Stoney Beck

by Jean Houghton-Beatty

  He pointed to the refreshments. “The cheese is from Provence, and I picked up the pastries yesterday in a bakery in Paris. Those chocolate ones with the cherries on top are out of this world.”

  “I didn’t expect this,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

  “Nonsense. It’s the least I can do. And besides, I think you’ll be interested in this.”

  When he handed her the dark green folder from the trolley’s lower shelf, Jenny gave a loud gasp. She ran her suddenly trembling fingers across the fleur-de-lis embossed in gold on the cover, knowing already what was inside. There were five or six exactly like it at home. It was her graduation picture, the day she’d received her degree in English literature from Queens College.

  “It’s you, isn’t it,” Dr. Thorne said softly after she’d opened it. “You’re Jennifer, Beverly Pender’s daughter.”

  Jenny nodded without looking up, eyes riveted on the familiar writing on the folder’s inside cover. I thought you’d like to see what a lovely young lady my little Jennifer has turned out to be, her mother had written.

  “Yes, sir,” Jenny said, hoarsely. “I’m Jennifer.”

  Dr. Thorne took a long deep breath, flopped down in the armchair opposite, shaking his head and running a hand across his forehead. “At last. After all these years. A jingle of the bell over Malone’s door and in you come.”

  Jenny sat on the edge of her chair, her back rigid. “It sounds like you’ve been trying to find me. I don’t understand.”

  He peered at her over his half-frames, picked up the teapot. “Do you take sugar, milk?”

  “Just milk, please.”

  He poured the tea and pushed the cup and saucer toward her. “Why don’t you start? For instance, why have you suddenly come? It’s been at least twenty-three years.”

  Jenny looked beyond him, her gaze fixed on the wallpaper. A tiger stalked through the undergrowth, vigilant eyes fixed on her. Be careful, watch your step, he seemed to say. They’ve been looking for you. Something’s up.

  “I came to see where I was born.” She squirmed under the doctor’s piercing stare as he leaned forward, elbows on the arms of his chair. “OK,” she said as she pulled her mother’s note out of her purse and handed it to him. “This is the real reason.”

  Dr. Thorne read the few lines, his lips moving as he read. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked softly without looking up. “Why it’s unfinished?”

  Jenny nodded. “It was an accident. Too many pills, and well, she drank some wine. The combination—”

  “Ah, that’s so sad, a terrible shock.” He fingered the note almost tenderly and read it again.

  “My mother had been through a very rough time, she—” Jenny stopped herself. Telling this man about her father’s long illness would serve no purpose except perhaps to cause the doctor to ask questions, maybe to speculate that she herself was under the gun, a likely candidate to develop Huntington’s disease. The issue of course was irrelevant because that dear man was not her father after all. She leaned forward, pointing to a line in the note. “See here where she says she didn’t tell me everything about my birth, then here on this last line, she said she’d give the world. Have you any idea what she was trying to tell me?”

  “Let’s have a shot at it, shall we,” the doctor said. “First off, do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  She shook her head. “I was an only child.”

  “I see. Well, how much did your mother tell you about her time here in England? I mean, she must have told you something.”

  Jenny ran her dry tongue over her lips, then picked up her cup and sipped some tea. “Mom didn’t talk about it much. At least not until that last night She said she’d sent my portrait to her English doctor, but she never did say your name.”

  Dr. Thorne cut the brie into small pie-shaped wedges and eased a couple of pieces onto a plate. He helped himself to four or five crackers, while Jenny told him of her mother’s reunion and subsequent marriage to Michael Robinson.

  “And there were no other children?”

  “No. I’ve already said—”

  “It’s just that, well how else to tell you but to come right out with it. You’re not an only child, Jennifer. You have a twin sister.”

  Twin Sister.

  Jenny tilted her head and blinked as she tried to bring the doctor back in focus. Suddenly there were two of him, both of his big Anthony Hopkins’ faces gawking at her. The two figures got up and crossed the room to the sideboard then fused back into one as he poured two snifters of brandy from the decanter. He handed her a glass.

