Page 18 of The Vanished Sister

Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson are here. I’m beyond happy for their presence. And yet…

Tonight’s dinner table was beautifully laid out—hydrangeas in glass bowls and porcelain baskets filled with currants and gooseberries. Mrs. Stanmore Newell, Mrs. Newell’s daughter-in-law, was in raptures. She kept saying that she’d never witnessed anything of the sort, that it was all original and ingenious. She had a point: Those little hillocks of fruits gleamed in candlelight as if they’d been painted by Caravaggio or Clara Peeters.

Mrs. Watson, who was seated to the left of our host—Mrs. Newell was on his right—kept looking down the length of the table toward Mrs. Carstairs at the end. At the conclusion of dinner, as we ladies headed for the drawing room, I asked her if everything was all right. She said she was merely inundated with memories, long-forgotten bits of her life in Lincolnshire.

Apparently Mrs. Carstairs had always set a beautiful table. Their first winter at their grandfather’s vicarage, when there were no fresh blossoms to be had, she’d made ribbon ones. But the next summer she’d learned to air-dry flowers. And when winter came again, everyone marveled at the vibrant dried-flower bouquets she produced for both the vicarage and the church.

You see why I worry, Charlotte? Our dear Mrs. Watson doesn’t hold a grudge very well. The more time she spends near Mrs. Carstairs, the more she’ll come to see the latter not as an adversary, but a sister. And in spite of my reluctant admiration for Mrs. Carstairs, I’m convinced she’ll take advantage of Mrs. Watson’s generous nature and hurt her again.

Anyway, after dinner, with Mrs. Watson in the drawing room keeping an eye on everyone, Lord Ingram and I sneaked off to the library. I didn’t think the Carstairses kept important documents in a holiday house—or that Mrs. Carstairs would save other correspondence from Moriarty after you found the letter from de Lacey/Lord Bancroft. But I was rather struck that someone had an interest in those drawers in the library and it seemed neglectful not to at least take a look.

Lord Ingram made quick work of the locks. The two desk drawers contained only blank stationery, new pen nibs, and the sort. In the third drawer, a tiny one on an occasion table, we found four strips of needlework borders. Remember we had to practice those for Mamma when we were younger? You always made yours geometric, which looked much neater than my attempts at botanical motifs.

Lord Ingram took rubbings of the needlework. Afterward we returned to the drawing room. Just then Mrs. Stanmore Newell called for a song. Mrs. Watson looked nervous, as if she feared her history in musical theater might be brought up. But Mrs. Carstairs didn’t say anything and Mrs. Albright volunteered Mr. Carstairs.

Charles Carstairs commented that he had no idea his father sang. Mrs. Albright assured him that of course his father sang and wonderfully, too. She then berated the master of the house for keeping his marvelous voice from his family.

Mr. Carstairs said, and I quote, “Some things one must keep for oneself.”

“Nonsense,” exclaimed Mrs. Albright. “Some things must be shared with all those you love.”

And with that, she planted herself in front of the pianoforte and said that he was going to sing ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.’ He protested that it was a song for a woman. She replied that she longed to hear it, played the opening chords, and Mr. Carstairs belted out a rather haunting melody.

His sons and stepdaughter all looked dumbfounded. Mrs. Stanmore Newell had fireworks in her eyes. Even I, who detest most at-home musical performances, was impressed. Even better, when the thunderous applause that greeted his performance finally quieted, he asked Mrs. Albright to play the score again. She did and he sang a parody version of the song which began thusly:

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,

And each damp thing that creeps and crawls

Went wobble-wobble on the walls.

Faint odors of departed cheese,

Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,

Awoke the never-ending sneeze.

I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed so hard among people I hardly know. Everyone was bent over in fits, with the exception of Justina Carstairs. Her smile was polite and stiff; even I began to feel sorry for her.

Was I mistaken? I thought I’d sensed a consuming awareness between Everett and Justina Carstairs. And I still do—they look frequently at each other in gazes that seem to convey something. But the presence of Mrs. Albright spoils any romantic narrative my brain might wish to invent.

All in all, it was an uneventful day. I’m both relieved and a little impatient. Why does Mrs. Carstairs want Mrs. Watson here? After a day and a half for me—and eight hours apiece for Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson—we’re no closer to finding out.

Yours,

Livia

P.S. Mrs. Watson is of the opinion that the needlework borders must have been Mrs. Carstairs’s handiwork: She had been highly proficient in her youth and had produced much admired embroidered tablecloths for the church altar, as well as a spectacular cope for their grandfather.

Dear Charlotte,

Most of today was taken up by the grand picnic.

Mrs. Carstairs’s staff put up a beautiful white tent, with garlands hanging from the rafters and a great big Persian carpet surmounted by cushions and low tables.

You’d have been wild for the éclairs. And I finally understood why caviar has always been so highly prized. But the rest of it…

I can’t fathom what Mr. Carstairs sees in Mrs. Albright, but there he was, bringing her plates of nibbles, sitting beside her to explain the rules of certain games, and taking her for a turn outside the tent for her to stretch her legs—all the while as his wife looked on, her expression as smooth as a mirror.