Chapter 4 — The Woman Calling Herself Mara
Roderick stared at the envelope.
“Who is Mara Harcourt?”
Celestine answered:
“Mirelle.”
Roderick looked toward her.
“She changed her name?”
“Her adoptive parents did.”
“Mirelle became Mara.”
Roderick picked up the envelope.
It had already been opened.
He looked at Celestine.
“You read this?”
Celestine nodded.
“Why?”
“Because it arrived here before I understood what the room was.”
Roderick frowned.
Celestine explained.
Six weeks earlier, contractors discovered the hidden corridor while examining old wall moisture.
Celestine asked them not to alter anything until she could inspect it.
She found the room.
The photographs.
The adoption records.
Then, only days later, a letter arrived at the mansion addressed to Roderick from Mara Harcourt.
The coincidence terrified her.
“Why didn’t staff give it to me?”
Celestine looked ashamed.
“I intercepted it.”
Roderick stared.
“You what?”
“I saw the surname Harcourt.”
“I already knew it from the adoption documents.”
“So you opened my mail.”
“Yes.”
“And kept it.”
“Yes.”
Roderick’s face hardened.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know whether the woman was actually your sister.”
“Then you could have shown me.”
Celestine shook her head.
“You grew up believing Mirelle died.”
“I wanted certainty before I dropped that into your life.”
“It was my life already.”
Celestine looked down.
“I know that now.”
Roderick opened the letter.
He read.
Dear Roderick,
I don’t know whether you know I exist.
His hands shook.
My birth name was Mirelle Ainsworth.
I was adopted by Eleanor and Vincent Harcourt when I was an infant.
I learned the full truth after my adoptive mother died.
Roderick continued.
Mara had spent years researching her biological family.
She learned Alaric and Isabeau were dead.
Then found Roderick.
She had not contacted him immediately.
She feared he might know about her and want no relationship.
Eventually she wrote one letter.
If you were told I died, I am sorry you carried that grief.
I did not know you existed until I was twenty-eight.
Roderick stopped.
His eyes filled.
He continued.
I am not asking you to call me your sister.
I am asking only whether you want the information I have.
If not, I will respect that.
At the bottom was an email address.
Phone number.
And one photograph.
A grown woman standing beside the sea.
Dark hair.
Same eyes as Roderick.
He sat down.
“She looks like my mother.”
Celestine nodded.
“She does.”
Roderick looked back toward the letter.
“You had this for six weeks.”
“Yes.”
“Did you contact her?”
Celestine hesitated.
That hesitation told him the answer.
“You did.”
And Celestine had done far more than send one email.