by Lisa Bingham
Susan grimaced. “It’s not a terribly flattering hairstyle, Sara.”
“Nonsense. You look very foreign.” Sara lowered her voice dramatically. “Very exotic.”
Susan doubted that. With her toffee brown hair and the smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, she looked blatantly English, in her opinion.
Sara peered at her with eyes narrowed. “If we’d had time, we could have dyed our hair black.”
“Heaven forbid!”
“Just a rinse. It would have washed out within a week or two.”
Susan stared at her sister in horrified disbelief. “You have the morals of a common criminal, worrying about what color your hair should have been all the while you’re plotting to deceive the man you say you admire.”
“Oh, pooh,” Sara said dismissively before spitting into a little pot of eyeliner.
Susan grimaced. “Really? Is that necessary?”
“I can’t very well go to the loo for water, can I? Someone might see. Now hush!”
Sara leaned close to dramatically outline Susan’s eyes. Then, using the same brush, she painted a black dot the corner of Susan’s lip.
“A beauty spot? Sara, I think you’re going too far.”
“Nonsense. One simply cannot go too far with fancy dress. There’s going to be a costume contest, you know, and I don’t want you spoiling my chances of winning.”
Susan’s mouth dropped in horror. “I’m not going to have to…to parade about, am I?”
“I don’t think so,” Sara said firmly. Taking a brow pencil from the pile of cosmetics on the vanity, she added, “But you might.”
Susan scowled, but Sara didn’t notice. She had finished drawing a graceful arcing brow over each eye à la her favorite movie actress, Greer Garson. Tossing it onto the vanity, she held a tube of crimson lipstick aloft. “Relax your mouth. You know how difficult it is to correct red lipstick if it’s applied improperly.”
Before Susan could respond, Sara swiped the color over her mouth, then stood back to admire her handiwork. A slow smile conveyed her satisfaction. “You’re going to sweep the man off his feet.”
For one fleeting instant, Susan forgot that she was meant to impersonate her twin. She pictured how Paul would react when he saw her, when he danced with her.
Then, just as quickly, such fantasies were dashed as Sara’s eyes met hers in the mirror and she said, “Just remember, you’re doing it for me.”
“Of course,” Susan said quickly. Praying that Sara wouldn’t see the wistfulness that had crept into her gaze, Susan jumped from the vanity stool and strode to the armoire for a pair of black shoes. “When do you think you’ll be there to switch places?”
Sara frowned. “Not before nine, I’m afraid. It may be as late as ten.”
“How will I know when you’re there?”
“I’ll send a note through one of the wait staff. Then I’ll meet you in the ladies.”
Susan avoided her sister’s eyes as she gathered the beaded pocketbook they’d borrowed from their mother. Inside was a compact with powder—Sara had given her strict instructions to mind the shine on her nose—a latchkey, a few shillings for emergencies, and a handkerchief. All very ladylike, and yet somehow foreign.
Yet, even as she’d collected the last of her things, Susan dawdled. “You’re sure we should be doing this?”
Sara grimaced. “Must you worry so?” She handed Susan a pair of black elbow length gloves which Susan struggled to don. Sara’s hands had always been a size smaller than Susan’s, but the gloves to Susan’s original costume had been misplaced long ago.
“They’re too tight,” she said, hoping that even that flimsy excuse would be enough to make Sara reconsider.
“They’ll stretch.”
Holding Susan at arm’s length, Sara ran a smoothing hand over her hair, then adjusted the rows and rows of flounces which had been added to one of their mother’s old nightshifts before the whole thing had been dunked into a boiling pot of red dye.
“What if it rains?” Susan tried one last time. “The last time we wore these costumes it rained, and the red seeped through to my underthings.”
“The radio said tonight would be warm and clear.”
“But—”
“Enough!” Sara pushed her toward the door. “You mustn’t keep Paul waiting.”
