Charleston, I suspected, would always right itself, count its blessings, repair its wounds, and move into the future. The city was one of America’s treasures and I felt a new and unexpected pride of belonging. Perhaps something in my blood remembered, after all. It would be satisfying to use this in one of my novels, and I made mental notes that I would later transfer to paper.
From a picture I’d seen, I recognized the great Market Hall building—an impressive Roman Revival structure that had been set high above its surroundings. Around its top ran a frieze of sheep’s and bulls’ heads, indicating that this was once a place where meat had been sold. Now the second level had been turned into a Confederate Museum, while the long arcade on the ground floor underneath housed shops and stalls for goods of every kind.
I wandered as I pleased, pausing here and there to examine what was offered. When I reached the far end, I stopped to watch basket weavers at their intricate work. These beautiful creations—containers and mats of all sorts, woven of sweet grass, palmetto, and pine needles—were spread out on floor coverings. The art of weaving such baskets had been handed down from African ancestors and was unique to the Low Country of South Carolina. I would want several of these to take home, but would return another time to pick out what I wanted.
“Home” was still the place where I’d grown up and would eventually return. When I got back to the house on South Battery, I would telephone my father and let him know some of the things that had happened to me during the past several days. For now, I would continue to explore, with no need for direction or purpose.
When I came to Charleston Place—a newer addition—with its enclosed shops and architecture adopted to suit the area, I found the entrance to the Omni Hotel and went inside. A small seating oasis near the door offered me a place to rest and watch passing visitors. The wide corridor led past a complex of expensive shops I might explore later. The spot where I sat was opposite the magnificent twin arms of a staircase that rose to the balcony above. Centering over the space formed by curving steps hung an elaborate chandelier of glass and metal. On the floor beneath, large squares of creamy marble, patterned with rose-colored diamonds, covered the expanse, and huge white pots of seasonal plants and flowers had been placed about the lobby area beyond.
There was a constant stream of people passing by to visit the shops, or coming from invisible elevators in the vicinity of the hotel desk. I could sit here quietly and let everything flow away from me—all that had disturbed me since I’d come to Charleston. The encounter with Valerie Mountfort had put me off especially, though there was no question about my being drawn to Amelia.
After a time I got up to explore the hotel spaces beyond the twin arms of the staircase. At once I came upon a secluded sitting area occupied by a man and a woman. Daphne Phelps and Garrett Burke sat close together, leaning toward each other, talking quietly. As I hesitated, wondering whether to speak or just to move quickly away, Daphne handed Garrett a small box, and for some reason I stayed to watch. They didn’t see me at once, intent as they were on their own exchange.
Garrett opened the box, glanced inside, and put it away in a pocket. At almost the same instant, they both looked up and saw me standing a few feet away. For a single unguarded moment they appeared so startled that I knew this was a clandestine meeting. That made no difference to me, except that it was too late for me to escape.
Garrett stood up and said, “Hello, Molly. Have they let you out on your own?”
“You make it sound as though I’ve been a captive,” I said, with more of an edge to my voice than I had intended.
Daphne twisted a lock of her straight red hair, a large jade ring on her hand shining green in the lobby lights. The grin she gave me had a wry twist. “Hi, Molly. You might as well know that Garrett is an enemy spy and I am a Confederate agent. Any comments?”
“I won’t give either of you away,” I promised.
Daphne left her chair. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. There may be devilment afoot, but we’re not behind it. See you later, Garrett. I need to get back to the shop. I’ll leave you to deal with Molly.”
She went off toward the outside door by which I’d entered, leaving me thoroughly ill at ease. If Daphne hadn’t made so much of this, I’d have dismissed their meeting as none of my business, and thought nothing more about it.
Garrett stood up, easy enough in his manner. “It’s nice to see you, Molly. Will you have tea with me? The Palmetto Court, nearby, is pleasant. I’d like to talk with you.”
I wasn’t sure at this point that I wanted to talk with him, but I could find no excuse to escape. We entered from the corridor, and were shown to a table in the open-air court. A bright blue umbrella shaded us from the sun, and palmetto palms rattled their fronds above us in a slight breeze.
I’d never felt entirely comfortable with Garrett Burke. From the first time I’d met him in Daphne’s shop, he had seemed to stand back and study me quizzically, so that I wondered what sort of judgment he was making.
At first neither of us had much to say. Tea was served with fingers of toast and little cakes, and I sipped and munched, wondering what to talk about. Perhaps I would just plunge in and see what happened. I could hardly do much harm, since Garrett was an outsider—like me.
“Do you know what my sister Amelia is afraid of, Garrett? Something seems to be worrying her, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Don’t try to take on more than you can handle, Molly.”
“But I need to understand what’s happening. My father wrote a letter to me shortly before he died, and Honoria gave it to me this afternoon. Apparently Honoria had assured him that I would return. It’s a strange letter, filled with hints and telling me very little.”
