“He lied to her,” Cormac answered. “He knew what she was doing, what we all were. Somewhere she made a mistake.” The tears were running down his face and he made no effort to check them. “He fed us all lies, but we believed him. The uprising was betrayed. Stupid, stupid, stupid! They blamed Kate!” He gulped, staring at the wall as if he could see all the players in that tragedy parading in front of him.
“They saw she had led us astray,” he went on. “Narraway did that to her, used her against her own people. That’s why I’d see him in hell. But I want him to suffer further, here on earth, where I know it for certain. Can you make that happen, Mrs. Pitt? For Kate?”
She was appalled by the rage in him. It shook his body like a disease. His skin was blotchy, the flesh of his face wasted. He must once have been handsome.
“What happened to her?” It was cruel of Charlotte to ask, but she knew it was not the end of the story yet, and she needed to hear it from him, not just from Narraway.
“She was murdered,” he replied. “Strangled. Beautiful Kate.”
“I’m sorry.” She meant it. She tried to imagine the woman, all passion and dreams, as Cormac had painted her, but that vision was of a man in love with an image.
“They said it was Sean who killed her,” he went on. “But it couldn’t have been. He knew better than to believe she would have betrayed the cause. That was Narraway again. He killed her, because she would have told them what he had done. He would never have left Ireland alive.” He stared at Charlotte, his eyes brimming with tears, waiting for her to respond.
She forced herself to speak. “Why would he? Can you prove that?” she asked. “I mean, can you give me anything I can take back to London that would make them listen to me?” She was cold now too, dreading what he might say. What if he could? What would she do then? Narraway would excuse himself, of course. He would say he had had to kill her, or she would have exposed him and the uprising might have succeeded. Perhaps that was even true? But it was still ugly and terrible. It was still murder.
“He killed her because she wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know. But if I could prove it do you think he’d be alive?” Cormac asked harshly. “They’d have hanged him, not poor Sean, and Talulla’d not be an orphan, God help her.”
Charlotte gasped. “Talulla?”
“She’s Kate’s daughter,” he said simply. “Kate and Sean’s. Did you not know that? After Sean and Kate died she was cared for by a cousin, so she could be protected as much as possible from the hatred against her mother. Poor child.”
The dreadful, useless tragedy of it overwhelmed Charlotte. She wanted to say something that would redeem any part of the loss, but everything that came to her mind was banal.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m …”
He looked up at her. “So are you going back to London to tell someone?”
“Yes … yes I am.”
“Be careful,” he warned. “Narraway won’t go down easily. He’ll kill you too, if he thinks he has to, to survive.”
“I will be careful,” she promised him. “I think I have a little more to learn yet, but I promise I’ll be … careful.” She stood up, feeling awkward. There was nothing to say that completed their conversation. They moved from the desperate to the mundane as if it were completely natural, but what words were there that could be adequate for what either of them felt? “Thank you, Mr. O’Neil,” she said gravely.
He took her to the door and opened it for her, but he did not offer to find her any transport, as if for him she ceased to be real the moment she stepped out onto the pavement.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Narraway demanded as soon as she came into Mrs. Hogan’s sitting room. He had been standing by the window, or perhaps pacing. He looked exhausted and tense, as if his imagination had plagued him with fear. His eyes were hollow, and the lines in his face were deeper than she had ever seen them before. “Are you all right? Who’s with you? Where is he?”
“Nobody is with me,” she answered. “But I am perfectly all right—”
“Alone?” His voice shook. “You were out on the street alone, in the dark? For God’s sake, Charlotte, what’s the matter with you? Anything could have happened. I wouldn’t even have known!” He put out his hand and gripped her arm. She could feel the strength of him, as if he were quite unaware how tightly he held her.
“Nothing happened to me, Victor. I wasn’t very far away. And it isn’t late. There are plenty of people about,” she assured him.
“You could have been lost …”
“Then I would have asked for directions,” she said. “Please … there is no need to be concerned. If I’d had to walk a little out of my way to get here it wouldn’t have hurt me.”
“You could have …,” he began, then stopped, perhaps realizing that his fear was disproportionate. He let go of her. “I’m sorry. I …”
She looked at him. It was a mistake. For an instant his emotion was too plain in his eyes. She did not want to know that he cared so much. Now it would be impossible for either of them to pretend he did not love her, and she could not pretend she did not know.
She turned away, feeling the color burning on her skin. All words would be belittling the truth.
He stood still.
“I went to see Cormac O’Neil,” she said after a moment or two.
“What?”
“I was perfectly safe. I wanted to hear from him exactly what happened, or at least what he believes.”
“And what did he say?” he asked quickly, his voice cracking with tension.
She did not want to look at him, to intrude into old grief that was still obviously so sharp, but evasion was cowardly. She met his eyes and repeated to him what Cormac had said, including the fact that Talulla was Kate’s daughter.
“That’s probably how he sees it,” Narraway answered when she had finished. “I daresay he couldn’t live with the truth. Kate was beautiful.” He smiled briefly. In that moment she could imagine the man he had been twenty years earlier: younger, more virile, perhaps less wise.
“Few men could resist her,” he went on. “I didn’t try. I knew they were using her to trap me. She was brave, passionate …” He smiled wryly. “Perhaps a little short on humor, but far more intelligent than they realized. It sometimes happens when women are beautiful. People don’t see any further than that, especially men. It’s uncomfortable. We see what we want to see.”
Charlotte frowned, suddenly thinking of Kate, a pawn to others, an object of both schemes and desires. “Why do you say intelligent?” she asked.
“We talked,” he replied. “About the cause, what they planned to do. I persuaded her it would rebound against them, and it would have. The deaths would have been violent and widespread. Attacks like that don’t crush people and make them surrender. They have exactly the opposite effect. They would have united England against the rebels, who could have lost all sympathy from everyone in Europe, even from some of their own. Kate told me what they were going to do, the details, so I could have it stopped.”
Charlotte tried to imagine it, the grief, the cost.
“Who killed her?” she asked. She felt the loss touch her, as if she had known Kate more deeply than simply as a name, an imagined face.
“Sean,” he replied. “I don’t know whether it was for betraying Ireland, as he saw it, or betraying him.”
“With you?”
Narraway colored, but he did not look away from her. “Yes.”
“Do you know that, beyond doubt?”
“Yes.” His throat was so tight his voice sounded half strangled. “I found her body. I think he meant me to.”
She could not afford pity now. “Why are you sure it was Sean who killed her?” She had to be certain so she could get rid of the doubt forever. If Narraway himself had killed her it might, by some twisted logic of politics and terror, be what he had to do to save even greater bloodshed. She looked at him now with a mixture of new understanding of the weight he carried, and sorrow for what it had cost him: whether that was now shame, or a lack of it—which would be worse.