A Christmas Journey (12 page)

Was that what had happened? And Gwendolen had seen it? That was the estrangement between her and her mother. Either she had never realized Kilmuir's plan, or she had refused to believe it. Or perhaps she had willed herself to forget it afterwards, to imagine that somehow he would change his mind, and it would all be all right. He would love her again and deny the rumors. Dolly Twyford would recede into the past. Maybe one day she would even have the longed-for children herself!

And then Mrs. Naylor had ruined it! That would be an estrangement sufficient to send Gwendolen to London, and keep her mother in the farthest reaches of Scotland, farther even than Muir-of-Ord. Perhaps only Glen Orchy would answer that guilt, and maybe even the fear of exposure. Who else might know? Only the staff of the house where it had happened, and they would keep silence, if not from loyalty, then at least for lack of proof. But Mrs. Naylor would no longer wish to live there.

And if she had not done it, would Kilmuir have gone ahead and first slandered Gwendolen and then cast her aside, destitute, and with no home, no friends, no reputation, no skills to earn her own way, except to sell her body on the streets, or more probably, to take her life—as in the end she had done?

Was that what she had heard in Isobel's remark—a beginning of the old accusation again? Was it history repeating itself, and Bertie Rosythe believing just as Kilmuir had pretended to? That might indeed make her despair and embrace death of her own choosing before ruin should overtake her. There was no mother to defend her this time.

How desperately alone she must have felt—a second time falsely accused, and no denial would help. How can one deny something that has only been hinted at, never said? Some people might have attacked in return, but where would that end? Almost certainly in a defeat even more painful. This way ended it almost before it began, certainly before any but a handful of people knew of it.

And then the worst possibility of all struck her. Had Gwendolen believed that Isobel knew Kilmuir's charge and was very subtly telling her so, and threatening a lifelong blackmail, a cat-and-mouse torture never to end? If that was true, no wonder she had killed herself! The thought was hideous beyond the mind to realize. Could it even be true? She hated herself that she could even frame the idea—but Isobel's anger, her need came sharply into focus, as if it had been moments ago that Vespasia had seen the look in her eyes, the desperation for her own social position and safety. Then sanity reasserted itself and she thrust it away. It had been a moment's cruelty, no more.

She rose and dressed at last, weighed down by a sadness and an overwhelming pity for both Gwendolen and Mrs. Naylor. She went downstairs to find breakfast; she knew the wisdom of not attempting anything on an empty stomach, however little she felt like eating.

She found Isobel downstairs, pacing the floor. She turned around the moment she heard Vespasia's footsteps. She looked very pale, dark circles around her eyes making her look ill. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

“I slept late,” Vespasia answered. “And I did not get up immediately.” That was true as far as it went. She had decided not to tell Isobel of her conversation with Mrs. Naylor, and certainly not of the thoughts that had resulted from it. She was ashamed of where it had led her. She liked Isobel, she always had, but perhaps she did not now trust her as deeply as she once had.

“What are we going to do all day?” Isobel pressed. “What is this place, do you suppose? I have seen all sorts of people here, as if it were a religious retreat.”

“Perhaps it is.” The thought was not absurd. One could hardly retreat further than this!

Vespasia had a breakfast of oatmeal porridge, then toast and very sharp, pungent marmalade, which, when she inquired, she was told was made on the premises. She immediately purchased two jars to take away with her, regardless of the inconvenience of carrying them. One was for herself, the other for Omegus Jones. She knew his tastes; she had watched him at his own table.

They spent the day quietly. The house proved indeed to be a form of retreat, not religious, but beyond question spiritual. Mrs. Naylor had found a vocation in listening to the troubled, the lonely, and the guilty whose fears robbed them of courage, or the hope that battles could be won.

Vespasia found herself wishing they might stay longer, and she forced herself to remember that this was not her calling, certainly not now, when winter was closing in rapidly. They must accompany Mrs. Naylor to London, and then return to Applecross to report to Omegus and to face Lady Warburton and the others, if they were to still their tongues before spring. They would be bound by the silence of expectation only so long.

She saw Finn several times and observed in him a humor and a great strength of self-understanding, and she perceived without effort why Mrs. Naylor found happiness with him. There was a reserve in him so that there would always be thoughts and dreams to surprise.

It was with regret that she and Isobel set out at daybreak the following morning, with Mrs. Naylor and MacIan, and a troop of ponies. Finn saw them to the entrance of the yard, standing with the fierce wind blowing his hair and whipping at his coat. Vespasia knew his good-byes to Mrs. Naylor had already been said, and words were an encumbrance to the understanding they shared.

They set off south, away from the Glen along the High Road. It was almost seven miles to Tyndrum, and another five or so to Crianlarich. If they pressed on with only such breaks as the horses needed, they might make it by nightfall. On easy roads a carriage would have done it by luncheon, but this was wild country, the peaks snow-covered. They went in the teeth of a gale with ice on its edge, and one good blizzard might end their journey altogether.

But Mrs. Naylor did not hesitate. She led the way with MacIan and left Vespasia and Isobel to keep up the best they could. Their ponies were as good as anyone's; it was a matter of human endurance, and they were half her age. If Mrs. Naylor even thought of doubting them, she gave no sign of it.

They plodded silently through a great sweeping wilderness of mountain and sky, sometimes lit by dazzling sun, blinding off the snow slopes above and ahead. Then squalls would drive down from nowhere, and they huddled together, backs to the worst of it, until it was past and they would plow forward again.

Vespasia glanced at Isobel and received a rueful smile in answer. It was as clear as if they had spoken: At least this flesh-withering cold, the slow, uneven progress, the need to guide their ponies with all possible attention, and even the waste of time to get off and walk, knee-deep in fresh snow, skirts sodden to the thighs, made conversation completely impossible. With Gwendolen's death heavy on heart and mind, it was a blessing, however profound the disguise.

