Voices reached us suddenly through the open windows and I heard the clanging sound of metal striking metal. Honoria ran into the hall toward the land side of the house, and the cat and I followed her. When I stood beside her in the porch enclosure a story above the door on the land side, I could look down on the front lawn.
Beyond the driveway two men were engaged in what I hoped was a mock duel—though the fury with which they thrust at each other was hardly reassuring. Charles had the skill to parry Garrett’s attacks, though Garrett was using his untrained strength in a not ineffective way. Charles looked both grim and angry, while Garrett appeared to be enjoying himself. I heard his shout of triumph as Charles’s sword went flying out of his hand.
Honoria called down to them. “That’s terrible! That’s not the way Amelia wrote the duel scene in her play—or the way I’ve directed it! Oh dear, I think Charles is hurt.”
Charles appeared to be nursing one hand as he scowled at Garrett, who was still laughing. Honoria ran inside and down the stairs, and again I followed. Miss Kitty, uninterested in all this human passion, stayed behind.
When we came out through the lower door, Honoria sped down the right-hand flight of steps to the ground where Garrett was already apologizing good-naturedly.
“Sorry, Charles, I know that wasn’t in the script. I promise to let you kill me the next time!”
Honoria, tiny and furious, scolded both men, while I stood on the steps and watched in astonishment. Charles, in shirtsleeves and fawn trousers, looked as tall and slender and elegant as a southern aristocrat out of an old novel. Garrett, on the other hand, was stocky and plebeian, and obviously belonged to the present—yet there was something strange about him, something unreadable.
“You were showing off, Garrett!” Honoria scolded. “Unless you accept Charles’s thrust and carry out the duel as it’s been planned, how can you come back from the spirit world in the next act? Stop fooling around and play your part as Amelia has written it!”
This was major miscasting, I thought. Not for a moment could I see Garrett Burke returning as a spirit. The need for a northern accent had done them all in.
Garrett apologized all over again, still sounding lighthearted, and promised to behave himself from now on.
Honoria turned her back on him and went to Charles. “You’ve hurt your wrist, haven’t you?”
Charles flexed his fingers. “It was numb for a few moments. Garrett nearly broke it when he struck my sword, but I’ll be all right in a minute.”
“It’s probably a sprain,” Honoria told him. “Come inside and let me bandage it. Molly, why don’t you take a walk down to the river, and I’ll join you later.”
“I’ll show you the way,” Garrett offered, and came with me without waiting for me to accept.
We followed the herringbone-patterned brick path down a bank and along the river’s edge toward a landing. Was this the dock, I wondered, from which Nathanial Amory had rowed out on that fateful day?
A marble bench under the branches of live oak offered a spot of shade, and we sat down on its cool surface.
“Do you know when Nathanial Amory died?” I asked Garrett.
He looked startled, but answered readily enough. “I believe it was a few months after the kidnapping.”
A good many years ago for Honoria to be carrying a torch. How unfaithful could one be with a ghost?
“Why do you want to know?” Garrett asked. He was studying me in the same absorbed way that he’d done in the bookstore, and it made me uncomfortable. I’d have preferred to sit quietly by the river alone.
“I suppose I’m curious about everything that concerns Mountfort Hall,” I said carefully. “And Honoria was just telling me about Nathanial.”
“And his haunting of the bedroom?”
I didn’t want to discuss this. “How did you come to be interested in Mountfort Hall?”
Garrett persisted. “Have you met the spirit that Honoria communes with?”
“I’ve met Miss Kitty,” I said evasively.
He laughed. “All right, I’ll answer your question first. When I came down south, I got a job on a Charleston paper and became interested in doing a piece on Mountfort Hall. I did a lot of research and talked to everyone, including Porter Phelps. He liked the article when it was published and asked me to consider working with him on his own history of Mountfort. I jumped at the chance and I’ve been working out here ever since.”
Simple enough, yet I wondered if there was anything he might be leaving out. “Why did you knock that sword out of Charles’s hand? You have to admit that was pretty aggressive.”
“I suppose because of his arrogance. He was so sure of his skill and my ignorance. What I did was hardly good fencing. That’s two questions for you. Tell me now what you think of Honoria and her talents.”
“I like her,” I admitted. “At first she warned me to leave—it was a bit spooky. But now she seems to feel that my being here is of great importance.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he said enigmatically and changed the subject. “They’ll invite you to stay for the wedding, of course. Since you’re family. That is, if those two actually make it to the altar.”
“Why haven’t they married before this?”
“Who knows? Charles’s mother seems more enthusiastic than Valerie, but no one’s standing in their way. Perhaps Amelia needs you, Molly.”
This man had too many sides to keep up with. He sounded kind now and concerned for Amelia. But I still didn’t trust him.
“How can she need me?”
“She seems afraid of something. Can’t you sense it when you’re with her? Perhaps she’ll tell you what’s troubling her.” We stared at each other for a moment and then he changed the subject again. “Molly, are you coming to the rehearsal tonight?”
“It might be fun. Perhaps I can come with Amelia.”