  “You’d better drink this. You look as if you need it.”

  Jenny took it with both hands, struggling to hold it steady while she raised it to her lips. She closed her eyes as the warm smooth liquid slipped down her parched throat, then she leaned her head on the back of the sofa. This was what her mother had tried to say in the note. All those years she’d lived this lie. Was it any wonder it had been so hard to tell?

  “Do you know where this twin is?” she asked.

  Dr. Thorne’s rheumy china blue eyes peered into hers. “You’ve been taking her place in Malone’s.”

  Jenny gave a bark of a laugh. “Surely you don’t mean Sarah. She couldn’t be. She’s got—”

  “You think she couldn’t be your twin because she has Down syndrome? It’s not as uncommon as you might think. You and Sarah aren’t identical twins. You’re fraternal.”

  The cat leapt down from the back of the chair and jumped onto the sofa beside Jenny. She reached out a hand and stroked it, heard the soft purring sound. This was the reason her mother had not wanted anyone in England to know her whereabouts. She couldn’t risk someone writing about Sarah, the child she had left behind. Nobody in America knew about her, certainly not Uncle Tim and possibly not even Jenny’s father.”

  Dr. Thorne stared into the snifter as he swished his brandy, and talked of her mother’s friendship with the Fitzgerald’s, how they’d met in the Bookworm.

  “You were a beautiful healthy baby. Little Sarah though wasn’t so fortunate.”

  Jenny ran a hand over her jeans, saw the hole beginning to form at the knee. “Did the Fitzgeralds know? I mean can you tell at birth?”

  “This was the reason they wanted her. Fred and Edna knew what to expect. People like Sarah sometimes have this deep, unconditional love. This is what they wanted and they weren’t disappointed. You’ve met her. You know how she is.”

  He clasped his hands together, making a steeple, his eyes far away as though remembering. Beverly was in a quandary all right, he said, and when the Fitzgeralds befriended her, practically begging her to let them have Sarah, she finally agreed. They had resources and promised Beverly that Sarah would want for nothing. To protect her from village gossip, a pact was made with those involved. They would tell no one. Dr. Thorne told Jenny how hurt the Fitzgeralds were when they realized the address Beverly gave them was fictitious.

  “My mother grew up in a strict Southern family,” Jenny said. “Maybe she thought taking one baby back was bad enough, but two! Maybe she was too scared to tell her father about Sarah, afraid he’d say she was being punished. You know, the sins of the fathers and all that stuff.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows went up about half an inch. “Surely you don’t believe that.”

  Jenny shook her head then drained her glass. “You’d think the Fitzgeralds would have realized Mom didn’t want to be found and let it go at that.”

  Dr. Thorne told her he was the executor of the will, and that Beverly and Jenny had been named co-beneficiaries along with Sarah. The Fitzgeralds had tried for many years to find Beverly and her daughter. As the years passed, Fred and Edna discussed drawing up a new will, but it was not until a week before their last trip to Lourdes, that they made an appointment to see their solicitors. A new will was to be drafted when they returned home.

  “As you know,” Dr. Thorne said, “they didn’t make it back. That means the origin
al will is still valid. You and Sarah are joint beneficiaries. There are provisos of course. These are mainly to do with making sure Sarah is well cared for. He lifted up the tea cosy and felt the pot. “It’s only lukewarm, but let’s have half each, shall we?”

  While he poured, he told Jenny to bear in mind the will had been drafted twenty-three years ago, just months after her birth. It stated that in the unlikely event of the Fitzgeralds’ early deaths, the estate was to be held in abeyance for two years. If Sarah’s mother or twin weren’t found within the stipulated time, then the housekeeper, Bridget Biggerstaff was to be named as co-beneficiary with Sarah. If Sarah predeceased her, the housekeeper would get it all.

