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

her own,” Bedelia responded. “She will not be coming.”
    “Oh, dear! Is she unwell again?” Agnes asked sympathetically.
    “She will not be coming because I have not invited her,” Bedelia said tersely. “She was unforgivably rude.”
    “That was over a year ago!” Agnes protested.
    “It was,” Bedelia agreed. “What has that to do with it?”
    Agnes did not argue. She admired the rapidly progressing baubles, and returned to the task of organizing pies and tarts.
    “How very unpleasant,” Grandmama sympathized, wondering what on earth Mrs. Hethersett could have said that Bedelia still bore a grudge a year later, and at Christmas, of all times. “She must have been dreadfully rude to distress you so much.” She nearly added that she could not understand why people should be rude, but that was too big a lie to swallow. She could understand rudeness perfectly, and practice it to the level of an art. It was something she had never previously been ashamed of, but now it was oddly distasteful to her.
    “She imagines I will forget,” Bedelia responded. “But she is quite mistaken, as she will learn.”
    Grandmama bent to the stitching again, blending the bright colors with less pleasure, and wondered what Maude had done to Bedelia that old memories lingered so long in unforgiveness.
    Why had Maude returned now? Was it possible Grandmama was completely mistaken? Had she allowed her bored and lonely imagination to conjure up murder where there was only an unexpected death, and grief that looked like anger? And a proud woman who would not allow another to see that she was bitterly ashamed of having turned away her sister for fear that her behavior was socially inappropriate, and now regretted it so terribly when it was too late? Was Grandmama making a crime out of what was only a tragedy?

    D inner was tense again. As on the first night there was the palpable undercurrent of emotions that perhaps there always is in families: knowledge of weaknesses, indulgences, things said that would have been better forgotten, only there is always someone who will remind.
    Aloud they recalled past Christmases, particularly those when Randolph had been a boy, which necessarily excluded Clara. Grandmama studied her face and saw the flicker of hurt in it, and then of annoyance.
    The others were enjoying themselves. For once Arthur joined in the laughter and the open affection as Bedelia told a tale of Randolph’s surprise at receiving a set of tin soldiers in perfect replica of Wellington’s army at Waterloo. It seemed he had refused to come to the table, even for goose. He was so enraptured he could not put his soldiers down. Bedelia had tried to insist, but Arthur had said it was Christmas, and Randolph should do as he pleased.
    Grandmama found herself smiling also—until she saw the hunger in Zachary’s eyes, his look at Bedelia, Agnes’s look at him, and remembered that Randolph was the only one among all four of them likely to have a child. He was forty. Clara, strong-willed and ambitious, was a great deal younger. When would they have children? Or might that be another grief waiting in the wings?
    She would have liked to have had more children herself; a daughter like Charlotte might have made all the difference, or even like Emily. A lot of work, a lot of frustration and disappointment, but who could measure the happiness?
    It would be better if she did not think of the past anymore. Far better to treasure what you have than grieve over what you have not.
    She looked around their faces again. Why does anybody hate someone enough to kill them, with all the risk involved? You don’t, if you are sane. You kill to protect, to keep what you have and love: position, power, money, even safety from scandal, the pain of humiliation, or loss, or the terror in loneliness. She could easily imagine that. Perhaps we were all as fragile, if one found the right passion, the fear that eats at the soul.
    She looked at the light from the