The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  And then he told me about Mr Meadows’ bookshop in Tenterden and how he had already offered to take over the lease. And that Mr Meadows had agreed immediately.

  ‘There is also a set of rooms upstairs where I can live,’ he added. ‘And I do believe after all this time in the trade, I’ve earned the right to name it “O. Forbes Esquire – Rare Books”. What do you think?’

  ‘About the idea, or the name?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I think that they are perfect.’

  ‘Do you really?’ Orlando said, his face opening like a burst of sunshine. ‘Well, so do I. And perhaps it’s time for a fresh start for all of us in the family. Which includes you. After all, you are related to dear Marguerite.’

  ‘And Rory,’ I added.

  ‘Mouse and I discussed whether we should tell her everything about the past. I mean, it hardly makes any difference now, given it was so many years ago, but the irony is, she never wanted High Weald anyway. After Teddy’s tenure of extravagance, the estate was left flat broke. My father’s cousin Michael – Teddy and Dixie’s son – had to sell off portions of what was left of the farmland, plus the dower house and the cottages, just to keep afloat. But, of course, there was nothing spare for renovations. Mouse and I have talked about giving Marguerite a share of the proceeds of the shop to help with the basics like plumbing and heating. Who’d have thought it . . . ?’

  ‘Thought what?’ I watched Orlando as he drifted off into his own world.

  ‘That sixty-odd years on, it would be us, the poor relations across the lane, mere shopkeepers and farmers, that would be offering charity to the incumbent lady of the manor. But that is what can happen in time. Just like your mother and her rise in fortunes, a lot can change in two generations.’

  ‘Yes, it can.’

  ‘Will you go to Cambridge and listen to her lecture?’

  ‘Orlando.’ I rolled my eyes at the way he’d managed to steer the conversation back. ‘I can’t just turn up and tell her I’m her long-lost daughter.’

  ‘I insist that you see one more bit of evidence. One could say it is the denouement of my thorough detective work. Now, where did I put it?’ He rifled through the pile of papers once more. ‘Aha! Here!’ He handed it to me with a flourish.

  I looked down at the page and saw a face gazing back at me. The face was as familiar as my own, only older and more well groomed, with blue eyes enhanced with subtle make-up, and the alabaster skin framed by a shiny white-blonde bob. I could feel Orlando’s eyes boring into me, his excitement palpable.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘The internet, of course. On one of those networking sites. Now tell me that Professor Sylvia Gray isn’t your mother, Miss Star?’

  I stared again at what I would undoubtedly look like in my mid-forties. Despite all the written proof Orlando had collated for me, it was this photograph that made it real.

  ‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’ he prompted. ‘Just like you. And fate has conspired to have her right under our very noses in a few days’ time. Surely you must take the opportunity presented to you? Personally, I’d love to chat to her. She’s one of the foremost authorities on Russian literature – which as you know, I have a particular penchant for. Her biography tells me she lived in St Petersburg for a year while doing her PhD.’

  ‘No, Orlando, stop it, please! It’s too soon. I need time to think . . .’

  ‘Of course you do, and again, I beg your pardon for my excitement.’

  ‘I can’t just walk into a lecture at Cambridge University! I’m not a student there.’

  ‘True,’ Orlando agreed. ‘But luckily, we are blessed with knowing someone who is. Or at least, was.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mouse. He studied architecture there and knows the form for these things. He’s agreed to smuggle you in.’

  ‘He knows about this too?’

  ‘My dear girl, of course he does.’

  I stood up abruptly. ‘Enough, please, Orlando.’

