by Anne Perry
They discussed travels of the past, and Narraway was content to listen and observe. People were often unaware how much their expressions gave away. Dorian Brent was very interesting about his trips to Africa. His face became animated, and he probably did not realize how often he used his hands to emphasize what he was saying.
Narraway saw how Georgiana watched him, but her eyes darted left and right, observing the other women at the table, particularly Vespasia and Iris. They were both beautiful, each in her own way. Iris was young and had the flawless skin, soft hair, and perfect line of neck and throat that go with youth.
She also had a grace and emotional intensity that marked her apart from the others. Or did Narraway imagine that because he knew why she was here, the risks she had taken and would still take to pass on this essential, dangerous information?
Vespasia was a classic beauty, and yet so much more than a perfect balance of feature and exquisite coloring. Age had diminished nothing in her wit, and intelligence had drawn the lines on her face kindly. Self-mastery and a degree of defiance had kept her back ramrod straight and her chin high.
Allenby was talking to Iris’s husband, James. Iris was listening, and both Max Cavendish and Dorian Brent were watching her. Were they aware of how intently?
Georgiana was. Narraway could feel her tension, as if she were touching him. Her body was stiff. She held her fork so tightly it looked like a weapon, though the food on her plate had been untouched for minutes. Neither had she spoken, although he was aware that several times she had drawn in her breath as if to say something, then let it out again. Was she jealous of the younger woman, and of Brent’s very obvious fascination with her? Was Brent the one who was supposed to be guarding Iris, as Narraway himself had failed to guard Edith?
* * *
Vespasia made polite conversation. Everyone was courteous, but no one really listened. She ate a lightly boiled egg and several slices of toast and marmalade. They discussed the weather and if it would turn colder. Would it be a white Christmas?
She wondered what had brought these disparate people together for this religious holiday, where the real meaning was honored as much in the breach as the observance. It would never be that way for her again, not after last Christmas in Jerusalem.
What were the Watson-Watts doing here? They were by far the youngest guests, by two decades at least. He was an artist and not a wealthy man. The small signs were clear to those who knew them: ordinary shirts, good-quality shoes but not new; an appreciative eye for other people’s clothes, jewelry, a cigarette case, a silk cravat. But she thought it was for the quality, not the price.
Was he here because of Iris’s position in society? If she held some level of status, he would not be the only man to attend high society events because of his wife. Indeed, Max Cavendish had done a lot of that earlier in his career. Vespasia knew that, although others might not. She pondered whether Lady Amelia had reminded him of it, perhaps more than once.
What had she expected? Looking across the table at Amelia’s careful face and exquisitely coiffed hair, even at this hour of the morning, Vespasia wondered. She herself had merely piled hers up, but then hers was thick and heavy with natural waves. And she had always been beautiful. She knew all the arts, but seldom needed them. Perhaps she had taken too much for granted. That was a chill thought. She looked at Narraway, but as if following her earlier thought, his eyes were unmistakably on Iris. Was it by design that she wore that particularly rich shade that one associated with the stately flower after which she was named?
As one grew older, one remembered only the energy, the optimistic side of being young. Time removed many of the agonies of uncertainty, self-doubt, loneliness, and the confusion that can hurt so much. Maybe it was just as well. Age brought its own difficult pains.
Georgiana Brent looked tense this morning, though maybe slightly better. Her bright hair was less jarring against the pale pink of her woolen dress. It was a fortunate choice. Vespasia would compliment her on it at an appropriate time.
Amelia offered to show Iris some painting or other, and Iris accepted. She had little gracious choice, and it would be at least as interesting as any conversation was likely to be.
Others left for duties or pleasures. Narraway excused himself, saying there were several books in the library he would like to look at. He smiled at Vespasia as he walked out of the room, but although he met her eyes, there was no communication in his glance. She felt almost dismissed, though she knew that was foolish. Victor was here for some purpose. He knew she understood that.
“I shall take a walk in the gardens.” She rose from her chair gracefully. “Even the little I have seen of them is inviting. And I doubt the weather will remain so pleasant for long.”
“Shall we have a white Christmas, do you suppose?” Rosalind said curiously.
“Hoarfrost, perhaps,” Max replied. “That can actually be more delicate than snow, and I think more interesting. I’m sure you know what I mean, Lady Vespasia.”
“I do, and I should look forward to seeing it, too,” said Vespasia.
Amelia’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “Are you interested in hoarfrost, Lady Vespasia?” She sounded incredulous, as if it were some exotic and rather coarse taste.
“Yes,” Vespasia said immediately. “I find it more sophisticated than mere snow!”
“How on earth did you know that, my dear?” Amelia said to Max. “Or is it inappropriate to ask? I keep forgetting you knew Vespasia before I did.” She looked across at Vespasia. “You have me by at least ten years.”
Iris drew in her breath sharply, plainly seeing the intended cruelty in the remark.
Vespasia hesitated only a moment. “I have you by several things, my dear,” she replied, “but it would be unkind to mention them. And unkindness is so unattractive, don’t you agree? So revealing of vulnerability…”
Iris choked but covered it quickly, her eyes wide.
