An Anne Perry Christmas_ Two Holiday Novels - Anne Perry [24]
“And Mrs. Naylor didn't go with her?”
His face stiffened and something within him closed. “No. She's no fondness for London, and too much to do up here. And if you'll be excusing me, my lady, I have to take these in for Cook to prepare dinner, since you and your friend will be staying. We'd like to treat you to our best, seeing as you're friends of Mrs. Kilmuir's. Walk in the garden all you will, and welcome.”
She thanked him and continued on, but her mind was lost in picturing the death of Kilmuir, Mrs. Naylor's reaction, and her attempts to comfort a shattered daughter who had accidentally witnessed it all. She felt a consuming guilt that now they had to find Mrs. Naylor and tell her even worse news. The question of returning to London and simply leaving Gwendolen's letter to be found when she returned, whenever that was, had been irrevocably answered. It was unthinkable.
She told Isobel so when they were alone after dinner.
Isobel turned from the window where she had been standing before the open curtains, staring at the darkness and the water beyond. “Go down the Caledonian Canal, and then overland to Balla… whatever it is,” she said in anguish. “How would we do that? Would anyone in their right mind at this time of year? Apart from sheepherders and brigands, that is!”
“Well, I shall try it,” Vespasia responded. “If you wish to go back to London, then I am sure they will take you to Inverness. I shall go on at least as far as I can, and attempt to deliver the letter to Mrs. Naylor and tell her as much as I know of what happened.”
Isobel's face was white, her eyes wide and angry. “That is moral blackmail!” she accused bitterly. “You know what they would say if I went back when you went on! It would be even worse for me than if I'd never come!”
“Yes, it probably would,” Vespasia agreed. “So you will blackmail me into going back and leaving that poor woman to discover that her daughter is dead—whenever she returns here, this year, or next!”
Isobel blinked.
“We appear to have reached an impasse,” Vespasia observed coolly. “Perhaps we should both do as we think right? I am going to Ballachulish, or as far toward it as I can. As you may have noticed, there is very little snow so far.”
Isobel bit her lip and turned away. “You always get what you want, don't you?” she said quietly. Her voice was trembling, but it was impossible to tell if it was from anger or fear. “You have money, beauty, and a title, and by heaven, do you know how to use them!” And without looking back she swept out of the room, and Vespasia heard her steps across the hall.
Vespasia stood alone. Surely what Isobel said was not true? Was she so spoiled, so protected from the reality of other people's lives? Certainly she had great beauty; she could hardly fail to be aware of that. If the looking glass had not told her, then the envy of women and the adoration of men would have. It was fun; of course it was. But what was it worth? In a few years it would fade, and those who valued her for that alone would leave her for the new beauty of the day—younger, fresher.
And, yes, she had money. She admitted she was unfamiliar with want for any material thing. And a title? That, too. It opened all manner of doors that would always be closed to others. Was she spoiled? Was she without any true imagination or compassion? Did she lack strength, because she had never been tested?
No, that was not true! Rome had tested her to the last ounce of her strength. Isobel would never know what she would have given to stay there with Mario, whatever their ideological differences, his republicanism and her monarchist loyalty, his revolutionary passion and fire and her belief in treasuring old and beautiful ways that had proved good down the centuries. Over it all towered his laughter, his warmth, his courage to live or die for his beliefs. How unlike the ordinary, pedestrian kindness of her husband, who gave her freedom but left her soul