Anne Perry - A Christmas Journey

“You do not need to tell me why you chose that particular barb,” Mrs. Naylor said quietly, her voice brittle, every word falling with clarity. “Your face betrays that you heard the rumors and knew the weakness in her armor. Please don’t let yourself down by denying it.”

The tears stood out in Isobel’s eyes. “I wasn’t going to,” she answered. Vespasia wondered if that were true, and was glad it had not been put to the test. She hated standing here helplessly, but to be of any value, this had to play itself out to the bitter end.

“Who else is aware of this?” Mrs. Naylor asked.

“No one, so far as I am aware,” Isobel answered. “Except Lady Vespasia.”

Mrs. Naylor turned to Vespasia.

“That is true,” Vespasia told her. “Mr. Omegus Jones arranged that she should be buried privately—in the chapel in his grounds, by a minister he knows who would regard it as an accident. If we brought you the news, in person, those others present at Applecross that weekend are bound by oath to say nothing of what happened which would challenge that account.”

“Really? And why would they do that?” Mrs. Naylor asked skeptically. “Society loves a scandal. Was it a group of saints you had there?” Her voice was hard-edged with grief and bitter past experience.

“No,” Vespasia answered before Isobel could. She moved a fraction forward toward the center of the room, commanding Mrs. Naylor’s attention. “They were very ordinary, self-regarding, ambitious, fragile people, just like those it seems you already know. They regarded Mrs. Alvie as to blame and were ready to ruin her, with that certain degree of pleasure that comes when you can do so with an excuse of self-righteousness.”

Mrs. Naylor’s face twisted at the memory, but she did not interrupt. Vespasia had her complete attention. The rest of the room, Finn, the fire crackling in the hearth, the wind beating against the window need not have existed.

“Mr. Jones proposed a trial, the verdict of which was to bind us, upon our oath,” Vespasia went on. “Whoever was found guilty should undertake a journey of expiation, which if completed, would wash out the sin. If they failed, then everyone else was free to ostracize them completely. But if they succeeded, then anyone who referred to it afterwards, for any reason public or private, should themselves meet with that same ostracism.”

“How very clever,” Mrs. Naylor said softly. “Your Mr. Jones is a man of the greatest wisdom. Expiation? I like that word. It conveys far more than punishment, or even repayment. It is a cleansing. Am I bound by this also?” She turned to Isobel, then back to Vespasia.

“You cannot be,” Vespasia answered, seeing the one ghastly flaw in Omegus’s plan. “You were not party to the oath.” She smiled faintly, like a ghost. “And it does not seem you would be greatly affected if society did not speak to you. I find it difficult to imagine you would know, let alone care.”

“You are quite right,” Mrs. Naylor agreed. “But this is sufficient explanation for tonight. You have ridden far, and in inclement weather. We have food aplenty and room to spare. And your ponies need rest, whether you do or not.” She looked at Isobel. “It will perhaps be harder for you to accept my hospitality than it will be for me to give it, but there is none other for miles around, so you had best learn to do it. Jean will find you rooms and food. I wish to retire and read my daughter’s last letter to me.” And she took Finn’s arm and went out, neither of them turning to look behind.

Isobel and Vespasia had no alternative but to follow Jean, a silent, buxom woman, to where she offered them food and rooms for the night. When they were settled, with the luggage placed conveniently for them, Isobel came to Vespasia’s door and accepted instantly the invitation to come in. Her face was pale, her dark eyes shadowed with misery.

“I’d almost rather sleep on the moor!” she said wretchedly. “She knows that! What do you think she’ll do tomorrow? Can we leave?”

“No. It is part of our oath that we accompany her to London, if she will allow us to,” Vespasia reminded her.

Isobel closed her eyes, her fists clenched by her sides. “I don’t think I can! Seven hundred miles, or more, with that woman! That is more punishment than I deserve, Vespasia. I said something stupid, a dozen words, that’s all!”

“Cruel,” Vespasia reminded her quietly, then wished she had been less blunt. It was not necessary. Isobel was perfectly aware of her fault. Vespasia had no right to demand proof of it every time. “And apart from finishing the task,” she said more gently, “I am not at all sure that we can leave here without Mrs. Naylor’s assistance. Do you have the faintest idea how to? I don’t even know where we are, do you?”

“I must be mad!” Isobel was close to despair. “You’re right. I expect MacIan is on her side, and most certainly Finn is. Who is he, anyway? For that matter, what is this place, and what in the name of heaven is Mrs. Naylor doing here? Apart from apparently living in sin!”

Vespasia ignored the gibe. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it is an interesting question. Why would a wealthy woman in her middle years choose to spend her time not only a great distance from the rest of society of any sort, but a virtually impossible distance? In fact, why did she not return to London after Kilmuir’s death, when Gwendolen did? It would be the most natural thing to do.”

“The only answer is that there was an estrangement,” Isobel answered. “Perhaps she will not wish to return to London, with us or alone.”

“Sleep on the thought, if you wish,” Vespasia said dryly. “But do not hold it longer than tomorrow morning.” She gave her a smile with as much warmth in it as she could find strength for. “We shall surmise it,” she added. “Just think of Lady Warburton’s face. She will be fit to spit teeth.”

Isobel forced herself to smile back, recognizing kindness, if not practical help, and bade her good night.

Vespasia meant to consider the puzzling question further when she was alone, but the bed was warm and soft, and she sank almost immediately into a nearly dreamless sleep. When she awoke it was to find Mrs. Naylor herself standing at the foot of the bed with a tray of tea in her hand. She set it on the table and sat down. It was apparent that she had no intention of being dismissed until she was ready to leave. Vespasia might be an earl’s daughter, but Mrs. Naylor was on her own territory, and no one could mistake it.

“Thank you,” Vespasia said as calmly as she was able to.

“Drink it,” Mrs. Naylor responded. “I’ve had mine.” She poured it and passed the cup to Vespasia. “I have read my daughter’s letter. I have no intention of telling either you or Mrs. Alvie what was in it, but I should like you to answer a few questions before I accompany you south to pay my respects at the grave.”

Vespasia’s response would normally have been anger, but there was both a gravity and a pain in this woman that made anything so self-indulgent seem absurd.

“I will tell you what I can,” she said instead, sitting upright in the bed and sipping her tea. She should have felt at a disadvantage, dressed as she was in no more than her nightgown and with her hair around her shoulders, but Mrs. Naylor’s candor made that irrelevant also.

“What was your real reason for coming here with Mrs. Alvie?” Mrs. Naylor asked.

Vespasia’s ready answer died on her lips. This wild place where life and death hung on a pony’s footstep, a few inches between the sure path and the cliff edge or the freezing, squelching bog, stripped one of the pretensions that meant so much in society.