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Woman Without
a Past
Phyllis A. Whitney
For Sally Arteseros,
my editor and good friend
for so many years—
With Affection and Gratitude
Foreword
I visited Charleston, South Carolina, in May of 1989. A few months later Hugo swept in with devastating force to change portions of the landscape forever. The Charleston I have written about here is the city I saw before the hurricane; a city that has recovered from a good many disastrous blows over the years, yet with its spirit always intact.
Friends tell me that the Historic District, which is the main setting for my novel, came through with minor damage to those sturdy old buildings. The plantation houses up the peninsula stand as they did before the storm. Perhaps the major, irreparable loss to the entire area was the hundreds of beautiful trees—some of them a century old and more. As I wrote, nothing had touched them, and I could see them in my mind as they were.
The plantation house I’ve called Mountfort Hall is a composite of the houses I visited, though with an emphasis on Drayton Hall.
The people of Charleston are resilient and have always carried on their lives with grace and courage. Several residents of the Historic District opened their homes to me while I was there, inviting me back of the scenes.
Anne Wall’s lovely South Battery house crept into my narrative, with a few changes that bow to the needs of plot. I fell in love with a child’s rocking horse I saw in an upper room, and it became a “character” in my story.
My thanks to Helen and Harold Tinley for showing me their charming home in one of Charleston’s “single houses.” Helen was my “scout” on an occasion when I needed the exact details for one of my scenes. She also sent me a vivid account of what it was like to live through Hugo.
Catherine Boykin introduced me to Patricia Dwight, whose street-level house was filled with treasures from the Far East. Fortunately, these were removed to an upper floor before the storm brought in two feet of mud. I thank both these women for their help with my project.
With each new setting that I write about, I turn first to the local public library for help. I am especially grateful to Jan Buvinger, director of the Charleston County Library, who arranged for members of her staff to assist me.
Michael Leonard, Public Service Manager for the library at the time, gave me some of my best scenes. Thanks to him, I learned about the Footlight Players, and was able to wander backstage in the old warehouse that houses their theater. Michael also showed me the inspiring view of St. Philip’s lighted steeple from the alley that runs past the stage door. Sparks for my imagination!
While in Charleston, I stayed at the Ansonborough Inn, which also occupies an old cotton warehouse, and gave me some eerie scenes for my book. I’ve changed its name to the Gadsden Inn, and have taken only a few liberties with the setting. My thanks to the staff for being endlessly helpful.
Visitors are thronging back to Charleston, as they always have—and a city that is like no other is welcoming its guests.
1
I felt almost wonderful.
If it hadn’t been for the other occupant of my publisher’s waiting room, there’d have been no “almost” A recently completed manuscript rested safely in the briefcase on my knees, while the hardcover of my newly published suspense novel, Crystal Fire, stood prominently displayed on a shelf across the room.
All of this gave me a good feeling—something I needed more than ever these days. It was satisfying to have published four successful mystery-suspense titles by the time I was thirty, with the fifth one ready to submit. I’d had my early years of rejection and discouragement until Douglas Hillyard had “discovered” me. Hillyard Publishers was family-owned—a small oasis in the midst of huge conglomerates that wanted to swallow it.
More than anything else, my glow of happiness indicated that I’d finally begun to heal. It had been two years since Doug’s death in a multiple automobile accident. Sudden death could be more devastating than a slow, expected death, which was the way my mother had gone. Writing had always been my lifeline—an escape into that imaginary world where hurts were fictional and endings happy. Now, on this bright spring day in New York, I could sense new stirrings of life in me. I was ready for something good to happen.
My new novel was open on a nearby shelf to show both the front and back of the jacket. The gray-blue painting on the front had a woman’s face floating mysteriously in mist, and my name, MOLLY HUNT, in large, clear lettering just below the title. I wasn’t famous enough yet to have it placed above.
The photograph on the back of the jacket was a variation of the “signature” photo Doug had invented for me. He had wanted something more glamorous and intriguing than the usual author’s picture, and he’d suggested a clever disguise. I enjoyed hiding behind the dark glasses, pulling the black fedora down over my forehead, and concealing the lower part of my face with the upturned collar of a trench coat. It was a takeoff, of course, and we’d changed the pose for every new title. Norman Hillyard, my present editor, and Doug’s younger brother, wanted something different for my next book, but I was still happy with the current Lady-in-Fedora. She seemed to hold more possibilities for adventure than I’d ever experienced in real life. I was sure she was much more like one of my intrepid heroines.
In a moment Norman’s receptionist would summon me to his office, and I would brace myself against the familiar pain. The car accident that had killed Doug had been a tragedy for Norman as well, but it had also promoted him to senior editor, and given him Doug’s office. Doug and I were to have been married the following month, and I couldn’t step into the room where we’d held so many conferences without the sense of loss striking me all over again.