Susan hesitated, still worried that this whole arrangement could go terribly, terribly wrong. What if she couldn’t convincingly portray her sister? Worse yet, what would Paul think of her if he realized he’d been duped?
“Go now before you think too hard,” Sara said, opening the door and hiding behind the panels. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Sara planted a hand at her sister’s back and pushed. Susan all but tripped into the hall. Worse yet, Paul and Matthew were making their way from her brother’s room at the end of the corridor.
“Are you all right?” Matthew asked.
“Yes,” she said quickly, breathlessly. “I must have caught a heel on the runner.”
The door slammed shut behind her. The audible snnnick of the key being twisted removed Susan’s last means of escape.
Matt had the grace to look sheepish. “Is Susan upset that she hasn’t been invited? I suppose I could ring a school chap or two—”
“No!” Susan blurted, horrified. Then more calmly, “No. That’s not necessary. She’s got a bit of a…a headache, actually,” Susan rushed to interject. “She said she planned to spend the evening with a hot water bottle and a good book.”
Since that was exactly how Susan had intended to pass the time, the words rang true.
“If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely. A Tale of Two Cities.”
The two men stared at her blankly. “What?”
“The book. That she intends to read. It’s one of Susan’s favorites. Once she begins to re-read it…the world could slip away.” She punctuated the statement with an airy wave of her hand.
Matthew continued to stare at her as if she’d gone mad, but he finally pulled himself together enough to stammer, “Ah. Well, then…Shall we go?”
It was Paul who extended his arm to her. He was dressed as a Highwayman with a black kerchief tied over his head to form a mask, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. He wore a billowy black satin shirt, laced at his neck, and a red sash tied at his waist. She laughed when she noted the carved wooden pistols which had been shoved into his belt. She recognized them immediately. They belonged to her younger brother Michael, who was ten.
“How much did you have to offer Michael for the use of his weaponry?”
“Three pence.”
“Sheer robbery.” Then realizing what she’d said, she laughed and Paul followed suit, his chuckle low and velvety smooth.
Slipping her arm through his, she allowed him to usher her downstairs to the entryway, where, without thinking, she grabbed for her coat.
“Won’t Susan mind if you take her wrap?” Matthew said as he grabbed his own raincoat and threw a darker Mackintosh in Paul’s direction.
Susan froze. In one unguarded instant, she’d almost revealed herself. But when she glanced at her brother, he was busy trying to fit his executioner’s hood into his pocket.
“Susan suggested I take hers since mine is…torn. The lining, I mean. Is torn.”
Thankfully, Millicent Blunt breezed into the room. “Here you are, Matthew. Paul.” She handed each of them a small cardboard box. “I kept them in the larder so they would stay fresh.”
A corsage.
Although Mr. Blunt faithfully gave his wife and daughters corsages every Easter, Susan had never been given one by a gentleman caller. It was Sara who received the flowers and the invitations, while Susan…
Invariably stayed home with a book and a hot water bottle.
“Do you need help, Paul?” Millicent murmured delicately.
“No. Thank you, Mrs. Blunt,” Paul said, handing the box to Susan. “I’m sure we can manage.”
> Feeling more of an interloper than ever, Susan opened the lid and gasped. Inside was a beautiful purple orchid, its throat stained with streaks of gold and white.
“It’s lovely,” she breathed.
There was a florist’s card next to bloom. In a scrawling hand Paul had written, “To a night filled with possibilities.” Then he’d signed his name.
“Thank you so much.”
Before she could gather her scattered wits, Paul picked up the flower. It was then that she noted that he had long, slender fingers. Artist’s fingers, Sara would have called them.
He removed the pin at the corsage’s base, then eased closer, two fingers straying beneath her neckline to ensure that she wasn’t pricked.
Heat rose to her cheeks. There was something infinitely intimate about the gesture. Her mother had offered to help him, but he’d insisted on attaching the corsage himself. That had to mean something didn’t it?
