Page 7 of The Vanished Sister

Miss Olivia and Penelope had stood at an upstairs window as she and Justina turned around from the edge of the terrace. By the time Mrs. Watson reentered the house, the two young women—as well as Miss Charlotte and Mr. Marbleton—were playing tennis in the back, affording her a much needed respite. But soon she must answer questions. Oh God, how was she to explain to Penelope why she’d never mentioned this other aunt?

A knock came at the door. Mrs. Watson turned halfway around on her stool. That light, cheerful tap—it could only be Penelope.

The girl slipped in and held out her hands, a placating smile on her face. “Aunt Jo, will you promise not to be out of sorts with me?”

Mrs. Watson blinked—these were not the words she’d anticipated. “What for?”

Penelope’s elfin face scrunched up with something halfway between mortification and relief, as if she were about to confess to a bout of childhood shoplifting. “I never told you this, Aunt Jo, but we—Ash and I—we know about Mrs. Carstairs.”

Mrs. Watson’s vision blurred momentarily. “You do?”

And Lord Ingram, too?

She had her suspicions that Penelope might already know that they were mother and daughter, but how would she have learned about Justina?

Penelope nodded, her tortoiseshell chandelier earrings swaying. “Do you remember when we first came back from India?”

They’d spent several years in the north of India, at the Nowshera cantonment and the garrison in Rawalpindi, while Dr. Watson served as surgeon-major in the British forces. After his death ten years ago, they’d returned to England.

“I remember that time,” said Mrs. Watson slowly.

It had not been a lighthearted era.

“Then you must also remember that Ash used to come and take me around London?”

Lord Ingram had also hoped Mrs. Watson would join them, but she’d pushed the young people out of the house and sunk deeper into her grief, surrounded by complete solitude.

“We went to museums and shows. Sometimes we sailed to Richmond. At the time, Ash was compiling a family tree for his godfather and I said I’d like to know a bit more about the Redmaynes.”

A pang of guilt struck Mrs. Watson. What if Penelope didn’t know the truth? She’d told the girl everything she remembered of Cousin Gordon, but she’d never met his wife. Had Penelope felt that deficiency?

Penelope moved closer and traced her fingers along the beveled edge of the dressing table. “Ash said he knew the name of the village where you used to live in Lincolnshire and could help me look up some things. A few weeks later he told me that your grandfather had been the local curate and you had a sister who was now Mrs. Carstairs of Noble House.”

Mrs. Watson felt as if she’d been turned to a statue, unable to respond, unable to even fathom how she felt about the revelation.

“Ash said she probably disapproved of you and that was why you never mentioned her,” continued Penelope. “But I was so curious I begged him to take me to the next Ascot to have a good look at her.”

The girl leaned forward in a flash of blue—the paillettes on the bodice of her dinner gown sparkled with motion—and pried open Mrs. Watson’s hand. Mrs. Watson looked down—how long had she been clenching her hairbrush? There was now a depression at the center of her palm the exact same pattern as the rose carving on the sandalwood handle.

Penelope spun the hairbrush between her fingers and bit her lower lip. “I should have told you then—or at any point in the intervening years. But it felt…disloyal to have wanted to know about Mrs. Carstairs in the first place. In the end, I decided to say nothing, and I asked the same of Ash.”

Relief and sadness assailed Mrs. Watson in turn. Justina was not wrong in that she and Penelope had not suffered overly for their aunt-and-niece façade, but they’d still lived a lie. And truth—or even a partial truth—walking in was like a long-lost child returning home, a stranger to everyone.

“Has—” Penelope hesitated. “Has Mrs. Carstairs upset you terribly by coming around today?”

Mrs. Watson was suddenly close to tears. The shock, the dismay, the memory of the heavy dread in her stomach all those years, the trepidation over what to tell everyone at Sans Souci, especially Penelope, not to mention whatever it was that had caused Miss Charlotte to involve herself in the matter. Everything wore on Mrs. Watson, but the worst—the worst had not been anything terrible. To the contrary, the worst had been those little bursts of happiness that she hadn’t even grasped while in Justina’s presence.

Justina, who had been held in awe even by their parents, judging Mrs. Watson to have done well for herself. And following the compliment this time not with an ignominious demand but with an invitation to join her at her house, in front of her guests, acknowledging Mrs. Watson as no one in Society ever had.

“Yes, her call has upset me terribly.”

“Then it was wrong of her.” Penelope set the hairbrush down on the dressing table with a soft but resolute thud. “She should have left her calling card with Mr. Mears and deferred to your choice whether to renew your connection.”

Mrs. Watson rested her head against her daughter’s arm and breathed in the scent of warm silk. “Thank you for being on my side, my dearest.”

“But of course. You love people so. For you never to have mentioned her, her offense must have been great indeed.”

Mrs. Watson allowed herself to sigh. Yes, a great and terrible offense, yet part of me thrills to the idea of a new beginning. “I was worried that you’d be displeased with me, for having kept the knowledge from you. She’s not only your blood relation, she’s also Mrs. Carstairs of Noble House.”