The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  Twenty minutes later, having returned with my ingredients, I went up to the tiny kitchen. The lack of utensils proved a problem, but I found one small saucepan in which I sweated off shallots and garlic for a sauce, then added cream, herbs and a dash of brandy. There was also a misshapen frying pan for the two filets mignon, to which I also added mushrooms and halved beef tomatoes. Once everything was under control, I left the kitchen and walked across the landing, noting with pleasure that it was filled with the tempting smells of garlic and meat juices.

  I knocked on Orlando’s door. ‘Lunch is ready,’ I called through it gaily. ‘I’m plating it up now and taking it downstairs. Perhaps you could bring the wine – it’s chilling in the fridge.’ Then I arranged the steaks and their accompaniments on our plates, and stood at the top of the staircase.

  ‘Don’t be too long now, nothing worse than a lukewarm filet mignon,’ I said, then walked carefully down the stairs with my bait. Approximately three minutes passed before I heard his tread on the stairs. And a sad, dishevelled Orlando lookalike appeared in the doorway, holding a bottle of Sancerre and two wine glasses. His hair was awry, and the shadow of unshaven stubble crossed his chin. He was wearing the paisley dressing gown I’d seen at High Weald, and his peacock-blue embroidered slippers.

  ‘Is the door locked?’ he asked me as he glanced at it anxiously.

  ‘Of course. It’s lunchtime,’ I replied calmly.

  He shuffled forwards, and for the first time in my life, I saw for myself the cliché of someone ageing years overnight.

  ‘I hope you like the steak. It’s as rare as you can get, and the sauce on the side is herb,’ I encouraged, sounding even to myself like a nurse speaking to a child.

  ‘Thank you, Star,’ he mumbled as he set down the Sancerre and two glasses. Then he levered himself into the chair as though his bones ached. Giving a huge sigh, he garnered the energy to reach for the bottle and pour a generous measure into each glass.

  ‘To you,’ he toasted. ‘At least I have one friend and ally.’

  I watched him slug back the contents of the glass and immediately refill it, and wondered anxiously what a drunken Orlando would be like.

  ‘Eat up,’ I urged.

  It was the only time in our short history that I put my knife and fork together before he did. He ate like an ailing patient, cutting the fillet into minuscule bites and then chewing each one endlessly.

  ‘The food is perfect, as you know very well, Star. It’s me that isn’t . . .’ His voice petered out as he put another tiny piece of steak into his mouth. Swallowing, he took a vast gulp of wine and gave me the shadow of a smile as he put his cutlery down. ‘Today, even food defeats me. You’ve heard from my brother, I presume.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can he? I mean . . . the cruelty! This’ – he swept his arms around the bookshop – ‘is my world. My only world.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He says we will be bankrupt, or, more accurately, the bank will rupture all we have unless we sell. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Sadly, yes, I can.’

  ‘But how? This . . . bank person can’t presume to steal what is ours? Surely my brother is exaggerating?’

  The expression on his face was so heartbreaking I had to swallow hard before I could answer him. ‘I’m afraid not. Apparently, there are debts—’

  ‘Yes, but they are nothing compared to the price this building would raise if they sold it. They must realise they have surety.’

  ‘I think the problem is that the banks are not in particularly good shape either. They’re’ – I knew I had to choose my words carefully – ‘nervous too. The world economic situation isn’t that healthy just now.’

  ‘Are you telling me that the sale of Arthur Morston Books – not to mention my soul – is going to solve their crisis? Goodness, Star, I expected more of you than this. I thought you were on my side.’

  ‘I am, Orlando, truly. But sometimes life just doesn’t work out like you want it to. It’s horrible, but true. Life just isn’t fair. And from what I gather, it’s the farm as well that is suffering.’

  ‘What?!’ Orlando’s pale complexion turned from pink to red to purple. ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘Yes. He needs to buy new machinery to give the farm a chance of earning its keep.’

