Page 13 of The Vanished Sister

Like his wife, he, too, has the ability to make me relax and enjoy myself, until I remember that I’m supposed to be vigilant and analytical. I wonder whether he knows the truth about his wife, or whether he is in the dark, the way Lord Ingram was blinded by his infatuation with the former Lady Ingram.

Their children do not shine with nearly such intensity. Mr. Reginald Carstairs, the heir, is quiet and slow to speak. In others that might give a sense of intellect and thoughtfulness, but somehow from him that conveys only a certain vacancy. Not that anything is the matter with his mind, I don’t think, but it is elsewhere.

Mrs. Wellesley, Mrs. Carstairs’s daughter from her first marriage, is not as beautiful as her mother, but prepossessing in her own way: She’s very tall and looms over the other ladies but she carries that height with an assertiveness I envy. However her demeanor is both lugubrious and rather abrupt. Mrs. Newell told me later that she’d endured an unhappy marriage that ended with her husband’s death ten months ago.

Mr. Charles Carstairs, young Philana Newell’s fiancé, is exactly who you’d picture if you were asked to imagine his parents’ progeny. He is tall, ruggedly handsome, and cheerfully enjoys the company of others. His future parents-in-law dote upon him. The Stanmore Newells are enraptured with High Burrow and the Carstairses in general. You’d easily mistake Mr. Newell for Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice, visiting Lady Catherine de Bourgh for the first time, even though he is the master of a house of like dignity.

Their collective infatuation embarrasses Mrs. Newell, but at least Philana carries herself with commendable self-possession.

So there you have it, the cast of characters for the house party. I hope at least some of what I’ve written will prove useful.

In the meanwhile, I remain,

Your most devoted,

Livia

P.S. After I settled Mrs. Newell in for the night, I took a trip downstairs to browse in the library, as I’d been invited to do. There I discovered a hidden reading nook with lots of novels, memoirs, and travelogues. Just as I collected a stack to investigate which titles I’d take to my room, the door opened. Two people walked in, closed the door, and began to speak in agitated whispers.

I didn’t move or breathe. The solid backing on the shelf that separated the reading nook from the rest of the library made it impossible to see but the two addressed each other as Rebecca and Reggie—Mrs. Wellesley and Reginald Carstairs. Mrs. Wellesley became more and more agitated. “She destroyed my life. She destroyed my dignity. I won’t let her get away with it,” she kept saying. “Rebecca, calm down,” repeated her stepbrother.

After they left, I decided to wait for five minutes—what if they were still in the passage outside?

You will never believe what happened, with forty-five seconds left.

Yes, another person came inside. This one said nothing. I heard tiny clinks and scratches. By the time I realized the person was picking a lock, a drawer slid open. It closed again in no more than fifteen seconds. More tiny clinks and scratches. Another drawer slid open. It, too, was shut again a few breaths later.

And then the person crossed the room and tried—and succeeded—with a third drawer.

After that, our visitor finally left.

I waited only two minutes this time—it was unlikely that this one would hang about the library’s vicinity and I sincerely did not want to be caught in the reading nook by a third party of illicit visitors.

And now you know what happened as well as I do.

P.P.S. I should have checked to see what the person might have been looking for, shouldn’t I? But I didn’t think of it at the time. At the time I was only desperate to get away.

P.P.P.S. I almost forgot: On the way back to my room, I met Mrs. Reginald Carstairs—her name is Emaline, I believe. I was incorrect when I concluded that I’d presented the entire cast of characters earlier: Emaline Carstairs had not been at dinner because she’d been under the weather. She is pretty, fair and blond and all that, but the kind who could easily look washed out. We chatted briefly on the stair landing. She did not look unwell to me, but unhappy. You know that empty-eyed look. When she smiled, the corners of her lips felt heavy, as if it took every ounce of her willpower to lift them.

Reginald Carstairs, upon our meeting, said that his wife and his stepsister would be glad of the presence of another young lady. It was a kind thing to say but the company of strangers appears to be the last thing either woman desires.

Dear Charlotte,

I was up by five o’clock this morning to drop my letter to the post office before attending to Mrs. Newell. After I finished dressing I pulled back the curtain on my window and saw Mrs. Carstairs coming back from the bluffs.

The land rises from High Burrow north to the edge of the headland. She was walking downhill toward the house, bathed in the light of the early morning sun.

Perhaps I’m getting suspicious over nothing, but quarter past five seems remarkably early to be returning from a morning walk, don’t you think?

Yours,

Livia

Five

Breakfast at High Burrow was served in the conservatory. Through the glass wall, the sea glimmered in the distance, a northernly blue with stretches of aquamarine in shallower places.

At one end of the table, Mrs. Carstairs, her radiance scarcely dimmed by her terribly early rise, chatted amiably with Mrs. Newell, while the latter’s son and daughter-in-law hung onto every word. At the other end, the younger generation was quieter. Reginald Carstairs cut his sausage into small pieces; Mrs. Rebecca Wellesley, Mrs. Carstairs’s daughter from her first marriage, nursed a cup of tea that must be at best lukewarm by now. Only Philana Newell and Charles Carstairs spoke.