The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Flora had no blood children, did she?’ I voiced one of the thoughts that had been nagging at me in the early hours of this morning.

  ‘No.’ Orlando eyed me. ‘So you have made the connection?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Yes, well, it is indeed a shame, Miss Star, for I feel you would have made an extremely elegant British aristocrat. But it seems from the facts at hand that there is not an ounce of royal blood in you.’

  ‘Then why did my father give me the Fabergé cat as my clue?’

  ‘Aha! From the moment you told me of your quest, that is the thing that has puzzled me most. From what you have told me of your father – and mark my words, I have listened to everything you have said and, might I add, haven’t said – I have believed it must have been for a reason.’

  ‘What do you think it was?’ I thought I knew, but I wanted to hear it from Orlando first.

  ‘He needed something that would definitively link you to the Vaughan line, rather than the Forbes. And Teddy was Lady Flora’s adoptive son. So one must look to his bloodline . . .’

  ‘You mean the Land Girl’s illegitimate baby?’ I finally voiced my suspicion.

  ‘There! I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ Orlando put his two fists under his chin and studied me. ‘You told me that fateful day at the bookshop when you returned to retrieve your precious plastic folder that the coordinates from the armillary sphere had placed you as being born in London.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where did our Land Girl live?’

  ‘In the East End of London.’

  ‘Yes. And what address did your coordinates pinpoint when you researched them on the internet?’

  ‘Mare Street, E8.’

  ‘Which is . . . ?’

  ‘In Hackney.’

  ‘Yes. The East End of London!’ Orlando tipped his head back and thumped the table, overjoyed by his own insight and cleverness. It irritated me, for my heritage wasn’t a laughing matter. ‘Do forgive me, Miss Star, one can’t help finding the irony amusing. You came to me with a Fabergé cat, which linked you to a king of England. And we discover that you are almost certainly no blood relation of either royalty or the Vaughans. But just possibly, the illegitimate great-granddaughter of our much-maligned cuckoo in the nest.’

  I felt sudden tears welling up behind my eyes. Even though I understood Orlando’s non-emotional and analytical brain, the fact he found it all so hilarious cut me to the core.

  ‘I don’t care where I came from,’ I countered angrily. ‘I . . .’ And as a thousand suitable ripostes entered my exhausted brain, I stood up instead. ‘Excuse me, I’m going for a walk.’

  Grabbing an ancient Barbour and a pair of wellies from the lobby, I threw on both and marched out into the freezing morning. And as I passed out of the gates, I berated Pa Salt sitting somewhere up there in the heavens, and questioned his reasoning. At best, I was apparently the illegitimate great-granddaughter of a man who had unwittingly stolen High Weald from under the nose of the legitimate heir. At worst, I was nothing. Nothing to do with any of it.

  As I turned right along the lane, my feet took me automatically onto the blackberry path, as Rory and I had named it. Tears blurred my vision as Orlando’s laughter rang in my ears. Had he meant to humiliate me? Had he enjoyed the fact that he could prove unequivocally that I had come from nothing? That his so-called aristocratic blood made him superior? Why were the British so obsessed with social position?

  ‘Just because they stampeded through the world and formed an empire and had a royal family doesn’t mean anything. People are equal, wherever they come from,’ I hissed angrily at a magpie, who cocked its head at me, blinked, and then flew away. ‘It doesn’t matter in Switzerland,’ I told myself. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered to Pa Salt, I know it wouldn’t. So why . . . ?’

  Stomping down the path, I hated myself for my desperate need to belong to somewhere or someone that wasn’t CeCe or the surreal fantasy world Pa Salt had created at Atlantis for his disparate flock of doves. To forge a world of my own, that just belonged to me.

  Having reached an open field, I sank onto a tree stump, put my head in my hands, and cried my eyes out. Eventually, I pulled myself together and wiped my eyes harshly. Come on, Star, control your emotions. This is getting you nowhere.

  ‘Hi, Star. You okay?’

  I turned and saw Mouse standing a few feet away from me. ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

  ‘You don’t look it. Want a cup of tea?’

  I gave him the kind of shrug I’d normally credit to a recalcitrant teenager.

  ‘Well, I’ve just boiled the kettle.’ He indicated behind him, and I realised I’d wandered blindly into the field that backed onto Home Farm.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘No problem. Do you want that cup of tea or not?’

  ‘I have to go home and do the washing-up.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He approached me, then took me by the elbow and marched me unceremoniously towards the house. When we reached the kitchen, he pressed me down into a chair. ‘Sit. I’ll pour the tea. Milk and three sugars, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘There.’

  A boiling hot mug of tea was placed in front of me. I couldn’t bring myself to look up, and instead stared hard at the wood grain on the old pine table. I heard Mouse sit down opposite me.

  ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘It’s cold outside.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Then there was silence for quite a long time. I sipped the tea.

  ‘Do you want me to ask you what’s happened?’

  Again I shrugged, channelling that recalcitrant teenager.

  ‘Well, up to you.’

  Cupping the mug in my hands, I could feel the warmth of the room starting to penetrate my freezing veins. The oil tank must have been filled since I was last here.