His head bent close as he made sure the pin had caught her dress and the flower. When he moved away again, Susan could have sworn his lips grazed the top of her head.
“You’d better hurry,” Millicent was saying, oblivious to the caress. “I’m sure Ellen is waiting for you, Matthew.”
Susan’s father strode in from the sitting room. “A picture first,” Harry Blunt insisted.
Since he’d been given a Kodak for Christmas, Susan’s father had begun taking pictures at every opportunity—parties, celebrations, first days of school, Mayday, grocery store openings.
Knowing that it was best to humor him, Susan allowed herself to be sandwiched in between her brother and Paul. When Paul’s arm slipped around her waist, drawing her close to his warmth, she didn’t resist. She could have been facing a firing squad at that moment and she still would have smiled as the heat of Paul’s body seeped into her side.
Then, all too soon, the photo was complete and Paul was steering her out the door into the warm evening air. His hand remained firm on her back as they navigated the walk and slipped through the garden gate.
And through it all, it took every ounce of will Susan possessed to resist turning to see if Sara watched their progress from the upper window.
• • •
Sweet Briar, U.S.A.
“How much farther to your aunt’s house?” Although she had no stake in the outcome of their errand, she found herself eagerly awaiting her first glimpse of his aunt’s estate.
“My solicitor gave me directions since my mother never had a chance to visit Aunt Bess here in the States.”
“Was she older or younger than your mother?”
“Older. Bess met and married an American during the Great War, then came home with him when he was injured. He died before they could have children of their own. I suppose that’s how I inherited the place.” Charlie dug into his jacket pocket for the scrap of paper he’d referred to from time to time and double-checked the hand-drawn map.
“As far as I can tell, we’re nearly there,” he said absently. Then he wedged it beneath his outer thigh and the seat of the car.
“What sort of house is it?”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen a few photos. Near as I can recall, it’s a huge Victorian monstrosity. A neighbor’s been paid to check on it now and then to keep the vagrants out. But other than that, I have no idea what I’ll find. Eventually, the property will have to be sold, of course. Once I know its condition, I’ll have a better idea how to proceed. We’ll poke around a bit, then I’ll take you back to town for a nice dinner.”
Charlie drew to a stop at a crossroads. Since no other traffic was in view, he referred to the map, then the street marker situated in a patch of grass where the road veered into a “Y.”
“This is the place.”
Turning to the right, he proceeded slowly toward a gravel road ahead of them, following the meandering lane through a heavy copse of trees with a bit more eagerness.
The lane grew bumpy, the trees on either side forming a tunnel of greenery. But as the car topped the rise and rolled out of the stand of oaks, in front of them lay the house.
“Would you look at that?” Charlie murmured in surprise.
RueAnn couldn’t remember ever seeing a house so big. It was a huge Queen Anne Victorian painted in what had once been fanciful shades of pink, white and mint green, but its former glory was a memory now. The outer slats were peeling and wind-damaged. Gingerbread moldings decorated every possible angle. Some of the intricate scrolls were broken or hung at crazy angles around high, narrow windows gleaming dully beneath a layer of grime and salt. Nevertheless, with the ocean serving as a glittering backdrop, the edifice rose from its bed of weed-choked lawn like a grand dame in faded finery.
RueAnn gasped. “From the way you were talking, I expected something much more grim.”
The car crunched to a stop on a pea-gravel drive and Charlie leaned to gaze through the passenger window. RueAnn caught a whiff of his cologne. No, not cologne. It was the clean scent of soap and man.
“You like it then?” Charlie asked absently. She found herself watching the words being formed by his lips, wondering again what would happen if he leaned closer and pressed his mouth to hers. Would she feel the same explosion of pleasure she’d felt earlier?
“It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen,” she said truthfully.
RueAnn wasn’t dissuaded by the Victorian’s rickety condition. If this were her house, she would enjoy the challenge of bringing the property back to life. A new coat of paint, some millwork, panes of glass, and a shim here and there would do the trick.
