Page 14 of The Vanished Sister

“There is said to have been a Roman fort not far from here. Of course it might only be a legend, but from time to time people do dig up shards of amphora, or a knife blade or two. Rebecca,” Charles Carstairs said, addressing his half sister, “didn’t they find some small tools in one of the pastures recently?”

Mrs. Wellesley looked up, startled. “Oh, that. A sewing kit or the like.”

“How interesting,” said Philana Newell.

“If you’d like, we can go for a drive, or even a ramble, upon the moors,” offered Charles Carstairs.

Philana Newell, at twenty-two, was more handsome than pretty. But she had a quiet, restful presence that was attractive in its own way. There was a similar circumspection in her rapport with her fiancé; they came across more as a long-married couple than a pair of young lovers.

“Would you like to join us for the outing, Miss Holmes?” she asked.

Before Livia could answer, Mr. Carstairs strode into the conservatory. After bidding the entire table “Good morning,” he stopped by his wife’s side and leaned down, his arm close enough to brush her shoulder.

Mrs. Carstairs turned slightly and tilted her head up to look at her husband. Their gaze held—and there was all the veiled intensity missing from the interaction between their son and Philana Newell. Livia was astonished. How had she not noticed it the previous night? But of course, the night before, husband and wife had presided over opposite ends of the dining table. And the rest of the time, until Livia retired, they had circulated, paying attention to their guests, rather than to each other.

“My dear, I’ve just received word from Mrs. Albright,” said Mr. Carstairs in a low voice. “I hope you don’t mind one more guest here?”

Something in Mrs. Carstairs’s aspect changed and the tension between the two acquired a darker undertone. “Of course not. Everyone will be delighted to make her acquaintance.”

“Then I shall go fetch her forthwith,” replied her husband.

He apologized to his guests and left.

Mrs. Carstairs smiled at the Newells, something sharp and glittery in her expression. “Mrs. Albright is cousin to the late Mrs. Carstairs. She and her husband resided abroad these many years. After Mr. Albright passed away, she returned to England and on Mr. Carstairs’s advice, hired a cottage for the month of August not too far from here.” She rose. “Let me make doubly sure that Mrs. Albright’s room is ready. Do excuse me.”

After her departure, Philana Newell repeated her question to Livia about the outing to the moors. Livia declined, citing her duties to Philana’s grandmother.

“I’ll also beg off,” said Reginald Carstairs abruptly. “Emaline isn’t feeling well. I can’t leave her by herself.”

At this Rebecca Wellesley raised her eyes from her teacup, glanced at him, and said to Charles Carstairs and Philana Newell, “I’ll gladly come with the two of you.”

Reginald Carstairs continued to cut his sausages into ever more minuscule pieces. But a few minutes later, when Mrs. Wellesley left the table, his gaze followed her out of the conservatory.

Mrs. Watson had read Livia’s letter. She knew to expect a gorgeous estate. What she hadn’t expected, when she arrived at High Burrow midafternoon, was the rush of memories.

All I want is a garden, said Justina all those years ago. I don’t even need a rose arbor. I’d be perfectly happy with hydrangeas and rhododendrons.

They’d been in what Joanna always thought of as Grandpa’s garden. But the garden did not belong to Grandpa. It was attached to the vicarage in which their grandfather, only the curate, was allowed to live because the actual vicar, a well-to-do man, paid little mind to his flock and rarely visited in person. But when Grandpa was no more, Justina and Joanna would be turned out, and they would become true orphans, all alone in the world except for each other.

Justina was removing dandelions with a weed extractor. She was a tireless gardener, someone who loved to instill order into chaos. Joanna sat on a stone bench, not loving how cold the seat felt beneath her bum, despite her layers of skirts.

Gardens aren’t for me—too much work, she said. But I’ll come and see your garden someday.

Jo, you can’t be afraid of work.

I’m not afraid of work. But the work of a garden is endless and it doesn’t even produce anything edible.

Justina made an exasperated moue. A garden produces beauty. Is that not enough for some effort? Or are you willing to live a life without beauty?

Joanna looked with longing at the stone bench across from hers and imagined its sunbaked warmth. But she must stay out of the sun to keep her skin tender and fair. I’m going to live in London and I’ll take my strolls in the great public gardens.

And how will you be able to afford a London house?

Joanna shrugged. I’ll find a way.

Justina tossed another dandelion into the cracked wooden bucket at her side. She studied Joanna. Sustained attention from her sister made Joanna nervous. Somehow Justina always knew when Joanna overspent her allowance, washed her handkerchiefs too carelessly, or flirted with an unsuitable boy—or any boy, for that matter.

Had she forgotten any chores recently? Yes, but more than usual? Drat it. Justina had asked her a good fortnight ago to reweave the cuffs on Grandpa’s favorite jacket and she hadn’t even found the matching yarn for the task. And she’d failed to take soup to Mrs. Oldham. And of course she’d forgotten to polish the brass vases on the mantel for the second week in a row.