A Christmas Guest (5 page)

A spark of hope lit in Caroline's eyes. “But that is a great deal to ask of you, Mama-in-law.”

Of course she was dubious. Mariah Ellison had never in her life been known to discomfort herself on someone else's behalf. It was totally out of character. But then Caroline did not know her very well. For nearly twenty years they had lived under the same roof, and for all of it Grandmama had lived a lie. She had hidden her misery and self-loathing under the mantle of widowhood. But how could she have done anything else? The shame of her past continually burned inside her as if the physical pain were still raw and bleeding and she could barely walk. She had had to lie, for her son's sake. And the lie had grown bigger and bigger inside her, estranging her from everyone.

“You did not ask it of me,” she said more sharply than she meant to. “I have offered. It is the answer that makes the greatest sense.” Should she add that Caroline and Joshua had made her welcome here and it was a small repayment? No. Caroline would never believe that. They had allowed her in, she was not welcome, nor was she stupid enough to imagine that she could be. Caroline would be suspicious.

“I have nothing else to do,” she added more realistically. “I am bored.” That was believable. She was certainly not about to admit to Caroline, of all people, that she actually had admired Maude Barrington and felt a terrible anger that she should have been abandoned by her family, and very possibly murdered by one of them. She waited for Caroline's reaction. She must not push too hard.

“Are you certain you would not mind?” Caroline was still unconvinced.

“Quite certain,” she replied. “It is still a pleasant morning. I shall compose myself, have a little luncheon, and then go. That is, if you can spare the carriage to take me there? I doubt there is any other way of travel in this benighted spot!” A sudden idea occurred to her. “Perhaps you fear that …”

“No,” Caroline said quickly. “It is most generous of you, and I think entirely appropriate. It shows far more care than any letter could do, no matter how sincere, or well written. Of course the coachman will take you. As you say, the weather is still quite clement. This afternoon would be perfect. I do appreciate it.”

Grandmama smiled, trying to show less triumph than she felt. “Then I shall prepare myself,” she replied, finishing her tea and rising to her feet. She intended to remain at Snave for as long as it required to discover the truth of Maude's death, and to prove it. Knowing alone was hardly adequate. Her visit might well stretch into several days. She must succeed. It was not a matter of sentimentality, it was a matter of principle, and she was a woman to whom such things mattered.

PART TWO

The journey was bumpy and cold, even with a traveling rug wrapped around from the waist downward. There was a bitter, whining wind coming in off the sea, though now and again it cleared the sky of clouds. The light was chill and hard over the low-lying heath. This was the invasion coast where Julius Caesar had landed fifty-five years before the birth of Christ. No such thing as Christmas then! He had gone home and been murdered the following year. That had been by his own people too, those he had known and trusted for years.

Eleven centuries after that, William, Duke of Normandy, had landed with his knights and bowmen and killed King Harold at Hastings, just around the coast from here. Somehow she was faintly satisfied with Caesar coming. Rome had been the center of the world then. England had been proud to be part of that Empire. But William's invasion still rankled, which was silly, since it was the best part of a thousand years ago! But it was the last time England had been conquered, and it annoyed her.

King Philip of Spain's armada would probably have landed here too, if the wind had not destroyed it. And Napoleon Bonaparte. Only he went to Russia instead, which had proved to be a bad idea.

Was this a bad idea, too? Arrogant, stupid, the result of a fevered imagination? But how could she possibly turn back? She would look like a complete fool! To be disliked was bad enough. To be despised as well—or worse, pitied—would be unendurable.

Looking out of the carriage window as the sky darkened and the already lowering sun was smeared with gray, she could not imagine why anyone would choose to be here if they did not have to. Except Maude, of course! She thought these flat, wide spaces and wind-raging skies were beautiful with their banners of cloud, marsh grasses, and air that always smelled of salt.

Perhaps she did not remember it frozen solid, or so shrouded in fog that you could not make out your hand in front of your face! That was exactly what would be useful now, some dreadful weather, so she could not return to St. Mary in the Marsh for several days. She had undertaken a very big task, and the more she thought of it the bigger it seemed, and the more hopeless. It was in a way a comfort that she could not turn back, or she might have. She had no idea what these people were like, and not a shred of authority to back up what she was intending to do. Or to try. It might have been better after all if Charlotte were here. She had meddled so often surely she had acquired a knack for it by now?

