by Anne Perry
A Christmas Gathering is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Anne Perry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Hardback ISBN 9780525621010
Ebook ISBN 9780525621027
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Karin Batten, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi
Cover illustration: Alan Ayers
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
A Christmas Gathering
Dedication
The Christmas Novels of Anne Perry
About the Author
It was not the Christmas Vespasia had planned. Last year, in Jerusalem, had been unforgettable, filled with experiences that she could not even have imagined. They had changed her life and her beliefs about heaven and hell. But this year, the third since she had remarried, she had hoped to spend Christmas entirely with her husband: no adventures, not even any parties. So late in life, she had found the man she truly loved with all the passion, intelligence, and trust in her nature. She had already had her children and grandchildren, had fulfilled all the obligations that she was heir to in society. This was different. In a purely personal way, it was her own time of fulfillment.
But as the carriage swept up the long curved driveway through the country estate of Max and Lady Amelia Cavendish, Vespasia knew from the look on Victor Narraway’s lean, dark features that this was a duty he had steadied himself to face. His pleasure did not lie here any more than hers did.
They had discussed the visit only a little on the journey. It was to be a small gathering: old acquaintances spending Christmas together in the most charming surroundings. On the surface that was all it was. But beneath that, Victor would quietly, unnoticeable to anyone else, conduct some secret business. Vespasia knew no details, and she knew not to ask. Until a short while ago he had been head of Special Branch, the department under the aegis of the Home Office that dealt with anarchists, saboteurs, and all purveyors of secret terror. Enemies were hidden, and success depended upon subterfuge, lies, and misdirection. To Special Branch, success was when no disaster happened; indeed, when no one knew that there had ever been a threat.
* * *
The carriage came to a stop outside the magnificent façade of Cavendish Hall. A waiting footman opened the door and assisted Vespasia to alight, welcoming her by name. She thanked him and heard Victor’s footsteps on the gravel as he came round from the other side, quietly thanking the coachman as he did so.
The high, oak-paneled front door opened and Max Cavendish stood on the step, his handsome face wreathed in a smile. It was some time since Vespasia had seen him, but he had changed little. Rather more gray in his hair, perhaps, but otherwise the same. He inclined his head, not quite a bow. He would do that only for the queen.
“Lady Vespasia, what a pleasure to see you. It has been far too long.” It was a polite remark without much meaning. Neither of them had been absent from society—they simply had few interests in common. She had even fewer with his wife, Lady Amelia, except social rank and all the acquaintance and experience that that implied. Lady Amelia, like Vespasia, was the daughter of an earl; the title was her own, not her husband’s, a fact that she never allowed him to forget.
Vespasia smiled with devastating charm. She must play this as if she had nothing but pleasure in mind. “I am sure this Christmas will make up for every year we have missed.”
Cavendish began to say something else, then changed his mind. She was not one to be flattered, as he had learned years ago. In her youth she had been considered one of the most beautiful women in Europe, not just for her elegance of appearance but, far more than that, for her wit, her grace, and her bright courage to follow all her most passionate beliefs. As a young woman she had fought at the barricades in the revolutions that had set Europe afire with hope in 1848, now more than half a century ago! The darkness had closed over those hopes, but that passion had never left her. It was just that now, in her later years, it was a trifle more discreet.
“Delighted you could come, Lord Narraway.” Cavendish shook Victor’s hand. “I hope you had a pleasant journey?” He glanced at the sky. “Weather’s holding off, but I don’t think it will last. Still…everyone’s safely here. Do come in.” It was not necessary to add that the servants would follow with their luggage. As the new century began, many things were changing in England—and everywhere else—but some courtesies remained.
They went inside to the huge oak-paneled hall with its marble-paved floor and sweeping curved staircases on either side, the polished banisters ending in high, elaborately carved newel posts. It was decorated with paintings of Cavendish ancestors of note for one thing or another. Frequently it was for nothing more than having the money to afford a fine artist, but no one would be tactless enough to say so. They dated from the time of Charles I right up to the present.
“Trilby will show you to your room,” Cavendish went on. “Tea will be served in the blue drawing room at half past four. But of course, if you prefer, you can have it brought to your room.”
“Not at all,” Narraway said immediately, for both of them. “We will join everyone else.”
Such an answer, made without reference to her, confirmed Vespasia’s feeling that there was much about this Christmas invitation that Victor had not told her. Twice she had drawn in breath to ask him, then could not find words that did not sound critical or demanding. She may not know his exact motive but she did trust him.
Cavendish Hall had at least fifteen bedrooms spread throughout the three main wings. Vespasia and Narraway were shown to one of the nicest, off the main landing and to the back of the house: quiet and overlooking the rose garden and the small lily pond with its central fountain. Vespasia could imagine the sound of it in the summer, with a light breeze and sunlight sparkling on the water. Now the garden was tidied and bare, preparing for a sleep under the snow that was forecast before the new year. But they would be home again by then.
