Anne Perry: A Christmas Guest

She heard voices in the hallway, and then footsteps up the stairs. No doubt at luncheon she would meet this miserable woman and have to be civil to her.

And so it turned out. One would have expected in the circumstances that the wretched creature would have remained silent, and spoken only when invited to do so. On the contrary, she engaged in conversation in answer to the merest question, and where a word or two would have been quite sufficient.

“I understand you have just returned from abroad,” Caroline said courteously. “I hope it was pleasant?” She left it open for an easy dismissal if it were not a subject Maude wished to discuss.

But apparently it was. A broad smile lit Maude’s face, bringing life to her eyes, even passion. “It was marvelous!” she said, her voice vibrant. “The world is more terrible and beautiful than we can possibly imagine, or believe, even after one has seen great stretches of it. There are always new shocks and new miracles around each corner.”

“Were you away long?” Caroline asked, apparently forgetting what Joshua had told her. Perhaps she did not wish to appear to Maude as if they had been discussing her.

Maude smiled, showing excellent teeth, even though her mouth was much too big. “Forty years,” she replied. “I fell in love.”

Caroline clearly did not know what to make of that. Maude’s hands were innocent of rings and she had introduced herself by her maiden name. The only decent thing to do would have been to avoid the subject, but she had made that impossible. No wonder they had found it intolerable to have her at home. Really, this imposition was too much!

Maude glanced at Grandmama, and cannot have failed to see the disapproval in her face. “In love with the desert,” she explained lightly. “And cities like Marrakech. Have you ever been to a Muslim city in Africa, Mrs. Ellison?”

Grandmama was outraged.

“Certainly not!” she snapped. The question was ridiculous. What decent Englishwoman would do such a thing?

Maude was not to be stopped. She leaned forward over the table, soup forgotten. “It is flat, an oasis facing the Atlas Mountains, and stretches out from the great red tower of the Koutoubya to the blue-palmed fringes and the sands beyond. The Almoravid princes who founded it came with their hordes from the black desert of Senegal, and built palaces of beauty to rival anything on earth.”

Caroline and Joshua forgot their soup also, though Grandmama did not.

“They imported masters of chiseled plaster, gilded cedar, and ceramic mosaics,” Maude continued. “They created garden beyond garden, courts that led to the other courts and apartments, some high in the sunlight, others deep within walls and shadows and running water.” She smiled at some inner delight. “One can walk in the green gloom of a cypress garden. Or breathe in the cool sweetness of a tunnel of jasmine where the light is soft and ever whispering with the sound of water and the murmur of pigeons as they preen themselves. There are alabaster urns, light through jeweled glass, and vermilion doors painted with arabesques in gold.” She stopped for a moment to draw breath.

Grandmama felt excluded from this magic that Maude had seen, and from the table where Joshua and Caroline hung on every word. She was totally unnecessary here. She wanted to dismiss it all as foreign, and completely vulgar, but deeply against her will she was fascinated. Naturally she would not dream of saying so.

“And you were allowed to see all these things?” Caroline said in amazement.

“I lived there, for a while,” Maude answered, her eyes bright with memory. “It was a superb time, something marvelous or terrible every week. I have never been more intensely alive! The world is so beautiful sometimes I felt as if I could hardly bear it. One gazes at things that hurt with the passion of their loveliness.” She smiled but her eyes were misted with tears. “Dusk in a Persian garden, the sun’s fire dying on the mountains in purple and umber and rose; the call of the little owls in the coolness of the night; dimpled water over old stones; the perfume of jasmine in the moonlight, rich as sweet oil and clear as the stars; firelight reflected on a copper drum.”

She pushed her soup away, too filled with emotion to eat. “I could go on forever. I cannot imagine boredom. Surely it is worse than dying, like some terrible, corroding illness that leaves you neither the joy and the hunger of life nor the release of death. Even that exquisite squeezing of the heart because you cannot hold the light forever is better than not to have seen it or loved it at all.”

Grandmama had no idea what on earth she was babbling about! Of course she hadn’t. At least not more than a needle-sharp suspicion, like a wound too deep to feel at first, narrow as a blade of envy, cutting almost without awareness.

What would anyone reply to such a thing? There ought to be something, but what was there that met such a … a baring of emotion? It was unseemly, like taking off one’s clothes in public. No taste at all. That was what came of traveling to foreign parts, and not only foreign but heathen as well. It would be best to ignore the whole episode.

But of course that was quite impossible. The afternoon was cold but quite clear and sunny, although the wind was sharp. Escape was the only solution.

“I shall go for a walk,” she announced after luncheon was over. “Perhaps a breath of sea air would be pleasant.”

“What an excellent idea,” Maude said with enthusiasm. “It is a perfect day. Do you mind if I come with you?”

What could she say? She could hardly refuse. “I’m afraid there will be no jasmine flowers or owls, or sunset over the desert,” she replied coolly. “And I daresay you will find it very chilly … and … ordinary.”

A shadow crossed Maude’s face, but whether it was the thought of the lonely marsh and sea wind, or the rejection implicit in Grandmama’s reply, it was impossible to say.

Grandmama felt a jab of guilt. The woman had been refused the comfort or sanctuary of her own home. She deserved at least civility. “But of course you are welcome to come,” she added grudgingly. Blast the woman for putting her in a position where she had to say that.

Maude smiled. “Thank you.”

They set out together, well wrapped up with capes and shawls, and of course strong winter boots. Grandmama closed the gate and immediately turned to the lane toward the sea. In the summer it would be overhung with may blossom and the hedgerows deep with flowers. Now it was merely sparse and wet. If the wind were cold enough, after all her living in the desert and such places, the very damp of it alone should be sufficient to make Maude tire of the idea within half an hour at the most.

But Maude was indecently healthy and used to walking. It took Grandmama all her breath and strength to keep up with her. It was roughly a mile to the seashore itself and Maude did not hesitate in her stride even once. She seemed to take it for granted that the old lady would have no difficulty in keeping up, which was extremely irritating and quite thoughtless of her. Grandmama was at least fifteen years older, if not more, and of course she was a lady, not some creature who gallivanted all over the world and went around on her feet as if she had no carriage to her name.

The sky above them was wide and wild, an aching void of blue with just a few clouds like mares’ tails shredded across the east on the horizon above the sea. Gulls, dazzling white in the winter sun, wheeled and soared in the air, letting out their shrill cries like noisy children. The wind rippled the grass, flowerless, and everything smelled of salt.