The Twin's Daughter

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  I noticed that Mother did not mention that her own real mother had been a maid. For the first time the thought occurred to me: perhaps she found such a notion disturbing? The very idea that she, brought up among wealth and privilege, was in fact the descendent of a servant and that a mere accident of fortune had elevated her in the world. What would Aunt Martha think if she knew? What did my father think? He had known Mother to be one person and now, in a sense, she was another. Did he see her differently, now that she was a maid’s daughter? Come to that, did I?

  “Had you given me ten minutes on my own after seeing this …Helen Smythe,” I heard Aunt Martha say, “I might have deduced the circumstances. Not the exact circumstances, perhaps, and I do have the feeling you are not telling me everything you know, but the physical connection is obvious.”

  Mother said nothing to this. Perhaps she worried that if she did, Aunt Martha might specifically ask just whose daughters she and Aunt Helen were.

  “Tell me,” Aunt Martha asked, “have any of your friends met this Helen Smythe yet?”

  “No.” Mother’s tone was surprised. Obviously, this was not the question she had expected to be asked next.

  “That is all to the good.” Aunt Martha sounded satisfied. “You are ashamed of your new sister, then, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Now Mother sounded horrified at the notion. “I simply do not think she wishes to be seen yet.”

  This struck me as being in direct contradiction to all I had observed, confirmed when I studied Aunt Helen’s suddenly grim profile now, but I was in no position to make my objections heard.

  “Whatever the reason,” Aunt Martha said, “it is all to the good.”

  “That is the second time you have said that,” Mother said. “What is ‘all to the good’?”

  “It is simply this,” Aunt Martha said. “If no one else has seen her, except for the servants, who can easily be paid off, then no one will be the wiser when you tell her it is time for her to leave.”

  The idea of no one else having seen Aunt Helen was not strictly accurate, of course. There had been the dressmaker, Mrs. Wiggins. There had been the schoolmaster, Mr. Brockburn. If Aunt Martha was made aware of their having seen Aunt Helen, would she suggest they be paid off as well?

  Mother’s voice had sounded horrified just a moment ago, but it was nothing as compared with the raw emotion with which she spoke now.

  “I’m not going to send her away!” Her words could have filled the whole large house. “She is my sister! I will not send her away!”

  “Tell me,” Aunt Martha said, “what does Frederick make of all this?”

  “How do you mean?” Mother asked.

  “He cannot be happy about the situation,” Aunt Martha said. “I cannot imagine that my brother would want that woman, who is not at all like us, under his roof.”

  The wall separating us might just as well have been made out of thin glass, because I could have sworn I saw the straightening of Mother’s spine as she bit out the words:

  “Then you do not know your brother.” And then it was as though she was trying to temper her anger, softening as though straining to achieve conciliation. “Your brother says it is just like Comedy of Errors, save that it is a tragedy and no one is laughing. It was, in fact, mostly Frederick’s idea that Helen stay on with us. He would not, you see, have it any other way.”

  “Then you are both insane,” Aunt Martha declared.

  “I beg your pardon? The woman is my sister. Can you not see—”

  “Can you not see, Aliese, what that woman is? Look at that woman with your own eyes, see her for what she is. You could spend a fortune trying to transform her into something else. It will do you no good. She is not one of us, never will be. Do you know anything, really, of what her life has been? Have you any idea of what things she might be capable? I would swear on my life, that woman is dangerous. And if you allow her to remain here, you will no doubt come to regret it greatly in time.”

  “I think it is time for you to go, Martha.”

  “Are you ordering me out?”

  “Ordering? No. I just think that if you come back on another day, you will see things differently. At least, that would be my hope.”

  I liked that Mother, having previously hidden Aunt Helen away here, stood up to Aunt Martha now on her behalf at last.

  As we heard Aunt Martha prepare to depart, Aunt Helen and I hurriedly crept up the stairs. When we attained the safety of the landing, Aunt Helen turned to me.

  “Aunt Martha has never been married?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “They are always the worst,” she said.