  I wondered then if Orlando would actually explode with rage. His sweet features were contorted into such anger and derision it was hard to think how a physical body could control that amount of emotion.

  ‘HA! Ha ha ha! And did he perchance tell you why the farm has fallen on hard times?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he didn’t mention the fact that he rarely came out of his bedroom for the first three years after Annie died? That he let the entire acreage go to rack and ruin because he was unable to get up, drag himself downstairs and speak to the farm manager, who waited for him so many days and weeks with the unpaid bills? Until all the suppliers refused to provide the basics of what any farm needs, and the manager had no choice but to resign? Animals died under my brother’s watch, Miss Star, through malnutrition and negligence. Not to mention the crops that were left to fester for years until even they could no longer find the will to live . . . Let me tell you now, this situation is almost completely of my brother’s making. Not mine.’

  ‘Surely,’ I said eventually, for once venturing into the silence as Orlando topped up his wine glass, ‘you understand why?’

  ‘Of course I do. He had lost the love of his life. I am not unsympathetic to such a plight. But’ – his face darkened once more – ‘there are things that you don’t know, and I am not at liberty to tell you, that are – in my book at least – unforgivable. There comes a point in every human being’s life when one must forget one’s own tragedy and step up to the mark for those who need you. My brother wallowed in self-pity for years and that’s the truth. We all did our best to show him love and support, but even the softest and most understanding of hearts can harden when one watches a person intent on destroying himself.’

  Orlando stood up then, hands shrouded in his robe pockets, and began to pace.

  ‘I can assure you, Miss Star, that his family supported him in every way possible. As you well know, people choose to become a victim or a hero. He chose the first option. And now, because of that, I . . . and this’ – he indicated the room again as dust motes floated like tiny angels around him in the weak October sunlight – ‘are the sacrificial lambs.’

  With that, he sank to the floor and wept.

  ‘God, what a mess . . .’ I heard him mutter to himself in a high voice. ‘We are all a mess. Every single one of us.’

  Kneeling down beside him, I tentatively put my arms around his shoulders. He resisted at first, then nestled into my embrace, and I rocked him like I would a small child.

  ‘You don’t understand what this means to me. You don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Orlando, I do. And if I was able to, I’d let you stay here forever. I promise.’

  ‘You’re a good person, Star. You’re on my side, aren’t you?’

  His agonised eyes looked up at me.

  ‘Of course I am. And when you are calmer, perhaps I can tell you of some ideas I’ve had.’

  ‘Really? I’ll do anything, anything . . .’

  Of course, I had some ideas, but they were rational ones that took the circumstances into consideration, and I doubted they would appeal to Orlando.

  ‘Well, I’m all ears.’ He pulled away from me and scrambled to standing, looking as if I was about to offer him the golden fleece. ‘How about I go upstairs and ablute? I’m currently déshabillé and I revolt even myself,’ he admitted, looking down at his state of dress. He went towards the plates, but I shook my head.

  ‘Today is unusual and I will clear up.’

  ‘So be it.’ He walked towards the back door, then turned in afterthought. ‘Thank you for everything, Miss Star. I knew you’d be the one person I could rely on. And when I c
ome back down, I’ll tell you a secret too.’

  Then he stood there and giggled just as Rory did.

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘I know where they are.’ Orlando grinned, then turned and disappeared through the door.

  I waited until I heard him reach the top of the stairs, then went to clear away the remnants of our lunch and followed him up, feeling that another bridge had been crossed by the fact he’d allowed me into his private enclave. As I washed up the plates in the tiny sink, I mulled over his parting words. I almost certainly knew what Orlando was talking about – it could only be Flora MacNichol’s journals. I felt torn in two by the warring brothers.

