by Anne Perry
“I’m sure you would never be unkind!” Vespasia said before she could stop herself. “It is so revealing of unhappiness, a sense of failure.”
Rosalind drew her breath in sharply.
Georgiana choked, but it sounded extraordinarily like laughter.
To Vespasia’s surprise, it was Amelia who rescued the situation, or at least she who filled the silence.
“I invited Vespasia, naturally including her husband.” She looked at Cavendish witheringly. “I compose the guest list for such occasions, and Christmas is rather special, don’t you agree? A time for healing old wounds, settling old debts?” She looked round the table at each of them in turn, not saying whether she meant paying or collecting! “And Cavendish Hall is such a perfect place for doing it. There is plenty of room to be both independent and yet together.” Her face wore a look of deep pride, as if she had slipped back a hundred years and her side of the family still ruled half the county.
“The house is perfect.” Vespasia dropped into the momentary silence. “And I have never seen lovelier gardens. Even at this time of the year, it is a pleasure to walk in them.”
“I would not walk in them alone.” Cavendish suddenly rejoined the conversation. “There appears to be someone among us with a strong predisposition to violence, especially against women.”
Vespasia turned to look at him. His face wore an expression of concern, warning, and yet she also saw a threat. His clenched hand rested on the white embroidery of the tablecloth. Was her imagination running away with her? That was no use at all. One of these people had tried to kill Iris, and could yet succeed. Why?
She smiled at Cavendish. “So, you don’t think that Iris was attacked for a personal reason, or because she’s young and beautiful and perhaps indiscreet?”
He was startled.
“Well, unfortunately I am no longer any of these things.” She went on, as if it concerned her. “And I have no idea who’s guilty, so I would not be attacked to keep me silent.”
“Have you not?” he asked. “I had heard you meddled considerably in the cases of Sir Thomas Pitt, when he was a policeman, before he was…elevated…to the peerage. A gamekeeper’s son. They are elevating all sorts of people these days.”
Vespasia was seething. The insult to Pitt, whom she admired profoundly and loved almost as a son, was a step too far. She looked Cavendish up and down with a cold, raking eye, and before Narraway could interrupt she said quietly, “Not quite all sorts.” She thought of adding: There are still a few beyond the pale, but decided against it.
Narraway was across the table from her and could only meet her eye, not touch her, but the fury within him was palpable.
The butler, who perhaps had heard the remark, or at least felt the prickling silence around the table, signaled the footmen and parlor maid to clear the table and serve the liqueurs.
Cavendish leaned toward Vespasia. “Not to keep you silent, perhaps, but simply for the pleasure of it,” he whispered.
“Did that apply to Iris, too?” she asked after a second’s delay. “Your pleasure? Or did she refuse you?”
“As you have observed, Lady Vespasia, you and Iris Watson-Watt have nothing in common,” he retorted. “There must be, among other things, half a century’s age between you.”
“Yes, quite,” she agreed without a flicker of hesitation. “I am older even than you, never mind than she. So, depending upon the cause of the attack, I am safe…or not.”
He turned away and made no answer.
Amelia, who could not have heard this latter exchange, made a sweeping statement about the Princess of Wales, and Georgiana replied. Conversation moved on.
Soon after, the gentlemen remained at the table for the port to be passed. The ladies excused themselves to the withdrawing room. By mutual agreement, they discussed fashion and other subjects that could usually be anything from harmless and graceful to downright vicious. Tonight, they were all content with the former.
When the gentlemen rejoined them three-quarters of an hour later, Narraway was not with them. Vespasia made no comment.
* * *
As soon as the port was passed, Narraway declined, claiming the wine was too heavy for him after such a splendid meal, and excused himself. There was no way he could leave discreetly: With only four of them, he would be missed, regardless of anything he said. By now, it was dark outside, except for the nearly full moon, when the ragged clouds parted. It was his one chance to hide the package where no one would find it. And he had to assume they would look.
He went straight to the garden room and changed into a pair of rubber boots from those that he knew were left there for the convenience of guests. He took one of the heavier coats off its peg and stepped outside. The air hit him like an icy slap across the face, the wind sharp behind it. He was tempted to step back inside, but he must put the package, which at the moment was in his inside jacket pocket, somewhere where it would not be found.
He walked along the gravel pathway around the corner of the wing, and then down beside the first big herbaceous border. The wind was in his face. He knew exactly where he was going, and he had a small torch in his pocket to define the precise spot when he arrived.
A winding river ran through the land. Part of it curved into the garden, and then out again. The part where it ran through the estate was a hundred yards long or so, and made a large pool before it hung over a steep weir, the current twisting, turning, eddying back on itself before continuing on, and eventually, below the weir, sweeping back across the fields again. There was a slender bridge over it, just above the actual fall, which was four or five feet high, a significant drop. The pool above it held lilies and was an excellent place for fish, were fishing permitted. Narraway had a place in mind that he had noticed the previous time he had walked in this direction. It was a hole in the crossbeams of the woodwork supporting the bridge, only visible from one angle, and deep enough to reach a whole arm into and hide something from sight.
