“It’s a damn good play,” Daphne said. “She’s hit all the clichés about North and South and written past them. So you needn’t apologize for Amelia. And Honoria is a whiz of a director. Wait till you meet her, Molly. The experience will blow you away!”
“I’ve already met her,” I said quietly.
Charles and Daphne both stared at me. Garrett had moved to the stack of my books and picked up a copy of Crystal Fire. I could feel his attention on me rather than on the book in his hands.
I hurried to explain. “Mrs. Phelps came to see me at the inn. I suppose she was curious, like everyone else.”
Daphne shook her head, marveling. “Honoria does what her guides tell her to do, and that can lead to unexpected action.”
I caught her up. “What do you mean—guides?”
“I suppose you could call them spirit guides, if you believe in all that stuff.”
Since my meeting with Honoria, I no longer knew what I believed. “I liked her,” I admitted. “Though I didn’t know what she was talking about half the time. She thinks I should go back home as soon as possible. Her portents aren’t very good for my staying around in Charleston.”
Charles seemed to have forgotten that we were about to leave. He and Daphne were silent, while Garrett Burke pretended to study the book he held. I felt a concentration about him that was disturbing, and I went on, unsure of my ground.
“Mrs. Phelps talked about channeling. I’m not sure I know what she meant.”
Daphne and Charles exchanged looks that held some meaning which was beyond me.
“Did Honoria give you an example?” Daphne asked.
“I suppose that’s what it was. Without any warning she used a different voice. Someone she called Nathanial apparently speaks through her.”
Charles smiled. “Our Mountfort Hall ghost! You might as well accept him, Molly, since he comes with the territory these days. Thanks to Honoria and her cat.”
“What did Nathanial say?” Daphne persisted.
I hated to repeat the word aloud—it sounded too melodramatic. “She used a rather deep, spooky voice and she said just one word: Murder.”
No one spoke for a moment, and the silence chilled me. Garrett seemed to be reading the flap copy of my book, but he must have read it over several times by now.
“We must leave, Molly,” Charles said abruptly. “The restaurant’s nearby, so we’ll walk. ’Bye, Daphne. I’ll see you at rehearsal, Garrett.”
As Charles swept me toward the door, I looked back and met Garrett’s dark gaze for a moment.
Outside, the evening air felt sea-fresh. A scent of magnolia blossoms came to me from over an iron fence. In the next block, lighted shop windows offered an endless variety of treasures that would have fascinated me at another time. What had happened—silently—in Daphne’s shop was all that concerned me now, as though swampy ground had opened at my feet and I didn’t know where to step.
Jilich’s was a distraction and a relief. Again I found myself in a huge space that had once been a warehouse. The headwaiter knew Charles and showed us promptly to our table, where I looked about in appreciation. Walls—except for the exposure of brick at one end—had been painted a pale peach, with matching tablecloths and napkins. Faraway ceiling fans set among old wooden beams stirred air-conditioned currents gently.
“These old warehouses have been put to good use,” Charles said. “Rice, indigo, cotton—those were the staples before the War. Slaves brought their own knowledge of raising all three, back where they came from. Of course, the economy collapsed during the War. When the soldiers came home, the devastation was numbing.”
I didn’t want to think about that confusing war and all the southern slave owners who might have been related to me, so I was relieved when Charles picked up his menu.
“Porter said not to wait, so let’s go ahead and order.”
I studied the big card with interest and decided on Sea Island crab cakes and a salad of spinach, artichoke, and hearts of palm. Charles ordered a Jilich’s specialty—coconut deep-fried shrimp with a sweet chutney.
When the waiter had taken our orders, I returned to what had happened in the bookshop, unable to leave it alone.
“Has someone been murdered?” I asked Charles.
“Of course! This is bloodstained ground, Molly—has been since the Revolution. Which murder do you want to talk about?” His tone was light, teasing, his words completely evasive.
