An Anne Perry Christmas_ Two Holiday Novels - Anne Perry [5]
Lady Warburton turned on Isobel. “Really, Mrs. Alvie, I know you imagine that you are amusing, at least at times, but that remark merely exposed your envy, and it is most unbecoming.” She swiveled to face Omegus Jones. “If you will excuse me, I shall make sure that poor Gwendolen is all right.” And with a crackle of skirts she swept out.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Vespasia decided to take control before the situation degenerated. She turned to Isobel. “I don't think this can be salvaged with any grace. We would do better to retreat and leave well enough alone. Come. It is late anyway.”
Isobel hesitated only a moment, glancing at the ring of startled and embarrassed faces, and realized she could only agree.
Outside in the hall Vespasia took her arm, forcing her to stop before she reached the bottom of the stairs. “What on earth has got hold of you?” she demanded. “You will have to apologize to Gwendolen tomorrow, and to everyone else. Being in love with Bertie does not excuse what you did, and you would be a great deal better off if you had not made yourself so obvious!”
Isobel glared at her, her face ashen but for the high spots of color in her cheeks, but she was too close to tears to answer. She was now perfectly aware of how foolish she had been, and that she had made not Gwendolen but herself look vulnerable. She shook her arm free and stormed up the stairs without looking backwards.
espasia did not sleep well. Certainly Isobel had behaved most unfortunately, but marriage, with love or without it, was a very serious business. For a woman it was the only honorable occupation, and battles for an eligible man of the charm and the financial means of someone like Bertie Rosythe were fought to the last ditch. She hurt for the pain Isobel must feel, a pain she had just made a great deal worse for herself. Vespasia could only imagine it. Her own marriage had been easily arranged. Her father was an earl, and she herself was startlingly beautiful. She could have been a duchess had she wished. She preferred a man of intelligence and an ambition to do something useful, and who loved her for herself and gave her a great deal of freedom. It was a good bargain. The kind of love for which she hungered was well lost and offered to very few—and belonged in dreams and hot Roman summers of manning the barricades against overwhelming odds. One loves utterly, and then yields to honor and duty and returns home to live with other realities, leaving the height and the ache of passion behind.
She rose in the morning and, with her maid's assistance of course, dressed warmly in a blue-gray woolen gown against the December frost and a very sharp wind whining in the eaves and seeking to find every crack in the windows. She went downstairs to face the other guests and whatever difficulties the night had not resolved.
She was met in the hall by Omegus Jones. He was wearing an outdoor jacket and there was mud on his boots. His dark hair was untidy, and his face was so pale he looked waxen.
“Vespasia…”
“Whatever is it?” She went to him immediately. “You look ill! Can I help?” She touched his hand lightly. It was freezing—and wet. Suddenly she was frightened. Omegus, more than anyone else she knew, always seemed in control of himself, and of events. “What is it?” she said again, more urgently.
He did not prevaricate. He closed his icy hand over hers with great gentleness. “I am afraid we have just found Gwendolen's body in the lake.” He gestured vaguely behind him to the sheet of ornamental water beyond the sloping lawn with its cedars and herbaceous border. “We have brought her out, but there is nothing to be done for her. She seems to have been dead since sometime last night.”
Vespasia was stunned. It was impossible. “How can she have fallen in?” she said, denying the thought desperately. “It is shallow at the edges. There are flowers growing