It was well past midday when they reached the inn at Tyndrum, and the weather was closing in as if it would be all but dark by three.

“We'll no make Crianlarich the night,” MacIan said, squinting upward at the sky. “It's after one now, an' it's another five hard miles. We'd best rest the ponies an' start fresh in the morning.”

“Surely we can make five miles by dark?” Isobel said urgently. “We've done most of it already!”

“We've done seven, Mistress Alvie,” MacIan told her dourly. “Ye mebbe think ye can do the like again, in two hours, but ye're mistaken. An' I'll no have ye drive my ponies to it. Rest while ye can, and be glad of a spot o' warmth.” He looked at Mrs. Naylor. “Take a dram, mistress. I'll care for the beasts. Get ye inside.”

It was what Vespasia also had dreaded, a long afternoon by the fireside with Isobel and Mrs. Naylor. The meal was endurable. They were all still numb with cold and glad of any food at all, let alone hot, savory haggis rich with herbs, offered them in spite of the nearness to Burns's night. It was served with mashed potatoes and sweet turnips, and afterwards flat, unleavened oatcakes and a delicately flavored cheese covered with oatmeal, called Cabac.

It was finally cleared away, and they were left alone in the small sitting room by the fire, peat to replenish it on the hearth, stags' heads on the wall. The silence was leaden, and Vespasia saw the slight smile cross Mrs. Naylor's lips. She knew in that instant that Mrs. Naylor understood exactly what was in Isobel's mind, and Vespasia's, and that she was mistress of herself sufficiently to outlast both of them. Grief would wound her, perhaps to the heart, but it would not bend or break her. She would meet them on her own terms.

Twice Isobel began to speak, and then stopped. Finally Mrs. Naylor turned to her.

“Is there something you wish to say, Mrs. Alvie?”

Isobel shook her head. “Only that we cannot sit here in silence all afternoon, but I see that we can, if that is what you wish.”

“What would you like to speak about?”

Isobel had no answer.

“Glen Orchy,” Vespasia said suddenly. “I should like to know about how you found it, and how word travels of what you do there, and who is welcome.”

Mrs. Naylor regarded her with a wry humor, the smile all turned inward, as if facing some moment of decision at last. “You do not ask what I do there, or why I stay,” she observed. “Is that because you believe I would not tell you? Or does courtesy suggest it would be intrusive?”

“Both,” Vespasia replied. “But principally because I believe that I know.”

Isobel looked confused.

Mrs. Naylor ignored her. “Do you indeed?” she said dubiously. “I think not, but we shall not discuss it. If there is debt between us, and I am not sure that there is, then it is you who owe me.”

“I have children,” Vespasia said gently. She was going to add that she knew the consuming love and need to protect, then she saw the warning in Mrs. Naylor's face, the sudden tightening of fear, and she remembered also that Isobel had been widowed before she had had a chance to bear children. So she said nothing, but she knew that she was right, and Mrs. Naylor knew it also. For the first time, Vespasia took charge of the conversation. She repeated her questions. Mrs. Naylor answered them, and through the darkening afternoon both younger women heard a story of extraordinary courage and strength of will, compassion, and determination, but told in a way that made it seem the most natural and ordinary thing, in fact the only possible way to behave.

Out of an empty house falling into dereliction, Mrs. Naylor and Finn had built and repaired it, until the house was restored to its earlier comfort. Then one guest at a time, first by chance, it had become a hostelry for wanderers who needed shelter not only from the elements of the Highland winter, but from the harder seasons of life, a time to rest and regain not so much strength as a sense of direction, an understanding of mountains, of paths, and above all of hope.

When they retired after dinner Isobel followed Vespasia up the stairs, almost on her heels. “What am I going to do?” she said when they reached the bedroom they were to share. There was a note of desperation in her voice.

“What you have told Omegus that you will do,” Vespasia answered. “Mrs. Naylor won't tell people anything other than whatever you tell them yourself.”

“I don't mean about Gwendolen's death!” Isobel said impatiently. “I mean about anything! I don't want to marry Bertie Rosythe, even if he offered! Or anyone like him. I should die of loneliness, even if it took me all my life to do it, an inch a day.” Her voice was suddenly harsher, as if the anger ran out of control. “For heaven's sake, are you really so damnably complacent that you don't even know what I mean? Can't you see anything further than money and fashion, the season, knowing everyone who matters and having them know you, going to all the right parties?” She flung her hand out stiffly. “When the door is closed, and you take off your tiara and the maid hangs up your gown? Who are you then?” Now she was almost weeping. “What have you? Have you anything at all that matters? Is that what comfort has given you—that you are dead at heart—of self-satisfaction?”

Vespasia saw the contempt in Isobel's eyes and knew that it had been there dormant for all the time they had known each other. Did she care enough to strip away the armor of her own protection to answer truthfully? If not, then she was denying herself, almost as if she were making it true.

“I have too much pain and too much hope to be dead,” she replied gravely. “My best days were not wearing a tiara, or a ball gown. I carried bandages, and water, and sometimes even a gun. I wore a plain gray dress that was borrowed, and I stood on the barricades in Rome, and fought for a revolution that failed.” She lowered her voice because the tears choked in her throat. “And loved a man I shall never see again. You have no right to despise anyone, Isobel, until at least you know who they are. And we will probably none of us ever know anyone sufficiently well for that. Be happy for it. It is not a sweet thing to look down on others, or to feel their inferiority. It's lonely, ugly, and wrong. Sleep well. We must make Crianlarich, at least, by tomorrow evening. I know it's only about five miles, but five miles of storm in these hills may seem more than thirty miles at home. Good night.”

“Good night,” Isobel said gently.