The Twin's Daughter

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  It was as though I had been struck. Immediately, as I watched Mother leave the room, I caught the implications: not only was Aunt Helen not to be encouraged, allowed to go out, but neither was she to be part of our normal family life when visitors were seen in. Had Aunt Helen caught the implications too?

  I looked at her face:

  She had.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said to me. “I suppose Mrs. Carson is a silly woman.”

  “She is,” I said, forcing a smile in the hopes of taking the sting out of what had just transpired.

  Now we were presented with a dilemma, however. We could not leave the room by the normal exit, because nosy Mrs. Carson might see us as we passed by the front parlor on our way to that staircase. And to remain in that room? It would have felt too much as though we had been consigned to a nicely appointed prison.

  Aunt Helen and I used the back stairs, the servants’ stairs, to pass upward to our rooms.

  • Eight •

  The next morning during lessons, Mr. Brockburn presented Aunt Helen with a gift.

  “No one’s ever given me a present,” she said, studying the plain brown wrapper, tied with string, as though unsure as to how to proceed. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I think you’re supposed to open it,” Mr. Brockburn suggested, his cheeks coloring.

  Aunt Helen did so. Inside the wrapper was a book. It was a fine dictionary.

  “It’s a dictionary,” Mr. Brockburn informed her, perhaps suspecting she might not know what one was. “It is a reference book containing words alphabetically arranged, along with information about their forms, pronunciations, functions, etymologies, meanings, and syntactical and idiomatic usages.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Aunt Helen said, using a delicacy I never would have guessed was in her to gently page through the book. Then she added with a mischievous smile, “Even if I don’t know the meaning of nearly half of what you just said.”

  “Yes. Well. That is what the dictionary is for.” Mr. Brockburn’s blush deepened. “Now you can copy out words to your heart’s content as practice work.”

  With the correspondence I had provided her from Mother’s desk, this would make a perfect pairing for Aunt Helen’s education in letters.

  “Use it in good health,” Mr. Brockburn said.

  “Oh, I shall,” Aunt Helen said. “I shall.”

  . . . . .

  My father joined us for luncheon that day.

  Just that morning, I had requested that my customary position at meals be changed so that I might sit beside Aunt Helen. My request had been granted.

  Aunt Helen made a face when she first tried the turtle soup. I cannot say I really blamed her, but I did notice she used the right spoon for it now, and by the time she took the second mouthful, you could not tell from her expression if she still hated it. Already, she was getting quite good at using the proper utensils. And eating—she was getting good at that too. Mother had told Mrs. Wiggins that she planned to fatten Aunt Helen up. As I watched Aunt Helen reach for a third roll, it occurred to me that she was doing a fine job of fattening herself up.

  “Now that Mrs. Wiggins is taking care of your body, at least in the matter of clothing,” my father began, “and now that Mr. Brockburn is tending to the expansion of your mind—indeed, he informs me that you are quite a sponge—perhaps it is time to turn our attention to your spirit.”

  “You don’t mean church, do you?” Aunt Helen asked sharply.

  My father threw back his head and roared. “Do you hate it that much?” he asked her.

  “I’ve never been,” she said proudly.

  I was mildly horrified at this, a little thrilled too. Everyone I knew went to church, and I had wondered what was to be done about it now that Aunt Helen was here. We normally went every Sunday, had not gone the last Sunday because that was the day that we had set out early looking for Aunt Helen.

  “And you shall not go now either,” my father said, surprising us all, perhaps even himself, but still smiling just the same. “Although the time will come, I suppose, when you shall have to. But no, I don’t believe our church is ready for you just yet.”

  “Then what did you mean before,” she asked, “about turning my attention to my spirit?” Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t mean a fortune-teller, do you? Like the one who—”

  She cut herself short, but we all knew what she was thinking, had been about to say: like the one who advised her and Mother’s parents to take Mother home while consigning her to the workhouse.

