by Anne Perry
“May I take that as a promise?” he asked.
“Of course.”
A uniformed maid offered to bring her tea, and Vespasia accepted. It was really very welcome.
* * *
Dinner was a less formal matter on the first night after everyone’s arrival. Nevertheless, they were expected to dress for it. The clothes in which one had traveled, whether by train or carriage, would not do for the somber elegance of the dining room.
With only a few days left before Christmas, the house was already decorated for the season. Vespasia congratulated Amelia on it, although she knew the servants had actually hung the series of golden and silver bells, the wreaths of ivy and holly with scarlet berries, the perfectly tied crimson ribbons and bows, the lanterns and mistletoe. They would have set and lit the molded red candles and seen that the glass dishes were filled with crystallized fruit, handmade chocolates, and candied citrus peel. There were even fresh roses from the hothouse and wonderful shaggy golden late chrysanthemums on the side tables; from Christmas Eve onward there would be bowls of punch and mulled wine.
The women seemed to favor red or green, traditional Christmas colors, for their evening dress, but Vespasia knew these hues did not suit her and chose instead a deep royal purple.
She expressed few opinions at the table. She listened and observed. A couple of times she caught the eye of James Watson-Watt, and with complete understanding knew that he, too, was watching the other guests, including his wife, but also looking at the light, the richness of colors. And his was not the only gaze that turned frequently toward Iris. Vespasia saw Allenby’s eyes on her more often than on either his wife or his hostess. So were Narraway’s, but he was far more subtle about it. Perhaps only Vespasia noticed.
James also watched Georgiana Brent, and what he saw, despite her remarkable hair, seemed to disturb him. His face was more indicative of his feeling than possibly he was aware. Vespasia was sure that he did not like Amelia. He barely noticed Rosalind Allenby, except as good manners required when she spoke to him. He evidently liked her but seemed not to find the light and shadows in her face interesting. He had a different way of regarding people, and Vespasia was drawn to it.
The meal was excellent, as she would have expected, but the celebrations were kept in store for Christmas itself. Max Cavendish spoke about the trees on the estate, when they had been planted and by which generation. It was a heritage of beauty from the past, giving to the future. He spoke of it with pride and gentleness. How many people round the table knew that it was only obliquely his, through marriage to Amelia, his second wife? Did anyone remember his first wife, Genevieve, who had died so tragically in childbirth? Vespasia had never asked about the child. It seemed too cruel a reminder of loss. It was forty years ago, at least. He seemed happy now with Amelia, a distant relative of his, a Cavendish by birth as well as marriage. Vespasia was happy for him that he cared for the heritage so much.
She smiled at him as she caught his eye. She was surprised how much it seemed to please him.
Rafe Allenby talked of the political situation in the Middle East. He spoke of the present, but his vivid descriptions again carried Vespasia back to the past and the occasional times their paths had crossed before. It had always been a pleasure. Had Rosalind Allenby any idea what a sensitive man her husband was, beneath the military exterior?
Their conversation moved on to various recent productions in the London theater, and then at the appropriate moment, the ladies withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to pass the port around the table and speak of heavier subjects, if they wanted. Max Cavendish did not indulge, but he always kept an excellent selection of cigars.
In the withdrawing room, the conversation was brittle. Traditionally, ladies did not speak of weighty matters, and that Vespasia was sorely tempted was not an excuse. Trivia bored her to distraction. Perhaps it did many women. And yet it could be useful. Sometimes you learned far more about another person from their unguarded chatter than you did from a serious and considered conversation.
Vespasia reminded herself of that as she took her part in the discussion of the latest news in society, moments both uncomfortable and shocking, and who wore what to which occasion. She occasionally made people laugh, especially Iris, and that pleased her. The younger woman was very much an outsider to the group. Good manners kept her from interrupting or asking to have references explained.
Finally, the gentlemen rejoined them, and within a short time, one after another, each couple excused themselves and retired.
* * *
Narraway went up the stairs slowly, a step behind Vespasia, with his hand lightly on her waist. They had been married well over two years, coming toward three, but it still gave him intense pleasure to be able to touch her in such a possessive way and have her lean toward him in response. He would much rather have stayed at home this Christmas and indulged in the small things that, in the end, were the most important: a poem shared, a picture in which they saw the same exquisite line, a joke that struck both of their humors. He needed no one else.
But this visit was duty, and he had learned long ago that no happiness was untarnished for long if you had shirked duty in order to take it. His mission was to take possession of a set of submarine blueprints, discreetly doctored, which were to be passed on through one of their usual networks in the hope that they would be taken as genuine. These blueprints were changed so minutely that not even the expert eye would see the fatal flaws until too late. And the unique amendments would lead Special Branch to the identity of a traitor in British Intelligence who had been passing secrets to Germany.
But the visit here woke in Narraway old memories that, though healing over, were still painful. It had been a job like this one: a handing over of secret information, damning letters that would severely embarrass the government. His role then had not been to handle the documents but to protect Edith, a young woman who worked with Special Branch and was entrusted with the transfer.
