by Anne Perry
Blanche Twyford was talking to Gwendolen, nodding every now and then, and Gwendolen was smiling. It was easy to guess the subject of their excitement.
Vespasia looked sideways at Isobel and saw the shadow in her eyes again. If Bertie proposed marriage to Gwendolen this weekend, which seemed to be generally expected, would Isobel really lose more than a possible admirer? Did she care for him, perhaps even have hopes herself? She had loved her husband; Vespasia knew that. But he had been gone for three years now, and Isobel was a young woman, no more than Vespasia's own age. It was possible to fall in love again. In fact, at thirty it would be harsh and lonely not to.
Should she say something? Was this a time when real friendship dared embarrassment and rejection? Or was silence, the pretense of not knowing, preferable, thereby allowing the deeper wounds to remain private?
The decision was taken from her by the arrival of Lady Warburton, whereupon the conversation moved to fashion, Prince Albert's latest ideas for improving the mind, and, of course, the queen's enthusiasm for everything her husband said.
They were rejoined by the gentlemen, and the atmosphere changed again. Everyone became more self-conscious, backs a little straighter, laughter more delicate, movement more graceful. The servants had retreated to leave them alone. The final cleaning up would be done when the guests retired to bed.
They were all facing Gwendolen and Bertie when Isobel made the remark. Gwendolen was sitting with her skirts swept around her like a tide, her head up, her slender throat pale in the candlelight. She looked beautiful and triumphant. Bertie stood close to her, just a little possessively.
“Charming,” Lady Warburton said very quietly, as if the announcement had already been made.
Vespasia looked at Isobel and saw the strain in her face. She felt a moment's deep sorrow for her. Whatever the prize, defeat is a bitter taste.
Peter Hanning was saying something trivial, and everyone laughed. There was a goblet of water on the side table. Gwendolen asked for it.
Bertie reached across swiftly and picked it up, then set it on the tray, which had been left there. He passed it to her, balanced in one hand, bowing as he did so. “Madame,” he said humbly. “Your servant forever.”
Gwendolen put out her hand.
“For heaven's sake, you look like a footman!” Isobel's voice was clear and brittle. “Surely you aspire to be more than that? She's hardly going to give her favors to a servant! At least, not permanently!”
The moment froze. It was a dreadful statement, and Vespasia winced.
“She will require a gentleman,” Isobel went on. “After all, Kilmuir could look forward to a title.” She turned to Gwendolen. “Couldn't he?”
Gwendolen was white. “I love the man,” she said huskily. “The status means nothing to me.”
Isobel raised her eyebrows very high. “You would give yourself to him if he were really a footman?” she asked incredulously. “My dear, I believe you!”
Gwendolen stared at her, but her gaze was inward, as if she saw a horror beyond description, almost beyond endurance. Then slowly she rose to her feet, her eyes hollow. She seemed a trifle unsteady.
“Gwendolen!” Bertie said quickly, but she walked past him as if suddenly he were invisible to her. She stumbled to the door, needing a moment or two to grasp the handle and turn it, then went out into the hall.
Lady Warburton turned on Isobel. “Really, Mrs. Alvie, I know you imagine that you are amusing, at least at times, but that remark merely exposed your envy, and it is most unbecoming.” She swiveled to face Omegus Jones. “If you will excuse me, I shall make sure that poor Gwendolen is all right.” And with a crackle of skirts she swept out.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Vespasia decided to take control before the situation degenerated. She turned to Isobel. “I don't think this can be salvaged with any grace. We would do better to retreat and leave well enough alone. Come. It is late anyway.”
Isobel hesitated only a moment, glancing at the ring of startled and embarrassed faces, and realized she could only agree.
Outside in the hall Vespasia took her arm, forcing her to stop before she reached the bottom of the stairs. “What on earth has got hold of you?” she demanded. “You will have to apologize to Gwendolen tomorrow, and to everyone else. Being in love with Bertie does not excuse what you did, and you would be a great deal better off if you had not made yourself so obvious!”
Isobel glared at her, her face ashen but for the high spots of color in her cheeks, but she was too close to tears to answer. She was now perfectly aware of how foolish she had been, and that she had made not Gwendolen but herself look vulnerable. She shook her arm free and stormed up the stairs without looking backwards.
espasia did not sleep well. Certainly Isobel had behaved most unfortunately, but marriage, with love or without it, was a very serious business. For a woman it was the only honorable occupation, and battles for an eligible man of the charm and the financial means of someone like Bertie Rosythe were fought to the last ditch. She hurt for the pain Isobel must feel, a pain she had just made a great deal worse for herself. Vespasia could only imagine it. Her own marriage had been easily arranged. Her father was an earl, and she herself was startlingly beautiful. She could have been a duchess had she wished. She preferred a man of intelligence and an ambition to do something useful, and who loved her for herself and gave her a great deal of freedom. It was a good bargain. The kind of love for which she hungered was well lost and offered to very few—and belonged in dreams and hot Roman summers of manning the barricades against overwhelming odds. One loves utterly, and then yields to honor and duty and returns home to live with other realities, leaving the height and the ache of passion behind.
