Page 25 of The Vanished

“So, I just wait for news and hope someone comes?” Quinn cried, a tad hysterically.

“Quinn, you need to keep a cool head,” Sean replied calmly. “I know you’re worried, but Logan has been out of touch for less than four hours. If he was a minor, I would be more concerned, but he’s a healthy, fit man in his thirties. If he doesn’t surface by tomorrow morning, let me know, and I’ll make some calls. Until then, try to remain calm. That little boy will be watching you for any sign of fear, and he will know if something is wrong and internalize it. So until you’re sure that something really is wrong, you carry on as normal.”

“Should I go to Logan’s house and check if he’s there?” Quinn asked in a last-ditch effort to identify something she could do.

“No. If the police need to get involved, they will have to search the premises, and you might unwittingly destroy crucial evidence. I know it’s hard, but please, be patient.”

“All right. Thank you, Sean,” Quinn said contritely.

“You’re very welcome. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

Quinn ended the call and set aside her phone. She acknowledged that Sean was right on all counts, but her insides twisted with apprehension. The best thing she could do was to focus on the practicalities. She found a T-shirt, track bottoms, and a sweatshirt Alex had outgrown and set them aside for Max to wear to school tomorrow. Then she prepared pajamas and took out the hooded towel Alex used to love. The hood had a monkey face and brown terrycloth ears. She’d give Max a bath, put him to bed, and tomorrow she’d take him to nursery. Then she’d pop to the shops and pick up a few things for him. He couldn’t keep wearing Alex’s cast-offs.

She paused just as she was about to turn on the taps in the bath, having realized that she was already assuming Logan wouldn’t come back. That frightened her even more. Despite Sean’s calm reassurance that Logan was most likely all right, deep down she knew something was wrong and she had just gone into crisis mode. It took all her self-control not to show Max that she was worried. She gave him a bath, made sure he brushed his teeth, and put him to bed on a foldout sofa in Alex’s room. Max was asleep in moments, Alex’s teddy bear tucked up against his side.

By the time she got into bed herself, Quinn was thrumming with anxiety, and Gabe gathered her into his arms and held her close until his breathing slowed and he fell into a deep sleep. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to rest, Quinn reached for the plastic case and closed her fingers around the delicate earring. She may as well see what happened next.

FIFTEEN

NOVEMBER 1923

Ravenglass

Despite the early hour, the house was silent that evening. After an emotionally charged afternoon, Douglas had taken to his bed, and Honor’s reaction to the news had been so volatile that, after hours of listening to her sister rage and weep, Geneva felt utterly depleted. She had been forced to leave Honor to wrestle with her grief alone and had sought refuge in the quiet of her own room. She had settled into her favorite chair by the window and had not found the will to move for several hours.

During the day, the parkland and the beach were lovely, but now the nearly bare trees stood like sooty smudges against the night sky, and hazy moonlight filtered through gauzy clouds drifting lazily overhead. Waves crashed against the shore, and the sea that sparkled playfully in the sunlight now looked like an oily puddle of petrol that stretched towards the horizon. As she stared out, Geneva felt a desolation she had not known since her mother’s death—and then Jack’s, the news of which had reached them only two weeks later. Douglas had still been at the front, leaving her and Honor alone, two young girls shattered by loss and completely unprepared to shoulder their grief unsupported. When their father had eventually returned, it had taken time and sheer determination to claw their way back to something resembling normality. But now that thin veneer of acceptance had been stripped away, and their old wound had been torn open and bleeding again.

More than anything, Geneva wanted to close her eyes and let this awful day come to an end, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She needed to confide in someone, to talk through her options, but there was no one she could turn to—at least not within the house. The servants had to sense that something was wrong, but it would be unfair to burden them with the details before she had more information and could offer either reassurance or, if it came to it, severance and a character reference. Her father would be furious if he discovered what she was about to do, but she could not bear the weight of her suffering alone. Not tonight.

