I managed a few unnecessary words. “I’m having dinner tonight with Charles Landry and your husband. Will you be joining us?” I already knew she wouldn’t, but it seemed something to say in this weird silence.
She returned from whatever distant space she’d gone to. “Call me Honoria, please. After all, you are family. No, I won’t be there. Porter thinks it’s best for me to stay away. Of course, he doesn’t dream that I’d come here to meet you ahead of time. He will have a fit when he finds out.” Her laughter sounded mischievous and included me, as though we shared some secret amusement.
“Porter is terribly proper, you know,” she went on. “You’ll have time to find out—if you stay. He couldn’t trust me not to have one of what he calls my spells at dinner. Though everyone is used to me, and no one really minds. They expect me to be a little off. But Porter thought it might be a shock for you if this happened too soon, so it seemed safer to leave me at home.”
She still smiled with bright mischief, and I couldn’t help smiling back, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what this small, vital person was talking about.
Honoria recognized my bewilderment and explained. “I am able to channel, and sometimes that upsets people. Or do you know what channeling is? I find it surprising that even today so many people don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit vague on the subject.”
“It can happen to me anytime, whether I invite it or not. And it takes different forms. Sometimes words appear on paper that I don’t expect to write. Or I hear a voice coming from my mouth that isn’t my voice, and which brings in the entity who speaks through me. His name is Nathanial.” She spoke the name affectionately. “Or sometimes only strong thoughts may form in my mind—so strong that I must respond to them in some way. Nathanial told me to come here to see you today. And I’m glad he did.”
I was beginning to feel a bit spooked, and I could see why Porter Phelps might be uneasy about having me meet his wife before I had been prepared.
“I’m fascinated,” I told her. “Do go on.”
“I thought you would be. Of course you’ll use me in one of your stories.”
It was my turn to laugh. “I never use real people. They’d get in my way and not do what I want them to do.” I’d often found it difficult to explain this to a layman who didn’t write and couldn’t imagine making up a new person out of bits and pieces that might be present in a writer’s consciousness. All I needed was a springboard.
Honoria understood, however. “I can see how that would be. You’d have a lot of trouble with me. Now then—show me the mark on your wrist. Charles says it’s there.”
Compelled, I held out my hand, and Honoria slipped down from the sofa to stand before me, her eyes on a level with mine. One tiny finger touched the flat strawberry mark and rested there for a moment as she closed her eyes. A slight tingling sensation centered where her finger touched my wrist. When she had apparently gathered whatever information she wanted, she went back to her erect perch on the sofa, not bothering with any propping cushions behind her.
“That was the final corroboration,” she said. “You are the stolen baby—grown up. So what will you do, now that you’re here?”
“I haven’t any idea. I suppose I’ll meet the family and then go back home where I belong.”
Honoria shook her head vigorously and her pewter curls trembled with their own life. “I don’t think you’ll be able to do that. In a little while it will all begin to sink in and take hold of you. All that heritage you know nothing about. If you want to go home, this is the time to go. Tomorrow—at once. Before the connection begins to take hold and the curiosity you’ll feel becomes irresistible. Then you won’t be able to escape.”
“I can’t turn and run,” I said. “Not until I’ve met these people who are supposed to be my family.”
“Never mind. Once you’ve had time to understand why you’re here, you’ll know what you must do. Whether it’s to go or stay.”
There was no need to deny or argue. I remembered Charles’s words: “What will happen, will happen.”
“Of course, there’s another way,” she added. “If you can let yourself drift with the tide and take no action, you may be safe.”
This was too much. “Safe from what?”
Honoria’s eyes opened wide—almost staring, though not at me—and she uttered a single word. Her voice was suddenly hoarse, very different from her own light tones. The word, however, was clear: Murder.
Immediately she was herself again. “There—you see! I didn’t say that. It’s a fair warning, though I don’t know what it means. Is he indicating that there’s been a murder? Or that there will be one? And what are we supposed to do? He’s often vague and not very helpful. Though I never ignore what comes through.”
How much of this might be an act, and how much Honoria really believed, I couldn’t tell. She seemed direct enough, though, and convinced in her own mind. Before I could ask any questions, she took a sudden new road.
“I have something for you at home. It’s a letter. Nathanial told me to wait before giving it to you. You should have it soon, but this is enough for you to think about now.”
That startled me. Who could possibly have written a letter to me here in Charleston that would have come into Honoria’s hands? But before I could protest, she floated to the door and left without another word. I stared after her, not understanding much of anything. Perhaps not even wanting to. I seemed to stand at the edge of dangerous ground, hesitant to take a step forward.
For a few moments I sat waiting for the air around me to quiet. Honoria Phelps seemed to move in a certain radiation of her own—if that was the word. Something around her reached out to touch others, probably shaking them up as it had shaken me. When I saw Charles I would have even more questions to ask—particularly about Honoria Phelps.
