A Christmas Hope (3 page)

She was removed to a hospital for the poor. Sergeant Green, having noted the Welshman’s description, ordered that Tregarron be searched for throughout the neighborhood and arrested on sight.

In the dark, and in some distress and confusion, the party broke up and the guests departed.

“He should never have been invited,” Wallace said angrily as their carriage jolted over the cobbles on the way home. “I can’t imagine what Gifford was thinking of. The very best he could have got away with was a
most unpleasant and unnecessary degree of vulgarity. Tregarron is a boor, and everyone knows it.”

Claudine said nothing. She felt wretched about the whole affair. After her concern for the poor girl, the deepest hurt was her disillusionment in Dai Tregarron. Of course, he drank too much; he had not denied it himself, when they had spoken. But violence toward someone totally unable to defend herself was a completely different matter. Of what value was any poetic talent, no matter how beautiful, if you were capable of inflicting such pain on another human?

Perhaps she should have defended Forbes Gifford—or Oona, if it really was she who had invited Tregarron—but she knew it was pointless. In the early days of their marriage she had argued with Wallace, attempting to show him a kinder or more reasonable side to the things that angered him. Looking back, it was surprising how long it had taken her to realize such arguing was futile, at least with him.

“I expect it was Oona,” Wallace went on. “Nobody really knows where she came from before marrying Forbes.”

His condescension stung Claudine. She liked Oona Gifford, as much as she could like someone she hardly
knew. In a sense, she was also an outsider. Without thinking, Claudine sprang to her defense.

“That is an unfair assumption,” she said quickly. “She would hardly invite an unmarried man to an important Christmas party without consulting her husband, especially a man who was known to drink.”

Wallace was startled. A magnificent carriage passed them, and in the sudden brilliance of its lamps she saw the surprise in his face. Then the darkness closed in on them again.

“Then you clearly know her better than I do,” he said tartly.

“I know any woman better than you do,” she retorted before thinking. She knew that it would have been far wiser to have given a softer, possibly also less accurate, answer. But it was too late to withdraw it.

“Well, even if Gifford allowed it, you still seem to be saying that where judgment of men is concerned, Oona Gifford is a fool,” he said coldly. “Hardly a necessary comment, Claudine. I had noticed. I think, if you recall, that was my original observation.”

She was too hurt to retreat. “You remarked that Oona must’ve invited Tregarron, because we don’t know anything about her past,” she pointed out. “But you
can’t know that any more than I do. Therefore your conclusion that she is a poor judge of character is flawed.”

“Rubbish! I thought Gifford had more sense, anyway.” He dismissed the matter as finished.

“Or possibly Forbes has sufficient charity to extend his hospitality a little more widely at Christmas.” She would not let it go so easily.

“Then he should have extended it to us.” He glared at her. “And not ruined a perfectly good party by embarrassing his guests with the presence of a man like Tregarron, not to mention one of Tregarron’s … street women. I don’t know what morality is coming to these days.”

She thought to herself that there was an enormous amount about morality and human nature that he did not know—an infinity of it—but this time she did not say so.

They reached home in grim silence, dismissed the coachman and footman, and went into the house. After the cool night air, the warmth of the house was physically pleasing, but she felt no sense of comfort at all.

Wallace picked up the subject again as they crossed the hall to go upstairs.

“Even at Christmas it seems we can no longer expect
to see the values of a Christian society,” he remarked, a step behind her.

She stopped abruptly, and he trod on the train of her gown. “I suppose you have been too busy with your wretched clinic even to have noticed,” he added.

“You are standing on my skirt,” she told him.

He stepped back, his face flushed with annoyance. It was clear in his eyes that he had no intention of apologizing. “I didn’t expect you to stop at the bottom of the stairs. Am I to be obliged to walk around you if I wish to go to bed?”

“I thought you were about to explain Christian standards of hospitality to me, and I wished to pay it the attention it is due, rather than stand with my back to you,” she answered, meeting his gaze.

“At this time of night?” he said incredulously. “Sometimes, Claudine, I wonder if you are quite sane. I don’t know why the subject needs explaining at all.”

“Because I was under the impression that Christian hospitality was meant to include all kinds of people, not just those we find most comfortable. I remember a number of occasions in the Bible where the Pharisees criticized Christ for dining with sinners.”

His face flushed a dull red. “You are not Christ, Claudine,
in spite of your charitable work for Mrs. Monk’s regrettable clinic for … sinners, if you choose to use the word. You already spend more than enough of your time dealing with them. It is damaging your sense of values. At least other women might learn from such an experience, and place even more price on their own blessings. It does not seem to have had that fortunate effect on you. Perhaps you should direct your spare time toward other pursuits, for the foreseeable future.”

That blow was deadly. It crushed her completely into silence. She turned, and picking up the front of her skirts so she did not trip, she walked up the stairs, her heart pounding, each step feeling like a small mountain. She loved her work at the clinic. It had saved her from despair. She had begun it at a time in her life when the future spread before her like a long, gray plain stretching forever into the coming night.

She had offered her help, expecting to be given the genteel tasks of mending linen or making lists, and finding no reward in it but that of variety from her usual, desperately repetitive social routines. Instead she had found herself cooking in giant saucepans for dozens of hungry and sick women off the streets, even cleaning floors and heaving laundry around. She had
used physical strength she was not aware she possessed, working past the point of what she had thought was exhaustion. She was caring for people in all circumstances, giving practical and emotional comfort without thought of herself—as she would have done for the children she had never had. Her mother had always called her selfish and incomplete. At last that was untrue, and the clinic had made it so. If Wallace took that from her, he would be robbing her of the most valuable part of her life. She should have kept her opinions of Christianity, and the Giffords, to herself.