My attention focused again on the man who sat across from me in the waiting room pretending to read a magazine. He had been stealing glances at me ever since he came in, glances that came close to open stares. When I caught him looking at me, he turned his eyes quickly away, but his attention came back to me repeatedly.
The moment he’d entered the room, I’d been aware of his startled expression. With my writer’s habit of quick observation, I’d registered his appearance. He was tall and strikingly good-looking, with thick, fair hair, and eyes that were a tawny brown. He wore a well-cut, conservative business suit, gray and lightweight, the material intended for summer. But this was early May and the weather in New York was cool.
Any minute now I expected him to try the old ploy: Haven’t we met somewhere before? Deliberately I shut him out of my mind, and felt relieved when Norman came to the door. Before I could gather up my briefcase and rise to join him, however, he stopped me.
“Hello, Molly. Will you forgive me if I see Mr. Landry first? He’s here from out of town, and we’ll talk for just a moment.”
Norman took my agreement for granted, and with a last, oddly doubtful look in my direction, the man “from out of town” disappeared through the door to Norman’s office.
I settled back to wait, glad that I was rid of him, for the moment. With a new manuscript ready to deliver, I was already turning to ideas for the next book. That’s what I would think about now. No matter where I was, I could go off “into space,” as my father called it, and lose myself in my imagination.
With a notebook open on my briefcase desk, I jotted down a few ideas I didn’
t want to lose, and thus preoccupied, I hardly noticed that it was more than a “moment” before the two men returned to the waiting room. To my dismay, Norman brought Mr. Landry over to introduce him.
“We’re doing a book about Mountfort Hall Plantation outside of Charleston, South Carolina,” Norman explained. “Charles Landry represents the present owner of Mountfort Hall.”
Landry took my hand in his and held it for a moment, looking deeply into my eyes. “Astonishing,” he said. “Absolutely astonishing!”
I took my hand back quickly and walked into Norman’s office, hoping this would be the last I’d see of Charles Landry. His intensity made me uncomfortable. I was always writing about “intense” men, but my heroines knew how to deal with them. I didn’t.
Norman spoiled my hope at once. “Landry is going to ask you to have lunch with him, Molly, and it might be interesting to accept.”
This was even more disturbing. “But I’m having lunch with you—remember?”
Sometimes Norman’s resemblance to Doug made me feel stricken, as it did now, though he was doing something Doug would never have done.
“I’m sorry, Molly, but something has come up that I can’t help, so I’ll have to offer a rain check.”
I didn’t believe him. For some unexplainable reason he had given up our luncheon date to this stranger. I didn’t want to be left alone with Charles Landry. His very look made me uncomfortable.
Even as I was shaking my head, Norman went on abruptly. “You were adopted when you were a baby, weren’t you, Molly?”
“What has that got to do with anything?” I asked, my instinctive alarm increasing.
“Do you care about where you might have come from? About your real parents?”
I answered defensively. “I still don’t know what this has to do with anything. Has this man seen what he thinks is a family resemblance? My real parents are Richard and Florence Hunt, who adopted me and loved me all my life. My parents were never able to learn much about my birth parents. They’ve told me that. People who didn’t want me gave me up, and I don’t care who they were.”
I was being much too emphatic. Something about this situation and that man frightened me. Perhaps it was my own dreaming that made me afraid. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d created a make-believe family for myself. A family with none of the shortcomings of my own. I knew that reality would be disappointing and never match my imagination, so it was better not to risk anything.
Norman frowned at me. “It’s up to you, of course, Molly, but I think you ought to hear what Landry has to say. Things like this are too important to dismiss. But let’s forget him for now. You’ve brought me your new book?”
Glad to drop the subject, I handed him the big folder with my typed pages. I’d talked the novel over with him early in the writing, but Norman had seen none of it until now. When Douglas was my editor, I had always kept him as a fresh eye for the first complete reading, and I followed the same course with Norman.
“You’ll find some scribbling on the back of page twenty-three. I thought of a good touch, and had to write it in.”
“Fine. I’ll spend the weekend enjoying this. Then we’ll have that lunch and talk when I’ve read it.”
I felt thoroughly let down. Norman was the nearest I could come to Doug these days, and I enjoyed being with him. Now there was nothing more to talk about until he’d read the manuscript. I no longer felt even a little wonderful.
Norman came with me to the door, started to say something more, then broke off. Probably the set of my chin warned him that I wanted to hear no more about Charles Landry, so he simply said, “I’ll phone you,” and went back to his desk. Though I noticed he left the door open, as though curious to see what I would do.
The moment I appeared, Landry rose, looking not at all apologetic.
I stopped him before he could speak. “Look—I don’t want to seem rude, but Mr. Hillyard was wrong in supposing—”
He interrupted me with the assurance of a man who usually got what he wanted. “Don’t say no until you’ve heard something I have to tell you that can’t help but interest you.”
I caught the soft southern cadence in his speech, and the writer in me compared him again with the hero in one of my novels, even as I continued to resist his attractive smile.
