It would not be a matter of leaving him alone. After Mother died, my father’s youngest sister, Dora McIntyre, had bought the house next door. She looked after my father, and she also supervised a cleaning woman who took care of both houses and did a little cooking. He would be in good hands while I was gone. And I wasn’t planning to stay for more than a week, if that long.
I kept telling myself that I must do nothing too sudden or impulsive. I had responsibilities here. There might be revision needed on my new book, and Norman Hillyard must be consulted. There were a few friends I needed to talk to about my plans, though I wanted to give no details. I was on my own now. That was a worrying feeling, yet one that brought a certain sense of freedom.
I decided to get in touch with Charles Landry while he was still in New York. My private phone was in my bedroom and I dialed the number of the hotel where we’d had lunch and where he was staying. He answered at once, and somehow his voice, with its soft southern accent, reassured me. It also excited me a little. I could no longer think calmly about a twin sister and a mother who had never stopped grieving for me.
“I can’t come with you now,” I told him, “but I’ll arrange to fly to Charleston in a week or two. Can you suggest a place where I can stay?”
He didn’t sound surprised, and I had a feeling that he had expected my call—perhaps waited for it. “There’s an interesting inn not far from Porter’s house. Let me know the date you’ll arrive and I’ll make a reservation for you.”
I was pleased that he had suggested an inn. I had no desire to move in with strangers who might, or might not, be my family.
“I’ll take care of everything,” he went on, “including your plane tickets. Of course, I’ll meet you at the airport.”
He sounded as assured as I remembered, but something of the same excitement I felt had caught him up as well. I could hear its quickening in his voice.
I thanked him, feeling relieved, now that everything was out of my hands.
“I’m glad you’ve made up your mind, Molly,” he went on. “Look at this as the sort of adventure you may write about someday. Just let your imagination go. Incidentally, I was able to pick up your new book at the store near the hotel, and I’ve started reading it. You are a good storyteller.”
He couldn’t have said anything that would have pleased me more, and when we hung up I began to relax for the first time in a good many hours.
I lay on my bed and held up my left hand so I could stare at the mark on my wrist. But it was the blue bandeaux that both Amelia Mountfort and I wore that convinced me most of all. Of course, they matched the blue of our eyes, but even then . . . Tomorrow I would go to the library and learn all about twins, and about Charleston, South Carolina.
2
There was an unexpected hitch about my leaving for Charleston. In a day or two, when he reached home, Charles Landry phoned, sounding apologetic.
“Your mother hasn’t been told yet, Molly. We’re afraid she might become excited and build her expectations too high. So your cousin Porter has advised against it. However, your sister knows, and she’s anticipating your coming. She cried when I told her. I think she’s happy, but a bit fearful.”
The way he used these relationships—mother, cousin, sister—made me fearful too. I wouldn’t blame them for not wanting to accept me. I could hardly accept all this myself.
Charles Landry went on. “One unexpected problem about your coming is Honoria Phelps, Porter’s wife. I don’t know exactly how to tell you about Honoria. You’ll understand better when you meet her. Her connection with the family is only by marriage, but her ties with Mountfort Hall are strong. Honoria believes in portents, and sometimes we listen. She’s been reading her tarot cards, and she doesn’t like what she sees.”
He waited for some response from me—which I didn’t know how to make. I knew nothing about tarot and felt dismayed by this turn of events.
When I was silent, he went on reassuringly. “Don’t let this upset you, Molly. Even Honoria is quick to say that what she sees is vague and unspecific. I probably shouldn’t have told you.”
“Has Mr. Phelps decided that I shouldn’t come because of this?”
“He hasn’t gone that far. Daphne is eager to meet you, and she may be strong enough to prevail.”
“I’m lost! Who is Daphne?”
“She’s Porter’s daughter by his first marriage—another cousin. He married Honoria after his wife died. Daphne is the one who owns the bookstore in Charleston. She already has your new book and she’s pleased about your coming. Daphne doesn’t pay much attention to her stepmother’s psychic spells, though she’s tolerant and quite fond of Honoria.”
“So what do I do now? Would you prefer that I not come?”
He sounded more uncertain than when we’d talked in New York. “No, I think you must come. I’ve talked it over with my mother. She’s practical in her approach and feels that you should come. She wants to meet you. So if you’re willing I’ll go ahead with plans for you to come next week. This is a good time, since you’ll be here before the worst hot weather, though you’ll miss the azaleas. They were early this year.”
I might as well go now and put the experience behind me, so I could get on with my life.
“Tell me when and I’ll come,” I said.
“Fine! I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made the arrangements. I can’t wait to see you and Amelia together.”
It was left at that.
For now, I stayed away from my typewriter, glad that I was between books. I needed a quiet mind in order to lose myself in an imaginary world, and my thoughts were churning over the events that lay ahead of me.
During this interval I dipped into a pile of books I’d brought home from the library. A surprising amount of material had been published about twins. I narrowed my reading to the subject of identical twins who had been raised apart.
