Anne Perry - A Christmas Visitor

Thoughts teemed through Henry’s mind, an awareness that there was a new dimension he had not even thought of, and pain he would not be able to read in Ephraim as well as he had in Benjamin, depths he could neither understand nor help. And yet there was no alternative. Now was the moment.

“Benjamin is already here,” he answered the easiest question first. “He arrived two days ago …”

Ephraim turned toward him, blue eyes puzzled. “Is he all right?”

“No,” Henry said frankly. “We are none of us all right. Judah died in an accident eight days ago.” He looked at Ephraim’s face as the shock struck him, followed by disbelief, then pain. “I am sorry I am the one to tell you, but the lawyer called this morning regarding certain estate matters, and Benjamin stayed with Antonia to see him.”

“Hunting?” Ephraim said hoarsely. Judah seldom hunted, but it was the only way to keep foxes down in the Lakeland, and they devastated sheep if left. Ewes and lambs had their throats torn out, whole flocks of chickens could be slaughtered.

“No,” Henry replied, and told him briefly all they knew so far.

Ephraim huddled into his coat as if suddenly the wind cut through it and it was no protection to his body. “Where on earth was he going?” he asked huskily. “At night?”

“We don’t know. He said it was just to get a little air before going to bed. They had all been at the village listening to a visiting musician. A violinist. He had actually played a small piece Joshua had written.”

“Joshua?” Ephraim repeated the name. “Judah said he was brilliant. He was so proud of him.” He controlled himself with difficulty. There was nothing in his face, but his voice broke. “I brought something for Joshua from Africa. Seems irrelevant now.”

“It won’t be, later,” Henry assured him. “Benjamin brought him a beautiful gift also, a piece of scripture, original, in a carved wooden box.”

“I brought him a chief’s necklace of office, an African version of a crown,” Ephraim said. “It’s made of gold and ivory. At a glance it seems barbaric, but when you look more closely it’s very beautifully carved. Nothing like European at all. I suppose you are right, and in time he will like it. Today it’ll seem utterly pointless.”

“That is not all I need to tell you before we get to the house,” Henry went on. They were making quite good speed. The wind had cleared most of the snow off the road. There were one or two places where it had drifted, and they got out and took the spades from the space where the luggage was and helped Wiggins dig a path. Henry saw Ephraim attack the heavy piles with an energy born of anger, his back bent, his weight thrown behind each shovelful. Then they put the spades back and climbed up again to go forward. It was necessary only three times.

“What else?” Ephraim asked without interest when they were on their way again and the broad, white-flecked surface of the lake lay ahead.

“Ashton Gower is out of prison and saying that he was wrongly convicted. The deeds were genuine, and Judah knew it,” Henry answered, pulling the rug a little tighter around both of them. His feet were wet, as were the bottoms of his trousers.

“That’s nonsense.” Ephraim dismissed it as of no worth, even to discuss.

“I know it is nonsense,” Henry agreed. “But he is repeating it very insistently, and Benjamin feels it is important that he is stopped. There are many people in the village who were not there at the time of the trial, and don’t know the truth. He is being offensive, and causing Antonia some distress. We cannot ignore him.” He did not add that Benjamin suspected the possibility of his having been involved in Judah’s death. Ephraim was not as easy for him to read, and he was uncertain of his anger, or the depth of his pain.

Ephraim did not reply for some time, at least another hundred yards farther along the road. Now the white roofs of the village houses were clear in the hard light and the trees were dense black against the gray water.

“Henry, are you saying that there are people who believe him?” he asked at length. “How could anyone who knew Judah at all consider such a thing even for a moment? There was never a more honest man than he, and Ashton Gower is a vicious cur, without honor, kindness, or any other redeeming virtue. Who is there anywhere that can say he has done them a good turn without expecting payment for it?”

“I know it, Ephraim,” Henry replied. “I think perhaps prison turned his mind. But it doesn’t change the fact that he is furious, and bent on clearing his name, whatever the cost.”

“You speak as if you believe he is a danger,” Ephraim said gravely. “Is he?”

Henry was compelled to admit it. “I don’t know. Benjamin thinks it is possible he had a hand in Judah’s death. I cannot discount it, either. We met him in the village yesterday, and he has a hatred in him that chilled me. We have told the household servants to be careful locking everything, and to leave the dogs loose at night. It is deeply unpleasant, Ephraim. We can’t leave the Lakes, and Antonia and Joshua alone, with this unexplained.” He looked at Ephraim’s face, pale under the African sunburn. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you better things.”

Ephraim put his hand on Henry’s arm and clasped it hard. “The truth, Henry. That is all that will serve us. Thank you for coming. We shall need your help.”

Henry did not say that they had it; Ephraim knew that.

I t was a quiet, somber evening, rain and snow alternately beating against the windows and the fire roaring in the hearth. They ate Lakeland mutton and sweet, earth-flavored potatoes with herbs mixed in. Spices were imported along the coast, and Cumberland gingerbread was famous. Hot, with cream, it made an excellent pudding.

Ephraim and Benjamin spoke quietly together, sharing memories, and Henry sat by the fire with Antonia, mostly listening to whatever she wanted to say, and when she preferred, telling her tales of London and the busy city life that she had never experienced.

H enry slept well, tired after the drive through the wind and snow to Penrith, but he woke early, while it was still dark. He did not wish to lie in bed any longer, and he rose and dressed warmly and was outside before the dawn.

By the time the sun rose over the mountains to the southwest, and spread soft, pearly light through a mackerel sky, he was more than halfway to the stepping stones at the upper crossing where Judah had died.

Thoughts whirled in his mind as he trudged over the crisp unbroken snow, splashed pink by the sun. Was he imagining the emotion in Ephraim’s voice as he asked if Nathaniel’s widow was coming as well? Even as he asked himself the question, the certainty of the answer was in his mind: Ephraim himself had been in love with her then, and the memory of it was sharp still.

Of course he would not have seen her since the last time they had both been home, which, as far as Henry knew, was seven years ago. People could change a great deal in such a time. Experience could refine their feelings, or obliterate them.

Henry had not met her, and knew nothing except that she was English, from the east coast, and Nathaniel had known her for only a few months before marrying her. They had left for America shortly after that. Antonia had spoken warmly of her; Judah had seemed to have some reservations, but he had not said what they were. Had they been only an awareness that his youngest brother had loved her as well?

He was making his way downhill very slightly now, being careful not to slip. The stream lay ahead of him, running fast. The recent snow had added to it; it washed almost to the top of the stepping stones placed across it, ten in all, flat, carefully chosen.