He walked steadily, with his head down against the biting cold. Perhaps they were going to have a white Christmas after all. At this temperature, it would be sleet at first, but if it went on for any length of time, it would be snow. He increased speed a little, being careful not to leave the telltale evidence of footprints.
Dinner had been ghastly, and yet he was smiling when he thought of how swiftly Vespasia had come to his defense. It was instinctive, without thought, so different from the usual coolness she projected, the perfect composure. And so unlike her. It was the intensity of emotion that had made him realize that she had defended him because she thought he was vulnerable. So he was, but not to Cavendish’s rather silly slight about birth and preferment. He was vulnerable to the real failures. Alone in this bitter night, he was honest. He was vulnerable to loving too much to hide it, to guard against it, to the overwhelming pleasure it brought him and the fear of losing any part of it. He was vulnerable to not living up to what she thought of him, to the respect he would lose if she knew how he had failed in Normandy. Not only had it cost Edith her life, when she had trusted him to guard her, but he had never solved the mystery of her death. He had not even known what happened to the package she was to have handed over. It was the only thing in his career from which he had salvaged nothing!
The weather was beginning to spit, like needles of ice on his cheeks. At least it kept his attention on where he was going. He was nearly at the river. He could hear the roar of the water over the weir. After the earlier rain, the current was strong and deep.
It took him several minutes to find the place and poke the heavily wrapped package inside the hole. Please heaven the river did not rise another foot in the next couple of days!
He turned and walked back quickly. He was shaking with cold, but at least the wind was at his back now, and the smell of the damp earth was pleasant. The knowledge of its beauty was with him, e
ven though he could not see it at this moment.
* * *
Vespasia listened to the conversation in the withdrawing room and made all the necessary remarks to appear as if she was paying attention. She was, more or less, but not to the words, more to the intonations, the choice of phrases that sometimes gave away more than was intended. Above all, she watched faces and hands. It was surprising how many women did not know what to do with their hands. Georgiana had ugly, short fingers with large knuckles. She did not wear rings, other than her wedding ring, and she kept her hands concealed in the folds of her skirt. She was well aware that her hair was her best feature, although it was beginning to lose the vibrancy of its autumnal color. But she had courage. She was lukewarm about very little. She might be misguided at times; she was hardly ever indifferent.
“Tell me why you think so!” Vespasia said suddenly. “I mean, regarding labor law.”
Georgiana turned and looked at her with surprise. “Why? So you can tell me why you think I’m wrong?”
“Are you?” Vespasia asked. “What would I be able to point out so easily? Perhaps I am wrong? Listening to you, it occurs to me I have gained my opinions from others, and have not thought about it myself.”
Georgiana regarded her suspiciously, but must have decided to answer anyway. She gave a vivid argument, with examples, of her point of view.
Vespasia listened and was obliged to agree. It was not an unpleasant experience. It amused her how startled Georgiana was, as if she had bitten into what she had supposed to be a lemon and found that actually it was sweet.
“You never know, do you?” Rosalind observed. “People are not always what you think, at all. When you know them a little better…”
“That is the argument for very long engagements,” Amelia answered a trifle too quickly. “Not that it really helps. Would it help to know in advance?”
“Not at all, if you can’t get out of it,” Georgiana remarked. “Family and all that…”
Vespasia knew exactly what she meant. Her own first marriage had been more suitable to her parents than to her. But she had fared better than many.
Amelia was looking at her steadily. “I imagine if one can survive long enough, a second chance might be made with more freedom, even if not any more sense! I believe Lord Narraway is considerably younger than you are?”
“If you need to ask that, then I am doing very well,” Vespasia replied, torn between laughing and biting back really hard. She chose the former, conscious once more of the pain in Amelia, rather than the spite. She thought of the old saying, “Too unhappy to be kind,” and how apposite it was.
Rosalind looked up. “I thought you were going to say that the field of choice becomes rather sparse! Actually, sparser than when you were twenty.”
“Everything is sparser than when I was twenty, my dear,” Vespasia told her. “But some things are also better. And added to that, one learns what is really of value.”
“Indeed,” Rosalind said softly. “And it is not always what we expected.”
Vespasia did not answer that. Her thoughts sharpened and clarified in her mind. She must face this issue soon, very soon, whatever the truth of it, or even more painful, perhaps, the reasons behind it.
Conversation became general again, and after twenty minutes, the three men joined them.
“I’m sorry,” Cavendish said to Vespasia. “Narraway took himself off without saying anything, so I have no idea where he went. Possibly to bed, although it’s absurdly early. He did not appear to be ill.”
Vespasia took a risk. “Perhaps he went to see if Iris is improving? She might be regaining consciousness, and then she can tell us what actually happened to her.”
“I thought we knew that,” Rosalind said softly. “What we don’t know is who did it. Or why.”
“Don’t we know why?” Vespasia asked.
