The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  I took in his unruly hair, greying slightly at the temples, his strong facial features dominated by a pair of watchful green eyes that I felt sweep over me. He was wearing a moth-eaten V-neck sweater over a shirt with a collar that was fraying, and a pair of jeans. As he came towards me, I saw that he towered over me. There was a definite resemblance to Orlando, but this man was a far more rugged – and certainly unkempt – version, and I wondered if this could be the brother Orlando had mentioned to me.

  Gathering my wits, I replied to his question. ‘It’s there, on the range.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I studied him surreptitiously as he walked past me, and noticed the tense way he held himself as he pulled a knife from the drawer. His silence as he began to carve told me that he possessed none of the easy warmth of his possible relations. I hovered in the kitchen, suddenly uncomfortable, as if he felt I was an intruder, and wondered if I should find my way to the dining room. Just as I was about to do so, Marguerite reappeared.

  ‘Is that nearly done, Mouse? They’re about to eat their plates if you don’t hurry up.’

  ‘Such things take the time they take,’ came the reply, equally cold as his initial sentence to me.

  ‘Well, you come through with me, Star, and we’ll leave Mouse to perform his magic.’

  Of all the characters I’d imagined in my head that could possibly be the famous ‘Mouse’, it wasn’t this man, who, although handsome, could freeze an atmosphere in a few seconds. As I followed Marguerite from the kitchen to a low-ceilinged dining room with a fire playing merrily in the grate, I only hoped I wouldn’t end up sitting next to him for lunch.

  ‘There you are, dear girl,’ said Orlando, whose flushed cheeks indicated he’d been enjoying the wine he’d brought up from the cellar. ‘This looks absolutely splendid.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Come and sit down by me. Mouse is on the other side of you and I thought you could chat to him about Flora Mac-Nichol. He’s done some research on her recently.’

  ‘Star, can I introduce you to everyone at the table?’ said Marguerite.

  She did so, and I automatically said ‘hello’ to the half a dozen new faces, trying but failing to absorb all their names and how they were connected to Rory.

  ‘Is Mouse a relative of yours?’ I asked Orlando in an undertone.

  ‘Of course he is, dear girl,’ he chuckled. ‘He’s my older brother. Have I not told you that? I’m sure I must have done.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And before you say it, I am aware that he stole all our parents’ beauty and brains, leaving me to embody the runt of the litter. A role I fulfil comfortably.’

  Yes, but you embody warmth and empathy, while your brother has none of either . . .

  Mouse strode round the table to sit down next to me. As he did so, Orlando stood up.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I have the honour of proposing a toast to Master Rory on the occasion of his seventh birthday. To your health and wealth, young man,’ Orlando signed to Rory as he spoke. He raised his glass with the assembled company and I saw Rory positively glow with happiness. Everyone lifted their hands in the air to applaud and, swept up by the good cheer of the table, I lifted mine too.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ muttered Mouse from beside me, making no effort to sign the words.

  ‘Right, please, everyone, let’s eat,’ Marguerite urged.

  I was sandwiched between the two brothers – one who, as usual, ate his food like a human waste disposal, and the other who hardly appeared interested in the process. Glancing around at the wine-mellowed company, I experienced a sudden frisson of pleasure, and allowed myself to think how far I had come in the months since Pa’s death. The fact I was sitting at a lunch table surrounded by strangers was akin to a miracle.

  Baby steps, Star, baby steps . . .

  I also felt transported back to the many Sunday lunches at Atlantis with Pa Salt, when all of us had been younger and living at home. I could never remember any strangers being present, but then, Ma, Pa and we six girls made eight – easily enough people to produce the kind of warmth and chatter I was experiencing here. I’d missed being part of a family.

  I realised the Ice Man on my right was speaking to me.

  ‘Orlando told me you work for him.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I doubt you’ll survive for long. They usually don’t.’

  ‘Steady on, old boy,’ cut in Orlando good-naturedly. ‘Star and I muddle along together rather well, don’t we?’

