The Rebellious Twin

by Shirley Kennedy

  The man was much too forceful. She should nudge Donegal and ride away. That would show him. But somehow she didn’t want to do that. On the other hand, she hated to be told what to do. She’d had enough of that at home. “I do not like being ordered about.”

  “Do tell.” With an exaggerated bow, Stormont declared, “My deepest apologies, madam, for not having the sensitivity to perceive that you are an independent young woman who thinks for herself.” With an irresistibly devastating grin he regarded her. “Now, get off your horse, or shall I lift you down?”

  “My, my, so masterful!” With a laugh she slid from Donegal, not minding in the least she had capitulated. A thickness of tall oak and hornbeam trees, Hawthorne bushes, green grass and buttercups edged the trail where they had stopped. A fallen log lay in thick grass mixed with periwinkles and forget-me-nots. Laughing, they made their way to the log and sat down.

  Arranging her riding skirt about her, Clarinda asked, “Now tell me what you wanted to talk to me about. I cannot imagine what it could be, especially since you know I’m supposed to stay away from you.” Apprehensively, she looked around. “I could be in a great deal of trouble if we’re seen together.”

  He looked puzzled. “I know they took your horse away, but there’s more?”

  With reluctance, she related all the ways she was being punished for her supposed shocking transgression with Lord Cranmer. When she finished, she was tempted to tell Stormont about her sister’s plans to capture him, but decided she could not because that would be disloyal. He most certainly deserved to know, though. Rissa didn’t know how lucky she was not to have her predatory plans revealed.

  She was startled when Stormont asked suspiciously, “Does Rissa have anything to do with this?”

  She gave Stormont an impish smile, determined to dodge the issue. “What does it matter? Rissa and I are so alike you would be as happy with one of us as the other.”

  “You’re being absurd again,” Stormont answered with a frown, not in the least sharing her humor.

  Clarinda said bluntly, “Don’t forget, Rissa has liked you from the beginning, whereas I started out not liking you very well.”

  “Because I was making off with Hollyridge’s horses, as I recall.”

  “Yes, and because you bought Donegal, only now…” She could not help a slight grin. “Now that I’ve thought about it, I’m grateful to you for letting me ride him.”

  “Does this mean I’m totally forgiven?” he said with a gleam of devilment in his eye.

  She looked down her nose at him. “Not entirely.”

  “Crushed again!” he said lightly, then turned serious. He took her hand in his and looked her square in the eye. “I liked kissing you yesterday at the stables. Take warning, I have plans to do it again.”

  “That’s honest enough,” she answered, “but if you’re so inclined, why don’t you go kiss Rissa? I said we were exactly the same, didn’t I? Well, I was wrong.” From under her long lashes she glanced at him mischievously. “We’re not entirely the same. She likes you more than I do.”

  “Stop throwing Rissa at me,” Robert said, bridled anger in his voice.

  “Sorry.” She knew she’d gone too far.

  Appeased, Robert continued, “Yesterday you said you were in mourning for another. I want to know what in blazes you meant by that.”

  “I don’t have to tell you every little thing,” she protested, then, chagrined, caught herself. That sounded sickeningly coquettish, just like Rissa. He was looking at her, patiently waiting, as if he knew she would soon come to her senses and act like a reasoning adult. “All right, but what I shall tell you is in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course.”

  With a little sigh, Clarinda told Robert of her deep, abiding love for Jeffrey.

  When she finished, Robert was stony-faced and silent. Finally, “You two were not betrothed?”

  She hesitated, reluctant to admit the truth. “Actually he was betrothed to Rissa.”

  “Indeed? I should like to know how that came about, but I shan’t pry.” Something lively sparked in Stormont’s eyes. “So did your handsome poet ever kiss you?”

  “Once,” she grudgingly admitted.

  “Then tell me, was it a brotherly kind of kiss, or was it … shall we say, similar to the one you received yesterday morning?”

  Clarinda tried to keep her composure, but she could feel herself blushing. Ignoring it, she fluttered her eyelids in a Rissa-like manner and asked, “Was I kissed yesterday? If so, I have completely forgotten.”

