Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels Read online

  How curious! Not at all what Grandmama had expected. Mrs. Dowson’s eyes might be bright and cold, but they kindled a sudden new warmth in Grandmama’s mind.

  “Indeed I do,” she said heartily. “That is one of the reasons I felt an affection for Maude the moment I met her. It is one of the great sadnesses of my life that I knew her such a very short time.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Dowson said huskily, her face now filled with alarm.

  Even a week ago Grandmama would have made a condescending reply to that. Now all she wanted to do was find some kinder way of telling the news.

  “I am so sorry. Maude arrived home from abroad and because of other family commitments at her sister’s house, she came and stayed with her cousin, Mr. Joshua Fielding, who is also a relative of mine, hence my presence there. Maude died, quite peacefully in her sleep, three days ago.” She saw the undisguised pain in the old lady’s face. “I felt so very grieved I chose to take the news to her family in person, rather than merely send some written message,” she concluded, “which is how I come to be still staying with them now. I am doing what little I can to help.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Dowson said, shaking her head a little. “I assumed it was no more than another of Agnes’s chills, or whatever it is she has. How stupid of me. One should not assume. This is a deep loss.” Suddenly the tears filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized.

  Grandmama did not find it absurd that after forty years Mrs. Dowson should still grieve so keenly. Time does not cloud certain memories. Bright days from youth, laughter and friendship can remain.

  But crass as it seemed, it was also an opportunity that she could not afford to ignore. “Did you know her well, before she left to travel abroad?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Dowson smiled. “I knew all the girls then. My husband was a curate, just young in his ministry. Very earnest, you know, as dedicated men can be. I rather think Maude overwhelmed him. She was so fierce in her love for Arthur Harcourt. And of course Arthur was quite the dashing young man-about-town. He was extraordinarily handsome, and he knew it. But he could hardly fail to. If he’d crooked a finger at any of the girls in the south of England they’d have followed him. I might have myself, if I’d thought he meant it. But I was never very pretty, and I was happy enough with Walter. He was genuine. I rather thought Arthur wasn’t.”

  “Sincere? Was he simply playing with Maude?”

  Suddenly Grandmama’s liking for Arthur Harcourt evaporated as if she had torn the smiling mask off and seen rotten flesh underneath.

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Dowson said quickly. “That was where Walter and I disagreed. He thought Arthur loved Bedelia. He called them a perfect match. Something of an idealist, my husband. Thought beauty was bone deep, not just a chance of coloring and half an inch here and there, and of course confidence. Self-belief, you know? Imagine how the map of the world might have been changed if Cleopatra’s nose had been half an inch longer! Then Caesar might not have fallen in love with her, or Mark Anthony either.”

  Grandmama was carried along in a hurricane of thought.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Dowson apologized again. “Walter always said my mind was totally undisciplined. I told him that was not so at all, simply that it moved in a different pattern from his. Bedelia Barrington could twist him around her little finger! And half the men in the county, too. Poor Zachary never got over it, which is such a shame. Agnes was the better girl, if only she could have believed that herself!”

  Grandmama did not interrupt her. The tea arrived. Mrs. Dowson poured, and passed the mince pie and jam tarts.

  “Bedelia thought she was glamorous, Agnes was dull, and Maude was plain and eccentric. Because of her confidence, far too many people believed that she must be right.”

  “But she was not…”

  “Certainly she was,” Mrs. Dowson contradicted her. “But only because we allowed her to be. Except Maude. She knew Bedelia’s beauty was of no real value. No warmth in it, do you see?”

  “But she fell in love with Arthur? So much so that she could not bear it when he came to his senses and married Bedelia after all?” Grandmama deliberately chose her words provocatively.

  “I used to think he lost his senses again,” Mrs. Dowson argued. “I was furious with Maude for not fighting for the man she loved. Fancy simply giving up and running away like that! Off to North Africa, and then Egypt and Persia. Riding horses in the desert, and camels too, for all I can say. Lived in tents and gave what was left of her heart to the Persians.”