  ‘The subject is closed forthwith until you wish to reopen it. Hopefully before next Tuesday,’ he added with a sly grin. ‘And now, back to work. Mr Meadows is happy for us to move into our new home as soon as we wish. I have suggested two weeks’ time to cash in on the pre-Christmas trade. The lease is being prepared as we speak. These,’ Orlando said, pointing to the bookshelves, ‘must be carefully packed into numbered crates, which I’ve already ordered and will arrive here tomorrow. I’ve told both Marguerite and Mouse that they must not make any claim on your time until we are done. We shall have to work night and day, Miss Star, night and day.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s all happened rather quickly, what with the sale of this shop going through – Mr Ho has been most keen and is eager to complete before Christmas. You must come and see the interior of Meadows’ Bookshop. I fancy it’s even more quaint than this. And, most importantly, has a fireplace. As we pack, we shall have to sift out the stock – sadly, there is less shelf space, but Marguerite has kindly agreed to store the remainder at High Weald. And then there’s Mr Meadows’ stock too, which I’ve agreed to buy. We shall be inundated with the written word!’

  I tried to concentrate on Orlando and be happy for his excitement and relief at the turn events had taken. But my eyes constantly shifted to the sheet of paper lying in front of me. The photograph of Professor Sylvia Gray, my mother . . .

  I turned the sheet face down and pasted a smile on my face. ‘Right, where shall we start?’

  At least packing up the shop kept me busy, both physically and mentally. And as the days ticked by towards Tuesday, I blanked out any thoughts on the subject. And so it was that we arrived at Monday evening, exhausted and covered in dust from days of solid packing.

  ‘Time for a break, Miss Star,’ he said as he appeared from the cellar where he had been fastidiously wrapping the most valuable books from the ancient safe. ‘Good grief, I am not in the least used to all this physical work. And neither does it suit me. Methinks we deserve a glass of good red wine for our troubles.’

  As Orlando went upstairs, I flopped into my chair, the fireplace area providing an oasis in the morass of crates stacked high around us.

  ‘I uncorked it two hours ago to let it breathe,’ Orlando announced as he proceeded along the thin corridor between the crates with a bottle and two glasses and sat down opposite me.

  ‘Tchin-Tchin,’ he said as we clinked them together. ‘I cannot thank you enough for your help. I simply could not have done it without you. And I am, of course, hoping that you are prepared to move with me to my new premises.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘“Oh”?! Surely, the thought must have crossed your mind before now? I’m also going to tempt you by offering you the superior title of manager, with the pay rise such a promotion deserves.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I think about it?’

  ‘Not for too long. You know how highly I value your skills. I think we are an unbeatable team. And you must have realised what it means?’

  ‘What what means?’

  ‘That the two disparate strands of the Vaughan/Forbes family are reunited, sixty years on, in a joint venture.’

  ‘I suppose it does, yes.’

  ‘And given that this was, after all, Flora MacNichol’s shop, and she is technically your great-great-grandmother – if not by blood – you have as much right to be here as I do. See? Everything works out in the end.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Come now, Miss Star, it’s unlike you to be negative. Now, I must ask you—’

  ‘No!’ I knew what he was about to say. ‘I’m not going tomorrow. I . . . can’t.’

  ‘May I ask why not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll contact her in the future. But it’s just too soon for me right now.’

  ‘
I understand.’ Orlando gave a sigh of defeat as I drained my glass and stood up.

  ‘I’d best be getting off, it’s past eight o’clock.’

  ‘See you bright and early tomorrow then? And do think about my offer. I’ve already asked Marguerite if you could stay at High Weald until you find your own home in the area. She’s thrilled at the idea. And so is Rory.’

  ‘You haven’t told her yet about . . . my connection to her?’

  ‘No, but maybe Mouse has. Besides, she lives for the present, not for the past. Especially at the moment. Well then, goodnight, Miss Star.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I would be lying to myself if I said I hadn’t gone through the following day – and night – thinking about Professor Sylvia Gray and hating myself for my cowardice. At half past seven precisely, I imagined her stepping onto the podium to a surge of applause.

