Doppelgänger

by Sean Munger

  She began to dream about something happening to Ola, or at least to their engagement. She began to use these words in her mind—something happening—as an entrée to an entire class of pleasant fantasies, but she never wished harm upon Ola. She imagined that perhaps a woman might come forward claiming to be his lover and Anine could act indignant and break off the engagement, or that maybe the Bergenhjelm family would suddenly fall out of favor with the king and Solveig would decide that marrying her daughter into their clan was inappropriate. From her observation of Ola’s passion for science Anine daydreamed that some great naturalist, a doddering fellow who made his living cataloguing insects or something like that, might offer Ola a spot on a multi-year scientific voyage to the Galapagos Islands that he would be unable to resist accepting. Then after he was gone a few months Anine could write him a weepy letter claiming she could no longer waste her youth waiting for him. The families would understand that. She would then be free. These were the fantasies she spun in her mind. While Ola was away at university she never saw him, he seldom wrote and it was increasingly easy to think of him in the abstract. Her engagement seemed theoretical. Julian, by contrast, was real.

  But when Ola was killed Anine was wracked with guilt, for she felt instinctively that her wishing had somehow caused the accident. “Please, God, I didn’t mean it,” she whispered while kneeling against her bed in the upstairs room she seldom left in the weeks after the terrible event. “Forgive me, Lord. I never meant for that to happen. I should never have thought of another man. I know my duty now.” She repeated this prayer daily but for a long time it felt as if God had not accepted her entreaty. Is He going to punish me forever? Is that the price of my penance—being an old maid, a spinster, for daring to commit adultery in my mind against my fiancé?

  She thought spinsterhood was an increasingly likely fate. At age eighteen she was already outfitted in widow’s weeds, doomed to the customary year of mourning. She remembered little of this period; it passed for her in a sort of haze, like looking at her own life through a frosted-over window.

  When Julian came to Vänersborg and proposed to her in July she decided firmly that she could not accept. She sent him away that afternoon without a firm answer, but the only doubt in her mind was how to turn him down gently and in such a manner as to make sure her mother never found out about the proposal. In her upstairs room she began drafting letters to Julian, some in Swedish, some in English, explaining why she couldn’t sentence her family to the scandal that would ensue if she decided to marry him. She tore up each successive draft and threw it in the fireplace. She now no longer believed she’d caused Ola’s accident, but she recognized that that fear sprang from the guilt she felt at never having really loved him in the first place. He had projected himself to her from the grave to say goodbye to her and tell her that he loved her, and she’d never reciprocated that feeling. That was the pain she was running from.

  But a week after Julian’s proposal visit a package he’d sent from Stockholm arrived in the post at the Vänersborg cottage. It contained a book he’d promised her: the collected writings of Thomas Jefferson, an American that Julian particularly admired and had told her much of. She was struck by something Jefferson wrote: “The earth belongs to the living, not the dead.” While walking by the lake the next day Anine decided that nothing would be gained by denying her own happiness to serve as some sort of redemption for not loving Ola as much as everyone assumed she had. She visited Ola’s grave at Norra Begravningsplatsen—the first and only time she ever did so—and then went to the American embassy, where in a parlor decorated with a painting of Thomas Jefferson she happily accepted Julian’s proposal.

  To minimize the scandal they decided to wait to announce their engagement until a year had passed since Ola Bergenhjelm’s death. As it turned out their discretion didn’t do much good. The Gyldenhorn family had already been quickly expelled from the Bergenhjelms’ orbit, and when Anine began to attend receptions at the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm at Cornelius Atherton’s invitation, the malicious whispers spread even further. It was at such a diplomatic dinner—one day after the anniversary of Ola’s death, and the first time in a year in which Anine appeared in public outside of mourning dress—that Julian Atherton rang a glass and announced that Anine Gyldenhorn had agreed to become not only his wife but an American. The applause and toasts that went around the table were decidedly reserved, and Anine realized that the cords binding her to the country of her birth had suddenly and violently been severed.