  I did not know what to make of this, but Aunt Helen spoke again almost immediately, obviating any need for a response on my part.

  “That one,” she said, “will always be trouble.”

  . . . . .

  More people entered our lives: a woman to teach Aunt Helen how to dress her own hair, so that it looked just like Mother’s; a piano teacher, one Mr. Chambers, whose job it was to instruct Aunt Helen how to play. When he finished with her, if there was time, he spent a few moments instructing me.

  Perfumes, ribbons, lotions—all were sent for and arrived to adorn Aunt Helen. At last, the day came when the dresses and other items Mrs. Wiggins had been hired to make began to arrive.

  Mother was out when the first packages were delivered, while Father was off in his study, either writing or reading or sleeping—one could never be sure. Even though Mother had been the one to order everything for Aunt Helen, I sensed that Aunt Helen was not disappointed at having Mother away from home just then. Indeed, I surmised it must be a relief for her, because now she would not feel forced to show immediate gratitude for that which should have been hers all her life.

  Still, as one of the servants moved to follow Aunt Helen’s instructions to bear the packages up to her room, she turned to me, genuine excitement in her eyes.

  “Come with me, Lucy,” she said, eyes sparkling. If she were the kind of person to impulsively touch others when overcome by great feeling, I imagine she would have grabbed on to my hand then and there. “I want to try everything on, but I’ll need someone to help.”

  “That’s what the maid—”

  “I don’t care about the maid. I’d be shy around the maid. I want you.” Then she grabbed on to her skirts, racing up the stairs. “Come on!” she called over her shoulder and I raced after.

  In her room, door closed and locked, she spread out the packages on her narrow bed.

  She gave that bed a moment’s consideration. “I wonder how long I’ll be kept in a nursery.” Her words were barely audible, yet they filled me with a chill.

  Of course it was only natural she should feel resentment at being kept in a room created for a child. Of course it was only natural that she should want to move to a more suitable room and that, eventually, my parents would see that. But I did not like the idea of being left alone again on the second story, with nobody else.

  This was not a day for melancholy, however. It was a day for joy. And, no sooner did the clouds enter Aunt Helen’s countenance than they rolled right back out again, leaving only the sun behind.

  “Look at all this, Lucy!” There was awe in her eyes as she unwrapped package after package, revealing garment after garment. “I’ve never had such things before!”

  Before I knew it, Aunt Helen was rapidly removing her drab gray dress. In a moment, she was naked before me.

  I was not accustomed to seeing naked bodies, but I thought that Aunt Helen’s, while still too thin, must be considered beautiful. No sooner had I registered that willowy beauty, however—the swell of breasts and hips, not so very different from my own changing body, separated by a smooth, flat stomach—than Aunt Helen was reaching for one of her new things to try on.

  If I had been asked to select what she would choose first, I would have sworn it would have been one of the dresses, but I would have been wrong. Aunt Helen reached
for one of the petticoats, stepping her bare feet into it and covering the lower portion of her nakedness. It was the black grosgrain petticoat with its narrow yoke and smooth-fitting gores on both sides and the front, a full back-breadth gathered at the top. The bottom was decorated with a small ruffle of the same silk with a pink edge, in lace.

  “I’ve never had one of these before.” Aunt Helen’s voice was small as she smoothed the fabric, the touch of her fingers light and then more forceful, as if the very hands themselves could not believe what they were touching.

  Then Aunt Helen did what I could not imagine her doing a short time ago. Grabbing on to my hands with hers, still naked from the waist up, she danced me around the room, much as she had danced me when Mother played the piano for us on the day Aunt Martha came to call.

  Every now and then, Aunt Helen would pause long enough to pick up one of the new dresses, throwing it up in the air until it rained down on the narrow bed. At last, when we were too exhausted to dance any longer, we collapsed onto the bed, coming to rest side by side, faces turned up to the ceiling, our backs cushioned by a sea of silk and velvet and lace.