  Back downstairs, I turned the Closed sign to Open, as it was well past two o’clock, then stood in the centre of the room, studying the bookcases. For I knew I’d seen a set of books – covered in brown silk – as I’d taken another off the shelf next to them. I also knew Orlando and his playful mind. Where better to camouflage what he’d taken from Home Farm than in a place that contained thousands of the same?

  My eyes scanned the shelves, and then I closed them, trying to place the exact book I’d pulled off the shelf and the location of it . . .

  And there it was. As clear as a virtual file pulled from my memory bank.

  ‘Orlando,’ I muttered, walking towards the English section and casting my eyes to three rows from the bottom. There they were on the shelf marked ‘British Fiction, 1900–1950’.

  Bending down, I pulled out a slim volume, opening it at the first page.

  The Journal of Flora MacNichol

  1910

  I snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf as I heard heavy footfall on the stairs. Orlando was taking the steps faster than usual, and I was only just by the fire, stoking it, before he slammed into the room.

  ‘Feel better now?’ I asked him calmly as I added some more coal.

  There was a pause that went on for so long I had to turn and see why. His face was purple again, and his arms were crossed as he advanced towards me.

  ‘I’ll beg you not to patronise me further. Given that you had calmed me, I just took a call from my brother. He stated that you have agreed to take a job as a housekeeper-cum-nanny at High Weald.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Star! Did you or did you not agree to the proposition that was put to you?’

  ‘Marguerite was desperate because she has an ongoing commission and so I said that I would—’

  ‘Abandon me and turn your coat to work with the enemy?!’

  ‘I said I would go there sometimes and help Marguerite by looking after Rory! That’s all. She said she would ask you if you’d mind if she borrowed me occasionally when the shop wasn’t busy. This has nothing to do with Mouse.’

  ‘Good God, woman! It has everything to do with my brother. He does all her dirty work, including calling me just now on the pretext of making sure I was okay. And then announcing that you would be needed at High Weald from the weekend.’

  ‘Orlando, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you don’t. And there I was, thinking you were on my side . . .’

  ‘I am, Orlando. Really.’

  ‘No you’re not. Can’t you see it suits him? But it doesn’t suit me!’

  He paused and took some deep and much-needed breaths.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said helplessly.

  ‘And I’m more so,’ he said as he stared at me, anger gone and an expression in his eyes that I couldn’t quite decipher. ‘Well, off you go.’

  ‘Off I go where?’

  ‘Trip home to whatever rabbit hutch you live in and pack your bags for High Weald. Marguerite and Mouse need you.’

  ‘Please, I’m your employee, my loyalty lies with you. I love it here . . .’

  ‘Sorry, but if you expect me to fight for you after your betrayal, I won’t.’

  He gave a theatrical shrug, closed his arms tighter across his chest and turned away from me like a sulky little boy.

  ‘I won’t go to High Weald. I want to stay here.’

  ‘And I am dismissing you.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘As you said yourself only today, Star, life isn’t fair.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Star, it has been blindingly obvious since the moment I made the mistake of taking you into the hornet’s nest that you fell in love at first sight with High Weald and the more garrulous members of my family. Who am I to hold you from them? It’s a siren call, dear girl, and you have fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. Fly away, but expect to get stung.’

  If his words weren’t so painful, I would have laughed at the Edwardian melodrama of the situation. Tears threatened behind my eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, walking past him to collect my holdall and rucksack. ‘Goodbye, Orlando. I’m so sorry.’

  I continued to the door in silence and had just laid my hand on the knob when he spoke again.

  ‘At least Rory will benefit from your tender attentions. I’m glad of that. Goodbye, Miss Star.’

  I pulled open the door and walked out into the foggy street, the sky already darkening. My feet carried me automatically across the road towards the bus stop. The bus stop where I’d first set eyes on Arthur Morston Books.

  I stood by it, looking back towards the shop, and there in the shadows, behind the maps laid out in the window, I saw the shape of a man standing watching me.

  I turned my head, unable to bear Orlando’s silent derision.