“I don’t know why,” Georgiana complained. “Most of the thoughts that came to my mind are distinctly uncharitable. If you can suggest an answer that is…morally acceptable…I would be happy to hear it. Maybe we all would.”
“Hardly an affair,” Vespasia said, following the thought she had begun and could not now gracefully leave. “In the orangery, in the middle of the night, and more important, in the middle of winter!”
“But that’s where we found her!” Amelia protested. “You can’t escape that!”
“Alone,” Vespasia pointed out.
“Are you suggesting she tripped over her own feet and fell, knocking herself out? Please don’t expect anyone else to credit that.”
“No, of course not. Only that she was not necessarily there for a romantic assignation,” Vespasia said.
“If you don’t want to be absurd,” Cavendish interrupted impatiently, “then face the obvious. The assignation was with your husband! God knows what is the matter between a beautiful young woman and a man at least twice her age.”
“Yes, you’ve said that before,” she countered. “An affair is unlikely. So, what was it then? What did you have in mind?”
He had not expected that response. He hesitated.
“You had better answer her, Cavendish. It’s too late to argue secrecy now,” Dorian Brent told him wearily. “Of course she had an assignation. No one goes down to an orangery in the middle of the night unless it’s for a damn good reason. She met Narraway there, whoever she thought she was going to meet. He left, going outside, so he says. She came back and someone struck her so hard she may still die.” He looked up. “How is she? Has anyone checked on her recently?”
“We all have,” Rosalind answered. “At one time or another.”
“That doesn’t leave a lot of credible answers,” Brent said, resuming his argument. “It means either Cavendish or Allenby was who she expected to see.”
“Or Narraway,” Amelia said quickly. “We only have his word for it that when he left the orangery, Iris was still okay. Why should we believe him? Or for that matter, you?”
Vespasia turned and looked at Cavendish, and in that moment saw the triumph in his eyes. This was what he wanted, perhaps what it was about: some revenge upon Narraway. But why? A chill touched her that perhaps Narraway knew he was being set up, and that was what hurt him so much.
Narraway came in from the hallway just as Vespasia rose to her feet. “Good night,” she said to the room in general, then walked toward Narraway, took his arm, and accompanied him back toward the door, and out into the hall. She could feel the cold air coming from him, as if his whole being, from the skin of his face through to the bone, were frozen.
They did not speak all the way up the grand staircase, past the high-carved newels at the top, and over the deep-carpeted landing to their bedroom door. As soon as the door was closed behind them, she faced him. “You are frozen. Do you want to have a hot bath before we speak and…get warm?”
He smiled bleakly. “It sounds as if your withdrawal after dinner was more than a little tense?”
“Indeed, it was. But I learned a thing or two.”
“From the women?” He looked surprised.
“Of course from the women.” She controlled her impatience so that it was almost inaudible in her voice. This was the time for wisdom, but not for even a shadow of impatience. There was neither time nor emotion to waste. She could see the distress in the lines of his face. Usually they imparted strength, but now they betrayed weariness and also a new vulnerability. Or at least one she had not recognized before. She decided in that instant to stop sparring, dancing around the subject, trying to introduce it tactfully.
She let out her breath slowly. “Victor, there is no time for this. I know you came here to take the package from Iris, and then after we have left, to pass it on to whoever is next in line, and eventually to someone it is intended for. You knew that before you came, and she must have known it also. It appears that someon
e else knew as well. Perhaps that was the intention, too. To repeat a version of an earlier scenario in order to punish you.”
“Vespasia! You can’t believe that—”
“I don’t,” she cut across him before he could finish the thought. “What I do believe is that something like this happened once before, in Normandy, a long time ago.”
“More than twenty years.”
“And somehow you failed, or felt that you did.” She took a breath and steadied herself. “And it involved Max Cavendish.”
“No, I didn’t even know him then.” He looked confused. “The girl in Iris’s place was also attacked, but she was killed,” he said softly. “I never knew who did it. I think it was a man named Philippe. I started making inquiries again recently…but I don’t know.”
“You may not have known Cavendish, but he is involved somehow,” she pointed out.
“What makes you think that? He had nothing to do with it at all!” Narraway replied.
“Somehow he did,” she insisted. “It’s in his face. It’s not as simple as envy of you for money or position or title. It’s personal. What happened, Victor?” she insisted. “I need to know. We need to be right, if we are to bring this to a just end. What happened? What was your part in it?” She tried to be gentle, to take some part of the pain to herself, but there was no way.
“There were several of us there, like this party. Everything on the surface was fine. A package to be passed over, discreetly, at an event that seemed trivial. Rich people enjoying themselves…” He stopped, his face filled with grief.
“Let it go, Victor,” she said very gently.
“I can’t. He killed Edith. If you’d known her, you would understand. She was like Iris: young and brave, full of dreams.”
“And you loved her?” she said very gently.
“I hardly knew her.” His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat to continue. “But she trusted me to keep her safe, and I failed…completely. I didn’t even catch him.”
