Anne Perry - A Christmas Journey

They found shelter again, but it was bitterly cold, and by morning the aches that had been slight the previous day were now sharper and reminded them of pain with every movement. It required all the concentration Vespasia could muster just to stay on her pony and watch where she was going. Her head ached from clenching her teeth, and she was stiff with cold. Not to complain had become a matter of honor, almost a reason for survival.

Clouds appeared on the horizon, billowing, burning with light, as if there had been an explosion just beyond their vision. Then hard on their heels came the squall, driving rain turning to sleet, pellets of ice that stung the skin. They bent into it, heads down, and kept going. There was nothing to break the strength of it, nothing to hide behind. They moved carefully, one step at a time.

It cleared again just as suddenly, and they were able to increase speed.

“We need to be in Glen Orchy by night,” MacIan said grimly. “There’s no place to rest before then, and the Orchy’s no river to be stopping near, if ye’ve no house nor bothy to protect you.”

Vespasia did not bother to ask why not; her imagination supplied a dozen answers. She was beginning to feel as if whatever Mrs. Naylor was like, it was going to be a blessed relief to find her and discharge their duty. It could hardly be worse than this. It had assumed nightmare properties. Perhaps the Vikings were right and hell was endless cold, a howling wind, a journey that never arrived anywhere, aching bones and muscles, and always the need to press onward.

Except surely hell could never be so soul-rendingly beautiful?

She saw Isobel sway in the saddle ahead of her, and more than once she was afraid she would fall herself, but by dusk they saw lights ahead of them. It seemed another endless, excruciating hour before they reached them and found them to be the windows of a large house, far greater in size than that for a single family.

Someone must have seen them come, because the door opened wide as their ponies’ hooves clattered in the yard, and a large man with a storm-weathered face stood holding a lantern high.

“Well, MacIan, is it you, then? And what are you doing out on a night like this? Who is it you have with you? Ladies, is it? Well, come on inside then. I’ll send Andrew and Willie out to tend to your ponies.”

“Aye, Finn, it’s a dreich night now,” MacIan agreed cheerfully, climbing out of the saddle in an easy movement and turning back to help first Isobel and then Vespasia to the ground. Vespasia was horrified to discover she could barely stand up, and but for MacIan’s hand, she would have staggered and lost her balance.

The door was held wide, and two young men passed her, nodding shyly on their way to tend to the animals. Inside was blessedly warm. She was dizzy with relief. It was not until she had taken off her wet outer clothes and dried her face on the clean, rough towel handed her that she turned to see the woman standing in the doorway and regarding her with interest. She was tall, easily as tall as Vespasia, with auburn hair wound carelessly on her head, simply as had been convenient. She wore rough wool clothes, quite obviously designed for warmth and convenience of movement. Her face was wide-eyed, intelligent, handsome in a unique and highly individual way. Before she spoke, Vespasia knew that this was Mrs. Naylor.

She turned to Isobel, who seemed frozen, as if now that the moment had come, she could not find the courage. Crossing the moor had cost all she had.

Vespasia stepped forward. “Mrs. Naylor? My name is Vespasia Cumming-Gould.” She indicated Isobel. “My friend Isobel Alvie. I apologize for arriving without permission at this hour. We had not realized quite what traveling from Inverness would involve.”

“Beatrice Naylor,” the woman answered, a definite smile on her lips. “No one does, the first time. But it is an experience that remains indelibly in the mind. What brings you to the Orchy, in December? It has to be of the utmost importance.”

Vespasia turned to Isobel. They had already set foot through the door. Could they accept this woman’s hospitality, even on a night like this, at the end of the earth, by answering her question with a lie?

Isobel’s face was flushed from the sudden warmth inside, but white around the eyes and lips. The final moment of testing had come, the last and the greatest, upon which all the rest depended.

Vespasia realized she was holding her breath, her hands clenched at her sides. She could not help. If she did, she would rob Isobel forever of the chance to earn her redemption.

Mrs. Naylor was waiting.

“Yes, it is of the utmost importance,” Isobel said at last, her words half-swallowed, her voice trembling. “I have never found anything harder in my life than bringing you the news that your daughter Gwendolen is dead. And I am bitterly ashamed that I contributed to the circumstances which brought it about.” She held out the envelope. Traveling had bent it a little, but it remained sealed. “This is the letter she wrote to you.”

The man who had opened the door to them moved silently to Mrs. Naylor and put his arm around her, holding her steady. He did it as naturally as if physical contact between them were understood. There was a great tenderness in his face, but he did not speak.

The silence stretched until the pain in it was a tangible thing in the room.

“I see,” Mrs. Naylor said at last. “How did it happen?” She stared at Isobel with huge, almost unblinking eyes, as if she could read everything that was in Isobel’s mind and beneath it, in the search for a truth she would rather not look at, even herself.

Isobel struggled to tear her gaze away, and failed. “At Applecross,” she began, falteringly. “It was a long weekend house party, rather more of a week. I don’t know if—”

“I am perfectly acquainted with weekend house parties, Mrs. Alvie,” Mrs. Naylor said coldly. “You do not need to explain society or its customs to me. How did my daughter die, and what cause have you to blame yourself? I might think you spoke only as a manner of expressing your sympathy, but I can see in your face that you are in some very real way responsible.” She looked briefly at Vespasia. “Does this include you also, Lady Vespasia? Or are you here simply as chaperone?”

Vespasia was startled that Mrs. Naylor knew of her, as the use of her title made clear. “Mrs. Alvie felt the duty to tell you herself, regardless of what the journey involved,” she answered. “It is not one a friend would permit her to attempt alone.”

“Such loyalty …,” Mrs. Naylor murmured. “Or do you share the blame?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Isobel cut in. “It was I who made the remark. Lady Vespasia had nothing to do with it.”

Mrs. Naylor blinked. “The remark?”

Finn made a movement to interrupt, but Mrs. Naylor held up her hand peremptorily. “I will hear this! You know me better than to imagine I will faint or otherwise collapse. Tell me, Mrs. Alvie, how did my daughter die?”

Isobel drew a deep, shivering breath. They were all still standing in the big hallway, relieved only of their outer and wettest clothing. No one had yet eaten a morsel.

“She went out after darkness, when the rest of us had retired, and threw herself from the bridge across the end of the ornamental lake,” Isobel answered. “We learned it only the next morning, when it was too late.”

Finn grasped Mrs. Naylor by both arms, but she did not stagger or lean back against him. Her face was ashen white. “And in what way were you to blame, Mrs. Alvie?” she asked.

No one in the room moved. There was to be no mercy.

“We all believed that Bertie Rosythe would propose marriage to her that weekend,” Isobel said hoarsely, her voice a dry rustle in the silence. “I made a cruel remark to the effect that she would not have loved him, had he been penniless or a servant. I made it from envy, because I also am a widow and had hoped to remarry, possibly to Bertie.” She took a deliberate, shuddering breath. “I had no idea it would cause her such distress, but I accept that it did. Apparently he did not go after her to tell her that he knew it was nonsense. I … I am deeply ashamed.” She did not look away but remained facing Mrs. Naylor.