by Anne Perry
His face was full of pain, and she believed also of guilt. That was what hurt her. Not that he might have loved someone else twenty years ago. There would be something missing in him if he had never loved before, something essential to sanity, to a whole heart. It was that he carried that guilt with him still, and the anger. And the inability to forgive himself. “And you have started looking into this Philippe again? Could he have heard that you did?”
“I…suppose so. It’s not likely, though.”
How could she tell him that he might never catch Philippe and that he was hurting not Philippe, but himself, by pursuing it still? “Tell me about it,” she said instead.
He looked away. “It’s over. You’re right. They could all of them be dead, for all I know.”
“They’re not dead to you, and that is what matters. At least to me it is.”
He looked up at her. “Why? None of them can change anything now. And it has nothing to do with Cavendish.”
“It is not what happened that matters anymore,” she answered, certain of the truth of it in her mind. “It is what we make of it that matters now, how we see it. It is still weighing far too heavily on you.”
“I made a bad error!” There was desperation in his voice.
“Victor, we all make bad errors.”
“Have you made any errors that cost another person her life?” he asked bitterly. “Their hearts, maybe. Their feelings on love, almost certainly. But could you have helped that? I think it arrogant to suppose so. People fall in love for all sorts of reasons, often personal, vulnerable, even fleeting.”
“I have done more than play in society, Victor. We have had many revolutionary times since then. And I haven’t been in England all the time. I have meddled in other nations’ affairs, not always with the best results. I lost, in many of the causes I espoused, and wondered how I could have been taken in so easily. They’re irrelevant now. I knew kings and princes, soldiers and politicians. I used such wit and beauty as I possessed. I would find it hard to justify now. I succeeded sometimes, and sometimes I failed. In either, I could have been wrong.”
“Wasn’t it before we met? Do I need to know about it?” he asked with a slight frown. There was urgency in his voice.
Was he vulnerable to jealousy? It was all in the past now, but she found his emotion touching, possibly ridiculous, but she wanted to ease it all the same. It moved her deeply that it could still matter to him. “Not at all,” she said easily, taking a seat on the bed. “I thought of it only because you reminded me how simple it is to make mistakes and allow them to haunt you. Now tell me what happened in Normandy that might have relevance to this. And for heaven’s sake, sit down, even if you would prefer to do so on the far side of the bed.”
He walked round and sat on the far side, as she had suggested, but properly on the bed, with his feet up and his head on the piled-up pillows, not looking as if he were wanting to escape.
“It was about twenty years ago,” he began. “And summer, not Christmas. A beautiful château in the countryside, near the sea. I remember the grasses were almost waist-high, and there were wildflowers. Edith was to hand over a package of documents. I can’t quite remember what they were. Letters, I think. Incriminating letters. There were several other guests, to make up the numbers. I appeared to be just one of them, to watch Edith and keep her safe. Which I failed to do.” He was staring at the far wall, as if he could see the fields of France as he spoke, even smell the wind off the grass and beyond it the sea.
Vespasia knew France as well. It woke the same ache of loveliness in her as it seemed to in him, and some of the same shadows as well. She had regrets, too, but this time her regret was about him. “What happened?” she asked.
Reluctantly he spoke about the part he had clearly been dreading. “Edith was dead. I never found the package. Presumably the person who killed her took it.” His voice dropped in volume. “It never reached its destination, I know that. It’s an open wound. It could have been any of them. Just like with Iris. But I heard some news lately, quite by chance, that made me think it was Philippe.”
“This is not finished yet,” Vespasia said abruptly. “Iris is not dead. She may recover. And we have the package, and you will deliver it to whom it was intended.” She took a breath. “But it is Max who wishes to destroy you. He hates you, of that I am perfectly certain.”
He looked at her, eyes narrowed, waiting. “Quite a few people dislike me, Vespasia.”
“I’m not talking about dislike. If you stand for anything at all, there will be people who dislike you,” she said impatiently. “I chose the word hate because I meant it. I saw it in his face, quite undisguised. He is getting ready for the coup de grâce. I—I think it has nothing to do with Iris. She is incidental.”
“Edith?” he said in disbelief.
“My dear, she is relevant to you because you blame yourself for her death, and perhaps you were at fault. I don’t know….”
He winced.
She felt the pain of it, as if it had wounded her, too. “What is it? That you are imperfect, too? Like the rest of us? Victor, did you suppose I did not know you’ve made errors, mistakes, and perhaps worse? If not, what would we have in common? You might forgive my flaws, but you would never understand them. There would always be blemishes you would prefer were not there. Can you really forgive, if you have no need to be forgiven?”
He stopped even trying to hide the doubt and the need in him. “Have you scars…like that?”
“You ask as if you thought I was perfect,” she said, smothering her own sharp knowledge of fault.
“Is that what makes you so beautiful? Mercy?” he said softly.
Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and she leaned across the bed to put her lips to his cheek. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be so…absurd. I love you! I wouldn’t if you were perfect and invulnerable! It’s a journey. You are not there yet, and neither am I!”
