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“The only answer is that there was an estrangement,” Isobel answered. “Perhaps she will not wish to return to London, with us or alone.”

“Sleep on the thought, if you wish,” Vespasia said dryly. “But do not hold it longer than tomorrow morning.” She gave her a smile with as much warmth in it as she could find strength for. “We shall surmise it,” she added. “Just think of Lady Warburton's face. She will be fit to spit teeth.”

Isobel forced herself to smile back, recognizing kindness, if not practical help, and bade her good night.

espasia meant to consider the puzzling question further when she was alone, but the bed was warm and soft, and she sank almost immediately into a nearly dreamless sleep. When she awoke it was to find Mrs. Naylor herself standing at the foot of the bed with a tray of tea in her hand. She set it on the table and sat down. It was apparent that she had no intention of being dismissed until she was ready to leave. might be an earl's daughter, but Mrs. Naylor was on her own territory, and no one could mistake it.

“Thank you,” Vespasia said as calmly as she was able to.

“Drink it,” Mrs. Naylor responded. “I've had mine.” She poured it and passed the cup to Vespasia. “I have read my daughter's letter. I have no intention of telling either you or Mrs. Alvie what was in it, but I should like you to answer a few questions before I accompany you south to pay my respects at the grave.”

Vespasia's response would normally have been anger, but there was both a gravity and a pain in this woman that made anything so self-indulgent seem absurd.

“I will tell you what I can,” she said instead, sitting upright in the bed and sipping her tea. She should have felt at a disadvantage, dressed as she was in no more than her nightgown and with her hair around her shoulders, but Mrs. Naylor's candor made that irrelevant also.

“What was your real reason for coming here with Mrs. Alvie?” Mrs. Naylor asked.

Vespasia's ready answer died on her lips. This wild place where life and death hung on a pony's footstep, a few inches between the sure path and the cliff edge or the freezing, squelching bog, stripped one of the pretensions that meant so much in society.

“Then I will tell you,” Mrs. Naylor answered for her. “You were afraid she would not make it alone, her courage would fail her, and she would take the many excuses to turn back, if not the first, then the second. Why? What does it matter to you if she fails?”

Vespasia thought for only a moment, then she spoke with absolute certainty. “Omegus Jones spoke of a pilgrimage of expiation, in medieval times,” she said. “Then it was so dangerous that often the traveler did not return, but it was an act of supreme friendship for a companion to go with them. It seemed right to me to go, perhaps for my own reasons as well as hers.” Only as she said the words did she realize their truth. She had her own expiation to make, for Rome, for dreams she should not have allowed herself to entertain, journeys of the heart she should not have made.

“I see,” Mrs. Naylor said. “This Mr. Jones seems to be a remarkable man.”

“Yes,” Vespasia agreed too quickly, and too sincerely.

Mrs. Naylor smiled. “And that also, I think, has something to do with your reason!”

Vespasia found herself blushing, something she had not done in some time. She was accustomed to being in control—of herself, if not always of the situation.

“Those of us who have lived any of our passions have something to expiate,” Mrs. Naylor said gently. “And those who have nothing are the more to be pitied. My father used to say that if you have never made a mistake, then you have probably never made anything at all. Perhaps Mrs. Alvie will realize that in time also. I shall return with you tomorrow, when the ponies have had time to rest and to eat. I have my own journey to make. We shall follow the High Road south, to Tyndrum, and Crianlarich, to Loch Lomond, and from there to Glasgow where we can find a train to London. It will take several days. How many will depend upon the weather, but we should be