  Indigo crawled onto Jenny’s lap, purring loudly as he curled himself into a huge midnight blue ball of fluff. She ran her hand across his back, felt the slight crackle of static.

  The doctor leaned forward. “Have you met Biddy Biggerstaff, the housekeeper?”

  Jenny could only nod.

  “The Social Services rang me in France. They’re concerned about Biddy. She’s always been eccentric but lately it seems to have manifested. I’m retired now of course so Dr. Hall keeps an eye on her. Still, I am executor of the will, so they want me to get involved. Because of all this, I had planned to contest the will. But now that you’re here, it pulls a whole new slant on things.”

  For Jenny, all the bits and pieces of Biddy’s bizarre behavior made sense at last.

  “I’m convinced of course that you’re Sarah’s twin,” Dr. Thorne said. “Still, we’ll need documentation. You know, copies of your birth certificate, your mother’s marriage license, any pertinent information which might be useful, especially your mother’s and father’s death certificates. This is more a formality than anything else.”

  Not in the least hungry, but unable to sit still, Jenny busied herself fixing a plate of crackers, a wedge of brie, and a few grapes.

  “Does Sarah know she has a twin?” she asked as she struggled, with shaking fingers, to maneuver the cheese onto a cracker. When the cracker snapped between her shaking fingers, she picked up the brie and popped it into her mouth.

  The doctor shook his head. “When she was old enough to understand, they told her the same story many adopted children are told. That they’d chosen her over hundreds of others because they loved her best.”

  Jenny eased the cat off her lap. “What you’re saying is if I stay here in England to be a companion for Sarah, I’ll come into a good deal of money and if I leave, I get nothing?”

  “She is your sister after all,” Dr. Thorne said.

  “Yes, but until half an hour ago, she was just somebody I was doing a favor for. And now, just like that,” she said snapping her fingers, “I find out she’s my twin.”

  Dr. Thorne’s face darkened. “What’s bothering you? Is it that she’s handicapped?”

  “No, it isn’t that.”

  “What then? Are you homesick? The estate’s substantial, Jennifer. There’s more than enough for you to come and go, back to North Carolina, which you’re bound to want to do. Surely we could come to some sort of arrangement. Perhaps we can find a couple to live in the house with Sarah. Along with the house, there are stocks and bonds. And there are one or two other properties. There are some of Fred’s paintings. Sarah’s father was a fairly well-known artist.

  Plans have been made for Biddy, in the event that you were found and agreed to the conditions. There’s a house for her near Kendal. She already has a generous stipend. With that and her pension, she’ll be better off than most.”

  Jenny pretended to examine the geometric design of the rug beneath her feet. Dr. Thorne had asked for her father’s death certificate. When he saw the cause of death was Huntington’s disease, the questions would come. How could she tell the doctor that her and Sarah’s biological father was the priest in the next village when the priest himself didn’t know? Jenny had mulled over this at least a hundred times. Now she would have to tell him he had two daughters instead of one.

  There was something else to take into consideration. If and when this concern could be resolved, then what consideration would be given to Jenny’s own welfare? If she went along with this carrot the doctor dangled in front of her, would she be capable of handling it. Not only had she just been told the staggering news that she had a twin sister, but this sister had a prolonged, life-threatening sickness. Was Jenny destined forever to take care of the sick in her family, even those she hadn’t known existed until less than an hour ago? What about her own welfare? Did anybody really give a damn?

  “I’m sorry Sarah’s sick,” she said. “I like her a lot. But what about me? I don’t even know if I can do this. And after all, you hardly know me.”

  “This has all been a shock to you,” he said. “And all I’m really doing here is presenting you with the facts. I can see you’re still grieving for your own parents. You can always decline of course. You and Sarah are more or less alone in the world, and the two of you—”

  Jenny got to her feet. “I have to go. Ada’s bound to be wondering what’s taking me so long. I can at least tell you this much. I will call my Uncle when I get back to the Hare. He knows where all our papers are. I’ll ask him to send them to me. All I’m thinking about here, mind, is that Biddy doesn’t get anything.”