  ‘I think I know why my father sent me to Arthur Morston Books,’ I said eventually.

  ‘Right. Is that good?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said as I wiped the back of my hand across a nose that was about to drip inelegantly into my mug.

  ‘When you first appeared at the shop and told Orlando your story, he called me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just great,’ I said tersely, hating that the two brothers had been discussing me behind my back.

  ‘Star, stop it. We didn’t know who you were. It’s natural that he would tell me about you. Wouldn’t you tell your sister?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But what? Despite what you might have heard or seen recently, Orlando and I have always been close. We’re brothers; whatever goes down between us, we’re there for each other.’

  ‘Well, blood is always thicker than water, isn’t it?’ I replied desolately, thinking that the only person I currently knew for certain had my ‘blood’ was me.

  ‘I understand you must feel that way at present. By the way, I knew Orlando had taken those journals.’

  ‘So did I.’

  He caught my eye across the table and we shared the thinnest of smiles.

  ‘I suppose we have all been playing each other. I hoped that you might be able to find out from him where they were. I knew why he’d taken them, too.’

  ‘I didn’t, up until last night. I thought it was because you’d upset him over the sale of the shop,’ I admitted. ‘He was apparently trying to protect you.’

  ‘So, who does he think you are?’

  ‘He can tell you. He’s your brother.’

  ‘You might have noticed he’s not talking to me at the moment.’

  ‘He will. He’s forgiven you already.’ I stood up, tired of these conversations. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Star, please.’

  I made for the door, but he took my arm as I reached for the handle. ‘Let go!’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’
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  I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.

  ‘I understand how you feel.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘I do, really. You must feel completely used by us all. Like Flora – a pawn in a game you don’t know the rules of.’

  I could not have described it better myself. Blinking away more tears, I cleared my throat. ‘I have to go back to London. Can you tell Orlando I’ve left and to pick up Rory at three thirty, please?’

  ‘I can, but, Star . . .’

  He reached for me, but I wriggled violently out of his grasp.

  ‘Okay,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Do you want a lift to the station?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll phone for a taxi.’

  ‘Whatever you wish. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve . . . us.’

  I walked through the door and shut it smartly behind me, doing my best to control my desperate urge to slam things, then walked back to High Weald. Orlando, thank God, was not in the kitchen, and I saw that everything had been tidied away from brunch. I called the taxi company to collect me as soon as they could, and then raced upstairs to throw my stuff into my holdall.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was driving away from High Weald, and telling myself that the future was all that mattered, and not my past. I hated that Pa Salt – whom I loved and trusted more than anyone – had only caused me more pain. All I had learnt was that I could trust nobody.

  When I arrived at Charing Cross, I walked automatically towards the bus stop that would take me to Battersea. As I stood there, I couldn’t bear the thought of returning home once more to CeCe, after another failed attempt to find my own life. And her inevitable glee that I hadn’t, I thought meanly.

  I berated myself for the thought, for even though there was undoubtedly part of her that would be happy to have me back all to herself, I also knew that she was the person who loved me most in the world, and would want to comfort me in my pain. But that would mean telling her what I had discovered, and I really wasn’t able to disclose that to anyone – not even her – just yet.

  Instead, I got on a bus towards Kensington, and stopped in front of Arthur Morston Books, where this whole sorry story had begun. Finding the keys in my rucksack, I opened the door and walked into a room that was colder than outside. Night was falling fast and I fumbled to switch on the lights, then pulled the old shutters closed across the windows. Then I lit the fire, my hands shaking with cold. As I sat down in my regular chair, the heat warming my fingers, I tried to rationalise the misery that I felt. Because deep inside me, I knew it was irrational. Orlando hadn’t meant to hurt me – he’d wanted to help me by telling me the story. But I was so deeply tired, confused and sensitive that I’d overreacted.

  Eventually, pulling out my jumpers from my holdall to cover me, I curled up on the rug in front of the fire and slept.

  I woke in the same position, and was astonished to see it was almost nine o’clock. I must have slept the sleep of the dead. I stood up and went to make some coffee to revive me, drank it hot, sweet and black, and finally felt calmer. Perhaps I could squat here for the next few days, I thought wryly. Peace and space were what I needed just now.

  I pulled my laptop out of my holdall and switched it on. The signal was weak down here on the shop floor, but at least it worked. I went to Google Earth to tap in my coordinates again and make sure I hadn’t made a mistake.

  And there it was: ‘Mare Street, E8.’

  So . . . after everything I’d discovered, was it likely to be a coincidence that Tessie Smith had lived in Hackney?

  No.

  I took out the notebook in which I’d begun to write my novel, and turned to the back page, thinking how my own history was fast becoming more interesting than any fiction I could write.

  I scribbled down the names in two columns – one for Louise’s bloodline and one for Teddy’s. And realised that of course the current male Forbes line was also distantly related to Flora through her sister, Aurelia: Flora was Orlando and Mouse’s great-great aunt.

  But . . . if I was Tessie’s great-granddaughter, then I was directly related to Marguerite through Teddy. And, therefore, to Rory. At least that thought made me smile. The next dilemma I faced was whether I wanted to take this whole thing further. As the chances were, my parents were still alive.

