The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘I am sure you are correct in your assumption. If you were to study your parents’ marriage certificate and your birth certificate, you would find that there is a three-month . . . inaccuracy in the dates.’

  Flora thought back to the letter she had found in her father’s chest of drawers.

  ‘Yes. And I also know that money changed hands. I believe my . . . step-father was paid to marry my mother. Did he . . . did the King love my mother?’

  ‘Forgive me, I cannot comment, but he was certainly most fond of you.’

  ‘Mrs Keppel knew of the relationship between my mother and the King?’

  ‘They made their debuts together. They were friends.’

  ‘The whole of London has known who I was,’ she whispered. ‘And I have not.’

  ‘At least, under Mrs Keppel’s patronage, your fortunes rose.’

  ‘I too was part of the King’s “alternative” court . . .’

  ‘And it was a court that made the King very happy.’

  ‘Why did Mrs Keppel bring me to London?’

  ‘Again, I can’t say for certain whether she wished to introduce you to your father for your sake, or his. Or, in fact, to benefit herself and therefore gain the King’s patronage. However, things turned out as they did and the King told me on a number of occasions how much he enjoyed your company. And indeed, he saw many ways in which the two of you were alike. Your appearance in his life gave him great joy, Miss MacNichol. If he had lived longer, I am sure your relationship would have become closer.’

  ‘And through this, I became something to be coveted by others because they knew I was the King’s daughter. And recently accepted by him, even if illegitimate . . .’ Flora mused quietly. ‘That is why Freddie thought to marry me. The Countess kept speaking of my “good stock” and even talked of the possibility of the King’s attendance at our wedding . . .’

  ‘It perhaps had a bearing on events, yes. But, of course, now the King is dead, and the Queen lives—’

  ‘And the illusion that was created with Mrs Keppel’s magic wand has disappeared like a dream. Well . . .’ Flora allowed herself a ghost of a smile. ‘Whatever has been and whatever may come, I am glad that I at least spent some time with him.’

  ‘He was proud of you, Miss MacNichol, but had to be so in secret. I hope you understand.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And now, as you have alluded to, there is a new era dawning; the old court is at an end, and we who served it are washed away and must endeavour to survive the future. I, on behalf of the King, hope the contents of that envelope will enable you to do so. And I suggest that you have no false pride about using it. He saw you as a free spirit, an innocent untainted by all he had to deal with from birth. Whatever your future may be, use his legacy wisely. So, will you go to stay at your sister’s?’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘The doors are already closed to you there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Flora decided not to elaborate.

  ‘Please remember that the position you find yourself in is through no fault of your own. You must feel no guilt. The machinations around you are not of your making. It is a simple accident of birth. That has been your curse and, I sincerely hope, your recent pleasure.’

  ‘It was indeed a pleasure to become acquainted with the King.’

  ‘And now, Miss MacNichol, I must take my leave. As you can imagine, I have much to do, but I know you were uppermost in the King’s thoughts when he was close to death.’

  ‘Thank you for sparing the time to come and see me.’ Flora rose, and Ernest Cassel followed suit.

  ‘Don’t thank me. I feel quite dreadful that I must now leave you here alone in this house.’

  ‘No, Sir Ernest, I do thank you for it. For better or worse, you have given me the answers I’ve been searching for ever since I arrived in London. Now that I know, it is possible for me to move forward.’

  ‘And I will always be at your service. If you wish me to help invest your inheritance, do not hesitate to contact me. And may I say that the grace with which you have taken what I have had to tell you tonight marks you out as a great princess. And as your father’s daughter. Goodnight, Miss MacNichol.’

  Ernest Cassel gave a slight bow, then swept out of the room at great speed, which Flora instinctively knew was to hide his own emotion. With Panther at her heels, she walked sedately upstairs to her room, as if it was any other day. Someone had lit the gas lamps and she lay down on the bed, studying the hefty envelope. A strange sense of calm had overtaken her; what she had just been told was no more surreal than the events of the past seven months. Now everything fitted together like a completed jigsaw puzzle.