  “No.” My father sobered. “I was not thinking of anything like that.” Then his smile returned, just as quickly as it had fled. “I was thinking more along the lines of etiquette lessons, deportment, that sort of thing. Perhaps ‘spirit’ was not the right word to use when I meant something else, when I meant something more like ‘style.’ ”

  “I’ve a new dictionary I could lend you,” I heard Aunt Helen murmur under her breath. It was all I could do not to laugh. Then, louder, she said: “And who’s to be my teacher in this … etiquette? This … deportment?”

  My father raised his glass, tilted it toward Mother. “Why, your sister, of course,” he said. “Who better?”

  Then he turned to me. “You’re looking a bit shabby these days, Lucy,” he said.

  I was?

  I looked down at myself. The apron of my dress was slightly askew. I had been so caught up these past few days in all things Aunt Helen, I rushed through my own toilet far too quickly in order to see her.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “you could use a few lessons in etiquette and deportment yourself.”

  . . . . .

  With no Mrs. Carson to visit us that afternoon, Mother began her lessons with Aunt Helen immediately after lunch.

  They were to be held in the music room.

  “I think,” Mother said, looking pleased to be regarded as the expert on something, “that we should start with the simple task of walking gracefully.”

  Mother walked the length of the room, appearing not to take anything so human as a step.

  “Huh,” Aunt Helen said, as though she were making a discovery. “I don’t think I ever noticed that some people walked like that. It’s like you’re an angel or something.”

  Aunt Helen and I tried to mimic Mother’s artistry at floating, with mixed results. I, of course, had had this lesson before, more than once, but it did not mean I had perfected it. At least, I was better at first than Aunt Helen.

  “Not bad,” Mother pronounced after Aunt Helen and I had practiced floating for half an hour. “Do that for half an hour each day. I think now you should practice your curtsies. You bend the knees outward, rather than straight ahead, stepping one foot behind you. You should use your hands to hold your skirt out from your body.”

  Mother executed a perfect curtsy, bowing down low, although it was impossible to tell beneath her voluminous skirts just what she was doing with the positioning of her knees. Really, she could have been hiding almost anything down there.

  “Now you try it,” she directed.

  I dipped a curtsy, not thinking it very difficult. I was accustomed to performing them whenever my parents’ friends or older relatives came to call.

  “Very good,” Mother said. “Now you, Helen. It is important to know how to curtsy for when one encounters those of a senior social rank. And you need to know how to curtsy properly before beginning a dance.”

  Aunt Helen’s face was practically the portrait of a sneer. “But I never leave the house,” she said. “I never see anyone of a ‘senior social rank.’ ” Another sneer. “And I certainly don’t never dance.”

  “Don’t say ‘don’t never,’ ” Mother corrected snappishly. Then she had the grace to color at this, at everything. “No, perhaps you do not have those opportunities now. But one day you shall.”

  That was enough persuasion for Aunt Helen. With great seriousness of expression she dipped curtsy after curtsy until Mother finally said she had dipped e
nough.

  “You are doing quite well,” Mother said with a generous smile. “The schoolmaster is right: you are like a sponge.”

  All this taking classes together—it was like having a big sister as well as an aunt, only sometimes it felt as though she were my younger sister, since she knew less about what we were being taught than I did.

  “Next,” Mother said, “I think we should work on how well you carry yourselves in even more formal circumstances.”

  Our house contained many staircases. The one leading from off the front parlor to the family bedrooms upstairs. The back stairs that the servants used and that Aunt Helen and I had used to escape on the occasion when Mrs. Carson had come to call. And a third one that led up to the grand ballroom. It was to the last that Mother led us now, having us ascend the stairs first so that we might descend them.

  “I know it may not seem to matter, but the way you carry yourself—your bearing, as it were—is so important in terms of the opinions others will form about you. It is paramount then at all times, and in particular when descending a grand staircase such as this, to be perceived as though you are floating on air.”

  She demonstrated, performing her angel trick again.