  To my shame, I knew there was another reason I hadn’t made the journey to Cambridge tonight: the opportunity I had missed ten years ago when I hadn’t taken up the place they’d offered me. I sat up long after my sister had gone to bed, and confessed to myself that I was jealous of this mother I’d never known. The mother who had let nothing stop her attending Cambridge, which had facilitated her path to greatness in the academic literary world. Not even me, her baby . . .

  Her determination to make something of herself from her humble beginnings made me feel I’d achieved so little in my life in comparison to this paragon: mother to three probably exceptionally bright and driven children, wife, keeper of horses and a career that had taken her to the very top of her profession.

  She’d be just as ashamed of me as I am of myself . . .

  I wandered to the window and looked out at the frosty clear sky, peppered with stars.

  ‘Help me, Pa,’ I whispered. ‘Help me.’

  42

  ‘Now then, I will need you down in Kent to help me begin unpacking the books at the new shop this weekend,’ Orlando said as we ate our three o’clock cake the following day. ‘I’m leaving in the morning to oversee things there, and I’m hoping that by the time you arrive, the shopfront will have been repainted and the sign writer will have begun his work. Then I can welcome you to “O. Forbes Esquire – Rare Books”.’

  Orlando shone brightly with excitement as I felt my own star fading further into a dull pinprick in the sky.

  ‘It will be all hands to the pump,’ he continued. ‘Mouse has said he’ll help, as will Marguerite, who, by the way, is off again to France on Sunday. So it really would be awfully convenient all round if you are willing to stay on at High Weald for a while to assist me and Rory. Perhaps you might see it as a trial run, further to taking up a more permanent situation with me?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come,’ I agreed. After all, what on earth would I do here once the shop was closed for good?

  ‘Wonderful! That’s settled then.’

  We discussed how I would oversee the packing of the crates onto the van here in London, while Orlando cleared unwanted stock from the new premises to High Weald, and prepared for the van’s arrival.

  That night, I told CeCe I was off to Kent in a couple of days’ time.

  ‘And then you’ll come back, won’t you?’ If her words didn’t beg me, her expression certainly did.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean, you’re not thinking of moving there, are you? For Christ’s sake, Star, you’re only a shop assistant, I’m sure you could find a far better paid job in London. I walked past Foyles bookshop the other day, and they were advertising for staff. It won’t take you long to find something.’

  ‘No, I’m sure it won’t.’

  ‘You know how I hate being alone here without you. Promise you’ll be back?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. It was time to think of me, and I didn’t want to give CeCe false hope. After all, she wasn’t a helpless baby, like I had been when my mother had put her own life first . . .

  As CeCe was sulking, I spent the next day at the shop from dawn to well after dusk. And by Friday morning, when the van pulled up outside the front door, I was ready. Orlando insisted on calling every few minutes to issue instructions, and in the end, I broke the golden rule and answered my mobile in the shop.

  Some of the ‘regulars’ appeared, looking on in sadness at the books being carted onto the van. I was prepared for that too, as Orlando and I had chosen a book for each of them as a parting gift. Once the van had left, with Orlando’s few possessions from his flat crammed onto the back, I wandered round the deserted shop, feeling it really was the end of an era, one that stretched right back through the family threads to Beatrix Potter herself.

  My last job was to remove the framed letter Beatrix had written to Flora when she’d been a young girl, and wrap it in brown paper to carry it personally to Kent with me. As I did so, I promised myself that I would one day travel to the Lake District to see where Flora had lived. Even though I knew there was no blood connection, I felt a kinship with her. She too had been unusual – an outcast, belonging nowhere. But she had survived through sheer grit and determination. And had eventually found where she belonged, with the man she loved.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I whispered into the gloom, looking for the last time at the room where my life had changed forever.

  I arrived by taxi in Tenterden later that evening, and stood outside the new shop, its lights blazing out into the foggy night. I looked up at the freshly painted front – Orlando had chosen a bottle green, the same colour as the Kensington shop. Above the window was the vague outline of the sign writer’s initial lettering. And I was glad that at least one member of the Forbes/Vaughan clan was happy tonight.