Their luggage followed them immediately, but of course the maid would unpack both their cases and put everything where it belonged.
“Are you coming down for tea?” Narraway asked, looking at Vespasia with some concern. It had been only a two-hour journey from London to this rural spot in the middle of Kent, but not one she was used to. “Or we can…”
“Yes, of course I am,” she said with a smile. “I will probably find I know several of the other guests.”
A shadow crossed his face. To most people he was unreadable, as he intended. He had many skills in life, starting in the British Army in India, and then going to Cambridge and into law. He had crowned his career at Special Branch, climbing its ladder right to the top. He played by his own rules and had made both friends and enemies. He knew too much about almost everyone in government and society, and about many outsiders, too. Nobody doubted either his intelligence or his ability, but some were dubious about the core of his loyalties. Everyone had things they would very much prefer to keep private. Therefore, a man with so much knowledge was to be feared.
There was more silver
in his dense black hair now, but otherwise he had changed little over the years since Vespasia had first met him. He was still lean, not a lot taller than she, but she was tall for a woman. His eyes were coal black, the darkest she had ever seen in an Englishman, and there was both wit and strength in his face.
“I’m sure you’ll find them interesting,” he said, referring to the guests. He was equivocating, and they both knew that.
Would she ask him why? No. It was not the right time.
“I will be ready in five minutes,” she told him.
She wondered again at his ulterior motive for accepting this invitation and, though she had managed a country house full of people for almost the whole of her life, she felt newly vulnerable. She cared so deeply to live up to Narraway’s standards, as well as to her own.
* * *
Vespasia was wearing dark gray with ivory lace and pearls when she entered the withdrawing room on Victor’s arm. She heard the slight gasp of admiration, but she had been accustomed to that for nearly half a century. Her hair was silver, her eyes silver gray, her profile perfect, defying age.
Lady Amelia Cavendish detached herself from the guests with whom she had been in conversation and came forward, a cool half smile frozen on her face. “My dear Vespasia! What a great pleasure. I’m so glad you were…able to come.” She emphasized the word able as if Vespasia were lately disabled. “We have all been looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Able, also willing,” Vespasia replied, hoping Amelia understood the implication that she might often have been able but not willing.
Victor let out his breath slowly. He, at least, understood it.
“Let me introduce you.” Amelia turned toward the other people in the huge blue drawing room, with its windows onto the garden and dark velvet curtains sweeping from ceiling to floor. First, she indicated a man of average height, made noticeable by his military stance and a certain confidence in his bearing. “Rafe Allenby,” she said. “And Mrs. Allenby…Rosalind.”
“How nice to see you again, Mr. Allenby, and to meet you, Mrs. Allenby,” Vespasia said with a smile she knew was charming, warm, and delivered with just the right degree of openness. “As Lady Amelia says, it has been far too long.” Actually, she had known Rafe for many years, not well, but they had met briefly in exciting countries such as Lebanon, Persia, and Egypt. Rosalind she had not previously met, but he had spoken of her with great respect.
A flicker of amusement crossed Allenby’s face. “How are you, Lady Vespasia? Indeed, it has. I have missed sharing your pleasure in so many things, and your stoicism in others. These days traveling lacks some of its old charm.”
Memories raced through Vespasia’s mind: minarets outlined against the stars, the sound of camel bells in the night, a few mouthfuls of brackish water shared, laughter, and aching muscles.
Allenby turned to Victor. “Lord Narraway. I know you by repute, of course.”
Narraway smiled. “And if you knew me better than that, you have more tact than to say so,” he said.
Allenby laughed. “Indeed!” The remark clearly pleased him. “Your reputation in Special Branch is—”
“Better forgotten,” Narraway replied.
“I am sure you are right,” Amelia said with a small gesture of distaste and a quick glance in Vespasia’s direction. “The very words Special Branch sound like a pretentious name for something…” She searched for the right word. Clearly, she wanted one that was disparaging but could not find one sufficiently so.
Vespasia was aching to reply, but she was uncertain how much of the truth she should tell. It would look defensive…and yet the words slipped out. “Socially, perhaps it does,” she said. “Not professionally.”
Lady Amelia’s eyebrows rose. “Special Branch of what, for heaven’s sake? Or is it tactless to ask?” Now there was definite distaste in her expression, as if the department might be something faintly vulgar.
Vespasia longed to tell her that needing to ask was merely ignorant, but this was going too far. “Not at all,” she said gently. “Many sides of government are…not known to the general public.”
The color rose in Amelia’s cheeks. The idea that she was “general public” was outrageous.
She lost her chance to reply, as there was a young woman approaching them. Allenby turned toward her, his attention immediately held. She was unusual to look at, dark-haired, dark-eyed, but beyond her dramatic coloring she had within her a remarkable air of peace, as if there was something of great importance to her of which she was absolutely certain.
