Page 21 of The Vanished Sister

“Jo, what are you doing here?”

When they were young, whenever Justina was upset about something, she’d slip out after everyone was asleep to walk in the garden by herself. “I thought you might come out,” said Mrs. Watson.

Justina smiled slightly. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have someone in the house who has known me as a girl.”

But Mrs. Watson was not in the mood for small talk, or even reminiscences. “What’s going on between Mrs. Albright and your husband?”

Justina glanced at the house. Several windows were still lit from within—Mrs. Watson recognized one of them as that of the library. Justina looked back at Mrs. Watson and shrugged. “Nothing. She’s only recently returned to England after being away for thirty years. What could possibly be going on between them?”

Her retort was so reasonable that Mrs. Watson didn’t know what to say for a moment. “Then how close were they before she left, if he brought her here right after she’d been away for three decades?”

Justina shrugged. “Close enough for him to marry her cousin?”

A sense of unreality struck Mrs. Watson—or perhaps it had struck when Justina called at Sans Souci and never left. Here they were, two women who hadn’t seen each other in decades, discussing something as private as Justina’s marriage. “Be serious. You knew he had to marry his first wife for her dowry, for the sake of Noble House.”

The pearls in Justina’s hair glimmered. “Yes, I knew that. Did you know that for his second wife, it had to be obvious that he didn’t marry her for her money?”

“I don’t believe he married you simply because you were a country vicar’s widow. He must have adored you.”

Justina’s dinner gown, cream silk spangled with crystal beads, also glimmered. But her eyes, where moonlight failed to reach, remained deep, shadowy pools. “How is it that you are still a romantic, Jo?”

There was no denigration in her voice, only wonder.

“But you should believe what I tell you, little sister. My husband never adored me a single day of his life. He’d only ever been devoted to Mrs. Albright, dear Cousin Maggie.”

Mrs. Watson couldn’t see it. She understood men, didn’t she? She had been a professional whose livelihood had derived from that fundamental understanding. And Justina was exactly the kind of woman men went wild for. She was beautiful, accomplished in the domestic sphere, intelligent and well-read but not in a way to threaten a man.

How was it possible that her husband, of all people, could have resisted her?

“You see the moon?” Justina pointed, her hand silhouetted against its luminous surface. “Have you ever seen images of the moon taken from telescopes? It’s a barren, unsightly piece of rock. But a person standing here on Earth sees only beautiful, gentle light. It doesn’t matter that the light is but a reflection. It doesn’t even matter that he knows it is but a reflection. Men have been intoxicated by moonlight from the very beginning and my husband is but another man.”

Mrs. Watson shivered—from the strong breeze or the austerity of Justina’s words? But it was true that sometimes men became fixated on those they could not possess. Had there ever been an old man who didn’t speak wistfully of the ones who passed him by in his youth, whose bright smiles and kind words he never forgot despite the passage of an entire lifetime?

“What will you do?” she asked.

“What can I do?” Justina turned her sphinxlike gaze on Mrs. Watson again. “Then again, I need do nothing. We’ve already established that the moon is only beautiful from a distance. Let them make up for all the lost times, I say. Let’s see how long he continues to find Mrs. Albright full of silver glow.”

Mrs. Watson couldn’t hold herself back anymore. “Are you happy, Justina? Have you been happy?”

Justina sighed, a wispy exhalation that was almost visible in the night. “Trust you to ask that question. Are you happy, Jo? Have you been happy since you left Lincolnshire?”

Mrs. Watson was taken aback. “Not every day, obviously,” she said after a moment. “And maybe my moments of happiness were as few and far in between as anyone else’s. But on the whole I have not regretted the life I’ve led.”

“Then I’m happy for you, Jo. I really am.”

Justina had said the same thing a few days ago. Mrs. Watson hadn’t believed her then and she wasn’t sure that she believed her now. Yet the very existence of those words, that they were uttered by her ever-so-implacable sister, made tears well up in her eyes. “I have always wished that our paths hadn’t sundered us forever.”

“Oh, Jo. Dear little Jo. You haven’t changed at all.” Justina paused, as if she didn’t know what to say—or as if she did know what she wanted to say, but simply couldn’t believe she was about to let those words pass her lips. “How I love you, Jo, though I’ve no more idea what to do with you now than I did back then.”

How I love you, Jo.

Mrs. Watson couldn’t have been more seared in place if an actual thunderbolt had struck her.

Justina drew closer. Last time she’d done so, Mrs. Watson had feared that she might attempt an embrace. But this time she desperately wanted that Justina should open her arms and crush her.

But Justina only murmured in passing, “Go to bed now, little sister. Don’t stay out too late. Even summer nights can turn treacherous here on the coast.”

And with that, she strolled into the murky depths of the garden.