She scowled. “You’re pulling my leg. I’m convinced of it.”
“No, no, it’s true! Why, Libby is in London right now, appearing on the stage to gushing audiences. She regales them with stories about the tragedy.”
Her jaw dropped with surprise. “You’re joking.”
“No. People were agog when you were returned to England years ago, and they still are.”
“I had no idea.”
“It’s the reason I’m here—because it’s the twentieth anniversary.”
“So it is,” she murmured. “The time has passed so quickly.”
“My newspaper would like to print a retrospective about the three of you.”
“What kind of retrospective?”
“We’d like to draft a few articles about how your lives unfolded after you were claimed by your relatives.”
“Who would be interested in that?”
“Everyone?”
“I doubt that very much.”
“I guess I’ve failed to explain how popular you’ve been.”
“Mr. . . Periwinkle, is it? I can’t think that popular is a word I would use to describe my life.”
“How was it then? Was it scary? Was it horrid? Were your relatives cruel? Did they mistreat you? Our readers are eager to know how you’ve fared.”
“Again, sir, I doubt that very much.”
She was about to walk on, so he hastily added, “We’d like to arrange a reunion too.” He hadn’t posited the possibility to his boss or received permission, but it sounded grand. “For you, Libby, and Caroline. Would you like that? Would you like to see them?”
Her weary smile became radiant. “I would like that, and if you could arrange it, I would be happy to participate. I’ve missed them so much.”
“I’ve heard that you were closer than sisters.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“And that you were ripped apart, without having a chance to say goodbye.”
“It was a trying situation. The authorities weren’t sure of what was best for us. They had difficult decisions to make, and I shouldn’t judge them.”
“Would you like to confide in me about those terrible days? How was it difficult?”
She sighed. “That, Mr. Periwinkle, is none of your business at all.”
She circled around him and kept on toward her quaint, isolated cottage, where she lived alone and probably communicated with elves and had only fairies for friends.
“I’ll write you,” he called to her. “As soon as I’ve conferred with Libby and Caroline, I’ll contact you about the plans for the reunion.”
“I shall be waiting on pins and needles until then,” she called back.
He blinked, and in that brief instant, she vanished. Or was it a trick of the light? It had to be. A woman couldn’t vanish before a man’s eyes. Yet she’d seemed to be part of the forest, a sprite with magical powers who could appear and disappear at will.
He stood very still, struggling to hear her footsteps retreating, but the sole noises were the beating of his heart and the air whooshing through his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled.
He spun and dashed off, being in a frightful hurry to get out of the dark, eerie woods. Once the trees thinned, and the road widened, he saw the village’s church steeple up ahead. He slowed and laughed at his foolishness, suddenly feeling like a dunce.
He should be celebrating. His journey had been a success! He’d tracked down a Mystery Girl! He’d done his research and had found her! She’d agreed to a reunion!
It was an idea Howard would present to his boss at the newspaper. Initially, he’d scoff and declare it silly, but then, Libby Carstairs had arrived in London, and the whole city was drooling over her performances. She’d tantalized everyone anew with their fascinating tale of survival. People couldn’t talk about anything else, and they were anxious for more stories to be shared.
And he, Howard Periwinkle, would be the man to tell them to the world.
“Caroline, wait!”
Gregory called to Caroline, but she didn’t halt. He was in the front foyer, and she was climbing the stairs and headed for her bedchamber.
He’d just escorted the vicar and his wife out to their carriage. They’d driven away, clearly bewildered and a tad aggrieved. The dreary pair had obviously been dying to ask what was wrong with Caroline, but hadn’t known how to inquire.
The meeting with them had been incredibly awkward. The vicar had bloviated about the wedding service, and his wife had waxed on about the type and placement of decorations that were allowed in the church.
It had been a perfectly ordinary nuptial appointment, one Caroline had reminded him about a dozen times so he wouldn’t miss it. But once it had begun, she’d acted so strangely that he couldn’t figure out what had happened to her.
Caroline was a very pleasant person. She was never unhappy or discourteous. She exuded a composure and contentment that was constantly praised by others, but she’d sat like a bump on a log. A rude, disinterested bump on a log.
She hadn’t replied to any comments or suggestions. She hadn’t had any questions. Mostly, she’d stared at the floor, with them having to speak her name over and over in order to get her attention.
Every so often, she would glance up and gape at Gregory as if she couldn’t remember who he was. Was she sick? Or maybe she was weary from having a house full of company. Or maybe she was exhausted by the wedding preparations. Perhaps it was a combination of all three.
She had to have heard him summon her, but she didn’t pause, didn’t ask what he wanted, didn’t stop so he could catch up to her. She was in a sort of trance, and she blindly continued on.
For a moment, it dawned on him that she might be suffering an episode of madness. Their grandfather had claimed her father, Winston, was mad as a hatter, and lunacy was an inherited trait.
An appalling notion occurred to him: If she was growing deranged, she’d have to be committed to an asylum. It was a common fate for women. They had a habit of being disobedient and incorrigible, and the laws were written so male family members could keep them in line.
If she