But she wasn't here. Grandmama would have to make the best of it by herself. Forward regardless. She had intelligence and determination, which might be enough. Oh—and right on her side as well, of course. It was monstrous that Maude Barrington should have been murdered, if she had been? But whatever the truth of that, they had still turned her away, and at Christmas. That in itself was an unforgivable offense, and on Maude's behalf, she felt it to the core.

The distance was covered far too quickly. It was only a handful of miles, forty minutes' journey at a brisk trot, far less as the crow flew. Every lane seemed to double back on itself as if to circumnavigate each field and cross every ditch twice. The sky had cleared again and the light was long and low, making the shivering grass bright and casting networks of shadow through the bare trees when the carriage drove into the tiny village of Snave. There was really only one big house. The rest seemed to be cottages and farm buildings. Why in heaven's name would anyone choose to live here? It was no more than a widening in the road.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and waited with pounding heart for the coachman to open the door for her. A dozen times she had rehearsed what she was going to say, and now when she needed it, it had gone completely out of her mind.

Outside in the driveway the wind was like a knife-edge and she found herself rocking on her feet in the strength of it. She grasped onto her cloak to keep it from flying away, and stamped up to the front door, leaning heavily on her stick. The coachman pulled on the doorbell for her, and stood back to wait.

It was answered almost immediately. Someone must have seen the carriage arrive. An extremely ordinary-looking butler spoke to her civilly enough.

“Good afternoon,” she replied. “I am Mrs. Mariah Ellison. Mr. Joshua Fielding, with whom Miss Barrington was staying, is my son-in-law.” The exact nature of their relationship could be explained later, if necessary. “I am afraid I have extremely distressing news to bring to the family, the sort of thing that can really only be told in person.”

He looked alarmed. “Oh, dear. Please do come in, Mrs. Ellison.” He opened the door wider for her and backed away a little.

“Thank you,” she accepted. “May I ask you the favor of a little warmth and refreshment for my coachman also, and perhaps water for the horses, and at least in the meantime, shelter from this rather cutting wind?”

“Of course! Of course! Do you …” He swallowed. “Do you have Miss Barrington with you?”

“No, indeed not,” she replied, following him inside after a brief glance behind her to make certain that the coachman had heard, and would drive around to the stables and make himself known.

Inside the hall she could not help but glance around. It was not a house of London fashion; nevertheless it was well furnished and extremely comfortable. The floor was very old oak, stained dark with possibly centuries of use. The walls were paneled, but lighter, and hung with many paintings, mercifully not the usual portraits of generations of forebears with expressions sour enough to turn the milk. Instead they were glowing still lifes of fruit and flowers, and one or two pastoral scenes with enormous skies and restful cows. At least someone had had very good taste. It was also blessedly warm.

“The family is all together, ma'am,” the butler continued gravely. “Would you perhaps prefer to tell Mrs. Harcourt this news in private? She is Miss Barrington's elder sister.”

“Thank you. She will know best how to inform the rest of the family.”

The butler thereupon led her to a doorway off to the side. He opened it to show her into a very agreeable room, lighting the lamps for her and poking up a fire, which had almost gone out. He placed a couple of pieces of coal on it judiciously, then excused himself and left. He did not offer her tea. Perhaps he was too alarmed at the news, even though he did not yet know what it was. Judging by his manner, he expected a disgrace rather than a tragedy—which in itself was interesting.

She stood by the fire, trying to warm herself. Her heart was still thumping and she had difficulty keeping her breath steady.

The door opened and a woman of great beauty came in, closing it behind her. She was perhaps sixty, with auburn hair softening to rather more gold than copper, and the clear, fair skin that so often goes with such coloring. Her features were refined, her eyes large and blue. Her mouth was perfectly shaped. She bore little resemblance to Maude. It was not easy to think of them as sisters. No one would have called Maude beautiful. What had made her face so attractive was intelligence, and a capacity for feeling and imagination, a soul of inner joy. There was no echo of such things in this woman's face. In fact she looked afraid, and angry. Her clothes were up to the moment in fashion, and perfectly cut with the obligatory shoulders and high crowned sleeves.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellison,” she said with cool politeness. “I am Bedelia Harcourt. My butler tells me that you have driven all the way from St. Mary in the Marsh with unfortunate news about my sister. I hope she has not”—she hesitated delicately—“embarrassed you?”

Grandmama felt a fury of emotion rise up inside her so violently she was overwhelmed by it, almost giddy. She wanted to rage at the woman, even slap her perfect face. However, that would be absurd and the last way to detect anything. She was quite sure Pitt would not have been so … so amateur!

