Woman Without a Past

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Daphne had the right idea,” he went on. “It’s best for you to get out of Charleston for a while.”

  “One way to get out would be to go home.”

  “You are home, Molly. Haven’t you begun to feel that?”

  “What I feel right now is that several people very much want me to leave, including Valerie Mountfort.”

  “I don’t think you’ll run because of that. Since I met you in New York, I’ve thought a lot about the differences between you and Amelia. You may look alike, but you’re a very different kind of woman. You’ll stay.”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I think you are. You’re not seriously afraid of Valerie, are you?”

  “I was seriously afraid of her last night.” I looked straight through the windshield, though I saw little of the route we were taking.

  “Okay, that’s understandable, but what about in the broad daylight?”

  “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to staying at Mountfort Hall.”

  Our talk had once more made me aware of the quality of his voice with its musical cadences that were very different from Garrett’s harsher northern accent. I recognized again that Charles’s speech had a special Charleston flavor and that there was no such thing as one southern accent.

  “We’re not going straight out to the plantation. There’s a place I want you to see first. It’s a favorite spot of mine. In fact, the whole family used to love coming here.”

  I knew he was being kind, but my aim was to reach Mountfort Hall and be alone. I needed thinking time. There was no way, however, to turn Charles from his course. As we drove, he told me a little about the place he wanted me to see.

  “The whole area used to be planted with rice. But when new types of long-grain came on the market, our water-grown South Carolina rice was no longer wanted. So all the rice was taken out, and water pumped in from the nearby Cooper River. Cypress trees were planted and now there are acres of beautiful cypress swamp, with walks and azalea gardens all around. Next spring I’ll bring you here when the azaleas are in bloom.”

  Next spring? I could hardly think ahead to next week.

  We turned off the main highway onto a side road that ran east for a few miles. Signs leading to Cypress Gardens appeared, and we turned in through a gateway and found the parking area.

  “Charleston’s Department of Parks now owns and operates the Gardens,” he told me. “At this hour we’ll have the place mostly to ourselves. Its isolation and loneliness are part of the charm.”

  There was nothing to do but go along with Charles’s wishes and pretend a pleasure I didn’t feel.

  We left the car windows open so Miss Kitty could be comfortable, and walked toward the water. A sloping bank led down to rowboats moored along the shore, and I looked out across the water in wonder. A smooth green film of duckweed spread as far as I could see, covering the surface so completely that no reflections showed.

  A guide was available to navigate the swamp, but Charles preferred to take our boat out himself. When he had helped me to settle onto a wooden crossbench, he took his place behind me and picked up a paddle.

  We moved smoothly away from the bank, cutting through the green skin of duckweed, so that pools of dark water appeared around the boat. As the red-painted prow pushed its way ahead, I began to relax. I had never experienced more peaceful surroundings. That sense of peace and the very loneliness that Charles had spoken of were exactly what I needed to rest my own spirit.

  Charles used his paddle so expertly that only the soft sound of its dipping broke the intense silence. Now I could let everything that worried me go for a little while. Just as Garrett had made me that lovely gift of St. Philip’s last night, so Charles was giving me this enchanted place. I would use this in some novel sometime, but for now I let the impressions of all I saw and felt become a part of me.

  Thick green water lapped so close that if I wished I could trail my fingers along its surface over the boat’s side. Silver-gray boles of cypress rose on every hand in thick, fluted ridges, and at times the boat slipped so close to a clump of trees that Charles would push us away with his paddle. The shore where we’d boarded was distant now, and even the occasional trilling of a bird seemed part of the magical silence. On ahead a long-legged blue heron stood poised on a log, watching for fish. When we drew near, he spread his enormous wings and flew off, long legs dangling. The sight took my breath away.

  “Thank you, Charles,” I said over my shoulder, whispering so as not to disturb the stillness around us.

