Anne Perry - A Christmas Journey

Approached from the southwest along an avenue of towering elms, the classic Georgian facade looked toward the afternoon sun over the downs. The gravel forecourt was fronted by a balustrade with a long, shallow flight of stone steps that led down to the vast lawn, beyond which lay the ornamental water.

“I’m afraid it will become most unpleasant,” he said unhappily. “People will be frightened because sudden death of the young is a terrible reminder of the fragility of all life. She had seemed on the brink of new joy after her bereavement, and it has been snatched away from her. Only the boldest of us, and the least imaginative, do not sometimes in the small hours of the morning also fear the same for ourselves. And they will not understand why it has happened. They will look for someone to blame, because anger is easier to live with than fear.”

“I don’t understand!” she said with a gulp. “Why on earth would she do such a thing? Isobel was cruel, but if anyone should be mortified, it is she! She betrayed her own vulnerability in front of those who will have no understanding and little mercy.”

“We know that, my dear Vespasia, but they do not,” he said softly, still touching her so lightly she felt only the coldness of his fingers. “They will see only a woman with every cause to expect an offer of marriage, but who was publicly insulted by suggestions that she is a seeker after position rather than a woman in love.” His face twisted with irony. “Which is an absurd piece of hypocrisy, I am aware. We have created a society in which it is necessary for a woman to marry well if she is to succeed, because we have contrived for it to be impossible for her to achieve any safety or success alone, even should she wish to. But frequently we criticize most vehemently that which is largely our own doing.”

“Are you … are you saying that Isobel’s remark drove her to commit suicide?” Vespasia’s voice cracked as if her mouth and throat were parched.

“It seems so,” he admitted. “Unless there was an exchange between Bertie and Gwendolen after she left the withdrawing room, and a quarrel she did not feel she could repair.”

Vespasia could think of nothing to say. It was hideous.

“You offered to help me,” Omegus reminded her. “I may ask that you do.”

“How?”

“I have very little idea,” he confessed. “Perhaps that is why I need you.”

Vespasia swallowed hard. “I shall tell Isobel,” she said, wondering how on earth she could make such a thing bearable. The day yawned ahead like an abyss, full of grief and confusion.

“Thank you,” he accepted. “I shall have the servants ask everyone to be at breakfast, and tell them then.”

She nodded, then turned and went back upstairs and along to Isobel’s room. She knocked on the door and waited until she heard Isobel’s voice tell her to go in.

Isobel was lying in the bed, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her eyes shadowed around as if she, too, had slept badly. She sat up slowly, staring at Vespasia in surprise.

There was no mercy in hesitation. Vespasia sat on the bed facing Isobel. “I have just met Omegus in the hall,” she began. “They have found Gwendolen’s body in the lake. The only conclusion possible from the circumstances is that sometime after our unfortunate conversation in the withdrawing room she must have gone out alone and, in some derangement of mind, jumped off the bridge. I’m afraid it is very bad.”

Isobel sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, even though the room was not cold. “Is she …?”

“Of course. It is December! If she had not drowned, she would have frozen.”

“But surely she must have fallen!” Isobel protested, pushing her hair off her face. “Why on earth would she jump? That’s ridiculous!” She shook her head. “It can’t be true!”

“If you remember, the balustrade along the bridge is too high to fall over by accident,” Vespasia reminded her. “Anyway, why on earth would she be out there leaning over the bridge at eleven o’clock on a December night? And alone!”

The little color in Isobel’s face had drained away, leaving her pasty-white. She started to shiver. Her hands were clenched in the sheets.

“Are you implying that my idiotic remark made her do that? Why? All I did was insult her! She wouldn’t be the first woman to be called greedy, or desperate. That’s absurd!” Her voice was sharp, a little high-pitched.

“Isobel, there is no point in pretending that it did not happen,” Vespasia said steadily, trying to sound reasonable, although she did not feel it. “You are going to have to go down at some time and face everyone, whatever they believe. And the longer you delay it, the more you will appear to be accepting the blame.”

“I’m not to blame!” Isobel said indignantly. “I was rash in what I said, and I would have apologized to her today. But if she went and jumped off the bridge, that has nothing to do with me, and I won’t have anyone say that it has!” She flung the sheets aside and climbed out of the bed, stumbling a little as she stood up. She kept her back to Vespasia, as though blaming her for having brought the news. But Vespasia noticed that when Isobel picked up her peignoir, her fingers were stiff, and when it slipped out of her grasp, it took her three attempts to retrieve it.

Breakfast was ghastly. When Vespasia and Isobel arrived, everyone else was already gathered around the table. Food was laid out on the sideboard in silver chafing dishes: finnan haddock, kedgeree, eggs, sausage, deviled kidneys, and bacon. There was also plenty of fresh crisp toast, butter, marmalade, and tea. People had served themselves, as a matter of good manners, before Omegus Jones had divulged what had occurred, but nobody felt like eating.

Isobel’s entrance had been greeted in silence, nor did anyone meet her eyes.

Vespasia looked at Omegus and saw the warning and the apology unspoken in his expression.

Isobel hesitated. No one was wearing black, because no one had foreseen the occasion, and of course Isobel was the only one who had known of the death before dressing. She wore a sober dark green.

Lady Warburton was the first to acknowledge her presence, but it was with a chilly stare, her rather ordinary face pinched with distaste. She regarded Isobel’s clothes first, long before her face. “I see you were aware of the tragedy before you dressed,” she said coolly. “In fact, perhaps last night?”

“My dear Evelyn, do not let your grief …,” Sir John began, then trailed away as his wife turned to glare at him.

“It is perfectly obvious she was aware of poor Gwendolen’s death!” she said in a low, grating voice. “Why else would she wear mourning to breakfast?”

“Hypocrite,” Blanche Twyford murmured half under her breath. No one doubted that she was referring to Isobel, not Lady Warburton.

Isobel pretended not to have heard. She took a slice of toast, and then found herself unable to swallow it. She played with it to keep her hands occupied, and perhaps to prevent anyone else from noticing that they trembled.

Bertie looked haggard and utterly confused.

Vespasia wondered if he had gone after Gwendolen last night. Surely he must have. Or was it conceivable he had not? If he had followed her and told her of his feelings, asked her to marry him as everyone was expecting, nothing Isobel Alvie, or anyone else, could have said would have destroyed her happiness. Was that what he was thinking, that he avoided her eyes now? And what about Lady Warburton? Had she followed Gwendolen, or merely said she would to escape the situation?

“This is perfectly dreadful!” Lady Salchester burst out. “We really cannot sit here not knowing what has happened, and having no idea what to say to each other!”