Page 23 of The Vanished Sister

The least he could do after parading Mrs. Albright up and down.

Livia, her lips pursed, returned her attention to the sleeve she was attaching to a sailor costume. A few minutes later Mrs. Newell called out, “Livia, my dear, will you bring down the Maldives travelogue to me? It’s on my nightstand.”

“Of course,” said Livia.

The house had two wings extending back from the central block. The sons of the house occupied the south wing, with Lord Ingram’s room at the corner where the main corridor turned. Mrs. Newell had the corresponding room on the other side, around the bend from the master and the mistress’s chambers in the north wing.

As Livia approached she heard knocks in the north wing.

“Justina!” called Mr. Carstairs, sounding more concerned than impatient.

He knocked again, this time more insistently.

Livia wondered how long his wife would keep him at bay. She seemed content to refuse him entry. It was none of Livia’s business but she approved of it, this side of Justina Carstairs. Watching her carry on as if nothing was the matter during Mrs. Albright’s visit had set Livia’s teeth on edge.

A door opened. Was that the end of it?

No, an unfamiliar female voice murmured, “Mr. Carstairs.” She sounded surprised.

“Have you seen Mrs. Carstairs today?” asked Mr. Carstairs, his voice tight.

“No, sir. I brought breakfast and luncheon trays and left them outside but she didn’t touch either.”

“And she hasn’t asked for what you’ve brought now?”

“No, sir. I was worried that she hadn’t eaten anything all day—I thought she might like a sandwich.”

More knocks. The rapping grew louder, followed by the sound of a doorknob being turned.

Livia crept closer to the turn of the corridor and started at Mrs. Wellesley’s voice. “What’s going on, Papa?”

“I wish I knew, poppet,” said her stepfather. “Dawkins, go to Mrs. Horner and ask for her spare keys.”

Dawkins departed down the service staircase from which she’d come. A whispered conversation ensued between Everett Carstairs and Mrs. Wellesley, too low for Livia to hear. She slipped inside Mrs. Newell’s room and found the travelogue. Book in hand, she opened the door, only to see someone disappearing around the bend.

“Rebecca, Papa,” said the newcomer—Reginald Carstairs’s hesitant voice. “Is everything all right?”

He’d come to see his stepsister, thought Livia, and was surprised to see her in the corridor with his father. More whispered conversation ensued, this time between Rebecca Wellesley and Reginald Carstairs, Livia judged.

A door opened and keys jangled. Dawkins had returned with Mrs. Horner, the housekeeper.

Livia peered around the corner. Mrs. Horner had already opened the door and stood aside. Mr. Carstairs went in first, his son and stepdaughter in his wake. The two servants glanced at each other and followed in their employer’s footsteps.

Livia stuck her head out farther. But only silence poured out of the still-open door of the mistress’s apartment.

And then, after a whole minute must have passed, came Mrs. Wellesley’s voice, now rather shrill. “Look at this. What does this mean?”

Mrs. Watson was relieved to be back in Sans Souci, yet she spent the entire day restless and nervous, stuck indoors when she needed strenuous exercise to quiet her mind.

Shortly before six in the evening, the storm finally broke. The sun, still hours from setting, flooded the windows with light. Lord Ingram suggested a walk, which Mrs. Watson immediately seconded. But before they could change into their Wellington boots, Mr. Mears appeared and reported that the entire Newell clan had arrived.

This was, to put it mildly, odd timing. For a morning call, typically conducted early in the afternoon, they had come too late. And for dinner they had come far too early—if they had been invited in the first place, that is.

Mrs. Watson’s heart thumped. What had caused the Newells’ sudden exodus from High Burrow?

Miss Charlotte, not exactly a drawing room fixture these days, slipped out of the French window. Lord Ingram left to welcome his new guests. Mrs. Watson tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves, wishing belatedly that she hadn’t had them made to fit so snugly.

Usually, at a time like this, with Mrs. Watson visibly worried, Penelope would say something along the lines of I’m sure it will be all right. Ebullient, optimistic Penelope who had been reassuring Mrs. Watson since she was a child. But today she only put away the dice with which they’d been playing games of hazard and frowned—even she couldn’t deny there was something highly irregular about the situation.