An Anne Perry Christmas: Two Holiday Novels Page 10

  She folded it with a smile and placed it in her escritoire in the drawer that had a lock on it, then she found Isobel and Mrs. Naylor and gave them Omegus's invitation. The following morning she sent the same footman back with their acceptance.

  They set out in the afternoon in order to arrive at Applecross for dinner. The day was crisp and cold, but this far south there was no snow yet, only a taste of frost in the air. By the time they arrived they were shivering, even beneath traveling rugs, and glad to alight and go into the great hall decked with holly and ivy, scarlet ribbons, gold-tipped pinecones, and great bowls of fruit. The fire blazed in the hearth, burning half a log. Footmen met them with glasses of mulled wine and marzipan sweetmeats, warm mince pies and candied peel.

  In the hall was a huge fir tree decked with ornaments, candles, and chains of bright-colored paper. Beneath it were small, gaily wrapped gifts. The tree's woody aroma filled the air, along with wood smoke, spiced scents, and, very faintly, the promise of roasted Christmas dinner and hot plum pudding. There was excitement in the whisper of maids’ voices and the quick rustle of their skirts.

  Omegus was delighted to see them. He complimented Isobel, offered his deepest sympathies to Mrs. Naylor, and said he would tell her all she wished to know when she felt ready to ask, and would take her to the grave at her convenience.

  She thanked him and said that festivities of the season must come first. It was a brave and generous thing to do, and exactly what Vespasia would have expected of her.

  Ten minutes later when the others had gone, Omegus took Vespasia's arm and held her with a startlingly firm grip when she made to move away. “I think you have more to tell me,” he said quietly.

  She swiveled to face him. “More?”

  He smiled very slightly. “I know you, my dear,” he told her. “You would not like Mrs. Naylor, as I see you obviously do, unless you had come to know her more than superficially. You have learned something of her which has moved you to admiration, something you do not give lightly. The same emotion is not in Isobel, so it seems likely to me that you have not confided it in her. I wonder why not, and the answer is possibly to do with Gwendolen's death. Is it something I should know?”

  Vespasia found herself blushing. She had not intended to tell him, and now she found she could not lie. It was not that she had not the imagination—it would have been simple enough—but she would lose something she valued intensely were she to place that barrier between them.

  In a low, very soft voice, she told him what she had guessed and deduced of the truth of Kilmuir's death.

  “And you did not tell Isobel?” he asked gravely.

  “No. It…” She saw in his eyes the criticism that was unspoken inside herself. “She has a right to know—doesn't she?” she finished.

  “Yes.” There was no equivocation in him.

  “I shall tell her after dinner,” she promised. “After she has made peace with Lady Warburton.”

  His eyebrows rose in question. “Do you not trust her to keep the same silence for others that she wishes kept for herself?”

  Again Vespasia felt the heat burn up her cheeks. “I'm not sure,” she confessed. “Mrs. Naylor deserves that silence, and Gwendolen needs it. There is no oath to bind her for that.”

  He put his hand over hers for an instant, then offered her his arm.

  “Shall we go in to dinner?”

  The meal was rich and excellent. After the main courses were finished, and long before anyone could think of the ladies withdrawing, Omegus rose to his feet, and the talk ceased.

  “My friends, we are met together this Christmas Eve in order to keep an oath that we made less than a month ago. We promised them that if Isobel Alvie were to travel to Scotland and find Gwendolen's mother, Mrs. Naylor, and give her Gwendolen's last letter, and should Mrs. Naylor be willing, accompany her back here, then we would wipe from our memory all knowledge of her remarks to Gwendolen on the night of her death. Her part of that oath has been fulfilled.”

  “You expect us to take her word for that?” Fenton Twyford asked, his face twisted in sarcasm.

  “Mrs. Naylor is here,” Omegus answered him. “If you have doubts of Isobel, or of me, then you may ask her.” He indicated Mrs. Naylor where she sat calm and dignified at the table.

  Fenton Twyford turned to her, met an icy stare, and changed his mind. Then he became aware of his impertinence and blushed.