  Even independently of its substantive content the dinner announcement was a major faux pas. The Swedish ambassador in Washington, when informed of the event, was reportedly so offended by Julian’s behavior that he wrote a letter to President Hayes respectfully requesting that he recall Cornelius Atherton back to the United States. Hayes declined, but Cornelius was obliged to cashier his son as his official diplomatic secretary. From then until their wedding at Grace Church in Manhattan in April, Anine and her new betrothed saw each other very seldom.

  Leaving Sweden for the last time was like being released from prison. Anine could scarcely believe that she’d managed to escape it. After Grace Church they spent a lavish honeymoon in Europe—six weeks in London, four in Paris, and the balance touring the continent by rail and steamer—and although Anine felt no more American she thought she might be starting to feel a little less Swedish. Only midway through the honeymoon did she wonder if she might not fit in New York either. But she guessed it didn’t matter if she did not. The decision had been made. She was an American now, and she wasn’t going back. She would have to hope things would fall into place.

  Newport, Rhode Island, September 1880

  “Well, I for one welcome you with open arms, Mrs. Atherton,” said Mrs. Belgravia Norton, picking up her china teacup with her fat-fingered, ring-bejeweled hand. “New York society could desperately use an infusion of new blood. Without it we’ll become positively ossified—much as Boston has been for the past century.”

  Anine smiled politely, but she was still trying to divine the level of Mrs. Norton’s sincerity. She had invited Anine and Julian to brunch in the glowing atrium of her cottage—one of the more ostentatious mansions lining the Newport waterfront—but that might merely have been a perfunctory nod to form. “Thank you,” she said politely. “I hope the rest of society feels as you do.”

  “Anine is so self-conscious of being a foreigner,” said Julian. “She forgets that New York is populated by foreigners. The Hanlyns are of English stock, the Rocheforts are French and old Grantham van Schuyler’s second wife is from Dublin. Why should they look down upon a Swede? I mean, it’s not like you’re a Jew.”

  Everyone laughed, but Anine’s chuckle was contrived. She glanced across the table at Rachael, Mrs. Norton’s eldest daughter, who also seemed less amused by the joke than her mother. Raven-haired with dark brown eyes and a full figure, Rachael had a touch of the exotic about her, and in part for that reason Anine had been drawn to her almost immediately after meeting her. She seemed somehow different than the stuffy Newport people. Anine hoped that difference was real, and neither imagined nor pretended. One thing she’d learned from her week and a half (thus far) in America was that few people turned out to be who they seemed at first glance.

  “I think when we get back to New York we’ll give a reception,” said Mrs. Norton. “You should be properly introduced to society, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to use my new Sèvres china. Won’t you allow us to throw a reception for you, Mrs. Atherton? What do you think, Rachael?”

  “I think that’s a capital idea,” Rachael replied.

  A reception. So maybe she is sincere. Anine felt slightly more at ease. “Thank you. That’s most gracious of you.”

  “You see, my dear?” said Julian, grinning across the table. “You’ve already insinuated yourself into Mrs. Norton’s heavily-guarded parlor. New York will be eating out of your hand before the seas
on is over.”

  “You should do some entertaining yourself,” Rachael suggested boldly. “Put your best foot forward and show no fear. Invite everybody, even the Schermerhorns. They’ll be so taken aback by your audacity that they’ll accept the invitation just to see what sort of creature possesses such a measure of courage.”

  Another round of polite laughter followed this advice. Schermerhorns? Who are they? Anine knew so little about the vagaries of New York society that she felt she’d been thrown into a pool of sharks utterly blindfolded. Nevertheless she pretended as if she knew all about them. “I’m not sure the Schermerhorns would dare to be seen at our address. After all, it’s not Fifth Avenue.”

  “It’s not quite Fifth Avenue,” Julian spoke up, just before taking a sip of tea.

  “Where is it located?” Mrs. Norton asked.

  “West 38th Street. A block off Fifth.”