  She slept then, nature taking pity on her and allowing her shocked mind to rest. She woke in the early hours just before dawn. And, with Panther purring by her side, she opened the first envelope.

  26th April 1909

  My dear Flora,

  (I do commend your mother on your name – you are aware I have always been partial to Scotland.)

  As you will know by now if you are reading this I am your blood father. If you doubt this, as I can assure you I did before Mrs Keppel suggested that I meet you, then doubt it no longer. My dear girl you even have my nose! In this I sympathise with you, for it is unattractive but sits on your face nobly. There is much that I recognise of myself in you and to be blunt Flora, I was not particularly wishing to, although the facts of your conception are undeniable: I can confirm that your mother was untouched by another when we began our brief liaison.

  Firstly you must forgive me for my behaviour towards her and, subsequently, you. I hope you are able to understand the situation I was placed in. No more needs to be said about that other than that I was glad when I heard your mother had been safely married.

  Ernest Cassel will have seen you and handed this to you, along with an amount that I hope will secure your future. I beg you to only count yourself lucky that you do not lead the life of your half-brothers and sisters. It is my hope that at least one of my children can live a life unfettered by protocol and the demands of a royal position. Live your life in the freedom of anonymity as I wished to have had the chance to live mine. And above all, be true to yourself.

  So now, my dear Flora, I wish you happiness, fulfilment and love. And I am saddened that I have not had longer to get to know you better.

  Remember the short moments we shared.

  And I beg you please burn this letter for all concerned.

  The letter was signed in Edward’s script, with the royal seal.

  Flora then opened the heavy envelope, already suspecting what it would contain. Out fluttered hundreds of notes – the value of which she would count later.

  Flora stuffed the money back into the envelope, and the letter into the silken pocket at the back of her journal. Then she rose from her bed and rang the bell for Peggie, asking her to tell Freed she would need him to drive her to Euston station shortly.

  After boarding the train and settling herself in a carriage, she peered through the window as it left the station. Panther meowed in his basket and as there was no one else in the carriage with her, she took him into her arms.

  ‘Don’t cry, my darling,’ she murmured. ‘We’re going home.’

  Star

  High Weald, Kent

  October 2007

  Rubus fruticosus (blackberry – Rosaceae family)

  32

  ‘So, there we are. It’s quite a story, isn’t it?’

  Mouse’s voice had a soothing resonance to it, and I’d closed my eyes, forgetting where I was as he transported me back almost one hundred years ago. Flora’s rich, descriptive language – the kind that Orlando adored and continued to use himself – only enhanced the picture I’d created in my mind.

  Flora’s real father . . . a king. But that wasn’t the point. I swallowed the lump in my throat at the emotion she had felt and so poignantly described in her journal. And wondered how I would feel if the same thing ever happened to me. />
  ‘Star? Hello?’

  I did my best to focus on the figure sitting on the sofa opposite me. ‘This . . . story. Do you think it’s true? I mean, he was the King of England . . .’

  ‘It absolutely could be true. Edward was renowned for having a number of mistresses at any particular time in his reign. I’ve checked out the historical facts, and I’ve found one recorded pregnancy apparently attributed to Edward VII. And given the level of contraception, or lack of it at the time, I’d reckon it would be a miracle if there weren’t more that went unrecorded.’

  ‘How awful for the Queen. It amazes me that Mrs Keppel was such a pillar of society.’

  ‘Certainly in the upper classes here in England, monogamy only became a prerequisite of marriage comparatively recently. In Flora’s day, arranged marriages between the great families of England were just that: a business deal. Once an heir was on the scene, both men and women were allowed the freedom to take lovers as long as they were discreet.’

  ‘Are you a historian?’

