A Christmas Journey by Anne Perry Page B

with that woman! That is more punishment than I deserve, Vespasia. I said something stupid, a dozen words, that’s all!”
    â€œCruel,” Vespasia reminded her quietly, then wished she had been less blunt. It was not necessary. Isobel was perfectly aware of her fault. Vespasia had no right to demand proof of it every time. “And apart from finishing the task,” she said more gently, “I am not at all sure that we can leave here without Mrs. Naylor’s assistance. Do you have the faintest idea how to? I don’t even know where we are, do you?”
    â€œI must be mad!” Isobel was close to despair. “You’re right. I expect MacIan is on her side, and most certainly Finn is. Who is he, anyway? For that matter, what is this place, and what in the name of heaven is Mrs. Naylor doing here? Apart from apparently living in sin!”
    Vespasia ignored the gibe. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it is an interesting question. Why would a wealthy woman in her middle years choose to spend her time not only a great distance from the rest of society of any sort, but a virtually impossible distance? In fact, why did she not return to London after Kilmuir’s death, when Gwendolen did? It would be the most natural thing to do.”
    â€œThe only answer is that there was an estrangement,” Isobel answered. “Perhaps she will not wish to return to London, with us or alone.”
    â€œSleep on the thought, if you wish,” Vespasia said dryly. “But do not hold it longer than tomorrow morning.” She gave her a smile with as much warmth in it as she could find strength for. “We shall surmise it,” she added. “Just think of Lady Warburton’s face. She will be fit to spit teeth.”
    Isobel forced herself to smile back, recognizing kindness, if not practical help, and bade her good night.

    Vespasia meant to consider the puzzling question further when she was alone, but the bed was warm and soft, and she sank almost immediately into a nearly dreamless sleep. When she awoke it was to find Mrs. Naylor herself standing at the foot of the bed with a tray of tea in her hand. She set it on the table and sat down. It was apparent that she had no intention of being dismissed until she was ready to leave. Vespasia might be an earl’s daughter, but Mrs. Naylor was on her own territory, and no one could mistake it.
    â€œThank you,” Vespasia said as calmly as she was able to.
    â€œDrink it,” Mrs. Naylor responded. “I’ve had mine.” She poured it and passed the cup to Vespasia. “I have read my daughter’s letter. I have no intention of telling either you or Mrs. Alvie what was in it, but I should like you to answer a few questions before I accompany you south to pay my respects at the grave.”
    Vespasia’s response would normally have been anger, but there was both a gravity and a pain in this woman that made anything so self-indulgent seem absurd.
    â€œI will tell you what I can,” she said instead, sitting upright in the bed and sipping her tea. She should have felt at a disadvantage, dressed as she was in no more than her nightgown and with her hair around her shoulders, but Mrs. Naylor’s candor made that irrelevant also.
    â€œWhat was your real reason for coming here with Mrs. Alvie?” Mrs. Naylor asked.
    Vespasia’s ready answer died on her lips. This wild place where life and death hung on a pony’s footstep, a few inches between the sure path and the cliff edge or the freezing, squelching bog, stripped one of the pretensions that meant so much in society.
    â€œThen I will tell you,” Mrs. Naylor answered for her. “You were afraid she would not make it alone, her courage would fail her, and she would take the many excuses to turn back, if not the first, then the second. Why? What does it matter to you if she fails?”
    Vespasia thought for only a moment, then