Anne Perry s Christmas Mysteries Page 0,27

seems as if Arthur saw through it, whatever it was." She hated saying that because it blamed Maude, and she was far from prepared to do that, but she must keep Agnes telling the story.

"Oh, yes," Agnes agreed. "It lasted perhaps a month, then Arthur came to his senses. He realized that he truly loved Bedelia. He broke off the silly business with Maude, and asked Bedelia to marry him. Of course she forgave him, and accepted."

"I see." She did not see at all.

Three sisters, two men. Someone had to have lost. Grandmama resented that it should have been Maude. Or had it really been all of them, no one truly finding what they hungered for? "And Maude?" she said quietly.

"Maude was heartbroken," Agnes replied, her voice catching in her throat. She turned away as if there were something on the other side of the pony trap that required her attention, although there was nothing but the grasses and the sea wind and the marsh stretching out to the horizon. "She simply ran away. God knows where she went, but about a month later we received a postcard from Granada, in the south of Spain. There were only a few words on it. I remember. 'Going to Africa. Will probably stay. Maude.'"

And Bedelia had said she never wrote again. Was that true? "Until she returned a few days ago?" Grandmama asked aloud.

"That's right."

"Why did she come back, now, after all these years?"

Agnes shook her head and rubbed her hand over her eyes. "Perhaps she knew she was dying? Maybe she wanted to be buried here. People do. Want to be buried in their own land, I mean, their own earth."

"Did she say anything like that?"

"She did say something about death. I can't recall exactly what it was. But she was sad, that much was clear. I...I wish I had listened. My mind was on Lord Woollard's visit, and how anxious we all were that it should go well." Guilt was heavy in her voice and the misery of her face. "Arthur really does deserve recognition, you know. And the amount of good he could do with it would be enormous."

"And you were concerned that Maude's behavior would be inappropriate?"

Agnes glanced at Grandmama then away again, a mixture of impatience and shame in her face. "She had been living in extraordinary places for the last forty years, Mrs. Ellison. Places where people eat with their fingers, have no running water, where women do things that...I would rather not even think of, let alone speak about."

"I thought women in the Middle East were rather more modest than we are here in England," Grandmama said thoughtfully. "At least that was the impression I gained from Maude. They keep to their own apartments and don't speak to men other than those in their own families. Their clothing is certainly most decorous."

Agnes was frowning. "But Maude went unaccompanied, wandering around like a...like a man!" she exclaimed. "Who knows what happened to her? Her taste is highly questionable. Even her virtue, I'm afraid."

"I beg your pardon?" Grandmama said in angry disbelief, then realized she had gone too far. She must find an escape very quickly. "I'm so sorry," she apologized, the words all but choking her. "I felt so close to Maude because she confided in me, and I in her, that I am more offended than I have any right to be at the thought that someone who did not know her at all should question her virtue. It is quite unreasonable, and even impertinent of me. Please forgive me. She was your sister, not mine, and it is your right to defend her. I did not mean to presume." She watched Agnes's face intently, as if she were eager for pardon. She was actually extremely eager to see Agnes's reaction.

Agnes's hands froze on the reins and she stared ahead, even though they were now very close to the village of Appledore and she should have been slowing the pony.

"It is not presumptuous," she said, her face scarlet. Then she stopped again, still uncertain. "I'm sure you meant it only kindly. Perhaps we live too much in the past. Imagine too much."

"About Maude?" Grandmama had to ask. She was overwhelmingly aware of the misery in Agnes, and the knowledge that she would always be second choice. She was sorry for it-she even understood it-but it did not excuse lies, or answer justice now. They were passing the village church and she saw the festive wreaths