Page 101 of A Ruse of Shadows
Afterward, Aunt Farr suggested a walk. The day was overcast, the sky pregnant with rain. But Miss Harcourt loved the outdoors and didn’t mind at all.
“Scotland Yard will look into my old case again,” said her aunt Farr softly. “It’s best that Eliza and I left the country for a while.”
Miss Harcourt and her mother had known, from the momentAunt Farr disappeared from Manchester, that she had most likely been the one. They simply hadn’t known the exact reasons.
“You should come with me—I’m leaving soon, and I can help look after Eliza,” she said, not daring to hope. “Except as I mentioned earlier, I’m set to travel slowly, a tour of the world such as Cousin Miriam would have liked.”
Aunt Farr had told her never to hesitate to bring up Cousin Miriam: She was not afraid of a pang in her chest at her baby sister’s name; she feared only that Miriam, who had so wished to leave a mark on the world, might become forgotten too soon.
“She never did travel as she wished to,” murmured Aunt Farr. “And it wasn’t because she never made any money but because she couldn’t bear to leave me all by myself.”
She patted Eliza on the shoulder. “So let’s travel slowly. Let’s travel for Miriam. It would be good for Eliza to see the world, too. If it’s agreeable to you, we will go with you until the west coast of America. I think I mentioned that the two oldest of my foster children have emigrated to Los Angeles. They’re doing well and have asked several times for me to join them out there.”
She smiled a little. “They said I would have no aches and pains in the Southern California winter.”
“I’ve long wanted to visit California but I never thought—” Miss Harcourt stopped.
“You never thought what?”
Miss Harcourt gathered up her courage. “I never thought that even if we should meet again, you would wish to spend time with me.”
Aunt Farr did not answer immediately. She had lost her beauty, but to Miss Harcourt, her magnetism had only intensified, the magnetism of someone who had stared into the abyss and found her way again.
“You and your mother were two of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” she said slowly. “I dared not embrace your friendship at the time; I feared that if your uncle Ephraim ever went public with his allegations, you’d be accused of having aided and abetted me.
“But I’ve thought often of you over the years. When things wereespecially bleak, I would remember that little house in Manchester and how glad I always felt when you came to call. Those were some of the happiest hours of my life.”
“Mine, too.” Tears were once again falling down Miss Harcourt’s face. She barely cared. “Mine, too.”
Then she did have to use her handkerchief to wipe her face, because without realizing it, she had led them to the London ticket office of the Union Steamship Company, on whose vessel she would begin the first leg of her journey.
“Shall we buy your passages to Madeira?”
Her aunt Farr inhaled deeply and took little Eliza’s hand in her own. “Yes, do let us.”
Dear Chief Inspector Talbot,
By the time you receive this letter, I will have sailed from Southampton, headed for distant shores.
I write to apologize—and to thank you. I have no excuses to offer for my indefensible action fifteen years ago and can never repay you for your kindness then, and later again in London.
All I can offer is the humble reassurance that I never once took for granted the second chance you gave me.
You, sir, are the greatest benefactor of my life, and I will always remain,
Yours gratefully,
Mrs. Winifred Farr
Livia visited the Jardin des Tuileries each day, even though it necessitated a substantial commute from Mrs. Watson’s house much farther down the Seine.
But soon she wouldn’t be able to anymore, because soon Mrs. Newell, her dear elderly cousin with whom she’d embarked on this grand voyage, would reach Paris, after a few pleasant weeks at LakeComo in Italy. And once they were reunited, it would be time to head back to England.
Livia patted the sun-warmed planks of her bench. She and Mr. Marbleton had sat on this very bench last December, when they’d come to Paris as Charlotte’s fellow burglars.
On that day she’d told him that she’d finally finished her first Sherlock Holmes story, and he had been delighted for her. Now she was mulling another story, based on recent events, one that had the potential to be quite a crowd-pleaser.
The most ridiculous part of the entire business had to be the way Lord Ingram had obtained old Mrs. Sylvestrina Calder’s house.