He was silent for a few moments, and I made up my mind that I would certainly go to the rehearsal.
“I’ve just finished reading your new book, Molly Hunt,” he said out of nowhere.
I could think of no comment and I waited.
“You’re a good writer except when it comes to your hero. I think you could have done better there.”
“I’m not writing for men,” I said stiffly. “Women readers seem to enjoy my books.”
“Sure—Mr. Rochester and good old Heathcliff are always popular. But not exactly up to date.”
I hadn’t asked for his criticism and I didn’t want it. I could feel him watching me for a response, and I stared straight ahead at the flowing river.
“You might consider Harry Lime as a beginning model in your next book,” he said mildly. “It’s useful to get a new springboard occasionally.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You remember the movie The Third Man, don’t you?”
“Of course. Orson Welles played Harry Lime. A thoroughly despicable villain.”
“Right. That was well established before Harry ever showed his face. Orson Welles was on-screen for about six minutes—and we never forget Harry Lime. He was pretty rotten, yes—but he was a mixed bag. There were characters in the movie who loved him, no matter what. If you’re not going to use real-life models for your next hero, you could do worse than let Harry Lime spark your imagination. Or maybe you just need to think of Orson Welles.”
I felt disconcerted and resentful, and aware that he was still watching me. When I looked at him he was smiling, not unkindly.
“I’ve just attacked your youngest child, haven’t I, Molly? Believe me, as a writer I know the feeling. But we all have to learn how to take criticism with our minds, not our emotions. Think about Harry—without the evil. You might find a whole new road to your next hero.”
“But there isn’t any Harry Lime without the evil.
”
“Don’t we all have a dark side? Rochester and Heathcliff certainly did—that’s part of their appeal. But isn’t it time for a different kind of hero?”
Before I could answer, Charles hailed us, waving his bandaged hand.
Garrett stood up. “I’d better get back to work. Don’t let them get to you, Molly. The Mountforts tend to swallow people up, and Charles is so close to them he’s one of the clan.”
It wasn’t the Mountforts who had upset me and I was glad to be free of Garrett’s company. As he climbed toward the house, he exchanged a few words in passing with Charles. I couldn’t hear what they said, but Charles didn’t look happy.
However, by the time he reached me he seemed so pleased to see me that my irritation with Garrett subsided.
“Amelia’s car is coming up the driveway,” he told me. “I’d hoped to have more time to show you around, but this damage to my hand threw me off. Mother says we can come right in to lunch as soon as you and Amelia are ready.”
When we reached the far side of the house, Amelia was getting out of her car, and she ran happily into Charles’s embrace. When he’d kissed her warmly, she held out both hands to me.
“Hello, Molly. Isn’t Mountfort Hall wonderful? Are you beginning to get the feeling that you belong here?”
“It’s beautiful and fascinating,” I agreed. “I’ve been learning a little about its history.” Belonging, however, was a long way off for me.
Evaline Landry had opened the formal dining room for us. As hostess, she sat at the head of the table, with me on her right and Amelia on her left. Garrett didn’t join us, so there were only Charles and Honoria to fill out the five places that were set.
Now I could note a few more details about the room. Here the Chinese rug was of lustrous gold, green, and dark blue, and of more recent vintage than the beautifully faded orientals. The mahogany sideboard, with its brass drawer pulls, displayed pieces of heavy silver—a tray and an elaborate coffee service. Draperies at the long windows were of dark green brocade that seemed heavy for weather that was already warming. Upstairs, preparations for hot weather had been made, with lighter curtains and cool slipcovers. In this room, formality would probably prevail the year round, since it was shown to visitors.
A Chinese bowl filled with freshly picked magnolia blossoms made a centerpiece that perfumed the room. Fireplace and mantel were of delicately veined white marble, while the walls carried a silvery tone. All around the moldings an intricate design of scrollwork had been carved in the plaster.
Still looking around, my eye was caught by a corner cabinet where several shelves displayed tiny porcelain figures. Dresden shepherdesses, coquettish little milkmaids, farm maidens—all perfect in every colored detail.
Amelia saw my interest. “That’s Cousin Porter’s collection. You must really examine it sometime.”
I glanced at Honoria and saw that she was watching me with a wry expression. The thought struck me that perhaps Honoria, too, was a miniature that Porter had collected. Not that I would have expected this of him from my slight acquaintance. He was much more in character as the retired bank president. But why shouldn’t a bank president collect miniatures?
“Perhaps you’ll put Mountfort Hall into your story, Molly,” Charles said.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “I write mystery stories—I’d hate to disturb this beautiful place with evil doings.”
Honoria caught up my words. “Do you think a house as old as this one hasn’t known terror and crime and death? Nothing you could invent can match what has really happened here. There’s always been the same old struggle between good and evil.”
I thought of the music room across the hall, where Simon Mountfort had died, and I wondered if I could ever match in fiction the ominous quality that haunted that room. Too many of my questions had gone unasked or had been evaded, and I wondered if a direct challenge might startle someone into giving me some answers.
“I met one of your ghosts this morning,” I said, not looking at Honoria.