  The flicker of a smile crossed Omegus's face. “It is now up to us to keep our part. Any man or woman who breaks it will cease to be known by the rest of us. We will not speak to them again, invite them to any event public or private, or in any way acknowledge their presence. They will have chosen to be a person whose honor is worthless. I cannot imagine anyone wishes to be such a… a creature. Mrs. Naylor has promised to be bound by the same code.” He turned to her.

  “I have,” she said clearly. “And I wish to add to that what Mr. Jones does not know. Mrs. Alvie's part in my daughter's death was smaller than you or she are aware. It was simply the last straw added to a weight Gwendolen was already bearing, placed there by others, of which Mrs. Alvie had only a slight knowledge. I have no intention of telling you what burdens those were. It is better buried with her. Sufficient to say that it would be unjust for Mrs. Alvie to suffer more blame than she has—and which she has washed away by her acts toward me. It is over.”

  Isobel turned to her, her eyes wide, her lips parted in astonishment and dawning anger. “You mean they were going to punish me—and I was only partly guilty?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Naylor agreed.

  Isobel swung around to stare at Lady Warburton. “You would have ruined me, driven me into a wilderness from which I would never recover! And I wasn't even guilty! Not entirely…”

  Lady Warburton quaked. “I didn't know!” she protested. “I thought you were!”

  “You thought so yourself!” Blanche Twyford added. “You didn't deny it!”

  “Yes, I did!” Isobel spat at her. “You gave no mercy!”

  “That is true,” Omegus cut across her, his voice clear and insistent, undeniable. “And mercy, the gift to forgive, to wash away from the memory as if it had not happened, to accept the gift of God which is love and hope, courage to begin again in the faith that redemption is come into the world, is the meaning of Christmas. That is why we are met here today. It is why we deck the halls with holly, why the bells will ring tonight from village to village across the land until the earth and the sky are filled with their sound.” He turned to Isobel, waiting for her answer, not in words on her lips, but in her eyes.

  She hesitated only a moment. “Of course,” she answered softly. “I have made my journey and arrived at Christmas, perhaps only at this moment. I shall be grateful all my life that you offered it to me, and to Vespasia for coming with me, when she had no need. How could I accept it for myself, and deny it to another?”

  “It is everyone's journey,” Omegus said with a smile of utter sweetness. “No man needs to make it alone. But his choice to go with another is the one act of friendship which brings us closest to the Man who was born on the first Christmas, and is the Gift of them all.” He raised his glass. “To the friendship which never fades!”

  All around the table the answering glasses were lifted.

  A CHRISTMAS VISITOR

  To those who are willing to give

  the best they have.

  PART ONE

  HERE, MR. RATHBONE, SIR, ARE YER RIGHT?” the old man asked solicitously.

  Henry Rathbone tucked the blanket around his legs where he sat in the pony trap, his luggage beside him. “Yes, thank you, Wiggins,” he replied gratefully. The wind had a knife-edge to it, even here at the railway station in Penrith. Out on the six-mile road through the snow-crusted mountains down to Ulls-water, it would get far worse. It was roughly the middle of December, and exactly the middle of the century.

  Wiggins climbed up into the driver's seat and urged the horse forward. It must know its own
way by now. It had come here most days when Judah Dreghorn was alive.

  But Judah was dead now—and that was Henry's miserable reason for coming back to this wild and marvelous land he loved. Even the place names woke memories of days tramping up long hills, wiry grass under his feet, sweet wind in his face and views that stretched forever. He could see in his mind's eye the pale blue waters of Stickle Tarn looking over toward the summit of Pavey Ark; or the snow-streaked hills of Honister Pass. How many times had he and Judah climbed Scafell Pike to the roof of the world, and sat with their backs to the warm stone, eating bread and cheese and drinking rough red wine as if it had been the food of gods?

  Then three days ago he had received a letter from Antonia, her words almost illegible on the paper, to say that Judah had died in a stupid accident. It had not even happened on the lake, or in one of the winter storms that raged down the valley with wind and snow, but on the stepping-stones of the stream.

