difficult of all, and that you might surely need a friend,” she answered. “Had I been making it, I should not have wished to do it alone. And Omegus did not send me.”
Shame filled Isobel’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said huskily. “I have not ever been that sort of a friend to anyone. I find it hard to believe you could do it for me. Why should you? I … I don’t think I would do it for you.” She looked away. “Not that you would ever need it, of course.”
Vespasia was tempted to answer her with truth, even to tell her some of the weight she carried within her, which was not only loneliness but, if she were honest, guilt as well, and fear. She had buried her memories of Rome, of passion, of the inner joy of not being alone in her dreams. Deliberately she had forced herself not to think of talking with someone who understood her words even before she said them, who filled one hunger even as he awoke others. She had refused to look at remembrance of the exhilaration of fighting with all her time and strength for a cause she believed in. She had returned to duty, to a round of social chitchat about a hundred things that did not matter and never had. She was now sitting with Isobel, whom she knew so little of, and who knew her even less. They were sharing the outward hardships of a journey, with an uncrossable gulf between them on the inner purpose of it. She had no crusade anymore. She had no battle to fight except against boredom, and there was no victory at the end of it, only another day to fill with pastimes that nourished nothing inside her.
“You have no idea whether I would or not,” she said quietly. “You know nothing about me, except what you see on the outside, and that is mostly whatever I wish you to see, as it is with all of us.”
Isobel looked startled. It had never occurred to her that Vespasia was anything more than the perfect beauty she seemed.
The fire was burning low. The wind battered the rain against the glass and whined in the eaves. Unless it eased, the boat journey down the loch to Ballachulish was going to be rough and unpleasant, but at this time of the year it would be days if not weeks before there was another fine, still day. Waiting for it was not a choice.
Isobel seemed lost in thought, overcome by new, previously unimagined ideas.
“Why did you say what you did to Gwendolen?” Vespasia asked. “You half implied that her choice somehow lay between servants and gentlemen, and she chose gentlemen for reasons of money and ambition.”
Isobel blushed. It was visible even in the dying firelight. It was several moments before she answered, and she did not look at Vespasia even then. “I know it was cruel,” she said softly. “I suppose that’s why I’m really making this ridiculous journey. Otherwise, when we got to Inverness and found Mrs. Naylor wasn’t home, I might have posted the letter and said I had done my best.” She gave a little shudder. “No—that’s not true. I’m doing it because I know I won’t survive in society if I don’t, and I have nowhere else to go, nowhere else I know how to behave or what to do.”
“The reason?” Vespasia prompted.
Isobel lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. “Gossip. Stupid, I expect, but I heard it in more than one place.”
Vespasia waited. “That is only half an answer,” she said at last.
Isobel chewed her lip. “Everyone turns a blind eye if a man beds a handsome parlor maid or two, as long as he is reasonably discreet about it. A woman who was known to have slept with a footman would be ruined. She would be branded a whore. Her husband would disown her for it, and no one would blame him.”
Vespasia could hardly believe it. “Are you saying Gwendolen Kilmuir slept with a footman? She must be insane! Far madder than her mother!”
Isobel looked at her at last. “No, I’m not saying she did, simply that there were rumors. Actually I think Kilmuir started them.” She shut her eyes as if twisted by some deep, internal pain. “He was paying rather a lot of attention to Dolly Twyford, Fenton’s youngest sister.”
“I thought she wasn’t married!” Vespasia was incredulous. There was a convention in certain circles: Once one had borne the appropriate children to one’s husband, a married woman might then indulge her tastes, and as long as she did not behave with such indiscretion that it could not be overlooked, no one would chastise her for it. However, for a man to have an affair with a single woman was quite another thing. That would ruin her reputation and make any acceptable marriage impossible for her.
“She wasn’t,” Isobel agreed. “That was the whole point. The suggestion was that Gwendolen’s conduct was so outrageous he would divorce her, and then after a suitable period, not very long, he would marry Dolly.”
“Were they in love?”
“With what?” Isobel raised her eyebrows. “Dolly wanted a position in society, and the title probably coming to Kilmuir, and he wanted children. He had been married to Gwendolen for six years, and there were none so far. He was growing impatient. At least, that was the gossip.” Her voice dropped. “And I knew it.”
Vespasia did not answer. To say that it did not matter would be a dishonesty that would serve no one. Some penance was due for such a cruelty, and they were both deeply aware of it. But more than that, her mind was racing over the new picture of Gwendolen as it emerged now. Had Bertie Rosythe heard the gossip, as well, and was that the truth of why he had not gone after her and reassured her of his love? Or worse than that, had he gone and, far from offering her any comfort, made it plain that he had no intentions toward her? Did she see herself as ruined, not only for him but for any marriage at all?
Or worse even than that, could such rumors be true? Which raised the bitterly ugly question of whether Kilmuir’s death had been a highly fortunate accident for Gwendolen, releasing her from the possibility of a scandalous divorce, from which her reputation would never have recovered. Instead she had become a widow, with everyone’s sympathy, and excellent prospects in time of marrying again. How fortunate for her that it had been Mrs. Naylor who had been with him in the carriage, and not Gwendolen herself.
They discussed it no more. The fire was fading, and sleep beckoned like comforting arms. They were both happy to go upstairs and sink into oblivion until the morning should require them to face the elements and attempt to reach Ballachulish.
It was a hard journey, even though not long as the crow or the gull were to fly. The sharp west wind obliged the little boat to tack back and forth down the coast through choppy seas, and both Isobel and Vespasia were relieved to put ashore at last in the tiny town of Ballachulish and feel the earth firm beneath their feet. They crossed the road from the harbor wall, heads down against the sleet, wind gusting, tearing skirts, and made their way to the inn. They asked the landlord about Mrs. Naylor, and his response brought them close to despair.
“Och, I’m that sorry to tell ye, but Mistress Naylor left Ballachulish nigh on a year ago!” he told them with chagrin.
“Left?” Isobel could scarcely believe it. “But she can’t! Her household in Inverness told us she was here!”
“Aye, and so she was,” he agreed, nodding. “But she left a year ago this Christmas. Grand lady, she was. Never knew any lady of such spirit, for all that she was as English as you are.”
Isobel swallowed. “Where did she go? Do you know?”
“Aye, I do. Up through the Glen and over the moor to the Orchy. You’ll no be going that way, though, till May or so. Even then it’s a wild journey. Horses you’ll need. The High Road passes right around there, and then south.”
Isobel looked at Vespasia, the first signs of defeat in her eyes.
Vespasia felt a rush of pity, first for Isobel, knowing what awaited her in London if she failed. They would not care what the reason was, or if they could or would have done differently themselves. They were looking for excuses, and any would serve. Then she felt for Mrs. Naylor. However mad she was, whatever reason had brought her here and then driven her to go up into Glencoe and beyond, she still deserved to be told about her daughter’s death face-to-face, not in a letter half a year late.
“I accept that it may be difficult,” she said to the landlord. “Is it possible, with good horses and a guide?”
The man considered for several seconds. “Aye,” he said at last. “Ye’ll be used to riding, I take it?”
Vespasia looked at Isobel. She had no idea of the answer.
Isobel nodded. “Certainly. I’ve ridden in London often enough.”
“Ye’ll be needing a guide,” he warned.
“Naturally,” Vespasia agreed. “Would you arrange one for us, at whatever you consider a fair rate?”
Isobel blinked, but she made no demur.
