The Twin's Daughter

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  I did not go out often with my father in the carriage, unless it was to church, and I might have been more excited at the novel event were my mind not occupied with our mission. My mind also wondered why Mother had not asked to come with us. But then it occurred to me that she might not wish to see how her sister had been living.

  The horses reined up in front of a shabby dwelling that I assumed was the address my aunt had given my parents. My father told me to wait in the carriage as he leaped down, making his way to the weather-beaten door. I watched as he knocked firmly, could hear the sharp sound his knuckles made. In a long moment, the door was answered. Peering out of the carriage, I could see an elderly woman in the crack. It was difficult from the distance to make her features out clearly, but I thought I saw a snaggletooth glint against the sun.

  “I am looking for Helen Smythe,” my father said, his voice a peculiar combination of friendliness and command.

  “She ain’t here,” the woman said. “I put her out early yesterday.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” my father said. “But I was wondering if you could tell me where she might have gone to.”

  “I’d imagine that sorta information should be worth somefin,” she said craftily.

  I saw my father extract a shilling from the billfold in his pocket, handing it over to the woman.

  “Try down the pub.” She jerked her head toward the end of the street.

  My father tilted his head up at the sky, the rare blue expanse and few passing clouds, as though he might find a giant clock up there. He looked back at the woman. “Is it not still early in the day for the pub?”

  The woman barked another one of her coughing laughs. “Maybe for some,” she said, then she shut the door in my father’s face.

  Early in the day as it was, the noise coming out the door of the public house as my father opened it could have been coming from the middle of a busy night. I resented being told to wait in the carriage again and, once the public house door had shut behind my father, I slipped down from the seat, checking to make sure the driver was paying no attention. I saw that he was indeed nodding off in his high perch as I crept up to one of the grimy windowpanes. Peeking over the sill, I was there to see it when my father first spotted my aunt among the noisy crowd, saw her turn when he must have called her name, saw her smile flash before her expression turned grim. His back was to me and, unlike at the snaggletooth woman’s house, I could hear nothing of what was said. Aunt Helen continued to look grim, angry almost, shaking her head several times. I had no idea what my father said, but suddenly all those grim head shakes turned into a single radiant smile. A moment later, they were heading toward the door. My father had one hand on Aunt Helen’s elbow, steering her, while in the other he carried her carpetbag.

  I scurried back to the carriage so as not to get caught looking.

  . . . . .

  The ride back to our home was silent, but I was content, squeezed in the back of the carriage between my father and my aunt. Occasionally, I would steal a glance at her. She always caught me looking. She always smiled back.

  . . . . .

  Mother flung open the door just as my father reached for the doorknob. And so I was there, a witness, as she embraced her sister for the first time.

  “I am glad,” I heard Mother whisper into my aunt’s ear, their two blond heads pressed together at the cheek, “that you came back.” Then louder, brighter, to the rest of us: “Come. It is time for lunch.”

  As we sat down at the long table, my parents at the head and foot with Aunt Helen and me facing each other in the middle, Mother regarded Aunt Helen’s clothes with a studied eye.

  “Tomorrow,” Mother said to her sister, “I will send for my dressmaker. You shall have some new things.” She turned to my father. “Is that acceptable to you, Frederick?”

  “Oh, quite,” my father said, placing his napkin in his lap.

  I saw my aunt watch what we did, carefully placing her own napkin in her lap.

  The repast before us was a generous one, far more so than would have been our usual custom at lunch. It was a veritable feast, a meal as though in honor of the homecoming of a queen.

  One of the servants brought in the soup course, placing a bowl before each of us. Not waiting this time to study us first—I suspected she was very hungry—I saw my aunt reach for the smallest spoon among the many at her place setting.

  “That is a pudding spoon,” I corrected my aunt, “not a soupspoon. The soupspoon is the largest one.”

  Even before my words were finished, I blushed at my own impertinence. Who was I, to tell any adult how to behave, however incorrect their behavior might be?