  He stared around him now as the pony trap left the town and headed along the winding road westward. The raw, passionate beauty of the land suited his mood. It was steep against an unclouded sky, snow glittering so brilliantly it hurt his eyes, blazing white on the crests, shadowed in the valleys, gullied dark where the rocks and trees broke through.

  It was ten years since the four Dreghorn brothers had last been at home together. The family's good fortune in gaining the estate had meant they could all follow their dreams wherever they led. Benjamin had left his church ministry and gone to Palestine to join in the biblical archaeology there. Ephraim had followed his love of botany to South Africa. His letters were full of sketches of marvelous, unique plants, many of them so useful to man.

  Nathaniel, the only other one to marry, had gone to America to study the extraordinary geology of that land, exploring features that Europe did not possess. He had even trekked as far west as the rock formations of the desert territories, and the great San Andreas fault in California. It was there that he had died of fever, leaving his widow, Naomi, to return now in his place.

  Antonia had written in her letter that they were all coming home for Christmas, but what a bitter and different arrival that would be. Little wonder Antonia had wanted her godfather to be there. She had terrible news to tell, and no other family to help her. Her parents had died young, she had no siblings; she had only her nine-year-old son, Joshua, who was as bereaved as she.

  Henry had known her all her life, first as a grave and happy child, eager to learn, forever reading. She had never tired of asking him questions. They had been friends in discovery.

  Then as a young woman a slight self-consciousness in her had put a distance between them. She had shared more reluctantly, but he had still been the first to learn of her love for Judah, and with her parents dead, it was he who had given her away at her wedding.

  But what could he possibly do for her now?

  Henry tucked the blanket closer around himself and stared ahead. Soon he would see the bright shield of Ullswater ahead, and on a day as clear as this, the mountains beyond: Helvellyn to the south, and the Blencathra range to the north. The high tarns would be iced over, blue in the shadows. Some of the wild animals would have their white winter coats; the red deer would have come down to the valleys. Shepherds would be searching for their lost sheep. He smiled. Sheep survived very well under the snow; their warm breath created a hole to breathe through, and the odor of their sweat made them easy enough to find for any dog worth his keep.

  The Dreghorn estate was on the sloping land above the lake edge, a couple of miles from the village. It was the largest for miles, containing rich pasture, woods, streams, and tenant farmhouses, and went right down to the lake shore for more than a mile. The manor house was built of Lakeland stone, three stories high with a south-facing façade.

  They went through the gates and pulled up in the driveway. Antonia came out of the front door so soon that she must have been waiting for them, watching at the window. She was tall, with smooth, dark hair, and he remembered her having a unique kind of calm beauty that showed the inner peace that day-to-day irritations could not disturb.

  Now as she walked swiftly toward him, her wide, black skirts almost touching the gravel, her grief was clearly troubled by anger and fear as well. Her skin was pale, tight-stretched across her bones, and her dark eyes were hollowed around with shadows.

  He alighted quickly, going toward her.

  “Henry! I'm so glad you've come,” she said urgently. “I don't know what to do, or how I can face this alone.”

  He put his arms around her, feeling the stiffness of her shoulders, and kissing her gently on the cheek. “I hope you didn't doubt I would come, my dear,” he answered. “And do everything that I can for as long as it may help.”

  She pulled away and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She controlled her voice only with the greatest difficulty. “It is so much worse than I wrote. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do to fight it. And I dread telling Benjamin and Ephraim when they arrive. I believe Nathaniel's widow will come, too. You didn't know Naomi, did you?”

  “No, I did not meet her.” He searched her face, wondering what worse news she could have than Judah's death. What was it she must fight, but had not told him?

  She turned away. “Come inside.” She gulped on the words. “It's cold out here. Wiggins will bring your things in and put them in your room. Would you like tea, crumpets? It's a little early, but you've come a long way.” She was talking too quickly as she led the way up the steps and in through the high, carved front doors. “The fire's hot in the drawing room, and Joshua is still in class. He's brilliant, you know. He's changed a lot since you were last here.”