Max groaned, just audibly.
“Yes,” Amelia said after a long moment. “And it is so very aging. But I am sure you have discovered that.”
Vespasia was prepared. She let her eyes travel very slowly up and down Amelia’s face and outfit. “Oh, yes,” she agreed with a smile. Words were unnecessary. She flicked her skirt away from the chair and walked out of the room, head high, as if she were a queen, and she did not look back.
She heard a scuffle behind her and a patter of feet almost running. She was aware of Iris catching up with her down the long hallway.
“That was exquisite,” Iris said with delight and respect. “I am going to enjoy myself after all.”
Vespasia was amused and felt a quick rush of sympathy. “You have not been expecting to?” she asked with a smile.
Iris smiled back. “Not a great deal,” she admitted. She began to add something, then it seemed discretion overcame her.
“Quite,” Vespasia said dryly. “I am not sure either….”
“But you are…” Iris began.
“The same age as the rest of the company?” Vespasia raised her eyebrows. “No, I’m not. Amelia was right. I’m afraid I am rather older. And none of them would appreciate your suggestion that it is otherwise, even though from your point of view it may seem so.”
Iris looked momentarily embarrassed. Vespasia was instantly sorry. “It comes down to what you remember,” she began to explain. “Things that are history to you are memories to me. And I am afraid even Lady Amelia has far fewer memories than I have.”
Iris’s face lit with keen amusement, very near laughter. “However long she lives, I think that will always be true!”
Their glances met and they were both wise enough to say no more, at least on that subject. They walked on into the long gallery and spoke of other things: art, philosophy, current affairs in other countries, even science.
A little lat
er, Vespasia went to her bedroom to write letters to people she customarily contacted this time of year, and then brought the letters down to put on the silver tray in the hall, ready for posting. She had not seen Victor since breakfast, but she restrained herself from looking for him. He had come here for some specific reason to do with his previous profession and she would neither inquire nor intrude. All his life he had taken a keen interest in politics and secrets, both domestic and international. His knowledge was probably greater than that of any other man in England, and his skill beyond measuring. He could not give politics up easily, and certainly not if his help was needed and asked for.
She had done her own fair share of discovering and passing on secrets, even of solving crimes. Of course, only as a most gifted amateur, with access to areas of society all over Europe that few others possessed. But she still felt an echo of loneliness, even exclusion, that he had not allowed her to share in this.
Was that what Rosalind felt? Had Vespasia’s stories of travels with Rafe made her feel somehow excluded? As far as Vespasia knew, Rosalind had never gone with him. Out of need, or a preference, to be with her children? A dislike of travel? Or perhaps she had not ever felt he wanted her to be with him. Did she think, or even know, he had secrets of some sort?
Now Vespasia wondered what else she had not been as big a part of as she had supposed. She was aware of Victor’s concentration on whatever this current matter was, and also that he was angry deep within himself about something to do with it. Some of his emotions were far more deeply cut off from her than usual. This was a pain he was not prepared to share with her, even to acknowledge. It was the first time since their marriage that she had been aware of it.
She would take a walk in the fresh air, as she had thought to do earlier, and think of other people rather than of herself. Amelia’s remarks about age came to mind, but she told herself it was ridiculous to let them reach her. Amelia was unhappy, or she would not be so spiteful. Vespasia had assumed that Max was a very private man, kinder to Amelia when they were alone than when he was in front of others. But perhaps she was wrong. Was his apparent strength of character merely the bullying of a weak man rather than the protectiveness of one who cared? If so, Amelia could certainly use a friend. The woman’s face reflected constant anxiety.
And what of the Brents? Was it Dorian’s obsession, albeit discreet, with Iris that piqued Georgiana’s jealousy? Or nothing to do with that at all? Maybe she was preoccupied with a family pressure or illness, or an illness of her own. One habitually talked politely, observed people’s manner and dress, and knew so little.
Vespasia’s mind returned to Rosalind Allenby. She seemed almost…complacent. Was she oblivious of others? Had she not seen the gentleness in her husband’s face as he looked at Iris? Was she used to it? Or did she not care? She would not be the only woman relieved if her husband’s desires were elsewhere! Vespasia knew that painfully well, and yet if it was true, she could barely think of the wound. To imagine Victor was unhappy to touch her but was ever wishing to touch another woman was like a needle to the bone. Was Rafe Allenby’s face reflecting anything more than admiration of lost youth, memories of dreams and imaginings long passed?
She went upstairs to collect her cloak and then back downstairs and outside through the garden door next to the room where the flowers were arranged for the various vases throughout the house. It was not cold. She walked along the gravel path and then turned into the shrubbery. Farther from the house, there was little wind; the huge cedars a hundred feet away protected that part of the garden from most of it. They stretched up and out in wide asymmetrical elegance. They had always been among her favorites, cedars and beech trees in full leaf in summer or, equally grand, with naked limbs in winter.
