Anne Perry - A Christmas Guest

“I am sorry,” Grandmama said yet again. “The maid knocked on my door. I was in the same part of the house. I went to her immediately, but Miss Barrington must have died early in the night. She was … quite cold. We called a doctor, naturally.”

“Oh, dear.” Bedelia stepped backward and almost folded up into the chair behind her. It was a collapse, and yet it was oddly graceful. “Poor Maude. How I wish she had said something. She was too … too reticent … too brave.”

Grandmama remembered Bedelia’s letter to Joshua saying that she would not have Maude in the house because they had other important guests, and she found it extremely difficult not to remind her of that. But to do so would make an enemy of her, and then gaining any knowledge would be impossible. Really, this detecting required greater sacrifices than she had foreseen.

“I am deeply sorry for coming bearing such painful news,” she said instead. “I cannot imagine what a shock it must be for you. I spent a little time with Miss Barrington and she was a delightful person. And I admit that to me she appeared to be in the most excellent health. I can understand your shock.”

Bedelia raised her eyes and looked up at her. “She … she had lived abroad for some time, in very harsh climates. It must have affected her more than we appreciated. Possibly more than she appreciated herself.”

Grandmama sat down in the other chair opposite Bedelia. “She spoke somewhat of Marrakech, and I believe Persia. And Egypt also. Was she there for some time?”

“Years,” Bedelia replied, straightening up. “Since she left, shortly before I was married, and that is all but forty years ago. She must have lived in a style far more … injurious to her health than we had realized. Perhaps she did not fully know it herself.”

“Perhaps not,” Grandmama agreed. Then a thought occurred to her. Sitting here being pleasant and questioning nothing was unlikely to gain her any knowledge. Pitt would have done better. “Or maybe she was only too well aware that she was not in good health, and that is why she returned to England, and her family, the people to whom she was closest in the world?”

Bedelia’s magnificent eyes opened wider and were momentarily as hard and cold as the mid-winter sea.

Grandmama looked back at her without so much as blinking.

Bedelia let out her breath slowly. “I suppose you could be right. No such thought had crossed my mind. Like you, I imagined her to be in the most excellent health. It seems we were both tragically mistaken.”

“She said nothing that could lead you to expect this?” Grandmama felt most discourteous to press the matter, but justice came before good manners.

Bedelia hesitated, as if she could not make up her mind how to answer. “I can think of nothing,” she said after a moment. “I confess I am utterly devastated. My mind does not seem to function at all. I have never lost anyone so … so very close to me before.”

“Your parents are still alive?” Grandmama said in amazement.

“Oh, no,” Bedelia corrected herself quickly. “I meant of my own generation. My parents were excellent people, of course! But distant. A sister is … is very dear. Perhaps one only realizes it when they are gone. The void left behind is greater than one can conceive beforehand.”

You are overplaying it, Grandmama thought to herself. You wouldn’t even have her in the house! Outwardly she smiled. It was a totally artificial expression.

“You are very naturally suffering from shock,” she commiserated. “When one’s own generation passes away it is a reminder of mortality, the shadow of death across one’s own path. I remember how I felt when my husband died.” So she did—the most marvelous liberation of her life. Even if she could tell no one, and had to pretend to be devastated, and wear mourning for the rest of her days, like the Queen.

“Oh, I am sorry!” Bedelia said quickly. “You poor soul! And now you have come all the way in this weather to bring this news to me personally. And I am sitting here without even offering you tea. My wits are completely scattered. I still have my beloved Arthur, how can I complain of anything? Perhaps poor Maude has gone to a better place. She was never a happy creature. I shall allow that to be my comfort.” She rose to her feet a trifle unsteadily.

“Thank you, that is most kind of you,” Grandmama accepted. “I must admit it has been a dreadful day, and I am quite exhausted. I am so glad you have your husband. He will no doubt be a great strength to you. One can be very … alone.”

Bedelia’s face softened in concern. “I can scarcely imagine it. I have always been so fortunate. This room is a little chill. Would you care to come through to the withdrawing room where it is far warmer? We shall all take tea and consider what must be done. Of course if you prefer to return to St. Mary in the Marsh as soon as possible, we shall understand.”

“Thank you,” Grandmama said weakly. “I should be most grateful for as long a rest as I may take, without imposing upon you. And certainly tea would be very welcome.” She also rose to her feet, as unsteadily as she could without risking actually falling over, which would be ridiculous, and only to be resorted to if all else failed.

Bedelia led the way back across the hall to the withdrawing room, and Grandmama followed, refusing to offer her arm to the younger woman. She must be consistent about her own exhaustion or she might be disbelieved.

The withdrawing room was spacious also and the warmth from the enormous fire engulfed them both as soon as they entered. There was too much furniture for more modern tastes; carved sideboards, heavily stuffed sofas and chairs with antimacassars on all of them. There were also hard-backed chairs by the walls with fat leather-upholstered seats and slightly bowed legs, and several footstools with tassels around the edges. A brightly colored Turkish rug was worn duller where possibly generations of feet had passed. On the walls were embroidered samplers, paintings of every variety large and small, and several stuffed animals in glass cases, even a case full of butterflies as dry as silk. The colors were mostly hot: golds, browns, and ocher reds. Caroline would have thought it oppressive. Grandmama was annoyed to find it very agreeable, indeed almost familiar.

The people in it were entirely another matter. She was introduced to them, and Bedelia was obliged to explain her presence to them.

“My dears.” Everyone turned to her. “This is Mrs. Ellison, who has most graciously come in person rather than send a message to tell us some terrible news.” She turned to Grandmama. “I am certain you would prefer to sit down, perhaps by the fire? May I introduce you to my sister, Mrs. Agnes Sullivan.” She indicated a woman whose superficial resemblance to her was explained by the relationship. They appeared of a similar height, although Mrs. Sullivan did not rise as the three men had done. Her coloring had probably been similar to Bedelia’s in youth, but now it was scattered with more gray and the dark areas were duller. Her features were less finely chiseled, and her expression, apart from a certain sadness, was much gentler. Her clothes, although well cut, managed to look commonplace.

“How do you do, Mrs. Sullivan,” Grandmama said formally.

“And her husband, Mr. Zachary Sullivan,” Bedelia continued.

Zachary bowed very slightly. He was a slender man with brown hair, now graying at the temples. His face also was pleasant, but marked by a certain sense of loss, as if he had failed to achieve something that mattered to him too much to forget.

“My daughter-in-law, Clara, and my son, Randolph,” Bedelia continued, indicating in one sweep a young man whose coloring resembled hers, although his features did not, being considerably stronger and blunter. The woman beside him was handsome enough in a powerful way, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and with brows rather too heavy.