  Inside, the hall was warmer, but it was not until they were in the withdrawing room with its red-ochre colored walls and the log fire roaring in the grate that the heat relaxed him a little. He was glad to sit in one of the huge chairs and wait for the maid to bring their tea and toasted crumpets with hot butter.

  They were halfway through them before he broke the mood. “I think you had better tell me what else it is that troubles you,” he said gently.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then lifted her eyes to meet his. “Ashton Gower is saying that Judah cheated him.” Her voice shook. “He says that this whole estate should rightfully have been his, and Judah had him falsely imprisoned, then stole it from him.”

  Henry felt as if he had been struck physically, so stunned was he by her words. Judah Dreghorn had been a judge in the local court in Penrith, and the most honest man Henry had ever known. The idea of his having cheated anyone was absurd.

  “That's ridiculous!” he said quickly. “No one would believe him. You must have your man of affairs warn him that if he repeats such an idiotic and completely false charge, you will sue him.”

  The shadow of a smile touched her mouth. “I have already done that. Gower took no notice. He insists that Judah took the estate after charging him falsely and imprisoning him, when he knew he was innocent, all in order to buy the estate cheaply. And of course that was before the Viking site was found.”

  He was confused.

  “I think you had better tell me the whole story from the beginning. I don't remember Ashton Gower, and I know nothing about a Viking site. What happened, Antonia?”

  She drank the last of her tea, as if giving herself time to compose her thoughts. She did not look at him but into the dancing flames of the fire. Outside it was already growing dark and the winter sunset lit the sky and burned orange and gold through the south windows onto the wall.

  “Years ago Ashton Gower's family owned this estate,” she began. “It belonged originally to the Colgrave family, and the widow who inherited it married Geoffrey Gower, and was Ashton's mother. It all seemed very straightforward to begin with, until Peter Colgrave, a relative from the other side of the family, raised the question as to whether the deeds were genuine.”

  “The deeds to the estate?” Henry asked. “How could they not be? Pre
sumably Gower's father was the legal owner, on his marriage to the Colgrave widow?”

  “It was a question of dates,” she replied. She looked tired, drained of all strength. The story was miserably familiar, even if it was also inexplicable. “To do with Mariah Colgrave's marriage and the death of her brother-in-law, and the birth of Peter Colgrave.”

  “And this Colgrave contested Gower's right to it?” he asked.

  She smiled bleakly. “Actually he said the deeds were forged, and that Ashton Gower had done it in order to inherit it himself. He insisted it went to court, so naturally in time it came before Judah, up in Penrith. The first time he examined the deeds he said they looked perfectly good, but he kept them and looked again more closely. He became suspicious and took them to a very good expert on documents in Kendal. He said they were definitely not genuine. He would testify to that.”

  Henry leaned forward. “And did he?” he asked earnestly.

  “Oh, yes. Ashton Gower stood trial for forgery, and was found guilty. Judah sentenced him to eleven years’ imprisonment. He has just been released.”

  “And the estate?” Although he could guess the answer. Perhaps he should have known, but when he had been here before, there had always been better, happier things to talk of—laughter, good food, and good conversation to share.

  She shifted a little in her seat.

  “Colgrave inherited it,” she said ruefully. “But he did not wish to live here. He put the estate on the market at a very reasonable price. I think actually he had debts to pay. He lived extravagantly. Judah and his brothers all put in what they could, Judah by far the most, and they bought it. He and I lived here. Joshua was born here.” Her voice choked with emotion and she needed a few moments to regain control.

  He waited without speaking.

  “I've never loved a place as I do this!” she said with sudden fierce passion. “For the first time I feel absolutely at home.” She gave an impatient little gesture of her hand. “Not the house. It's beautiful, of course, a marvelous house. But I mean the land, the trees, the way the light falls on the water.” She searched his face. “Do you remember the long twilight over the lake in the summer, the evening sky? Or the valleys, grassland so green it rolls like deep velvet into the distance, trees full and lush, billowing like fallen clouds? The woods in spring, or the day we followed Striding Edge up toward Helvellyn?”