He turned a little to touch his lips to hers, and then kissed her long, gently, and more deeply, and then again, this time on her neck, and pulled away the lace covering her bosom. She put out her arms to draw him closer.
* * *
It had rained in the night, but the wind had blown the clouds away, and daylight brought a Christmas Eve filled with spectacular sun on films of ice. Every bare branch or twig was crusted with it, every blade of the sparse winter grass shivering with crystals.
“I think today we shall finish it,” was all Vespasia said before they went down to breakfast. She did not mention Cavendish’s hatred again. “We must do something to precipitate the final action. Because if we don’t, he will! And he is too clever for us to allow him that advantage.”
“I’m quite aware of that,” Narraway said with a tight smile. “As is poor James.”
“He doesn’t know it is Cavendish!” she reminded him. “And I am certainly not going to keep an appointment with anyone in the orangery, at midnight or any other time.”
“I hope you’re not. Besides, I don’t imagine he would be so obliging as to repeat himself. If indeed it is he. And we have not proved that.”
“I don’t believe it is Rafe Allenby,” she said. “And I’ve been thinking about something I saw in the garden the day after we arrived. I’d almost forgotten about it but it came back to me when I first woke and now I understand. I saw James and Dorian Brent quarreling in the garden. They even came to blows. James accused Dorian of following Iris about, but now I know how these things work—now that you’ve explained the courier has a protector, I realize that’s Dorian’s role. He evaded a proper explanation to James, and that makes sense, too. His look of blank despair now and again must be because he feels as you did in Normandy. To have attacked her would be self-defeating to his career, as well as pointless.”
“Yes, you must be right. If only I’d seen them for myself, I might have
guessed then. But you couldn’t possibly interpret what you saw, and doubtless thought Dorian was just making a fool of himself.”
“That leaves only Cavendish, or some stranger who broke into the orangery in the night. We have already dismissed that as absurd. Cavendish must feel the net closing around him. He cannot imagine you will let it go! He has some knowledge of Normandy. He must have! Who is Philippe to him? Who is anyone who was there?”
“I don’t know…” He stopped.
“Know what? What is it, Victor?”
“I was going to say he had no connection with the Home Office then, and so nothing to do with Special Branch, but I forgot that he did…very briefly…and disastrously for his career. It was before he married Amelia. He was totally unsuited to the position, and that cost him a safe seat in Parliament.”
“And you were responsible?”
“No. It was his own damn fault! But I was the one who eventually tripped him up. I could have let it slide, but I was a bit more judgmental then.”
“Was your judgment wrong?” she asked perfectly levelly.
“If he’s behind this, then I was right. The position needed a man who could not be persuaded to act against his nature, by me or anyone else. But he wanted it. He was ambitious. It still scalds him that Amelia had the money and the title. Not that it makes any difference now, except to the balance between them. History will repeat itself; they have only daughters.”
“So, it will not be Cavendish Hall anymore,” she said.
“Did you know her before she married him?” he asked with some surprise.
“When we first met, it must have been just after Genevieve died.”
“Genevieve?”
“His first wife. She was very sweet. Or perhaps I remember her that way because she died so young…in childbirth.”
“I could forgive Cavendish a lot for that,” he said quietly.
“It happens. Women do die in childbirth….It is not rare.”
“And the child, too?” His voice quivered slightly.
“I think her parents took him. Wait, I don’t think it was a boy. No, I’m almost certain it was a girl,” she corrected herself.
“So, Cavendish lost her, too,” Narraway said quietly.
Vespasia shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard him mention her. Certainly, Amelia’s never had her. After breakfast, I think I’ll go for a brief walk. It’s a wonderful garden, the one thing in all this that is totally unspoiled.”
“Well, you’d better enjoy it while you can, my dear,” he said wryly, “because I am perfectly certain we will not be invited again.”
They set off down the wide sweeping staircase and across the hall to the dining room, where breakfast was set out. All of the others, except James, were there and had begun their meal.
“You look a little pale, Vespasia,” Amelia observed. “I hope you are quite well. Is it all…too much for you?” It was said quite gently, but no one missed the barb beneath it.
Vespasia gave a secret little smile. On the face of a woman less beautiful it might have been called a smirk. “There are things for which one never grows too old,” she answered. “I am glad you provide such a wonderful breakfast. I find I’m quite hungry.” And she went to the sideboard and helped herself to bacon, scrambled eggs, and two slices of fresh crisp toast.
Conversation staggered a bit and then resumed.
“It’s a glorious morning,” Rosalind said cheerfully.
“Indeed,” Cavendish agreed. “But I would take advantage while you can. It is forecast to rain later. Quite heavily, they say.”
Amelia’s eyebrows rose. “Who are they?”
“One of the gardening boys, if I need to be precise. Gardeners seem to be a step ahead of us, regarding the weather.” He looked back at the rest of the table and spoke to no one in particular. “It’s rained quite hard in the hills, and the rivers were high anyway. Damn cold last night, but it’s going to warm up. No snow for Christmas, I’m afraid, just a couple of feet more water in the river.” He smiled, as if at a memory. “It’s quite dramatic in full flood. Makes quite a whirlpool under the weir. Would you pass me the marmalade, Narraway? It’s rather good. Another month or so and it’ll be time for a new batch.”