“Do you care to tell me what he said? Or, better still, show me the letter?”
For a moment I hesitated, and then gave it to him. After all, Garrett was the Mountfort biographer, and everything that concerned Mountfort Hall and the past would interest him.
He read Simon’s words slowly, carefully. I watched, but couldn’t interpret his expression.
“Mountfort Hall is an impressive gift and a dangerous one. This may tell you more than you realize, Molly,” he said as he handed the letter back. “The big question is what Simon could have done that gave him such a guilty conscience.”
“I’m not sure I want to know—except as it might affect Amelia,” I said too quickly. “Perhaps knowing would only create more pain for both Valerie and Amelia. Perhaps it’s better to ignore some clues and not dig too deeply.”
“If it affects the present, how can you let it go?”
I shook my head unhappily. “All I feel now is confusion. I’d rather be writing a story. My main character always knows what to do, how to take charge. I, on the other hand, feel helpless.”
“Your characters get their motivation and strength from you, so you can’t be that helpless.”
His words startled me. My adoptive father had never thought much of my ability as a writer or an independent woman, and it had colored my opinion of myself.
Garrett went on. “You haven’t been exactly timid in coming here. So maybe you should step back and take another look at yourself. You may have more in common with one of your own women characters than you realize. It could be you’re the one who will pull this whole tapestry of deception apart. Then we can see what lies underneath the pretty stitching. Perhaps the Mountforts will breathe a lot more comfortably and stop fearing the past when the truth comes out.”
Something always carefully guarded about Garrett’s manner had disappeared, allowing anger and a deeper passion than I’d realized was there to surface.
I tried to speak quietly. “I don’t want to pull any loose threads. I only want to see Amelia safe and happy.”
“Then won’t she need something stronger than old deceptions under her feet?”
“Tell me what you mean.”
“I really don’t know. Working on the Mountfort story, I come across dark corners that tempt me to probe. And maybe even scare me a little. Porter would just as soon have me skip along and gloss over anything that might be too revealing. He can’t be happy about having you come here to complicate everything.”
“What if you are one of the dark corners?” I asked.
He seemed amused. “Do you think I’m working on my story?”
I began to wonder about Garrett Burke. Where had he grown up, gone to school? Who were the women in his life? Was Daphne the woman in his present? I remembered now the way I’d seen her look at him.
“Stop taking me apart.” His smile mocked me. “I’d rather stay an interesting puzzle. What do you think about your sister’s coming marriage to Charles Landry?”
“She’s certainly in love with him. Though judging by that so-called duel you fought today, I don’t think you’re crazy about him. Why not? Does he really love my sister?”
“You’ll probably find that out for yourself—if you stick around and don’t run away from what might frighten you. The women in your stories don’t run away, do they?”
“They’re courageous in a way that I’d like to be. I might very well run.”
“First try to find that thread to pull, Molly.”
“I think I’d better get back to the house before they start worrying about me.”
He paid no attention. “Would you like a glimpse into one of those dark corners, Molly?”
When I didn’t answer, he took something from his pocket and held it out to me. It was the small box I’d seen Daphne give him a little while ago—a jeweler’s box with a hinged lid. Inside on a nest of cotton rested a tiny object made of coral and silver. The pink coral had been skillfully carved into the form of an open lotus blossom, each petal intricately formed, the whole set in a silver backing. When I took it out of the box, I saw it was a clip earring.
“What’s the significance of one earring?” I asked.
“That may be the whole point. What happened to its mate? Daphne says this is probably the work of one of Charleston’s finer jewelers. Made years ago. It came into her hands in a rather strange way when she was a little girl. She kept it as a secret treasure, and forgot about it until recently. Something made her remember, and she brought it to me and told me the story. It may even be a link in one of those dark mysteries. Perhaps she’ll tell you the story sometime. I’m not sure she’d want me to.”
“Then why did you show it to me?”
Watching him, I saw that a deep vertical line in one cheek came from drawing up one side of his mouth in a wry, even cynical grin. It was a look that made me nervous.
“Could be,” he said, “that I like to stir things up, Molly-Cecelia. Now that the earring has surfaced, let’s see what will happen. I’ll walk you back to the house, if you like.”
“I have Amelia’s car,” I told him. “It’s parked on the other side of the Market.”
Garrett came with me and on the way I told him about meeting Katy Jackson at the library. When we reached the car, I picked up Nathanial’s book of poems from the front seat and showed it to him.
“Of course you’ve seen this?”
He took the slim volume from me thoughtfully and began turning the pages. “Yes—there are copies in the library out at the Hall. You might read the lines on page twelve, Molly, and see what you make of them.”
“We always seem to come back to Nathanial,” I said as he handed the book back to me. “Have you come across anything about his death in your research?”
