A Christmas Journey Read Online Free PDF Page B

death was a terrible blow to her.”
    â€œSo much so that she intended to marry less than a year and a half later,” Peter Hanning observed, leaning back in his chair, his cravat a little crooked, a slight curl to his lip.
    â€œThey had had some difficult times,” Blanche explained crossly. “He was not an easy man.”
    â€œIt was she who was not an easy woman,” Fenton Twyford interrupted. “She took some time to accept her responsibilities. Kilmuir was very patient with her, but the time came when he bore it less graciously.”
    â€œA great deal less graciously,” Blanche agreed. “But he was mending his ways. She was looking forward to a far greater warmth between them when he was killed.”
    â€œKilled?” Sir John said abruptly.
    â€œIn an accident,” Blanche told him. “A horse bolted, I believe, and he was thrown out of the trap and dragged. Quite dreadful. When she heard of it, poor Gwendolen was devastated. That was why it was so wonderful that she had a second chance at happiness.” She looked at Bertie with intense meaning.
    He blushed miserably.
    The tale progressed, each person adding colorful details until a picture emerged of the courtship of Bertie and Gwendolen, reaching the point when everyone expected an announcement. More than one person had noticed that Isobel was not pleased, even though she attempted to hide the fact. Now all the thoughts came to the surface, and she was clearly humiliated, but she did not dare escape. It would have been an admission, and she was determined not to make one.
    But the tide swept relentlessly on. Even Vespasia was carried along by it until she was placed in a position where she must speak either for Isobel or against her. She had been forced to see more clearly now than at the time how deep the feelings had been on both sides. Under the veneer of wit and a kind of friendship, there had been a struggle for victory, which would have lifted either one woman or the other back onto the crest of a wave in society, assured of comfort and acceptance. The other would be left among the number of women alone, always a little apart, a little lost, hoping for the next invitation, but never certain that it would come, dreading the next bill in case it would not be met.
    Without realizing why, Vespasia spoke for Isobel. Gwendolen was beyond her help, and many others were eager to take her part.
    â€œWe use what arts we have,” she said, looking more at Omegus than the others. “Gwendolen was pretty and charming. She flattered people by allowing them to help her, and she was grateful. Isobel was far too proud for that, and too honest. She used wit, and sometimes it was cruel. I think when Gwendolen was the victim, she affected to be more wounded than she was. She craved sympathy, and she won it. Isobel was foolish enough not to see that.”
    â€œIf Gwendolen was not really hurt, why did she kill herself?” Blanche demanded angrily, challenge in her eyes and the set of her thin shoulders. “That seems to be taking the cry for sympathy rather too far to be of any use!” Her voice was heavily sarcastic, her smile a sneer.
    Vespasia looked at Bertie. “When Gwendolen left last night, after Isobel’s remark, did you go after her to see if she was all right?” she asked him. “Did you assure her that you did not for an instant believe she was in love with your money and position rather than with you?”
    Bertie colored painfully and his face tightened.
    Everyone waited.
    â€œDid you?” Omegus said in a very clear voice.
    Bertie looked up. “No. I admit it. Isobel spoke with such … certainty, I did wonder. I, God forgive me, I doubted her.” He fidgeted. “I started to think of things she had said, things other people had said—warnings.” He tried to laugh and failed. “Of course, I realize now that they were merely malicious, born of jealousy.