I showered and even napped a little until it was time to dress for the evening. I’d brought a creamy silk blouse, scattered with tiny blue gentians—because Amelia had worn blue in the picture Charles had shown me. And—even more deliberately—I fastened on the blue velvet bandeau to hold back my shoulder-length hair. I might as well astonish Porter Phelps, who was still doubtful about me. Though no more doubtful than I was.
Charles picked me up in the lobby and we went out into an early evening that was still light. He’d come alone, and he explained as we got into his car.
“Porter’s tied up with something unexpected. He’ll meet us at the restaurant. I’m rather glad, because this will give me a chance to show you some of the Historic District before we have dinner.”
Pride came into his voice as he talked, and I found myself watching with a writer’s eye as I listened.
“More preservation has been accomplished here than in Williamsburg. Of course, this isn’t an exhibit to show what the past was like. This is where people still live and work. Some Charleston families go back to the Revolution. But there are a great many newcomers from other parts of the country who have stayed because they fell in love with what they found here.”
He drove slowly so that I could savor the charm of this old part of the city. As he talked I could tell how close to his heart the scenes around us were. If Charles was in love with Amelia Mountfort, he was also in love with this city at the tip of the peninsula.
Except for the through streets of King and Meeting, most of these streets were narrow, the houses close to the sidewalks and curiously narrow themselves. Often there were side gardens, with the thin houses stretching back beside them. Lovely verandas often edged the private gardens. We slowed still more to allow a horse-drawn carriage filled with sightseers to pull out of our way.
Charles explained about the houses. “We call them single houses, or sometimes double houses when they are wider. The single houses are one room and a hallway wide, and usually two stories in height. The piazzas—we never call
them porches or verandas here—are built at the side to offer privacy from the street. They usually face south or west to catch whatever breezes there are in summer. Sometimes the front door opens directly onto a piazza. Or sometimes you enter from the sidewalk through a decorative iron gate leading into a side garden.”
I noticed as we drove along that larger houses were also in evidence—mansions that revealed the beauty and dignity of another era. Here gardens might be placed at the front and were more generous in size, more luxurious with tropical growth. Many of the single houses were pale pastels—blue, pink, green, yellow. Or sometimes gray or buff. Occasionally a wrought-iron balcony overhung the sidewalk, reminding me of New Orleans’s French Quarter. Of course, wealthy planters had fled here from slave revolts in Barbados and other parts of the West Indies, and they had brought touches of their own tropical architecture to the area. Various periods and cultures mingled in more than three hundred years of history.
Of necessity, traffic moved at a decorous pace, and no one tried to hurry. Coming so recently from the North, I was aware of the difference. Here I might find time to draw deep breaths and stop the blind running I’d been doing ever since Douglas died.
“This is a good time to be here,” Charles said. “Before heat and humidity drive us indoors, or away from the Low Country altogether. We’re lucky to have kept so much of Old Charleston intact, in spite of hurricanes, fires, and earthquakes. Charleston will always recover and go on.” He spoke with deep affection, and I knew how much he valued all of this.
“I’ve been reading whatever I could find to orient myself,” I told him. “But really seeing it is wonderful.”
He pointed to a building we were passing. “Do you see those iron patches on some of the houses? They hide earthquake bolts, where rods go through from wall to wall to hold a house together.” His tone grew almost dreamy, as though he relished his city’s history. “The clocks stopped at nine fifty-one on the evening of the great 1886 earthquake—the largest ever to hit the East Coast, and Charleston took the brunt. Nearly every building in the city was damaged, yet Charleston survived. In a way, we can thank the poverty that existed after the War for all that has lasted here.”
I began to notice the iron rosettes covering ugly bolts. “What do you mean?”
“Any other place might have torn itself down after a disaster and rebuilt in some faddy new design. But after the War, Charlestonians had no money for rebuilding, so they painted and repaired and saved all these beautiful structures. Now when a new building goes up it must be in keeping with the old. Though, unfortunately, we’ve lost a few of our most distinctive older buildings—among them the first orphanage asylum in the country. Torn down because of people who didn’t appreciate what they had.”
Charles had played his own role in this preservation, and I was glad he could care so deeply.
“It’s your city too, Molly,” he told me.
“Not yet!” I spoke quickly. “Give me time, Charles. Everything has happened too quickly. I’m only a very new visitor.”
“A special visitor. Whether you’re ready to accept it or not, your origins are here. Now that you’ve seen all this, you’ll have to write about us.”
I probably would, since I was never happy unless a book was stirring at the back of my mind. But in order to write, I would need to stay longer than I might want to. I would need to learn a great deal about Charleston—though research could always come later, once I’d experienced a new setting with my own feelings and responses. Of course, I would never presume to write from the viewpoint of a longtime resident. A stranger’s viewpoint was my own. In this case, however, that viewpoint might be flavored and affected by more than I was as yet ready to accept.
“Here’s a parking space,” Charles said. “Let’s stop for a moment. Daphne’s bookshop hasn’t closed yet, so we can look in and give her a surprise.”
He’d pulled the car over to the curb, and there was no way for me to back out—though this was happening a little too suddenly. A spark of impudent fun seemed to touch Charles, and I knew he was playing his own little game and using me to surprise Daphne Phelps.
