Vespasia looked at Isobel and saw the strain in her face. She felt a moment’s deep sorrow for her. Whatever the prize, defeat is a bitter taste.
Peter Hanning was saying something trivial, and everyone laughed. There was a goblet of water on the side table. Gwendolen asked for it.
Bertie reached across swiftly and picked it up, then set it on the tray, which had been left there. He passed it to her, balanced in one hand, bowing as he did so. “Madame,” he said humbly. “Your servant forever.”
Gwendolen put out her hand.
“For heaven’s sake, you look like a footman!” Isobel’s voice was clear and brittle. “Surely you aspire to be more than that? She’s hardly going to give her favors to a servant! At least, not permanently!”
The moment froze. It was a dreadful statement, and Vespasia winced.
“She will require a gentleman,” Isobel went on. “After all, Kilmuir could look forward to a title.” She turned to Gwendolen. “Couldn’t he?”
Gwendolen was white. “I love the man,” she said huskily. “The status means nothing to me.”
Isobel raised her eyebrows very high. “You would give yourself to him if he were really a footman?” she asked incredulously. “My dear, I believe you!”
Gwendolen stared at her, but her gaze was inward, as if she saw a horror beyond description, almost beyond endurance. Then slowly she rose to her feet, her eyes hollow. She seemed a trifle unsteady.
“Gwendolen!” Bertie said quickly, but she walked past him as if suddenly he were invisible to her. She stumbled to the door, needing a moment or two to grasp the handle and turn it, then went out into the hall.
Lady Warburton turned on Isobel. “Really, Mrs. Alvie, I know you imagine that you are amusing, at least at times, but that remark merely exposed your envy, and it is most unbecoming.” She swiveled to face Omegus Jones. “If you will excuse me, I shall make sure that poor Gwendolen is all right.” And with a crackle of skirts she swept out.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Vespasia decided to take control before the situation degenerated. She turned to Isobel. “I don’t think this can be salvaged with any grace. We would do better to retreat and leave well enough alone. Come. It is late anyway.”
Isobel hesitated only a moment, glancing at the ring of startled and embarrassed faces, and realized she could only agree.
Outside in the hall Vespasia took her arm, forcing her to stop before she reached the bottom of the stairs. “What on earth has got hold of you?” she demanded. “You will have to apologize to Gwendolen tomorrow, and to everyone else. Being in love with Bertie does not excuse what you did, and you would be a great deal better off if you had not made yourself so obvious!”
Isobel glared at her, her face ashen but for the high spots of color in her cheeks, but she was too close to tears to answer. She was now perfectly aware of how foolish she had been, and that she had made not Gwendolen but herself look vulnerable. She shook her arm free and stormed up the stairs without looking backwards.
Vespasia did not sleep well. Certainly Isobel had behaved most unfortunately, but marriage, with love or without it, was a very serious business. For a woman it was the only honorable occupation, and battles for an eligible man of the charm and the financial means of someone like Bertie Rosythe were fought to the last ditch. She hurt for the pain Isobel must feel, a pain she had just made a great deal worse for herself. Vespasia could only imagine it. Her own marriage had been easily arranged. Her father was an earl, and she herself was startlingly beautiful. She could have been a duchess had she wished. She preferred a man of intelligence and an ambition to do something useful, and who loved her for herself and gave her a great deal of freedom. It was a good bargain. The kind of love for which she hungered was well lost and offered to very few—and belonged in dreams and hot Roman summers of manning the barricades against overwhelming odds. One loves utterly, and then yields to honor and duty and returns home to live with other realities, leaving the height and the ache of passion behind.
She rose in the morning and, with her maid’s assistance of course, dressed warmly in a blue-gray woolen gown against the December frost and a very sharp wind whining in the eaves and seeking to find every crack in the windows. She went downstairs to face the other guests and whatever difficulties the night had not resolved.
She was met in the hall by Omegus Jones. He was wearing an outdoor jacket and there was mud on his boots. His dark hair was untidy, and his face was so pale he looked waxen.
“Vespasia …”
“Whatever is it?” She went to him immediately. “You look ill! Can I help?” She touched his hand lightly. It was freezing—and wet. Suddenly she was frightened. Omegus, more than anyone else she knew, always seemed in control of himself, and of events. “What is it?” she said again, more urgently.
He did not prevaricate. He closed his icy hand over hers with great gentleness. “I am afraid we have just found Gwendolen’s body in the lake.” He gestured vaguely behind him to the sheet of ornamental water beyond the sloping lawn with its cedars and herbaceous border. “We have brought her out, but there is nothing to be done for her. She seems to have been dead since sometime last night.”
Vespasia was stunned. It was impossible. “How can she have fallen in?” she said, denying the thought desperately. “It is shallow at the edges. There are flowers growing there, reeds! You would simply get stuck in the mud! And anyway, why on earth would she go walking down by the water on a December night? Why would anyone?”
He looked haggard, and he was unmoved by her arguments, except to pity.
Vespasia was touched by a deep fear.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he answered, his eyes hollow. “She went in from the bridge, where it is quite deep. The only conclusion possible seems to be that she jumped, of her own accord. The balustrade is quite high enough to prevent an accidental falling, even in the dark. I had them made that way myself.”
“Omegus! I’m so sorry!” Her first thought was for him, and the distress it would cause him, the dark shadow over the beauty of Applecross. It was a loveliness more than simply that of a great house where art and nature had combined to create a perfect landscape of flowers, trees, water, and views to the hills and fields beyond. It was a place of peace where generations of love of the land had sunk into its fabric and left a residue of warmth, even in the starkness of late autumn.
Approached from the southwest along an avenue of towering elms, the classic Georgian facade looked toward the afternoon sun over the downs. The gravel forecourt was fronted by a balustrade with a long, shallow flight of stone steps that led down to the vast lawn, beyond which lay the ornamental water.
“I’m afraid it will become most unpleasant,” he said unhappily. “People will be frightened because sudden death of the young is a terrible reminder of the fragility of all life. She had seemed on the brink of new joy after her bereavement, and it has been snatched away from her. Only the boldest of us, and the least imaginative, do not sometimes in the small hours of the morning also fear the same for ourselves. And they will not understand why it has happened. They will look for someone to blame, because anger is easier to live with than fear.”
“I don’t understand!” she said with a gulp. “Why on earth would she do such a thing? Isobel was cruel, but if anyone should be mortified, it is she! She betrayed her own vulnerability in front of those who will have no understanding and little mercy.”
“We know that, my dear Vespasia, but they do not,” he said softly, still touching her so lightly she felt only the coldness of his fingers. “They will see only a woman with every cause to expect an offer of marriage, but who was publicly insulted by suggestions that she is a seeker after position rather than a woman in love.” His face twisted with irony. “Which is an absurd piece of hypocrisy, I am aware. We have created a society in which it is necessary for a woman to marry well if she is to succeed, because we have contrived for it to be impossible for her to achieve any safety or success alone, even should she wish to. But frequently we criticize most vehemently that which is largely our own doing.”
“Are you … are you saying that Isobel’s remark drove her to commit suicide?” Vespasia’s voice cracked as if her mouth and throat were parched.
“It seems so,” he admitted. “Unless there was an exchange between Bertie and Gwendolen after she left the withdrawing room, and a quarrel she did not feel she could repair.”
Vespasia could think of nothing to say. It was hideous.
