A Christmas Hope (6 page)

She closed the door behind her. “I’d like to speak to you, Mr. Robinson,” she said formally. She was feeling awkward already, and she had not even begun.

“If you’re wanting to ask about the money, it’s all right,” he said defensively. “We aren’t overspent.”

“Good. But I’m not here about the money,” she answered. How like Squeaky to be off on the wrong foot from the beginning. “I need advice … perhaps help.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “There’s no money to spare. I can tell you that before you even ask,” he warned.

Since he was apparently not going to invite her to sit down, she did so anyway, in the chair on the opposite side of the desk from his rather large high-backed seat.

“I don’t want money,” she replied. “I told you, I need advice.”

He was still cautious, and rather unhappy. “What’ve you done?”

She would like to have snapped back at him that she had not done anything, but if she did that, she would only have to retract the words later. As it was, this gave her the opportunity to tell him the truth.

“I have accidentally become involved in a murder,” she replied, ignoring his horrified expression. His quill pen slid out of his hand and spurted ink over his papers.

“It appeared to be merely misfortune at the time,” she continued. Now that she had begun, she was determined
not to be interrupted. “A fight that became more unpleasant than was intended. However, the poor young woman died, so now the police believe it was murder. Although I think that that is overstating it a bit.”

Squeaky stared at her as if she had suddenly turned into a monster in front of him. “God help us, woman! What have you done?” he squawked.

She gulped. “I have helped someone … I helped Dai Tregarron escape from the police, although I didn’t know he would be accused of murder at the time,” she explained.

“What did you think it was, for God’s sake, if the police were after him?” he accused her.

She took a deep breath. “I told you, I thought it was just a fight that got rather … out of hand. The girl—Winnie Briggs—she wasn’t dead then,” she added.

“If she wasn’t dead, why were the police after you … or … whoever?”

“Because it was a nasty fight, and … and the wrong person was blamed. I think—”

“You think?” His voice rose higher. “You think! If you had anything in your head to think with you’d have left the whole thing alone and got the hell out of … whatever it was! You didn’t think!”

She felt angry and vulnerable. She was already perfectly aware that she had not exercised the best judgment. It only made it worse that Squeaky, the one person who might have helped her, had nothing to offer but blame. She responded with the greatest insult she could think of.

“You sound just like my husband.”

Squeaky paled. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Mrs. B. I’m cut to the heart!”

She consolidated her advantage immediately. “Wallace will not even consider that the wrong man is being accused, because the other three who might have done it are all rich, respectable young men. The man accused, Tregarron, he drinks too much, is older, and has a somewhat dubious reputation,” she added for good measure.

His eyes narrowed. “And why is it you think this drunkard is not guilty?” He knew her opinion of strong drink and those who overindulged in it.

She was trapped and recognized his awareness of it immediately. She raised her chin in defiance, but finding the words was less easy. “Because he’s a womanizer,” she replied. “He has charm—in fact, he’s notorious for it. Why would he resort to violence? It’s stupid, and it’s unnecessary.”

“Oh, well,” Squeaky said sarcastically, “nobody ever does anything stupid or unnecessary under the influence of drink. Everybody knows that!”

“He’s a drinker, so he must be guilty,” she retorted. “I forgot.”

“There’s no need to be snippy,” he replied. “What did you do, exactly?”

His tone brought sharp and very unpleasant childhood memories to Claudine’s mind, of standing in her father’s study while he required her to explain her misbehavior and then be appropriately penitent.

“He escaped from the immediate scene,” she replied stiffly.

“How?” he asked at once. “I suppose you helped with that, too, did you?”

“No, I did not! He came as a footman on my carriage, and I had no idea until the following morning …”

Squeaky’s eyebrows shot up.

“Do you think I look at footmen’s faces?” she snapped. “It was dark. The coachman didn’t notice, and I certainly didn’t. I ride inside my carriage, not on the footboard!”

“Then how did you learn of it the following morning? He wasn’t still on the footboard, I presume?”

Having to be this civil to Squeaky Robinson was a high price to pay for anything. She would rather have told him to mind his manners and be about the job he was paid for. But she simply could not afford to. “One of the maids found him in the stable and gave him something to eat,” Claudine explained. “She told me. I went out to see what she was talking about, and I found him. I gave him breakfast and sent him on his way.” She took a deep breath. “When the police came looking for him, sometime after that, I did not tell them I had seen him.”

“Ah. Who looks after your horses?”

“I sent the groom off on an errand. If he knew anything about it, either he has already told the police, or he’s not going to.”

Squeaky pursed his lips. “And where is this drunkard now?”

“I have no idea—”

“Good,” he cut across her. “Leave it that way. If you should be asked by the police and they know he was there, say you didn’t recognize him. You can’t be expected to know every tramp by sight. Who the devil do they think you are? You found him sleeping in your stable. You fed him out of charity. You have nothing else to add. That’s my advice.” He smiled with satisfaction and
reached for his pen, looking with disgust at its rather bent nib and then at the ink marks on the page he would now have to write again.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now I need your advice to know what I can do to help him, to make sure that the police don’t arrest him and convict him, if he is innocent.”

He raised his eyes slowly. “You have just crawled out of the fire, and now you want to jump back into it?”

“I don’t want them to hang the wrong man!”

“They aren’t going to hang anybody until they catch him, and they may not do that if he has any sense.”

“He can’t live in hiding forever! And he shouldn’t have to, if he’s innocent,” she protested.

“It shouldn’t rain on my birthday either, but it usually does. There’s nothing you can do about it.” He screwed up one of the ink-stained sheets of paper and threw it into the wastebasket.