“Honoria’s—voice—seemed to have made a choice.”
“He would. Isn’t a ghost supposed to haunt the place where he died? Especially if he left his human existence unwillingly.”
“You mean Nathanial was a real person—not some entity out of—wherever? Was he murdered?”
“He was real enough, but he wasn’t murdered. It’s a long story. Do we have to talk about this now?”
“Perhaps we do,” I said, unsure of why I felt this urgent need to know. “Please tell me about Nathanial. He tried to speak to me through Honoria, which was more than a little unsettling, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Charles fiddled with his silverware, and I knew how little he wanted to talk about this.
“Go on,” I persisted. “Tell me.”
3
I’m sorry if Honoria upset you,” Charles said. He was still evasive.
“She didn’t. I found her fascinating. Though she never told me that Nathanial was a Mountfort ghost. Does he date back to the early history of the house?”
“No, no. Mountfort Hall was built by Edward Mountfort early in the eighteenth century. Nathanial Amory was much more recent. In fact, I knew him very well when I was a young boy. He was the tutor at Mountfort when I was a child. Daphne was a bit older, but he tutored her too. Honoria knew him because she was a young docent taking visitors through the plantation house. It’s still open at certain hours for public tours. These days it costs too much to keep up an old mansion, and those tourist dollars help. There’s a shed on the grounds where pottery making and weaving are demonstrated. The family has private quarters above the first floor, so visitors are not allowed upstairs.”
“How did Nathanial become a ghost?”
“He drowned in the Ashley River not far from Mountfort landing. A boating accident. It happened a short time after you were kidnapped. Rumor has it that he and Honoria were a pretty hot item in those days. Of course, this was while Porter’s first wife was still alive. After both she and Nathanial died, Porter married Honoria, but Daphne thinks Honoria was rebounding from a broken heart.”
“So now Honoria has created a loving ghost for herself?” I asked.
“I don’t know about loving. He’s a bit of a pest, really, since Honoria uses him happily for her eccentric purposes.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Never. Only Honoria and her cat are in touch with him. You’ll meet Miss Kitty eventually.”
“A psychic cat?”
“Aren’t most cats? Never mind—here comes Porter, so let’s not talk about Nathanial. Ghosts aren’t Porter’s favorite subject.”
The man being led to our table by the headwaiter was in his late sixties, more than six feet tall, and he needed his height to balance a figure grown portly. I knew he had retired from management of a Charleston bank, and was wealthy in his own right. He looked like my idea of an old-fashioned southern gentleman straight out of Central Casting—immaculate white suit, a black string tie, white shoes. The fact that he was bald except for a circle of white hair that ran from his ears around the back of his head seemed to add to his air of dignity and command. It was hard to imagine this big, overpowering man married to Honoria. What a contrast they must make together.
Unlike other family members, Porter Phelps showed no surprise over my resemblance to his cousin Valerie’s daughter. When Charles rose, his manner respectful, I had no doubt
about who was head of the clan these days.
Charles’s introduction was formal, and Porter bowed over my hand, though his fingers seemed to release mine quickly. The look he gave me from pale blue eyes carried no warmth. Porter had clearly decided that I must be an impostor and that he wanted me gone.
“You told us not to wait,” Charles said as Porter joined us.
“Yes, of course,” Porter said. “I had a late tea at the house with Valerie and I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.”
“You’ve told her?” Charles asked.
“Told her? I’m not sure there’s anything to tell,” Porter said, and asked the waiter for a salad and the wine he preferred. Then he settled back in his chair and looked around the big dining room as though he were sitting alone.
Charles attempted conversation. “I was telling Molly that she really must see the plantation while she’s here, Porter. If you have no objection.”
Porter raised one thick white eyebrow. “Of course not. I will be glad to offer Miss Hunt our hospitality.”
For all his respect for Porter Phelps, I suspected that Charles was growing restive over the way I was being treated. “Show him your wrist, Molly,” he ordered suddenly.
