning forward a little. She disliked being quite so blunt, but she had no idea how long they had in which to pursue this.

“Actually I wrote to Charlotte,” Susannah said apologetically. “But that was before Thomas told me that you actually helped him quite a lot as well, in the beginning. I'm sorry. That's ungracious, but we have no time left for polite evasions.”

“No,” Emily agreed. “I need your help. Are you wishing to give it? If not, let us agree that we do nothing.”

Susannah winced. “Do nothing. That sounds so…weak, so dishonest.”

“Or discreet?” Emily suggested.

“In this case that is a euphemism for cowardly,” Susannah told her.

“What are you afraid of? That it will have been someone you like?”

“Of course.”

“Isn't knowing it's one person better than suspecting everybody?”

Susannah was very pale, even in the glow of the candlelight. “Unless it is someone I care for especially.”

“Like Father Tyndale?”

“It couldn't be him,” Susannah said instantly.

“Or someone Hugo cared for?” Emily added. “Or protected?”

Susannah smiled. “You think I am afraid it was him, to protect the village from Connor's probing eyes.”

“Aren't you?” Emily hated saying it, but once the question was asked, evasion was as powerful as an answer.

“You didn't know Hugo,” Susannah said softly, and her voice was filled with tenderness. It was as if the years since his death vanished away and he had only just gone out of the door for a walk, not forever. “It's not my fear you are speaking about, my dear, it is your own.”

Emily was incredulous. “My own? It doesn't matter to me who killed Connor Riordan, except as it affects you.”

“Not your fear of that,” Susannah corrected. “Your doubts about Jack, wondering if he loves you, if he's missing you as much as you hope. Perhaps a little realization that you don't know him as well as he knows you.”

Emily was stunned. Those thoughts had barely even risen to a conscious level of her mind, and yet here was Susannah speaking them aloud, and the denial that rose to her lips would be pointless. “What makes you think that?” she said huskily.

Susannah's expression was very gentle. “The way you speak of him. You love him, but there is so much of which you know nothing. He is a young man, barely forty, and yet you have not met his parents, and if he has brothers and sisters, you say nothing of them, and it seems, neither does he. You share what he does now, in Parliament and in society, but what do you know or share of who he was before you met, and what has made him who he is?”

Suddenly Emily had the feeling that she was on the edge of a precipice, and losing her balance. This was the night of the Duchess's dinner. Was Jack there? Who was he sitting beside? Did he miss her?