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Harcourt.” She controlled herself with a greater effort than she had ever exercised over her temper before. “But the news I have is very bad indeed. That is why I came personally rather than have anyone write a letter to you.” She watched intently to see if there were the slightest betraying foreknowledge in Bedelia's face, and saw nothing. “I am afraid Miss Barrington passed away in her sleep last night. I am so very sorry.” That at least was sincere. She was amazed how sorry she was.

Bedelia stared at her as if the words had no meaning that she could grasp. “Passed away?” she repeated. She put her hand up to her mouth. “Maude? But she never even said she was ill! I should have known! Oh, how terrible. How very terrible.”

“I am sorry,” Grandmama said yet again. “The maid knocked on my door. I was in the same part of the house. I went to her immediately, but Miss Barrington must have died early in the night. She was … quite cold. We called a doctor, naturally.”

“Oh, dear.” Bedelia stepped backward and almost folded up into the chair behind her. It was a collapse, and yet it was oddly graceful. “Poor Maude. How I wish she had said something. She was too … too reticent … too brave.”

Grandmama remembered Bedelia's letter to Joshua saying that she would not have Maude in the house because they had other important guests, and she found it extremely difficult not to remind her of that. But to do so would make an enemy of her, and then gaining any knowledge would be impossible. Really, this detecting required greater sacrifices than she had foreseen.

“I am deeply sorry for coming bearing such painful news,” she said instead. “I cannot imagine what a shock it must be for you. I spent a little time with Miss Barrington and she was a delightful person. And I admit that to me she appeared to be in the most excellent health. I can understand your shock.”

Bedelia raised her eyes and looked up at her. “She … she had lived abroad for some time, in very harsh climates. It must have affected her more than we appreciated. Possibly more than she appreciated herself.”

Grandmama sat down in the other chair opposite Bedelia. “She spoke somewhat of Marrakech, and I believe Persia. And Egypt also. Was she there for some time?”

“Years,” Bedelia replied, straightening up. “Since she left, shortly before I was married, and that is all but forty years ago. She must have lived in a style far more … injurious to her health than we had realized. Perhaps she did not fully know it herself.”

“Perhaps not,” Grandmama agreed. Then a thought occurred to her. Sitting here being pleasant and questioning nothing was unlikely to gain her any knowledge. Pitt would have done better. “Or maybe she was only too well aware that she was not in good health, and that is why she returned to England, and her family, the people to whom she was closest in the world?”

Bedelia's magnificent eyes opened wider and were momentarily as hard and cold as the mid-winter sea.

Grandmama looked back at her without so much as blinking.

Bedelia let out her breath slowly. “I suppose you could be right. No such thought had crossed my mind. Like you, I imagined her to be in the most excellent health. It seems we were both tragically mistaken.”

“She said nothing that could lead you to expect this?” Grandmama felt most discourteous to press the matter, but justice came before good manners.

Bedelia hesitated, as if she could not make up her mind how to answer. “I can think of nothing,” she said after a moment. “I confess I am utterly devastated. My mind does not seem to function at all. I have never lost anyone so … so very close to me before.”

“Your parents are still alive?” Grandmama said in amazement.

“Oh, no,” Bedelia corrected herself quickly. “I meant of my own generation. My parents were excellent people, of course! But distant. A sister is … is very dear. Perhaps one only realizes it when they are gone. The void left behind is greater than one can conceive beforehand.”

You are overplaying it, Grandmama thought to herself. You wouldn't even have her in the house! Outwardly she smiled. It was a totally artificial expression.

“You are very naturally suffering from shock,” she commiserated. “When one's own generation passes away it is a reminder of mortality, the shadow of death across one's own path. I remember how I felt when my husband died.” So she did—the most marvelous liberation of her life. Even if she could tell no one, and had to pretend to be devastated, and wear mourning for the rest of her days, like the Queen.

“Oh, I am sorry!” Bedelia said quickly. “You poor soul! And now you have come all the way in this weather to bring this news to me personally. And I am sitting here without even offering you tea. My wits are completely scattered. I still have my beloved Arthur, how can I complain of anything? Perhaps poor Maude has gone to a better place. She was never a happy creature. I shall allow that to be my comfort.” She rose to her feet a trifle unsteadily.

“Thank you, that is most kind of you,” Grandmama accepted. “I must admit it has been a dreadful day, and I am quite exhausted. I am so glad you have your husband. He will no doubt be a great strength to you. One can be very … alone.”