  Charles’s paddle cut the water with hardly a sound as we slipped along toward the opposite shore. Growing out of mud on the far bank were protrusions of wood—hundreds of little stumps only a few inches high.

  He saw the direction of my interest. “Those are what they call cypress knees, Molly. Suckers from the trees run under the water and come up where it’s shallow and grow on the bank. All of those have been chopped off because the wood is prized for making lamps and clocks to sell to tourists.”

  Our boat glided into an even lonelier part of the swamp, and now some of the trees we passed bore small signs—arrows with numbers—to guide boats into the deeper channels.

  “There’s been a drought,” Charles explained, “and some of the swamp is too shallow to navigate. Boats can get stuck.”

  In spite of all the beauty around me, I wouldn’t care to be stranded out here until someone came to find us, or just happened by.

  “Look out there, Molly.” Charles pointed. “That floating log is the back and snout of an alligator. One doesn’t go swimming here.”

  The quiet through which we floated—sometimes with hardly a thrust from Charles’s paddle—gave me a sense of distance from any world I knew. A quiet greenish gloom pervaded all that lay around us. Though when I looked up to follow the pointing fingers of some tall cypress trees, I could see patches of blue sky beyond leafy clusters of green far away at the top.

  Charles rested his paddle and let the boat drift. All of my inner turmoil was gone, and I simply rested—physically and emotionally. For a little while I was safe—with all my alarms stilled.

  “Molly,” Charles said, “dear Molly.” He touched a finger to the back of my neck, lifting a strand of hair.

  I sat very still beneath his touch, not trusting either him or myself. He leaned forward and kissed my neck lightly. “Darling Molly. Do you know how I feel about you?”

  My sense of peace evaporated instantly. I bent forward, away from his touch. “No, Charles, you are not available, no!”

  “I know this is wrong, Molly, but I have to tell you how I feel. I think it began when I first saw you in New York, and couldn’t help staring. You were conscious of me too, weren’t you? To me, you were Amelia, whom I love, but you were also someone more exciting—someone unknown and tantalizing. I had to find out about this paradox. I had to bring you to Charleston to meet your real family. Not only for them and for you, but for me.”

  I had to stop him. Never mind that something in me had liked the touch of his finger, his lips.

  “Amelia is my sister.” I sounded stiff, but that didn’t matter. “I care about her, and it’s clear how much she’s in love with you.”

  “I know.” He spoke sadly, dejectedly. “I never meant for this to happen. I even resisted it at first. I love Amelia, as I have since we were children. You’re a woman and she is only a young girl. I’m not sure she will ever change. You’re not Amelia, but if you hadn’t looked so much like her that it was confusing to be with you—”

  “You’re right,” I broke in. “I’m not Amelia!”

  “I won’t be able to stop what I’m feeling, Molly.”

  “That’s your problem. As far as I’m concerned, nothing is happening! Let’s go back to your car. You can drive me to Mountfort Hall and leave me there. Then you’ll go back to Amelia, and this will
never have happened.”

  “This is happening, Molly. I don’t want to hurt Amelia, God knows. But it’s too late to stop the way I feel. We’re adults and things change.”

  He sounded sadly sure, and my resistance grew.

  “I like you, Charles, and I’m glad you brought me to Charleston. I think I’m glad. But I’m not sure who I am yet. I need you as a friend, and I don’t want to lose that.”

  He put both hands on my shoulders. “You’re trembling, Molly.”

  “I’m upset! And you aren’t listening to me!”

  “I understand your loyalty to your sister and I admire it. Even though you hardly know her, there’s a tie.”

  “Our birth ties me to Amelia, and there’s nothing that ties me to you.”

  “Don’t be too sure.” He picked up the paddle and dipped it into green water so that the boat glided ahead, causing hardly a ripple. Only when wind stirred the surface did the duckweed drift aside. Then cypress boles grew inverted downward in strange reflections that showed blue sky in dark waters.