  An awkward silence followed.

  It was my aunt who broke it, turning to face me head on with a bright smile that was wide, generous even.

  “It’s all right to correct me,” she said. “How am I to learn to become a member of this family if someone doesn’t teach me the proper way to behave?” Then she placed the pudding spoon back down, taking up the correct one.

  And so the education of Aunt Helen began.

  • Six •

  Yesterday having been Sunday, there had been no time to call for the dressmaker. But it was a new week, a new day was upon us, and Mrs. Wiggins had been sent for first thing.

  And now she stood before the three of us in Mother’s bedroom, her jaw dropped in shock.

  Mrs. Wiggins was an older woman, her ample bosom nearly exceeding her wide girth, her hair the color of steel mixed with some dirt. There was always something a bit sloppy-looking about Mrs. Wiggins, as though she had spent too much time laboring over everyone else’s attire to have any energy left to labor over her own. She was a poor advertisement for her own trade and yet she had been making Mother’s dresses for years. On this morning she had arrived with her usual basket containing the tricks of her profession—measuring tape, pins, and such—as well as several bolts of what I assumed to be the latest rage in expensive fabrics to show off to Mother. It was immediately obvious that she had assumed, wrongly, that Mother was to be the dressmaker’s dummy.

  I had to repress a near hysterical impulse to giggle. Someday, I thought, the sight of Mother and her sister thrust upon someone who was yet unaware of the new development in our lives would cause a heart attack or cause the viewing party to question their own sanity.

  This, clearly, was a reaction we were going to have to get used to. Just as each of us—my father, Mother, myself—had been stunned by the appearance of Aunt Helen, so would the world, or at least each person in our world, one at a time. I wondered how the servants were taking it. My father, I decided, would have seen to that.

  As for there being three of us facing Mrs. Wiggins in that room on that day, I was fast learning that if I kept my own counsel, if I merely quietly followed along as others moved to and fro, it was amazing how much I would be allowed to witness. Indeed, at times now it felt as though my parents did not notice me when I was there and yet, at the same time, I felt that Aunt Helen always noticed.

  “Look at this lovely satin.” Mrs. Wiggins practically coughed the words out, having only just barely recovered her composure.

  “It is lovely,” Mother said, wistfully fingering the smooth emerald green fabric. Indeed, such a color would be stunning with her hair. “But it is not for me.”

  Mother stood aside, indicating that Helen should step forward.

  “I see,” Mrs. Wiggins said, and yet it was obvious that she did not as she regarded Helen: Helen, in what seemed to be the only dress she owned, the gray one we had first seen her in; Helen, whose drab garment hung so closely to her painfully thin frame it was obvious to anyone looking that she wore no petticoats underneath.

  It must, I thought, be awful to be so poor.

  “This is Helen Smythe,” Mother said, forcing a regal tone into her voice as she added, “my sister.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Wiggins said, “I do see that much. And what would you like?” She removed the measur
ing tape from her basket. “For me to make a gown for her?”

  “A gown?” Mother laughed. It was a genuine laugh of glee, the first of its kind I had heard from Mother since she’d arrived home Saturday only to find history waiting for her in the front parlor. “A gown?” Another delighted laugh. “Surely you must see, Mrs. Wiggins, my sister needs everything!”

  Mrs. Wiggins replaced the emerald green bolt of satin in her stack, reaching instead for what I guessed to be a cheap muslin.

  “Oh, no,” Mother said with great energy. “No, no, no. It must be the best of everything and plenty of it. Imagine it was me you had come here to dress, that I had lost everything in a great fire and now you have to outfit me fully from the inside out.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Wiggins said, putting aside the muslin with a heavy sigh. What a waste of fine fabric, I imagined Mrs. Wiggins thinking as she regarded Aunt Helen. Such things are not meant for the likes of one such as you.

  I listened to them debate the relative merits of two different silks.