  “She wrote to you!” Grandmama was astonished, and delighted. Maude had had a friend here who had cared for her over the years and kept her in touch with home.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Dowson said indignantly. “She never told me why she left, but I came to realize it was a matter of honor, and must not ever be discussed. She did what she believed to be the right thing. But I don’t think that she ever stopped loving Arthur.”

  New ideas began to form in Grandmama’s mind. “Mrs. Dowson, do you know why Maude chose to come home now, after so long?” she asked. “Did she have any…any anxieties about her health?”

  “Not that she confided in me.” Mrs. Dowson frowned. “She was certainly afraid, a little oppressed by the thought of returning after so long. But the gentleman she had cared for in Persia, and who had loved her, had died. She told me that. It grieved her very much, and it also meant that she had no reason for remaining there anymore. In fact she implied that without his protection it would be unwise for her to do so. I do not know their relationship. I never asked and she never told me, but it was not regular, as you and I would use the term.”

  “I see. Was Bedelia aware of this?” Was that the scandal she was afraid might come to Lord Woollard’s ears—even perhaps quite frankly told by Maude, in order to shock? After Bedelia’s coolness over the years, and the fact that it was she Arthur had married, whatever his reason, it would not be unnatural now if Maude had been unable to resist at least preventing her sister from becoming Lady Harcourt. She asked Mrs. Dowson as much.

  “She may have been tempted,” Mrs. Dowson replied. “But she would not have done it. Maude never bore a grudge. That was Bedelia.”

  “Was Bedelia not very much in love with Arthur, even before Maude returned from caring for her aunt?” Grandmama asked.

  “Maude did tell you a great deal, didn’t she?” Mrs. Dowson observed.

  Grandmama merely smiled.

  “However much Maude had despised Bedelia, she would never have hurt Arthur,” Mrs. Dowson continued. “As I said, she never stopped loving him. And I refer to that emotion that seeks the best for the other, the honor and happiness and inward spiritual journey; not the hunger to possess at all costs, the joy for oneself in their company and the feeling that they are happy only when they are with you. That is Bedelia, all about winning. And poor Agnes was concerned she was always going to be no more than second-best.”

  “Then why was Arthur so foolish?” Grandmama marveled. “Was he really blinded by mere physical…oh.” A far simpler and more understandable answer came to her mind. She saw that Mrs. Dowson was watching her intently. She felt the heat in her cheeks as if Mrs. Dowson could read her thoughts.

  “I do not know,” Mrs. Dowson said quietly. “But I believe Maude did, and that is why Bedelia was very happy that she should remain in Persia for the rest of her life.”

  The idea became firmer in Grandmama’s mind. It made sense of what was otherwise outside the character and nature of the people she had observed. Looking at Mrs. Dowson, she was certain she had guessed the same answer. She smiled across at her. “How very sad,” she said gently, aware of what an absurd understatement that was. “Poor Arthur.” She hesitated. “And poor Zachary.”

  “And Agnes,” Mrs. Dowson added. “But above all, I wish that Maude had not…not suffered so.”

  “But she made the best of it,” Grandmama said with an intensity of feeling, an absolute conviction that welled
up inside her, driving away all doubt.

  Mrs. Dowson nodded. “Maude always knew how to live. She knew the worst was there and she accepted the pain as part of the truth of things, but she chose to see the best also, and to find the joy in variety. She did not close herself off from the richness of experience. I think that was her gift. I shall miss her terribly.”

  “Even though I knew her only briefly, I shall miss her also,” Grandmama confessed. “But I am profoundly grateful that I did know her. And…and gratitude is something I have not felt lately. Simply to have that back is a…” She did not know how to finish. She sniffed, pulled her emotions together with an effort, then rose to her feet. “But I have something to do. I must return to Snave and attend to it. Thank you very much for your hospitality, Mrs. Dowson, and even more for the understanding you have given me. May I wish you the joy of the season, and remembrance of all that is good in the past, together with hope for the future.”