“That’s one of the dark corners. It’s strange how involved I’ve become with the Mountforts and everyone who has touched their lives. The figure of Nathanial Amory interests me, but I’m not sure I can report objectively anymore. His story seems especially tragic.”
With Garrett, I was always aware of a natural restraint, and I suspected that he had discovered more than he was ready to reveal.
“You have come across something, haven’t you?”
“Not really. Of course, there’s always the puzzle of Honoria. She’s one of the enigmas in the picture.”
“Because she hoped to marry Nathanial?”
“I doubt that. Apparently he never made it a secret that he had a wife back home.”
“Really!” I wondered why no one had mentioned this to me. “Is it true that he came here because of some distant connection with the Mountforts?”
“So Porter claims. Probably an illegitimate connection. Which would hardly have mattered by Nathanial’s time. Porter would like to leave Nathanial out of the story entirely.”
“Because of Honoria?”
“It’s possible.”
“Are you going to do as Porter wishes?”
Garrett didn’t answer. He was studying me again in that way I found disconcerting.
“I wonder if Nathanial called Honoria Nora?” I said.
He knew I’d read the poem, but he shrugged and opened the car door for me, ending any further talk. “I’ll see you at the rehearsal tonight, Molly. Be sure to go backstage when you’re at the theater. There’s a whole mysterious world back there that should interest you as a mystery writer. See you later.”
His departure was abrupt, and I knew he wanted to stop my questions. He hadn’t been unfriendly, but he could pull down some sort of curtain that prevented me from going any further than he wished.
I watched as he went quickly away, not with Charles’s long, rather graceful stride but with a spring to his step, as though life interested him endlessly.
I opened Nathanial’s poems to the page Garrett had mentioned. The title seemed to spring at me: “Ode to a Pink Lotus.” The lines described a delicate flower carved in coral and set in gold. At once the darkness of this particular corner seemed to deepen. Why an ode to a woman’s earrings? And why gold, when the real earring I had seen had been set in silver? Was it simply poetic license?
I drove back to South Battery and parked Amelia’s car near the house. When I opened the front door my father’s portrait drew my attention, and I stood in the drawing room doorway to study it. The man in the portrait had something to tell me, I felt. Something he wanted me to know.
A sound to my left made me turn. Valerie Mountfort sat across from the portrait, her hands folded in the lap of her long rose-colored gown. Her fair hair hung in a braid over one shoulder, and she sat very still, watching me.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Cecelia—if that is your name. Amelia has gone out, so we can be alone. I’ve been wanting to talk with you when no one else was present.”
She was the one person who had a right to call me Cecelia. I sat down and waited for her to go on, suddenly tense and unsure of anything.
“I would like you to understand something,” she began. “That is, as far as I can understand it myself. Simon told me once that I was trying to live with an illusion that could destroy me, and that was damaging Amelia. Perhaps he was right, but I could never seem to help myself. Cecelia was the baby I loved most. In my mind I built a life for that baby. I watched her grow up in my imagination. We were friends, as Amelia and I have become friends. Honoria has always said you would return, and I believed her. But I suppose I also believed in my own fabrication, and I expected the Cecelia who came back to me to be my make-believe daughter turned to flesh. A delusion, of course—though one it has been hard to give up.”
I could understand about delusions—illusions—though mine were usually confined to my books. Now I wanted to offer her some reassurance that might lessen her difficulty in accepting me.
“Of course, we’re strangers now, but that will begin to change when we get to know each other.”
The look she gave me rejected such banality. “It’s as if I’ve lost my daughter twice. Once as my baby, and now again
when you are someone I don’t know. Even your accent is wrong for any daughter of mine.”
“A Yankee with southern blood?” I tried to smile, to lessen the tension that seemed to be growing in Valerie Mountfort. I could understand why everyone tried to protect and spare her. There seemed a fragility about her—as though a mere gust of wind might blow her away.
She sat a little straighter, and some spark lighted her beautiful eyes, surprising me. I remembered that someone had told me how lively and adventuresome she’d been as a young girl. Hadn’t she and Charles’s mother run off together on some escapade when they were girls?
“Never mind,” she said. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I know now that I can never recover my lost baby. And I don’t want a substitute.” She stood up, one hand touching her long fair braid. Her smile seemed bright and artificial, reducing me to a guest who must be courteously treated. When she moved, the faint scent of attar of roses reached me, bringing with it a sense of comfort, of safety that had no basis in reality. Some infant memory pressed into the baby she had held in her arms?
“There is one thing you could do for me,” she said.
“Of course. Just tell me.”
“Amelia said there was a letter that Simon wrote to you all those years ago. Will you let me see it?”
I was reluctant to let her read the letter. She was much too uncertain a quantity, and I had no way of knowing how she might react, but there seemed no way to refuse her. Once more I took the letter from my handbag and brought it to her. She switched on a lamp and began to read. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she read. I had no comfort to offer her, no words that might be useful.
Woman Without a Past Page 13