  I followed, looking straight ahead, pretending that I had the dictionary that Mr. Brockburn had given Aunt Helen perched on my head all the while. If I do say so myself, my floating would have done the queen proud.

  Then it was Aunt Helen’s turn.

  She was so serious as she descended the first few steps, her head erect, as though there were a strong cord attaching it to the ceiling. You could not say she floated, not like Mother did, because her steps were too halting, but her carriage was regal as she walked down the dead center of the stairs, far from any railing, eyes straight ahead as though looking for a ship’s arrival.

  But then, something must have been on one of the marble steps or perhaps she grew dizzy from trying to walk without looking where she was going, for I saw her stumble. Immediately, she lunged and grabbed on to the railing as though to keep herself from tumbling all the way down. It would have been a disastrous fall. It was a long flight.

  Having secured her anchor, Aunt Helen sat with little grace upon the step where she had been standing. Then an unthinkable thing happened: she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

  “Are you hurt?” Mother asked in an anxious voice, starting up the stairs.

  Aunt Helen lifted one hand as though to ward Mother away. “I’m fine,” she gasped out between sobs. “I’m not hurt at all.”

  “Then what is the matter?” Mother asked, stopping where she stood.

  “I’m so bad,” Aunt Helen said, angry heat in her voice. “I’m so bad at all”—and here she waved one hand in a wild circle as though indicating a universe greater than our house—“this.”

  Mother stared at Aunt Helen as she continued to speak.

  “What kind of woman am I? I must be taught how to read, how to write, how to eat—even how to walk down the stairs!” She barked a bitter laugh. “And I’m so bad at all of it.”

  And then a second extraordinary thing happened: Mother laughed.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Aunt Helen demanded, her face as shocked as I felt.

  “No, I am not laughing at you,” Mother said, trying to control her laughter as much as Aunt Helen had tried to control her tears moments earlier. “Or at least,” she added, “not directly. But I guess that I am laughing at you in that … you are … you are … you are taking this all far too seriously!”

  “Excuse me?” Aunt Helen said.

  “This.” Mother waved her own hand in the air, describing a circle more ethereal than the wild one of Aunt Helen’s harsh gesture. “All this. It is what Frederick wants. Frederick wants the lessons. Frederick wants me to teach you about poise and deportment. But do you honestly think it matters a whit to me? It is not that important. You should not let it upset you so. You should not let taking it all too seriously make you so unhappy.”

  And then a third astonishing thing happened: Aunt Helen burst into laughter too.

  “You are right!” she said. “I do take everything so seriously!” She stood and, as though demonstrating how wrongly serious she could be, began descending the steps much as she had done before, stiff, eyes centered on nothing, as though going to meet her executioner. She stopped and laughed again, as if at herself, and then she did something she had not yet done: she held out her arms for Mother’s embrace and Mother entered them.

  When Mother and I had gone for a walk in the park the afternoon after the dressmaker’s visit, just prior to returning home Mother had asked me how I felt about having Aunt Helen here. At the time, I had told her, rather defiantly, that it pleased me. But, in this moment, I felt something I had never felt before, watching them embrace in their laughing sisterly fashion:

  Jealousy.

  Then Mother gaily called for us to follow her back to the music room—she was going to play the piano while Aunt Helen and I learned how to dance—and the bad feeling disappeared.

  . . . . .

  Back in the music room, Mother seated herself on the bench in front of the baby grand piano. She began to play a tune, instructing us to waltz. Instead, Aunt Helen stood still for a time, her head to one side, listening to Mother play.

  “Aren’t you going to dance?” Mother asked, stopping. “Lucy knows how to dance a bit.”

  “You play so nicely,” Aunt Helen said wistfully. “I wish I knew how to play.”

  “It is not very hard,” Mother said, “but I am not sure I am the one to teach you. I shall arrange for someone to give you lessons.”

  “You would do that?” Aunt Helen asked.

  “Of course,” Mother said simply.

  “I would like that very much,” Aunt Helen said. “Do you think I could ever learn to play as well as you?”

