by Anne Perry
A Christmas Return is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Anne Perry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Hardback ISBN 9780425285077
Ebook ISBN 9780425285084
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Karin Batten, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Belina Huey
Cover illustration: Aleta Rafton
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
A Christmas Return
Dedication
The Christmas Novels of Anne Perry
About the Author
Christmas was just over a week away. Should Mariah Ellison bother the servants to put up some decorations in her rooms? No one else would see them, unless somebody paid her a call out of a sense of duty. Everybody in the family seemed to be away this Christmas, and Mariah was destined to be alone again. She forced from her mind the thought that it might be largely her own fault. She had been, to put it as kindly as possible, a trifle difficult. She had no doubt that, behind her back, it was put in harsher words.
Mariah had left her recent change of heart for rather late in life. She refused to count years, and had done for some time. In fact, she had stopped rather before eighty. That was more than old enough for any woman. If she had had any sense, she would have stopped at seventy! She knew many women who had. Queen Victoria was in her seventies, but then she could hardly be discreet about that! In fact, being Queen of a quarter of the world gave her very little discretion about anything at all, something for which Mariah did not envy her.
Being no one of any note allowed Mariah all the discretion she could wish for, and more.
She stood up and walked to the outer door of her rooms, and all the way to the front hallway of the main house. It was very grand, very beautiful. It belonged to her younger granddaughter, Emily, who had married extraordinarily well with her first husband, in fact above herself, in Mariah’s opinion. But to be fair, Emily had made Mariah reasonably welcome, and she lacked nothing in the way of comfort. Since last Christmas, and her unusual adventure in Romney Marsh, when she had been obliged to stay with her daughter-in-law, Caroline, and Caroline’s new husband, Mariah had appreciated a lot of things more than she had done in the past.
Emily had good taste, and since her first husband had died and left her rich, she had the means to exercise it. Mariah had always been satisfactorily cared for, but not on this scale.
The floor was pale marble, but a warm color, richly veined. The broad staircase swept down from an upper balcony, its wooden banister polished to a sheen, its newel post a work of art. Three blazing chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. The walls were decorated with paintings of aristocrats from earlier centuries. In Mariah’s opinion it was a good place to put them, far better than in one of the rooms where people actually spent time, and would be obliged to look at them.
Although the family was away, there was still a good deal of decoration around: holly with bright berries, red and gold ribbons, colored candles, and in the corner of the hall a beautifully decorated Christmas tree.
She was admiring the charming details when there was a quiet cough behind her.
She turned to see the butler standing a few yards away.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but there is rather a large parcel for you. Or rather, medium-sized, but extremely heavy. Would you care for me to carry it to your rooms?” he offered.
“Thank you,” she accepted. Usually she carried a stick to assist her in walking. She had done so for years. It was not really necessary, but it was useful at times. It felt like a weapon, more of an attitude than any real service. She was perfectly steady on her feet, but it was good for leaning on now and then, and certainly for poking things, or people. The implication that she needed assistance made Emily’s servants more attentive toward her.
“Yes, indeed!” she went on.
The butler picked up the parcel, which seemed to require some effort. He carried it carefully across the hall toward the door to Mariah’s quarters.
She had hoped there might be a letter for her, or better still, a Christmas card, but her disappointment was almost swallowed up by her curiosity as to what this heavy parcel might contain.
She walked behind him, out of the hall and along the passage to her own sitting room, where he set the parcel down on the table.
“Would you care for me to open it, Mrs. Ellison?” he asked. It did look particularly well sealed and was tied with several rounds of string.
“Yes, please.” Her hands were a little arthritic; she was bound to be far slower than he, and by now she could hardly wait to know what was inside all this paper and string.
The butler produced a small penknife from his pocket and opened it to cut through the string, then the paper.
She watched him with fascination. There seemed to be layers and layers of strong, brown paper around whatever it was. But finally the last layer was undone and they both stood staring at a round, dark brown Christmas pudding. It was ordinary, totally traditional, with a flattened leaf of holly on the top. She could smell the richness of it, now that the wrapping was off.
“Very nice, ma’am,” the butler said, looking at the pudding, then up at her. “I’m just surprised at how heavy it felt. Would you like me to take it to the kitchen, ma’am? You’ll be wanting to keep it until the day.”
She frowned. Who on earth would send her a Christmas pudding? There must be a note somewhere. She stepped forward to lift the pudding.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “It feels like lead. What on earth have they put in it?”
“Indeed it does, ma’am,” he agreed.
Curiosity overwhelmed her. She went to the sideboard drawer and took out a knife. She poked the pudding and, within an inch or less, met with total resistance.
“May I help, Mrs. Ellison?” the butler offered.