She padded downstairs in stockinged feet, tugged on a pair of wellies, a waxed jacket, and a flat cap she found in the mudroom, then slipped quietly out the door. If anyone happened to look out a window, they would simply take her for the gardener. The night was cold and dark, but the walk was short—barely a quarter of a mile—and she knew the way by heart. Geneva walked past the garage and then hurried around the stable block, and down the narrow path that led to the row of cottages tied to the estate. Before the war, all the cottages had been occupied, but now two were empty, the families who’d lost their menfolk gone to the cities, where they had a better shot at making a living. The cottages were in a reasonable state of repair, thanks to Rory, but they were not equipped with gas lines or wired for electricity. And they likely wouldn’t be now unless the new owner decided to modernize.

If the light in Rory’s cottage wasn’t on, she’d turn back, Geneva decided, but the glow of an oil lamp beckoned her forward and she knocked softly on the door, mindful of alerting Mr. Blatt, the gardener, to her presence. When Rory appeared in the doorway, he was dressed in a pair of cords and an open-necked shirt. Geneva had never seen him in anything but a tweed suit, starched shirt, and tie, and was momentarily taken aback by his casual appearance. An auburn forelock had fallen into his face, and his jaw was shadowed with evening stubble. Rory’s eyes widened at the sight of her, and his forehead creased with concern.

“Geneva, is everything all right?” he asked. He had finally agreed to stop calling her Lady Geneva when they were alone together, but he had yet to call her Genny.

“May I come in?” she asked, her voice quavering with uncertainty.

“Of course.”

Rory stepped aside, and Geneva slipped inside. The cottage was tiny, with just two rooms and a privy out back. The furniture was outmoded, and included some pieces brought from the big house once they had been discarded. A tufted wingchair stood before the hearth, and there was a small table and two chairs, and a sideboard that held a few pieces of crockery. There was also an ancient range, but Rory took his meals at the house and probably didn’t light it unless he wanted to make a cup of tea or generate some heat during the winter months. The door to the bedroom stood open, and Geneva caught sight of a bed covered with a blue quilt, a wooden chest with rounded brass fittings, and a narrow wardrobe. Seeing where Rory slept felt awfully intimate, and she dragged her gaze away.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, she thought as she allowed Rory to take her jacket and cap and settled in the wingchair. Geneva had never shared her worries with anyone outside the family, not even when she was a little girl. She was the sort of person to retreat to her room and hide in a book until she felt more in control, but she found herself pouring out the whole story as soon as Rory pulled up a chair and joined her by the fire.

When she had finished, Rory walked over to the sideboard, took out a half-full bottle of whisky, and poured two fingers’ worth into a glass.

“Get that down ye,” he said as he handed her the glass and watched as Geneva threw back the drink as if it were water. The whisky was fiery and tasted awful, but the heat was also strangely comforting, and she held out the glass for a refill.

“Slow down,” Rory said when she started on the second drink. He took the glass from her once she’d finished the whisky and set it on the mantel. He was silently cutting her off.

“I don’t know what to do,” Geneva cried. “I’ve never felt so lost, not even after Mother and Jack died.”

She had still had her father then, and the members of staff she’d known all her life. Now it would be just her and her sister, and she would have to look after Honor and depend on a man whose name she had never heard until that afternoon. Possibly as his wife, but the prospect made her feel as if she were about to become a prisoner of war rather than the lady of the manor.

Rory reached for her hand and held it between his own. “There is nothing to be done, lass,” he said softly.

“What do you mean? There’s always something one can do. Isn’t there?”

Rory shook his head. “Not in this instance. Yer father is dying, Geneva, and his end won’t be either painless or peaceful. Ye can’t ruin what’s left of his time on this earth with childish arguments and pointless recriminations. He didn’t entail the estate, some long-dead ancestor did. And I assure ye, this hurts him a lot more than it hurts ye.”