  Charles went on. “You need time, Molly, and so do I. Too much has happened too quickly. I had to let you know how I feel. So I needed to find a place where I could tell you these things and you couldn’t run away. Here you at least had to listen to me.”

  Run away? I began to smolder. This was the old male concept of flight and pursuit. I was supposed to run, and of course he needn’t put any stock in that. It was what a woman did when confronted by a strong man who knew better than she what was best for them both. Only those ideas belonged to the age of the dodo. Some men just didn’t realize this yet.

  I knew I must stay here for a time. There were matters to be dealt with concerning my sister, my mother, and the entire mystery of why I was stolen as a baby. But a rowboat was no place for confrontation. I needed a place where I could walk away.

  Ahead on the water a small bridge curved in an arc, offering the way to our landing area. We slipped soundlessly through the mirage of a moon tunnel made by the bridge and its reflection, having come full circle from the bank where we had boarded.

  Another boat carrying visitors had thrust its prow out into the swamp. I caught the flash of a man’s red shirt amid gray boles of cypress trees. Voices reached us as the boat turned out of sight, and the green film lay undisturbed again. For me, however, this was no longer a place of serenity, and I wanted only to be where I could run, if I chose to, even though I didn’t care for that picture.

  Neither of us spoke, as Charles helped me out onto the bank, his hands careful of me—his manner tender. We walked in silence to the car, and I glanced at him only once. The glint of amusement in his eyes didn’t reassure me. I suspected that Charles Landry was a man who would wait, sure that in the end he would achieve whatever he wanted. I was beginning to feel very sorry for my sister. I could be rid of him, but what about her?

  When we got into the car, Miss Kitty woke up and mewed plaintively. I took her out of the carrier and held her in my lap as we drove back to the main highway. She purred and looked up at me with that wide, deceptively innocent gaze. Only her long tail, striking across my knees, spoke a language of its own. I found comfort in holding her small warm body, and wished I could be as content as she.

  We crossed the peninsula toward the Ashley River, and Charles continued to drive in silence. When we were once more on the wide avenue of live oaks, with the house looming at the end, he spoke to me gently, reasonably.

  “Everything will be as it was, Molly. On the surface. Only you and I will know what happened this morning. I recognize that there are difficult decisions ahead. Don’t worry about anything. Events have a way of working themselves out. Of course, I will need to talk to my mother.”

  I busied myself with putting Miss Kitty back in her carrier and didn’t answer. Perhaps his mother would be more sensible than her son.

  Orva Jackson must have seen the car from a window, for she had come out through the high Palladian doorway to greet us. I began to rearrange my thoughts. Perhaps Orva was the one I might talk to—if ever I could find a way past her careful reserve.

  12

  Please come up,” Orva invited. “Miss Evaline is fixing your room, Miss Molly. Let me carry those bags for you.”

  “Thanks, Orva,” Charles said. “I’ll take them up. I want to see where my mother has put you, Molly.”

  I handed Miss Kitty to Orva, who looked disapproving. “When Miss Honoria’s not here, this one digs her claws into furniture, knocks things over, and leaps up where she shouldn’t be. She’s like a little kid when teacher’s out of the room. Come on now, Miss Kitty. Behave yourself.”

  The little gray-and-white cat sprang out of her carrier eagerly, ran to hook her claws into the nearest tapestry chair, and stretched herself full-length. Orva slapped at her futilely, and Miss Kitty withdrew to wash her fur disdainfully, indifferent, as always, to correction.

  The guest bedrooms were on the top floor—a floor, Orva said, that I would have all to myself.

  We climbed two long flights of stairs, and I looked down the hallway to the open door at the far end.

  “Fine!” Charles approved. “This is the best room in the house, when it comes to a view, Molly.”

  He looked so pleased that I liked less and less the idea of being up here alone. Garrett Burke would be in the house only during the day, and there’d be no one around at night, except Evaline and, perhaps, Charles. I’d call Honoria and ask if she could come out for a visit while I was here.

