A Christmas Journey Read Free

really lose more than a possible admirer? Did she care for him, perhaps even have hopes herself? She had loved her husband; Vespasia knew that. But he had been gone for three years now, and Isobel was a young woman, no more than Vespasia’s own age. It was possible to fall in love again. In fact, at thirty it would be harsh and lonely not to.
    Should she say something? Was this a time when real friendship dared embarrassment and rejection? Or was silence, the pretense of not knowing, preferable, thereby allowing the deeper wounds to remain private?
    The decision was taken from her by the arrival of Lady Warburton, whereupon the conversation moved to fashion, Prince Albert’s latest ideas for improving the mind, and, of course, the queen’s enthusiasm for everything her husband said.
    They were rejoined by the gentlemen, and the atmosphere changed again. Everyone became more self-conscious, backs a little straighter, laughter more delicate, movement more graceful. The servants had retreated to leave them alone. The final cleaning up would be done when the guests retired to bed.
    They were all facing Gwendolen and Bertie when Isobel made the remark. Gwendolen was sitting with her skirts swept around her like a tide, her head up, her slender throat pale in the candlelight. She looked beautiful and triumphant. Bertie stood close to her, just a little possessively.
    â€œCharming,” Lady Warburton said very quietly, as if the announcement had already been made.
    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.
    â€œFor 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.
    â€œShe 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.
    â€œGwendolen!” 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