Read Online A Christmas Journey by Anne Perry - Free Book Online

hotel seemed to offer excellent rooms, and had two available. The morning was soon enough to face the ultimate test.
    Inquiry of the staff of the hotel elicited the information that the address on Gwendolen’s letter was not actually in Inverness itself but was a considerable estate on the outskirts of Muir-of-Ord, a town some distance away, for which it would be necessary to hire a trap, and it would take a good part of the morning to reach it.
    Thus it was actually close to midday when they finally reached the Naylor house, set on several acres of richly wooded land sweeping down to the Beauly Firth and ultimately the open sea.
    Vespasia looked at Isobel. “Are you ready?” she asked gently.
    â€œNo, nor will I ever be,” Isobel responded. “But then, I am so cold I am not even sure if I can stand on my feet, and whatever lies within that house, it cannot be less comfortable than sitting out here.”
    Vespasia wished profoundly that that would prove to be true, but she did not say so aloud.
    They alighted, thanked the driver, and asked him to wait, in case they should not be invited to remain and have no way of returning to the town. Vespasia hung back and allowed Isobel to step forward and pull the bell knob beside the door. She was about to reach for it a second time, impatient to get the ordeal over, when it swung open and an elderly manservant looked at her inquiringly.
    â€œGood morning,” Isobel said, her voice catching with nervousness now that the moment was upon her. “My name is Isobel Alvie. I have come from London with a letter of importance to give to Mrs. Naylor. With me is my friend Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I would be most grateful if you could give Mrs. Naylor that message, and apologize for my not having sent my card first, but the journey is urgent, and was unexpected.” She offered him her card now.
    â€œIf you will come in, Mrs. Alvie, Lady Vespasia, I shall consider what is best to do,” the man said in a soft northern accent.
    Isobel hesitated. “What is best to do?” she repeated.
    â€œAye, madame. Mrs. Naylor is not at home, but I am sure she would wish you to receive the hospitality of the house. Please come in.” He held the door wide for them.
    Isobel glanced at Vespasia, then with a shrug so slight it was barely visible, she followed the manservant over the step and inside. Vespasia went after her into a large low-beamed hall with a fire blazing in an open hearth, then past it and into an informal sitting room with sunlight vivid through windows. A lawn sloped downward to a magnificent view beyond, but it was distinctly cooler.
    â€œWhen do you expect Mrs. Naylor?” Isobel inquired. Her voice was rough-edged, and Vespasia could hear the tension in it.
    â€œI’m sorry, madame, but I have no idea,” the man said gravely. “I’m sorry you’ve traveled all this way an’ we cannot help you.”
    â€œWhere has she gone?” Isobel asked. “You must know!”
    He looked startled at her persistence. It was discourteous, to say the least.
    Vespasia stepped forward. She was not completing the task for Isobel, only ensuring that she had the opportunity to do it for herself. “I apologize if we seem intrusive,” she said gently. “But there has been a tragedy in London, and it concerns Mrs. Naylor’s daughter. We have to bring her news of it, no matter how difficult that may be. Please understand our distress and concern.”
    â€œMiss Gwendolen?” The man’s face pinched with some emotion of pain, but it was impossible to read in it more than that. “Poor bairn,” he said sadly. “Poor bairn.”
    â€œWe must tell Mrs. Naylor,” Vespasia said again. “And deliver the letter into her hands. It is a duty we have given our word to complete.”
    The man shook his head. “It’s no another death, is it?” he asked, looking from one to the