The occasion had been a summer house party in Normandy. Edith, with her extraordinary grace, her quick smile, was one of the guests. Narraway—unmarried, a little mysterious, quick-witted—was another. The only one who mattered to them was Marie-Laure, who would take the documents to the next stage. She seemed so conventional at first glance, until one noticed her eyes, then her humor, then how she always seemed to be in control of the situation.
Of course, twenty years ago, no one knew that Narraway was even in Special Branch, much less how high his position. He had wondered since then how Marie-Laure was. He had even tried to find out, unsuccessfully. Perhaps her position was higher than he assumed.
Had he given himself away somehow? A careless word, an admission of knowing something he should not? Over the years, he had gone over and over every conversation, and could think of nothing. He remembered each scene, the grace of the château, the ancient stones it was built of, so mellowed with the land that he could not imagine the valley without it. He could see it if he closed his eyes: the clarity and freshness of the light; the flights of stone steps up to the terrace; the urns planted with flowers blooming extravagantly, spilling over the edges. The bright scarlet of the geraniums made him feel as if every other geranium must be a refugee, a copy of that garden.
He remembered coming up the walk and turning the corner onto the terrace, seeing Edith’s body on the ground like a fallen flower, crushed. He remembered his disbelief, and icelike horror, when he saw her face. She did not look hurt or asleep; she had the emptiness of death.
He was numb with grief at first. Then an enormous sense of failure overtook him. Everyone was appalled, or affected to be; all the houseguests, those who were part of the plan one way or another, and those who were just there to make the party a genuine social event. They all seemed struck with grief—of course they did—whether they felt it or not. He could remember every nuance of it. The sober servants, even less
obtrusive than usual, keeping their shock private. The sunlight shining on the old walls; the soft air blowing off the fields, smelling of grass and flowers. He could remember feeling almost motionless on the outside, the lazy summer wrapped around him; and yet inside he was furious, grieving, guilty, and all the time failing to find the answer. Or any justice.
He had finally left, as they all had, not knowing who had killed Edith. Of course, unlike all the others, except two, he knew why she’d been killed. Marie-Laure knew, of course, but Narraway only guessed the other: Philippe! On and off over the years Narraway had thought he had a glimpse of proof at last, but it never materialized. His failure, his guilt were still there.
Of course, he had made inquiries through old friends, very discreetly, but he was certain there was more yet to find. There had to be something that would give him another clue.
So it was necessary he do this one last favor for his contact in the Home Office and take this packet of papers Iris Watson-Watt was carrying and pass it on to his German contact. They would not believe it coming from her, and it was vital that the German authorities were taken in by the misinformation they were to be given. Narraway’s reputation, the disgrace in which he had left Special Branch, albeit totally false—and he had been exonerated—would still make the supposed treason he would appear to be carrying out believable. They must not suspect otherwise.
But he had not told Vespasia any details. He admitted to himself that this was, to some extent, so as not to spoil Christmas for her, but also maybe in even greater part because he still felt shamed by his original failure.
And how could he tell her without involving her, and thus endangering her?
They reached the top of the stairs and crossed the landing to their bedroom. At any other time, he would have appreciated its luxury, and its pride of place in the guest wing. That was a tribute to Vespasia, not to him. While she was born to aristocracy, he had only recently been elevated to the peerage because of his service to Her Majesty’s Government. As head of Special Branch, he knew too much about too many people to be liked. He was a private man; at the deepest level, a lonely one. Of course he had had affairs, but none that was lifelong or gave him deep pleasure when he thought of them. Vespasia was the only woman he had truly loved and considered his equal in both intellect and courage. But it was her wit and her compassion that touched him most deeply. In truth, he still found it hard to believe that she had agreed to marry him. She was like a crystal he barely dared touch in case he scarred some facet of it.
He wanted to give her his entire attention, but his mind was whirling with the possibilities of failure in this mission. Already he was plagued by images, faces, and the burning deep memory of that other house party, years ago in Normandy. Of course, it was not his only failure, but it was the most profound. You could not deal with murder and treason and expect to be unscarred by the betrayal of those you trusted and the death of those you had cared for who had lost their lives because of your decisions or your mistakes.
He thought he knew Edith’s killer was Philippe, another of the guests—casual, charming, funny, and cruel—but Narraway was not certain; and from the darkness of memory the others at that house party all still mocked him. Philippe was a mysterious man about whom the other guests apparently knew little, despite his seeming openness. But Narraway never knew, could never prove it. It could also have been Jean-Claude, whom Narraway himself had caught out in a lie, or even the elegant host, Armand, who knew everything about everybody. Was it injustice that galled Narraway so much? Or pride?
And now he was repeating the situation with Iris. He was watching another young woman bring secret information, this time about submarine design, growing more important by the day. As naval power was shifting, becoming greater in Germany while Britain appeared to pay little attention, whoever gained supremacy under the sea would have a decisive advantage.