When we went up the few steps into the Book Loft, only a last-minute customer was being waited on by a clerk. Charles spoke to Daphne and she came toward us at once—a tall woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, and distinctive-looking rather than pretty. Green eyes widened when she saw me, and she ran a startled hand through brightly tinted red hair that had been cut short in a straight twenties bob.
“My God!” she said. “For a moment I thought you were Amelia. You’re as much like her as Charles claimed you were.” She paused, appraising me disconcertingly. “Yet you’re different in subtle ways. And it’s more than the cut of your hair.”
She held out her hand in a strong, direct clasp, and I sensed a woman of assurance and strength. Perhaps an assurance that had even placed a few hard lines in her face.
“You mustn’t be engulfed and overwhelmed by the Mountforts,” she warned.
“This is Molly Hunt, Daphne,” Charles said quickly, coming in on cue. “She doesn’t want to be called Cecelia. This is your cousin Daphne Phelps, Molly.”
Daphne grinned—not exactly a smile—and waved a hand in the direction of a table piled with my new book. “You can see we’ve been expecting you.”
The misty blue jacket of Crystal Fire looked fine on display, and I felt pleased to see it, as I always did when I found my books in a shop. A mother proudly recognizing her newest baby!
“My amnesia story,” I said. “I hope your customers will like it.”
“They will. I read it before I knew I was to meet you. That photo on the back is a good disguise. It must seem strange to come into an entire family you never dreamed existed.”
“Right now,” I told her uneasily, “I’m not sure who I am.”
She patted my arm. “I don’t envy your meeting the Mountforts all at once. Never mind—will you sign some books for me, Molly Hunt?”
Charles intervened. “I’ll bring Molly in another day to sign copies. We’re meeting your father for dinner at Jilich’s, so we’d better go along.”
“That should be interesting,” Daphne said. “Don’t let him blow you down, Molly. I wish I could be there to see what happens. I don’t suppose . . .?” She looked at Charles hopefully.
“Not a chance,” Charles said. “Porter wants to meet her alone and make up his mind what to do.”
“That’s my father! Captain of the ship, and aye, aye, sir! Cousin Valerie still doesn’t know?”
“I’ve tried to persuade Porter to tell her before someone else lets it slip.”
“Does he have Honoria’s spirits muzzled?”
They laughed at a private joke—one that I was in on more than they knew.
Daphne put out her hand to me. “I’ll look forward to seeing you soon, cousin. Perhaps you’ll visit me? I’m in the phone book. I can be an antidote to too many Mountforts, if you need me.”
I returned her warm clasp, liking Daphne Phelps, and never dreaming that by the time I visited her in her apartment several happenings would have changed and frightened me.
Just as Charles and I reached the door, a man came in with a comfortable informality that told me he knew everyone, and was at home in Daphne’s shop. His easy smile vanished, however, when he saw me and he stared openly. I knew that look by now and I stared back defensively. He was a rugged young man, perhaps a little older than I was. His unruly dark hair had been cut a bit long, and his too penetrating look reminded me of a few villains I’d written about. I wondered if he were typecast in this drama I seemed to be living.
He didn’t wait for an introduction. “Hello, Cecelia. I’m glad to meet the mystery woman everyone’s been talking about.” His accent was as northern as mine, and he lacked the easy charm I’d seen in Charles.
Charles corrected him, sighing
. “Garrett, this is Molly Hunt. Molly, this is Garrett Burke, who’s ghostwriting Porter’s book about the Mountforts.”
“Let’s say I’m collaborating.” He held out his hand to me after a slight hesitation, as though the gesture were an afterthought. When I gave him mine, he disconcerted me further by turning my wrist over to reveal the strawberry mark. I snatched my hand away at once, but his direct, searching look never left my face. He seemed to be questioning my existence, no matter what the resemblance.
“Be careful what you say to Garrett,” Daphne warned. “He’s a journalist and you’d make good copy.”
Garrett paid no attention, but turned to Charles as though he could dismiss me as being of no importance. “Are you coming to the rehearsal tomorrow night, Charles? We need to go through that phony duel a few more times. You nearly poked my eye out in the last go-round.”
“We’ll get to it soon,” Charles promised. “In the meantime you need to work on your other scenes.” He turned to me to explain. “We have an acting company here—semipro. We call ourselves Stage Center and we’re rehearsing a play about the War Between the States. Garrett makes a good Union officer for me to kill off—even if he can’t act.” His tone was joking, but I caught an edge to his voice that surprised me.
The look in Garrett’s eyes told me that he might give as good as he got. So hooray for the North, I thought scornfully, all my sympathies with Charles.
“Incidentally,” Charles continued, “your sister Amelia wrote The Shadow Soldier. It’s turning into a family production by this time. Even Honoria is helping out as director—at which she’s pretty good. Help from her spirits, I’m sure.”
His words about Amelia struck home. Amelia Mountfort and I were both writers!
Charles caught my look of astonishment. “Oh, Amelia’s not as serious as you are. She just likes to dabble.”
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