“If this has something to do with my adoption—I was adopted, yes. But I’m not looking for answers from the past. Even if you think you see a family resemblance, I really don’t want to follow it up.”
“You don’t? Really?” Startling me, he reached for my right hand and turned my wrist over. For a moment he stared at my birthmark—a flat red strawberry stain on the under part of my wrist. “I’ve seen the duplicate of that mark.”
I froze as he went on quietly. “I have very strong reasons to believe that I am engaged to marry your twin sister in Charleston. Your identical twin sister.”
That was a blow to the body—something I could neither deal with nor absorb. Suddenly I felt out of breath and totally vulnerable.
“Please have lunch with me,” he said. “Let me talk with you for a little while. There’s a pretty big mystery here, and I can’t go home until I’ve at least tried to clear it up.”
My resistance was gone and I allowed him to guide me to the elevator, and out to the sidewalk at the lower level.
“There’s a place across the street,” he told me as we waited for a stoplight to turn green. “It’s still early and we’ll get a table at the back, where we’ll have privacy.”
We crossed the busy street with the flow of the late-morning crowd. The shadows of the high buildings all around us formed that eternal man-made twilight of Manhattan.
A revolving door led into a hotel lobby, and the restaurant we entered at its far end seemed quietly expensive.
“The food’s not bad, and I’m staying in the hotel, so it’s convenient,” he said.
Food didn’t interest me and I felt unable to deal with a menu. Landry ordered for us—a clear soup, cold salmon, and a salad.
When the waiter had gone, he spoke to me quietly, gently. Back in the office I had been ready to think him rude and arrogant, but now he seemed concerned, and even a bit helpless himself to deal with what was happening.
“You were a shock when I walked into the Hillyard waiting room. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Let me show you Amelia’s picture.” He took a small color photo from his wallet and handed it across the table.
Reluctantly, I looked at a beautiful, smiling face framed by a sweep of long, straight brown hair. I was looking into a mirror—except that this woman was much more beautiful than Molly Hunt, and I wore my own hair in a short cut that curled in just above my shoulders. Astonishingly, the woman in the picture wore a blue bandeau over the top of her head—and so did I. In some way the headband was even more confounding than our obvious resemblance.
My hand shook. “What does this mean? If she’s my twin sister, why did her family give me up—if that’s what happened?”
“It’s not what happened. You were born in Charleston and your father and mother loved you a great deal. You were the firstborn twin—a few minutes ahead of your sister. When you were a year old, you were stolen. Kidnapped. Though there was never any demand for ransom—that would have been paid. Anything would have been done to get you back. Believe me, your parents spent a great deal of time and money trying to find you. I was only eight years old, but I vividly remember all the excitement. For years private detectives, hired by the family, attempted to track you down. There wasn’t a clue. It was suspected that an underworld ring that sold babies to couples who were willing to pay large sums and ask no questions was at work in Charleston. Of course, they wouldn’t have stayed around long, and probably skipped to some other part of the country after a successful snatch. What do you know about your adoption, Molly?”
I still found it
hard to breathe. “Very little. My mother used to tell me that the moment she set eyes on me she knew I belonged to her. But neither my mother nor my father ever wanted to talk about the details. I can’t believe they would have accepted a stolen child.”
“They probably wouldn’t have known. They’d have been told some story. Longing for a child can make a couple victims and ready to be gulled. Would your adoptive parents have had that sort of money?”
I wasn’t sure. “My mother inherited some family money, but we weren’t rich. I still live in their house in Bellport, halfway out on Long Island, where I grew up. My mother died a year ago, and my father is retired as a professor. None of my grandparents are living.”
What I was saying didn’t seem to matter very much. Important questions that needed to be asked were crowding through my mind, bewildering me with their ramifications.
“If I am this woman’s twin, what was my name?”
“Your mother named you Amelia and Cecelia, and Simon Mountfort, your father, always gave Valerie everything she wanted. Though I think he’d have liked simpler names. You are Cecelia.”
I’d never liked Cecelia as a name, and I rejected it now. “I could never get used to that name. I’ll always be Molly Hunt.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “For now, that’s what you’re comfortable with.”
Sometimes he still stared at me intently, as though he wanted to see past my surface resemblance to the woman in Charleston, and those words, “for now,” frightened me. I felt as though a tide I couldn’t resist were sweeping me toward a shore that might be strange and inhospitable. Did I want the make-believe family that I’d created in my dreams to be replaced by a real family that wouldn’t serve my secret longings any better than my adoptive parents had?
“Haven’t you ever tried to imagine what your real family was like?” Charles Landry asked.
“Of course I have! I was just thinking that. When my parents did something I resented, or when they punished me, I’d go off in my mind and visit the family I’d made up. Sometimes that family became more real to me than the one I lived with. I even made up a sister for myself—and named her Polly.”
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