  ‘We do,’ I said, in a far louder and more definite tone than I would normally use, defensive of my odd but sweet employer.

  ‘Well, he needs someone to sort him out. The shop’s been running at a loss for years now, but he refuses to listen. You know the shop will have to go soon, Orlando. It’s on one of the most expensive streets in London. It would fetch a very good price on the market.’

  ‘Could we possibly discuss this another time? I always find that mixing business with the pleasure of eating gives me indigestion,’ countered Orlando.

  ‘You see? He always makes an excuse not to face up to it.’

  The words were murmured and I turned to see that Mouse’s green eyes were staring directly at me. ‘Perhaps you could make him see sense. The business could even go completely online. The rates on the bookshop are astronomical and the footfall, as we both know, is negligible. The sums simply don’t add up.’

  I dragged my eyes away from what was a strangely hypnotic gaze. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about the business,’ I managed.

  ‘Forgive me, it’s inappropriate of me to talk to an employee about it.’

  Certainly when the employer is sitting within hearing range, I thought angrily. He’d somehow managed to patronise and belittle me, negating his lukewarm apology.

  ‘So, what exactly is the connection between you and Flora MacNichol, Miss . . . ?’

  ‘D’Aplièse,’ Orlando answered for me. ‘And it may interest you to know that her real Christian name is “Asterope”,’ he said slowly, waggling his eyebrows at his brother like an excited owl.

  ‘Asterope? As in one of the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said curtly.

  ‘She goes by the name “Star”. Which I think suits her very well indeed, don’t you?’ Orlando put in helpfully.

  I doubted Mouse did agree. He was frowning, as though something about me was a huge puzzle.

  ‘My brother told me your father died recently?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Yes.’ I put my knife and fork together, hoping to end this line of enquiry.

  ‘But he wasn’t your real father?’ affirmed Mouse.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Although he treated you as if he was?’

  ‘Yes, he was wonderful to all of us.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t agree that a blood tie provides an inextricable bond between a parent and a child?’

  ‘How could I? I have never known one.’

  ‘No, I suppose you haven’t.’

  Mouse lapsed into silence and I closed my eyes, feeling suddenly and ridiculously tearful. This man knew nothing of my father, and his probing had been entirely devoid of empathy. I felt a squeeze on my hand, gone as fast as it had arrived as Orlando withdrew his own hand swiftly, throwing me a sympathetic glance.

  ‘I’m sure Orlando has told you that I’ve been trying to research the family history,’ Mouse said to me. ‘There’s always been a lot of confusion about the various . . . factions, and I thought I should look into it once and for all. And, of course, I’ve come across Flora MacNichol.’ I noticed the derogatory timbre of his voice as he spoke her name.

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘The sister of our great-grandmother, Aurelia,’ said Orlando, but again there was a bleak silence from my right. Then, eventually, a deep sigh.

  ‘That isn’t quite the whole story, as you know, Orlando, but it’s not for now,’ said Mouse.

  ‘Do exc
use me, Miss Star, I have been commandeered to help Marguerite clear the plates,’ said Orlando, getting to his feet.

  ‘I can help too,’ I said, standing up with him.

  ‘No.’ He gently pushed me back into my chair. ‘You cooked our exquisite lunch, and under no circumstances are you allowed to be kitchen skivvy as well.’

  As he left my side, I decided that scrubbing every toilet in this huge house would be more enjoyable than sitting next to the man called Mouse. My imagination had already downgraded him to a large sewer rat.

  ‘Have you any idea what the connection is between your father and Flora MacNichol?’

  The Sewer Rat was speaking again. I would reply. Politely. ‘None. I don’t think there was one. My father left all us sisters with clues to our own heritage, not his. Therefore whatever connection exists is likely to be between me and her.’

  ‘You mean that you might be another cuckoo in the High Weald nest? Well, let me tell you, there have been a few in the Vaughan/Forbes history.’