  23

  Thankfully, the apartment was empty when I arrived home. Dumping my holdall in our shared bedroom that felt even more suffocating after spending the past five nights alone, I went to take a long shower. As the piping-hot water poured over my body, I let not only my tears but my voice flow and I howled, wondering how on earth, in the space of twenty-four hours, I’d managed to mess it all up.

  I stepped out and wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel, and I knew the answer. I’d been greedy. And selfish. Like a woman who had fallen passionately in love, I hadn’t seen the ramifications of my actions, being far too hungry for my prey.

  Which, as Orlando had so succinctly put it, was High Weald. And its occupants . . .

  Of course, I should never have said that I’d take any employment that I’d been offered there, especially under the recent circumstances. No, I should have said I would speak to Orlando – who, after all, was the person who had originally introduced me to the wonderland – before I could agree to anything.

  But I hadn’t. And here I was, once more unemployed. Because if I went to High Weald now – the hornet’s nest, as Orlando had described it – the best friend I had ever made in my life would see me as a traitor. And I just couldn’t bear the thought of that.

  As I emptied my rucksack to find my hairbrush, with a sinking heart I saw that the brass keys to the bookshop were still tucked into the inside pocket. I remembered that glorious moment only a few weeks ago when Orlando had pressed the keys into my hand with a smile, and quickly dismissed it from my memory. I decided defiantly he could either fetch them himself or I would drop them off if I was in the area. But I certainly wouldn’t go out of my way to return them.

  I padded downstairs to make myself a cup of tea and found the normally pristine kitchen in chaos. Five days’ worth of plates had been dumped into the sink – even though a dishwasher sat below the worktop next to it. The floor was covered with crumbs and splashes, and when I looked for a teabag in the caddy to put in a mug that I’d rinsed out, I found it was empty.

  ‘Christ, CeCe!’ I murmured angrily, searching desperately through the cupboards to satisfy my craving. In the end, I dunked a herbal tea bag into the boiling water and, leaving the kitchen as it was, went outside onto my terrace. Luckily, most things on it were either in hibernation or not in need of water, due to the heavy dew. I noted the camellia needed to come in before it suffered from frostbite, but given its siz
e and weight, I felt too weak to drag it, so tonight it would have to do with a dustbin bag placed over its delicate flowers.

  Retreating indoors, and deciding that, as it was gone six o’clock, it was okay to have a glass of wine, I poured myself one and sat in the centre of one of the enormous cream sofas. As I looked around me at the perfect, sterile space – the complete opposite of everything High Weald represented – more tears filled my eyes.

  For I knew that I belonged in neither world – not here in the one my sister had created, which contained little or nothing of me, nor at High Weald.

  I was in bed when I heard the crash of the front door a couple of hours later. I’d left CeCe a note written in big letters on the fridge so she would see it. I’d said I’d come down with a horrible cold and had gone to sleep in the spare room so I didn’t infect her. As expected, having heard her call out for me as she arrived, I traced her footsteps aurally into the kitchen where she’d normally find me. There was a pause as I pictured her reading the note, then the sound of her climbing the stairs. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Star? You okay? Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I croaked pathetically.

  The door opened and the shadow of CeCe appeared in the chink of light.

  ‘Don’t come too close. I’m in a horrible state.’ I coughed as throatily as I could manage.

  ‘Poor you. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No. Taken drugs.’

  ‘If you need me in the night, you know where I am.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Try and sleep. Maybe now you’re home, you’ll feel better.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, Cee.’

  Through my half-opened left eye, I could see she was still hovering at the door, watching me.

  ‘Missed you,’ she said.

  ‘Missed you, too.’

  The door closed, and I realised that was another lie I’d uttered today. I rolled over, and begged the heavens for sleep. And thank God, He eventually answered my prayer.

  I awoke the following morning, feeling as drugged up as I’d told CeCe I was last night. Stumbling out of bed, I saw a note pushed under the door.