  He gripped her shoulders in a movement so swift she gasped. “You haven’t forgotten,” he told her, purpose gleaming in his eyes. “You’ve been thinking a good deal about it, as have I.”

  “I have not!”

  “Then it appears I must refresh your memory.”

  A devilish smile played on Stormont’s face as he drew her closer. She knew she should push him away, and she most definitely would, in just a minute, but for now his masculine nearness was overwhelming. A delightful shiver of wanting ran through her. She must push him away, and soon, but right now she wanted very much for him to kiss her again. Then she thought, Jeffrey. I can’t do this. Shaking her head, she placed her palm on Stormont’s chest and pushed hard. “No, please don’t,” she said.

  *

  Her heart thumping madly, Rissa stepped into the musty-smelling bottom floor room of the gatehouse and looked about. Empty. What a relief! No bats, no skeletons. There was just a big, empty room, dimly lit by thin shafts of light from small slits in the wall far above. Nothing stood on the rotting wooden floor or hung from the gray stone walls.

  A rough, uneven, narrow stone stairway was built against the wall, leading to the second story high above. Fearful again, Rissa climbed the stairs and found another locked door, smaller this time, at the top. She chose the smaller key, inserted it, and heard the bolt snap back. She pushed the door and nothing happened. Again, she had to shove her shoulder against it. The harsh sound of creaking hinges grated against her eardrums as, finally, it opened. When it was wide, a whiff of feted air greeted her as she stepped inside, to a room in which the only light came from the high, slitted windows.

  In the dimness she could see the room was not empty. Her pulse quickened at the sight of crates stacked around the wall. Surely the fortune was inside. She hastened to the nearest crate, pulled the top off easily, and peered in. There was something … what was it? Why had she not thought to bring a lamp or candle? Finally in the faint light she could make out rolled canvases. Paintings? She picked one up, laid it on the floor and partially unrolled it, to where a nude woman lying in a prone position came into view. Well, really. How could anyone possibly be interested in a big-bellied woman with no clothes on, all stretched out with her hand behind her head? The woman was sort of smiling, looking as if she thought she had something to show off, which she most certainly did not. Rissa checked the corner that had some kind of signature. Reuben, it looked like, whoever he was. Oh, well. Was this all there was? She unrolled a few more canvases, plucking them from the various crates. There was a dreary painting by someone named Van Eyck; a dark portrait of a sour-faced old lord signed by someone called Reynolds; some engravings by another name she’d never heard of, William Hogarth. Aside from more nude women — all of them fat and displaying themselves in a disgusting manner, there were paintings of pretty flowers, landscapes and the like, all signed with artists’ names she did not recognize, and no wonder. She had paid little attention when she and Clarinda took lessons in art. Clarinda had been interested, but she, Rissa, had drifted unhearing through the lessons, daydreaming about more important things like gowns and coiffeurs, and beaux. How disappointing! All this effort for nothing except some stupid old paintings. Even if they were worth something, which she highly doubted, there would be no way in the world she could dispose of them in secret, all by herself.

  Was there nothing more? She looked around. In the middle of the room stood an extra
ordinary stone table, supported by stone fauns carrying buckets of fruit. On the table sat what looked like a gilded jewelry casket. It wasn’t large, but it was her last hope. As she walked toward it, she fancied a cache of gold, silver, diamonds, pearls, rubies.

  The casket had a rounded top hinged at the back. It was not locked. Rissa pushed the top back and eagerly peered inside. How disappointing. There was nothing inside except several pages of aged-looking parchment covered with a fine handwriting in — she peered closer — of all things, French. “This isn’t fair,” she cried aloud. Her words echoed back to her from the cold stone walls, ringing tauntingly in her ears.

  She grabbed the papers and came close to throwing them across the room. Nothing to be gained from that, though. Her next impulse was to simply leave them behind, but she was curious. She couldn’t read them here, there was not enough light. Even if there were, she would have to take them home to translate. Like every refined young lady of the Polite World, she was supposed to know French, but unfortunately, her grasp of the language was abysmal. She wished now she hadn’t daydreamed her way through all those boring French lessons.

