‘I think I could manage that, yes.’
When we woke the next morning, the glorious Lakeland surroundings had opened up like an unwrapped present through the windows of our suite. We spent the day exploring, visiting Hill Top Farm, Beatrix Potter’s old home and now a museum, then driving on to find Wynbrigg Farm, Flora’s home, where she’d suffered so many years of loneliness. And I squeezed Mouse’s hand extra tightly, glorying in the fact that I had so narrowly avoided her fate.
Back at the hotel, we walked through the trees by Esthwaite Water, and saw a lark gliding through the mist over the lake as the sun set. Our noses pink with cold, we stood hand in hand and looked at the absolute serenity of the view, its beauty rendering us both silent.
That evening, we went to the Tower Bank Arms, the local pub where Archie Vaughan had originally stayed when he’d come to visit Flora.
‘Perhaps I should have checked in here, like he did.’ Mouse gave me a wry smile.
‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ I replied, and realised I meant it. Although I had left Mouse to sleep alone after the kiss, I’d lain there, feeling a delicious tingle racing through my body. And knew that with time – and trust – I’d get there. In fact, I might even enjoy the journey.
Checking out of Esthwaite Hall the following morning, Mouse drove us to the Langdale Valley, and we took a walk through the majestic mountain pass.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Mouse?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s your real name? I know it begins with “O”.’
His lips curved into a wry smile. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s “Oenomaus”.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘Your name?’
‘Yes, that as well, of course – blame my Greek mythology-obsessed dad – but I meant the coincidence. According to the myth, “Oenomaus” was married to “Asterope” – or some stories say he was her son.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard the legends surrounding my name. Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I asked you once if you believed in fate. You said you didn’t. Whereas I knew that day when I first set eyes on you at High Weald, and heard what your real name was, that we were destined to be together.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. It was written in the stars,’ he teased me. ‘And it seems you have father and son at your feet.’
‘Well. I hope it’s okay if I still call you “Mouse”?’
And then the sound of our joint laughter rang through the Langdale Valley as Oenomaus Forbes, Lord Vaughan of High Weald, hugged me to him tightly.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘“Well” what?’
‘Will you come back to High Weald with me tonight, Asterope?’
‘Yes,’ I said without hesitation. ‘Remember that I’ve got work tomorrow morning.’
‘Of course you have, you old romantic. Right then,’ he said, releasing me and taking my hand. ‘It’s time for us both to go home.’
CeCe
December 2007
Camellia (Theaceae family)
46
I sat at Heathrow airport waiting for my flight to be called, watching the other passengers walk by me, chatting to their kids, or their partners. Everyone looked happy – full of expectation. And even if they were travelling by themselves, I reckoned they probably had someone waiting for them at their destination.
I had nobody any longer – either here, or there. I suddenly felt for all those old men I’d seen sitting on benches in London parks as I’d walked to and from college. I’d thought they were enjoying the company of life passing by them in the winter sunshine . . . but now I realised how much worse it felt to be alone in a crowd. And I wished that I had stopped to say hello. As I wished someone would stop and say hello to me now.
Sia, where are you?
I wish I could write down what’s in my head and send it to you, so that you could read the things I really feel. But you know the words come out wrong on the page – it took me forever to write that letter I left for you at the apartment and it was still rubbish. And you’re not here to talk to, so I’ll just have to think it all to myself in the middle of Terminal 3.
I thought you would hear my cry for help. But you didn’t. All these weeks I’ve watched you drift away from me, and I’ve tried so hard to let you go. To not mind you leaving me all the time to see that family or how irritated you’ve been with me, like everyone else is.
With you, I could always be myself. And I thought you loved me for it. Accepted me for who I was. And what I tried to do for you.
I know what others think of me. And I’m not sure where I go wrong, because it’s all here inside me – the good stuff, like love. And wanting to care for people and make friends. It’s like there’s a trip switch between who I am on the inside and what comes out on the outside. By the way, I know that would be a bad sentence because it has two ‘outs’ in it, and you used to correct word repetitions in my essays before they went to the teacher.
We were kind to each other. You didn’t like speaking, but I could say the words for you, like you wrote them better for me. We were a good team.
I thought you’d be so happy when I bought that apartment for us. We were safe forever. No more travelling – because I knew you’d had enough; time to settle down and be who we were, together. But it just seemed to make things worse.
And it’s only in the last few days when I’ve sat in the apartment alone, waiting for you to call me, that I’ve understood. I made you feel like a caged tiger who couldn’t escape. I was rude to your friends – male or female – because I was so scared of losing the one person who seemed to love me, apart from Pa and Ma . . .
So, I’ve gone, Sia. Left you alone for a bit, because that’s what I know you want. Because I love you more than anyone in the world, but I think you’ve found someone else to love you and you don’t need me any more . . .