  ‘I studied architecture at university. But interestingly, humanity’s needs and wants have a lot to do with the buildings they live in. Secret passages that led from one boudoir to another, for example . . .’ Mouse studied my expression. ‘You’re looking prim, Star. Are you prim?’

  ‘I have morals,’ I answered as calmly as I could. This was not the question to ask me after my earlier conversation with Shanthi.

  ‘Fair enough. So, does it excite you that you may be related to our British royal family? After all, your father left you a Fabergé cat as a clue, which Flora states in her journal was given to her by Edward VII.’

  ‘Not really,’ I admitted.

  ‘Perhaps if you were English, it would. I know any number of people who would be falling over themselves to prove a royal connection. We Brits tend to be the most appalling bunch of snobs and social climbers. I’m sure it’s far more egalitarian in Switzerland.’

  ‘It is. I’m more interested to know what happened to Flora after she ran home to the Lake District.’

  ‘Well, all I can tell you is—’

  I heard the key in the lock then, and immediately stood up.

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must be off anyway.’

  Mouse was standing as CeCe entered the room.

  ‘God, Sia, I had a shit day—’

  She stopped short as she saw Mouse by the sofa.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mouse,’ he said.

  ‘CeCe, Star’s sister.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he offered as CeCe brushed past him on her way to the kitchen. ‘Right, I guess I’ll be off.’

  I followed Mouse to the door.

  ‘Here. Keep them.’ He pressed Flora’s journals into my hands. ‘You might want to reread them. And also’ – he leant his head down to whisper in my ear – ‘take a look inside the silk lining of the back cover.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, honoured that he trusted me enough to take care of what, in essence, was an important English historical archive.

  ‘Sia? Have you made any supper? I’m starving!’ came a shout from the kitchen.

  ‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘Bye, Star.’ Then he bent down and gave me a light peck on the cheek.

  ‘Bye,’ I said, and slammed the door on him as soon as he was through it, my cheek burning where he’d kissed me.

  I was up before CeCe the next morning, and when she came down, I made her a plate of honey on toast as a peace offering, knowing it was one of her favourites.

  ‘Got to run,’ she said when she’d finished it. ‘See you later.’

  I went upstairs to retrieve the journals. Ever since Mouse had left last night, I’d been desperate to read them. I decided that I wouldn’t dwell on how rude CeCe had been to him, or the fact that she hadn’t even asked me who he was.

  Opening the back cover of each journal in turn, I soon found what I was looking for. I gently pulled out the frail sheet of paper hidden in the silk pocket at the back of the journal. Unfolding it carefully, I read the letter that the King of England had written to Flora, his illegitimate daughter. And marvelled at how it had remained a secret for almost one hundred years. Replacing it, I then read through the final pages of the journal, doing my best to decipher the writing. And I pondered on the possibility that I was somehow related to the highest in this land. But I also knew Pa Salt well enough to be aware there would be twists and turns on my road to discovery. And something told me that the journey wasn’t over yet.

  The problem was, I couldn’t make it alone. And there were only two people on the planet who could help me, one of whom was now out of bounds. And the other . . . well, I really didn’t know about Mouse at all.

  Then I realised I could have handed him the keys to the bookshop when I saw him last night. I had to return them, and break the last link I had to Orlando and the magical world of Arthur Morston Books. I also needed – and felt I deserved – a reference. I penned a letter to Orlando, and decided that if the shop was shut, I would drop it with the keys through the letter box. Besides, I needed to get out of this apartment, otherwise I’d brood on what Shanthi had said to me last night.

  As I got on the bus, I pondered that it hadn’t been her query over my sexuality that had destabilised me. After all, on my travels with CeCe, people we’d met had presumed we were a couple; we hardly looked like sisters – her dark butterscotch skin and diminutive stature in contrast to my height and pale complexion. And we showed obvious natural physical affection with each other. It wasn’t even that Shanthi had made it clear she found me attractive . . . it was what else she’d said that had destabilised me. Her laser-beam perception had struck to the heart of my deepest problem.

