When he looked up, Hammond was calmly watching him.
‘I hope I didn’t disturb you, sir. The fire needs constant attention in this weather. I will try not to make any noise.’
Henry was aware that at the moment he had lifted his head from his reveries, Hammond had been studying him unguardedly. And now he was making up for it by moving quickly, as though he were going
to remove the coal scuttle without speaking again.
‘Have you seen the little girl, Mona?’ Henry asked him.
‘Recently, sir?’
‘No, I mean since she arrived.’
‘Yes, I meet her in the corridors all the time, sir.’
‘It’s strange for her to be alone here with no one else her own age. Does she have a nurse with her?’
‘Yes, sir, and her mother.’
‘What does she do all day, then?’
‘God knows, sir.’
Hammond was studying him again, examining him with an intensity which was almost unmannerly. Henry returned his gaze as calmly as he could. There was silence between them. When Hammond finally
averted his eyes, he seemed pensive and depressed.
‘I have a sister who is the age of Mona, sir. She is pretty.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes, sir, she is the youngest by far. She is the light of all our lives, sir.’
‘Does Mona put her in your mind when you see her?’
‘My sister does not roam freely sir, she is a real treasure.’
‘Surely Mona is protected by her nanny and, indeed, her mother?’
‘I’m sure she is, sir.’
Hammond cast his eyes down, looking troubled as though he wished to say something and was being prevented. He turned his head towards the window and remained still. The light caught half his
face while half stayed in shadow; the room was quiet enough for Henry to hear his breathing. Neither of them moved or spoke.
Henry appreciated that if anyone could see them now, if others were to stand in the doorway as he had done earlier, or manage to see in through the window, they would presume that something
momentous had occurred between them, that their silence had merely arisen because so much had been said. Suddenly, Hammond let out a quick breath and smiled at him softly and benignly before taking
a tray from the table and leaving the room.
H
ENRY FOUND
himself that evening close to Lord Wolseley at supper and thus free, he thought, from Webster. One of the ladies beside him had read several
of his books and was much exercised by their endings and by the idea of an American writing about English life.
‘You must find us quite blank compared to the Americans,’ she said. ‘Lord Warburton’s sisters in your novel, now they were quite blank. Now Isabel isn’t blank or
Daisy Miller. If George Eliot had written Americans, she would have made them quite blank too.’ She clearly enjoyed the phrase ‘quite blank’ and placed it in several more of her
comments.
Webster, in the meantime, could not stop attempting to control the table. When he had teased all the women about what they could not, or would not, or might not wear at the ball, he turned his
attention to the novelist.
‘Mr James, are you going to visit any of your Irish kinsmen while you are here?’
‘No, Mr Webster, I have no plans of any sort.’ He spoke coldly and firmly.
‘Why, Mr James, the roads, thanks to his lordship’s steady command of the forces, are safe from marauders. I’m sure her ladyship would put a carriage at your
disposal.’
‘Mr Webster, I have no plans.’
‘What was the name of that place, Lady Wolseley? Bailieborough, that’s right, Bailieborough in County Cavan. It is where you will find the seat of the James family.’
Henry noticed Lady Wolseley blushing and keeping her eyes from him. He looked at her and at no one else before turning to Lord Wolseley and speaking softly.
‘Mr Webster will not desist,’ he said.
‘Yes, a stretch in barracks might improve his general deportment,’ Lord Wolseley said.
Webster did not hear this exchange but he saw it, and it seemed to irritate him that both men had smiled knowingly at each other.
‘Mr James and I,’ Lord Wolseley boomed down the table, ‘were agreeing that you have a considerable talent for making yourself heard, Mr Webster. You should consider putting it
to some useful purpose.’
Lord Wolseley looked at his wife.
‘Mr Webster will one day be a great orator, a great Parliamentarian,’ Lady Wolseley said.
‘When he learns the art of silence he will be a very great orator indeed, even greater than he is now,’ Lord Wolseley said.
Lord Wolseley turned back to Henry. They studiously ignored the other end of the table. Henry felt as though he had been struck with something and the blow had stunned him into pretending that
he was following Lord Wolseley, while with all his secret energy he concentrated on what had just been said.
He did not mind Webster’s clear malice; he would never, he hoped, have to see him again, and Lord Wolseley’s words had meant that Webster would never be able to raise his voice at
the table again. Rather it was the sneer on Lady Wolseley’s face when Webster had mentioned Bailieborough that Henry remembered. It had disappeared quickly, but nonetheless he had seen it and
she knew he had seen it. He was still too shocked to know whether it was careless or deliberate. He simply knew that he had done nothing to provoke it. He also knew that Webster and Lady Wolseley
had discussed him and his family’s origins in County Cavan. He did not know, however, where they had got their information.
He wished that he could leave the house now. When he looked down the table, he caught a glimpse of Lady Wolseley in discussion with her neighbour. She seemed chastened, but he wondered if he
merely imagined this because he wished her to be so. He nodded carefully as Lord Wolseley came to the end of the story of one of his campaigns; he smiled as best he could.
When Webster stood up Henry saw from his face that he was flustered, that he had taken Lord Wolseley’s remark about silence to heart. Henry knew, and Webster must have known too, that Lord
Wolseley had spoken as fiercely as he was capable of doing outside a military tribunal. Also, Lady Wolseley’s quick defence of Webster had come too fast. It would have been better if she had
not spoken. Henry knew now that it was important to get to his rooms without crossing the paths of either Webster or Lady Wolseley, who were both still in the dining room, keeping away from each
other, not becoming directly involved in any conversation.
T
HE GAS LAMPS
were lit in his apartment and the fire was blazing. It was as though Hammond had known he would be returning early. The sitting room was
beautiful like this, old wood and flickering shadows and long dark velvet curtains. It was strange, he thought, how familiar these rooms had become to him, and how much he needed the peace they
provided.
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.
L
ATE 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.
A
S 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.