The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  We sat down at a knotted pine table and Orlando slumped onto his wooden chair, shaking his head. ‘I am grieving. Yet another part of my former life has disappeared. Meadows’ Bookshop was a shining beacon of peace and tranquillity lighting up my childhood memories. And now it has gone.’

  Having eaten our chicken pies, which were indeed delicious, Orlando asked Mrs Meadows if ‘the establishment possessed broadband’. She duly took Orlando and his laptop to an office in the back.

  In the meantime, I went to explore Tenterden, savouring the town’s unique Englishness, with its quaint houses and shops set along narrow paved streets. I peered through the window of a toyshop, strewn with fake cobwebs, plastic spiders and broomsticks. As it was Halloween the day after tomorrow, I decided it would be fun for Rory to celebrate it, as my sisters and I had always done at Atlantis. Pa Salt had told us that the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades were nearing their highest point in the sky at Halloween, so it had always felt like our very own holiday. When he was home, he’d take us up into his observatory and, one by one, let each of us look through the telescope at the star cluster. It was always me who had a problem finding my star – Asterope. It didn’t seem to shine as brightly as my other sisters’ stars.

  ‘But you have two stars to your name, darling. They’re just so close together that they look like one. See?’

  And Pa Salt had lifted me up again. And I had seen.

  ‘Perhaps I’m your twin star,’ CeCe had piped up.

  ‘No, CeCe, you have your own star,’ Pa had told her gently. ‘And it’s very close by.’

  Having collected a Harry Potter costume for Rory, I bought a witch’s cloak and hat for me, and a wizard outfit for Orlando. At least I knew I’d have no problem persuading him to dress up. I then paused in front of a pair of mouse ears, whiskers and a long tail. And, chuckling to myself, put them by the till too. I walked back along the high street with my bulging bag, then paused to buy a pumpkin.

  ‘Good God! Let a woman loose amongst shops and she’ll bankrupt her family in the blink of an eye.’ Orlando was standing out on the street.

  ‘I bought some supplies for Halloween.’

  ‘High Weald is already awash with ghosts of the past, but I suppose it can always do with a few more. Now, just look at this.’ He pointed to the shop next door to the delicatessen, its bay window dominated by a large TO LET sign. ‘So sad,’ he sighed. ‘So very, very sad.’

  By Halloween, I’d become used to the Fiat’s eccentricities. I dropped Rory at school, telling him there’d be a surprise waiting for him at High Weald later. On the way home, I carried on a few yards further and turned left into Home Farm. He can only say no, I thought as I marched to the back door and knocked.

  ‘It’s open,’ came a shout from inside.

  Mouse was sitting at the table, his head bent over his accounts ledger.

  ‘Hello, Star,’ he said, giving me the first smile in days. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, so am I. I’ve had some news. I’ll put the kettle on.’ He stood up and filled an old iron kettle and put it on the range to boil. ‘Our London neighbours have upped the offer on the bookshop and want to proceed as soon as possible. There’s even a chance the money could be in the bank by Christmas.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You don’t sound very pleased.’

  ‘I’m just thinking of Orlando, that’s all.’

  ‘Better this than both of us ending up homeless and penniless. And now there really will be enough for Orlando to lease a local bookshop, and even buy a small house of his own if that’s what he wants to do.’

  ‘I came here to ask you to join us tonight at High Weald. It’s Halloween and we’re all dressing up.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, surprising me with his positive response. ‘My God, Star, I’m so relieved. You have no idea just how bad things have been financially.’

  ‘Can I ask you not to mention it to Orlando this evening? I’d like Rory to have a nice time.’

  ‘Okay. How is he?’

  ‘He’s good.’

  ‘And you? You look well too. That sweater suits you. The colour matches your eyes. By the way, you haven’t come across those journals at High Weald yet, have you?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘No, sorry,’ I said, only half lying. They had disappeared again, after all. And not from High Weald.

  ‘Well, who knows where they’ve gone? It’s just a shame that I can’t confirm what my father told me before he died. But maybe the past is best left in the past. Have you heard from Marguerite?’

