Anne Perry - A Christmas Guest

Bedelia’s eyes on her were like daggers.

Grandmama ignored them, but her heart was pounding almost in her throat. If she were wrong, catastrophically, insanely wrong, she would be ruined forever. Her mouth was dry, her voice rasping. “You were furious that Maude, of all people, should take your lover, but there was worse to follow. You learned that you were with child. Mr. Sullivan’s of course. But it could have been Mr. Harcourt’s, for all he knew. That gave you your perfect weapon for regaining everything. You told him. Being a man of honor, in spite of his lapse of self-control, he broke off his relationship with Maude, whom he truly loved, as she loved him, and he married you. He paid a bitter price for his self-indulgence. So did your sister, rather than allow you to be shamed.”

There were gasps of breath, the clink of cutlery, even a broken glass stem. “That is what you cannot forgive—that you wronged her,” she went on regardless. “And she sacrificed her happiness for yours—and perhaps for Mr. Harcourt’s honor. Although I believe it was actually Mr. Sullivan’s, in fact.”

Arthur stared at Bedelia, a stunned and terrible look in his eyes. “Randolph is not mine, and you know it,” he said very quietly.

“Are … are you sure?” Agnes asked. Then she looked more closely at Bedelia, and did not ask again.

“What does she mean that you could not forgive?” Arthur asked Bedelia.

“I have no idea!” Bedelia replied. “She is an inquisitive, meddling old woman who listens at doors and hears half stories, gossips with other old women who should know better, and apparently listened to Maude’s self-delusions of her own romantic youth.”

“It wasn’t a delusion,” Arthur told her very quietly. “I loved Maude as I have never loved anyone else in my life, before or since. But I could not marry her because you told me that you were carrying my child. I can’t blame you for that, it was my doing as much as yours. Nor can I blame Zachary. He was no worse than I, and by heaven you were beautiful. But Maude was funny and kind. She was brave and warm and honest, and she was generous with life, with her own spirit. Her beauty would have lasted forever, and grown with time rather than fade. I knew it then, and I was proved right when she came back, even after forty years, which were like a lifetime while she was gone, and nothing at all once she returned.”

“Oh, Arthur!” Agnes breathed out. “How terrible for you.”

Zachary was looking at Agnes with amazement.

“I found the rest of the peppermint water,” Grandmama said in the silence.

“I beg your pardon?” Arthur frowned.

Grandmama wavered for an instant. Should she tell them, or was this enough? But would it last? There would be no further chance. She turned to Bedelia and saw the fury in her eyes.

“You told Maude when you gave her the macadamia nuts, which are so indigestible to some of us, that you had very little peppermint water, just the end of one bottle, sufficient for a single dose. But actually you had plenty. There is some in my room, and some in the other guest rooms also. A nice courtesy, especially over a festive season when we will all eat a little heavily.”

“What has that to do with anything at all?” Clara demanded. “Why are we talking about peppermint water? Are you quite mad?”

“I wish I were,” Grandmama answered. “It would be so much less ugly an answer than the truth. I don’t eat macadamia nuts myself. They give me indigestion …”

Zachary was staring at her as if he could not believe his ears.

Agnes looked appalled.

“But peppermint water would help,” Grandmama carried on. “Unless of course, it were laced with foxglove leaves. Then it would kill. Most of us who have ever arranged flowers know that. There are a few one must be careful of, especially with children about: laburnum, monk’s hood, belladonna, and of course foxgloves. Such handsome flowers, but the distilled juice can cause the heart to fail. It is used in medicine to slow it down if it is racing, but only a very little, naturally.”

“That is a wicked thing to suggest!” Clara was horrified. “How … how dare you?”

Randolph touched her gently. “There is no need to be afraid, my dear. She could not possibly prove it.” He gulped. “Could you?”

Grandmama looked at him and realized it was a question. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I had not considered trying to, although it might not be too difficult. I don’t think that is what matters. It is knowing the truth that is important. It gives you the freedom to do whatever you choose to, knowing right from wrong.” She turned to Arthur, waiting for him to speak.

But he was not looking at her. His gaze did not move from Bedelia’s face, and he read in it the fear and the hatred that betrayed her. Whatever she had said, he would know what she had done.

Randolph was staring at his mother with horror and pity in his face, and a revulsion he could not hide. He turned swiftly to Zachary, then embarrassed, away again. Zachary was looking at him with wonder, and an intensity quite naked in his eyes.

Arthur sighed. He spoke to Grandmama as if Bedelia had ceased to exist. “You mentioned a garden in Persia that Maude described to you as if she loved it. Have you any idea where it was, exactly?”

“No, but I believe Mrs. Dowson would know,” Grandmama replied. “Maude wrote to her quite regularly. I imagine she would be happy to tell you.”

“Good. I have a great desire to see it, since she loved it so much. You made it sound marvelous also, Mrs. Ellison, and for that I shall always be grateful to you. The truth you have shown us is terrible, but deep as it cuts, a clean wound will heal, in time.”

“You … you can’t go to Persia now, Papa … I mean …,” Randolph faltered and stopped.

Arthur smiled at him, gently and with great affection. “You will always be my son in spirit, Randolph, and I will always love you as such. But I can go to Persia and I will. I shall write to Lord Woollard and decline a peerage. I may return from Persia one day, and I may not. The estate will provide for your mother. Please see that Mrs. Ellison is safely returned to St. Mary in the Marsh tomorrow. Now I shall wish you good night.” He rose to his feet. He was still a startlingly handsome man, but it was his dignity that remained in the mind. “And good-bye,” he added, before turning and leaving the room without looking behind him. He did not once glance at Bedelia.

Zachary reached out his hand to Agnes, and very slowly, as if uncertain that it could be true, she took it.

Reluctantly Grandmama abandoned her dinner and excused herself also. It was quite impossible to remain. She had shown them the truth. What they did with it she should not influence, only hope.

Upstairs in her bedroom she sank down into the chair. Suddenly her legs were weak and she found she was trembling. Had she done enough? Should she have tried harder to prove something that would stand the test of trial and the law?

As it was now, the family knew the truth. There could be no denying that. Arthur would leave, perhaps forever. Bedelia would probably never see him again. People would know, in the way that they do. They would look at her and whisper. There would be speculation, most of it ugly. The kindest she would receive would be pity, and that would be the most painful of all to a woman like Bedelia. She would see it in their glances in the street, the half-hidden smiles.

Gradually perhaps even some of the truth would emerge, but imagination would be more colorful, and crueler. Agnes and Zachary would be happy with each other at last, and perhaps with Randolph too, and Clara. Old Mrs. Dowson would understand a great deal. She might be discreet, but Bedelia would know that she knew, and would never allow Maude’s name to be blackened.