Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels by Anne Perry

scuffed boots. They were of moderate quality linen, cotton, and some of raw, unbleached wool. She wondered in what marvelous places Maude had worn these. What had she seen, what emotions of joy, pain, or loneliness had she felt? Had she longed for home, or had she been at home wherever she was, with friends, even people who loved her?
    She glanced across at Bedelia and studied her face as she pulled out a length of silk striped in purples, scarlets, crimsons, and tawny golds mingled with a hot pink. She drew in her breath sharply. At first it seemed to be pleasure, excitement, even a kind of longing. Then her mouth hardened and there was hurt in her eyes.
    “Good heavens above!” she said sharply. “What on earth could she have worn this for? Whatever is it?” She shook it out until it billowed and appeared to be a sheet with very little distinctive shape. “One can only hope it was a gift, and not something she purchased for herself. No woman could wear such a thing, even at twenty, never mind at Maude’s age! She would have looked like something out of the circus!” She started to laugh, then stopped abruptly. “A very good thing we looked at this first, Mrs. Ellison. If the servants had seen it we should be the talk of the village.”
    Grandmama felt her fury flare up and if she had dared she would have lashed out verbally in Maude’s defense. But there were bigger considerations, and with intense difficulty she choked back the words. She forced herself to look as close to good-natured as she could manage, which effort cost her dearly. “Instead they will be talking about the gorgeous and perfectly unique ornaments on your tree,” she said sweetly. “And you will be able to say that they are a remembrance of your sister.”
    Bedelia sat rigid, her eyes unmoving, her face set. It could have been grief, or the complexity and hurt of any memory, including anger that would never now be redeemed, or regret for forgiveness too late. Or even debts uncollected. The only thing Grandmama was certain of was that the emotion was deep, and that it brought no ease or pleasure.
    They took the silks downstairs and Bedelia cut into them with large fabric shears. Bright clouds like desert sunsets drifted across the table and onto the floor. Grandmama picked them up and began to work on the papier-mâché and paste to make the basic balls before they should be covered in the bright gauze. After that they would stitch little dolls to dress in the gold and bronze and white with pearls. She smiled at the prospect. It was fun to create beauty.
    But she was not here to enjoy herself. This silk in her hands had been a wonderful, wild, garish robe that Maude had worn on the hot roads of Arabia, or somewhere like it.
    “I imagine Maude must have known some very different people,” she said thoughtfully. “They would seem odd to us, perhaps even frightening.” She allowed the lamplight to fall on the purple silk and the brazen red. “I cannot imagine wearing these colors together.”
    “Nor could anyone else outside a fairground!” Bedelia responded. “You see why we could not have her here when Lord Woollard stayed. We allowed him the courtesy of not shocking or embarrassing him.”
    “Is he a man of small experience?” Grandmama inquired with as much innocence as she could contrive.
    “Of discreet taste and excellent family,” Bedelia said coolly. “His wife, whom I have met, is the sister of one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting. An excellent person.”
    Perhaps even a week ago Grandmama would have been impressed. Now all she could think of was Maude’s Persian garden with the small owls in the dusk.
    There was a knock on the door and Agnes came in. A brief conversation followed about parties, games to be played, especially blindman’s bluff, and of course refreshments.
    “We must remember some lemon curd tarts for Mrs. Hethersett,” Agnes reminded her. “She is always so fond of them.”
    “She will have to make