An Anne Perry Christmas_ Two Holiday Novels - Anne Perry [22]
“Ballachulish?” Isobel repeated uncertainly. “Where is that? How does one get there?”
“Oh, to Inverness, it'll be,” he replied. “And then down the loch to the Caledonian Canal, and mebbe Fort William. Or else across Rannoch Moor and through Glencoe. Ballachulish lies at the end of it, so I'm told.”
“How far is it?” Isobel obviously had no idea at all.
“Lassie, it's the other side o’ Scotland! On the west coast, it is.”
Isobel took a deep breath. “When will Mrs. Naylor be back?”
“That's it, you see,” he said, shaking his head. “She won't, least not so far as we know. It might be next spring, or then again it might not.”
Isobel was horrified. “But that's… that's the other side of winter!”
“Aye, so it is. You're welcome to stay the night, while you think on it,” he offered. “There's plenty of room. There's been barely a soul in the house since poor Mr. Kilmuir met his accident. It'll be good to have someone to cook for, and the sound of voices not our own.”
“Has Mrs. Naylor been gone so long?” Vespasia put in with surprise. “I thought that was well over a year ago.”
“Year and a half,” he replied. “Early summer, it was, of ’51. Now, if I can get you some luncheon, perhaps? You'll not have eaten, I'll be bound.”
“Thank you,” Vespasia accepted before Isobel could demur. They needed sustenance, and even more they needed the time it would take in order to make a decision in the face of this devastating news.
“What on earth are we going to do?” Isobel asked as soon as they were alone in the main hall again where the fire was warmer. “Will they listen if I explain to them that Mrs. Naylor wasn't here, and wherever she is, is at the other side of Scotland, and there's no way to get there?”
“No,” Vespasia said frankly. “For a start, if she is there, then there must be a way for us to get there, also.” But as she said it she felt panic well up inside her. She had spoken on impulse when she promised to come as far as Inverness with Isobel. Part of it was sympathy, part a profound and increasing dislike for Lady Warburton and a desire to see her thwarted, and a good deal more than she had realized before, a desire for Omegus's respect, even admiration. Now it was beginning to look like a far greater task than she had bargained for. But pride would not let her falter now, and honesty would not allow her to let Isobel believe that what they had done so far would satisfy their oath.
Isobel stared into the fire, her face set, jaw tight. “This is ridiculous! Why on earth did this wretched woman go across to the other side of the country? How did Gwendolen suppose anyone was going to get a letter to her? Nobody thought about that when they sent us on a wild-goose chase all the way up here!”
It was an implied criticism of Omegus, and Vespasia found it stung.
“Nobody sent us here,” she replied. “It was an opportunity offered so you could redeem yourself from a stupid and cruel remark which ended in tragedy. Omegus did not cause any part of that.”
Isobel swung around in her chair. “If Gwendolen had any courage at all, she would simply have answered me back! Not gone off and thrown herself into the lake! Or if she wanted to make a grand gesture, then she could at least have done it in the day-time, when someone would have seen her and pulled her out!”
“Sodden wet, her clothes clinging to her, her hair like rats’ tails, covered in mud and weed? To do what, for heaven's sake?” Vespasia asked. “It may be romantic to fling yourself into the lake. It is merely ridiculous to be dragged out of it!” But as she stood up and walked away from Isobel toward the window looking over the long slope toward the sea, other thoughts stirred in her mind, memories of Gwendolen happy and with ever-growing confidence. Deliberately she then pictured the moment Isobel had spoken, the freezing seconds before anything had changed, and then Gwendolen's face stricken with horror. She did not understand it. It was out of proportion