  ‘She called last night, yes. She said the work was going well.’

  ‘And I’m sure it’s not just the lure of murals, money and wine straight from the cave that have sent her running back to France. My guess would be that she’s met someone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her so energised in years. It’s amazing what love can do, isn’t it? It lights you up from the inside.’ He gave a small, sad smile. ‘Have you ever been in love, Star?’

  ‘No,’ I replied honestly.

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Right.’ I stood up abruptly. The intimate turn this conversation was taking was making me uncomfortable. ‘I’ll see you tonight for supper at seven o’clock prompt. By the way,’ I said as I walked towards the back door, ‘we have a costume for you too.’

  Once Rory was home from school, we lit the pumpkin and placed it by the front door. Then we both put on our costumes.

  ‘I’ve never played “Halloween” before,’ Rory announced excitedly. ‘Marguerite said it was an American idea and we shouldn’t celebrate it.’

  ‘I don’t think it matters where the idea has come from, as long as it’s a good one. And it’s always fun to dress up.’

  We made our way down the stairs to show off Rory’s Harry Potter costume to Orlando, who was already in the kitchen, replete with cloak, hat and long white beard. I decided he could have a second career as a double for Dumbledore.

  ‘You look positively malevolent,’ commented Orlando as he took in my witch’s costume.

  ‘Star is a white witch, so she’s good.’ Rory hugged me.

  Just as he said that, Mouse arrived through the door and Orlando frowned at me in disapproval.

  ‘You didn’t tell me he was joining us,’ he said in a stage whisper that could plainly be heard by his brother.

  ‘Does Mouse have a costume?’ Rory asked.

  ‘Of course. Here.’ I produced the bag from a cupboard and handed it to him. He looked inside it and frowned.

  ‘Really, Star, this isn’t my thing.’

  ‘For Rory?’ I whispered to him. ‘Maybe just the ears.’ I took them out of the bag and proffered them to him.

  ‘You can be a real mouse now!’ Rory shouted, delighted at the idea. ‘I’ll help you.’

  I continued to stir the pumpkin soup, not daring to look if Mouse was giving in to Rory’s heavy persuasion.

  ‘How are you, Orlando?’ asked Mouse as he headed into the pantry. There was no reply, so he returned with a bottle of beer and some wine and offered me a glass. I looked up at him and suppressed a chuckle at the ears Rory had placed haphazardly on his head, and reached to straighten one that had been bent.

  ‘Suits you,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered as he turned back to the table.

  Despite the tension between the brothers, Rory’s excitement was infectious. We ate the soup, then I produced ‘ghost burgers’ and ‘spider potatoes’ which I’d fashioned from mash and then deep-fried. After pudding, I went to the drawer and pulled out a DVD of the Harry Potter film I’d bought in town.

  ‘Shall we go and watch it?’ I asked the three of them.

  ‘Not Superman?’ Rory signed.

  ‘No, but I think you will like this,’ I encouraged. ‘Would you go and switch it on, Dumbledore?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been trying to persuade Rory
to let me read the book to him for the past year.’ Orlando stood up, twirling his wand. ‘Come, Harry, let me lead you to Hogwarts and all its glories.’

  ‘I must go.’ Mouse took off his ears and laid them on the table. ‘Thanks for tonight, Star. Rory loved it.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘You’re so good with him, you really are.’

  Then he walked over to me and, after a pause, gave me a sudden tight hug. I looked up at him and saw the expression in his eyes as his head descended towards mine. And then, as if he’d changed his mind, he planted a deep kiss on my forehead. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Night,’ I said as he released me, went to the kitchen door and left.

  Even though the first Harry Potter film was one of my all-time favourites, I hardly saw it, my mind spinning back time and again to the moment Mouse had reached for my lips.

  ‘Come on, young man, it’s way past your bedtime.’ I heaved my reluctant Harry Potter off the sofa as the credits rolled on the screen.

