A Christmas Visitor by Anne Perry Page B

know him, and for a moment it seemed that she had not recognized Ephraim either.
    “My name is Henry Rathbone,” he introduced himself. “I have come to meet you and take you to the house. You may remember, it is about six miles away, on the lake.”
    “How do you do, Mr. Rathbone.” Her smile was wide and full of pleasure, and she offered him her hand, as if she had been a man. It was slim and strong, and she gripped his firmly.
    He picked up her case. “And I expect you remember Ephraim?”
    Her face was calm, but the warmth in it was suddenly distant.
    “Of course. How are you, Ephraim?”
    He replied a little stiffly. She might have thought it was coolness, but Henry could see the uncharacteristic awkwardness of his movement—his usual ease which had its own kind of grace was entirely vanished. He was at a disadvantage which was unfamiliar to him.
    They spoke of trivialities until they were seated in the trap and on their way out of Penrith and once again going westward, the damp wind in their faces, smelling of rain.
    Ephraim asked Naomi about America, sounding as if it were mere courtesy that made him inquire. She replied warmly, with imagination and wit, so that whether he would or not, he was compelled to care. She described the vast plains of the west, the herds of buffalo that made the earth tremble when they ran, the high deserts to which she had traveled from the west, where the earth was red and ochre and the colors of fire, wind-eroded to fantastic shapes, like castles and towers of the imagination.
    She did not speak of Nathaniel’s death, and neither Henry nor Ephraim asked, each waiting for the other to broach the subject of death, and break the news to her. They had half an hour’s truce with death while she described travel and adventure, hardship made the best of, and they found themselves laughing.
    “I brought a gift for Joshua,” she said with a smilethat held a trace of self-mockery. “I think I chose it because I like it myself rather than because he will, but I didn’t mean it to be so. I like to give people things I would keep.”
    “What is it?” Henry asked with genuine interest. What would this most unusual woman have brought, to go with Benjamin’s scripture in its carved and perfumed case, and Ephraim’s royal necklace of ivory and gold?
    “An hourglass,” she replied. “A memento mori, I suppose you would call it. A reminder of death—and the infinite value of life. It is made of crystal and set with semiprecious stones of the desert. The sand that runs through it is red, from the valleys that look like fire.”
    “It sounds perfect.” Henry meant it. “We spend too much of our lives dreaming of the past or the future. There is a sense in which the present is all we have, and we cannot hold it dearly enough. It sounds like a gift of both beauty and memory, like the other gifts he has been brought.”
    “You think so?” She seemed to care for his opinion.
    If Ephraim was not going to tell her, then he must.
    “I do. But before we reach the village, I am afraid there is hard news we have to share.”
    “What is it?” She saw that it was serious and the light vanished from her face.
    Briefly he told her about Judah’s death and Ashton Gower’s accusations.
    She listened very gravely, and spoke only when he had finished, by which time they were less than a mile from the house.
    “What are we going to do about it?” she asked, looking first at Henry, then at Ephraim. “This man must be silenced from slander, and if he is in any way responsible for Judah’s death, then we must see that he answers for it! Apart from justice, Antonia and Joshua are not safe unless he is imprisoned again, and his words shown as lies.”
    This time it was Ephraim who answered. “We have to prove he was there,” he said grimly. “It isn’t going to be easy because he will have made sure he told no one, and no one else would be out at such a place at night.”
    “Why else would