Page 67 of The Vanished

“I still have the newspaper,” Rose replied. “I used it to wrap Mother’s Christmas gift, so it wouldn’t shatter in my case.”

“Can we see it?” Honor asked.

“I’ll be right back.”

Rose hastened upstairs and returned a few minutes later with a crumpled page. She smoothed it out on her knee, then instantly snatched it up so the ink didn’t smudge her skirt. She handed the page to Geneva. She and Honor bent over the page, staring at a grainy photograph that must have come from the man’s passport. He looked to be in his thirties, and had dark hair that was parted on the side and brushed back, dark eyes, and a pencil moustache that brought attention to his prominent nose and narrow face. It wasn’t an attractive face, but there was something arresting about it.

“He looks like he had a short fuse,” Rose said.

“What do you mean?” Honor asked.

“Just like someone who’d easily lose their temper over something silly.”

“He does,” Honor agreed. “Looks like a right sod.”

“Honor, the man is dead,” Geneva reminded her. “And neither of you knows anything about him.”

Honor shrugged. “Will they send his body back to America?”

“They already have,” Rose replied. “He was repatriated.” She stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “At least his family will get to say goodbye. It’s important to say goodbye,” she added.

“Yes, it is,” Geneva agreed, and Honor nodded.

They had not seen their mother before she died. She had been taken to hospital, and Geneva had not been able to attend the funeral. She had been ill with a fever. For the longest time, she’d thought she would see her mother walking down the street or at church. Sometimes she thought she heard her voice coming from the drawing room or from the sitting room, where she used to discuss household matters and plan the menus with Cook. And sometimes Geneva dreamed of her. Her mother always chided her in her dreams, and she woke feeling tearful and sad. Jack had said that their mother was haunting her because she had been a disobedient daughter. She knew now that he had been teasing her, but at the time she had believed him, and had prayed for forgiveness every Sunday at church. She hadn’t got to say goodbye to Jack either, since his body had not been shipped home. He had been buried in a mass grave somewhere in Belgium. And she had been only twelve years old when Edwin died. She had not been allowed in the sick room for fear of catching smallpox.

The clock chimed the hour, and Geneva stood. She needed to rest before dinner. A headache was building behind her eyes, and she’d have to endure hours of banal conversation dominated by Aunt Clarissa, but she couldn’t cry off. Her father rarely came downstairs during the day, but he intended to come down to dinner tonight. And how many more dinners would they have together? Geneva preferred not to think about that as she mounted the stairs and entered her room. Before she lay down, she selected the gown she was going to wear, a dusky blue silk, then walked over to her dressing table. She was going to wear her mother’s sapphire earrings tonight.

In memoriam, she thought as she opened her jewelry case and lifted out the earrings. They sparkled in the light, and Geneva’s eyes blurred with tears when she recalled the last time her mother had worn them. She didn’t want to wear them, she decided. It was too painful. When she went to replace the earrings in the case, her gaze settled on the box that held the claddagh ring, and she was suddenly sure it had been moved.

Someone had been in her room and had rifled through her things. What had they been looking for?

FORTY

Everyone was already downstairs, enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail in the drawing room, when Dennison stepped into the room. He looked deeply uncomfortable, and his eyes darted around until his gaze settled on Geneva. She nodded at him encouragingly, but he faltered, unable to speak for a moment, especially when Aunt Clarissa nailed him with her imperious stare.

“Well, what is it, man? Speak up.”

“His lordship is not feeling quite himself and won’t be coming down to dinner,” Dennison finally managed. “He sends his apologies.”

“I’ll ask Cook to send up a tray,” Geneva said.

“Just some soup, my lady,” Dennison said. “And maybe a piece of roast fowl. He can’t manage much more.”

“Of course. I’ll see to it,” she promised.

She could have let Dennison speak to the cook, but she wanted to make certain her father was able to eat something, and went to the kitchen herself. By the time she walked into the dining room, everyone was already seated. Clarissa was at the head of the table, which infuriated Geneva beyond all measure. Douglas was still alive, but already everyone was beginning to move on, behaving as if he were gone and they had to snatch whatever they could before someone else could stake their claim. It was mercenary and crass, and she hated to see this side of the people she’d known all her life.

Geneva didn’t say anything to her aunt but sat as far from her as possible so she wouldn’t have to speak to her all evening. Honor followed her progress around the table, and Geneva could tell that her sister was annoyed as well but wasn’t about to remark on it. And what was the point? Regardless of where she sat, Clarissa had no say in anything that happened. None of them did.

Once the first course was served and everyone had sampled the smoked salmon canapés, Rose turned to Jesse.

“Cousin Jesse, did you happen to meet the man who died aboard the Olympic?”

Jesse looked momentarily confused, then seemed to grasp what Rose was asking and nodded. “Yes, I did. I know it’s unkind to speak ill of the dead, but he was an unpleasant fellow.”

“Really?” Rose asked, her eagerness obvious. “Did he insult someone, or take liberties with their wife or daughter?”

“No, nothing like that.” Jesse seemed put off by Rose’s interest in the stranger.