She did not need a butler’s help to cut a Christmas pudding. She jabbed the knife hard and achieved nothing at all. Whatever was blocking it was absolutely solid.
Very gently he took the knife from her and tried his own hand at it. He also got no farther than the first inch. He stopped, uncertain what he should do.
Mariah reached out, took the knife from him, and determinedly cut a couple of inches away from the original place. She met with the same resistance, and started to knock the pudding off, away from whatever the obstruction was.
The butler stared in amazement as she slowly uncovered a totally spherical ball of lead, about seven or eight inches in diameter.
“What on earth is that?” he asked.
Mariah felt a sudden chill of memory, indistinct, just sadness, and fear. It was absurd.
“It looks like a cannonball,” she said a little tartly. “Except it is too small to be a real one.” She poked at it again, and then pushed to see if it would roll. It was solid, and too heavy to do more without a considerable effort behind the push.
“Is it one of those ornamental ones?” the servant asked, staring at it, his face creased with puzzlement.
Inside her mind the memory was suddenly complete. That is exactly what it was: an ornamental cannonball, made of lead just as the real ones were. No wonder it was extraordinarily heavy. She stared at it as if m
esmerized, while waves of the past engulfed her like a cold sea.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Ellison?” he said with concern. “Would you like to sit down? I’ll take this away and fetch you a cup of tea.”
“No!” she said quickly. Then, remembering the new person she had determined to be, she added, “Thank you. You might look to see if there is any note with it, even on the outside wrapping. I believe I know where it came from, but I would like to be certain.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am.” Obediently he picked up all the pieces of paper and examined them on both sides, putting them in a neat pile when he had finished. He kept one in his hands.
“Well, don’t stand here!” Her voice was tight in her throat. “What does it say?”
“It’s just the postmark of where it’s from, ma’am. There’s no more.”
She gulped. Her throat was dry. It was twenty years ago now, almost exactly.
“Haslemere?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what it says.”
“Thank you. You…” She looked at his pale face, so stiff, so earnest. “You may take it to the kitchen. Perhaps you would have someone remove the bit of pudding from the outside. If it is edible, you are welcome to it. And have the cannonball put in the garden shed, if you please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Will there be anything more?”
“Yes, if you please, I would like that cup of tea now, and perhaps something with it. Not Christmas cake. It’s too early.”
“Yes, ma’am. How about a nice piece of shortbread?”
“That will do very well.” There was no point in asking him not to speak about the cannonball. He could hardly be expected not to mention to the other staff such an extraordinary event, and quite inexplicable to anyone except her. Should she make up something? Better not. One looked ridiculous being caught in a lie, and by a servant! “Thank you,” she added.
Until the tea tray came from the kitchen she sat in the extremely comfortable armchair in her own room. It was more of a boudoir than a sitting room. She had no need of such formality. But it was all decorated to her own taste, mostly with furniture she had brought with her, old-fashioned, perhaps a little heavy. She clung on to it simply because it was familiar, and because no one else had given it to her. If she was honest, she disliked some of it, and it certainly carried few good memories. But she could not be obliged to Emily for everything! She stared at the window and the pleasant view of the winter trees that lay beyond. Even in the middle of London, there were some startlingly lovely gardens, especially in the spring; this was one of them. Summer was even more beautiful. Roses covered the pergola, now only tangled with bare stems. And there were also peonies, delphiniums, a blaze of color.
Haslemere. Why on earth had Rowena Wesley sent her a wretched reminder of past tragedy? It could only be Rowena—couldn’t it? Cullen was dead. Putting words to it in her mind brought a stab of pain, even after twenty years. Why should she do it? It was totally unlike her. Rowena had been quietly happy, gentle, generous; in other words, the opposite of Mariah.
Tragedy affects people differently. She had no idea what had happened to her old friend in the time between then and now. But if she were happy, she would hardly have sent this absurd and horrible reminder of the past, when peace and a friendship in which the only shadow had been Mariah’s private loneliness had been hurled into complete destruction in just a few days.
The tea came and she drank it, and ate the shortbread without even tasting it.
A card came with the last post of the day. There were usually three or four letters, mostly for Emily and her husband, but this close to Christmas there was so much more of it. The footman brought Mariah’s to her room.
“Thank you.” She took it with surprise. She always hoped for cards, but at her age, most of her friends were dead. The younger generation did not keep up with their parents’ acquaintances. She could not blame them. She had, in the past, found her own family quite sufficient.
She opened the card and read it.
Dear Mrs. Ellison,
Please forgive my melodrama, but the situation is very bad. My grandmother is in trouble of a kind you will not need explaining to you. Owen Durward is back in Haslemere, bent on clearing his reputation. We do not need sympathy, however sincere. We need help, from someone who loved my grandfather, and is willing to fight a hard battle, without fear or favor, to save his name now.
