The Lost Sister

By Kurmysha Harris

London 1865

The Walker siblings have experienced the tragic loss of both their parents, and Iain was given custody of his younger sister, Aibeline. The two try to move on with their daily lives but always find themselves butting heads. Tensions between them get so bad that, in fact, they have a fight.

Aibeline goes out that night to seek comfort from their lovely elderly neighbour but doesnt know what to expect in the back alleys of their home.

Follow Iain as he traverses the English countryside in search of his lost sister.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524500801

Kurmysha Harris

Kurmysha Harris is an aspiring young author with a great passion for writing that started at an early age. She was born on the island state of Dominica and soon after moved to the neighbouring island of Saint Lucia to continue her education. It was there that her knack for writing took root, and she has been writing ever since. The author also enjoys reading a great lot, learning languages simply for the fun of it, and travelling whenever and to wherever she can, to learn more about world cultures and to garner new perspectives and ideas.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Kurmysha Harris.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016907896

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-0082-5

      Softcover         978-1-5245-0081-8

      eBook         978-1-5245-0080-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/02/2016

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1: Theft

Chapter 2: Silence

Chapter 3: Revelation

Chapter 4: Reprieve

Chapter 5: Desperation

Chapter 6: Recovery

Chapter 7: Escape

Chapter 8: Determination

Chapter 9: Awakening

Chapter 10: Mischance

Chapter 11: Fulfilment

PROLOGUE

T HE WEATHER DOESN’T seem too agreeable.

The blond looked up from his book to his co-worker, Charlie, seated across him, legs crossed casually. He saw him looking out the window without much interest. Iain’s green eyes followed to meet a dark sky, moiling clouds, and sheets of rain that were sure to be dreadfully cold.

Hmmm? Oh, no, it doesn’t, he replied absentmindedly, finishing the last of his work. He closed the book with a soft thud and stuffed it into his satchel.

You’re not going home in that weather, are you? Charlie asked, shifting in his seat.

Of course I’m not. I’ll—

He suddenly stopped his packing and looked up at Charlie. Their gazes held still as Charlie couldn’t decipher what Iain was thinking.

Drat, the blond breathed.

What’s the matter?

Iain was reluctant to answer, fiddling with the worn leather strap of his satchel.

I seemed to have forgotten my coin home.

His friend didn’t bother holding in the chuckles that followed.

I suppose you’ll be waiting out the rain here with me?

Iain slowly shook his head as he slung the old bag over his shoulder to which Charlie’s brows tipped in confusion.

No? It doesn’t seem as if it will stop any time soon, he noted.

That’s exactly why I’ll be getting a head start home, supplied Iain with a lax shrug.

All right then.

The two both said their goodbyes, and Iain was out with the chorus of rain in his wake.

***

It was a lot worse out than Iain had initially thought, but now that he was already partly drenched, he decided to bustle home. The thought of dry clothes, the warmth of the hearth, and a steaming cup of tea propelled him faster through the rain and towards his street. Just like him, other unlucky pedestrians sped past him, ducking into shops to escape the chilling precipitation.

He bumped into a man just a few paces from his doorstep. It was the mail carrier. He received a warm smile of recognition.

Ah, Mr Walker, he greeted with a tip of his head. I’d come to deliver this, but no one was at home.

They both stood under the high eaves of a building while the mail carrier sifted through his messenger bag for the missive. Upon finding it, he handed it to Iain, and the boy tucked it away into his coat lest it be dampened.

Thank you, sir.

The man nodded and was off in the opposite direction.

A burst of warm air hit Iain’s body as he unlocked the front door and stepped into the house with a sigh. He closed it behind him before the rain could trickle its way over the threshold.

The place was silent as his sister was still waiting out the rain at the schoolhouse and his parents had left earlier in the morning on some business trip. He had the house to himself.

Quickly he strode up to his room to change then found his way down to the kitchen to make himself a steaming cuppa.

He brought the envelope and the teacup along with his work bag with him to the study as he inspected the mail. It surprised him when he saw that the letter was addressed directly to him. It wasn’t often that he had mail.

Taking up a comfy seat in the chair at his own desk in the study, he began to open the envelope, sliding his thumb carefully under the flap.

