Naylor to Applecross on Christmas Eve, so we may complete our covenant, and Isobel be free?
I await your answer with hope,
Your friend and servant,
Omegus Jones
She folded it with a smile and placed it in her escritoire in the drawer that had a lock on it, then she found Isobel and Mrs. Naylor and gave them Omegus’s invitation. The following morning she sent the same footman back with their acceptance.
They set out in the afternoon in order to arrive at Applecross for dinner. The day was crisp and cold, but this far south there was no snow yet, only a taste of frost in the air. By the time they arrived they were shivering, even beneath traveling rugs, and glad to alight and go into the great hall decked with holly and ivy, scarlet ribbons, gold-tipped pinecones, and great bowls of fruit. The fire blazed in the hearth, burning half a log. Footmen met them with glasses of mulled wine and marzipan sweetmeats, warm mince pies and candied peel.
In the hall was a huge fir tree decked with ornaments, candles, and chains of bright-colored paper. Beneath it were small, gaily wrapped gifts. The tree’s woody aroma filled the air, along with wood smoke, spiced scents, and, very faintly, the promise of roasted Christmas dinner and hot plum pudding. There was excitement in the whisper of maids’ voices and the quick rustle of their skirts.
Omegus was delighted to see them. He complimented Isobel, offered his deepest sympathies to Mrs. Naylor, and said he would tell her all she wished to know when she felt ready to ask, and would take her to the grave at her convenience.
She thanked him and said that festivities of the season must come first. It was a brave and generous thing to do, and exactly what Vespasia would have expected of her.
Ten minutes later when the others had gone, Omegus took Vespasia’s arm and held her with a startlingly firm grip when she made to move away. “I think you have more to tell me,” he said quietly.
She swiveled to face him. “More?”
He smiled very slightly. “I know you, my dear,” he told her. “You would not like Mrs. Naylor, as I see you obviously do, unless you had come to know her more than superficially. You have learned something of her which has moved you to admiration, something you do not give lightly. The same emotion is not in Isobel, so it seems likely to me that you have not confided it in her. I wonder why not, and the answer is possibly to do with Gwendolen’s death. Is it something I should know?”
Vespasia found herself blushing. She had not intended to tell him, and now she found she could not lie. It was not that she had not the imagination—it would have been simple enough—but she would lose something she valued intensely were she to place that barrier between them.
In a low, very soft voice, she told him what she had guessed and deduced of the truth of Kilmuir’s death.
“And you did not tell Isobel?” he asked gravely.
“No. It …” She saw in his eyes the criticism that was unspoken inside herself. “She has a right to know— doesn’t she?” she finished.
“Yes.” There was no equivocation in him.
“I shall tell her after dinner,” she promised. “After she has made peace with Lady Warburton.”
His eyebrows rose in question. “Do you not trust her to keep the same silence for others that she wishes kept for herself?”
Again Vespasia felt the heat burn up her cheeks. “I’m not sure,” she confessed. “Mrs. Naylor deserves that silence, and Gwendolen needs it. There is no oath to bind her for that.”
He put his hand over hers for an instant, then offered her his arm.
“Shall we go in to dinner?”
The meal was rich and excellent. After the main courses were finished, and long before anyone could think of the ladies withdrawing, Omegus rose to his feet, and the talk ceased.
“My friends, we are met together this Christmas Eve in order to keep an oath that we made less than a month ago. We promised them that if Isobel Alvie were to travel to Scotland and find Gwendolen’s mother, Mrs. Naylor, and give her Gwendolen’s last letter, and should Mrs. Naylor be willing, accompany her back here, then we would wipe from our memory all knowledge of her remarks to Gwendolen on the night of her death. Her part of that oath has been fulfilled.”
“You expect us to take her word for that?” Fenton Twyford asked, his face twisted in sarcasm.
“Mrs. Naylor is here,” Omegus answered him. “If you have doubts of Isobel, or of me, then you may ask her.” He indicated Mrs. Naylor where she sat calm and dignified at the table.
Fenton Twyford turned to her, met an icy stare, and changed his mind. Then he became aware of his impertinence and blushed.
The flicker of a smile crossed Omegus’s face. “It is now up to us to keep our part. Any man or woman who breaks it will cease to be known by the rest of us. We will not speak to them again, invite them to any event public or private, or in any way acknowledge their presence. They will have chosen to be a person whose honor is worthless. I cannot imagine anyone wishes to be such a … a creature. Mrs. Naylor has promised to be bound by the same code.” He turned to her.
“I have,” she said clearly. “And I wish to add to that what Mr. Jones does not know. Mrs. Alvie’s part in my daughter’s death was smaller than you or she are aware. It was simply the last straw added to a weight Gwendolen was already bearing, placed there by others, of which Mrs. Alvie had only a slight knowledge. I have no intention of telling you what burdens those were. It is better buried with her. Sufficient to say that it would be unjust for Mrs. Alvie to suffer more blame than she has—and which she has washed away by her acts toward me. It is over.”
Isobel turned to her, her eyes wide, her lips parted in astonishment and dawning anger. “You mean they were going to punish me—and I was only partly guilty?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Naylor agreed.
Isobel swung around to stare at Lady Warburton. “You would have ruined me, driven me into a wilderness from which I would never recover! And I wasn’t even guilty! Not entirely …”
Lady Warburton quaked. “I didn’t know!” she protested. “I thought you were!”
“You thought so yourself!” Blanche Twyford added. “You didn’t deny it!”
“Yes, I did!” Isobel spat at her. “You gave no mercy!”
“That is true,” Omegus cut across her, his voice clear and insistent, undeniable. “And mercy, the gift to forgive, to wash away from the memory as if it had not happened, to accept the gift of God which is love and hope, courage to begin again in the faith that redemption is come into the world, is the meaning of Christmas. That is why we are met here today. It is why we deck the halls with holly, why the bells will ring tonight from village to village across the land until the earth and the sky are filled with their sound.” He turned to Isobel, waiting for her answer, not in words on her lips, but in her eyes.
She hesitated only a moment. “Of course,” she answered softly. “I have made my journey and arrived at Christmas, perhaps only at this moment. I shall be grateful all my life that you offered it to me, and to Vespasia for coming with me, when she had no need. How could I accept it for myself, and deny it to another?”
“It is everyone’s journey,” Omegus said with a smile of utter sweetness. “No man needs to make it alone. But his choice to go with another is the one act of friendship which brings us closest to the Man who was born on the first Christmas, and is the Gift of them all.” He raised his glass. “To the friendship which never fades!”
All around the table the answering glasses were lifted.