  Mrs. Dowson rose also. “Why, how graciously put, Mrs. Ellison. I shall endeavor to remember that. May I wish you joy also, and safety in your journey, both in the body and in the spirit? Happy Christmas.”

  Outside it was beginning to snow, white flurries on the wind. So far it was only dusting the ground, but the heavy pall of cloud to the north made it apparent that there was a great deal more to come. Whether she wanted to or not, Grandmama would be unlikely to be able to return to St. Mary in the Marsh today. That was a good thing. What she had to do would be best done in the evening, when they were all together after dinner. It would be uncomfortable, extremely so. She felt a sinking in her stomach as she sat in the pony trap, wrapped against the snow. The biting wind was behind her and the roar of the sea breaking on the shore growing fainter as they moved inland between the wide, flat fields, beginning to whiten.

  She was afraid. She admitted it to herself. She was afraid of unpleasantness, even physical attack, although she expected any attack to be secret, disguised as the one on Maude had been. Even more than that, and it surprised her, she was afraid of not doing it well.

  But then, like Agnes, she had regarded herself as a failure most of her life. She had lived a lie, always pretending to be a highly respectable woman, even aggressively so, married to a man who had died relatively young and left her grieving since her late forties, unable to recover from the loss.

  In truth, she had married wretchedly, and his death had released her, at least on the outside. She had never allowed herself to be released in her own mind, and worse still, in her heart. She had kept up the lie, to save her pride.

  Of course no one ever needed to know the details, but she could have been honest with herself, and it would slowly have spread through her manner, her beliefs, and in the end the way she had seen and been seen by others.

  Maude Barrington had suffered a monstrous injustice. She had borne it apparently without bitterness. If it had marred an earlier part of her life, perhaps when she first went abroad, she had healed her own spirit from the damage and gone on to live a passionate and adventurous life. Perhaps it had never been comfortable, but what was comfort worth? Bitterness, blame, and self-hatred were never comfortable either. And perhaps they were also not as safe as she had once imagined. They were a slow-growing disease within, killing inch by inch.

  It was snowing quite hard now, lying thick and light on the ground, beginning to drift on the windward side of the furrows left in the fields after their winter plowing, and on the trunks of the trees. The wind was blowing too hard for the snow to stay on the branches as they swayed against the sky. There was little sound from the pony’s hooves because the ground was blanketed already, just the deep moan of the wind and the creak of the wheels. It was a hard, beautiful world, invigorating, ice-cold, and on every side, sweet and sharp-smelling from the sea, infinitely wide.

  She arrived back at Snave before she was really ready, but there was no help for it. And maybe she would never feel as if it were time. She allowed the stable boy to assist her, and to his surprise thanked him for his care.

  Inside she took off her cape and shawl and was very glad to be in the warmth again. Her hands were almost numb from the cold and her face was stinging, her eyes watering, but she had never felt more intensely alive. She was terrified, and yet there was an unmistakable bubble of courage inside her, as if something of Maude’s vitality and hunger for life had been bequeathed to her.

  She was too late for luncheon, and too excited to eat much anyway. Cook had prepared a tray for her with soup and new, warm bread, and that was really all she required. She thanked her sincerely, with a compliment, and after finishing it all, went upstairs with the excuse that she wished to lie down. In reality she wanted to prepare herself for the evening. It was going to be one of the biggest of her life, perhaps her only real achievement. It would require all the nerve and the intelligence she possessed. There was in her mind no doubt of the truth now. Proving it would be altogether another matter, but if she did not attempt it, whatever it cost her, then she would have failed the last chance that fate had offered.

  She dressed very carefully, in the housekeeper’s best black gown, and thanked the maid. It seemed appropriate. She was going to be a different person from the woman she had been as long as she could clearly remember. She was going to be brave, face all the ugliness, the shame, and the failure, and be gentle toward them, because she understood them intimately. She had been a liar herself, and every stupid ugly corner of it was familiar. She had been a coward, and its corroding shroud had covered every part of her life. She had tried to touch other people’s lives with her own meanness of spirit, her belief in failure. There was no victory in that. One could spoil others, dirty them, damage what could have been whole. Now she could touch all their wounds with pity, but none of them could deceive her.