I kept my hands in my lap and spoke directly to Porter.
“Please let me explain how I feel, Mr. Phelps. I’ve never had any sense that I was a twin. I’m fascinated by Charleston, but I’m still a Yankee, and I find it hard to believe that I was taken from your family when I was a baby. However, after meeting Charles, it seemed necessary to come here and find out the truth—if that’s possible.”
“There are blood tests. Pretty sophisticated ones these days,” Charles added.
Porter waved this aside. “Inconclusive.” But he had begun to relax a little, as though my words had reassured him to some extent.
“I admit there’s a real likeness between you and Amelia—enough to satisfy Charles’s eye. Though perhaps there are many more differences.”
“Cut Amelia’s hair and dress them alike—and they’d be identical,” Charles insisted.
“Perhaps. I don’t blame you for getting carried away, Charles.” Porter turned to me. “At least, you must visit my cousin Valerie’s house tomorrow. Not to meet her. I don’t think that would be wise. We mustn’t disturb her when she isn’t well. But you and Amelia could see each other. She would never forgive Charles and me if we allowed you to leave without meeting.”
This discussion was beginning to upset me. Of course Amelia and I must meet. These two men couldn’t decide for us. I changed the subject deliberately.
“Do you all live in the same house in Charleston?”
“Certainly not,” Porter said. “The Mountfort house is on South Battery and was built in 1790. Houses on East Battery were built after the War, when the waterfront was made safe by seawalls. So they’re a more recent vintage. Our home, Phelps Place, is on Church Street and dates back to 1735. When we are in Charleston, Honoria and I live there. My daughter, Daphne, has taken her own apartment—though we have plenty of room for her.”
His resentment of Daphne’s independence came through, and I could only sympathize with his daughter. Obviously, there had been a rift here.
Smoothly, Charles distracted Porter from this irritating subject. “Have you seen Honoria since she visited Molly this afternoon?”
His effort was fully successful. “She visited you, Miss Hunt? I might have known!” However, he sounded more fond than annoyed. “I purposely didn’t invite her to join us because she sometimes takes matters into her own hands. Tell me what happened, Miss Hunt.”
“Your wife believes that I’m Cecelia,” I said quietly.
“Did she say why?” He seemed only mildly curious, his own conviction unshaken.
“She touched the mark on my wrist—here, you might as well see it, though it’s begun to embarrass me.” I held out my hand across the table. Porter flicked his eyes in the direction of my wrist and looked away.
“I don’t think it’s the same,” he said. “Probably coincidence anyway. Go on about my wife.”
“She touched my wrist and seemed to get some sort of information that convinced her. But as I’ve said, I am not convinced. Not yet.”
“That’s wise of you. Perhaps we’d better not wait until tomorrow. Why can’t we get this over with now? When you’ve finished dinner, we’ll go directly to South Battery and you can meet Amelia. I’ll phone ahead to let her know, and to make sure that my cousin will be upstairs in her own room. I hope it won’t be necessary to have Valerie see you at all before you leave.”
“What if Molly is her daughter—would Valerie ever forgive you?”
“My cousin is very emotional and not at all well; she listens to me,” Porter said stiffly.
“I’m still confused by the family ties,” I told him. “Are you a Mountfort by blood?”
“Simon, Valerie’s husband and Amelia’s father, was another second cousin, though he carried the name and I didn’t. Old families here can be confusingly interrelated,” he explained coolly. “If Simon had lived, I would not be in full charge at Mountfort Hall.”
“It’s a good thing you are,” Charles put in, turning to me. “Next to my mother, Porter cares about the plantation more than anyone else, and he’s done a lot toward its preservation. By the way, Porter, how is Garrett Burke working out? Is the book nearly completed? When I was in New York I couldn’t give Hillyard all the details.”
