Anne Perry - A Christmas Journey

The rest of the meal proceeded in the same way. She was ignored as if her seat were empty. People spoke of Christmas, and of next year, who would attend what function during the season—the balls, races, regattas, garden parties, exhibitions, the opera, the theater, the pleasure cruises down the Thames. No one asked Isobel where she was going. They behaved as if she would not be there. There was no grief as if for the dead, as when Gwendolen’s name was mentioned. It was not simply a ceasing to be, but as if she had never been.

She remained at the table, growing paler and paler. Vespasia walked beside her when the ladies withdrew to leave the gentlemen to their port. It was painful to remember that this time yesterday Gwendolen had been with them. None of the tragedy had happened. Now she was lying in one of the unused morning rooms, and tomorrow the undertaker would come to dress her for the grave.

Perhaps it was the closeness of the hour to the event, but as the women entered the withdrawing room, each one fell silent. Vespasia found herself shivering. Death was not a stranger to any of them. There were many diseases, the risks of childbirth, the accidents of even quite ordinary travel, but this was different, and the darkness of it touched them all.

Within twenty minutes of the door closing, Isobel rose to her feet, and since they had not acknowledged her presence, she did not bother to excuse her leaving. She went out in silence.

Vespasia followed almost immediately. Not only did she need to see Isobel and try in every way she could to persuade her to make the journey to Scotland, she felt she could not bear to stay any longer in the withdrawing room with the other women and observe their gloating. There was something repellent in their relishing of Isobel’s downfall and the doling out of punishment, because it had nothing to do with justice, or the possibility of expiation. It was to do with personal safety and the satisfaction of being one of the included, not of those exiled.

Vespasia went back across the hallway, where she was greeted courteously by the butler. She wished him good night, wondering how awkward it was going to be for the domestic staff to work their way through the silences and rebuffs and decide whose leads to follow. Perhaps the real question was, how long would Omegus hold out against his own edict?

At the top of the stairs she retraced her path along the east wing and knocked on Isobel’s door.

Again it was not answered, and again she went in.

Isobel was standing in the middle of the floor, her body stiff, her face white with misery. “Don’t you ever wait to be invited?” Her husky voice was on the edge of losing control.

Vespasia closed the door behind her. “I don’t think I can afford to wait,” she replied.

Isobel took a deep breath, steadying herself with a visible effort. “And what can you possibly say that matters?” she asked.

Vespasia swept her considerable skirt to one side and sat down on the bedroom chair, as if she intended to stay for some time. “Do you intend to accept virtual banishment? And don’t delude yourself that it will only be by those who are here this weekend, because it will not. They will repeat it all as soon as they return to London. By next season all society will have one version of it or another. If you are honest, you know that is true.”

Isobel’s eyes swam with tears, but she refused to give way to them. “Are you going to suggest that I accept the blame for Gwendolen’s death and take this wretched letter to her mother?” she said, her voice choking. “All I did was imply that she was ambitious, which was perfectly true. Most women are. We have to be.”

“You were cruel, and funny at her expense.” Vespasia added the further truth. “You implied she was ambitious, but also that her love for Bertie would cease to exist were he in a different social or financial class.”

Isobel’s dark eyes widened. “And you are claiming that it would not? You believe she would marry a greengrocer? Or a footman?”

“Of course not,” Vespasia said impatiently. “To begin with, no greengrocer or footman would ask her. The point is irrelevant. Your remark was meant to crush her and make her appear greedy and, more important, to make Bertie see her love for him as merely opportunism. Don’t be disingenuous, Isobel.”

Isobel glared at her, but she was too close to losing control to trust herself to speak.

“Anyway,” Vespasia went on briskly. “None of it matters very much—”

“Is that what you intruded into my bedroom to tell me?” Isobel gasped, the tears brimming over and running down her cheeks. “Get out! You are worse than they are! I imagined you were my friend, and, my God, how mistaken I was! You are a hypocrite!”

Vespasia remained exactly where she was. She did not even move enough to rustle the silk of her gown. “What matters,” she said steadily, “is that we face the situation as it is, and deal with it. None of them is interested in the truth, and it is unlikely we will ever know exactly why Gwendolen killed herself, far less prove it to people who do not wish to know. But Omegus has offered you a chance not only to expiate whatever guilt you might have, but to retain your position in society and oblige everyone here to keep absolute silence about it or face ostracism themselves—which is a feat of genius, I believe.” She smiled slightly. “And if you succeed, you will have the pleasure of watching them next season, watching you and being unable to say a word. Lady Warburton and Blanche Twyford will find it extremely hard. They will suffer every moment of forced civility in silence. That alone should be of immeasurable satisfaction to you. It will be to me!”

Isobel smiled a little tremulously. She took a shuddering breath. “All the way to Inverness?”

“There will be trains,” Vespasia responded. “The line goes that far now.”

Isobel looked away. “That will be the least part of it. I daresay it will take days, and be cold and uncomfortable, with infinite stops. But facing that woman, and giving her Gwendolen’s letter, which might say anything about me! And having to wait and watch her grief? It will be … unbearable!”

“It will be difficult, but not unbearable,” Vespasia corrected.

Isobel stared at her furiously. “Would you do it? And don’t you dare lie to me!”

Vespasia heard her own voice with amazement. “I will do. I’ll come with you.”

Isobel blinked. “Really? You promise?”

Vespasia breathed in and out slowly. What on earth had she committed herself to? She was not guilty of any offense toward Gwendolen Kilmuir. But had that really anything to do with it? Neither guilt nor innocence was really the issue. Friendship was—and need. “Yes,” she said aloud. “I’ll come with you. We shall set off tomorrow morning. We will have to go to London first, of course, and then take the next train to Scotland. We will deliver the letter to Mrs. Naylor, and we will accompany her back here if she will allow us to. Omegus said nothing about your journeying alone—merely that you had to go.”

“Thank you,” Isobel said, the tears running unchecked down her face. “Thank you very much.”

Vespasia stood up. “We shall tell them tomorrow morning at breakfast. Have your maid pack, and dress for traveling. Wear your warmest suit and your best boots. There will probably be snow farther north, and it will be bound to be colder.”

Vespasia’s mind whirled with the enormity of her decision. When she finally fell asleep, her dreams were of roaring trains and windy snow-swept landscapes, and a grief-stricken and unforgiving woman bereft of her child.