A Christmas Visitor (3 page)

But it did not. By half past ten when Henry set out in the trap with Wiggins, clouds were piling up in the north and west over the Blencathra Mountains, shadowing the land and promising more snow. Wiggins shook his head and pursed his lips, and added more blankets for his passengers.

They were at least halfway to Penrith before the sky darkened and the wind rose with a knife-edge to it, and the first white flurries came. Henry had not seen Benjamin Dreghorn for several years and normally would have looked forward to meeting him
again, but this time it would be very hard. He had offered to go, in order to save Antonia having to be the one to break the news. Naturally, when Benjamin had set out from Palestine several weeks ago, there had been nothing but happiness in view. The bitterness of his arrival would be totally unexpected.

Henry huddled with the blanket around him and the driving snow at his back as they went the last few miles. He hoped the train had not been delayed. If the snow was bad over Shap Fell, it could hold them up. They would simply have to wait for it. He twisted around in his seat, staring behind him, but all he could see was gray-white, whirling snow; even the closer hills and slopes were obliterated.

Wiggins hunched his shoulders, his hat over his ears. The pony trudged patiently onward. Henry tried to arrange his thoughts so he could tell Benjamin as gently as possible.

The train was no more than twenty minutes after the hour. The snow was beginning to drift in places,
but the wind had driven it on the lee side at Shap, and the line was not badly affected.

Henry stood on the platform and watched the carriage doors open and searched for Benjamin’s tall figure among the dozen or so people who got off. He was the last to come, carrying two largish cases and smiling broadly.

Henry felt his chest tighten as he forced himself to walk toward Judah’s brother.

“Henry Rathbone!” Benjamin said with unaffected delight. He put the cases down carefully on the snowy platform and held out his hand.

Henry took it, wrung it, then reached for one of the cases to help.

“It’s good to see you!” Benjamin said enthusiastically. “Are you staying for Christmas?” He picked up the other case. “What filthy weather! But by heaven, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’d forgotten how incredibly clean it is, after the desert. And water everywhere.” He strode forward and Henry had to make an effort to keep up with him. “I used to hate the
rain,” Benjamin went on. “Now I appreciate that water is life. You get to value it in Palestine. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting it is to walk where Christ walked.”

A blast of icy wind struck them as they turned the corner into the street, and took a few minutes to exchange greetings with Wiggins, load the luggage, and make their way out of the town and onto the road west again.

Benjamin resumed his tale. “You wouldn’t believe the places I’ve been to, Henry. I’ve stood by the shores of Galilee, probably the very hill on which Christ preached the Sermon on the Mount. Can you imagine that? I’ve been to Capernaum, Caesarea, Bethlehem, Tarsus, Damascus, but above all, I’ve walked the streets of Jerusalem and out toward Golgotha. I’ve stood in the Garden of Gethsemane!” His voice rang with the wonder of it. Even muffled against the wind and snow his sunburned face glowed.

“You are very fortunate,” Henry replied, meaning
it, in spite of how irrelevant it seemed now. “Not only to see it, but to be so aware of its meaning.”

“I’ve brought something very special as a Christmas present for Joshua,” Benjamin went on. “I’m not sure if he’ll like it, yet, but he will in time. I’ve got it in the brown case, that’s why I’ve been so careful with it. Antonia will keep it for him, if necessary. But he must be nine by now. I think he’ll understand.”

“What is it?”

Benjamin smiled broadly. He was a handsome man, strong-boned, and he had excellent teeth. “A piece of manuscript—an original of half a dozen verses from the New Testament, just a page, but can you imagine how the man who wrote it must have felt?” His voice rang with enthusiasm. “It’s in a carved, wooden box. Beautiful work. And it smells marvelous. They told me it was the odor of frankincense.”

“I am sure he will like it,” Henry responded. “If not just yet, then in a year or two.”

“Wait until Judah sees it,” Benjamin said eagerly.