  “Well, that’s a perfectly respectable address!” Mrs. Norton faked pleasant surprise, but she did it badly. “My my, Julian, you are coming up in the world. A block off Fifth! The Kuypers tried to buy a brownstone in that same neighborhood and found themselves priced out of the market.”

  “It was purely a stroke of luck. The property was unusually cheap. The family who used to own it fell on hard times when George Niles’s brokerage house folded last year. My father represented them in the bankruptcy, which is how I found out about it.”

  “Bad business, that Niles affair,” Mrs. Norton clucked disapprovingly. She turned to her daughter. “Weren’t the Quains friends of Niles?”

  Anine noticed that this piqued Julian’s interest. “The Quains?” he said. He was about to take a sip, but instead lowered his cup. “As a matter of fact, that’s who I bought the property from.”

  Quain. Anine had never heard this name before.

  “That’s quite an interesting coincidence,” said Rachael.

  “How so?” Anine asked.

  “Mrs. Quain is living here in Newport now. Mrs. Quain’s younger sister is married to Lucius Minthorn, and Lucius agreed to take her in. I’d heard she was in a bad way, but I had no idea the family was that destitute.”

  “I should see why they were eager to not let it be known,” said Mrs. Norton.

  An uncomfortable silence descended over the brunch table, broken only by the clink of china and the gentle rustling of the late summer breeze against the curtains. Anine knew such a silence was intolerable. She was thus not surprised when it was quickly broken by more small-talk. “Speaking of the Minthorns, did you hear about that dreadful party they gave for Ava Kirklow’s engagement?” Mrs. Norton bubbled. “Supposedly it was a complete disaster. Their first mistake was deciding to have it in the garden…”

  Anine quickly tuned her out. She noticed that Rachael was stealing glances at her, looking up or over as if sizing her up. I think it might be advantageous to get to know her. Maybe she can help me swim through these shark-infested waters, and I need all the help I can get.

  After brunch Anine said she needed to get some air—she had already identified this as a handy excuse to avoid socializing—and fancied a walk on the beach. She was pleased that Rachael volunteered to go with her. They both, of course, needed a change of clothes, but an hour later in a new blue and white ruched silk summer dress, matching gloves and Chinese parasol Anine strolled along the well-kept pathway between the scrubby grass and the sandy beach, Rachael at her side. The afternoon was warm but not unpleasantly so, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the south, bringing with it the scent of salt water and, faintly, lilac.

  “You want to talk about it, don’t you?” said Rachael, her mouth bearing a hint of a mischievous smile.

  “Talk about what?”

  “What happened in your house. Everyone’s heard one version of the story or another. I’ve been dying to ask you about it, but I didn’t want to seem impolite. Certainly not a subject to discuss over brunch or high tea.”

  Thank God. A woman willing to speak her mind. Anine found Rachael’s bluntness refreshing, and she felt vindicated that her intuition about the woman had proven correct. The thought of revisiting the horror was unsettling, but if that was the price of gaining Rachael as a friend, Anine thought it was a fair trade.

  “It was horrible. We didn’t even know he was there until Julian lit the gas. Then we saw him…hanging there.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, I’d never seen him before. Julian hired him through his firm somehow.”

  “Why do you think he killed himself?”

  Anine shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. But it’s going to be awkward going back there. Julian has promised the whole place will be cleaned out and nothing like it was before, but still it’s unpleasant to think of such things.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’d love to come see the place precisely because something like that happened there. Imagine, a body hanging from the stairs for months without anybody knowing!” Rachael was beaming mischievously. “I’m quite interested in ghosts and spirits, and I love reading books about famous murders that happened in the past. My fiancé thinks it’s quite shocking, but I don’t care.”

  “Oh, you’re engaged to be married? I didn’t know that.”

  “I’ve been engaged to Daniel for ages. Daniel Wythe. Now that you’ve fallen into my mother’s orbit I’m sure you’ll get quite tired of the Wythes very quickly. Daniel’s the only one of them who’s even the slightest bit interesting. Even he taxes my patience at times. I’ve thought seriously about taking a lover.” Rachael giggled.