“Iris, my dear,” Amelia said quickly. “Come and meet Lady Vespasia Narraway. Vespasia, this is Iris Watson-Watt and her husband.” She moved over to a young man with a very ordinary face, but well dressed and with a quiet, almost troubled air.
Vespasia felt instantly sorry for him, as if he had been left out of something.
“James Watson-Watt. How do you do, Lady Vespasia?” His voice was surprisingly deep and very pleasing. It changed his whole aspect.
As if she felt he needed some further explaining, Amelia added, “James is in art…somehow….” She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. She was becoming too thin, as was the fashion, but it gave her a certain elegance.
“Art restorer,” James explained. “I can’t paint, but I love to study other people’s work. Brushstrokes, use of color and light, and which features they have chosen to accentuate.”
Vespasia suddenly saw him in a different way. “What an interesting thing to do,” she exclaimed. “I imagine you have developed many and varying ways of seeing aspects of a painting. A face, for example? Or a hand?”
He smiled, and at that moment he was not ordinary at all. “Exactly! A placement of light can change everything! A shadow or a plane highlighted can alter the whole mood of a painting, and one’s perception of it. Take the bones around the eye, the angle of a cheek…” He stopped and a faint color came up his face. He had commandeered Vespasia’s attention and he felt Amelia’s disapproving gaze on him.
“How kind of you to have invited such interesting people,” Vespasia said, turning to Amelia, as if suddenly remembering she was still there.
Iris had an interesting face and Allenby’s eyes were fixed on her, full of an emotion Vespasia could not read. She noticed that Narraway, too, was looking at Iris, but it was James’s remarks that stayed in her mind.
They were introduced to the last couple. Dorian Brent was in his late forties, or perhaps older. At the present, he looked tired and a little anxious. Vespasia’s immediate thought was that he might have had a long journey to get here. He was standing next to his wife, who had a mass of thick, wavy, light auburn hair. It was extremely handsome, and only just beginning to lose the vibrancy of its color. Her eyes were light blue, almost aquamarine, and her face had a fragile look, perfectly proportioned and yet somehow brittle, an autumn tree with too many bronzed leaves on it. Her stature was unremarkable; coloring was everything.
“Georgiana Brent,” Amelia said, although she knew perfectly well that they were already acquainted, and had been for years. Her voice commanded Vespasia’s attention and the momentary spell was broken.
“How are you, Mrs. Brent?” Vespasia smiled at the woman, wishing to put her at ease. She seemed unnecessarily nervous.
“Very well, thank you, Lady Vespasia. And you?” Georgiana replied, giving a sudden smile. “I can’t think how long it is since we last met, though I remember the occasion.”
Vespasia was about to reply, but Amelia cut in. “Lady Vespasia has lately retired somewhat from society. We are fortunate she was able to come here for Christmas.”
Again, Vespasia was stung. Amelia had made it sound as if she was too old to enjoy such events—or even to participate. And the truth was that she had not wanted to come. It was solely Victor’s wish, and her arguments had not dissuaded him.
She and Narraway had known each other for many years and had shared deep involvement in some of the darkest and most dangerous cases solved by Special Branch. Vespasia had been drawn in because of her profound friendship with Thomas Pitt and his wife, to whom Vespasia was related by marriage. Narraway had been Pitt’s superior, and it was Pitt who had taken over the position of head of Special Branch when Narraway had been dramatically forced to resign. But the friendship between them had been tested by the limits of courage and could not be broken.
Vespasia had realized only reluctantly that her feelings for Narraway were more than trust and a shared passion for causes, with a willingness to risk everything in pursuing them. He was markedly younger than she, and she had considered herself beyond his imagination as far as anything deeper or more intimate than friendship was concerned. She was still tasting the happiness with amazement. She had never cared about age before: She had carried her years with grace and her beauty had changed but not dimmed. But since she’d married Narraway, occasionally she felt absurdly vulnerable. She must conquer it.
The silence had been too long. She forced herself to smile at Amelia. “Perhaps I was missing more than I realized,” she said graciously. “I must remedy that. It looks as if this will be a remarkable Christmas.”
The situation was rescued by Max Cavendish’s rejoining them. Possibly he knew his wife better than Vespasia supposed. “Narraway told me the other day that you spent last Christmas in Jerusalem,” he remarked to Vespasia. “And had quite an adventure. The train broke down and you were kidnapped for ransom. He didn’t tell me much more, but it sounds hair-raising.” He said it with a look on his face as if he envied them.
It made Vespasia remember how utterly boring society could be, how meaningless the petty rivalries were in the sum of things that mattered. “We must tell you more at a better time,” she answered with a warmth that radiated through her. “It made me see a lot of things in a totally different light. There are secrets, moments in life like that, but too few of them.”
