A Tale of Two Sisters

by Merryn Allingham

  A Tale of Two Sisters

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Historical Note

  Copyright

  To Alan and the trip we shared on the Orient Express.

  Fingers of pink-tinged cloud drift through a sky of blue and mauve and deep violet. The sun is rising, breaking through the dark horizon, spooling the surface of the Bosphorus with gold. Its waters are satin, washing gently against fishing boats already out to sea. In the Eyoub Cemetery beside the city walls, an army of turban-topped headstones look drunkenly across the bay, and within the walls, the spires of Hagia Sophia thrust upwards amid the crumbling beauty of narrow streets and winding alleys. A city at peace. Then the muezzin’s call to the faithful, echoed in a thousand mosques. The miracle of another dawn. Another day.

  Chapter One

  ALICE

  London, February 1907

  Another day and no letter. Alice snatched up the pile of envelopes from the console table and shuffled through them, one by one. She had been so certain that today she would hear, but there was nothing. Still not a word from Lydia. What was happening to her sister that she could find no time to write? A note only, that’s all she asked, some reassuring lines to say all was well, all was happy in a palace several thousand miles away. It surely wasn’t too much to expect, after all the trouble her sister had caused, unless… but Lydia should be safe. As governess to two small girls, there could be nothing that would stop her writing.

  For minutes, Alice stood motionless. Her eyes were fixed on the dark oak of the front door, but it was not its fine mouldings she saw, nor the decorative glass splashing colour across an otherwise gloomy space. It was Lydia’s face. She had dreamt of her sister last night, but didn’t she always? This had been different, though. Last night she had been with Lydia again; she had searched and she had found her. Old resentments had dissolved to nothing and instead she had thrown her arms around the girl and hugged her slight frame, never to let go. Lydia’s stubbornness, her irresponsibility, were forgotten. She had found her dear sister and that was all that mattered. The waking disappointment had been almost too much to bear. And now these letters. Or rather, no letter. Another day of pretending that nothing was amiss, of putting on a reassuring smile. She would need time before she faced her parents again.

  She was at the bottom of the stairs on her way to her bedroom when she heard her name called.

  ‘Alice.’ Her mother’s voice held the suggestion of a quaver, but fretfulness was uppermost.

  She felt a tremor of impatience, instantly suppressed. She must not blame her mother for the constant need of attention. Edith Verinder had never coped well with life and, since Charlie’s death, what little fortitude she’d possessed had faded without a fight.

  ‘Alice!’ The fretfulness had become peremptory. ‘When will your aunt be here?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she answered, retracing her steps into the sitting room. ‘Very soon, I would think.’

  Her mother was sitting by the window wearily resplendent in a wing chair, a thick wool shawl around her shoulders, a blanket at her feet. Alice automatically retrieved the blanket and laid it across the bony knees.

  ‘You will bring Cicely to me, won’t you, when she arrives?’

  ‘Of course, Mama, I’ll bring her immediately. I’m not certain when the York train gets in but there’s always such a crush at King’s Cross. I expect Aunt Cissie has had to queue for a hansom.’

  Her mother gave a long sigh as though she, too, were queuing for the hansom. ‘Make sure that Dora has the tea things ready – and the best china, mind.’

  ‘And don’t put out too many madeleines.’ She hadn’t noticed her father hunched into a matching chair at the other side of the room. He spoke without taking his eyes from his newspaper. ’Your aunt has rather too healthy an appetite.’

  ‘I’ll tell Cook,’ she said a trifle distractedly, halfway back to the door.

  There were a hundred jobs waiting to be done and Cicely’s room had still to be made up. Her aunt enjoyed the freedom of wealthy widowhood, travelling when and where she chose from her home in the shadow of the Minster, but why she had decided to visit London at such short notice, Alice had no idea. It was another burden on a household already besieged.

  ‘And Alice,’ her mother called after her. ‘Fetch Lydia’s letters from your room. Cissie will want to read news of her niece.’

  She felt her chest tighten. She had letters, certainly, a tidy sheaf of them, but if she were to show them to her aunt, Cicely was quick-witted enough to notice that the last message from Lydia was dated months ago. So far Alice had managed to keep this knowledge from her parents by dint of reading the letters aloud, selecting passages from here and there, and pretending the news had arrived only that morning. Before the letters stopped entirely, they had become less frequent and less informative, but she had still kept up the pretence. She couldn’t allow them to know that Lydia had seemingly vanished without a clue to her whereabouts. Not in their weakened state.

  She gave swift instructions to Cook to fetch down the bone china from a top shelf and made a strict count of the number of madeleines to appear on the tea trolley before she climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom. Dora was already there and giving the satin counterpane a final smooth when Alice put her head around the door.

  ‘What else needs doing?’ she asked the maid.

  ‘Just the flowers, miss. Dibbens delivered the narcissi an hour ago and they’re soaking in the kitchen, but they need a bit of arranging. I’ll run down and get them.’

