An Anne Perry Christmas_ Two Holiday Novels - Anne Perry [27]
Vespasia knew exactly what she meant. The thought of Lady Warburton being charming because she had no choice had warmed her frozen body and put new vigor in her step more than once.
She smiled. “What was he like, Kilmuir?”
Isobel turned away, a shadow falling between her and Vespasia again, as clearly as if it had been visible. “I don't know.”
“Yes, you do,” Vespasia insisted. “You knew Gwendolen far longer, and far better, than you have allowed me to suppose.”
Isobel stared at her, her dark eyes wide and challenging. “If I did, why is that your concern? I am going to do my penance. Is that not enough for you? You, of all people, can see what a bitter thing it is!” She took a sudden sharp breath. “Is that actually why you are here, to make sure I do it all? Is that why Omegus Jones sent you?”
Vespasia was taken aback. The accusation was so unjust it caught her completely by surprise. “I came because I thought the journey could be long and hard, possibly even dangerous, and the ending of it the most difficult of all, and that you might surely need a friend,” she answered. “Had I been making it, I should not have wished to do it alone. And Omegus did not send me.”
Shame filled Isobel's face. “I'm sorry,” she said huskily. “I have not ever been that sort of a friend to anyone. I find it hard to believe you could do it for me. Why should you? I… I don't think I would do it for you.” She looked away. “Not that you would ever need it, of course.”
Vespasia was tempted to answer her with truth, even to tell her some of the weight she carried within her, which was not only loneliness but, if she were honest, guilt as well, and fear. She had buried her memories of Rome, of passion, of the inner joy of not being alone in her dreams. Deliberately she had forced herself not to think of talking with someone who understood her words even before she said them, who filled one hunger even as he awoke others. She had refused to look at remembrance of the exhilaration of fighting with all her time and strength for a cause she believed in. She had returned to duty, to a round of social chitchat about a hundred things that did not matter and never had. She was now sitting with Isobel, whom she knew so little of, and who knew her even less. They were sharing the outward hardships of a journey, with an uncrossable gulf between them on the inner purpose of it. She had no crusade anymore. She had no battle to fight except against boredom, and there was no victory at the end of it, only another day to fill with pastimes that nourished nothing inside her.
“You have no idea whether I would or not,” she said quietly. “You know nothing about me, except what you see on the outside, and that is mostly whatever I wish you to see, as it is with all of us.”
Isobel looked startled. It had never occurred to her that Vespasia was anything more than the perfect beauty she seemed.
The fire was burning low. The wind battered the rain against the glass and whined in the eaves. Unless it eased, the boat journey down the loch to Ballachulish was going to be rough and unpleasant, but at this time of the year it would be days if not weeks before there was another fine, still day. Waiting for it was not a choice.
Isobel seemed lost in thought, overcome by new, previously unimagined ideas.
“Why did you say what you did to Gwendolen?” Vespasia asked. “You half implied that her choice somehow lay between servants and gentlemen, and she chose gentlemen for reasons of money and ambition.”
Isobel blushed. It was visible even in the dying firelight. It was several moments before she answered, and she did not look at Vespasia even then. “I know it was cruel,” she said softly. “I suppose that's why I'm really making this ridiculous journey. Otherwise, when we got to Inverness and found Mrs. Naylor wasn't home, I might have posted the letter and said