Bedelia sat rigid, her eyes unmoving, her face set. It could have been grief, or the complexity and hurt of any memory, including anger that would never now be redeemed, or regret for forgiveness too late. Or even debts uncollected. The only thing Grandmama was certain of was that the emotion was deep, and that it brought no ease or pleasure.
They took the silks downstairs and Bedelia cut into them with large fabric shears. Bright clouds like desert sunsets drifted across the table and onto the floor. Grandmama picked them up and began to work on the papier-mâché and paste to make the basic balls before they should be covered in the bright gauze. After that they would stitch little dolls to dress in the gold and bronze and white with pearls. She smiled at the prospect. It was fun to create beauty.
But she was not here to enjoy herself. This silk in her hands had been a wonderful, wild, garish robe that Maude had worn on the hot roads of Arabia, or somewhere like it.
“I imagine Maude must have known some very different people,” she said thoughtfully. “They would seem odd to us, perhaps even frightening.” She allowed the lamplight to fall on the purple silk and the brazen red. “I cannot imagine wearing these colors together.”
“Nor could anyone else outside a fairground!” Bedelia responded. “You see why we could not have her here when Lord Woollard stayed. We allowed him the courtesy of not shocking or embarrassing him.”
“Is he a man of small experience?” Grandmama inquired with as much innocence as she could contrive.
“Of discreet taste and excellent family,” Bedelia said coolly. “His wife, whom I have met, is the sister of one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting. An excellent person.”
Perhaps even a week ago Grandmama would have been impressed. Now all she could think of was Maude’s Persian garden with the small owls in the dusk.
There was a knock on the door and Agnes came in. A brief conversation followed about parties, games to be played, especially blindman’s bluff, and of course refreshments.
“We must remember some lemon curd tarts for Mrs. Hethersett,” Agnes reminded her. “She is always so fond of them.”
“She will have to make her own,” Bedelia responded. “She will not be coming.”
“Oh, dear! Is she unwell again?” Agnes asked sympathetically.
“She will not be coming because I have not invited her,” Bedelia said tersely. “She was unforgivably rude.”
“That was over a year ago!” Agnes protested.
“It was,” Bedelia agreed. “What has that to do with it?”
Agnes did not argue. She admired the rapidly progressing baubles, and returned to the task of organizing pies and tarts.
“How very unpleasant,” Grandmama sympathized, wondering what on earth Mrs. Hethersett could have said that Bedelia still bore a grudge a year later, and at Christmas, of all times. “She must have been dreadfully rude to distress you so much.” She nearly added that she could not understand why people should be rude, but that was too big a lie to swallow. She could understand rudeness perfectly, and practice it to the level of an art. It was something she had never previously been ashamed of, but now it was oddly distasteful to her.
“She imagines I will forget,” Bedelia responded. “But she is quite mistaken, as she will learn.”
Grandmama bent to the stitching again, blending the bright colors with less pleasure, and wondered what Maude had done to Bedelia that old memories lingered so long in unforgiveness.
Why had Maude returned now? Was it possible Grandmama was completely mistaken? Had she allowed her bored and lonely imagination to conjure up murder where there was only an unexpected death, and grief that looked like anger? And a proud woman who would not allow another to see that she was bitterly ashamed of having turned away her sister for fear that her behavior was socially inappropriate, and now regretted it so terribly when it was too late? Was Grandmama making a crime out of what was only a tragedy?
Dinner was tense again. As on the first night there was the palpable undercurrent of emotions that perhaps there always is in families: knowledge of weaknesses, indulgences, things said that would have been better forgotten, only there is always someone who will remind.
Aloud they recalled past Christmases, particularly those when Randolph had been a boy, which necessarily excluded Clara. Grandmama studied her face and saw the flicker of hurt in it, and then of annoyance.
The others were enjoying themselves. For once Arthur joined in the laughter and the open affection as Bedelia told a tale of Randolph ’s surprise at receiving a set of tin soldiers in perfect replica of Wellington ’s army at Waterloo. It seemed he had refused to come to the table, even for goose. He was so enraptured he could not put his soldiers down. Bedelia had tried to insist, but Arthur had said it was Christmas, and Randolph should do as he pleased.
Grandmama found herself smiling also-until she saw the hunger in Zachary’s eyes, his look at Bedelia, Agnes’s look at him, and remembered that Randolph was the only one among all four of them likely to have a child. He was forty. Clara, strong-willed and ambitious, was a great deal younger. When would they have children? Or might that be another grief waiting in the wings?
She would have liked to have had more children herself; a daughter like Charlotte might have made all the difference, or even like Emily. A lot of work, a lot of frustration and disappointment, but who could measure the happiness?
It would be better if she did not think of the past anymore. Far better to treasure what you have than grieve over what you have not.
She looked around their faces again. Why does anybody hate someone enough to kill them, with all the risk involved? You don’t, if you are sane. You kill to protect, to keep what you have and love: position, power, money, even safety from scandal, the pain of humiliation, or loss, or the terror in loneliness. She could easily imagine that. Perhaps we were all as fragile, if one found the right passion, the fear that eats at the soul.
She looked at the light from the chandeliers glittering on the silver, the crystal, at the white linen, the lilies from the hothouse, and the red wine, all the different faces, and wondered if she really wanted to know the answer.
Then she remembered Maude’s laughter, and the memories in her eyes as she described the moonlight over the desert. There was no escaping the answer. That would be the ultimate, irredeemable cowardice.
The following day the scullery maid cut her finger so badly she could not use her hand, and the kitchen was in pandemonium. Agnes had been going to take the pony trap to deliver gifts to the vicar’s widow in Dymchurch, and now all plans had to be rearranged.
Without a thought for her own competence for such a task, Grandmama offered to go in her stead. The stable boy could drive her and she would call, with explanations, upon Mrs. Dowson and give her the already wrapped gifts for herself, and one or two other families.
Her offer was accepted, and at ten o’clock they set off, she feeling very pleased with herself. It was a bitter day with clouds piling slate gray on the horizon, and the wind had veered round to come from the north with ice on the edge.
Grandmama sat with the rug wrapped tightly around her knees and tucked in under her, hoping profoundly that it would not snow before she returned to Snave, or she might find that the chill she had considered pretending could be only too real. She had no desire whatever to spend Christmas in bed with a fever!