The sudden silence, the arrested attention, startled me. I had certainly touched a sensitive nerve. For a few seconds the room hushed completely. Then the moment of crisis was saved, or at least postponed, by the appearance of one of the black servants who worked at Mountfort Hall.
She carried a silver tureen of black-bean soup that she set before Evaline Landry. The servingwoman’s manner, while self-effacing, was one of quiet, confident belonging, and my interest was immediately caught. I wondered if her ancestors might have been slaves at Mountfort Hall in the days before the War.
She was striking in appearance—tall and rather angular, her dark skin evidence of purity of blood. Graying hair, cut short and full, had been drawn back and held in place with two gold half-moon combs. Tiny gold hoop earrings were fastened in pierced ears. She wore a light gray uniform, and the combs and earrings were her only decorative touches. She moved to serve us with an easy grace and the skill of long experience. I didn’t believe her self-effacing manner, however, and suspected that she had been a part of this family for so long that she would miss nothing of interest. There was no doubt that the family knew this as well, since no one commented on my small bombshell as long as the woman was in the room.
At some point she must have become aware of my interest in her, for she raised her eyes and met mine across the table. She knew instantly who I was. I caught the shock of her recognition, and suddenly knew that no one had told her of my coming.
“Thank you, Orva,” Evaline Landry said, and picked up her soupspoon. The black woman went quietly from the room, turning once to look at me again.
The moment she was gone, Amelia followed up on my remark about the ghost. “You’ve actually met Nathanial, Molly? What fun! What did he have to say?”
I sipped a spoonful of soup before answering—and choked over the burning sensation in my mouth and throat.
“Oh dear!” Honoria said. “We should have warned you. Drink some water, Molly.”
Mrs. Landry smiled. “I didn’t think it worth mentioning. If Miss Hunt is a Mountfort, she must get used to our Low Country dishes. It’s only a matter of educating her palate.”
I drank several swallows of ice water. “I don’t think I’ll be here long enough for that. Amelia, I didn’t actually meet Nathanial. He communicated through Honoria and seemed full of warnings that I didn’t understand. I expect Honoria will need to interpret.”
I’d spoken lightly, and Honoria shook her head at me. “None of Nathanial’s words were in fun, Molly. I am only the channel through which he speaks, but I know how serious he is. However, he hasn’t made it clear to me exactly what he wants of me—or of Molly.”
Charles sighed. “Here we go again! What can Molly possibly do about the past?”
“She is a part of the past, even though she was too young to have any memory of this family or her kidnapping,” Honoria persisted. “Nathanial evidently thinks she has an important role to play now.”
“Let’s not go off the deep end,” Charles said. “Don’t worry about any of this, Molly. It’s all ancient history.”
But I found myself interested in ancient history. “If Nathanial drowned,” I said, “how was his body recovered?”
Again there seemed a stricken pause. Evaline Landry rang a small silver bell at her place, summoning Orva and preventing any answer to my question. They were all in this together, I thought in annoyance. And they didn’t want me to have answers—in spite of their apparent acceptance of me as Amelia’s twin.
If the black woman sensed a self-conscious silence, she gave no sign as she directed a young woman to take away our plates on a big tray. She herself brought in a platter of chicken, dumplings, and hot corn bread.
Honoria began to chat about the wonderful weather we were having—not too hot yet—so that the inconsequential took over our conversation. For
me, the meal seemed much too heavy, and I nibbled at my fresh salad, which was kinder to my tongue than black-bean soup.
Not until Orva had left us alone did Mrs. Landry return to my question, which had been left hanging in the air.
“Your mother found the body, Miss Hunt,” she told me quietly.
At once Honoria flew into words. “It was so terrible! We didn’t even know that Nathanial was missing! River currents brought his body to the bank and swept it under pilings down at the dock. A storm had come up and Nathanial was caught there, instead of being swept out into the river again. After the sky cleared, Valerie went down to walk out on the dock and look at the sunset. So she was the one who found him, I’m glad I was away from the house at the time and missed the whole terrible discovery.”
Anguish sounded under her excitement, and Amelia put out a hand to quiet her. “Don’t, Cousin Honoria. You know you get upset thinking about this. It happened so long ago—you ought to be able to forget.”
“Nathanial won’t let me forget,” Honoria said, though she sounded quieter now.
“All of this happened years ago, when Amelia was a child. It can’t matter now,” Charles said coolly.
“What was Nathanial Amory like?” I asked. “Was he a good tutor?”
“I didn’t get along too well with him,” Charles said ruefully.
“That’s because you were a little monster.” I suspected that his mother wasn’t teasing. “You never did anything anyone told you to, so Mr. Amory had his hands full. But he was a good teacher, and you learned in spite of yourself.”
Honoria skipped over all this and spoke to me. “Nathanial was a gentle, thoughtful man—intelligent and gifted. He would have published more of his poetry—if only he’d sent it out. But he never thought it was good enough. His notebook, in which he kept poems and a journal, disappeared after his death. I suppose someone thought it valueless and threw it away. Fortunately, a few of his poems were privately published and I have those.”
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