Henry could leave it no longer. Not to speak now
would amount to a lie. He turned sideways, the wind making his eyes water.

“Benjamin,” he began. “I came to meet you personally, not only because I am pleased to see you, but because I have some very hard news which I wanted to spare Antonia from having to tell you herself …”

The light and the joy drained out of Benjamin’s face. Suddenly his blue eyes were bleak and the biting cold of the snow and the wild, color-bleached landscape seemed hostile, the chill of it getting into the bones.

Henry did not wait. “Judah died in an accident eight days ago. He went out at night and slipped on the ice of the stepping stones crossing the stream.”

Benjamin stared at him. “Died! He couldn’t have—it’s only a couple of feet deep at the most, if that!” he protested.

“He must have hit his head on the stones.” Henry did not go into any more detail. The explanation made no difference to the truth of it.

“What was he doing there at night?” Benjamin demanded. “There’s nothing there!”

“No one knows,” Henry replied. “He just said he wanted to stretch his legs before going to bed. He had taken Antonia and Joshua to a recital in the village.”

“It doesn’t make sense!”

Henry did not argue. He knew better than to say that such unexpected tragedy seldom did.

Benjamin turned forward and stared into the snowstorm, his face immobile, marked with uncomprehending grief. How could the whole world change in an instant, and with no warning?

They rode for at least another mile without speaking again, and were rounding the last curve in the road when the snow eased and a blue patch appeared in the sky. A bar of light like silver shone on the flat surface of the lake, so brilliant it dazzled the eyes. The village itself was almost invisible with its white-blanketed roofs.

If Henry were to tell Benjamin about the accusation, and save Antonia from having to do it, then he had little time left.

“Benjamin, that is not all I have to tell you before we reach the house,” he said aloud. “I would prefer
that Antonia, who told me, did not have to go through it all again.”

Benjamin turned slowly. “Judah’s dead. What else can there be?” His face was full of pain. He had loved his brother profoundly, and his admiration for him had been intense. The only thing worse than having to tell him of Gower’s accusation would be having him find out from someone else.

“Ashton Gower is saying that Judah imprisoned him wrongly, in order to be able to buy the estate,” Henry said simply. “It is nonsense, of course, but we need to find a way to force him to retract it, and never repeat it again. It is causing much distress.”

“Ashton Gower is in prison, where he belongs,” Benjamin replied a trifle coldly. “Exactly who is it that is spreading these lies? I’ll put a stop to it, by law, if necessary.” He spoke forcefully. He was a powerful man, as were all the Dreghorn brothers, but he had a remarkable intellect as well. He had succeeded brilliantly at university and it was something of a surprise to his family when he had chosen to study theology. But then when his income from the estate
had freed him from the need to earn his way, and he had followed his scholastic dreams to the Holy Land, everyone had found it quite natural.

“Gower has served his sentence,” Henry corrected him. “He is free, and unfortunately has chosen to come back to the Lakes.”

“When?”

“About a month ago.”

“Then I’ll go and see him myself. I’m surprised he hasn’t been run out of the village. What kind of a man slanders the dead, and adds to the bereavement of a widow and her child? He’s less than filth!”

“He is a deeply unpleasant man …” Henry began.

“He is a convicted forger and a would-be thief!” Benjamin retorted. “If it hadn’t been for Colgrave he’d have got away with it.”

“But he made his accusations when Judah was still alive,” Henry finished. “I don’t believe he has repeated them publicly since then, but no doubt he will do. He is determined to clear his own name.”

Benjamin gave a bark of laughter and his face set hard and angry.

There was no more time for conversation. They approached the gates of the estate and Henry climbed down to open them, then close them after the trap. He walked behind them up the gravel to the door just as Antonia came out.

Benjamin leaped out of the trap and strode the couple of paces over to her and took her in his arms, holding her gently as if she were a hurt child.

Then he looked up and saw Joshua standing in the front doorway, dwarfed by the massive lintels and looking embarrassed and unhappy.