  ‘Bless you. My legs have turned to jelly.’

  ‘And no wonder. You’ve been up and down these stairs all morning, fetching and carrying.’

  Dora sniffed loudly, but she allowed the moment to pass. Alice knew the maid’s opinion of her mother’s illness. Domestic servants did not have the luxury of nerves. But Dora was wrong. Her mother had always been fragile. It was her husband who had given Edith stability and, when he’d fallen ill so shortly after Charlie’s death, the spirit had gone from her completely.

  She arranged the narcissi as best she could in a favourite Murano vase and was making her way downstairs again when the thud of the door knocker echoed through the empty hall. Aunt Cissie. King’s Cross could not have been that busy. Her aunt’s arrival would at least bring cheer to the house. When the telegram had first arrived, Alice had thought of confiding her worries, but realised almost immediately that Cissie was likely to go straight to her sister with Lydia’s tale. The two women were cl
oser than twins. And if her father learned that his younger daughter was missing, possibly in danger, it could prove fatal. His heart attack had left him vulnerable to a final blow, which would be enough to seal her mother’s fate, too. No, she couldn’t tell. She must keep up the pretence that Lydia was alive and well and enjoying teaching in a foreign land. And believe, believe, that her sister would write soon – from wherever she was.

  Alice had written to Topkapi – the Sultan seemed to own a bewildering array of palaces – but Topkapi was the address Lydia had written on each of her letters. The official who responded had been adamant that her sister was no longer with them. There remained at the palace only a few of Lydia’s personal possessions that he would be happy to send: two pens, several photographs, a few watercolours and a book. His letter had been brief and its curt disapproval had shone through the uneven English. Sultan Selim was most displeased. His daughters’ governess had left without warning and no one had an idea where she was. Alice could not quite believe that. If it were true, it would be completely out of character. Lydia might be impulsive, thoughtless even, but Alice was certain she would never simply disappear without telling her family.

  ‘Darling, how are you?’

  Cicely’s substantial figure filled the hall. The cabbie bundled in behind her, puffing heavily from dragging several large pieces of luggage up the front steps. Alice wondered just how long her aunt was intending to stay. The older woman held her at arms’ length and gave her a prolonged stare.

  ‘Not too well, by the look of it,’ she said, answering her own question. ‘You’re not just pale, my dear. You look positively sickly. What ails you?’

  ‘Really nothing, Aunt,’ she protested. ‘I have two invalids to look after. I’m not able to leave the house for long and this winter seems to have gone on forever.’

  ‘Well, now I’m here, I shall make sure you do get out. Put some pink back into those cheeks. I’ll sit with Edie and keep her amused. It won’t be difficult.’

  Cicely was right. She knew just how to handle her sister. Her brother-in-law, too, if it came to that. It might give Alice more time to think, space in which to decide just what to do, or even if there was anything she could do. In the meantime, she must find a way to keep her aunt occupied this evening and as far from Lydia’s letters as possible.

  ‘And how is Theo?’ Her aunt had divested herself of a voluminous coat, several bright scarves and a large felt hat.

  ‘Papa is doing well, I think.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. It was a bad business about Charlie. A foolish young man, I’m afraid, but still a very bad business.’

  Alice stiffened. A sharp sense of loss battled against her aunt’s seeming indifference. She wanted to leap to her young brother’s defence, but she knew Cissie was right – Charlie had been foolish. Attempting to scale Balliol’s medieval walls in the dead of night, after drinking heavily, was foolhardy in the extreme. He had paid a dreadful price for it, and so had they all. Even Lydia. But foolish or not, Charlie had been a loved brother. A sunny, carefree individual who had breezed noisily through every day of his short life with a smile on his face. He had brought joy to the staid house in Pimlico. So she said nothing and instead led her aunt into the sitting room.

  ‘Aunt Cissie is here, Mama,’ she announced as cheerfully as she could.

  * * *

  Later that evening when her sister was safely tucked into bed and Theo snoring gently by the fire, Cicely ordered a tray of tea to be brought to the sitting room. She took an armchair by the window and signalled for Alice to join her.

  ‘None of your chairs are at all comfortable,’ she complained, trying to make a nest for herself on the lumpy seat. ‘I remember them when they were new – very different then – and those curtains. Chenille, I think. They were the most beautiful colour.’ She pointed to the faded loops of duck egg blue encasing the long windows that overlooked a rear garden. ‘Edie always had exquisite taste. Such a shame there’s no money to refurbish.’

  Alice was saved from answering by Dora’s knock and jumped up to help the girl manoeuvre the heavy tray onto the rosewood table. ‘We won’t need you again this evening, Dora. I’ll take the tray back to the kitchen myself.’ The maid gave her a grateful smile and whisked out of the room.

  Alice poured for them both and waited while her aunt stirred her tea. Cissie had been making small talk, she was sure, and at any moment would begin on what she really wished to say.