Apparently three different contributing elements had to be considered. Heredity and environment seemed obvious, but the third element, coincidence, was given a good deal of consideration. Some of the astonishing likenesses discovered among twins who met each other after they were adults had been studied in great detail. I remembered the story of Minneapolis twins—boys—who had fascinated researchers with their amazing similarities. However, it was pointed out that coincidences happen all the time to everyone. Perhaps Molly Hunt and Amelia Mountfort wore blue bandeaux because we had fine straight hair that needed to be held back, and the color blue matched our eyes.
Physical resemblance was easily explained in identical twins, of course—so the birthmark on our wrists simply confirmed this. Now a new science called chronogenetics was being explored—dealing with the role genes play in making twins alike, not only in terms of physical characteristics, but in terms of similar traits and tastes, even though the twins were far apart. Yet even here upbringing played a strong role, and in the end anything seemed to go when it came to twins. There were a good many twins who were more different than alike, and ultimately my reading left me confused and uncertain.
Probably none of this mattered anyway. I suspected that when Amelia and I met we would know, one way or another, and theories, or even the opinions of others in Amelia’s family, wouldn’t matter.
Charles Landry sent my plane tickets promptly and let me know that I’d be staying at the Gadsden Inn on Hasell Street—which was pronounced Hazel. I was not to worry about anything, he assured me, and said nothing more about any opposition from the family in Charleston. Valerie Mountfort had still not been told of my coming. Porter wanted to meet me before anything was said to his cousin. Wise, perhaps, but troubling.
When the time came, the trip seemed anticlimactic. My father let me go easily enough, and that left me feeling oddly alone. Norman Hillyard said our conference about the new book could wait—he wanted to read it again anyway. I couldn’t worry about that now
. Planes and airports were pretty much alike these days, and even the first-class travel Charles Landry provided was nothing special.
When he met me in Charleston he seemed reserved, in spite of the effort he made to welcome me and make me feel comfortable. After we’d picked up my bags and were in his car, an uneasy silence settled between us. I wondered what sort of family crisis might have arisen that he wasn’t telling me about.
By this time I had studied maps and was acquainted with the configuration of land on which Charleston had been built. I even knew a bit of its history. In 1670 the first colonists arrived from England and discovered a fine harbor at the foot of this peninsula of land. They sailed up what would be named the Ashley River to the spot that was now Charles Towne Landing. The new settlement was, of course, called Charles Towne in honor of King Charles II, whose merry, hedonistic ways would be imprinted upon his namesake city.
The land itself was limited by the arms of two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, which met at the tip of the peninsula to “form the Atlantic Ocean,” as Charleston had long boasted. Fort Sumter—where the first shots between North and South had been fired—was only a dot out in the harbor. Parts of the older Fort Moultrie, which also guarded the harbor, dated back to the Revolutionary War, and was now a museum.
We traveled south through North Charleston and down toward the Historic District, where the family lived. This was Old Charleston. Hasell Street ran east and west for a few blocks, and as we turned onto it, Charles came out of his silence to explain about the Gadsden Inn.
It occupied what had been an old cotton warehouse and was named after Christopher Gadsden. Brilliant and wealthy, Gadsden had been an early agitator against the British. The Sons of Liberty had drawn in young lawyers, mechanics, and planters—all angry with the injustices of British rule—and Gadsden had played his own patriotic role.
The big redbrick inn, foresquare and sturdy in its construction, edged the sidewalk. Its windows had been trimmed with red-and-green-striped awnings, and there were plantings of tropical shrubbery and palmetto palms where a narrow strip of earth permitted.
Several entrance steps led up to the lobby, and a porter came to help with my bags. While Charles stopped at the desk, I stood looking around with the interest of a writer who knew a mystery setting when she saw one.
The lobby was punctuated by massive brown beams that were part of the original warehouse and formed columns that reached several stories up, leaving a vast open space in the center. Huge beams rimmed the opening, and supports reached clear to the distant roof, where skylights threw down muted daylight. I could glimpse doorways beyond the great beams that formed the railings above, and all this stirred my imagination. I could almost see one of my characters leaning on a beam to look down upon tiny figures on the lobby floor far below. A dizzying height from which to fall!
The lobby floor was of dark red tile, with a handsome oriental rug covering a small portion. Striking paintings decorated the walls, and my eye was caught by a scene of jungle animals that hung above a grouping of chairs, sofa, and lamps—all with the signature of Africa in their pattern. But the lobby was not African in its overall effect, for on another wall hung a huge painting of a golden Japanese carp created on fabric and dominating its own space. This was certainly no ordinary hotel lobby.
Charles returned and the porter came with us to enter an open-sided elevator, from which we could look down through glass as we rose to the third floor. Here we followed a narrow gallery behind a beamed railing, and I could look over it down to the reception desk.
Walls up here had been painted a light buff, and a door at the end opened into the suite Charles had reserved for me. The living area was furnished in bright tropical prints, and a strip of galley kitchen opened off it. A hallway led back to bedroom and bath. Restoration had left bits of the old warehouse visible in portions of brick wall and a strip of wooden post.
“Thank you,” I said to Charles when the porter had gone. “I love this place.”
We sat down on a sofa bright with azaleas, and he smiled at me.