“It could be rather quaint, couldn’t it?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Who would have thought the old curmudgeon could have conceived of a color scheme like that?”
“Can we look inside?” RueAnn breathed.
“That’s why we’re here.” Charlie slid from the car and squinted up at one of the Belvedere towers, then grimaced at the sight of missing shingles. Rounding the hood, he opened the door for RueAnn.
Suddenly impatient for what other treasures awaited, RueAnn bounded from the car, grasping his fingers tightly and pulling him more quickly toward the door. Charlie laughed, taking a key from his pocket and sliding it into the lock.
From the moment Charlie opened the door, they became explorers in a treasure hunt of surprises. A parlor, dining room and kitchen. A sunroom. A breakfast alcove.
With each discovery, a better picture of Charlie’s aunt began to take shape. The furnishings were spare, clutter and bric-a-brac kept to a minimum. The chairs and tables and settees that graced each room weren’t the finest antiques, but they gleamed with a rich polish beneath their dustcovers.
“I believe some of the furniture pieces were willed to other relatives,” Charlie said absently. “This must be what’s left.”
Eager for more, RueAnn drew Charlie upstairs. The second floor was completely empty—four rooms and a small bathroom—so she led the way to the staircase and the third floor. There, they found two small empty chambers, a large bathroom the size of a parlor, and a bedroom. In the center of the room was the only piece of furniture to remain in the upper level, an ornately carved, four-poster bed. Obviously from the previous century, it was high and narrow and impossibly delicate, its linens stripped away to leave a bare, lumpy mattress.
RueAnn released his hand, drawn past the bed to the circular space formed by the Belvedere tower. High windows completely circled the room within a room. Below the sills lay a deep, circular bench with cushions, and below that, shelves crammed with books—more books than she’d ever seen amassed together by a single person.
“It’s a shame your aunt had no children,” RueAnn mused absently, her gaze scanning the titles: Moby Dick, Around the World in Eighty Days, Treasure Island.
“My mother said Aunt Bess was too mean for motherhood, but I had the feeling the feud between the two of them was the result of a beau the two of them fought over. I’ve never been able to piece together the story and my mother won
’t talk about it.”
“So your aunt lived here alone? All alone?” She wrapped her arms around her waist, making a slow circle. “I can’t even comprehend how a house this size could hold only one woman. And this room—” she gestured to the tower where she stood. “There are more books here than the library in Defiance.”
She crossed to the window, bracing her hands on either side of the glass, gasping at the view it afforded her of the ocean stretching out, out, into infinity. She watched the waves crashing onto the beach, followed a faint path that carved through the dunes and back to the house to an overgrown lawn and—
“Roses,” she breathed.
She suddenly rushed toward Charlie, grasping his hand.
“Come on!”
She took him by surprise, pulling him back down the stairs, through the parlor and dining room to the kitchen beyond. RueAnn inhaled deeply as they walked out onto a wide porch, her gaze riveted on the yard beyond. On the hill leading down to the dunes were dozens and dozens of rose bushes—lavender, white, burgundy, yellow, and pink. The air was laden with their heady, overpowering scent.
Laughing, she wrenched free from Charlie’s hand, racing to the copse of bushes.
The flowers were tall and woody—more tree than bush. RueAnn was sure they hadn’t been pruned in years, but even their ungainliness held an inexplicable appeal. Scooping clump of blossoms into her hands, she buried her face in the tufts of petals and breathed deeply of their perfume.
“Oh, Charlie, you can’t possibly want to sell this place,” she exclaimed, lifting her head.
He grinned indulgently, stating the obvious, “But I live in England.”
“Then you should move!”
He chuckled, approaching her slowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The breeze gusted at his tie and rumpled his hair, but he didn’t seem to mind. In turn, his lack of pretense made her feel comfortable, as if the need to prove herself was unnecessary.
“My aunt made her living by renting rooms during the summer. I really don’t think I’d be content with such an occupation.”
