“You offered to help me,” Omegus reminded her. “I may ask that you do.”
“How?”
“I have very little idea,” he confessed. “Perhaps that is why I need you.”
Vespasia swallowed hard. “I shall tell Isobel,” she said, wondering how on earth she could make such a thing bearable. The day yawned ahead like an abyss, full of grief and confusion.
“Thank you,” he accepted. “I shall have the servants ask everyone to be at breakfast, and tell them then.”
She nodded, then turned and went back upstairs and along to Isobel’s room. She knocked on the door and waited until she heard Isobel’s voice tell her to go in.
Isobel was lying in the bed, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her eyes shadowed around as if she, too, had slept badly. She sat up slowly, staring at Vespasia in surprise.
There was no mercy in hesitation. Vespasia sat on the bed facing Isobel. “I have just met Omegus in the hall,” she began. “They have found Gwendolen’s body in the lake. The only conclusion possible from the circumstances is that sometime after our unfortunate conversation in the withdrawing room she must have gone out alone and, in some derangement of mind, jumped off the bridge. I’m afraid it is very bad.”
Isobel sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, even though the room was not cold. “Is she …?”
“Of course. It is December! If she had not drowned, she would have frozen.”
“But surely she must have fallen!” Isobel protested, pushing her hair off her face. “Why on earth would she jump? That’s ridiculous!” She shook her head. “It can’t be true!”
“If you remember, the balustrade along the bridge is too high to fall over by accident,” Vespasia reminded her. “Anyway, why on earth would she be out there leaning over the bridge at eleven o’clock on a December night? And alone!”
The little color in Isobel’s face had drained away, leaving her pasty-white. She started to shiver. Her hands were clenched in the sheets.
“Are you implying that my idiotic remark made her do that? Why? All I did was insult her! She wouldn’t be the first woman to be called greedy, or desperate. That’s absurd!” Her voice was sharp, a little high-pitched.
“Isobel, there is no point in pretending that it did not happen,” Vespasia said steadily, trying to sound reasonable, although she did not feel it. “You are going to have to go down at some time and face everyone, whatever they believe. And the longer you delay it, the more you will appear to be accepting the blame.”
“I’m not to blame!” Isobel said indignantly. “I was rash in what I said, and I would have apologized to her today. But if she went and jumped off the bridge, that has nothing to do with me, and I won’t have anyone say that it has!” She flung the sheets aside and climbed out of the bed, stumbling a little as she stood up. She kept her back to Vespasia, as though blaming her for having brought the news. But Vespasia noticed that when Isobel picked up her peignoir, her fingers were stiff, and when it slipped out of her grasp, it took her three attempts to retrieve it.
Breakfast was ghastly. When Vespasia and Isobel arrived, everyone else was already gathered around the table. Food was laid out on the sideboard in silver chafing dishes: finnan haddock, kedgeree, eggs, sausage, deviled kidneys, and bacon. There was also plenty of fresh crisp toast, butter, marmalade, and tea. People had served themselves, as a matter of good manners, before Omegus Jones had divulged what had occurred, but nobody felt like eating.
Isobel’s entrance had been greeted in silence, nor did anyone meet her eyes.
Vespasia looked at Omegus and saw the warning and the apology unspoken in his expression.
Isobel hesitated. No one was wearing black, because no one had foreseen the occasion, and of course Isobel was the only one who had known of the death before dressing. She wore a sober dark green.
Lady Warburton was the first to acknowledge her presence, but it was with a chilly stare, her rather ordinary face pinched with distaste. She regarded Isobel’s clothes first, long before her face. “I see you were aware of the tragedy before you dressed,” she said coolly. “In fact, perhaps last night?”
“My dear Evelyn, do not let your grief …,” Sir John began, then trailed away as his wife turned to glare at him.
“It is perfectly obvious she was aware of poor Gwendolen’s death!” she said in a low, grating voice. “Why else would she wear mourning to breakfast?”
“Hypocrite,” Blanche Twyford murmured half under her breath. No one doubted that she was referring to Isobel, not Lady Warburton.
Isobel pretended not to have heard. She took a slice of toast, and then found herself unable to swallow it. She played with it to keep her hands occupied, and perhaps to prevent anyone else from noticing that they trembled.
Bertie looked haggard and utterly confused.
Vespasia wondered if he had gone after Gwendolen last night. Surely he must have. Or was it conceivable he had not? If he had followed her and told her of his feelings, asked her to marry him as everyone was expecting, nothing Isobel Alvie, or anyone else, could have said would have destroyed her happiness. Was that what he was thinking, that he avoided her eyes now? And what about Lady Warburton? Had she followed Gwendolen, or merely said she would to escape the situation?
“This is perfectly dreadful!” Lady Salchester burst out. “We really cannot sit here not knowing what has happened, and having no idea what to say to each other!”
“We know what has happened,” Blanche Twyford said angrily. “Mrs. Alvie spoke inexcusably last night, and poor Mrs. Kilmuir was so distraught that she took her own life. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
Lady Salchester froze. “I beg your pardon?” she said, ice dripping from her voice.
“For heaven’s sake!” Blanche flushed. “I did not mean it personally. It is an expression of—of clarity. We all know perfectly well what happened!”
“I don’t.” Lord Salchester came surprisingly to his wife’s aid. “To me it is as much of a muddle as the nose on your face!”
Vespasia wanted to laugh hysterically. She suppressed the desire with difficulty, holding her napkin to her lips and pretending to sneeze.
Blanche Twyford glared at Lord Salchester.
Salchester opened his blue eyes very wide. “Why on earth should a perfectly healthy young woman on the brink of matrimony throw herself into the lake? Merely because her rival insults her? I don’t understand.” He looked baffled. He shook his head. “Women,” he said unhappily. “If she had been a chap, she’d simply have insulted her back, and they’d have gone to bed friends.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Ernest!” Lady Salchester snapped at him. “You are talking complete nonsense!”
“Am I?” he said mildly. “Wasn’t she going to be married? That’s what everyone said!”
Bertie stood up, white-faced, and left the room.
“Good God! He’s not going to the lake, is he?” Salchester asked, his napkin sliding to the floor.
Isobel left the table, as well, only she went out the other door, toward the garden, even though it was raining and not much above freezing outside.
“Guilt!” Lady Warburton said viciously.
“I think that’s a little harsh,” Sir John expostulated. “She was—”
“Both of them!” his wife cut across, effectively cutting off whatever he had been going to say. He lapsed into silence.
Omegus rose to his feet. “Lady Vespasia, I wonder if I might talk with you in the library?”
“Of course.” She was grateful for the chance to escape the ghastly meal table. She scraped her chair back before the footman could pull it out for her.
“You’re not going to just leave it!” Lady Warburton accused him. “This cannot be run away from. I won’t allow it!”
Omegus looked at her coldly. “I am going to think before I act, Lady Warburton. An error now, even if made with the purest of motives, could cause grief which could not later be undone. Excuse me.” And leaving her angry, and now confounded, he left the room with Vespasia at his heels.
In the silence of the book-lined library with its exquisite bronzes he closed the door and turned to face her. “Evelyn Warburton is right,” he said grimly. There was intense sadness in his eyes, and the lines around his mouth