  Stepping off the bus, I walked to the door of the bookshop, praying that Orlando would still be barricaded in upstairs so I could drop the letter and keys through the letter box and run. I pushed the front door and found it was open. My stomach turned at the thought of facing him.

  Thankfully, there was no sign of him in the shop, so I dropped the keys and letter onto the table, and retraced my footsteps to the door. About to leave, I stopped short, thinking how irresponsible it was to place a set of keys to a shop chock-full of rare books out in open sight. I picked them up again, and took them to the hidden alcove at the back of the shop. I put them in a drawer, and decided I’d text Orlando to let him know where I’d left them.

  Turning to make a hasty retreat, I saw the door that led upstairs was ajar. And a highly polished black brogue enclosing a foot lay at a strange angle on the floor beyond it. I stifled a scream, then, taking a deep breath, pushed the door open as far as it would go.

  And there was Orlando, lying in the tiny lobby that led to the stairs, his head resting on the bottom step, the three o’clock cake still grasped in his hand.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  I bent down and heard his shallow breathing and saw a bloody gash in the middle of his forehead.

  ‘Orlando, it’s Star. Can you hear me?’

  There was no response, and as I sat there and dug out my mobile, I dialled 999 and told the woman at the other end what had happened as succinctly as I could. She asked me then if the injured party had any medical conditions, and I suddenly remembered.

  ‘Yes, he has epilepsy.’

  ‘Right. An ambulance will be with you shortly.’ Then she talked me through how I should put Orlando in the recovery position. I did my best to follow her instructions. Orlando might have been thin, but there was a whole six feet of him trapped in a tiny space at the bottom of a staircase. Thankfully, a few minutes later, I heard a siren approaching and looked up to see a blue light flashing outside the shop window.

  ‘He’s over here.’ I waved to the paramedics as they came in. ‘I can’t wake him . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, miss, we’ll sort him,’ said one of the paramedics, as I stood up to give them room to get to their patient.

  As they checked him over, attac
hing a probe to his finger to monitor his stats, I dialled Mouse’s number. It went to voicemail, and I explained as calmly as I could what had happened.

  ‘He’s coming round, miss. He’s taken a nasty bump to his head, so we’re going to take him on the van to get him checked out at hospital. Want to hop on?’

  As they lifted Orlando onto the waiting stretcher, I grabbed the keys to the shop back from the drawer, locked up behind me and followed the paramedics to the ambulance.

  A few hours later, Orlando was sitting up in bed, looking dazed and pale, but at least he was conscious. A doctor had explained to me that Orlando had had an epileptic seizure and had almost certainly tripped on the stairs, knocking himself out.

  ‘He has concussion from the thump he took, but his brain scan came back normal. We’ll keep him in for observation overnight, and he should be well enough to be allowed home tomorrow.’

  ‘Sorry,’ came a croaky voice from the bed.

  ‘Orlando, you don’t have to apologise.’

  ‘You’ve been wonderful to me, and now you’ve saved my life.’ A small tear rolled down his cheek. ‘Eternally grateful, Miss Star, eternally grateful.’

  He slept then and I went outside for some fresh air, and texted CeCe to tell her that my employer had had an accident, and that I might be home late as I was with him at the hospital. Just as I was preparing to go back inside, my mobile rang.

  ‘Star, apologies. I’ve been out on that damned tractor all day, and there’s never any bloody signal here,’ Mouse said, his voice tense. ‘I’m at Ashford station now. I’ll see you in an hour or so. How is he?’

  ‘Feeling pretty sorry for himself, but okay.’

  ‘I’ll guarantee you that he hasn’t been taking his medication properly. Perhaps it was in protest against me selling the bookshop. I wouldn’t put it past him.’

  ‘I don’t think Orlando would knowingly put his life at risk, Mouse.’

  ‘You don’t know him like I do. Anyway, thank God you found him when you did.’