  ‘You don’t look well, my dear.’ She had returned to Alice’s wraith-like appearance. ‘You must not allow yourself to be worn down. What has happened is a tragedy, but it’s a tragedy that everyone must deal with, and not just you. I was quite shocked, I have to admit, when I heard that Lydia had left – and for Turkey of all places. I know Edie is bursting with pride. She’s full of Lydia’s doings, but I doubt she knows the half of it. It has always seemed to me that she feels the girl is special in some way.’

  ‘She is special,’ Alice interrupted. The image of her sister, dark curls flying, eyes bright blue and sparkling, filled her mind, and for an instant she felt the most tremendous pain.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ her aunt continued. ‘Lydia is a free spirit, we’ve known that since she was a child. And no doubt she’s off having marvellous adventures. But she is also selfish, my dear. She’s left you shouldering the burden of your parents in this sad house.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said quickly. ‘Really, I don’t. Lydia is young – she deserves to be selfish.’ She hadn’t always believed that, but in the last few months irritation with her sister’s wayward behaviour had been superseded by fear for her wellbeing.

  ‘No one deserves to be selfish,’ her aunt said firmly. ‘And as for being young, what are you?’

  ‘I’m twenty-six. My star has waned.’

  And it was true. She had never thought herself attractive, but she’d had the chance to escape several years ago. A young man, a trainee lawyer working for the same practice as her father. He had visited them in Pimlico once or twice and her mother had jumped at the possibility of an engagement, urging her to consider the benefits of marriage to an up-and-coming solicitor. He had been perfectly nice, with a pleasant face and pleasant manners. But dull, too, and she had dragged her feet. She didn’t know why; the feeling perhaps that there had to be more than this, good man that he was. The affair had fizzled out and here she was, twenty-six and unwed, the spinster daughter. Her life was one of service to others. She had even begun to dress the part: the plain grey skirt, the stiff white blouse. All that remained of an earlier Alice was the lace-bedecked silk petticoat she wore beneath.

  ‘Your star has waned! What nonsense! You are melancholy, that’s what it is. I’d be surprised if you were not, living in this house. You need a holiday and I’ve decided you shall have one. A week away, two weeks perhaps, and you’ll return a new woman. I can look after Edie – and Theo. What do you say? I would like to be useful.’

  She reached out and clasped her aunt’s hands. ‘You are very kind, but you are here as our guest. I couldn’t impose on you in that way.’

  ‘More nonsense. How is spending time with a sister I love imposing on me? Edie needs bolstering and I’m the one to do it. And by the look of it, you need bolstering, too. A holiday will be just the thing. Devon, maybe, though it might be a trifle chilly.’

  ‘Venice,’ Alice blurted out. She was startled to hear herself say the word. She had never once ventured out of England. Her father’s attitude had always been that nothing of value lay beyond the cliffs of Dover, and their holidays had been spent in Southwold or Bournemouth or somewhere equally genteel. So why on earth had she said Venice?

  ‘Venice will be chilly as well this time of the year. But a wonderful place. Think of those buildings. That art. Yes, definitely a place to replenish the soul. You must go.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t go there alone. I don’t know why I said that.’

  ‘You said it because it’s right for you
. And you won’t be alone. I have a good friend, who has lived in Venice for many years – an unfortunate marriage to an Italian, I’m afraid – but I know Julia would be delighted to take you under her wing. And as for travelling… there’s a train. I’ve been reading about it. It leaves from Victoria station and goes directly there.’

  Alice had read about it, too. Only a few weeks ago, her father’s Daily Telegraph had devoted a half page article to the subject. It was the train on which Lydia had travelled. A different route but the same train. The Orient Express.

  ‘Tomorrow after breakfast you’re to put on your hat and coat and visit the travel agent. Dean and Dawson, they’re the chaps – they’re in Trafalgar Square. They can reserve you a seat and ask the train conductor to look after you during the journey. And they will book a hotel, too – Julia has only a very small apartment and you will need your privacy.’ She bent down and burrowed into her handbag, bringing out a small packet which she pressed into her niece’s hand. ‘You will need this as well.’

  Alice glimpsed a bundle of notes filling the manila envelope. ‘I couldn’t possibly take this, Aunt Cicely.’

  ‘You can and you will. I can’t have you worrying about money at this time. And no fretting about a passport either – it’s still possible to travel abroad without one. I’ve done it myself.’

  ‘This is so generous of you.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t…’ she began, and then finished lamely, ‘I’ll think about it.’

  * * *

  Once the household was settled for the night, she made her way up the stairs for the last weary time that day. Outside her sister’s bedroom, she paused. Every week she made sure that Mrs Ferris cleaned thoroughly, though what dust the room could have attracted in seven days was questionable. But she had not entered it herself since the moment she became convinced something was amiss. She had a foolish notion that if she kept away, somehow Lydia would be sleeping there, safe and untroubled, life as it had once been. And in the morning, she would hear her sister’s voice, happily off-key, singing the chorus of one of the music hall songs she loved.