She rose in the morning and, with her maid's assistance of course, dressed warmly in a blue-gray woolen gown against the December frost and a very sharp wind whining in the eaves and seeking to find every crack in the windows. She went downstairs to face the other guests and whatever difficulties the night had not resolved.
She was met in the hall by Omegus Jones. He was wearing an outdoor jacket and there was mud on his boots. His dark hair was untidy, and his face was so pale he looked waxen.
“Vespasia…”
“Whatever is it?” She went to him immediately. “You look ill! Can I help?” She touched his hand lightly. It was freezing—and wet. Suddenly she was frightened. Omegus, more than anyone else she knew, always seemed in control of himself, and of events. “What is it?” she said again, more urgently.
He did not prevaricate. He closed his icy hand over hers with great gentleness. “I am afraid we have just found Gwendolen's body in the lake.” He gestured vaguely behind him to the sheet of ornamental water beyond the sloping lawn with its cedars and herbaceous border. “We have brought her out, but there is nothing to be done for her. She seems to have been dead since sometime last night.”
Vespasia was stunned. It was impossible. “How can she have fallen in?” she said, denying the thought desperately. “It is shallow at the edges. There are flowers growing there, reeds! You would simply get stuck in the mud! And anyway, why on earth would she go walking down by the water on a December night? Why would anyone?”
He looked haggard, and he was unmoved by her arguments, except to pity.
Vespasia was touched by a deep fear.
“I'm sorry, my dear,” he answered, his eyes hollow. “She went in from the bridge, where it is quite deep. The only conclusion possible seems to be that she jumped, of her own accord. The balustrade is quite high enough to prevent an accidental falling, even in the dark. I had them made that way myself.”
“Omegus! I'm so sorry!” Her first thought was for him, and the distress it would cause him, the dark shadow over the beauty of Applecross. It was a loveliness more than simply that of a great house where art and nature had combined to create a perfect landscape of flowers, trees, water, and views to the hills and fields beyond. It was a place of peace where generations of lo
ve of the land had sunk into its fabric and left a residue of warmth, even in the starkness of late autumn.
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.
reakfast 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!”
“We know what has happened,” Blanche Twyford said angrily. “Mrs. Alvie spoke inexcusably last night, and poor Mrs. Kilmuir was so distraught that she took her own life. It's as plain as the nose on your face.”
Lady Salchester froze. “I beg your pardon?” she said, ice dripping from her voice.
“For heaven's sake!” Blanche flushed. “I did not mean it pers
onally. It is an expression of—of clarity. We all know perfectly well what happened!”
“I don't.” Lord Salchester came surprisingly to his wife's aid. “To me it is as much of a muddle as the nose on your face!”
Vespasia wanted to laugh hysterically. She suppressed the desire with difficulty, holding her napkin to her lips and pretending to sneeze.
Blanche Twyford glared at Lord Salchester.
Salchester opened his blue eyes very wide. “Why on earth should a perfectly healthy young woman on the brink of matrimony throw herself into the lake? Merely because her rival insults her? I don't understand.” He looked baffled. He shook his head. “Women,” he said unhappily. “If she had been a chap, she'd simply have insulted her back, and they'd have gone to bed friends.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Ernest!” Lady Salchester snapped at him. “You are talking complete nonsense!”
“Am I?” he said mildly. “Wasn't she going to be married? That's what everyone said!”
Bertie stood up, white-faced, and left the room.
“Good God! He's not going to the lake, is he?” Salchester asked, his napkin sliding to the floor.
Isobel left the table, as well, only she went out the other door, toward the garden, even though it was raining and not much above freezing outside.
“Guilt!” Lady Warburton said viciously.
“I think that's a little harsh,” Sir John expostulated. “She was—”
“Both of them!” his wife cut across, effectively cutting off whatever he had been going to say. He lapsed into silence.
Omegus rose to his feet. “Lady Vespasia, I wonder if I might talk with you in the library?”
“Of course.” She was grateful for the chance to escape the ghastly meal table. She scraped her chair back before the footman could pull it out for her.
“You're not going to just leave it!” Lady Warburton accused him. “This cannot be run away from. I won't allow it!”
