Soon after he had placed himself in the armchair beside the fire, Hammond arrived with tea on a tray.
‘I saw you in the corridor, sir, you looked poorly.’
He had not seen Hammond, and he felt unhappy that he had been watched as he made his way from the dining room.
‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, sir.’
‘It’s the living I’ve been looking at,’ he said.
‘I brought you tea, and I will make sure that the fire is going properly in your bedroom. You need a long night’s rest, sir.’
Henry did not reply. Hammond carried over a small table and put the tray down and began to pour the tea.
‘Would you like your book, sir?’
‘No, thank you, I think I’ll sit here and have my tea and go to bed as you suggested.’
‘You look shaken, sir. Are you sure you will be all right?’
‘Yes, thank you very much.’
‘I can look in during the night if you like, sir.’
Hammond was moving towards the bedroom. His glance back as he spoke was casual as though he had said nothing unusual. Henry was not sure if he quite understood, if the offer had been made innocently or not. All he knew for certain was his own susceptibility; he could feel himself holding his breath.
Because he did not reply, Hammond stopped and turned and they locked eyes. The expression on Hammond ’s face was one of mild concern, but Henry could not tell what it concealed.
‘No, thank you, I’m tired and I think I will sleep well.’
‘That’s fine, sir. I’ll check the bedroom and then I will leave you in peace.’
Henry lay in bed and thought of the house they were in, a house full of doors and corridors, strange creakings and odd night sounds. He thought of his hostess and Mr Webster and his mocking tone. He wished he could leave now, have his bags packed and move into a city hotel. But he knew that he could not go, the ball was the following night and to leave before the ball would be to offend. He would leave on the morning after the ball.
He felt hurt and wounded, knowing that his hostess had conspired against him. He thought about what Webster had said. He had never spoken to anyone in Lady Wolseley’s circle about County Cavan. It was not a secret or a matter of shame, although by his sneering tone Webster had made it seem so. It was simply the place where his grandfather had been born and his father had visited almost sixty years earlier. What could it mean to him? His grandfather had come to America in search of freedom, and in America he had found more than freedom. He had found great wealth, and that had changed everything. County Cavan did not cost Henry a thought.
He put his hands behind his head in the darkness of the bedroom, the firelight having fully dimmed. He was disturbed by the idea that he longed, now more than ever before, in this strange house in this strange country, for someone to hold him, not speak or move even, but to embrace him, stay with him. He needed that now, and making himself say it brought the need closer, made it more urgent and more impossible.
LATE THE FOLLOWING morning he sat by the window, watching the sheer blue sky over the Liffey. It was another freezing day and thus he was surprised to see the child Mona on the lawn, unaccompanied and bare-headed. He himself had been for an early walk and had been glad to get back inside the house. The girl, he noticed, had her arms outstretched and she was moving in circles; the lawn was wide and he searched with his eyes for her nurse or her mother, but there was no one.
If anyone, he thought, saw her they would feel as he did. She must be rescued, there was too much lawn, too much broad, unwatched territory around her. It was appalling that she was there in the cold March morning unprotected. She was still moving about the centre of the lawn, half-running and then stopping, following a route of her own devising. Her coat, he saw, was open. As time passed and no protector arrived to take her indoors, he imagined a figure in the shadows watching her, or a figure emerging from the shadows. Suddenly, she stopped her movements and stood still, facing him. He could see that she was shivering with cold. She made a gesture and shook her head. He realized that she must be in silent contact with someone at another window, presumably her mother or her nurse. She did not move again, but stood there on the lawn alone.
It was the dead, inert silence of her long gaze which held his attention. In her stillness, she seemed both frightened and acquiescent, and he could not begin to imagine what her watcher at the window was indicating.
He fetched his coat from the stand near the door. He could not resist inspecting the scene at first hand, and he planned to turn the corner casually and glance up at the window, without losing a moment, as soon as he came into view. He believed that the person at the window, whoever she was, would pull back once he appeared. Anyone, he thought, would be ashamed to conduct the minding of a young girl, who should, in any case, be indoors, from an upstairs window. He found his way to the side door without meeting anyone.
The day had become colder and he shivered as he walked around the house to the lawn. He waited at the corner for a second and then turned sharply, staring immediately up at the windows along his floor even before checking that Mona was there. He saw no one at the windows, no one withdrew into the shadows as he had expected. Instead, directly in front of him, wearing a blue hat and with her coat fastened, stood Mona with her nurse. The child was being led by the hand towards him. He greeted her and the nurse and then passed on quickly. When he turned to watch them, he noticed the nurse speaking gently to the child, and Mona smiling up at her, contented and not in need of anything. He checked all the upper windows once more but there was no one watching.
AS HE PASSED the Great Hall he saw that the servants were already working, laying the tables, putting the candles in place and decorating the room. Hammond was not among them.
He had told Lady Wolseley a second time that morning that he would not wear any form of fancy dress, that he was neither a lord nor a fop, but a poor scribbler. She had told him that he would be alone at the ball, that the ladies one and all were prepared and no gentleman was coming as himself.
‘You are among friends, Mr James,’ she said.
When she spoke, she stopped for a moment and hesitated, clearly deciding not to make the next statement that had come into her mind. He studied her carefully and directly until she looked almost embarrassed and then he told her that he would be leaving early in the morning.
‘And Hammond? Will you not miss him?’ she asked, attempting to restore a playful tone to their conversation.
‘ Hammond?’ He looked confused. ‘Oh, the manservant. Yes, thank you, he has been splendid.’
‘He’s normally so serious, but all week he has been smiling.’
‘You know,’ Henry said, ‘I will miss your hospitality enormously.’
He determined that he would not speak to Webster that evening, rather he would avoid him at all times. As soon as he reached the stairway on his way to the ball, however, Webster was upon him. He was dressed in a hunting outfit Henry considered absurd and brandishing an envelope with an air of hideous glee.
‘I did not know we had friends in common,’ he said.
Henry bowed.
‘I searched for you this morning,’ Webster said, ‘to tell you that I have a missive here from Mr Wilde, Mr Oscar Wilde, who sends his fond regards to you. At least he says he does, one can never tell with him. He says that he wishes he were here, and of course he would be a great addition to things and he is a great favourite of her ladyship. His lordship, I understand, draws the line before him. I don’t think he would have wanted Mr Wilde in his regiment.’