“Garrett works at his own pace,” Porter said, “but I like what I’ve seen, and I’d rather read the whole thing fresh when it’s done. Then we can talk about any changes or additions. I tell you, it was a real break for us when he came to Charleston to find out more about the southern branch of his own family. Of course, Honoria says there are no accidents, and that he was drawn here because he is the right man to work on this book.”
“We saw Garrett just now in Daphne’s shop,” Charles said. “I’m afraid he puts me off. Maybe I’m not happy about having to duel with him in Amelia’s play. He seems so eager to show me up; at least I’ve taken more fencing lessons than he has. But, in all honesty, we both need a lot of practice. Sometimes I wish Amelia had put dueling pistols into our hands instead of swords.”
Porter’s interest in such theatricals was clearly slight, and he shrugged Charles’s words aside.
We had been served our entrées, and wine was poured in tall glasses. For the moment my butterflies were calm and I found I was hungry.
“Tell me about the theater where you’ll put on the play,” I said to Charles.
“It was originally another of our old Charleston warehouses, but it’s perfect for our purpose. There’s plenty of room for stage and audience, and an enormous area backstage for dressing rooms and for scenery and prop storage. Since the warehouse was owned by the Mountforts until the 1890s, and they’ve contributed to converting it into a theater, it carries the Mountfort name. I suspect the family has a bit of influence when it comes to taking an occasional part in activities. It would have been hard for the theater management to turn down Amelia’s play, so it’s a good thing she’s done a fine job of writing it. Charleston will love it. This is a city that enjoys laughing at itself.”
“I’ve never thought of Amelia as especially humorous,” Porter said.
“She surprised me too. Have you read the play?”
Porter shook his head. Watching the two men, I was aware of a strange dynamic between them. In spite of his obvious respect for Porter Phelps, and all Porter had apparently done for him, Charles seemed a bit edgy with him. Under-the-surface conflicts were my business as a writer, and this hint of antagonism interested me. I wondered again why Charles and Amelia had waited so long to be married. Perhaps, growing up together, they’d taken each other for granted, and only fallen in love when they were older.
While we finished our coffee, Porter we
nt off to telephone Amelia and let her know that we were coming.
“You don’t really like Porter very much, do you?” I asked Charles when we were alone.
He looked surprised. “Of course I do. He’s done a great deal for my mother and me, and for my father when he was alive. Perhaps it’s human nature to resent our benefactors when they take us over. Perhaps when I’m married to Amelia I’ll feel less in Porter’s debt.”
Something about the way Charles said this made me uneasy. I hoped he was truly in love with Amelia and not marrying the Mountfort name and wealth.
“How do you feel?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, now that this meeting between you and Amelia is about to happen? Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure. I still haven’t any intuitive feeling that I have a twin sister, yet at the same time I feel keyed up and anxious. Why doesn’t Mr. Phelps want me to be the lost twin?”
Charles shrugged. “Who knows? He always likes to be top dog. Simon died when Amelia was ten and she has looked up to Cousin Porter ever since. Perhaps you might furnish some unwelcome competition.”
“What does Valerie think?”
“She thinks today is Tuesday and tomorrow is Wednesday—or whatever. She’s a bit difficult, Molly. That’s probably why Porter is keeping you away from her. She could be excited and pleased—or she could fall apart. Valerie is the most unreliable person I’ve ever met. Don’t count on anything there.”
“I’m not counting on anything anywhere,” I told him, and his smile was sympathetic. He reached out and gave my hand an encouraging pat.
Porter returned, looking brisk and purposeful. “Amelia’s waiting for us, so we’ll go straight to the house.”
Clearly he wanted to put all this nonsense behind him.
“How did Amelia react?” Charles asked as we left the restaurant.
“She’s nervous. I’ve warned her not to expect too much.”
“And Valerie is out of the way?”
“She’s gone to bed early with one of her headaches. She’ll be safely up on the third floor in her room.”
Woman Without a Past Page 5