  • Ten •

  The next day, for our lessons with Mr. Brockburn, Aunt Helen put on one of her new dresses. She spent much time with me, debating over which would be best. I did not want to exercise any undue influence—it was, I felt, her choice to make—but I was pleased to be consulted.

  When Mr. Brockburn entered the schoolroom, Aunt Helen and I were already seated at our table, side by side. So I was there to witness it when Mr. Brockburn was brought up short by the vision of Aunt Helen for the second time. The first had been on the day when he originally met all of us, recognizing that Aunt Helen, in her drab gray dress, was Mother’s sister. Now he was brought up short by this new vision of Aunt Helen, that of a woman transformed.

  Aunt Helen sat there properly in her gray blue costume, with its vest and revers in dark blue velvet fabric. She even wore the hat that went with the costume. This was an odd thing to do indoors, particularly in a schoolroom, but I cannot say that I blamed her for this fashion misstep. I could well imagine how, having lived in drab gray for what must have felt like an eternity, it must now feel to her as though she had been set free.

  “Miss Smythe.” Was that a blush I saw in the schoolmaster’s cheeks? “You look most becoming today, if I may be so bold as to comment.”

  “You may.” Aunt Helen bowed her head demurely, but then it dipped up just enough and … was that a coquettish look directed at Mr. Brockburn from that one eye visible under the brim? “Thank you, sir, for noticing.”

  Mr. Brockburn cleared his throat as though discomfited.

  “Good day, Mr. Brockburn,” I said, wishing to remind them of my presence.

  “Oh?” Mr. Brockburn tore his gaze from Aunt Helen, looked at me, blushed again. “Yes, Lucy. Yes, it is.” Another clearing of the throat. “Shall we get down to our lessons?” He did not wait for an answer. “Now, where did we leave off yesterday?”

  “I was working on my penmanship,” Aunt Helen supplied. Then she produced the sheets she had been working with previously, along with the letters of Mother’s I had purloined after suggesting she copy Mother’s penmanship in perfecting a graceful hand.

  “Ah, yes. Of course.” Mr. Brockburn leaned over Aunt Helen’s shoulder, the better to closely observe her as she worked.

  While they did that, I went to get my copy of Tom Brown at Oxford from the glass cabinet. I’d finished with Pilgrim’s Progress, and my father had suggested this next.

  And so we passed the next few hours, Mr. Brockburn’s dark head nearly side by side with Aunt Helen’s blond hatted one, while my own head was in a book. Their occasional murmured voices created a soothing sea sound in the background, but I did not try to pick out the words. I was happy enough to have Aunt Helen learn to make her letters better, but I did not need to know all about it.

  It was half twelve before anyone addressed another word that might concern me.

  “Of course, it is still cold out,” Mr. Brockburn said, a hopeful expression on his face, “but it is such a sunny day. Would it not be better, this once, to continue our lessons in the park? Surely we can discuss geography there just as easily as here.”

  My inclination was to decline for both of us.

  “I don’t think that is a very good—,” I started, but then stopped.

  I saw the look in Aunt Helen’s eyes. It was a pleading look. It occurred to me then how awful it must be to be kept in all the time, how desperate she must be to get out, if only for an hour.

  “Mother is out on visits all day,” I reviewed the facts aloud, repeating what Mother had told us at breakfast, “and my father is in his study, writing. I don’t suppose anyone would notice if we slipped out just this once. Provided we’re not gone for very long, no one will even miss us.”

  We did not tell Mr. Brockburn why it mattered so much that no one see us go out, but a look of knowledge came into his eyes as I spoke. He did not comment on whatever he was thinking, but he did go along with us as we moved down the staircase, proceeding with slow creeps from step to step as though we might be three burglars.

  At the bottom, I peeked around the corners on both sides, making sure there were no stray servants beating draperies or stoking fires. Seeing no one about, I made a mad dash across the vestibule, gesturing for the other two to follow me. Reaching the door, I all but yanked it open, immediately feeling the fresh air on my face. In another instant, I was outside; another, and Mr. Brockburn and Aunt Helen were on the step beside me; one more, and we had shut the door behind us.