  He grabbed his wine glass and drained it, and I wondered what had happened in his life to make him so angry. I ignored his insinuation and refused to give him the pleasure of seeing it had upset me. Using my well-honed technique of countering silence with silence, I sat with my hands folded in my lap. I knew I could win any battle he cared to wage on that front. And eventually, he spoke.

  ‘I suppose I must apologise for the second time in our short-lived relationship. I’m sure you’re not a gold-digger, just following your dead father’s trail. Orlando also mentioned he left you something else by way of a clue?’

  Before I had a chance to reply, a large cake awash with candles appeared through the dining room door in Orlando’s hands and the table struck up the refrain of ‘Happy Birthday’. Photos were taken of Marguerite and Orlando smiling over Rory’s shoulders. I chanced a glance at the Sewer Rat and read what I initially thought was a morose expression and then, looking into his eyes as he watched Rory, realised they were full of sadness.

  After we had eaten the fudgey chocolate cake Orlando had brought in the hamper all the way from London, and drunk coffee in a sitting room that, just to add to my house envy, sported two enormous oak bookshelves on either side of the wide chimney breast, Orlando stood up.

  ‘Time to depart, Miss Star. We are due to catch the five o’clock train. Marguerite’ – he walked over to her and kissed her on both cheeks – ‘a delight as always. Shall I call a taxi?’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ came a voice from the armchair opposite.

  ‘Thank you, old chap,’ Orlando said to his brother.

  Marguerite pulled herself to standing and I saw the exhaustion in her eyes as she turned to me. ‘Star, please promise you’ll come again to visit soon and allow me to make you lunch?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I replied honestly. ‘Thank you for having me.’

  Rory appeared beside us, his hands opening and closing excitedly, and I realised that he was signing my name over and over again. ‘Come back soon,’ he added in his odd little voice and then wrapped his small arms around my waist.

  ‘Bye, Rory,’ I replied as he released his arms and I looked over his head to see the Sewer Rat staring at us.

  ‘Thank you for that incredible cake,’ I heard Marguerite say to Orlando. ‘It was worth lugging that ridiculous picnic hamper here after all.’

  We duly followed the Sewer Rat outside to a Land Rover as battered and ancient as his cousin’s Fiat.

  ‘Climb in the front, Miss Star. You have far more to talk to Mouse about than I do. It becomes so dull when one knows everything one needs to about a person,’ Orlando said as he stepped into the back with his hamper.

  ‘He doesn’t know me,’ the Sewer Rat growled under his breath, as he got in beside me and started the engine. ‘Even if he thinks he does.’

  I didn’t comment, not wanting to get into a war between the two brothers, and we drove away from High Weald in a thick silence that continued for the rest of the journey. I distracted myself by looking out of the window at the gentle autumn sunset bathing the trees with an amber glow, which was slowly turning to twilight. And thought how much I didn’t want to return to London.

  ‘Thank you kindly, Mouse,’ Orlando said as we arrived back on the station forecourt and we stepped out.

  ‘Do you have a mobile number?’ came the Sewer Rat’s voice out of the gloom.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Put it in here.’ He handed me his mobile.

  He saw my momentary hesitation.

  ‘I’ll apologise for the third time today, and I promise that if you give me your number, I will contact you about Flora MacNichol.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I promptly typed my number in, thinking it was almost certainly a show of good manners and that I’d never hear from him again. I handed his mobile back to him. ‘Goodbye.’

  On the train on the way back to London, Orlando fell asleep immediately. I closed my eyes too, reliving the events of the day and thinking about Orlando’s unusual and interesting relatives.

  And High Weald . . .

  If nothing else, today I’d found the house in which I could happily live forever.

  8

  ‘You were rather a hit with my errant family,’ Orlando said as he arrived at the bookshop the next morning with his three o’clock cake.

  ‘Not with your brother, though.’

  ‘Oh, take no notice of Mouse. He’s always suspicious of anyone he can’t find fault with. One never knows what lies behind another’s reaction until, well, one does,’ Orlando equivocated. ‘And as for your majestic luncheon, I am considering sacking the foil tins and having your good self provide the catering for our little establishment. Although I doubt you’d feel that the cooking facilities upstairs would cut your professional mustard.’ He gazed at me thoughtfully. ‘Are there any other hidden talents you are keeping from me?’