I looked up and saw the flight was boarding. And my tummy turned over, because I had never, ever got on a plane without Sia by my side. She sat in the window seat with me next to her in the middle, because she liked being up in the clouds. I’d always preferred the earth under my feet and she’d give me a pill twenty minutes before the flight took off so I’d fall straight to sleep and wouldn’t be scared.
I fumbled in the front pocket of my rucksack to find my purse where I was sure I’d put the pill before I left the apartment, but it wasn’t there.
I’d just have to do without it, I decided as I continued to search through the muck inside the pocket to find my passport and boarding card. I’d just have to do without a lot of things from now on. My fingers touched on the envelope with Pa Salt’s letter in. I drew it out to find bits of an old jam doughnut attached to it and saw the envelope was now sugar-coated and stained. Typical me, I thought: I couldn’t even keep the most important letter I’d ever been written clean. Dusting the sugar off it, I took out the small black and white photograph and stared at it for the hundredth time.
Well, at least there had once been someone in the world that I’d belonged to properly. And, I comforted myself, at least I had my art, which was the one thing no one could ever take away from me.
I stowed the envelope back in the front pocket, then stood up and hoicked my rucksack onto my back. I followed the human wave slowly towards the departure gate, wondering what on earth I was doing throwing up everything I’d planned. But if I was honest, it wasn’t just Sia who’d found the change so difficult. Even after just a few weeks in London, my feet had become itchy and the wanderlust had started to hit again. I was very bad at staying in one place for more than a few weeks – always had been – and I’d realised I harboured an innate terror of being institutionalised.
You should have thought of that before you enrolled at your art college, you dunce . . .
I liked nothing better than carrying my home on my back and the
excitement of not knowing where I’d end up sleeping that night. Being free. And the good news was, I supposed, that this was certainly going to be how I lived from now on.
I thought how weird it was that one of the only two places in the world I had always avoided visiting was where I was headed for now.
Wandering along the concourse and stepping onto the travelator, I glanced at a poster advertising a bank and was mentally deriding the art director for his lack of imagination when I caught a flash of a very familiar face walking past me. My heart almost jumped out of my chest as I turned round and craned my neck to search for him. But he was walking away and I was travelling fast in the other direction.
I began running along the travelator, my rucksack jostling people as I passed them, but in my desperation to get off, I didn’t care. Reaching the end of it, I did a U-turn and continued to run back along the concourse, my breath coming in gasps through shock and the weight of my rucksack. I dodged in and out between the people walking towards me, eventually reaching the entrance to the departure lounge.
My eyes searched desperately through the crowds for another glimpse of him, but as I heard the final call for my flight, I knew it was too late.
Acknowledgements
This project would not have been possible without the kind help of so many people, and I am deeply indebted to them for supporting me in this marathon of a seven-book series.
In the Lake District: many thanks to Anthony Hutton of the Tower Bank Arms, Beatrix Potter’s local pub in Near Sawrey, for his in-depth knowledge of local history and his warm hospitality. Also to Alan Brockbank, who at the age of ninety-five took the time to be interviewed about village life when Beatrix was still alive, and who had us in stitches with his deadpan stories of adventure. Also, to Catherine Pritchard, National Trust house manager at Hill Top Farm, for her expertise on all things Miss Potter. I would have liked nothing more than to include all the whimsical details of Beatrix’s life in these pages, as she kept busy until the day she died: as wife, farmer, writer, illustrator, researcher, preserver of nature, lover of animals, and friend to many.
Thank you to Marcus Tyers, proprietor of St Mary’s Books, Stamford, for his invaluable knowledge on the intricacies of the rare book business, and for advising me on how much Orlando would have spent on that Anna Karenina. (An exorbitant amount!)
I would also like to thank my fantastic PA, Olivia, who bravely climbed the fells of the Lake District alone in the rain to find a monument to Edward VII, which I insisted was there, but wasn’t! And my hard-working editorial and research team of Susan Moss and Ella Micheler, who helped me get to grips with all of Star’s recipes as well as British Sign Language and deaf culture.
My thirty international publishers from around the world – whom I’m honoured to say I now count amongst my friends – particularly Catherine Richards and Jeremy Trevathan at Pan Macmillan UK; Claudia Negele and Georg Reuchlein at Random House Germany; the team at Cappelen Damm Norway: Knut Gørvell, Jorid Mathiassen, Pip Hallen and Marianne Nielsen; Annalisa Lottini and Donatella Minuto at Giunti Editore in Italy; and Sarah Cantin and Judith Curr at Atria in the USA.
Writing Star’s story has been an absolute pleasure, as I have been able to do so from the comfort of my own home for once, with the support of my family. They have learnt to ignore me as I wander around the house like a wraith at all times of day and night, talking into my dictaphone and weaving the threads of The Shadow Sister together. Harry, Bella, Leonora and Kit – you all know what you mean to me – and thank you to Stephen, my husband/agent who keeps me on the straight and narrow in all sorts of ways! What would I do without you? A special thank you to Jacquelyn Heslop, who holds the Riley fort so capably and looks after all of us. To my sister, Georgia, and Janet, my mother. And to Flo, to whom this book is dedicated. I miss you.