  . . . . .

  Aunt Helen’s breath made tiny puffs of clouds against the air as she spoke, but I did not note the words. I was too happy to be outside, walking with Aunt Helen between Mr. Brockburn and me as though we were her protection.

  I could feel the excitement coiled up in the woman beside me until she was near to bursting with it, causing me to share—as close as I could—that excitement. What must it be like, I thought, to be outside at long last? And what must it be like, to be seen by the world for the first time in raiment that one has never been permitted to wear before?

  Aunt Helen still strode more than glided, but her head stood so proud. Did she feel different? She looked different.

  The sun was as high as it could get for that time of year, and strong, as Mr. Brockburn had promised, the air as crisp as a snapped sheet. Little patches of snow still covered much of an earth that would fill again with grass and flowers in a few months’ time. Where the snow had melted, the ground was mucky and it occurred to me that I would need to remind Aunt Helen to scrape the earth off the bottoms of her boots when we returned home so that no one would suspect where we had been.

  Even though the sun was bright, the air was still too cold for more than a few hardy souls to take advantage of the chance to stroll out of doors. The park was therefore sparsely populated, which suited me perfectly.

  “Aliese!” a strident voice called out, halting us.

  I knew that voice. It belonged to Mrs. Carson.

  Our nosy neighbor’s body was as unattractive as her voice. She was stocky, and had an ill-fitting wardrobe. Mother often wondered, outside of Mrs. Carson’s hearing, why she should choose her clothes so poorly when it was widely thought that the Carsons had more money than anybody. On top of Mrs. Carson’s wattled neck was a head slightly out of proportion to its body, erring on the large side. Her hair was a flat brown, not always as clean as it might be, and her brown eyes were shrewd, always watching one too closely.

  She knew who we were, however, or at least she thought she knew who two of us were, and we could not ignore her.

  We stopped, turned, faced her.

  “Why have you changed your dress?” Mrs. Carson demanded of Aunt Helen. “When I saw you at Mary Williams’s this morning, you had on a different one. I think it suited you more.”

  “Mother spilled something on it,” I said, speakin
g for Aunt Helen, before she had the chance to speak and give herself away. Aunt Helen had never met Mrs. Carson before. She could not know what sort of dangers such a woman presented.

  But then I decided that I did not like what I had said. It cast Mother as a clumsy sort when she was anything but. I did not like to think that by day’s end Mrs. Carson would have returned to Mary Williams, telling her that Aliese Sexton could no longer balance her own teacup, so I amended to, “That is to say, a servant, overeager, placed a tea tray down too abruptly, causing it to spill on Mother’s sleeve.”

  “But I thought,” Mrs. Carson addressed her words to Aunt Helen again, “that when I saw you, you distinctly said you would be spending the entire day paying calls.”

  Aunt Helen gazed at Mrs. Carson steadily, finally parting her lips as though to speak.

  I could see why she did this—she probably guessed that by now Mrs. Carson was wondering why her good friend Aliese Sexton was not speaking—but I could not let her.

  “Mother grew tired,” I said. Then I lowered my voice, as though we were conspirators. “You know how tiring Mary Williams can be—all that gossip she engages in.”

  I was rather proud of myself for thinking to say this. It has been my experience that when people are guilty of a thing, they always mark the flaw in others, never themselves.

  “Mother just needed a rest,” I went on in a more normal volume. “She just needed a spot of tea. But look at her: she is fine now.”

  I regretted saying that last. It wouldn’t do to invite Mrs. Carson to look at Aunt Helen too closely.

  But then I looked at Aunt Helen, and the thought struck me:

  There were still marked differences between Aunt Helen and Mother. Chiefly, the former was still a bit thinner than the latter. But I could see now that in her new peacock finery, and if she didn’t speak, thereby revealing the speech differences that still lingered, one could mistake one sister for the other.