  Orlando weaved his way through the crates towards me.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Star, to my new home. Mouse and Marguerite are due down here at any moment. I have sent next door for champagne. The Meadows will be joining us too. Do you know, I think I might even prefer this to the old place? Just look at the view.’

  I did so, and saw the trees on the green beyond the narrow path, the old-fashioned street lamps twinkling gently between them.

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘And there’s even a connecting door to the café, so no more foil tins for lunch. It will arrive steaming on plates instead, straight from the oven. Ah.’ Orlando looked behind me and waved. ‘They’ve arrived.’

  I saw that Mouse’s old Land Rover had pulled up outside. Both Marguerite and Rory followed him into the shop.

  ‘Just in time,’ Orlando announced as I recognised Mrs Meadows appearing out of a door at the back of the shop, carrying a tray of glasses and champagne, accompanied by a squat older man wearing a spotted bow tie.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Meadows, I believe you know my brother and my dear cousin Marguerite. And Rory, of course. You have met my assistant briefly, Mrs Meadows,’ Orlando added as he led me forward. ‘This is the perfectly named Asterope D’Aplièse, more commonly known as “Star”. And that she is,’ he finished, looking down at me fondly.

  Orlando left me with the Meadows to greet the rest of his family. I sipped a glass of champagne and chatted with the elderly couple, who were overjoyed that Orlando was taking over.

  ‘Hi, Star.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, as I saw Mouse standing beside me. And then I felt a pair of thin arms clasp my waist from behind.

  ‘Hello, Rory,’ I said, a genuine smile rising to my lips.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘In London, helping Orlando move all the books here.’

  ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  ‘Can we bake brownies tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course we can.’

  ‘Mouse tried to make some with me, but they were rubbish. All sticky. Yuck!’ Rory made exaggerated sick noises.

  ‘They were, I agree.’ Mouse shrugged. ‘At least I tried.’

  ‘Star!’ I received a hug from Marguerite, who kissed me not once, not twice, but three times on my cheeks. ‘That
is how they welcome you in Provence!’ she laughed.

  I looked at Marguerite, with her wide violet eyes and long-limbed body, wondering at our genetic link. Outwardly, we were so different, although I noticed she did have a similar complexion to my own. But then, so did many people unrelated to me.

  ‘Mouse tells me you’ve had an interesting few days.’ She bent down to whisper in my ear. ‘Welcome to our crazy family,’ she chuckled. ‘No wonder we all took you to our hearts so quickly. You belong with us. It’s as simple as that.’

  And that night, as I stood in Orlando’s new bookshop, surrounded by ‘family’, I tentatively felt as if I did.

  I woke later than usual the next morning, probably due to the mental and physical strain of the past few days. I walked downstairs to the deserted kitchen, which had swiftly returned to its habitual chaotic state in my absence, and found a note on the table:

  We’re all out helping Orlando at the bookshop. Mouse over at eleven to collect you, so be ready. M and R. x

  Seeing it was gone half past nine, I went up to take a hasty bath in the freezing water, wondering if I could build a life here in Kent. I dried myself as fast as I could, shaking my hair and scrunching it with my fingers, then pulled on jeans and my blue jumper.

  The one that Mouse had said suited me . . .

  Not that it mattered, of course.

  Then why are you trying to please him?

  I hushed my psyche back into submission, and by the time I heard a car pull up and familiar heavy footsteps at the kitchen door, I was standing by the range with a fresh tray of brownies.

  ‘Hi, Star,’ said Mouse as he walked through the door.

  ‘Hi. Are we leaving straight away? I’ve made some brownies, and there’s coffee on the boil.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ said a voice that was both familiar and new all at the same time. It sounded like me speaking in an American accent.

  ‘I’ve brought somebody to meet you,’ Mouse said, guilt written across his face.

  And then, from behind him, a facsimile of the photograph Orlando had shown me stepped from the lobby and into the kitchen.