“We want you to be comfortable while you’re here, Molly. Tonight Porter Phelps and I would like to take you out for dinner. There will be just the three of us, since he feels it will be best to meet your sister after you’ve settled a bit.”
There was no mention of Valerie Mountfort. “You haven’t told me much,” I said. “Has anything happened that I ought to know about?”
“Not really.” His good looks seemed shadowed by something somber that I hadn’t seen when I’d met him in New York. When I waited, he went on hesitantly. “You’ve stepped into a family of individuals who are apt to go their own ways. I don’t know what will happen when they meet you. Not even with your sister. You might as well brace yourself for the unexpected, and be a little on guard.”
“Against what?”
“I’m not exactly sure. We’ll see what develops.” He promised to call for me at six-thirty.
“I’ll be in the lobby,” I said, and gave him my hand.
He took it with the warmth I’d sensed in him at our first meeting.
“The problem isn’t you, Molly. You’ll do fine. It’s just that some of the family refuse to believe that you really are Cecelia Mountfort. They’re curious, of course, but don’t expect open arms. You’ll need to relax and let the tide carry you. What will happen, will happen.”
“That sounds pretty fatalistic. They’re right to be cautious, of course. I still wonder whether I can possibly be Amelia’s lost twin. I do know that I’m Molly Hunt, and that’s who I’ll be, no matter what happens. Nothing will change for me.”
Even as I spoke, I wondered if that were true. Perhaps just coming here had changed me a little.
Charles held my hand for a moment and I felt again the charm he could exert when he chose, and I hoped it was genuine, and that he wasn’t holding something back.
When he’d gone I washed away travel grime and changed into slacks and a light blouse, so I could be comfortable until the dinner hour. I stepped outside my door to look down upon the great open space of beams and wooden crosspieces made from the trunks of full-grown trees, the whole structure probably well over a hundred years old.
The inn’s guest rooms were set against the outer walls of the building, while the interior formed this dark, cathedral-like space that dropped to the lobby—a dusky emptiness with galleries all around and dozens of closed doors. The central space rose another floor above me, narrower at one end than the other. I had no geometric name for this irregular enclosure.
The beam under my arms had been planed so that it felt smooth, and as I leaned upon it, I had the sense that someone was watching me. When I looked up to the opposite rail on the floor above, I discovered that a child seemed to be peering down over a beam she could hardly reach. I couldn’t tell whether the head belonged to a boy or a girl, since only a shock of pale curly hair was visible in the dim light across that cavernous void. A pair of eyes studied me with an unwavering stare beneath a patch of white forehead.
I called out to the watching child. “Hello there!”
She put one foot on a slat and raised herself so that her entire delicately formed head was visible—and definitely feminine.
This alarmed me and I called out again. “Be careful! Don’t climb any higher!”
She answered with an assurance that belonged to no child. “Stay right there, Molly Hunt. I want to talk to you.”
The voice startled me—adult and not particularly young. I could hear her small feet along the corridor as she moved to a stairway at the far end. In a moment a tiny woman emerged on my own level and ran lightly toward me.
She wore a pleated white skirt and embroidered tunic blouse—clearly made to her small measurements. She was definitely not a child, but a perfect person who was smaller than average. Her movements were airy, as though she floated along the hallway w
here I stood. Now I could see that her eyes were a silvery gray, and her hair had the same light silvery cast. Her features were perfectly formed, from small, pert nose to a chin that squared a little. She carried herself with a dignity that would protect her from the giants in her life. She was probably in her late fifties, though it was difficult to guess for sure. As a young girl she must have been very beautiful. Exquisite, perhaps.
“I had to see you for myself,” she announced without preliminaries. “Though I didn’t want Charles or Porter to know I was coming. I am Honoria Phelps.” The accent was there. I would come to realize that the Charleston accent was special and had its own musical sound.
“I’ve heard about you.” I held out my hand. “Charles Landry says you didn’t want me to come to Charleston.”
Honoria stared at my offered hand as though she might be reluctant to touch it. Then she put out her own small hand, and I found that taking it was like holding the fingers of a child, and I was surprised at the responsive strength of her handclasp. For a moment she seemed to cling to me, as though she didn’t want to let me go.
“I was afraid to touch you,” she confessed. “I didn’t know what I might feel, but it all seems positive. It’s true—what Charles said—you are Cecelia Mountfort.”
“I’m Molly Hunt,” I said quietly, “and I expect I always will be.” I might grow tired of asserting this, since I had the feeling that no one would pay much attention to my claim to be me.
“Where is your room?” Honoria asked. “Let’s go where we can talk.”
Charles had said that he didn’t know how to explain Honoria Phelps, and I was beginning to see what he meant. Feeling more bemused than alarmed, I led the way to my room.
“My pantry isn’t stocked, Mrs. Phelps,” I told her. “So I can’t offer coffee, but please sit down. You are Porter Phelps’s wife?”
“I am indeed.” Honoria seated herself in a corner of the sofa, taking up very little space. Her sandaled feet didn’t reach the floor, but she sat erect, her short legs dangling, her hands clasped in her lap—and she said nothing at all. I was the one who had a tendency to fidget. Her silence was almost like a reverie, and it made me self-conscious.
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