ELIZABETH HEARD HIS carriage arrive, gathered her wits and her shawl, then descended the stairs to greet him. She had much to report. In her husband’s absence, she had been attacked and Block Four had shut its doors; this much she would explain. She had also slept at the doctor’s house every night since he had been gone; this, she hoped to keep secret a while longer.
But she knew there was gossip. Inevitably, the prison talked. As the only woman within its walls, she was endlessly studied, observed, noticed. She was the entertainment.
And even under such scrutiny, she knew how Magrath looked at her. Even with his resolute discipline, she often felt his gaze: loving, curious, hungry. And knew that others saw it, too. Elizabeth knew that if Thomas hadn’t yet been told of their affair, it was only a matter of time.
She had barely arrived in the hallway when he bustled through the door, followed by one of the guard commanders. ‘Thomas. Welcome home,’ she said, smiling.
‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ he replied, his tone brisk.
‘Lieutenant Fortyne, good morning.’ She nodded at his extravagantly moustachioed second-in-command and he bowed.
‘Mrs Shortland.’
‘Fortyne has a report of everything that has happened in my absence,’ said Shortland and, with a pointed look, he handed her his hat and cape and walked into his study. Fortyne followed, managing to look both embarrassed and censorious at the same time. The study door clicked shut.
‘He knows,’ she said to the empty hallway.
Their evening meal would arrive from the guards’ mess in half an hour, at precisely seven o’clock; by her calculation, neatly coinciding with the end of their marriage. She waited for her husband at the kitchen table, her heart racing, her stomach heaving. Somehow, she had resisted the urge to tell Magrath what was about to happen. Instead, she reached for her snuffbox. Two small, pinched mounds. Two sniffs. She blinked and dabbed with her handkerchief.
‘Ready when you are, Captain,’ she muttered.
There were voices in the hallway, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. She sensed a pause, a momentary hesitation followed by a gathering of nerve. Five strides, and he stood in the kitchen doorway. The blue frock coat was still on, the white waistcoat unbuttoned.
‘Elizabeth.’
‘Thomas.’
He took a few paces towards her. ‘Lieutenant Fortyne tells me you were assaulted by one of the prisoners.’ His voice was tight, controlled.
‘I’d have told you myself if you had let me.’
He frowned at the rebuke. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I was shaken, of course, but no, I am not hurt.’ She spun the box around her left hand, then her right.
‘How did it happen? How is it possible that my wife, the Agent’s wife, had a knife held at her throat?’
‘There was an altercation.’
‘But you were tending to the sick?’
She fumbled the box and it spun away across the table. She watched it until it stopped rolling and tipped over. ‘An inmate from Six called me a whore.’
‘I see.’ Thomas Shortland folded his arms. ‘And are you?’
She gave a short, stabbing laugh. ‘Am I a whore? Really? That is what you want to say to me?’
He pulled up a chair, whisky fumes enveloping her from across the table. As he spoke, one hand tapped the table.
‘There is much I want to say, Elizabeth. I could talk about the embarrassment of realizing that naval colleagues and brother officers have been laughing at me. I could mention the barely suppressed sniggering from the ranks in the barracks. And yes, an old friend did eventually take me to one side to tell me that you were fucking Magrath!’ He shouted his obscenity, its violence filling the room. ‘But do you know the words that have really stayed with me? That shout from an inmate. When we were having our vaccinations. Do you remember, Elizabeth?’
She held his gaze, determined not to look away. Of course she remembered.
‘“Prickin’ ’er, like most nights, then,” I believe was the phrase employed. And it’s true, isn’t it? That is precisely what has been going on. And now I realize that that American prisoner-of-war knew more about what you are up to than I.’
Shocked by his vulgarity and the brutality of his assault, Elizabeth could not find the words to answer.
‘Thomas,’ she said eventually. ‘There was a time …’ But she got no further.
‘And my shame will be as nothing to Willoughby’s,’ he said. The tapping hand was tapping harder now. ‘At sea, fighting for his country, while his mother has taken to fornication.’ He smacked the table hard. ‘For shame, Elizabeth!’ His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glassy. ‘For shame.’
‘I am sorry, Thomas, for the embarrassment, truly I am.’ Elizabeth’s hands were trembling but her mind was clear. ‘Much as I am sure, in time, you will be sorry for your neglect of me. It is the men here that are your family, not me. You speak to them, understand them, spend time with them. It is they that satisfy you, not me. And as for Willoughby, I believe he will be fine. He understands more than you know. And hates this place as much as I do.’
‘That is as may be,’ said Shortland, his chin raised. ‘But this war with America is finished, and the men will return home soon. There will be no need of a physician here. Your’ – he searched for the word – ‘your paramour will be disgraced. We have the play tomorrow in Four. You and I will attend, applaud politely, and after that we will address the issue of your adultery. But be clear on this. When the Americans leave, so do the Irish.’
He stood to leave, wobbled slightly, then marched out. Elizabeth recovered her snuffbox and measured out two generous piles of tobacco. She sniffed them both, then dabbed her eyes.
‘Then so do I,’ she said.