We drove to South Battery in separate cars, and turned along the park, where live oaks kept the area green the year round. The seawall along the Cooper River offered a view of the harbor, and Charles said I must come see it one day at sunset.
All along the street that fronted the park stood great white mansions built closely side by side to use every inch of waterfront ground. The Mountfort house was fronted by balconies with white balustrades, since there was not room for a generous piazza.
Charles parked his car behind Porter’s and we got out to climb wide steps that ended beneath an arched doorway.
“Amelia’s waiting for us upstairs,” Porter said, unlocking the door with his own key.
Inside, we passed a formal drawing room on the first floor, and I glimpsed a beautiful old Persian rug and graceful antique furniture and bric-a-brac. As we climbed carpeted stairs, it was not this impressive house that held my first attention. The moment of my meeting with the woman who might be my twin sister was here, and my knees felt weak.
Doors opened off a space at the top of the stairs, and Porter led the way into a generous, informal sitting room. At the front windows a woman stood with her back to us, looking out across the park toward the water.
Porter spoke to her gently and I sensed his fondness for his cousin. “Amelia, I’d like you to meet Molly Hunt, who is visiting us from Long Island.” A safe introduction.
The woman didn’t turn at once, and I knew exactly how she felt. My own heart was thumping, my emotions ready to fly frighteningly out of control. Charles touched my elbow, understanding, steadying me. When Amelia turned, I could only stare—as she stared at me. Here was no mirror image; nothing was in reverse. When other people looked at me, this was what they saw. True, Amelia’s dark hair hung long down her back, and in some subtle way—as I’d already recognized—she was more beautiful than the reflection I knew as Molly Hunt. Perhaps there seemed a serenity about her that I lacked, and a poise that came from good breeding and an old family.
We both wore blue—her dress blue-flowered, simply cut, and wide-belted in black leather. Blue bandeaux held back our fine, straight hair, and I began to feel my own identity slipping away.
It was Amelia who saved me from some foolish, jittery collapse into tears and trembling. For a moment longer she stood staring across the room at me, almost as if she feared what she might see. Then she ran toward me with a little cry of joy and put both arms around my stiff, resistant body.
I knew why I resisted. If my life in the North was to continue happily, I would need to save myself from Amelia Mountfort. Instead, I began to relax in her embrace. The outpouring of emotion between us was totally unexpected for me. This was the unreasoning, accepting love of twin for identical twin, and I knew neither of us could ever be free of the other again.
“I’ve always known I’d find you,” she whispered, her wet cheek against mine. “I’ve been afraid ever since Charles told me—afraid it was all a mistake. But the minute I saw you I knew.”
She dropped her arms and led me to a sofa covered in a pattern of pale yellow primroses. We sat side by side, my hand in Amelia’s, and she spoke to Charles and Porter with the assurance of a woman who knew her request would be obeyed.
“Please go somewhere else—both of you. My sister and I need to be alone for a little while.”
Porter might have objected—clearly he didn’t approve of this quick recognition between Amelia and me—but Charles nudged him toward the door and they went through to another part of the house.
Strangely, now that we were alone, there seemed to be nothing to say. Amelia’s hand didn’t release my own, and perhaps something of her own happy emotion began to convey itself to me. When her fingers tightened, I could return the pressure in a sort of wonderment.
“Where shall we begin?” she asked softly. “The last time we were together was in this very room, but we were babies, and now I don’t know how to get to know you.”
I made an effort to put my confusion into words. “You’ve always known you had a twin, but I grew up as an only child in another part of the country—with people I called my parents, who knew nothing about where I came from.”
“We needn’t hurry,” Amelia said gently. “We can do this a little at a time, Cecelia. I need you—I need you terribly!”
She was reaching out too far, too quickly, and I had to step back a little.
“There can’t be a bridge between us if you call me Cecelia. That’s not my name.”
“Of course it isn’t. I won’t use it again—though it’s the way I’ve always thought of you.”
How strange to have existed in her mind, in whatever her fantasies were of a real sister, when I had created a make-believe sister in my friend Polly. I envied Amelia her simple, straightforward acceptance.
She went on almost shyly. “I’ve read your books, Molly. Daphne Phelps gave them to me even before I knew who you were. I love them—and you’ll never know how often I studied that photo on the back jacket and wondered what the author was really like. Perhaps something in me was guessing, even then. You’re what I’ve always wanted to be—a successful writer.”
This, at least, was safer territory. “Charles says you’ve written a fine play that’s in rehearsal now.”
“Oh, that. It was only written for fun. And maybe mischief. I enjoyed setting Charles and Garrett in opposition to each other. Of course, I’m the heroine in the play and they’re both in love with me! Which is giving them fits. Because Charles is jealous, and Garrett isn’t even interested. Isn’t it strange that we both like to write? Oh, there’s so much to catch up on!”
I could easily be beguiled by this newly found sister, yet I was still not sure whether I should give that much of myself away.
“I can’t stay in Charleston very long—” I began, only to have the sudden alarm in her eyes stop me.
