Page 101 of The Vanished Sister

Instead of stopping on the next floor for the afternoon parlor, she kept climbing. Did she mean to change? Her afternoon dress was a bit discordant—blue bodice, pink sleeves, and a purple sash embroidered with yellow flowers—but it was hardly the most outré thing she’d ever worn and perfectly presentable.

They did end up in her overstuffed room, with its piles of newspapers and books, and a perennial cup of half-finished hot cocoa—long since cooled to room temperature—on a desk littered with letters.

She rummaged about her shelves and produced two rather lumpy rocks. “Last year a naturalist client gifted me with these—he claimed they are a pair of fossilized eggs. Not produced by dinosaurs, but some kind of smaller reptile. And these—”

She stepped on a stool, rummaged further, and came up with two azurite geodes much like the one Carlisle had pointed out downstairs. “These are from a Parisian flea market. I believe Lucinda and Carlisle would like them?”

Lord Ingram’s heart fell back into place. He lifted her from the stool and kissed her on the cheek as he set her down. “They will, most assuredly.”

When Mrs. Watson at last left Noble House, she traveled directly to Dover, crossed the Channel on the late steamer, and spent the night in Calais. By the middle of the next afternoon she’d reached Penelope’s little Parisian apartment in the Quartier Latin. The concierge, who recognized her from prior visits, was happy to open Penelope’s door so she could wait comfortably inside.

The girl’s place was not perfectly neat—the sofa had become a receptacle for books, hats, and gloves. But otherwise it was in a respectable state, with a row of potted herbs growing rather lustily on an inside windowsill despite the arrival of autumn outside.

Mrs. Watson cleared the sofa, lay down, and slept until the smell of butter and eggs woke her up.

“Why, bonsoir, ma belle,” said Penelope cheerfully. “You’ve awakened just in time. Omelette is ready.”

“How long have I been sleeping?”

It was fully dark outside.

“I’m not sure. But it’s quarter to seven and I’ve been back a solid hour.” She gave Mrs. Watson a quick hug. “I’ve some country pâté. You can have it for an appetizer on bread while I put some jambon to fry and uncork a bottle of wine.”

The jambon was already sizzling in the pan on the Etna stove by the time Mrs. Watson stood up slowly from the sofa. A glass of wine appeared before her as she sat down at the tiny table the top of which was barely bigger than a handkerchief.

Soon they were eating. As if she knew exactly what Mrs. Watson needed, Penelope did not ask about Noble House and its inhabitants—about whom she’d already been informed by post—but talked about her classes and her classmates, nothing but young, bright people studying hard so that they could be of use to others in the future.

Life as it should be.

At the end of their meal Penelope brought out coffee and éclairs from the bakery downstairs. “How envious Miss Charlotte would be, to know what we’re eating right now.”

Mrs. Watson nibbled at the edge of an éclair—she didn’t know about Miss Charlotte but the pastry made her feel that she’d eaten far too much. One more bite and she might become nauseated. She set down the éclair and scraped together her resolve. “Your cousins—there were too many secrets at Noble House. They’ll be dealing with the repercussions for years, if not the rest of their lives.”

Penelope nodded gravely.

Reflexively, Mrs. Watson searched for the bottle of wine. Where had it gone? She blew out a shaky breath. “In our little family, we don’t have as many secrets—and certainly not of the same magnitude. But we do have a few and maybe it’s time to bring them to light.”

Penelope blinked. “I—ah—one time I tried on Miss Charlotte’s infamous Christmas tree dress without telling her—I couldn’t help it.”

Mrs. Watson, too, blinked. “Why?”

“Well, she almost looked good wearing it and I wanted to see how it would look on me. Deranged, that was what.”

Mrs. Watson laughed from sheer shock. “My goodness. Well, my secret isn’t as fun.”

Come old gal, you can do this. Hadn’t she been mostly sure that Penelope already suspected the truth? Hadn’t she even said something to that effect to Miss Charlotte a few years ago? Their pretense was no granite façade; it was more akin to the surface tension of water, transparent, flimsy, something that would disintegrate at the slightest tap.

She gripped her locket for strength. The locket held her wedding photograph on one side and on the other, a picture of herself and Penelope two summers ago, on the grassy bank of the Seine.

“You see, when you were a baby, your Aunt Carstairs called on me at her husband’s behest. He didn’t want to have an illegitimate niece, so your Aunt Carstairs told me I couldn’t raise you as my own child, but must tell the world that you’re our cousin Gordon Redmayne’s daughter.”

That was it, right? She’d blurted everything?

Penelope stared at her a long moment. She was beginning to quail inside when the girl said, “Oh, so that’s why.”

She sounded as if—as if the only thing she didn’t know was the reason. “You—you knew that we’re mother and daughter?”

That was what Mrs. Watson had anticipated, wasn’t it? Still, it felt as if she’d jumped off a cliff only to be blown back by a strong wind, safe and sound on her bum just as she’d finally committed to the heroic deed.