  Anine was slightly appalled but she wasn’t about to ruin her chances to cement Rachael’s friendship by rebuking her. “I’m so glad you’re willing to speak plainly. Every time I open my mouth I fear I’ll say something wrong and turn everyone against me.”

  “You should be.” At first Anine was surprised that she’d said this, for it sounded rude, but then she realized it was mere honesty. At least she respects me enough to warn me. The words had barely died on her lips before Rachael motioned to one of the pathways leading up from the beach. “There’s the path up to Rovensky Avenue. You want to see something? I’ll show you where Mrs. Quain lives.”

  They walked up the path and down a road running between two broad neatly-trimmed lawns. Rachael pointed out a large house sheathed in gray stone that sat imperiously on a low grassy rise. Yellow canvas awnings hung like droopy eyelids over the windows on the top story. Behind the house the ocean was visible, crashing against the jumbled rocks.

  “That’s the Minthorns’ summer cottage,” said Rachael. “Mrs. Quain came to live there just a couple of months ago. It must have been right after she moved out of your house. Anyway, they say she hasn’t set foot out of there since. She stays in her bedroom all the time, seeing no one. It’s probably one of those top windows with the curtains drawn.”

  “Is she an invalid?” Anine asked.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Rachael leaned in closer and said with obvious relish, “They say she went mad.”

  Anine looked back at the Minthorns’ house. A shudder went through her as she suddenly realized that Mrs. Quain must have been the cheerful woman in the portrait she’d seen in the parlor that terrible day they moved in. There had been no trace of madness behind those eyes, which had obviously been painted years ago; Anine wondered what she looked like now.

  “So now you see why I’m interested in your house. Mrs. Quain went barking mad in there, and the same thing may have happened to the caretaker. Even if the events aren’t connected you have to admit it’s rather…odd.”

  As they stood there looking at the house a stray cloud passed in front of the sun. For a few moments the scene was bathed in a strange inky darkness, but it quickly passed and soon it was again just an ordinary summer afternoon. Gravel crunching under their shoes, the women started back toward the beach path. Anine was glad of Rachael’s com
panionship, but if her new friend had set out to make her even more apprehensive about returning to the house she couldn’t have done a more thorough job.

  Chapter Four

  The Deathful Silence

  After Julian snuffed out the lamp Anine lay in bed, feeling the stuffy darkness of the house seeping all around her. It was her second night at home, though in many ways she counted it as her first. Yesterday, the day of their return from Newport, had been so hectic and stressful that it was almost indistinguishable from the exhausting bustle of travel. It was a long and busy day, but she was comforted by the fact that she and Julian weren’t the only people under the roof. They had returned to a veritable throng of workmen—carpet-layers, furniture movers, painters and even a decorator—hastily bringing in and arranging the furnishings that Anine had ordered from catalogs during their time in Europe, and which had been sitting in various New York warehouses while Bradbury’s body slowly rotted.

  Beasley, the interim caretaker Julian hired to supervise the fitting-out of the house while they were in Newport, departed for good at about five. He left behind a cook named Mrs. Hennessy and a ladies’ maid, hired just that afternoon. She was a big, raw-boned Irishwoman called Mrs. O’Haney. The cook commuted but Mrs. O’Haney planned to live in the servants’ quarters in the garret. Right after Beasley introduced Anine to her Mrs. O’Haney said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to move in right away, ma’am. It’ll save me a night’s rent at the boarding house.” Anine nearly swooned in relief. The maid was gone for two or three hours but returned just prior to suppertime, all of her worldly belongings contained in a flimsy cardboard suitcase and a dusty burlap sack. As evening fell she’d gone about lighting the gas lamps in the bedroom and the parlors and laying out Anine’s dress for tomorrow. She barely knew Mrs. O’Haney but she’d already come to rely upon her. She was the bulwark against the most awful thing Anine could imagine about the house: being alone within its walls.