You are the only one I know who answers that description.
Prepare for considerable unpleasantness.
But please come.
Sincerely,
Peter
Aha! Rowena’s grandson. He had been badly affected by his grandfather Cullen’s death, leaving him, as it did, with no man to guide him, since his father and mother had both perished in a tragic boating accident, and he had spent much of his childhood with his grandparents. And he had still been a child, no more than ten or eleven, when Cullen died. She could see his young face in her mind’s eye, calm, fair-skinned, steady blue-gray eyes with dark lashes. He would be over thirty now. She remembered his laughter, before it had all happened. The oddest things would amuse him. She had especially liked that, the unexpectedness of it, the new perception of joy in ordinary things.
Despite its contents, the card was very pleasant, not the usual sentimental seasonal sort of thing, but a classical sketch of a church spire against a darkening sky. It looked both threatening and oddly hopeful: a light against darkness. It was, however, nowhere near as attention-grabbing as the cannonball. To have sent both, he must really want to ensure I go, Mariah thought.
She would go. Of course she would. In her own bleak and hopeless way, she had loved Cullen Wesley.
And it was something, at her age, to be needed—not to be taken in as a matter of kindness. An overdose of charity could kill something inside you.
“Thank you.” She looked up at the footman, who was waiting to see if she needed anything further. He was actually a very agreeable young man. His mother should be commended for the way she had brought him up.
“I shall be traveling to Haslemere in the morning,” she told him. “I would be obliged if you would have Wilkins arrange for me to be taken to the station, and a train ticket acquired for Haslemere. I will not take much luggage, only what I need for a few days.”
“Yes…yes, Mrs. Ellison. Is everything…all right? You look pale…” He blushed, as if he had spoken too personally to her.
“I am perfectly well, thank you. But I have an old friend who is in great need of some assistance, which I may be able to give. Indeed, I thoroughly intend to do all I can.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ellison.” He inclined his head, then left the room, taking the tea tray with him.
Mariah set out the following morning. The consideration of what to take, how to pack it, indeed how much luggage to travel with altogether, needed a good deal of her attention. It was not until she was sitting in the train that she relaxed. It was a relatively slow one, stopping at several stations, but the faster one required a change, and just the thought of carrying her cases or looking for a porter, hoping that nothing was late, induced unneeded stress. The less trouble the journey was, the better.
She wanted to keep an even temper, not always something she achieved easily or, for that matter, at all. And she needed to give her attention fully to what she planned to do.
She sat in the carriage and stared out the window at the passing suburbs, with their rows of houses, their dug-over gardens and bare winter trees. Shortly they were in the countryside, wider-open, softly rolling hills, ploughed earth making the fields look as if they were dark-corded velvet corduroy. Did that mean in French that it was the velvet of the king? Cord-du-roi? An interesting idea.
Really, her imagination was wandering. Memory of all that Haslemere had meant to her was sharp on the edge of her thoughts. She had been in her sixties the last time she had been here. It felt like an age ago. Everything had been so different. Her own
son, Edward, had been alive and Mariah had lived mostly with him and his wife, Caroline, and their three daughters. Now the eldest, Sarah, was dead—murdered, no less, something that no one in the family could quite get over—and sometime after that Edward too had died.
Did she miss him? In ways, of course. But they were not as close as she would have liked them to be. He reminded her too much of his father. It was not only his height, his voice and appearance, but also his mannerisms, and now and then, his attitude.
That was not fair, and she knew it. Edward had never struck Caroline as his father had struck Mariah. Edward had been a good husband to her, even if he had lacked the wit and warmth of her second husband, Joshua, to whom Caroline was now happily married. It was the first time Mariah had admitted that to herself. After all, what was there to approve of in Joshua? He was years younger than Caroline, and an actor, for heaven’s sake! Except that he made her laugh…
Was all this passing through her mind because she was going back to Haslemere, and having to think of Cullen Wesley again? He had been her own age; his wife, Rowena, was five years younger, and so very comfortably pretty, with her soft face and gentle manner.
Mariah had never been pretty, even in her youth. She had had what people kindly referred to as character. Had they been more honest, they would have said her figure was handsome enough but her face was plain. Youth had lent her a certain bloom, but it was definitely a loan, not a gift. By the time she was thirty she had one strong, healthy son, and a number of miscarriages. She was deeply unhappy. Fear, shame, and a good deal of physical pain had embittered her, and it showed in the lines of her face.
And yet Cullen Wesley had still liked her.
Or had it been pity, because in his way, his sensitivity, he understood something about her?
No! She refused to allow that thought to remain in her mind. Peter Wesley had said his grandmother was in trouble, or was going to be, and Rowena needed Mariah to be there to help her. Softer, more appropriate, more favored friends would be no use.