  ‘No story tonight, old chap, it’s late,’ said Orlando. ‘Sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

  After I’d kissed Rory goodnight, I wandered back downstairs, intending to clear up the kitchen.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ Orlando brandished his wand at me as I picked up the used mugs of hot chocolate from the drawing room. ‘You never stop, do you? Please, Miss Star, sit down. I feel we’ve hardly talked in days.’

  ‘Okay.’ I sat down in the armchair by the fire, mirroring our usual seating at the bookshop. ‘What would you like to talk about?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, having braced myself for another outpouring of misery over the sale of the bookshop.

  ‘Yes, Miss Star, you,’ he repeated. ‘It strikes me that you’ve done rather a lot for this family, and especially for me and Rory. Therefore I feel I should give you something in return.’

  ‘Really, Orlando, that’s not necessary. I—’

  ‘It’s certainly not financial recompense, but in my view, it’s something far more important.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really. You see, Miss Star, I haven’t forgotten why you sought out Arthur Morston Books in the first place: you were sent by your father on a quest to find out about your true heritage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was wary at the start, of course – as anyone would be when a stranger announces a connection to one’s family. Especially a family with such a complex history as ours. You asked me who Flora MacNichol was, and I told you that she was the sister of our great-grandmother – in other words, our great-great-aunt, which is indeed true. But not the whole truth.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I very much doubt that you do. And nor does anyone else, apart from me. Because, Miss Star, during those dreadful years of sickness as a child, all I could do was read to escape.’

  ‘Mouse told me.’

  ‘I’m sure he did, yes. But even he could not know that on my voracious voyage through the bookshelves of Home Farm, I read everything there was. Including Flora MacNichol’s journals.’ Orlando paused dramatically. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Right.’ I decided to play along with Orlando’s little game. ‘And you know that some are missing? Mouse has been looking for them to help him research the family history. Do you know where they are?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you told him?’

  ‘In truth, I didn’t feel he was doing the research out of best intentions. Miss Star, you must understand that my brother has been a very bitter and troubled man since his wife – and our father – died. I felt that putting the information the journals hold at his disposal would have provided even more fodder for his internal fire. I can assure you that it has been difficult to get a civil word out of him, so mired in his own sorrow has he been. He has not been in his right mind.’

  ‘And why would the journals have made it worse?’

  ‘I’m sure that Mouse has already informed you that he was given certain . . . information by our father before he died. Mouse became obsessed with discovering the truth about his past. Simply because he had no future to cling on to. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do. But what has this got to do with me?’

  ‘Well now . . .’ Orlando reached down for a canvas bag tucked by the side of his chair. He delved inside it and pulled out a pile of familiar silk-covered notebooks. ‘Do you know what these are?’

  ‘Flora MacNichol’s journals.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’ Orlando nodded. ‘I had, of course, retrieved them from Home Farm a while back and hidden them amongst the thousands of books in the shop. As you know, it would take a month of Sundays to find them there,’ he added gleefully.

  I decided to give him his moment and refrain from telling him I’d already found them.

  ‘So, Miss Star, here they are. Flora MacNichol’s life between the years 1910 and 1944. They contain written proof of the deception that took place in our family, the ramifications of which have resonated down through the years. And, one could also say, contributed heavily to where all three of us find ourselves today.’

  I sat silently, presuming he meant Mouse, Marguerite and himself.

  ‘So, given that you have been so very noble in your actions towards the blighted Forbeses, I feel that it is only fair that I continue to steer you in the right direction, from where my brother left off.’

  ‘Okay, thank you.’

  ‘Now, where exactly have you got to with Mouse?’

  ‘Flora finding out who her father really was. And running away from London to go home.’

  ‘Then I suggest I pick up the story from there. Forgive me if I do not read every word – we have over thirty years to cover.’ He indicated the pile of slim volumes. ‘Some of it is exceedingly dull, but rest assured, it builds up to a quite magnificent climax. So, let us begin. You are quite right that Flora ran “home” to the Lakes that day. She managed to find her way to Near Sawrey and threw herself on the mercy of Beatrix Potter, who took her in and gave her shelter. Then, a few months later, she used the bequest from her father to buy a small farm nearby. And for the following nine years, lived as a virtual recluse, tending her animals and her land.’

