Page 56 of The Vanished Sister

And of course after Justina had directed her to raise her daughter as her niece, anger had dominated Mrs. Watson’s already complicated feelings toward her sister. It had taken years for her to stop tormenting herself with wrath and resentment, to simply live her very fortunate life and enjoy her extraordinarily wonderful child.

Had she grown wise with age? Perhaps. Or perhaps she’d simply grown weary of so much Sturm und Drang in her own head.

The bed creaked a little as Miss Charlotte twisted her torso first to one side, then to the other, as Mrs. Watson had taught her.

“Why don’t I think of Henrietta?” mused Miss Charlotte. “If I must put a reason to it, I suppose it’s because she doesn’t need us. She’s never needed any of us. It used to bother Livia, how little we meant to her.”

“But it didn’t bother you?”

“I thought her instructive. Livia cared so much what other people thought. My mother, too. Henrietta was the complete opposite—she pleased only herself. And she became the best-off of all of us.”

“Provided she can stomach that husband of hers.” Mrs. Watson had heard a fair bit about the vapid and ungainly Mr. Cumberland from Miss Olivia.

“For what Henrietta gained in the bargain, she probably considers it a small price to pay. And frankly, I wouldn’t be so quick to judge Mr. Cumberland as useless in bed. Henrietta is an expert at giving directions and Mr. Cumberland is highly biddable. A man willing to follow instructions does not need to be clever or athletic to be a good lover—at that point he needs only practice.”

Mrs. Watson straightened in surprise. “Have you told Miss Olivia that?”

Miss Charlotte clasped her hands together behind her back and, still bent over, lifted her arms. “No. That might be more than she can handle, the idea that Henrietta could be both comfortably off and well pleasured.”

At the thought of Miss Olivia’s horrified expression, Mrs. Watson burst out laughing in spite of herself. “More women could learn from Mrs. Cumberland.”

“They could. But most women would take one look at Mr. Cumberland and refuse any lesson from his wife,” said Miss Charlotte breezily. “When an ugly husband is often the least of a woman’s problems.”

The cables from Miss Olivia Holmes and Lord Ingram arrived while Miss Charlotte, Inspector Treadles, and Mrs. Watson were finishing up their early dinner.

“I have no idea what might be the significance in Mrs. Wellesley wanting to meet with Sherlock Holmes,” said Miss Charlotte, after everyone at table had read the telegrams, “but Lord Ingram’s discovery has overturned some of my exceptionally elegant theories.”

Inspector Treadles shook his head. “I’ll admit, I have one or two of those that are beginning to seem highly unlikely, in light of Mr. Gregory’s unexpected participation.”

Mrs. Watson slanted her lips. It was very possible that their theories coincided with hers: that the man over whom Mrs. Whitehill had lost her head had been none other than the beauteous Mr. Carstairs.

What Mr. Carstairs could have accomplished by seducing the thrice-widowed Mrs. Whitehill, Mrs. Watson could not even begin to grasp, and that rootlessness had perhaps made the theory more tempting, not less.

“I rather like the pouf of elegant theories evaporating into thin air,” said Miss Charlotte, helping herself to a lemon cream. “The clunkier hypotheses of the world deserve a chance to be right.”

Mrs. Watson pushed aside her unfinished plate. “But our interview with Mrs. Morgan…”

They were in Ludlow because they’d made an appointment to see Mrs. Whitehill’s friend Mrs. Morgan, with whom Mrs. Whitehill had stayed during the big to-do of Christian women, in the hope of finding out more about the potential love interest the latter might have encountered.

“Let’s hope she can tell us other things,” said Inspector Treadles, sounding not terribly optimistic.

Mrs. Morgan turned out to bear a certain resemblance to Miss Charlotte. Or rather, she looked as Miss Charlotte might in another thirty years, if Miss Charlotte were fine-boned and of a vanishing size to begin with. Her ringlets had turned grey but remained thick and lustrous. And her large blue eyes were red and swollen, much as Mrs. Hawthorn’s had been. “I do apologize for the state of my appearance. But my dearest Amadea was here only days ago. And now—”

Inspector Treadles and Miss Holmes tendered their condolences.

“Did you attend the congress of Christian women with her, by any chance?” asked the policeman.

“Oh, goodness, no.” Mrs. Morgan cackled a little, a bit of mischief coming into her gaze. “My father always fell asleep in church, and he always told me that there were a great many things God considered far more important than church attendance. Mind you, I do attend Sunday services—mostly—but I’ve never felt the need to set foot in a house of worship on other days or for other purposes.”

“So that was not how you met Mrs. Whitehill?”

“No, indeed. We knew each other as girls. And frankly I was astonished that she married three clergymen. But then again, the clergymen of my youth were either bores or toadies. Amadea’s Reverend Broadfield, on the other hand, was a magnificent scholar. Had excellent family connections, too—he had the wealthiest parish in the county. And he was so witty. With him at the dinner table, you either learned or you laughed, often both at the same time.”

“How did her other husbands stack up against this paragon?” Miss Charlotte, bless her, asked the exact question Mrs. Watson would have.

“Oh, you’d think they couldn’t possibly compare, but Reverend Rutherford was a prime specimen.”

Mrs. Watson had seen Reverend Rutherford’s photographs at Mrs. Whitehill’s house, but the way Mrs. Morgan’s face lit up, Mrs. Whitehill’s second husband must have been handsomer and even fitter in real life.