“You mustn’t say that! We’ve only just found each other. Sometimes things go too fast for me and there’s no one to talk to. It would be so wonderful to have a sister who would listen. You must feel the same way too.” I nodded cautiously and she continued. “Later, perhaps we’ll have time. Right now we must think of Mama and how this may affect her. She’s never really recovered from losing you.”
I touched Amelia’s arm to stop this flood of words. “You need to understand that I have had a mother whom I loved. And still do. She died only last year.”
Amelia seemed not to hear. “We lost our father when we were ten, Molly. I’m sorry that you can never get to know him. I was very close to him, and I’ve never stopped missing him. In a way, he belonged to me, while Mama belonged to you.”
I couldn’t listen to all this. I left my place beside her, where her very proximity troubled me, and went to stand in the middle of the room. At once she was quiet, watching me.
For the first time since I’d entered the room, I allowed myself to sense it—experience it. A room I would have grown up knowing, if it hadn’t been for the kidnapping. The soft primrose of walls and carpet seemed warm, friendly, soothing. Paintings on the walls were mostly watercolors of Charleston scenes. And of course the long bookcase with its bright jackets invited me to browse.
When I was last in this room I must have been a little over a year old. Babies have no memories—do they? So why did I have this almost comforting sense of familiarity, as though the room knew me? Its very colors must have changed many times over the years—yet there was this strange sense of recognition that was inner and emotional.
Amelia waited, watching me, and a darker feeling seemed to touch me, bringing with it an eerie chill. At once Amelia sensed the change.
“What is it, Molly? What are you feeling?”
I couldn’t explain. I just wanted to escape. I went into the small hallway, where the stairs came up on one side from the front hall below, with a narrower flight rising opposite, curving out of
sight to an upper floor. From a skylight over this second flight, evening radiance from the city beamed down upon the steps.
When Amelia came to stand beside me, I spoke quickly. “I can’t move into this house. Perhaps I’ll come back sometime for a visit, and I hope you’ll visit me up north. I have another life to return to. I met Honoria Phelps earlier today, and she thinks I mustn’t stay. Now that I’ve come here I’m sure she’s right.”
“We’ll talk again,” Amelia said softly, and I knew she hadn’t given up.
The hall space opened into a dining room, with a small balcony beyond. Through French doors I could see Charles and Porter sitting outside near the rail.
The moment he was aware of us, Charles jumped to his feet and came inside. “You’re all right, Amelia?”
His concern for her was as clear as Amelia’s joy in seeing him. With sudden clarity I knew that what Amelia felt for Charles was something very different from my quieter love for Douglas Hillyard, and in that instant I envied her. The differences between us were very great.
When we joined Porter on the balcony, his impatience showed as he spoke directly to my sister. “Well? What do you think?”
She answered with simple conviction. “Molly is my twin sister, Cousin Porter. There isn’t any doubt. Not for either of us—is there, Molly?”
I could only nod my agreement.
“I want Molly to move into this house right away,” she told him. “Please help me to persuade her.”
I suspected that Porter would do nothing of the kind, and I spoke quickly to avoid anything he might say. “That isn’t possible, Amelia. Not right now.”
“Why not, Molly?” Charles asked. “It seems like a sensible idea. If you’re going to write a book about Charleston, this would be a way to begin.” His face lighted as something occurred to him. “Amelia, let’s take her out to Mountfort Hall tomorrow. That’s a first important step, don’t you think?”
Before I could manage a further protest, he hurried on, and somehow the arrangements were out of my hands.
“You must meet my mother, Molly,” he said. “And of course you must see some of that wonderful history that is yours too.”
“I come from Long Island, New York,” I told them quietly—and realized for the first time that I knew nothing about my history. I’d always accepted this, but now I felt a strange longing to know all that had never touched me before.
Amelia waved my words aside. “That’s a wonderful idea, Charles! I must go to a meeting at our Historical Society tomorrow morning, but you two can drive out to the Hall early, and I’ll get away to join you there for lunch. Will you let Evaline know we’re coming? Evaline Landry is Charles’s mother, Molly, and I know she’ll be happy to give us lunch.”
Porter looked displeased, and I suspected that he wasn’t accustomed to having his wishes ignored. For once, Amelia and Charles seemed to be out of hand, and he didn’t like this at all.
By now I knew that there would be no use in my saying that I’d prefer to go home tomorrow. The curious sensation I’d experienced in the primrose room still unsettled me. It was as though some time warp that had lasted only seconds had shaken up my entire sense of reality.
At least, now that everything had been decided, I could relax and give in to the tide that was sweeping me along. That the shore ahead might be rocky was not something I could cope with now.
From my balcony chair I looked out over the dusky garden that spread below us behind the house. This space of shrubbery and flowering trees ran through to the next street and was gently illumined by lights at the far end. The sea-scented breeze and the fragrance of gardens were Charleston as it must have been for centuries, and it could make one forget the cars driving by just beyond the garden walls.
This was no high-rise city. Rooftops were only two or three stories high, with a few cupolas and church steeples overlooking the rest.
Charles pointed out St. Michael’s and St. Philip’s—both Charleston landmarks, their spires illuminated.