  She regarded herself in the glass. She looked different from the way she was accustomed. It was more than the dress that was not her own; the face also was not the one that had been hers for so long. There was color in her skin. Her eyes were brighter. Most of all the sulk had gone from her lips, and the lines seemed to be curving upward, not down.

  Ridiculous! She had never been pretty, and she wasn’t now. If she did not know better, she would think she had been imbibing rather too freely of the Christmas spirit, of that nature that comes in a bottle!

  She straightened her skirt a last time, and went down to join the family for dinner. Tomorrow she would leave. She would probably have to, even if the snow were up to the eaves! There was something exhilarating, and a little mad, in casting the last die, crossing the Rubicon, if she were remembering her schoolroom history correctly. It was war! Triumph or disaster, because she could not stop until it was over.

  PART THREE

  S HE WAS A FEW MINUTES LATE, AS SHE HAD intended. There was very little time before dinner was announced and they all went into the dining room. It was now looking even more festive, with scarlet berries intertwined in the wreaths and the swags along the mantelpiece, all tied with gold ribbons. There were scarlet candles on the table, even though they were not yet lit, and everything seemed to be touched with light from the chandeliers.

  “I hope you are recovered from your journey, Mrs. Ellison?” Arthur asked with concern. “I’m afraid the weather turned most unpleasant before you were able to return.”

  “I should not have allowed you to go,” Bedelia added. “I had not realized it would take you so long.”

  “It was entirely my own fault,” Grandmama replied. “I could have been back earlier, and I should have, for the stable boy’s and the pony’s sake, if nothing else. To tell you the truth, the ride back was very beautiful. I have not been out in a snowstorm for so long that I had forgotten how amazing it is. The sense of the power and magnitude of nature is very marvelous.”

  “What a refreshing view,” Arthur said, then suddenly the sadness filled his eyes, overwhelming him. “You remind me of Maude.” He stopped, unable to continue.

  It was the greatest complim
ent Grandmama had ever received, but she could not afford to stop and savor it now.

  She continued with what she had intended to say, regardless of their responses. She even ignored the butler and the footman serving the soup.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harcourt. The more I learn of Maude, the more I appreciate how very much that means. I know that for you it is as profound as it could be, and I wish more than you can be aware of to live up to it.”

  Bedelia was startled, then her mouth curled in a smile more of disdain than amusement. “We all grieve for Maude, Mrs. Ellison, but there is no requirement for you to cater to our family perception with such praise.” She left the implied adjective “fulsome” unsaid, but it hung in the air.

  “Oh, I’m not!” Grandmama said candidly, her eyes wide. “Maude was a most remarkable person. I learned far more of just how amazing from Mrs. Dowson. That, I’m afraid, is why I stayed so long.”

  Bedelia was stiff, her shoulders like carved ivory beneath her violet taffeta gown. “Mrs. Dowson is sentimental,” she replied coolly. “A vicar’s widow and obliged to see the best in people.”

  “Perhaps the vicar did,” Grandmama corrected her. “Mrs. Dowson certainly does not. She is quite capable of seeing pride, greed, selfishness, and other things; cowardice in particular.” She smiled at Agnes. “The acceptance of failure because one does not have the courage to face what one is afraid of, and pay the price in comfort that is sometimes necessary for success.”

  The blood drained from Agnes’s face, leaving her ashen. Her spoon slithered into her soup dish and she ignored it.

  Zachary started to speak, and then choked on whatever it was he had been going to say.

  It was Randolph who came to her rescue. “That sounds extremely harsh, Mrs. Ellison. How on earth would Mrs. Dowson be in a position to know anything of that sort about anybody? And what she did know must have come to her in a privileged position, and therefore should not be repeated.”