was the twentieth century now and if a young independent woman wanted to invite a male friend into her house, she would! If anyone thought it was wrong, that was their problem. Honi soit qui mal y pense.
She sighed. That would all be fine, if she was just inviting Sean in to talk. It would be a fight worth fighting. She would enjoy the scandalized disapproval on the faces of Keneally and Lucy her maid as they brought in a tray of tea and toast, to find the mistress and the uncouth young man absorbed in the study of medical textbooks. Especially ones with pictures of bodies in. She could even imagine facing her father down, over the right to do that.
But I could only win a fight like that, Catherine realized, if I were really innocent and it was the other people who had the wicked thoughts. As it is, I want to take him to bed with me. And there's no way, no way at all, that I could face the servants if I did that in the house. They'd probably resign en masse, anyway.
For a while she toyed with the idea of sending all the servants to bed and then sneaking Sean up the back stairs; but the same objections remained. The servants had eyes and ears, they were not stupid. She would have to get Sean out, as well as in; and even if the servants didn't hear anything, she would never know that they hadn't. Every morning she would look in their eyes, and wonder if their respect for her had vanished.
Sean made his way carefully back to their table, bearing two foaming glasses of stout. He was pleased, she knew, that she chose to drink beer rather than something more ladylike such as sherry or wine. He had told her once that it was daring. Oh well, she thought, at least I can indulge my lesser desires.
Sean sat down facing her. They sipped the stout and smiled at each other, their eyes sparkling. The noise in the pub had lessened enough for them to talk.
‘I never understood why you became like this,’ he said.
‘Like what?’ Was he a mind-reader? Was her face so transparent that he could see what designs she had on him? If so, what did he think?
But Sean was on a different track. He waved his arm around the pub. ‘I mean, why are you in a place like this, with a fellow like me, supping beer like a normal girl, almost? When you could be leading the life of O'Rahilly with Lord this and Viscount that, if you wanted.’
‘Almost?’ She teased him. ‘What do you mean, like a normal girl, almost, Sean Brennan? Am I normal or am I not?’
He considered the question. ‘In some ways yes, in others no.’
‘Oh, wise philosopher.’
And is it normal to think of you in my bedroom, naked like a Greek statue? My mother would have said not, and father would too. I could slide my hands across his chest and - I wonder if his buttocks are smooth and hard like the man in that statue? I wonder what it would feel like when he came inside me?
She said: ‘I think I'm a very normal girl. In all ways except wanting to earn my own living, and to see Ireland free.’
He pushed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead, and smiled. ‘That's what I mean. It's not normal for girls of your class to want those things. Why do you?’
She stretched her hands out to the warm fire. He was right, it was an unusual path that had brought her here. Perhaps if she talked about it, she would stop thinking of where she wanted that path to lead, right now.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I'll tell you about a day in my childhood.’
It had been a rainswept, windy afternoon. She was thirteen then, and the war in France had just begun. Catherine had been riding alone along the clifftops near her home in Galway, watching the spray from the vast Atlantic rollers break over the headlands. There had been a storm far out at sea, and the spray burst in great fountains halfway up the cliff. Dark rainclouds were sweeping in from the southwest, and the occasional flash of pale sunlight lit the spray with an almost luminous glow. It fascinated her. Each wave
She sighed. That would all be fine, if she was just inviting Sean in to talk. It would be a fight worth fighting. She would enjoy the scandalized disapproval on the faces of Keneally and Lucy her maid as they brought in a tray of tea and toast, to find the mistress and the uncouth young man absorbed in the study of medical textbooks. Especially ones with pictures of bodies in. She could even imagine facing her father down, over the right to do that.
But I could only win a fight like that, Catherine realized, if I were really innocent and it was the other people who had the wicked thoughts. As it is, I want to take him to bed with me. And there's no way, no way at all, that I could face the servants if I did that in the house. They'd probably resign en masse, anyway.
For a while she toyed with the idea of sending all the servants to bed and then sneaking Sean up the back stairs; but the same objections remained. The servants had eyes and ears, they were not stupid. She would have to get Sean out, as well as in; and even if the servants didn't hear anything, she would never know that they hadn't. Every morning she would look in their eyes, and wonder if their respect for her had vanished.
Sean made his way carefully back to their table, bearing two foaming glasses of stout. He was pleased, she knew, that she chose to drink beer rather than something more ladylike such as sherry or wine. He had told her once that it was daring. Oh well, she thought, at least I can indulge my lesser desires.
Sean sat down facing her. They sipped the stout and smiled at each other, their eyes sparkling. The noise in the pub had lessened enough for them to talk.
‘I never understood why you became like this,’ he said.
‘Like what?’ Was he a mind-reader? Was her face so transparent that he could see what designs she had on him? If so, what did he think?
But Sean was on a different track. He waved his arm around the pub. ‘I mean, why are you in a place like this, with a fellow like me, supping beer like a normal girl, almost? When you could be leading the life of O'Rahilly with Lord this and Viscount that, if you wanted.’
‘Almost?’ She teased him. ‘What do you mean, like a normal girl, almost, Sean Brennan? Am I normal or am I not?’
He considered the question. ‘In some ways yes, in others no.’
‘Oh, wise philosopher.’
And is it normal to think of you in my bedroom, naked like a Greek statue? My mother would have said not, and father would too. I could slide my hands across his chest and - I wonder if his buttocks are smooth and hard like the man in that statue? I wonder what it would feel like when he came inside me?
She said: ‘I think I'm a very normal girl. In all ways except wanting to earn my own living, and to see Ireland free.’
He pushed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead, and smiled. ‘That's what I mean. It's not normal for girls of your class to want those things. Why do you?’
She stretched her hands out to the warm fire. He was right, it was an unusual path that had brought her here. Perhaps if she talked about it, she would stop thinking of where she wanted that path to lead, right now.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I'll tell you about a day in my childhood.’
It had been a rainswept, windy afternoon. She was thirteen then, and the war in France had just begun. Catherine had been riding alone along the clifftops near her home in Galway, watching the spray from the vast Atlantic rollers break over the headlands. There had been a storm far out at sea, and the spray burst in great fountains halfway up the cliff. Dark rainclouds were sweeping in from the southwest, and the occasional flash of pale sunlight lit the spray with an almost luminous glow. It fascinated her. Each wave
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