As I sat there in the dim light close to Amelia, I could feel myself begin to surrender my individual and independent self. We were more like one—as identical twins must surely be. But if I accepted this, then I must begin to ask questions. How had I been stolen? And what about the mother I still hadn’t met, and whom everyone seemed to be protecting? What would Valerie Mountfort and I feel toward each other? And why did Porter Phelps seem determined to keep us apart?
“When is our mother to be told?” I asked abruptly.
None of them answered, but I sensed the underlying uneasiness.
Before I could insist on a response, something happened that startled us all. At a sound from the room behind, we turned, and Amelia gasped in dismay. I saw that a beautiful woman in a long robe the color of marigolds stood in the opening of French doors. A scent of roses clung to her and wafted toward us more eloquently than the garden scents. When she saw me she raised a shocked hand to one cheek and her blue eyes widened. There was no question as to who she was, and a sense of something like terror rose in me. If Valerie Mountfort rejected me, then who was I? I could only stare at her in that moment of silence.
I could see her clearly in the light from the dining room, and there seemed few lines on her smooth skin. She was still slender, and unlike Amelia and me, she was very fair. Her long pale hair hung in a braid down her back, and a lacy frill of white nightgown showed at her throat.
“I—I heard voices,” she faltered, staring at me uncertainly.
“Mama!” Amelia cried, and I heard desperation in her voice.
Charles said, “Val, dear, this is your other daughter. She has come back to you.”
As she faltered in the doorway, Porter moved swiftly and caught her as she crumpled. He picked her up, his anger directed at the rest of us. He carried her into the sitting room, where he lowered her gently to the long sofa with its pale yellow blooms that matched her fair hair.
Amelia ran to kneel beside her mother and then looked up at Charles and me. “Do something!” she cried.
Valerie’s color had turned ashen. Long fair lashes touched her cheeks, and from her parted lips came the sound of faint breathing.
“Let me.” A voice spoke from the doorway, and I looked around at Honoria Phelps—a tiny figurine, whose only use, surely, would be to decorate a shelf. But she came quickly across the room, already in charge. She pushed Amelia aside and sat on the edge of the sofa beside Valerie. When she had rubbed her palms together briskly until they almost crackled with electricity, she placed them near Valerie’s temples and closed her eyes.
No one in the room spoke or moved. In a few moments Valerie looked up into her face and sighed deeply. Honoria whispered reassuringly, though we couldn’t hear her words.
“Honoria knew,” Porter marveled. “She always knows when she’s needed.”
It was Valerie Mountfort, however, returning from an experience that had shocked her into unconsciousness, who held my full attention. The scent of roses seemed heavy in the room, and I remembered that the fragrance of roses had always made me feel sad. Perhaps now I knew why.
I looked deeply into the eyes of this woman who was my mother, and she looked as deeply into mine. I couldn’t speak or move. When her rejection came, I felt a little sick.
“No!” Valerie Mountfort said, her voice perfectly strong now. “This isn’t my darling lost Cecelia.”
4
Honoria looked around at us and stood up. “Which one of you is going to explain?”
“I will.” Amelia hurried to take Honoria’s place beside her mother, and held Valerie’s hands in hers. Watching her, I was aware of a deep love on Amelia’s part.
For myself, I felt only numb. What had happened didn’t really matter—or so I tried to tell myself as I listened to Amelia explaining how Charles had found me in New York, and brought me here.
When she finished, Valerie’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” she told me. “It was such a shock.” She held out her hand in apology. “Of course you must be Amelia’s twin.”
She didn’t claim me as her daughter, however, and I took her hand reluctantly. Her first rejection of me had seemed more real than these easy tears.
She must have sensed my hesitation, for she drew her hand back quickly, and for an instant flashed me a look that I couldn’t interpret. A look that seemed more than rejection—even something as strong as hostility. Then she looked away and I could hardly believe what I’d glimpsed.
Once more, it was Honoria who saved the moment. “Look, Val, honey, you’ve just had a shock. And I’m sure that Molly has had nothing but shocks since she’s come here. So let’s turn off all the emotion until tomorrow. You belong in bed, Valerie, and so does Molly.”
Valerie allowed herself to be drawn to her feet by Honoria’s small, strong hands, while Amelia hovered anxiously. Before she went into the hall, however, leaning on Honoria’s shoulder, Valerie looked back at me again.
There seemed no rejection now, no hostility, but only a questioning.
“It shouldn’t have happened like this,” Charles said when they had gone upstairs. “Never mind—it can’t be helped now. Let me take you back to the inn, Molly. Honoria is right. You need to rest.”
All of Porter’s attention seemed to be focused on listening intently for any sound from the floor above. He hardly noticed as I took my leave, and I was thankful to put myself in Charles’s hands.
We went out to his car and drove through dark streets that were quiet and nearly empty. Rows of closely packed houses crowded the sidewalk, or gave way in a block or two to single and double houses, their side piazzas overlooking gardens. I felt as though I moved in a dream and none of this were real. Only that look Valerie Mountfort had first given me was real, and could not be erased by her later apology and tears.
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