Page 6 of The Vanished Sister

“I don’t want anything, Joanna. I came because I saw you sail by earlier in the afternoon. I assume the young woman sitting beside you was your daughter?”

Mrs. Watson’s heart thudded. Of course Justina had been the one on the high bluff, looking down through a pair of binoculars.

“How time passes,” continued Justina. “She’s now all grown, as are my children. And we, Joanna, are old women.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mrs. Watson retorted.

Justina smiled tolerantly. “All right, then, we are mature women who have, I hope, moved beyond the passions and follies of our youth.”

She set down her tea, folded her hands together in her lap, and said, “I would like to apologize to you, Joanna. I still do not believe it was wrong to provide Miss Redmayne a façade of greater respectability, but I should not have brought up your credibility in the eyes of the late duke—that was uncalled for, especially as neither I nor my husband had any intention of following through.”

An apology was the last thing Mrs. Watson expected. She was so astonished that it took a moment to remember that at their last meeting, Justina—composed, soft-spoken, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Justina—had also apologized for being ruthless. Then had left Mrs. Watson to marinate in her own cold sweat.

It had been a watershed moment. Before that day, before that meeting, Mrs. Watson had been audacious to the point of recklessness. Afterward, she hadn’t lost her courage, thank goodness, but always carried a burden of disquietude.

She clenched her fingers. “I have never been called ‘mother’ by my own child. And you think that a casual acknowledgment of your blackmail tactics serves as sufficient apology?”

“Perhaps not, but that is the extent of my sincerity,” replied Justina, unchastened. “I do not believe either you or your child suffered greatly as a result of my interference. Therefore my contrition is only over the inappropriateness of my threat. There are no particular negative consequences for which I must atone.”

Mrs. Watson opened her mouth and then firmly closed it. She would not explain to her sister that she’d walked on eggshells until the old duke passed away. Even after that she hadn’t been able to relax completely. Who was to say that Justina wouldn’t produce false testimonies for some other perceived infraction on Mrs. Watson’s part—and how could she be sure the new duke wouldn’t seize the opportunity to take away everything that his father had settled upon Mrs. Watson and Penelope?

“You did not come solely to offer me an apology, Justina,” she said stiffly. “What do you really want?”

Justina’s lips curved, a lovely smile that somehow felt tense. Jittery. “My son became engaged recently. We have invited the young lady’s family to High Burrow. I should like you and Miss Redmayne to join us. It’s high time my children met their aunt, and my niece, her cousins.”

The partial apology had shocked Mrs. Watson. This outright invitation dumbfounded her. “You want—what?”

“Miss Redmayne, being ostensibly our cousin Gordon’s daughter, is eminently eligible. Even you yourself have, through your marriage, acquired enough respectability to take part in an occasional family gathering.”

This, on the face of it, did not expressly contradict what Justina had declared all those years ago. She couldn’t have an illegitimate niece, nor present a demi-mondaine sister to her husband and children. But now she would be receiving the widow of an army doctor and the daughter of a cousin.

Justina rose. “The Newells arrive tomorrow. Your formal invitation will be delivered forthwith. And I will issue another invitation to Lord Ingram and his guests, of course, if that would make you feel more at ease.”

As she walked past, Mrs. Watson had the skin-crawling sensation that she was about to be embraced. But Justina did no such thing. Instead she paused briefly and said, “I was convinced the path you chose for yourself would turn out disastrous in the end, but you did well and proved me wrong. Brava, Joanna, brava.”

Two

Mrs. Watson was still pulling herself together when the door of the drawing room opened and in strolled Miss Charlotte in her tennis gown.

“Ma’am, what did Mrs. Carstairs want?” she asked without preamble.

“She…wanted Penelope and myself to attend the house party she’s giving for the Newells.”

Miss Charlotte nodded. Over the years Mrs. Watson had become rather good at reading the young woman’s seemingly inscrutable face. But today her hard-won skills deserted her, for she could perceive nothing but a cool impassivity.

“She will not have left yet,” declared Miss Charlotte. “I’ve stationed Ash outside to say a few parting words. Will you go and tell her that you will need a token of her sincerity?”

“A what?”

“You heard me correctly, ma’am. Please inform Mrs. Carstairs that if she wishes you to attend any function at her house, she must prove the sincerity of her invitation.”

Mrs. Watson gawked at her young friend. This was a highly unusual request, even for the highly unusual Miss Charlotte. Then, without another word, she hurried to the front of the cottage and accosted Justina, who was indeed in the middle of some small talk with Lord Ingram.

The two sisters walked to the edge of Sans Souci’s terrace. “Prove it,” said Mrs. Watson, staring at the crenellated roofline of High Burrow in the distance. “Prove to me that you really want us at your house.”

“And what,” asked Justina serenely, “would serve as adequate proof?”

Mrs. Watson stared at the mirror, the pad of her thumb rubbing against an embroidered leaf at the neckline of her green bengaline dinner gown.