A Christmas Journey by Anne Perry

sealed. “This is the letter she wrote to you.”
    The man who had opened the door to them moved silently to Mrs. Naylor and put his arm around her, holding her steady. He did it as naturally as if physical contact between them were understood. There was a great tenderness in his face, but he did not speak.
    The silence stretched until the pain in it was a tangible thing in the room.
    â€œI see,” Mrs. Naylor said at last. “How did it happen?” She stared at Isobel with huge, almost unblinking eyes, as if she could read everything that was in Isobel’s mind and beneath it, in the search for a truth she would rather not look at, even herself.
    Isobel struggled to tear her gaze away, and failed. “At Applecross,” she began, falteringly. “It was a long weekend house party, rather more of a week. I don’t know if—”
    â€œI am perfectly acquainted with weekend house parties, Mrs. Alvie,” Mrs. Naylor said coldly. “You do not need to explain society or its customs to me. How did my daughter die, and what cause have you to blame yourself? I might think you spoke only as a manner of expressing your sympathy, but I can see in your face that you are in some very real way responsible.” She looked briefly at Vespasia. “Does this include you also, Lady Vespasia? Or are you here simply as chaperone?”
    Vespasia was startled that Mrs. Naylor knew of her, as the use of her title made clear. “Mrs. Alvie felt the duty to tell you herself, regardless of what the journey involved,” she answered. “It is not one a friend would permit her to attempt alone.”
    â€œSuch loyalty …,” Mrs. Naylor murmured. “Or do you share the blame?”
    â€œNo, she doesn’t,” Isobel cut in. “It was I who made the remark. Lady Vespasia had nothing to do with it.”
    Mrs. Naylor blinked. “The remark?”
    Finn made a movement to interrupt, but Mrs. Naylor held up her hand peremptorily. “I will hear this! You know me better than to imagine I will faint or otherwise collapse. Tell me, Mrs. Alvie, how did my daughter die?”
    Isobel drew a deep, shivering breath. They were all still standing in the big hallway, relieved only of their outer and wettest clothing. No one had yet eaten a morsel.
    â€œShe went out after darkness, when the rest of us had retired, and threw herself from the bridge across the end of the ornamental lake,” Isobel answered. “We learned it only the next morning, when it was too late.”
    Finn grasped Mrs. Naylor by both arms, but she did not stagger or lean back against him. Her face was ashen white. “And in what way were you to blame, Mrs. Alvie?” she asked.
    No one in the room moved. There was to be no mercy.
    â€œWe all believed that Bertie Rosythe would propose marriage to her that weekend,” Isobel said hoarsely, her voice a dry rustle in the silence. “I made a cruel remark to the effect that she would not have loved him, had he been penniless or a servant. I made it from envy, because I also am a widow and had hoped to remarry, possibly to Bertie.” She took a deliberate, shuddering breath. “I had no idea it would cause her such distress, but I accept that it did. Apparently he did not go after her to tell her that he knew it was nonsense. I … I am deeply ashamed.” She did not look away but remained facing Mrs. Naylor.
    â€œYou do not need to tell me why you chose that particular barb,” Mrs. Naylor said quietly, her voice brittle, every word falling with clarity. “Your face betrays that you heard the rumors and knew the weakness in her armor. Please don’t let yourself down by denying it.”
    The tears stood out in Isobel’s eyes. “I wasn’t going to,” she answered. Vespasia wondered if that were true, and was glad it had not been put to the test. She hated standing here helplessly, but to be of any