  “Good girl. Don’t worry about the ins and outs of all this. We can work out something. We could probably—”

  “Please,” she interrupted. “I do have to go.” She grabbed her bag and headed down the hall and out the door. She didn’t look back, didn’t even turn to look at Andy who called to her from across the street. As she stalked down the hill, she was already thinking of ways to explain to Dr. Thorne that the man who’d died of Huntington’s disease was not their father. Perhaps Jenny could convince the doctor that she didn’t know who their real father was. There was no need to implicate the priest. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder what Biddy’s reaction would be when Dr. Thorne told her he had finally found the lost twin. Biddy would not hesitate to show the doctor the snapshot? Moreover, it wouldn’t take the intelligent Dr. Thorne long to guess the truth. Jenny crossed the common toward Malone’s, barely able to think of the consequences. One thing Jenny knew for sure. She would do almost anything rather than let Biddy get her hands on the estate.

  Andy wiped the oil off his hands as he watched Jenny stride down the garden path and out the gate. He put his hands around his mouth and yelled to her, but she kept her head down as she marched down the brow, even though he knew she’d heard. His uncle stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips watching her go, until she finally disappeared into Malone’s.

  “Keep an eye on things will you, Alf,” Andy said to his mechanic. “Won’t be long.” He patted his dog on the head. “You stay, Pete. Good boy.” He waited for the tourist bus to pass then crossed the street to his uncle’s house.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Biddy sat at the kitchen table, waiting for her cup of tea to cool. Her head throbbed and the cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth tasted vile. With the tips of her fingers pressed against her eyelids, she tried to make sense of last night. She remembered Sarah helping her up the stairs, undressing her, even putting her teeth in a glass. Then had come those weird dreams. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and sipped her tea. Even her eyeballs hurt as she turned toward the sink where Sarah stood, selecting fruit from the basket that girl had brought.

  Sarah tackled this job the same as she did everything, with a slow, studied thoroughness. She peeled an apple and sliced it into thin wedges, then arranged them on her plate in the form of a crescent moon. After carefully inspecting them and washing a handful of grapes, she placed one on each apple slice. She chose five of the largest strawberries and held them under the tap for at least three minutes, before drying them on a paper towel. After cutting them into halves, she placed them over to the side of the crescent. She wiped her hands and stood back to admire her handiwork, reminding Biddy of a jewele
r inspecting a display of precious gems.

  Biddy felt the heat from the cigarette on her fingers and gave a little cry as she dropped the end into her teacup. Sarah bustled to her side and reached for her hand.

  “Ah, you burned your finger. Does it hurt?”

  “Yes it hurts,” Biddy said, pushing Sarah away. “You spend hours preparing a bowl of fruit. It’s enough to drive even a saint up the wall.” She stared down at her finger, waiting for the blister to form.

  Sarah opened the catch-all drawer and rummaged around until she found the tube of Vaseline. “If you rub this on, it won’t hurt as much.”

  “Yes, it will,” Biddy snapped. “Fill a glass with cold water. I’ll soak it for an hour. You can make another pot of tea and use fresh tea bags. That last cup tasted worse than a cup of pee.”

  After Sarah had given Biddy the glass of water and a fresh cup of tea, she brought her bowl of fruit and glass of iced water to the table. In spite of Biddy’s bad temper and the awful night they’d had, Sarah felt better than she had in ages. Perhaps the pills were already working.

  “If you ask me, I’m a lot sicker than you are,” Biddy said. “I can’t eat a bite and my head’s pounding.”

  The spoon stopped halfway to Sarah’s mouth. “That’s because you were in the mother’s milk again last night.”

  Biddy glared at her. “How dare you use that tone with me. Anyway, what’s wrong with having the odd nip. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”