Isobel’s face was flushed from the sudden warmth inside, but white around the eyes and lips. The final moment of testing had come, the last and the greatest, upon which all the rest depended.
Vespasia realized she was holding her breath, her hands clenched at her sides. She could not help. If she did, she would rob Isobel forever of the chance to earn her redemption.
Mrs. Naylor was waiting.
“Yes, it is of the utmost importance,” Isobel said at last, her words half-swallowed, her voice trembling. “I have never found anything harder in my life than bringing you the news that your daughter Gwendolen is dead. And I am bitterly ashamed that I contributed to the circumstances which brought it about.” She held out the envelope. Traveling had bent it a little, but it remained 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.
“I 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—”
“I 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.”
“Such loyalty …,” Mrs. Naylor murmured. “Or do you share the blame?”
“No, 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.
“She 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.
“We 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.
“You 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 value, this had to play itself out to the bitter end.
“Who else is aware of this?” Mrs. Naylor asked.
“No one, so far as I am aware,” Isobel answered. “Except Lady Vespasia.”
Mrs. Naylor turned to Vespasia.
“That is true,” Vespasia told her. “Mr. Omegus Jones arranged that she should be buried privately—in the chapel in his grounds, by a minister he knows who would regard it as an accident. If we brought you the news, in person, those others present at Applecross that weekend are bound by oath to say nothing of what happened which would challenge that account.”
“Really? And why would they do that?” Mrs. Naylor asked skeptically. “Society loves a scandal. Was it a group of saints you had there?” Her voice was hard-edged with grief and bitter past experience.
“No,” Vespasia answered before Isobel could. She moved a fraction forward toward the center of the room, commanding Mrs. Naylor’s attention. “They were very ordinary, self-regarding, ambitious, fragile people, just like those it seems you already know. They regarded Mrs. Alvie as to blame and were ready to ruin her, with that certain degree of pleasure that comes when you can do so with an excuse of self-righteousness.”
Mrs. Naylor’s face twisted at the memory, but she did not interrupt. Vespasia had her complete attention. The rest of the room, Finn, the fire crackling in the hearth, the wind beating against the window need not have existed.
“Mr. Jones proposed a trial, the verdict of which was to bind us, upon our oath,” Vespasia went on. “Whoever was found guilty should undertake a journey of expiation, which if completed, would wash out the sin. If they failed, then everyone else was free to ostracize them completely. But if they succeeded, then anyone who referred to it afterwards, for any reason public or private, should themselves meet with that same ostracism.”
“How very clever,” Mrs. Naylor said softly. “Your Mr. Jones is a man of the greatest wisdom. Expiation? I like that word. It conveys far more than punishment, or even repayment. It is a cleansing. Am I bound by this also?” She turned to Isobel, then back to Vespasia.
“You cannot be,” Vespasia answered, seeing the one ghastly flaw in Omegus’s plan. “You were not party to the oath.” She smiled faintly, like a ghost. “And it does not seem you would be greatly affected if society did not speak to you. I find it difficult to imagine you would know, let alone care.”
“You are quite right,” Mrs. Naylor agreed. “But this is sufficient explanation for tonight. You have ridden far, and in inclement weather. We have food aplenty and room to spare. And your ponies need rest, whether you do or not.” She looked at Isobel. “It will perhaps be harder for you to accept my hospitality than it will be for me to give it, but there is none other for miles around, so you had best learn to do it. Jean will find you rooms and food. I wish to retire and read my daughter’s last letter to me.” And she took Finn’s arm and went out, neither of them turning to look behind.
Isobel and Vespasia had no alternative but to follow Jean, a silent, buxom woman, to where she offered them food and rooms for the night. When they were settled, with the luggage placed conveniently for them, Isobel came to Vespasia’s door and accepted instantly the invitation to come in. Her face was pale, her dark eyes shadowed with misery.
“I’d almost rather sleep on the moor!” she said wretchedly. “She knows that! What do you think she’ll do tomorrow? Can we leave?”
“No. It is part of our oath that we accompany her to London, if she will allow us to,” Vespasia reminded her.
Isobel closed her eyes, her fists clenched by her sides. “I don’t think I can! Seven hundred miles, or more, with that woman! That is more punishment than I deserve, Vespasia. I said something stupid, a dozen words, that’s all!”
“Cruel,” 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