  The papers tucked in the bosom of her dress, Rissa left the tower, after straining to close and lock the heavy oak doors behind her so that no one would ever know she’d been there. All that effort for nothing! There was a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach as she led Dublin to the handy stump of a beech tree. Not without a struggle, she hoisted herself back atop the horse, grateful no one was around to witness such an awkward spectacle. This was all Lord Westerlynn’s fault, she thought resentfully as she started toward home. What had the old fool been thinking of when he called a bunch of musty old paintings a fortune?

  Halfway to Graystone Hall, Rissa saw two horses ahead of her, tied to tree branches beside the path. She halted Dublin and heard laughter coming from somewhere close. One of the horses looked like Donegal. The other — was it Stormont’s?

  The thought froze her brain.

  Clarinda had promised she would keep her distance from Lord Stormont. Well, she hadn’t exactly promised, but Rissa had made it clear she wanted Stormont for herself. How dare Clarinda! But perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps those horses belong to someone else.

  A burning curiosity overcame her. She had to know.

  Her first thought was to simply ride right up to Stormont and Clarinda, if indeed it was they, and confront them. But after further thought, she decided a much better plan would be to sneak up and see whatever there was to see. She slipped from Dublin — such folly! how would she ever get back up again? — led him off the path and tied his reins to a tree. Moving stealthily through the thick brush and brambles that bordered the path, she drew close, stopped and listened. Nothing. She drew closer, grateful the foliage was heavy here, and peered through the thick branches of a Hawthorne bush.

  Shock flew through her. There they were — Stormont and her dear twin — sitting upon a log, and he was trying to kiss her, but she was saying something that sounded like, “No, please don’t,” and pulling away. “I must go,” Rissa clearly heard Clarinda say. “We must meet again,” Stormont replied.

  “I cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not. And besides, I am not ready for this.” Clarinda stood and gazed down at him. “You should not have kissed me this morning.”

  “Do tell.” Stormont appeared unperturbed. “I must leave for London tomorrow, then on to my home in Kent. While I am gone, give some thought to your dear, departed Jeffrey. Ask yourself if you really want to spend the rest of your life mourning for a man who preferred your sister.”

  “How calloused!” she cried.

  He stood quickly and was on her like a cat, gripping her arms. “Can Jeffrey warm your bed at night?” He shook her slightly, his head bent, his face only inches from hers. “Can he make your pulse race? Can his kiss make you burn for his touch?

  “Get away!” Clarinda called, her fists beating on his chest. “Can’t you see, my heart belongs to Jeff — “

  Her words were smothered by his mouth, which came down on hers so hungrily Rissa heard her sister give a whimper. Rissa watched, transfixed, as Stormont continued the kiss with barbaric fervor, and Clarinda — oh, this was hard to believe! — continued her struggle to get away. Just watching, Rissa felt a wild swirl in the pit of her stomach. She could almost feel her own mouth burning with the fire kindled by Stormont’s unleashed passion. Clarinda, you’re a fool, she thought, as from a distance she felt her own limbs tremble as Stormont’s hands slid upward, ever upward, from Clarinda’s waist until they pressed against the sides of her breasts. I surrender, Robert, I am yours, she silently called. His touch sang through her veins. She could scarcely believe it when Clarinda broke from the kiss to declare, “Please, enough!” and Stormont let her go and backed away.

  The two stood staring at one another, the only sound coming from Stormont’s heavy, uneven breathing. At last he bowed and said lightly, “My apologies. Again I seem to have gotten carried away.”

  Clarinda appeared dazed and shaken, unable to say a word.

  “Upon my return, I want to see you again,” Stormont declared.

  “I don’t think I — ” Clarinda began in a weak voice, but Stormont interrupted.

  “Think about it while I am gone. I shall be back the Saturday before Christmas. Meet me Sunday morning, early — the stables at Hollyridge.”

  Still sounding as if she was in a daze, Clarinda repeated, “The Sunday before Christmas — early — the stables at Hollyridge.”