  “Now take this black grosgrain,” Mrs. Wiggins said, addressing Mother more than Helen. “We can make a narrow-yoke petticoat with this, then smooth-fitting gores on either side and the front, a full back-breadth gathered at the top. And if you like, we can do a small ruffle of the same silk with a pink edge, perhaps in lace, to decorate the bottom.”

  “What do you think?” Mother turned to Aunt Helen.

  Aunt Helen shrugged. It was difficult to tell if she was indifferent to the garment or if she merely did not know what to make of it.

  “Very well.” Mrs. Wiggins reached for the taffeta silk, which was a pure white color. “There’s a lot you can do with this. Of course it too would be gored, but the ruffle at the bottom would be much wider, in keeping with the bias Spanish flounce for the lower part. And as for the decorations? Well, we can do wide ribbon-run beading with the ribbon formed in rosette bows at intervals or we can do a triple box-plaited silk ruche to trim the flounce near the top.”

  Mrs. Wiggins paused, which was perfectly fine with me since I was not as fascinated with rosettes and ruches as the others were. Again, the dressmaker looked at Mother expectantly. Again, Mother turned to Helen.

  “I don’t know which is better,” Aunt Helen said. “The first one seems nice enough. The second is much more fancy.” She turned back to Mother. “Which would you choose?”

  “I would choose both and in several colors.” Mother smiled warmly. “As should you.”

  Aunt Helen hesitated. Then at last she turned to the dressmaker. “Yes. All right then. I’ll have both.”

  From petticoats the talk turned to dresses proper as Mrs. Wiggins pulled sheets of illustrations, fashion plates, from her basket.

  The first sketch was of a tailored dress with moiré vest and revers, large pointed lapels. It looked more to me like something staid that Aunt Helen might wear were she to apply for a position as governess, but she seemed to like it well enough.

  There were two sketches of gowns that were obviously for fancy evening dress. One had jeweled embroidery, while the other had an embroidered waist. Mrs. Wiggins suggested this one would be best in green velvet, the low neck draped with white chiffon and lace, clustered flowers holding the drapery on the front and shoulders.

  “But of course”—Mrs. Wiggins hesitated over the words she spoke to Aunt Helen—“you might not need anything this elaborate.” She turned to Mother. “I only showed these to you because I thought you might want to see the latest things from Paris.”

  “Please do make one of each for my sister,” Mother stated with a firmness that brooked no arguments.

  Of the dresses proper, the only one that truly appealed to me was a costume with bolero and velvet vest. In the sketch, which was black illustration on white paper, the vertical bars of cords looked like keys on a piano. But then Mrs. Wiggins suggested it be made in gray blue cloth with the vest and revers in dark blue velvet fabric, and then I did not like it half so much.

  As they at last moved on to overdresses, my mind moved away. What care had I for the intricacies of cloaks, mantles, and capes?

  I looked around at Mother’s lushly appointed bedroom, thought of the wonder on Aunt Helen’s face when she’d first set eyes on it. How different it must appear to her when taken in comparison with what must have been her lean lodgings at the snaggletooth woman’s boardinghouse, a still starker comparison to whatever the orphanage must have been like for her. Even her room here was nothing like this. Her room here was a nursery. Painted walls, white woodwork, chintz curtains, floor of hardwood with a removable rug that was replaced by a square of matting in the summer, a gay Japanese screen that matched with nothing. Blue and white Dutch tiles surrounding the fireplace depicting pictures of the finding of Moses.

  “And how long will it take you to make all these clothes?” Mother asked as Mrs. Wiggins at last set to taking Aunt Helen’s measurements.

  “Well, it is a tall order,” Mrs. Wiggins said, looking exhausted at the size of the prospect. Then she could not prevent a certain glee from entering her eyes as she added, “And it will be expensive.” I imagined her thinking that while she did not mind making so much money from one order, she still regarded it as a waste that the money should be spent on Aunt Helen.

  “I would not want you to rush,” Mother said, then she regarded Aunt Helen in her drab gray dress, “and I do want you to leave enough room in the seams of each garment. It is my hope that my sister will soon put on some weight.”