Even now it would not be too late to apologize. Wallace was always pleased when she did that. But the words stuck in her throat, and she went up to bed in silence.

She did not sleep well, and when she woke in the morning she realized it was rather later than she had intended. She drank the morning tea her maid brought her, and dressed in a plain dark skirt and jacket. It looked a little drab, especially on a gray day, but it suited her mood. She thought about her few minutes on the terrace with Tregarron, the passion in his words, the blanket of stars above them, and the music of the party softened beyond the doors. It had been no more than a
colored veil drawn deceptively over the hard outlines of reality. If such a man could beat a young woman to death, what were his wild words worth? No more than any other pretty lie. In fact, less, because they had passed so close to being a greater truth.

Perhaps it was a good thing she had overslept. At least Wallace was gone and she ran no risk of plunging again into last night’s unpleasantness.

She ate breakfast, though she wasn’t hungry; it was simply a wise thing to begin the day with a decent meal. She had just finished when the kitchen maid, Ada, came into the room. She was a pretty girl, in a dark, unusual kind of way, and Claudine rather liked her.

“Good morning, Ada,” she said pleasantly. “You look worried. Is something wrong?”

Ada lifted her chin a little, as if preparing to face a danger. “Ma’am, there was a man come late last night, cold an’ ’ungry. I gave ’im some bread an’ a cup o’ tea an’ let ’im sleep in the stable, up in the ’ayloft where ’e wouldn’t be seen. I give ’im bread an’ tea this morning, but ’e looks that wretched, can I give ’im an egg or two before ’e moves on?”

Claudine felt a sudden warmth spring up inside her. Wallace would be furious if he knew, but this girl had
exercised compassion anyway, trusting that Claudine would back her.

“Yes, of course you can,” she said quickly. “And perhaps a little bacon as well. As long as he doesn’t disturb the horses, he’s no trouble to us.”

“ ’E in’t no trouble to the ’orses, ma’am,” Ada assured her gratefully. “In fact, ’e were good with ’em. Maybe ’e’s a tinker, or such. ’E’s real dark, like ’e could be one ov ’em, a foreigner, you know?”

“I’m glad you took care of him, Ada. Thank you,” Claudine said sincerely. “It’s a wretched time of year to be homeless.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. ’E looked scared, like somebody were after ’im.” She turned to go.

“Ada!” Claudine said suddenly. “Is he hurt?”

“I dunno, ma’am. You think I should ask ’im?”

“No, thank you, I think I’ll do that myself.” She rose from the table and followed Ada into the kitchen. When the hard-boiled eggs and the bacon between two slices of toast were ready, Claudine took them out to the stable herself. If the man was hurt, or sick, it was very likely she had the ability to help. Since she had worked at the clinic she had learned a lot about people who were destitute, ate too little, and lived on the street.

She walked across the yard to the mews and then into the stable. She looked around for the groom or the coachman and did not see them. Thankful not to have to explain herself, in case either man should feel obliged to tell Wallace about the stranger, out of a sense of duty, she went into the hayloft.

“I have your breakfast,” she said quietly. “If you would like it, please come and take it.”

There was a moment’s silence, then a man appeared and climbed slowly down the ladder. Claudine’s eyes widened in shock. It was Dai Tregarron. He was still in his dark suit from the previous evening but now had dust and pieces of hay sticking to him and poking out of his wild, dark hair. He was conspicuously unshaven.

“Thank you,” he said gravely, taking the sandwich and the eggs from her. He bit into them hungrily, perhaps for fear she would remove them again now that she knew her fugitive was he.

“How did you get away from the party?” she asked after a beat. She ought to have fled back to the house, she supposed, but she was rather curious. “The police were looking for you. That girl was very badly hurt, you know.”

A moment’s grief touched his face; he looked tired,
and older than she had previously judged him to be. There was an air of desperation about him, and for an instant she felt a brush of physical fear for her safety. What was she doing standing here alone in the stable with a man who had beaten a street woman half to death, simply because he had lost his temper? Claudine was a tall woman, and fairly strong. But if three hardy young men hadn’t been able to stop Tregarron, she doubted she would be able to defend herself against him. If he attacked her, he would be long gone before anyone came to help her. Ada wouldn’t think to interrupt right away, and the groom did not know either of them were here.

“What are you doing here, and how did you get here?” she repeated more sharply, taking a step backward, away from him.

“In the dark I looked enough like a footman to ride as such on the back of your coach,” he replied with his mouth full. “Don’t blame your coachman. He’s a gentle soul who didn’t know the police were looking for me. Thought he was just giving some poor devil a lift.”

She was confused. He had beaten Winnie and fled from the scene without even waiting to see if she was still alive, and yet he was asking her not to be harsh on
the coachman. Her confusion made her angry, though. She resented the emotions he aroused in her.

“The girl is in hospital,” she retorted. “She was still unconscious when we left.”

His eyes widened: great dark pools of misery, depths beneath depths.

“I didn’t do that to her, Olwen! Are you too innocent to see the darkness in three elegant young men with their scrubbed-clean privilege and their drunkenness of the soul?” He touched the darkening bruise on his face, which was half hidden by his black hair. For the first time she noticed the blood on him. “That’s their work,” he went on. “The blood is from trying to defend her from them, not hers to defend herself from me.”

She wanted to believe him, but it seemed such an obvious thing to say. Why should he admit to beating her, even if it were true? And why would rich, comfortable, and responsible young men at a Christmas party with their parents have anything to do with a street woman?