Free A Christmas Journey by Anne Perry

it’s different. They love it like it was woven into their skins.”
    â€œOh? Mrs. Naylor is a west-coaster?” How simple after all.
    â€œNot she! She’s an Englishwoman like yourself,” he said as if it surprised him, too. “She just took up and went there after poor Mr. Kilmuir was killed. Took it terrible hard. Mind, it was a bad thing, and so sudden, poor man.”
    â€œYes, indeed,” she said sympathetically, shivering a little as the wind knifed in over the water, ruffled and white-crested now. “Although I never heard exactly what happened. Poor Gwendolen was too shocked to speak of it.”
    â€œHorse bolted,” he said, lowering his voice. “Kilmuir and Mrs. Naylor were out in the trap. He was thrown over by a branch, and got himself caught in the rein by his wrist.”
    â€œHe was dragged?” she said in horror. “How appalling! No wonder Gwendolen could not speak of it! Poor Mrs. Naylor. She must have been frightened half out of her wits!”
    â€œOch, no, madame, not she!” he said briskly, dismissing the very idea. “You do not know Mrs. Naylor if you could think that! More courage than any man I know! Any two men!” He lifted his head with fierce pride as he said it. He looked at her through furrowed brows. “You can smile, but it’s true! Stopped the horse herself, but too late to help him, of course. Must have gone in the first moments. Cut the animal free and rode it home to tell us. Clear as day it was, when we found the wreckage, and poor Kilmuir.”
    â€œAnd Mrs. Kilmuir?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “That’s the worst of it, madame. She was out riding, and she saw the whole thing, but too far away to do anything but watch, like seeing your life coming to an end in front of your eyes.” He shook his head minutely. “Didn’t think she’d ever be the same again, poor child. Inconsolable, she was. Wandered around like a ghost, didn’t eat a morsel, nor say a word to anyone. Glad we were when she finally went back to London, and word came that she’d started her life again, the poor lass.”
    â€œAnd Mrs. Naylor didn’t go with her?”
    His face stiffened and something within him closed. “No. She’s no fondness for London, and too much to do up here. And if you’ll be excusing me, my lady, I have to take these in for Cook to prepare dinner, since you and your friend will be staying. We’d like to treat you to our best, seeing as you’re friends of Mrs. Kilmuir’s. Walk in the garden all you will, and welcome.”
    She thanked him and continued on, but her mind was lost in picturing the death of Kilmuir, Mrs. Naylor’s reaction, and her attempts to comfort a shattered daughter who had accidentally witnessed it all. She felt a consuming guilt that now they had to find Mrs. Naylor and tell her even worse news. The question of returning to London and simply leaving Gwendolen’s letter to be found when she returned, whenever that was, had been irrevocably answered. It was unthinkable.
    She told Isobel so when they were alone after dinner.
    Isobel turned from the window where she had been standing before the open curtains, staring at the darkness and the water beyond. “Go down the Caledonian Canal, and then overland to Balla … whatever it is,” she said in anguish. “How would we do that? Would anyone in their right mind at this time of year? Apart from sheepherders and brigands, that is!”
    â€œWell, I shall try it,” Vespasia responded. “If you wish to go back to London, then I am sure they will take you to Inverness. I shall go on at least as far as I can, and attempt to deliver the letter to Mrs. Naylor and tell her as much as I know of what happened.”
    Isobel’s face was white, her eyes wide and angry. “That is moral blackmail!” she accused bitterly. “You know what they would