  I stood up and paced the room, trying to decide whether I wanted to trace them. Given I knew Tessie’s name and the area where she had lived, it would probably be quite straightforward to find out about the child she had given birth to in 1944. And any children after that.

  But . . . why had my parents given me away?

  I halted abruptly in my mental meanderings, as I heard voices at the front door and a key being inserted into the lock.

  ‘Shit!’ I ran towards the fireplace in a desperate attempt to hide the evidence of my overnight stay. The front door opened to reveal Mouse, followed by a diminutive Chinese man, who I recognised from the antiques shop next door.

  ‘Hello, Star,’ Mouse said, surprise on his face.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, clutching a cushion to my chest.

  ‘Mr Ho, this is Star, our bookshop assistant. I didn’t realise you’d be in today.’

  ‘No. Well, I thought I should come and check on the premises,’ I said as I walked to the window and hurriedly drew back the shutters.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, casting his eyes over to the fireplace where the jumpers I’d used to keep me warm in the night were strewn in a heap by the open holdall.

  ‘Shall I light the fire?’ I asked him. ‘It’s chilly in here.’

  ‘Not on our behalf, no. Mr Ho wants to take a look at the flat above the shop.’

  ‘Right. Okay, now you’re here, I’ll go,’ I said, bending down to stuff my things into my holdall.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was going to drop in on you at your apartment anyway. Orlando gave me something for you. Hang on for a bit, we won’t be long,’ he said, as he turned and ushered Mr Ho to the back of the shop, and I heard them mount the stairs.

  I lit the fire anyway, my cheeks burning with the agony of embarrassment. When they returned, I busied myself at the back of the shop as they talked by the front door, and tried not to listen to the details.

  The door opened and closed to let Mr Ho out, then Mouse strode towards me.

  ‘You stayed here last night, didn’t you?’

  I couldn’t tell if it was anger or concern in his green eyes. ‘Yes, sorry.’

  ‘No problem. I’m just interested to know why you didn’t go home.’

  ‘I just . . . wanted some peace.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘How’s Rory?’

  ‘Missing you. I collected him from school yesterday, and after he’d gone to bed, Orlando and I sat down and had a long chat. I told him about Mr Ho’s offer. As a matter of fact, he took it much better than I thought he would. He seemed far more concerned about upsetting you.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad for you both.’ I could hear the petulance in my voice.

  ‘Star, stop it. You’re verging on the self-indulgent. And I know all about being self-indulgent,’ he said gently. ‘Orlando was very concerned about your state of mind, as was I. We’ve both left messages on your mobile, but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘There are no mobiles allowed in the shop. So I didn’t.’

  A smile tugged at his lips. ‘Anyway . . .’ Mouse dug into the pocket of his Barbour. ‘This is for you.’ He handed me a large brown envelope. ‘Orlando told me he’s been doing some investigating on your behalf.’

  ‘Right. Well,’ I said, tucking the envelope into the front of my rucksack and picking up my holdall. ‘Tell him thanks.’

  ‘Star, please . . . take care of yourself. At least you have your sister.’

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Have the two of you fallen out?’ he asked eventually. ‘Is that why you didn’t go home last night?’

  ‘I don’t think we should be so reliant o
n each other,’ I said abruptly.

  ‘When I met her, she certainly struck me as very possessive of you.’

  ‘She is. But she loves me.’

  ‘As Orlando and I love each other – even if we do fall out. If he hadn’t been there for me in the past few years, I can’t imagine what I’d have done. He has the kindest heart, you know. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘I do know.’

  ‘Star, why don’t you open the envelope he sent you?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I mean, here and now. I think it would be good to have someone with you.’

  ‘Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?’ I asked him quietly.

  ‘Because I can see that you’re hurting. And I want to help you. As you’ve helped me in the past few weeks.’

  ‘I don’t think I have.’

  ‘That’s up to me to decide. You’ve shown all of us kindness, patience and tolerance, when I in particular haven’t deserved it. You’re a good person, Star.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was still hovering uncertainly with my holdall.

  ‘Look, why don’t you come and sit by the fire while I go upstairs and collect the bits and pieces Orlando has asked me to take back for him to High Weald?’

  ‘Okay,’ I surrendered, simply because my legs felt like jelly. As Mouse disappeared through the door at the back, I pulled the envelope out of my rucksack and opened it.

  High Weald

  Ashford, Kent

  1st November 2007

  My dearest Star,

  I am writing to beg your forgiveness for the clumsy way I spoke to you yesterday. Believe me, I was not mocking you – far from it. I was merely amused by the irony of genetics and fate.

  I must now admit that ever since you first walked into the shop and showed me the Fabergé cat and your coordinates, I have been on the trail to trace your heritage. For, of course, it may be inextricably bound up with our own. Enclosed is another envelope with all the facts you need to know about your real family.

  I shall say no more (unusual for me), but rest assured, I am here to assist you if you need further explanation.

  Again, I beg your pardon. And Rory sends you his best love too.