  “Of course,” Mother said again. “In time.” Then she put her long, graceful hands to the keys again.

  This time when she played, Aunt Helen and I tried to dance as we’d been told to, with me attempting to lead her around as I’d seen my father do with Mother, but we kept stepping on each other’s feet. She was too tall for me to lead her.

  “I’m sorry,” Aunt Helen said. “I’m not much good at this kind of dancing, and I don’t think today is the time for me to learn.”

  I sensed that perhaps she was tired after her bout of crying on the stairs. I knew from my own experiences with crying from frustration, it took a lot of energy out of a person.

  But then Aunt Helen laughed, perhaps remembering Mother’s admonition not to take everything so seriously, laughing as she had earlier, as though suddenly light of heart.

  Taking one of my hands crudely in one of hers, while placing her other hand firmly on my waist, she said, “Now, here’s a dance I can teach you,” and began leading me on a merry romp around the room.

  Before I knew it, Mother was banging on the piano in a way my father would no doubt have thought unseemly had he been there to witness it. But I did not mind her banging—I had no idea she could play such a tune!—nor did I mind the romp. As we twirled faster and faster, I no longer cared if my toes were stepped on a bit, nor did I worry that I might step on any toes in turn. It felt like someone had allowed a strong seaside breeze to blow through the house. It felt clean. It felt good. It was too much of a good thing to stop.

  “What is the meaning of this?” came a stern voice from the doorway.

  The owner of the voice was tall for a woman, the graying black hair she wore coiled around her head like a nimbus making her appear just a smidgen taller, and she was very lean.

  Aunt Martha had come to call.

  • Nine •

  Aunt Martha moved her gaze from Mother to Aunt Helen. If her expression had been severe before, that expression solidified in her features now as she took in the startling similarities and remaining differences between Mother and Aunt Helen.

  Whatever Aunt Martha saw, what
ever she thought, it was obvious she did not like it.

  “What is—,” she began to demand a second time, but Mother cut her off.

  “I should like to present,” she said, “Helen Smythe.” She turned to Aunt Helen. “Helen, this is Frederick’s sister, Martha Sexton.”

  Aunt Helen executed what could only be termed a saucy curtsy.

  Before Aunt Martha could respond, Mother rose from the piano bench and stepped away from the instrument.

  “Let us adjourn to the front parlor,” she suggested to Aunt Martha. “Perhaps the sunshine in that room will improve your mood.”

  Aunt Helen and I moved to follow them, but Mother’s words stopped us.

  “Perhaps,” she suggested, “it would be best if you two went upstairs and left us alone to talk in private.”

  “But—,” I began to object.

  “Now, Lucy.” Mother’s tone was firm.

  As Mother and Aunt Martha turned left into the front parlor, Aunt Helen and I turned right, beginning our ascent. But when we reached the sixth step, I tugged on Aunt Helen’s sleeve.

  She looked down at me, a surprised expression on her face as I took a seat on the stair, gesturing for her to do the same.

  She raised her eyebrows at me as she sat, opening her mouth to speak, but I put a finger to my lips.

  Then we sat in silence, together, listening.

  The conversation was heated, and we could hear every word with crystal clarity as though we were in the same room as the speakers.

  “Helen Smythe is my twin sister,” Mother said with simplicity.

  “That is obvious,” Aunt Martha returned. “What is not obvious is why I have never been informed of her existence before. What is not obvious is what she is doing here now.”

  “I did not know of her existence myself,” Mother said, “until recently. Has it been a week now? More?” I could picture her shaking her head over the elusive nature of time. “It is hard to say. The days are all so strange now, so different from what they once were. It is no matter. Whatever the day, when Helen first arrived I was as shocked as you are today. More so—I fainted. But when I came to, Helen told me a story that I had not previously guessed at, nor would I have believed it even then, had I not the bodily proof of it staring me in the face. My parents, you see, our parents were not who I thought they were. Our real mother was unable to keep us …”