An Anne Perry Christmas_ Two Holiday Novels - Anne Perry [7]
Isobel sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, even though the room was not cold. “Is she… ?”
“Of course. It is December! If she had not drowned, she would have frozen.”
“But surely she must have fallen!” Isobel protested, pushing her hair off her face. “Why on earth would she jump? That's ridiculous!” She shook her head. “It can't be true!”
“If you remember, the balustrade along the bridge is too high to fall over by accident,” Vespasia reminded her. “Anyway, why on earth would she be out there leaning over the bridge at eleven o'clock on a December night? And alone!”
The little color in Isobel's face had drained away, leaving her pasty-white. She started to shiver. Her hands were clenched in the sheets.
“Are you implying that my idiotic remark made her do that? Why? All I did was insult her! She wouldn't be the first woman to be called greedy, or desperate. That's absurd!” Her voice was sharp, a little high-pitched.
“Isobel, there is no point in pretending that it did not happen,” Vespasia said steadily, trying to sound reasonable, although she did not feel it. “You are going to have to go down at some time and face everyone, whatever they believe. And the longer you delay it, the more you will appear to be accepting the blame.”
“I'm not to blame!” Isobel said indignantly. “I was rash in what I said, and I would have apologized to her today. But if she went and jumped off the bridge, that has nothing to do with me, and I won't have anyone say that it has!” She flung the sheets aside and climbed out of the bed, stumbling a little as she stood up. She kept her back to Vespasia, as though blaming her for having brought the news. But Vespasia noticed that when Isobel picked up her peignoir, her fingers were stiff, and when it slipped out of her grasp, it took her three attempts to retrieve it.
reakfast was ghastly. When Vespasia and Isobel arrived, everyone else was already gathered around the table. Food was laid out on the sideboard in silver chafing dishes: finnan haddock, kedgeree, eggs, sausage, deviled kidneys, and bacon. There was also plenty of fresh crisp toast, butter, marmalade, and tea. People had served themselves, as a matter of good manners, before Omegus Jones had divulged what had occurred, but nobody felt like eating.
Isobel's entrance had been greeted in silence, nor did anyone meet her eyes.
Vespasia looked at Omegus and saw the warning and the apology unspoken in his expression.
Isobel hesitated. No one was wearing black, because no one had foreseen the occasion, and of course Isobel was the only one who had known of the death before dressing. She wore a sober dark green.
Lady Warburton was the first to acknowledge her presence, but it was with a chilly stare, her rather ordinary face pinched with distaste. She regarded Isobel's clothes first, long before her face. “I see you were aware of the tragedy before you dressed,” she said coolly. “In fact, perhaps last night?”
“My dear Evelyn, do not let your grief…, ” Sir John began, then trailed away as his wife turned to glare at him.
“It is perfectly obvious she was aware of poor Gwendolen's death!” she said in a low, grating voice. “Why else would she wear mourning to breakfast?”
“Hypocrite,” Blanche Twyford murmured half under her breath. No one doubted that she was referring to Isobel, not Lady Warburton.
Isobel pretended not to have heard. She took a slice of toast, and then found herself unable to swallow it. She played with it to keep her hands occupied, and perhaps to prevent anyone else from noticing that they trembled.
Bertie looked haggard and utterly confused.
Vespasia wondered if he had gone after Gwendolen last night. Surely he must have. Or was it conceivable he