Benjamin let go of Antonia and walked up the step. For an instant he seemed uncertain how to treat Joshua. He hesitated, torn between taking him in his arms or grasping him by the hand.

Joshua gulped, standing perfectly still. “Hello, Uncle Benjamin,” he said very quietly.

Benjamin knelt down. “Hello, Joshua.” He held out his arms, and the child allowed himself to be embraced, then after a long moment, very slowly returned it, sliding his arms around Benjamin’s neck and laying his head on his shoulder.

Henry found himself overcome with emotion also, and turned away to Antonia. He offered her his arm up the steps, and Wiggins followed with Benjamin’s cases.

The following morning Henry got up early because he did not want to lie in bed thinking. When he reached the dining room he found Benjamin already there, with a plate of Cumberland sausage, eggs and bacon, and thick, brown toast on the side. Instead of marmalade there was a dark, rich jam in the dish. He remembered from the past that it was witherslacks, a tart kind of small plum, known as a damson in the rest of England, and Benjamin’s favorite.

Benjamin gave him a tight, miserable smile. “Good morning, Henry. I’m going to see Colgrave this morning. It must have snowed most of the night. It’s pretty deep. We can ride. It’s only a couple of miles or so. He’s an oily swine, and if he had an ounce of decency he’d have stopped Gower already, but we might
be able to put a little backbone into him.” He took another mouthful from his plate. “Or make him more frightened of us than of whatever he thinks Gower will do to him. Ephraim should be here any day, but you can’t tell how long it will take to sail from South Africa. What a terrible homecoming!”

“Antonia is expecting Naomi, too,” Henry told him.

“I doubt she can help.” Benjamin’s broad shoulders slumped. “I still miss Nathaniel. What’s happening to us, Henry? Judah was the oldest, and he was only forty-three, and two of us are dead already! Joshua’s the only heir to the Dreghorns.”

“So far,” Henry agreed.

Benjamin did not answer the remark. “Have some breakfast,” he said instead. “You can’t go out in this weather without a good meal inside you.”

And in spite of the fact that it was only just over a mile and a half to Peter Colgrave’s house, it was not an easy journey. The snow had drifted in the night and in places it was more than two feet deep.

They rode toward the lake and crossed the stream lower down where there was a rough bridge made of
two long slabs of stone balanced at either end, and on a central stone. On foot, one balanced with care, but on horseback it was a matter of splashing through, more than hock-deep, and up the other side.

Half a mile beyond they saw the square-towered stone church and the vicarage, then a hundred yards farther was Colgrave’s house, also of stone. It was handsome, deep-windowed, the roof immaculately slated. One could see where the money from the sale of the estate had been used to remain and extend it, and to build new stables. That was where they left their horses.

“Come in,” Colgrave said, covering his surprise and considerable reluctance with an effort. “Good to see you, Dreghorn. My deepest condolences on your brother’s death. Terrible tragedy.”

“Thank you,” Benjamin said briefly. “You remember Henry Rathbone, don’t you?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Colgrave answered, looking Henry up and down, trying to place his lean figure and mild, aquiline face. “How do you do, Mr. Rathbone.”

Henry replied, finding it difficult to smile. Colgrave was broad, tending to fat a little, although he was no more than forty at the most. He had dark brown hair and a clever, thoughtful face, somewhat guarded in expression.

“Come in, gentlemen,” Colgrave invited, ushering them through a wood-paneled hall decorated with fine portraits of men and women who were presumably his ancestors. The fire was already burning well in his study and the room was warm. The shelves that lined the walls were stocked with leather-bound, gold-lettered books. “What may I do for you?” Colgrave asked. “Anything I can, to be of assistance. You will be returning to the east? Palestine, isn’t it? Must be fascinating.” This was directed to Benjamin. He considered Henry to be of no importance, merely a friend brought for company, and perhaps that was close enough to the truth.