“When’s your birthday?” she asked.

“February,” he replied. “What are you going to do about it? It always rains in February.”

“Are you going to help me prove his innocence?”

“No. I’m going to do something useful, like pay the bills. Leave me alone to get on with it.”

She was disappointed, unreasonably so, and she was also humiliated. She had come in here and interrupted the scruffiest and most disreputable man she knew, a man who had not long ago run a brothel for a living. She had asked for his help, and he had refused her. Worse than that, she could see that his refusal was perfectly reasonable.

She turned and walked away before he could look up again and make some further remark or—worse—see that she was hurt.

Christmas was approaching rapidly. There were now parties, theater performances, opera, and ballet for those who either had such tastes or found these events were appropriate places at which to be seen. Claudine was of the former opinion, Wallace the latter, although he did like certain orchestral concerts, particularly oratorio—the only one she did not care for.

A couple of days after Claudine’s conversation with Squeaky, she and Wallace dressed to join some friends at the theater for a gala occasion. Claudine did not have
a new gown yet, so she chose an older one. It had been considerably adapted, almost recut, and she felt it was particularly flattering. She had always been tall, and since working at the clinic she had had less time to eat. Actually, if she were honest with herself, she had less time in which to be bored, and consequently eat cake and pastries. As a result, she was considerably slimmer than she had been a short while ago, and it became her.

Wallace looked at her without interest as she came down the stairs to where he was waiting. Then he noticed the peacock-shaded silk over the darker blue underskirt, and his eyes widened. He drew in breath to say something then changed his mind.

“We’d better hurry,” he told her instead. “We don’t want to be late.”

The theater was already crowded when they arrived, with people greeting friends. The sound of laughter, the swirl of bright gowns, and the glittering of lights gave a sense of festivity, as much so as wreaths of holly, the sound of church bells, and the songs of carolers. It still looked like there would be no snow. How perverse of her to be sorry for that! Claudine did not like the cold and was always afraid of slipping on the ice, but the snow was like a soft mantle, hiding the ugliness of so much,
allowing one to be willfully blind to it for a season. For a little while the world could be as one wished it to be, reality painted over.

They were inside the crowded foyer, trying not to be jostled. She stayed close to Wallace. She would be most embarrassed to lose him, since he had the tickets. After a moment or two, in desperation, she took his arm.

She passed people she knew, at least by sight. She smiled at them and inclined her head. They smiled back. Wallace bowed. Once or twice they made polite conversation regarding the weather or some uncontroversial subject everyone could express opinions about without fear of contradiction. It seemed unwittingly meaningless, and yet it had some social value.

They took their seats, which were in one of the better boxes, and Claudine thanked Wallace for his generosity.

The lights dimmed, and the buzz of conversation ceased. The curtains were drawn open to gasps of pleasure as the scenery was revealed, and the drama began immediately.

Claudine found her interest in the romance fading after only a few minutes. It seemed clear from the casting exactly who was going to fall in love with whom.
And since the Christmas season was traditionally one of happy endings, the result also was predictable.

Instead she looked across at the people in the boxes opposite and, as discreetly as possible, began to watch them. She held her enameled opera glasses to her eyes, as if studying the stage, but actually looked to the side.

The first people she recognized were Martin and Eppy Crostwick. At this distance, Eppy looked as delicate as a bone-china figurine, with her flawless complexion and dainty features. Her pale yellow hair was piled up precariously. Claudine noticed a few other opera glasses trained in her direction, which would no doubt please her. Eppy loved to cut a dash, and her ambition knew no bounds.

Martin was sitting next to her proprietorially, looking self-satisfied and nodding his head now and then.

A little farther along, at the same level, were Lambert and Verena Foxley. They were speaking to each other and not even affecting to look at the stage.

Claudine was irritated with them for their ill manners. Then, aware of her own hypocrisy, she turned to watch the performance.

Half an hour later, when the plot was proceeding exactly
as she had foreseen, she looked along the boxes again. This time she saw something she had not expected: Alphonsine Gifford was staring at the stage as if captivated by the actors. Her face was less beautiful than that of her stepmother, but there was a warmth and a charm in it that was easily as attractive. Her hair had a touch of auburn, which some people might not have cared for but which Claudine thought was particularly pleasing. Alphonsine had dressed in soft colors, which made her vitality even more apparent.

Next to her was Ernest Halversgate. He was a total contrast to her. There was nothing unpredictable in him. Some might have considered him good-looking, but Claudine found him insipid. Watching him now as he stared not at the stage but at Alphonsine, it was difficult to re-create in her mind the horrified expression that had been on his face as he stood on the terrace near Winnie’s unconscious body. There seemed to be a faint smugness in him now. Could he possibly have dismissed it from his mind so soon?

Or was Claudine being totally unfair, judging him for what was nothing more than a masterful effort to behave with consideration toward the young woman he was accompanying now? From everything Claudine
knew, it would be an eminently suitable match. Both sets of parents would approve it. For the Halversgates, it would be something of a catch. Alphonsine was an heiress of substance. For the Giffords, well, Ernest had a reputation for diligence and sobriety. He might bore Alphonsine to death, but he would never break the rules, either morally or socially, and he would invest her money profitably. He neither gambled nor drank.

Claudine pulled herself up sharply. She was being horribly unfair, and unkind. She did not know Ernest Halversgate. Plenty of people who were interesting and witty were also cruel, and what good was all the entertainment in the world without kindness? She should stop making assumptions about his personality. Dutifully she looked back at the stage until the intermission.