Page 22 of The Vanished Sister

“Justina.” Mrs. Watson heard her own voice, calling out after her sister. “You said he has never adored you. What about you? Have you ever loved him?”

“Oh, I have loved him. I might still love him, for all I know.” Justina stopped but did not turn around. “Good night, Jo. I don’t plan on seeing you off tomorrow, so let this be our good-bye. Thank you for accepting my invitation. And thank you for still giving a damn, after all these years.”

It wasn’t until the clouds caught up to the moon and the garden was plunged into darkness that Mrs. Watson realized that the tears in her eyes had rolled down her cheeks long ago.

Seven

In the morning, the clouds that had rolled in the night before pressed low, the air so damp it nearly dripped. In front of the house, Mrs. Watson and Lord Ingram made small talk with Everett Carstairs and Mrs. Albright—the master of the house would personally escort his cousin-in-law back to her hired house. Was this why Justina had decided that she wouldn’t see anyone off?

But she must not have informed her husband for a frowning Everett Carstairs spoke to the butler, who replied in a low whisper that the mistress had specified that she was not to be disturbed this morning. Everett Carstairs frowned again, more severely this time. Did he consider his wife’s absence a discourtesy to Mrs. Albright?

“I hate seeing people off, too,” said Mrs. Albright, with no small amount of diplomacy. “Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson are only going to the other side of Combe Martin, and I scarcely much farther. Let’s save good-byes for greater distances and longer absences.”

Everett Carstairs pasted on a smile. “In that case, allow me to thank you again for your delightful company, my lord, Mrs. Watson. I look forward to our next meeting.”

Mrs. Watson expressed roughly the same sentiments but wondered otherwise. Justina’s parting words last night had constituted a farewell, hadn’t they?

When their carriage had left High Burrow behind and begun its descent into Combe Martin, Lord Ingram came to sit beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She glanced out of the window in the direction of the receding Gothic manor. Already it seemed far away, not only in distance but in time, as if she’d last spoken to Justina years ago.

“My dear, do you ever miss your brother?”

They both knew exactly which of Lord Ingram’s three brothers she referred to, the one who had betrayed him time and again.

The dear boy took a minute to think about it. “I don’t miss the corrupt and resentful person he eventually became, but from time to time I lament the man he once was. Or at least, the man I once believed him to be.”

Maybe sometimes that was all that bound two people together, what they had once been to each other. She would never think of Justina without remembering their grandfather’s garden, or the dining room of the vicarage, just as Lord Ingram could never separate Lord Bancroft from the model railway sets of his childhood, which had brought him such joy, and those drawing lessons upon the grand terrace of Eastleigh Park.

She wrapped both her hands around his arm and rested her head against his. They remained silent and motionless as the carriage rounded the harbor at Combe Martin and started to climb up the other side.

“Well,” said Lord Ingram. “Our visit to High Burrow has ended. Did we learn anything at all?”

Thunderstorms began shortly after Mrs. Watson and Lord Ingram’s departure and never let up. Livia spent most of the morning helping with a parlor production of H.M.S. Pinafore that Mrs. Stanmore Newell wished to mount the next evening.

At luncheon Mrs. Carstairs was not there. Livia realized that she hadn’t seen the woman all day—she hadn’t been at breakfast either.

Charles Carstairs made his mother’s excuses for her, citing a great fatigue. His future parents-in-law fell over themselves to express their understanding. Everything had been so exquisite—no wonder Mrs. Carstairs was exhausted.

Livia slanted her lips. Mrs. Carstairs, she was sure, could exquisitely execute every day of the year without breaking into a sweat, let alone falling into a faint. She probably took to her bed because her husband had accompanied Mrs. Albright home and who knew what those two might get up to once they reached relative privacy.

Rain, driven sideways by strong wind, slammed into the glass panels of the conservatory. Livia felt a glum restlessness. She could have spent the previous three days in the company of Charlotte or her Stephen, neither of whom she saw often enough. But she’d whiled away all those precious hours at High Burrow with very little to show for it.

Charles Carstairs, who took up the duties of the host, chatted amiably with his future in-laws. Emaline Carstairs, too, was absent; her husband explained, with an air of general embarrassment, that she’d gone into Ilfracombe for shopping. Livia was already annoyed with him for the shame he evinced at such a little thing as his wife having an itinerary of her own. She became actively galled when she realized he was looking at Mrs. Wellesley as he said his piece.

Without Justina Carstairs nearby, Rebecca Wellesley, with her smoothly parted hair and chiseled lips, was a far more magnetic presence. A man might find a sad, lovely woman irresistible, but Livia had always preferred the company of those who embraced life with both arms—or at least demolished every meal with gusto, as Charlotte did. So it was a departure for her to be pulled in by Rebecca Wellesley’s aura of just-beneath-the-surface desolation.

Maybe there was something else, something akin to infrared light, invisible to the naked eye yet slowly burning up everything it touched. Vengeance, Livia thought, her storyteller’s soul running away with ideas. Maybe her husband hadn’t died of natural causes. Maybe she had helped him along on his path toward an early demise.

After luncheon, Livia was again drafted, this time to construct makeshift sailor costumes for the play. At least Mrs. Newell enjoyed the hullabaloo and genuinely looked forward to the home theatrics, which gave Livia a bit of purpose.

Around three o’clock, the sky, dark all day, became even darker. More candles were lit. Mr. Carstairs strode in and was brought up short by the disarray in his drawing room: heaps of fabric, half-painted scenery, and a huge pile of boxes that looked more like an igloo mid-disassembly than any kind of oceangoing vessel.

Mrs. Stanmore Newell leaped up and happily reported on the progress of her ambitious project.

Mr. Carstairs looked about once more, as if weighing his words about the chaos. “Mrs. Carstairs, I’m sure, would prove an extremely capable lieutenant to your production.”

“Oh, but we haven’t seen her all day. Dear Charles said she asked not to be disturbed.”

Everett Carstairs glanced at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, everyone. I’d best take a look at Mrs. Carstairs.”