Page 20 of The Vanished Sister

Unlike Miss Olivia, Lord Ingram had not seen the two close together, except in passing. “It’s not easy to tell whether Mrs. Carstairs’s strain is caused by Mrs. Albright’s presence or something else. Mrs. Carstairs is very good at appearing gracious and hospitable, but—”

He hesitated. His own experience with marriage predisposed him to see dissatisfaction on the part of the wife. On the other hand, Holmes would know to account for that. “I sense a remoteness to her. Her husband is not entirely relaxed either—he may be responding to her state of mind.

“And if I must comment on their demeanor to each other…Mrs. Carstairs glances more toward her husband and strikes me as the warier of the two. More than that I cannot say.”

Holmes raised a hand and traced the silver herringbone pattern of his waistcoat. “Livia said nothing about Justina Carstairs’s conduct toward Mrs. Watson. What do you make of that?”

He played with the lace at her cuff. “We took ourselves to High Burrow because we feared that Mrs. Carstairs might have something unpleasant in store for you. Mrs. Watson, in particular, was worried that her sister would use this opportunity to get close to her, with ulterior motives. That Mrs. Carstairs hasn’t done so—that she’s treated Mrs. Watson no differently than she’s treated Mrs. Newell, for instance—has allayed some of our fear.”

But they were, at the same time, ever more mystified. Why had Mrs. Carstairs sacrificed a seven-piece diamond parure then? And was this related to Moriarty at all? He felt jumpy and suspicious; he could only imagine the strain Mrs. Watson was under.

Holmes nodded, her chignon rubbing agreeably against his thigh. She dug out his pocket watch from his waistcoat and looked at the time. “And what of this love triangle that dear Livia disdains? Is it as limp as she deems it to be?”

“It’s certainly not turgid in any sense.”

She snorted. “Tell me more of its flaccidness.”

He couldn’t help laughing himself. “To begin with, I’m not convinced Mrs. Wellesley is a full participant in this melodrama. She prefers her own company and doesn’t seem to be distracted by Reginald Carstairs the way he is obviously distracted by her. His wife is distraught, but there isn’t much she can do without making the situation more intolerable for herself.”

“And the senior Carstairses turn a blind eye?”

“It would appear so. After all, there’s nothing untoward going on, as far as I can tell.”

“Poor Emaline Carstairs,” said Holmes.

Lord Ingram had learned that the couple had been married for only a year. Did Reginald Carstairs at last give in to duty only to have the love of his life become a free woman mere months later? Had he—or his wife—been happy before this disastrous turn of events? And had he and the former Rebecca Robinson ever considered marrying each other? A union of stepsiblings was normally frowned upon, but the heir of Noble House would have been shielded from the worst consequences.

He glanced at his watch, still in Holmes’s hand, and dropped it back into his pocket. “I should leave.”

Holmes sat up, pulled him close, and kissed him on the lips. But she did not stop there. She kissed his jaw, his cheek, his eyelids, and then made her way to his earlobe and nibbled delicately.

He freed himself, breathing fast. “Madam, you’ll make me late for dinner at High Burrow.”

“Oh, you’re leaving presently, sir. But you’ll be back tomorrow morning, won’t you?” She kissed him on the lips one more time. “We’ll continue then.”

Mr. Carstairs sang again this night, a popular ballad from the middle of the century.

At the end of his song, Mrs. Watson was startled to realize that she hadn’t been thinking of Justina, Miss Charlotte, or anything remotely to do with her purpose at High Burrow. Instead she’d gone back almost forty years to her grandfather’s parlor at the vicarage, to memories of herself picking out the same tune on the spinet and belting out the words with all the longing in her adolescent heart, for love, for adventure, for a life without regrets.

Come again, bright days. Come again. Come again.

And almost forty years ago, Justina had been right alongside her, singing.

She turned toward her sister. “Do you sing these days?”

“Christmas carols, every year,” said Justina coolly.

And then she clapped vigorously for the husband who had never sung for her.

Lord Ingram touched Mrs. Watson’s arm with an inquiring look. She smiled. She was all right, but the incurable romantic who dwelled ever inside her heart was dejected on her sister’s behalf.

Before anyone else could perform or demand another song, she murmured her good nights and withdrew. She was tired and another half hour in that drawing room was not going to tell her more than what she already knew.

But inside her room she couldn’t concentrate on anything. She couldn’t even maintain enough focus to disrobe. Every time she had her fingers on the top button of her bodice, she found herself pacing instead, rounding from one side of the four-poster bed to the other.

At eleven o’clock, she exited the house altogether. The half moon was brilliant in the sky, but dark clouds, silver-edged by moonlight, encroached. She stood at the edge of the garden, between beds of delphiniums and fuchsias, their flowers emitting no fragrance except that of living, growing things.

A quarter hour later, a figure appeared at the gate of the garden: Justina, still in her dinner attire, slender and ghostly under moonlight.