Anne Perry - A Christmas Visitor

Henry looked at her, the little of her face he could see in the starlight, but all he could glean from her was the emotion he heard in her voice. Was it in general she thought Ephraim did not forgive, or was there some specific sin she spoke of? Had Nathaniel really been her first choice, or was he second, and she would not now make a decision, even for her own happiness, which she felt betrayed him? She had used the word herself, referring to Ephraim’s emotions.

He asked, even though it was intrusive. “You speak as if you know him well, and I can’t help seeing his feelings for you.”

She smiled. “You are wondering why I married Nathaniel, when Ephraim also asked me?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Because love is more than passion and excitement, Mr. Rathbone. If you trust your life and your love to someone, you need to admire their courage, and Ephraim has any amount of that. But if you are going to live with them every day, not just the good ones, but the bad ones as well, the difficult ones when you fail, make mistakes, feel bruised and afraid, you need to be certain of their kindness. You need someone who will forgive you when you are wrong, because you will be wrong sometimes.”

He did not interrupt. They stood side by side looking toward the water. It was cold and very clear, the stars tiny, glittering shards of light in the enormity of space.

“Ephraim has not been wrong often enough to understand,” she said almost under her breath.

“It seems to me you are not wrong very often, either,” he observed. “And yet you have a gentleness.”

This time he saw her smile. “I have been. I look like my mother. She behaved badly. I never knew why, but I imagine sometimes how lonely she might have felt, or what made her do as she did. My father never forgave her for it, so even if she had wished to return her heart to him, he did not allow her to.”

He pictured another woman like Naomi, perhaps bored with nothing on which to use her intelligence, no adventure to take her from the domestic round, and possibly loved more for her beauty than for her inner self. How deeply had her unhappiness marked her daughter that she chose the gentleness of a forgiving man rather than the passion of one she feared might repeat her parents’ history?

“I see,” he said very gently. “Of course you did. We all need to be forgiven, one time or another. And we need to talk, to share our own dreams, as well as those of the one we love.”

She reached up very gently and kissed his cheek. “I always liked Nathaniel, and I learned to love him. I loved Ephraim from the beginning, but I don’t trust him to forgive my mistakes, and forget them, and to hold my heart softly.”

For a moment or two he did not speak. When he did, it was of the problem they shared, now a burden growing heavier by the minute.

“I think I shall go to Kendal tomorrow and see the expert who testified about the deeds.” He turned to face her. “Then I have to tell Benjamin and Ephraim what I find, and I suppose if it is irrefutable, Antonia, too.”

“Do you think Ashton Gower was imprisoned falsely?” she asked.

“I think that it is possible, and if it is true, then we must acknowledge it and try to redress as much of the injustice as may be reached now.”

“But somebody killed Judah!” she protested. “His body did not wash upstream! And if Gower really was innocent, does that not give him the most intense reason to seek revenge? Perhaps he didn’t mean to kill Judah, it was just a fight that ended when Judah slipped and fell, and for some reason Gower dragged his body all the way up to the higher crossing. But why would he do that?”

“Maybe at the time of Judah’s death there were some signs in the snow that another person had been there, and even of the struggle,” Henry reasoned. “He could not afford to have it investigated, or at that time it might have been easy enough to show he was there, too. And with their history, who would believe him that it was accidental?”

“I think he is a loathsome man,” she said, beginning to walk slowly back toward the house. “But I am sorry for him. If it really was an accident, then if we could help him prove it, we ought to—oughtn’t we?”

“Yes.” He had no doubt.

“The family won’t like that.” There was certainty in her voice, too, and fear. She wanted to belong. She had loved them all since she had first known them. They were the only family she had. Like Antonia, she was otherwise alone.

“We don’t know yet,” he pointed out. “At least not beyond doubt. I’ll go to Kendal tomorrow.”

And with that they walked back up the grass and in through the door again to the warmth.

PART THREE

I N THE MORNING HENRY RODE EARLY TO PENRITH, and took the train to Kendal, which was the next stop on the way south toward Lancaster. He was in the town by half past ten, and found the office of the expert in forged documents, Mr. Percival. He was younger than Henry had expected, perhaps no more than in his middle thirties. He was clean shaven, with a thick head of reddish-brown hair, and an agreeable expression as he showed Henry into his office.

The pleasure in his face faded rather rapidly when Henry explained the area of his interest.

“Yes, I heard that Gower was making accusations,” Percival said drily. “A great shame. A most unpleasant man, and completely irresponsible. A tragedy that Dreghorn should die in a wretched accident like that. However, I don’t think that there is anything I can do to assist you, Mr. Rathbone.” He leaned back a little with a slight smile. “You need a solicitor. Such slanderous talk should be addressed by the law. I am sure Mrs. Dreghorn already has someone who represents the family, but if you need anyone further, I can recommend someone easily enough.”

“Thank you, but that is not necessary.” Henry reminded himself that this man was a forgery expert, a witness in court, but not a lawyer of any kind. Nothing that he said to him was he obliged to keep in confidence. “I am interested in learning more of precisely what happened. I think that is a far better defense than legal restriction, and certainly swifter and more honest than suits for slander, which may drag on and become most unpleasant.”

Percival leaned back in his chair and bit his lower lip. “The truth, Mr. Rathbone, is that the deeds to the estate owned by Geoffrey Gower and bequeathed to his son, Ashton Gower, were actually forgeries, and not very good ones. That has been established at law, and Ashton Gower sentenced to prison for his part in it.”

“How do we know that it was Ashton Gower who forged them, and not his father?” Henry asked with an air of innocence.

Percival smiled patiently. “Because in earlier sight of them, during previous transactions, they were never questioned. And frankly, Mr. Rathbone, the forgeries were extremely poor. No one used to dealing in legal documents of any sort would have been fooled by them.”

“And yet you did not immediately report the fact that they were forged,” Henry pointed out. “At first glance, you noticed nothing amiss.”

Percival colored uncomfortably. “I looked only at certain parts of them, Mr. Rathbone, I confess to that. The first reading of them in their entirety showed us the falsity of them. There is no question. Frankly I am not sure what it is you are trying to prove. Gower is a forger. Judah Dreghorn had no choice but to sentence him to imprisonment. Everything else is spurious, just a weak and vicious man making excuses for himself.”

“You have a deep personal dislike for Gower, Mr. Percival,” Henry observed.