Page 99 of The Vanished Sister

A fortnight later, Mrs. Watson received a note from Everett Carstairs, asking her to kindly come to Noble House. But when she arrived the next day, it was only to be informed, by his children who were still dazed from having been told the truth about Reggie’s and Rebecca’s actual parentage, that he had died overnight.

“The doctor—maybe they’d struck a bargain ahead of time—declared that Papa died from a broken heart,” said Rebecca, her eyes red-rimmed. “But there were atropine drops on his nightstand and he’d even left us a note, saying that he chose to go the same way my actual mother and my—and Reverend Robinson died, by atropine poisoning.”

A fitting end, but scarcely a just one. Everett Carstairs had lived a full and sumptuous life and only the loss of Justina had mortally wounded him. Cordelia Carstairs, Reverend Robinson, and Mrs. Whitehill had been but incidental costs to first achieving, then sustaining, the life the master of Noble House was always meant to lead.

But Mrs. Watson did not say that to Rebecca. She wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I have no idea. My poor mother, done away with just like that.” Rebecca looked as lost and helpless as Mrs. Watson had often felt in the middle of this case. “It’s too much to take in, everything. Do you know what my mind has latched onto—what I’ve been feeling upset over? That this means we’re not related. I’m not actually your niece.”

Mrs. Watson held the girl tight. “Perhaps not by blood. But when you get to my age, you’ll realize that the bonds you forge for yourself, by love, by care, by devotion and trust, can be just as significant as the ones you acquire by blood.”

Rebecca was worried about both Reggie and Charlie; Mrs. Watson went to see Reggie first, since he was the one who’d just been told that his entire identity was a lie. But the young man did not look despondent. Tears kept falling from his eyes, but it seemed to Mrs. Watson he wept more out of relief than despair.

“All my life I’ve felt a bit wrong,” he told her. “I guess now I finally know why. And I think for the first time, I can say to myself, maybe not all of this is my fault. Plenty of it is—so much—but not all of it.”

Charlie was, if anything, the most shattered of the siblings. “I’ve always been so proud of my parents, so proud to be their son. But now my parents are—were—is it even permissible to say that they might have been awful people? That I come from awful people?” He gulped. “Dear God, am I going to lose Philana, too?”

He was a fortunate man, for Philana Newell arrived the next day, accompanied by none other than Miss Olivia. She’d received his letter, telling her everything, and she’d come not to jilt him but to reaffirm her commitment to a future together. The young people ran toward each other and embraced hard, Charlie weeping uncontrollably. Philana caressed his hair, patted his arm, and told him, “I’m here now. It will be all right.”

Later, when they were alone, Miss Olivia told Mrs. Watson that there had been quite a scene at Mrs. Newell’s house. Philana Newell had come personally to ask if Miss Olivia would be so kind as to accompany her to Noble Park as her parents refused to chaperone her. Indeed the Stanmore Newells had chased their daughter to Mrs. Newell’s house and implored her to jilt young Charles Carstairs, whom they had adored endlessly only weeks ago.

Miss Olivia shook her head. “I’ve always liked the girl, now I admire her. She yanked her parents upright and told them they ought to be ashamed of themselves. ‘I accepted Charlie because I liked him, not because I liked his parents. Now you will pull yourselves together and you will never, ever let him know that on the darkest day of his life, you begged me to abandon him.’ ”

She exhaled. “And to think, when I first saw the two of them together I thought they lacked all passion.”

Mrs. Watson stayed until after Everett Carstairs’s funeral, also a private one. Afterward she took a walk with Rebecca, who was still dazed to be left with most of the wealth-generating properties that her mother had brought into the family.

“My dear, what happened to Reverend Robinson and Mrs. Whitehill is now public knowledge. But still only very few people know your mother’s fate, or your true parentage. I cannot make the decision as to whether to announce that to the world. She was your mother. It should be your call.”

Rebecca rubbed her eyes. “For her sake, it should be made known. But for our sake—mine, Reggie’s, Charlie’s, and now Philana’s, too—I beg you to let us have some more time. Let’s revisit this in another year.”

“All right,” said Mrs. Watson.

Rebecca wrapped both arms around her. “Thank you, Aunt Watson. Thank you.”

In London, Livia accompanied Philana Newell to various shops and dressmakers—the girl had decided to start her trousseau and marry sooner rather than later. She selected only durable, useful items, preparing herself for a modest life.

And when their heads spun from too many linens and household goods, she asked Livia whether they could make a trip to the Reading Room at the British Museum. Few things excited Livia more than a trip to the Reading Room and she consented readily.

At the Reading Room they agreed to meet at the entrance in three hours and each went to her own customary spot. Livia read for a while, then took out her notebook. In the beginning, her plots always originated from Charlotte’s cases. A change here, a modification there, and she had herself a draft. But these days ideas came into her head just like that. A good thing, as she was highly averse to Justina and Everett Carstairs, fictionalized or not.

But maybe she could write a story with a stepfather? Fairy tales abounded with cautionary tales about stepmothers but where were the warnings against stepfathers?

An open notebook slid into her view, with a question in pencil written on the blank page. A penny for your thoughts?

She recognized the handwriting. Stephen! He was seated next to her, grinning widely. His hair had grown longer and he was clean-shaven—had he dressed as a woman recently? The thought—and his presence, of course—made her smile.

I was thinking about a new story but now I’m thinking about a walk with you. She did have more than two hours left before she had to account for her whereabouts with Philana. But before that, how do things stand?

Moriarty might not have been involved with Mrs. Carstairs, but he was still an unfortunate constant in their lives.

More movements on the Continent of late, but so far, no new activities in Britain.

Livia nodded. It was always only a matter of time before troubles restarted. But they’d had three good years and—

She bit her lower lip. She had come to a decision a while ago, hadn’t she? The question had even been on the tip of her tongue on several occasions—the most recent being that night in Sans Souci, when they’d kissed good-bye on the terrace—but each time she’d vacillated until either the urge passed or he’d disappeared from view.

But this time…Young Philana would probably be entertained to learn this, but her combination of steadfastness and pragmatism had touched Livia. Hers would not be a marriage undertaken under the most auspicious of circumstances, but she had decided that there was nothing to be done about Charles Carstairs’s parentage and would only focus her attention on the lifetime they would spend together.