  “Don’t forget,” Stormont admonished as he swung onto his horse. “Good day, Clarinda.” With an amused twinkle in his eye, he touched his hand to his forehead in a mock salute and rode away.

  Swiftly, practically reeling from the stunning sight, Rissa retreated as silently as she could and returned to where she had tethered Dublin. Shock yielded quickly to fury. How dare they! she thought over and over again as she stood off the path, hidden behind a tree, silently waiting until she looked down the path and Clarinda and her horse were gone.

  At least they hadn’t seen her.

  To further compound her ire, Rissa could not find another tree stump to climb upon so she could get back atop her horse. On foot, leading Dublin, she walked the rest of the distance to Graystone Hall, her thoughts alternating between anger that she had to walk, and rage at her sister. Clarinda would pay for this. How, she wasn’t sure yet, but without doubt her twin would live to regret this act of treachery.

  And there was something else to occupy her mind…

  Rissa pressed a hand to her bosom. Good. The keys and papers were still there. Translating from French would be an arduous task, but she simply must grit her teeth and do it. She could hardly wait to find out what secrets, if any, those pages in French revealed about Sara Sophia.

  As for what to do about Clarinda, that would require some thought. Best not to reveal she had seen her sister in the arms of Stormont, although keeping her silence would not be easy. Her impulse was to vent her rage at Clarinda, then tell their parents, who would surely, and at long last, dispense the ultimate punishment. But what of Stormont? How deeply did he care for Clarinda? Might he not go after her if she was sent away?

  There had to be a better way.

  An idea began to form in Rissa’s head. If it worked, not only could she wreak revenge, she could cool that fiery passion she had witnessed between Stormont and her sister. Their romance would turn as cold as the ice on the Northern Sea.

  If she carried through with her plan, it would be tricky, downright daring, but if it worked, what sweet revenge.

  *

  Thoughts of Robert Stormont kept crowding Clarinda’s mind. All day, and now into the evening, she had thought of nothing but their encounter, feeling her heart swell whenever she thought of that long, passionate kiss he had given her while they were sitting on the log. She caught her breath, just remembering the warmth of his hands through her dress, how they had start
ed at her waist, then slid slowly upward…

  Strange. He had been the one to break away.

  A quick knock on the door. Estelle entered. “M’lady, what are you wearing for dinner this evening?”

  She had totally forgotten, thanks to Lord Stormont. But this was a surprise. Usually Rissa was the one to chose, and she, not caring, merely went along with her sister’s choice. “What does Lady Rissa want to wear?”

  “Lady Rissa ees working at her desk and does not weesh to be disturbed.”

  “Are you sure?” Rissa hated to read, hated to write. Up to now, her lovely harlequin desk was mainly just for show.

  Estelle rolled her eyes. “Mon Dieu! I swear eet’s true. For the last hour she has been pouring over a French-to-English dictionary, translating some document on parchment.”

  “What could it be?” Clarinda asked.

  “She wouldn’t let me see.”

  Clarinda rose purposefully from the settee. “I shall be right back.”

  *

  The minute Rissa had returned home, she hurried to the classroom that had once been hers and Clarinda’s, but was now Alexander’s. Rummaging through stacks of books, she finally found the tattered copy of a French-English dictionary. Griping it tightly, she hastened to her bed chamber, straight to her desk, where with prodigious effort, and much looking-up of words, she translated the letter. After she was done, she shook her head, hardly believing the astounding words she had just put into English. Gingerly she picked up the letter. Unbelievable! Whoever would have guessed? She would read it again, just in case she had been dreaming.

  *

  To my dearest Sara Sophia,

  It is with a heavy heart that I must leave you this sad missive. Collette, my faithful lady’s maid sits by my bed, writing my words down as I speak, for I, too weak to lift my hand from the counterpane, am deathly ill, not likely to recover. But before I depart this earth, I have one compelling task which, above all else, must be completed. I must explain to you who I am, who you are, and the circumstances which led your dear father and me to our tragic fates in a series of events too painful to relate, and yet I must relate them.