  . . . . .

  The visit from the dressmaker had eaten up all the morning, bleeding into the early afternoon. Hats, boots, gloves—all would be ordered separately based on the extensive measurements Mrs. Wiggins had taken. By the time we sat down to our late lunch, I was famished, not caring about how unladylike my manners might seem as I tucked into the repast with relish. But I needn’t worry about my father criticizing as I slathered more butter on my toast, for my father wasn’t there. Squirreled away in his study as he often was when in the midst of a project, he’d sent word to have his meal delivered there.

  No sooner had I laid down my linen napkin after I had been sufficiently stuffed than Mother suggested a walk. Despite the cold weather, a daily constitutional in the park after lunch was our practice whenever she was at home.

  I don’t know why it should fill me with such excitement, Mother suggesting something that was almost as regular as eating, and yet it did. I suppose I was already anticipating the novelty of having Aunt Helen accompany us. I did not mind being alone with Mother—indeed, previously I had treasured our time together—but that did not mean I was averse to change.

  As Mother rose from her seat, I rose from mine, thinking to hurry and fetch my cloak. I saw Aunt Helen start to rise too, the same eagerness in her eyes as there no doubt was in mine, as though we three were a set. But then I saw Mother’s eyes shoot to Aunt Helen’s and, just as rapidly, Aunt Helen sat back down again.

  “Your aunt has had,” Mother said, “what must be for her a very exhausting day so far. I am sure she would prefer to rest.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Helen said. It was impossible to read what she was thinking. “I’m tired now.”

  I was puzzled. Why wouldn’t Aunt Helen want to go outside for a bit? Who wouldn’t want, even on the coldest day, the freedom at least for part of it from feeling cooped up?

  Then it struck me: Mother did not want her sister to be seen, not yet, not by any members of our acquaintance we might chance to run into in the park. She was ashamed of her.

  And Aunt Helen knew it.

  . . . . .

  That afternoon’s stroll with Mother was a staid one for me. I didn’t like to talk to her just then, not thinking what I was thinking about her now.

  Since I was disinclined to chat, or even answer simple queries, and since the air truly was frigid, Mother cut short our walk.

  “I have not had a chance to ask,” she said as we neared our front door, “how do you feel about Helen
coming to live with us?”

  I regarded her with a coolness I do not remember ever feeling toward her before.

  “It is wonderful,” I said. “It is a fine thing.”

  . . . . .

  That night, my parents went out as was their frequent habit whenever my father was not off by himself somewhere. They may have gone to visit friends or to the theater—I paid no attention, although I usually would have.

  I felt Aunt Helen watching me as I knelt, elbows propped atop the back of the sofa, peeking out the window as the carriage disappeared from view.

  Turning around, I saw mirth on her face and when I giggled, her giggle matched my own. There may have been plenty of servants afoot, but it was as though we were two children left with no one to tend to us.

  Which was perfectly well.

  “We’re alone at last, niece,” Aunt Helen spoke, a devilish gleam in her eyes as her words echoed my thoughts. For the first time, it occurred to me that there might be something dangerous about Aunt Helen. “What,” she asked, that gleam still there, “would you like to do?”

  I suggested playing charades.

  She did not know that game and, when I explained it to her, said she did not think it was a game she could be good at. She did not think she would make a very good actress.

  I suggested we take turns drawing pictures. Mother would sometimes compete with me to see who could draw the better version of any of the number of vases of flowers that filled our home.

  But no. Aunt Helen did not think drawing imitations of life would be her talent either.

  I was nearly out of ideas. “I suppose,” I said with a shrug, “we could just talk …”

  “Talk.” The gleam in Aunt Helen’s eye came back with new strength. “Now there’s something I think I could be good at.”

  We settled down with great purpose upon the sofa, side by side. Then:

  Silence.

  Long, protracted silence, finally breached when Aunt Helen mercifully leaned in a hair closer to me, whispering, “What would you like to talk about?”