And lastly, to my readers. Writing a seven-book series seemed like such a mad idea in 2012 – I never guessed that the stories of my sisters would touch so many people around the world. I have been honoured and deeply humbled to receive all your emails, letters and words of support, and to have been lucky enough to meet some of you on my tours around the world. Thank you.
Bibliography
The Shadow Sister is a work of fiction set against an historical background. The sources I’ve used to research the time period and detail of my characters’ lives are listed below:
Munya Andrews, The Seven Sisters of the Pleiades (North Melbourne, Victoria: Spinifex Press, 2004)
Susan Denyer, Beatrix Potter at Home in the Lake District (London: Frances Lincoln, 2000)
Roy Hattersley, The Edwardians (London: Abacus, 2014)
Philippe Jullian and John Phillips, Violet Trefusis: Life and Letters (Bristol: Hamish Hamilton, 1976)
Sonia Keppel, Edwardian Daughter (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1958)
Raymond Lamont-Brown, Edward VII’s Last Loves: Alice Keppel and Agnes Keyser (London: Sutton Publishing, 2005)
Linda Lear, Beatrix Potter: The extraordinary life of a Victorian genius (London: Penguin, 2008)
Leslie Linder, A History of the Writings of Beatrix Potter (London: Frederick Warne, 1971)
Tim Longville, Gardens of the Lake District (London: Frances Lincoln, 2007)
Peter Marren, Britain’s Rare Flowers (London: Academic Press, 1999)
Marta McDowell, Beatrix Potter’s Gardening Life (London: Timber Press, 2013)
George Plumptre, The English Country House Garden (London: Frances Lincoln, 2014)
J. B. Priestley, The Edwardians (London: Penguin, 2000)
Jane Ridley, Bertie: A Life of Edward VII (London: Chatto & Windus, 2012)
Vita Sackville-West, The Edwardians (London: Virago, 2004)
Diana Souhami, Mrs Keppel and her Daughter (London: HarperCollins, 1996)
Judy Taylor, Beatrix Potter: Artist, Storyteller and Countrywoman (London: Frederick Warne, 1986)
Violet Trefusis, Don’t Look Round (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1989)
Author’s Note
When I first had the idea of writing a series of books based on the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades, I had no idea where it would lead me. I was very attracted to the fact that each one of the mythological sisters was, according to their legends, a unique and strong female. Some say they were the Seven Mothers who seeded our earth – there is no doubt that, in their stories, they were all highly fertile! – and had many children with the various gods who were fascinated by their strength, beauty and ethereal air of mysticism.
And I wanted to celebrate the achievements of women, especially in the past, where so often their contribution to making our world the place it is today has been overshadowed by the more frequently documented achievements of men.
However, the definition of feminism is equality, not domination, and the women I write about, both in the past and the present, accept that they want and need men in their lives. Perhaps the masculine and feminine are the true yin and yang of nature and must strive for balance; in essence, to accept the individual strengths and weaknesses of each other.
And of course, we all need love; not necessarily in the traditional form of marriage and children, but I believe it to be the life source without which we humans wither and die. The Seven Sisters series unashamedly celebrates the endless search for love, and explores the devastating consequences when it is lost to us.
As I travel round the world, following in the footsteps of my factual and fictional female characters to research their stories, I am constantly humbled and awed by the tenacity and courage of the generations of women who came before me. Whether fighting the sexual and racial prejudices of times gone by, losing their loved ones to the devastation of war or disease, or making a new life on the other side of the world, these women paved the way for us to have the freedom of thought and deed that we enjoy today. And so often take for granted.
The world is sadly still not a perfect place and I doubt it ever will be, because there will always be a new challenge ahead. Yet I truly b
elieve that humans – especially women – thrive on this challenge. We are, after all, the goddesses of multi-tasking! And every day – with one hand holding a child and the other a manuscript – I celebrate the fact that my freedom to be who I am was won by thousands of generations of remarkable women, perhaps leading right back to the Seven Sisters themselves . . .
I so hope you have enjoyed Star’s journey. Often, everyday quiet courage, kindness and inner strength go unacknowledged. Star has not changed the world, but has touched the lives of those around her and made them better. And through the process, she has found herself.
You can read more about CeCe and her sisters in
The Pearl Sister
coming Autumn 2017
Also by Lucinda Riley
Hothouse Flower
The Girl on the Cliff
The Light Behind the Window
The Midnight Rose
The Italian Girl
The Angel Tree
The Olive Tree
The Seven Sisters series
The Seven Sisters
The Storm Sister
First published 2016 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2016 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-8863-3
Copyright © Lucinda Riley 2016
The right of Lucinda Riley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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