  ‘She was still so young – only in her twenties,’ I whispered.

  ‘Now, now, patience, Miss Star. I’ve just told you that things perk up for her.’ Orlando picked up the first journal and flicked through its pages, then put it down and rifled through the pile to find another. ‘Now, we are in the Lakes, in the February of 1919, on a bitingly cold, snowy morning . . .’

  Flora

  Near Sawrey, The Lake District

  February 1919

  34

  Flora cleared a narrow path through the snow from her front door; a thankless task, as she could tell from the heavy skies that another load would drop on her handiwork at any moment. Nevertheless, she needed to get out of the cottage and walk down the lane to see Beatrix, who had recently suffered from an attack of bronchitis. It was pointless taking Giselle, her Northumbrian-bred pony, who should have been used to the conditions, but whinnied if the snow passed above her shins and then stubbornly refused to budge.

  Dressed in the thick tweed breeches she had fashioned for herself – so much more practical than skirts – and heavy boots, she picked up her basket of supplies and set off down the icy slope to a lane hidden underneath the heaps of snow.

  She paused, as she always did, at the sight of the windows of Esthwaite Hall glinting at her from across the lake. A lake so heavily frozen that she reckoned she could don a pair of skates and be across it in a few minutes. The weather this year had been the worst she could remember in her nine years here. To her sadness, she had lost a number of sheep, as had every farmer in the district.

  She could see Castle Cottage in the distance, the house that Beatrix had moved to since her marriage to dear William Heelis, her gentle solicitor husband. It was Beatrix who had to
ld her Wynbrigg Farm was up for sale and suggested she buy it. Flora had painstakingly renovated the cottage and restocked the farm.

  Beatrix was not as young as she used to be, even though she continued to deny it and could still be found on top of the fells in search of either sheep or a new species of wild flower that did not yet grow in her garden. Many of the plants ended up in Flora’s own borders if Beatrix gave her a cutting.

  On that fateful evening in 1910 when she had fled from London, only knowing that she must return to her beloved Lakes, Beatrix had saved her. Many in the village thought the author a strange and bad-tempered old stick, but Flora had seen and felt the kindness her heart contained.

  She was Flora’s closest – in fact only – friend. She adored her.

  And loneliness was a small price to pay for independence, Flora thought as she stomped through the knee-deep snow. And at least she had been hit far less hard than most by the Great War – the armistice only declared last November – for she’d had no one close to lose. Although it would be a lie to suggest she had not thought constantly about those she still loved. Archie Vaughan haunted her dreams and nightmares, despite her determination not to think of him in her waking hours.

  But at least her farm kept her busy, and the war had made it imperative she learn the art of self-sufficiency. The dairy had run short on milk, pumping what her few cows could produce for the boys in France, so Flora had bought a goat to provide her own. The local carthorses had been requisitioned for the war, and she had only been able to keep Giselle, the pony. Vegetables became scarce too, so Flora had started her own vegetable patch and raised chickens for their eggs. Despite her hunger, she had never been tempted to wring any of their necks. She had not eaten a single slice of meat since returning to the Lakes.

  Sometimes, Flora thought back to those grand dinners at Portman Square – the gross abundance of food and animal flesh – and thanked God she now had the means to run her own household, however meagre the menu.

  ‘Are you alive?’ she asked the freezing cold air, an image of Archie forming in her mind. In truth, the agony of not knowing was intolerable. Beatrix, to whom Flora had poured out the whole sorry story when she’d first arrived here all those years ago, had begged her to contact her sister to let her know where she was – and to ask after both of them. ‘War changes everything,’ Beatrix had said, but Flora knew that nothing could ever change her dreadful betrayal. Or Aurelia’s expression when she had told Flora she never wished to see her again.