  “It’s a beautiful room,” I said, hoping that Charles would go away.

  Instead he went to a front window and opened it. The muddy odor of the river, with its overtones of blossom scents from the land, came into the room.

  “There!” he said. “That’s our Low Country smell. You may not believe this, Molly, but you’ll miss it when you’re away.”

  Evaline Landry greeted me pleasantly, though I wondered how she would react if she knew about her son’s interest in me.

  “I like the room and the view,” I told her, “but I’m not used to such an enormous house. Do you suppose I could be given a room downstairs?”

  His mother shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Hunt, but there’s no other room I could give you. There are only family bedrooms downstairs, except for the room Mr. Burke uses. We need to keep those bedrooms for the Mountforts and the Phelpses whenever they come out.”

  Orva Jackson had remained in the doorway, and now she spoke softly.

  “If it’d make you feel better, Miss Molly, I can move into the room next to this one and stay at night for as long as you’re here.”

  “A good solution.” Evaline Landry agreed, but without enthusiasm. Clearly she felt scornful about my attitude, not given to flights of fancy herself.

  “Thank you, Orva,” I said. “I’d like that—if it doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”

  “No, ma’am. My rooms’re right down in the basement, so it’s no big fuss to move a few things up here.”

  “Then that’s settled,” Charles said. “Though I wouldn’t have expected you to be the nervous type, Molly. I’ll get back to Charleston now—unless there’s something you want me to do, Mother?”

  She shook her head, and he looked at me. “See you soon, Molly.”

  “Perhaps Orva can help you unpack,” Mrs. Landry said when he’d gone.

  I didn’t need anyone to help with the few things I’d brought, but I wanted to talk with Orva, so I said that would be fine. Mrs. Landry looked around the room one last time, wished me a pleasant stay, and went off.

  For the first time, I relaxed a little. “Do sit down, Orva. There’s nothing much to unpack, but I’ve wanted a chance to talk with you.”

  She sat down uneasily, and I tried to explain. “There’s hardly anyone I’m sure of. So many strange things have happened. But I’ve had the feeling that
I might be able to talk to you.”

  She said nothing, sitting on the edge of a chair, waiting. I wondered how far I dared go in speaking to her about Charles.

  “Something has happened, Orva, that I don’t know how to deal with. May I tell you about it?”

  She bowed her head gravely, and I caught the glint of her half-moon combs. “I guess maybe it’s Mr. Charles. I could see it coming.”

  That took me by surprise, but it was a relief to have her ahead of me. “He took me to Cypress Gardens on the way out here, Orva. It’s a beautiful place, and I loved the boat trip through the swamp. But then—” I hesitated.

  “It’s hard for him, Miss Molly. You and your sister being like two peas in a pod—yet both so different. Maybe he’s got himself all mixed up.”

  I hung my clothes in the armoire and tried to find the right words. “He cares about Amelia. I do believe that he loves her. But now he thinks he wants me, and—”

  “And whatever Mr. Charles wants, he’s used to getting. So maybe you can give him a real shock, Miss Molly. Wake him up to losing for once in his life.”

  “I don’t even want to hear what he’s saying.”

  Orva considered for a moment, looking out a window toward the river. “Maybe what you need to do is talk to Miss Evaline. He listens to her, and she’ll know how to handle this.”

  I couldn’t imagine talking about this to Charles’s mother, and Orva saw rejection in my face.

  “Never mind, Miss Molly. Miss Evaline will be watching him anyway. I’ll think about this some and we’ll talk more.”

  At least I’d shared my concern with Orva, whom I trusted and felt closer to than I did my frightening mother.

  We left the door open as we went downstairs together, and I told her I was stopping off to talk with Garrett. She gave me a warm, serene smile that was somehow healing and went downstairs. Garrett’s door was open, his typewriter clattering. I tapped on the panel and he looked around. Miss Kitty was already there—not dancing with sunbeams, but curled up asleep on a deep windowsill.