A Christmas Journey by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page A

answered, and again she went in.
    Isobel was standing in the middle of the floor, her body stiff, her face white with misery. “Don’t you ever wait to be invited?” Her husky voice was on the edge of losing control.
    Vespasia closed the door behind her. “I don’t think I can afford to wait,” she replied.
    Isobel took a deep breath, steadying herself with a visible effort. “And what can you possibly say that matters?” she asked.
    Vespasia swept her considerable skirt to one side and sat down on the bedroom chair, as if she intended to stay for some time. “Do you intend to accept virtual banishment? And don’t delude yourself that it will only be by those who are here this weekend, because it will not. They will repeat it all as soon as they return to London. By next season all society will have one version of it or another. If you are honest, you know that is true.”
    Isobel’s eyes swam with tears, but she refused to give way to them. “Are you going to suggest that I accept the blame for Gwendolen’s death and take this wretched letter to her mother?” she said, her voice choking. “All I did was imply that she was ambitious, which was perfectly true. Most women are. We have to be.”
    â€œYou were cruel, and funny at her expense.” Vespasia added the further truth. “You implied she was ambitious, but also that her love for Bertie would cease to exist were he in a different social or financial class.”
    Isobel’s dark eyes widened. “And you are claiming that it would not? You believe she would marry a greengrocer? Or a footman?”
    â€œOf course not,” Vespasia said impatiently. “To begin with, no greengrocer or footman would ask her. The point is irrelevant. Your remark was meant to crush her and make her appear greedy and, more important, to make Bertie see her love for him as merely opportunism. Don’t be disingenuous, Isobel.”
    Isobel glared at her, but she was too close to losing control to trust herself to speak.
    â€œAnyway,” Vespasia went on briskly. “None of it matters very much—”
    â€œIs that what you intruded into my bedroom to tell me?” Isobel gasped, the tears brimming over and running down her cheeks. “Get out! You are worse than they are! I imagined you were my friend, and, my God, how mistaken I was! You are a hypocrite!”
    Vespasia remained exactly where she was. She did not even move enough to rustle the silk of her gown. “What matters,” she said steadily, “is that we face the situation as it is, and deal with it. None of them is interested in the truth, and it is unlikely we will ever know exactly why Gwendolen killed herself, far less prove it to people who do not wish to know. But Omegus has offered you a chance not only to expiate whatever guilt you might have, but to retain your position in society and oblige everyone here to keep absolute silence about it or face ostracism themselves—which is a feat of genius, I believe.” She smiled slightly. “And if you succeed, you will have the pleasure of watching them next season, watching you and being unable to say a word. Lady Warburton and Blanche Twyford will find it extremely hard. They will suffer every moment of forced civility in silence. That alone should be of immeasurable satisfaction to you. It will be to me!”
    Isobel smiled a little tremulously. She took a shuddering breath. “All the way to Inverness?”
    â€œThere will be trains,” Vespasia responded. “The line goes that far now.”
    Isobel looked away. “That will be the least part of it. I daresay it will take days, and be cold and uncomfortable, with infinite stops. But facing that woman, and giving her Gwendolen’s letter, which might say anything about me! And having to wait and watch her grief? It will be … unbearable!”
    â€œIt will be difficult, but not