He pulled out the parchment and read through its contents, holding the cup to his lips. Then he nearly choked on the hot beverage when he saw who the sender was—the Earl of Berkshire, a close acquaintance of his father’s.

Iain’s brows furrowed as he could only think of what the letter contained. He read,

Iain,

Dear boy, it must shock you to find me writing to you so suddenly. Though the news I bear is not a happy one.

It pains me to tell you that your parents had passed earlier this morning in a carriage crash. Your father was on his way to meet me with your mother when the horses slipped in the slick mud from all the rain, and the lantern broke, setting the carriage they were riding in on fire.

I send out my deepest condolences to you and your sister, and I hope that you both may rebound from the loss. I wish you the best of luck in the future and—

The teacup slipped from his trembling hold and crashed on to the floor, plashing the piping hot liquid on to Iain’s legs.

He flinched at the fleeting pain but could not rid himself of the ache in his hollow chest as he clutched it.

His eyes were wide; he couldn’t believe what he had just read.

It… it has to be some mistake, he mumbled to himself. Mother and father aren’t… They’re not. He refused to believe this.

The world around him began to spin, faster and faster, muddling before his eyes and earning him a headache. Tears rushed to the forefront of his eyes, and one silver tear pattered on to the desk as he held his head in his hands. The hot breath left him unsteadily, filling his lungs instead with queasiness.

What would he tell his sister?

1

Theft

M ARCH PRANCED AROUND with mild showers to ward off the lingering chills of winter, watering the earth as the heads of blossoms sprang forth. Trees renewed, spring breathed an air of crisp freshness through the country, though the sky was not as enthusiastic. The sun still wore a blanket of many clouds as if too shy to shine, its coy game encouraged by a steady supply of smog from the smokestacks.

Iain rose in the early hours of the morning, getting dressed before heading out for work. He stood in front of the mirror, fussing over his blond hair and straightening his bow tie. Jaded eyes stared back at him, tired. His hands smoothed the lapels of his dark waistcoat and then came to a pause.

Silence.

How odd, he mumbled half-heartedly to himself, eyes cast towards the floor. Turning, he left his tidied bedroom with a soft click of the door behind him.

Usually, even this early, his sister would be up fixing breakfast.

Pale sunlight streamed through the windows as the sun finally decided to take a peek at the morning. The light left faint squares on the landing to the stairs. Iain stood there for a moment, surveying the quiet serenity of the house. Everything was in its place, the hush of morn still heavy in the atmosphere. No one and nothing milled about, not even the scamper of a mouse, just stillness.

He hated it.

With a quiet huff, he descended the stairs rather quickly and turned into the kitchen. It was dark and cold. A canister of sugar sat on the counter with a stool pulled near the counter. A cupboard door hung open lazily. The sink was clean of wares, and everything was where it should be, except his sister. She should have been in here already or, at least, lumbering down the stairs.

He filled the cast-iron kettle and placed it on the stovetop, lighting a fire beneath it. He stood there for a moment, staring at it as he debated on what tea he should have. Maybe black tea should cure his creeping drowsiness, or maybe… And then it struck him—he knew where she was.

He left the kettle to fume and crossed the parlour to a closed door. The brass knob shone with the warmth of hands that had been there not too long. He reached for it.

***

What in the heavens?

Parchments were scattered about in a maze of numbers, and she couldn’t understand a word of it. Her navy-blue dress pooled around her knees as she concentrated on the paper in her hands. A lock of ginger hair fell into her emerald eyes, and she tucked it behind a freckled ear.

Click.

Her blood ran cold, and her heart leapt in her throat. The page slipped from her weak grasp and fluttered to the dark-wood floor.

Aibeline. His voice came out as a low warning, with an undertone of exasperation that was none too subtle. The old door creaked open, and he came fully into her view, looking annoyed as usual.

Her heart hammered against her chest. She stood and turned around, meeting eyes that were a fiercer shade of green than hers. She swallowed her speechlessness, beads of sweat collecting on her brow, and the crinoline beneath her skirts itched all the more badly.

Good morning, she choked, coughing into her fist as if that would coax her voice to come back. Iain clucked his tongue, annoyed, standing before her in two strides. She nearly fell over from staring up at him too