And this particular exchange, possibly leading to the exposure of the traitor, was even more crucial. Iris had risked a great deal already, bringing the blueprints up from a naval station on the south coast to give to Narraway. He must not fail this time.
He closed the bedroom door and temporarily shut out the world. Except that the barrier was imaginary—it would all be waiting tomorrow, and a night was a short time. He had to think and plan. Passing things from one person to another was a part of his occupation. Doing it under the cover of a commonplace social event was also quite ordinary. But the enormity of this information, and the fact that no one must even slightly suspect that it was false, made it far from commonplace. Had he lost his edge in the years he had been more or less absent? His insight, his cunning was what had made him top in his field. In a sense, his very aloneness had been an advantage, despite his discomfort. Had ease of heart made him careless?
He looked at Vespasia, unpinning her hair. As he stood watching, it fell in a silver sheet around her shoulders. He wanted to go across the room to her, touch her, feel the warmth of her skin, the ease of her response. It still thrilled him dangerously, with emotions he could barely control. It was far deeper than a mere physical hunger; it was a hunger for certainty of the heart, the ultimate safety.
But he could not concentrate. The sight of Iris had disturbed old memories, like a cave full of bats flying at him, ragged creatures with wings of splintered darkness. She looked so like Edith, whom he had been supposed to protect all those years ago.
Was any of the other guests here to protect Iris? Allenby? Or Dorian Brent? Or Cavendish himself, as he had invited Narraway here? Narraway had not been told, presumably for extra security. And if Narraway could tell in these couple of hours, then whoever it was was not much good at his job.
He should not let old ghosts throw off his balance so thoroughly, yet only a fool does not learn from experience. Instinct is the subconscious mind putting together the odd facts your conscious mind has not realized form a pattern. It had saved his life more than once.
He had taken off his suit and hung it in the wardrobe and was preparing for bed. Vespasia had gone into the bathroom. He had hardly said anything to her since they had left the withdrawing room. Some silences were utterly comfortable.
Vespasia returned and he took her place without a word. How could he explain any of this to her? Half explanations, leaving gaps over what could not be said, were worse than silence. He would have to get the blueprints from Iris sometime in the next two days. Before Christmas, anyway. Did he imagine the tension in the air? Was it really only his own mind, his own guilt? He was angry. He looked down at his hand, which was gripping his toothbrush as if it were a weapon, and saw that his knuckles were white.
He peered at his face in the glass. Of course he looked older than he had in Normandy, much grayer, but he had the same deep-set eyes, lean features, and brooding expression, as if he were wanting to act dangerously, even violently. His was not an easy face, not comfortable. Why on earth had Vespasia chosen him? Could she possibly know how very much he cared? No one else imagined him feeling tenderness toward anything, let alone vulnerability! They were afraid of him, of his insight, his ruthlessness, his single-mindedness. He had let them think that of him. It was his best weapon. Many guilty men had secretly fallen apart because he looked at them a moment too long.
He dried his hands and put on his pajamas. When he went back into the bedroom, only the night-light was on. He did not disturb Vespasia, although he profoundly wanted to. He hesitated in his step. His mind was too full of anxiety, fear, and, yes, anger at old tragedies for him to have been gentle. That was a side of him he did not want her to know. Not ever.
He tried to clear his mind and fall asleep. It had been a long day, even though they had not traveled far. Vespasia had always found society easy. She was born to it, and her natural strengths were second nature. He was not born to it. Good manners, unforced and intelligent conversation were simple enough, but his background in the l
aw and the army did not include women, except peripherally. His skills were learned and did not sit so easily.
He fell asleep at last, and dreamed of Normandy again, of quiet, graceful Edith with the beautiful hands, and of her body lying motionless on the stones.
He woke several times and went back to an uneasy sleep, with variations of the same dream. The path was sometimes different, but the end was always the same: confusion and an overwhelming sense of loss. Then anger.
If he had been alone, he would have gotten up and paced to ease his restlessness. But he would disturb Vespasia, which would be selfish. Or more honestly, she would require an explanation, which he could not give.
* * *
He finally slept and woke only when Vespasia touched him gently and told him it was time for breakfast. She was already dressed in the soft shades of gray that suited her so well, with white pearls and white lace at her throat.
He found himself smiling, shadows momentarily forgotten.
Everyone else was at the breakfast table already when they arrived. Graceful silver teapots and hot-water jugs rested on their own stands. The food was on the sideboard for people to help themselves to: deviled kidneys, pork and apple sausages, bacon, poached and boiled eggs, fried potatoes, mushrooms. There were racks of fresh, crisp toast on the table, along with butter and several types of marmalade. The dark, bitter Seville was always Narraway’s favorite.
Greetings were made automatically. Narraway waited until Vespasia was seated next to Rafe Allenby and then took the last empty place next to Georgiana Brent, who was not the companion he would have chosen.
Conversation was trivial. There was no news, either social or political, because there had been no newspapers delivered. It was one of the most profound of the many attractions of the place: so near London, and yet so far from its turmoil, either physical or intellectual.