  ‘No.’ I could feel myself blushing, as I always did when someone complimented me.

  ‘You really are awfully accomplished, you know. Where did you learn sign language?’

  ‘My nanny taught me the basics of it in French when I was younger. But mostly my sister and I made up our own signs. It was because I didn’t like to speak much.’

  ‘And there’s another of your gifts. If one has nothing useful to say, one shouldn’t say it at all. That’s why I do so enjoy speaking to Rory, he’s so very observant about the world. And his speech is improving so quickly now.’

  ‘Marguerite said you’ve been wonderful with him.’

  It was Orlando’s turn to blush. ‘That’s sweet of her. I’m very fond of my nephew. Bright as a button and doing well at school, although sadly, lacking a father figure to guide him. Not that I would ever consider myself worthy enough to take on that role, but I do my best.’

  I was desperate to ask who Rory’s father was, and also where he was, but I didn’t want to pry.

  ‘Now, I must get on, although I’m sure there was something I wanted to tell you. Never mind, it will come to me.’

  I could see Orlando’s attention – held for far longer on one train of thought than usual – had moved on. So I lit the fire, and brewed the coffee that no one would drink, then took the feather duster to the bookshelves, remembering the Sewer Rat’s comments about the price of the rates for the shop. And how much money they would get if they sold the building. I couldn’t even contemplate it. Whenever Orlando was out, his bookshop was like a nest without its roosting bird; it was his natural habitat and the two were inextricably linked.

  The day was cold and wet and I knew none of the regulars would be in, so I took Orlando off a bookshelf and sat down by the fire to reread it. Unusually, my mind couldn’t focus on the words. It kept drifting back to yesterday, trying to unravel the family dynamics, and even more vividly, the image of High Weald and its calm beauty kept appearing in my mind’s eye.

  There was no word from the Sewer Rat, just as I had expected. And slowly, I resigned myself to not seeing H
igh Weald again, concentrating my energy instead on how I might one day manage to acquire my own similar home.

  As the days grew shorter and a thick frost greeted me every morning on the way to work, our regulars appeared even more rarely. So, with my newfound spur, one day when there was nothing else to do, I sat down in front of the fire and made notes on the novel I wanted to write. I allowed Pa Salt’s encouraging words to combat my doubts about my ability and was so engrossed in ideas for it that I didn’t hear Orlando coming down the stairs. It was only when he cleared his throat loudly that I looked up and saw him standing above me.

  ‘Sorry, sorry . . .’ I closed the notebook with a snap.

  ‘No matter. Miss Star, I’ve come to ask if you are otherwise engaged on this forthcoming weekend?’

  I suppressed a grin at the formal Orlando-speak. ‘No. I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘Well . . . may I put something to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Marguerite has been offered a big commission in France. She must fly there for a couple of days to discuss terms, and to “case the joint”, as some would say.’

  ‘Yes, she mentioned it to me.’

  ‘She has asked me if we would both go to High Weald for the weekend to take care of Rory while she is gone. She said she was happy to pay you . . .’

  ‘I don’t need paying,’ I countered, mildly insulted that she would see me as ‘staff’.

  ‘No, of course not, and forgive me, for I should have said her first thought was that Rory liked you and perhaps you could provide the maternal touch that eludes me while Marguerite is gone.’

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ I replied, my spirits leaping at the thought of returning to High Weald.

  ‘Would you really? Goodness, now that does make me happy. I’ve never had to care for a child alone. I wouldn’t know where to begin with bath times, et cetera. May I tell Marguerite yes?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Then that’s settled. We will leave tomorrow evening on the six o’clock train. I shall book us into first class and reserve our seats. Commuting, especially on a Friday, is such a nightmare these days. Now, I am late to collect our foil tin treats. But once I am back we shall eat, and then spend the rest of the afternoon brushing up your signing skills.’