“Oranges…in January?” Georgiana asked in surprise.
“Seville, you know. The only ones that make decent marmalade. Got to have a bite to it or it’s not worth bothering.”
No one replied.
Vespasia began her breakfast. She was truly hungry. She had said so to annoy Amelia, but it was not an exaggeration. She had slept well, when they had finally gone to sleep. The things that mattered most in her life were well. In fact, they were very well. There had been a tenderness between them, the depth of which was new, and infinitely sweet.
* * *
As soon as she had finished her breakfast, Vespasia excused herself and went to the servants’ quarters, specifically the housekeeper’s bedroom. It took a moment or two to obtain permission to go inside, an inconvenience she appreciated, and she thanked the footman at the door for his diligence.
Inside, the room was warm, a small fire smoldering in the hearth. There were colored candles lit on the mantelpiece, wreaths of bright-berried holly on top of the chest of drawers and on the inside of the door, and scarlet ribbons tied to the footposts of the bed.
James was slumped forward in his chair, sound asleep, one hand on the coverlet where he had almost certainly been touching Iris, whose hand lay an inch or two away.
Vespasia closed the door quietly, making only the softest sound.
Iris moved, very slightly, then opened her eyes.
Vespasia felt such an upsurge of pleasure that her breath caught in her throat. “Iris? How are you? Can you move?”
“Of course I can move,” Iris said with surprise, and made to sit up. Then she winced and lay back again. “Oh! My head…hurts. What happened?” Confusion showed in her face, but she made no more effort to move.
Vespasia sat down on the edge of the bed and took Iris’s hand, and, as Iris’s fingers closed over hers, she squeezed them very gently. “Someone hit you when you were in the orangery. I’m afraid you have been unconscious for more than a day, and we were very afraid for you. But you are obviously going to be fine.”
Iris frowned. “I don’t remember….” She turned very slowly and looked at James.
“He’s been here all the time,” Vespasia told her.
Iris smiled and tears slid down her cheeks, but they were tears of happiness. “He wouldn’t leave me,” she whispered. “Ever…”
“You don’t, when you love someone,” Vespasia replied. “In a minute I shall waken him so he can see you are back again with us. First, I must ask you, do you know who struck you?”
“No…I…really don’t remember. Maybe it will come back to me….” Iris looked confused again, even guilty.
“No matter.” Vespasia dismissed it with a flick of her hand. “You are quite safe here in the housekeeper’s room, and we will find out.” She stood up and put her hand on James’s where it lay on the edge of the bed. “James! Iris is back. I think you should welcome her….”
James opened his eyes, blinking, trying to remember where he was. Then he saw Iris, still resting against the pillows but with her eyes open, smiling at him.
“Iris!” He blinked several times. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God!” He reached forward and laid his hand over hers, gazing at her face as if unable to look away in case it was a dream and the slightest thing would awaken him.
“I imagine you might like a cup of tea,” Vespasia interrupted him. “Shall I ask the housekeeper to send in a tray?”
James looked up at her. “Yes, please.”
Vespasia went out the door, smiling, told the footman to remain where he was, and went
to look for Mrs. Pugh.
The housekeeper was delighted, but Vespasia instructed her to say nothing to the rest of the staff yet.
“It was not an accident, Mrs. Pugh,” she said quietly. “Somebody did this, and may well try again, if we are not careful. Please leave the guard at the door, and do not yet spread the good news.”
“Very well, m’lady, but I’m ever so pleased she’s come to. And her husband, poor man. I don’t think he’s eaten a thing! Who would have done it? Couldn’t it have been an accident?”
“I’m afraid not. But we will find out, and it will be taken care of. But for the time being, silence is the safest thing for us all.”
* * *
She told Narraway when she found him alone in the magnificent library. At another time, she would have been happy to spend a whole day in this room, or even two. He was sitting in one of the deep green leather chairs. He looked up immediately on hearing her footsteps.
She closed the door behind her. “Iris is awake,” she said, almost under her breath.
“Thank God! Who have you told?” he asked.
“Mrs. Pugh, the housekeeper, whom I’ve instructed to keep quiet. The danger’s not past; Iris doesn’t remember anything….”
“Too early to say whether she ever will,” he answered immediately.
“I’ll stay with her,” Vespasia promised. “If I have to go, I’ll make sure at least two of the servants are around. And I doubt James will leave, except to change clothes.”
He nodded briefly. No more was necessary. They understood each other completely.
* * *
It was a long, strange day. The tension did not ease. As far as anyone else knew, Iris was still unconscious, and someone still in this house had attacked her, presumably with the intent to kill. Vespasia was in and out of the housekeeper’s room. Mrs. Pugh saw to it that Iris had clean linen and clean clothes to wear as soon as she had recovered enough and it was safe to let her survival be known.