It was a huge garden, more than twenty acres, and old. The trees towered into the air. There was little flowering except a few shaggy chrysanthemums and late crimson roses and the little winter hellebore. It was far too early for snowdrops.
She moved almost silently, just a faint rustle now and then when her feet disturbed fallen leaves. That was how, when she heard raised voices, she came upon the two men without their being aware of her. They were standing in a small clearing, perhaps forty feet across, with a rustic seat near the center. They were staring each other down at three or four paces, red-faced: young James Watson-Watt and the far older Dorian Brent. James was wearing a Harris tweed jacket, but Dorian had only the same woolen pullover he had worn at breakfast, as if he had followed James outside impulsively, rather than met him by chance. Neither of them was aware of Vespasia.
“Leave her alone!” James said angrily. “For God’s sake! You are twice her age.”
Dorian looked profoundly unhappy and awkward. “I came out here on my own. You’re behaving like a fool.”
“I wasn’t saying you went with her,” James returned. “You followed her! Don’t bother to deny that, because I saw you!”
“I might have come out after her,” Dorian argued. “I was not following her. I have no idea where she is. If you’re afraid for her, then go and look for her instead of making a fool of yourself with me.”
“You followed her….”
“If you must know, I followed Allenby!” Dorian snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, he’s been taking an unusual interest in her.”
“She’s beautiful…more than beautiful.” The color was rising even higher in James’s face. “She’s…got a…magic to her….”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, get a grip on yourself, man!” Dorian was exasperated. “She’s an unusually pretty woman, and she has intelligence, although she is failing to use it at the moment. I came out to make sure she was all right—”
“That’s my job!”
“Then do it!” Dorian shouted at him suddenly, and now a fierce emotion rose in him, too, overtaking him. He flung his arm out. “Go and find her!”
James took a couple of steps toward him. Dorian must have misunderstood his intention. He lunged forward, swinging his fists.
James ducked sideways and lost his balance, only just regaining it in time to save himself from falling. He now completely lost his temper, righted himself, and came back with a sharp left jab. He did not look like a fighter, but he had excellent reflexes. He struck Dorian hard on the jaw, and looked, momentarily, totally surprised.
Dorian struck back, landing a hard punch to the side of James’s face.
“Stop it!” Vespasia said loudly and very sharply.
Neither of the men had seen her, and they halted instantly, shaken with surprise more than anything else.
Vespasia walked very uprightly into the slight space between them. “You are behaving like overtired children. I would be surprised if she had the slightest interest in either of you at this moment.” She turned to James. “Go and ask Cook for some ice to put on your face. If you don’t reduce that swelling, you will have a hard time explaining yourself at dinner.” She dismissed him in a glance. “And you, Mr. Brent, should have grown out of such absurd antics long ago. No wonder your wife looks as if she’s bitten into a bad egg, poor woman. If this is how you usually conduct yourself, I’m surprised she consented to come with you. You can both excuse yourselves from searching for Mrs. Watson-Watt; I shall find her myself. Although she is probably back in the house having a hot cup of tea!”
“Lady Vespasia…” Dorian began, then looked at her face and changed his mind. “I am concerned for her….”
“Nonsense!” Vespasia replied. “You have been watching her ever since you arrived.”
“Lord Narraway—” he began, then bit the sentence off. “I assure you, I—”
“You have jam on your fingers!” she said sharply.
“What?”
“Like a child found in the pantry with jam on his face, and there’s only one tart left on the plate.”
“You mean…oh…yes…�
� Dorian blushed. “I was following her because I fear for her.”
It sounded perfectly ridiculous, but in spite of her better sense, Vespasia believed him. Most of what he said was absurd, and yet she was certain that some part of it was truth. She had yet to find out what it was, and she was reluctant to ask Narraway and force him to speak of whatever business he had here, if indeed it was even anything to do with that.
Vespasia was keen to prevent violence from breaking out again. She turned to James. “Go inside and straighten yourself up,” she told him. “You look as if you have been dragged through a hedge backward. I will see if I can find Iris.”
He hesitated. “If you do, would you…?”
“Mind not telling her about this?” she inquired, her eyebrows raised. “Of course I shall not tell her!”
“Thank you,” James said awkwardly.
“But if you make a habit of it, she will certainly find out one day,” Vespasia pointed out.
“I won’t,” he promised.
She smiled and walked past him under the trees again. At his age, she would not have known what jealousy was, or the anxiety of no longer being the center of someone else’s life. She had been married to a pleasant, honorable man who did not feel the hungers and fears of great passion. That brought its own kind of pain, but it stirred only rarely now.
She had a good sense of direction and knew she was making her way back toward the house. It was a very pleasant walk. The garden varied considerably in its landscaping. It even included a river and a good-sized decorative lake, with a graceful folly on the far side, white pillared, very classical, like something that had strayed from a Greek temple. Very fashionable not too long ago.
She came back toward the clipped hedges and more formal beds, soil freshly turned over, showing dark earth ready for spring planting. She had grown up in a country house with gardens like these.
