Anne Perry - A Christmas Visitor

“And Gower went to prison,” Henry concluded.

“Quite. It was a great deal of money he attempted to steal by fraud,” Westwood said gravely. “It could not go unpunished. The sentence was perfectly fair and appropriate.”

“So Ashton Gower lost his home and the fortune he had always assumed to be his. No wonder he was bitter.” Henry could imagine it, the young Gower growing up loving the land, riding on it, climbing the hills, feeling he belonged. Then suddenly he lost his father, and his inheritance, the whole nature of his identity and his place in the community was lost. Little wonder he was so angry he could barely think wisely. But it did not excuse dishonesty, and certainly it was not Judah’s fault.

“Why did he blame Judah Dreghorn?” he said aloud.

“Ah!” Westwood steepled his fingers. “That is something I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Gower completely lost control of himself. He ranted and raved at the judge, accusing him of corruption, even at the trial. And then afterwards, when Colgrave sold the estate very quickly, and Dreghorn bought it, Gower swore revenge on Dreghorn for having lied about the whole thing. He said the deeds were genuine, and Dreghorn knew it. Which was all patently ridiculous. But it was extremely ugly. Most distressing.”

“And now Judah is dead, in very odd circumstances.” Henry looked steadily at Westwood. “Do you believe Gower could be so bent on revenge that he would harm him?”

“Oh, dear.” Westwood shook his head a little, obviously distressed. “You are asking me a highly improper question, Mr. Rathbone. It is one I would prefer not to answer. In fact, I really feel that I cannot!” His eyes were very steady, sharp, and bright. His refusal was an answer in itself, and he looked at Henry long enough to make sure that he understood it as such.

“I see.” Henry nodded. “Yes, quite plainly. Do you know why Peter Colgrave did not wish to keep the estate?”

“He is another man about whom I prefer not to express an opinion.” He smiled very slightly and stared at Henry over the tops of his spectacles. “Don’t press me into something that would be indiscreet, and might embarrass us both.”

Henry gave a half smile. “Thank you. At least I think I understand something of the actual issues, but not why Ashton Gower imagined he could get away with anything so stupid.”

“Arrogance,” Westwood said quietly. “I imagine he made the forgery in the heat of anger, perhaps when he discovered the original and realized what it would mean to him. Then he could not back out of it. But that is only my guess.”

Henry thanked him and went outside into the cold, already darkening afternoon.

T hey met before dinner, a little later than usual. Mrs. Hardcastle had prepared a magnificent meal, and the whole house was decorated for Christmas with wreaths of holly, ivy, and pine. There were polished apples and baskets of nuts tied with gold ribbons.

Henry saw it with surprise, in view of the recent, terrible bereavement, and glanced uncertainly at Antonia, in case the servants should have done it without her permission.

She smiled back at him. “It’s still Christmas,” she said very quietly. “We must not forget or ignore that. Without Christmas, there would be no hope. And I have to have hope: wild, unreasonable, against all the logic that man can have, things only God can do.”

“We all have to,” he agreed as they walked into the dining room side by side. “We’ll definitely keep Christmas. Thank you.”

They took their places and the dishes were served one after another. They were ready for pudding when they finally approached the subject of their achievements during the day.

“I walked all the distances,” Benjamin said thoughtfully. “It’s possible, but only if you don’t hesitate at all. And there would be no time for Gower to have waited for Judah more than five minutes. Not if Judah went straight there. Of course he could have waited for Gower, because we have no idea when he died, except that it was some time before three o’clock when they found him. Also we don’t know what time Gower got home again.” He turned to Naomi. “Perhaps you do? Did you manage to see him?”

Naomi gave a rueful little shrug. “It was easier than I expected.” She looked at Benjamin, avoiding Ephraim’s eyes, but both imagined she was perfectly aware that he was looking at her.

“How did you do it?” Antonia asked.

Naomi smiled at her. “With more invention than I am proud to admit,” she answered. “Let me do you the favor of not telling you, so you can meet the village with complete innocence. People speak of you so highly.” She looked at Antonia with candid regard. “You are much admired, even by those who are stupid enough to listen to Gower. Your reputation is your greatest asset. And when we all go away again, you will remain here and it will matter that it is not changed.”

Antonia smiled, but she did not attempt to speak.

Henry had not thought of it in quite those bold terms before, and he realized that perhaps Antonia had not either. None of them had looked beyond the shock and anger of the present. But of course Benjamin would return to the Holy Land. He was probably in the middle of some great excavation. Ephraim would go back again to Africa and his exploration, the plants and discoveries that so fascinated him. Naomi would make the long journey back to America, and then westward once more to take up Nathaniel’s work, and her own friends in the life they had made there. Even Henry would return to Primrose Hill, and the joys and cares of London. Antonia would then taste the full measure of her loneliness.

Henry remembered the death of his own wife. At first, shock numbs much of the deepest ache. There are things that have to be done, people told, arrangements made. One forces courage to surmount weakness and for the sake of other people, one behaves with dignity.

But afterward, when the first mourning is over and the attention goes, friends and family return to their own lives, then the true weight of loss descends. Everything one used to share is no longer as it was. The silence of the heart is deafening. Antonia had yet to face that.

Naomi had already experienced it, but she at least had some work that would occupy her energies and her thoughts. Of course Antonia had the estate to run, and her care for Joshua, but his grief was her burden as well.

“What did you learn?” Benjamin was asking Naomi now. She had already answered some of his questions, and Henry had not been listening.

“He seems to have spent the evening with the Pilkingtons,” Naomi replied, a faint look of distaste on her face. “Mrs. Pilkington is a woman of extraordinarily generous bosom, balanced by an opposingly mean spirit. She has opinions as to the moral value of everything, good or bad. Decadent is her favorite word. I don’t know why, because I don’t think she knows what it means.”

“She is new money?” Henry inquired, aware of all the social differences that carried, the envy and the ambition.

Naomi’s face lit with a smile, broad and candid. “Exactly! Old money must be immorally obtained. Hers is new, of course. She has espoused Gower’s cause, precisely because the older families can’t stand him. And the violin recital was ‘decadent,’ so she did not attend. She probably doesn’t know Bach from Mozart, and doesn’t want to be upstaged, poor soul.” There was a sudden thread of pity in her voice, as if the absurdity of pretension had betrayed its inner fear and its emptiness.

Ephraim saw it, and a shred of its meaning registered as surprise on his face, not at the village, but at what he had glimpsed in Naomi, a new beauty. “But Gower was there?” He grasped at the personal meaning.