When she’d read through to the end, she refolded the sheets and returned them to the envelope. “This is an illusion too, Cecelia—just another fantasy. Simon took blame for what others did to him. This guilt he carried had no basis in fact. I’m afraid he was often weak and ineffectual.”
Her words disturbed me. I had pictured a loving marriage, but her tone of voice was bitter, unforgiving. Unforgiving of what?
Once more I went to stand before the portrait of Simon Mountfort where it hung above the mantel. “I can’t find my father in this picture. His letter makes him more real to me. I wish I could have known him as he really was.”
She came to stand beside me. “There’s very little of the Simon I knew in that portrait. I never really liked it, though he did. The artist gave him a strength he never possessed in life.”
I knew that strong, willful people had a tendency to dismiss as foolishly weak those who were gentle and considerate. Instinctively, something in me moved closer to my father, and away from Valerie Mountfort.
Abruptly she turned her back on the portrait, dismissing Simon from her life, and gave the letter back to me. “Of course Mountfort Hall must belong to Amelia—not you.”
“I agree,” I told her, but she went on as though the matter would be easily solved.
“Amelia tells me you are going to the rehearsal tonight, but I’m going to wait until I can see the real production. I’ve read her play and I think she has created something quite special.”
“It’s interesting that Amelia and I both like to write,” I ventured.
Valerie shrugged. “Amelia gave me a copy of your new book, but I’m afraid it’s not for me. I don’t care for mystery stories. They’re too disturbing and unsettling.”
Especially when one lives in the midst of an unsolved mystery, I thought, and wondered if she turned away from that too.
“Did you like Nathanial Amory?” I asked on sudden impulse.
That seemed to trouble her. “No! No, I don’t think I ever did. I told Simon that I didn’t want this—this outsider teaching Daphne, or young Charles, who was practically our ward. However, Simon thought Nathanial would bring a broadening element into the children’s lives. Certainly, his credentials seemed excellent.”
“Why didn’t you like him?”
“I didn’t know him, really.”
Because she was too lost in her grief over a stolen daughter? But she must have known him for some time before that tragedy happened.
“Of course, I regretted his shocking death,” she went on. “But I wasn’t sorry to have him removed from our lives. Of course, Simon was dreadfully upset. I think he never got over Nathanial’s death—though it wasn’t as if they’d been close friends. Simon blamed himself for too many things that were never his fault. He made me impatient at times. I hope you’ll forgive me, Cecelia, but I’m beginning to feel tired. I was ill not long ago and I must take care of my strength. When Amelia comes home, will you please tell her I would like to see her?”
“Of course.” I watched Valerie Mountfort as she went toward the door, and then asked one more question. “Did you ever own a pair of earrings made of coral—with the coral carved in the form of a lotus blossom?”
This seemed to surprise her. “Yes—I still have them. Simon ordered them made for me many years ago. I haven’t worn them in years. How did you know about them?”
No suitable explanation came to me. “Katy Jackson showed me a book of Nathanial’s poems when I stopped at the library to see her. One poem was called ‘Ode to a Pink Lotus,’ and I understand he was describing a pair of earrings. They sounded unusually beautiful and I was told they belonged to you.” This was partly fabrication. I didn’t want to admit to seeing the earring set in silver.
“They are beautiful. I’ll show them to you sometime.”
She went out of the room, her back held straight, with no drooping of her shoulders. Looking after her, I could feel nothing for the mother who had borne me. We were strangers in every way, and probably had very little in common to draw us together. So much for old fantasies I’d built about my “real” mother—and that Valerie had built about me.
I wondered idly if she would find both her coral earrings in her jewel case when she looked for them.
I waited until she had disappeared up the stairs before I started for my own room. Amelia stopped me by hurrying through the front door, and the sight of her shocked me. My sister had cut her hair. It hung loose just above her shoulders, as mine did, and had been curled under, copying my style.
She laughed at the look on my face, and drew me to stand before a mirror in the hall. The resemblance stunned me.
“What fun we’ll have with this!” she cried. “Charles has said that with our hair cut alike no one could tell us apart. What tricks we can play!”
At that moment she seemed very young—a girl who wanted to play mischievous games. I wished that I didn’t feel so dismayed by the resemblance. As if, somehow, I’d lost a piece of myself.
At least our expressions in the mirror were different, and Amelia mimicked my frown.
“What is it, Molly? I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I’m pleased that I have a sister. But I don’t want to fool anyone, or—”
“Don’t be stuffy! Now I can become more like you. Confident and capable.”
Those words hardly described the way I felt. “Until you open your mouth,” I said. “No one will ever confuse our accents.”
She heard someone coming up the outside steps and ran to a window. “There’s Charles now! He’s going to have supper here and take us to the theater. Let’s begin, Molly. Watch this!”
She opened the door for Charles without speaking, and he gave her a warm smile. “Hi, Molly,” he said, and turned toward me, only to be stricken with confusion.
Forcing herself not to smile, Amelia linked her arm through mine and we faced him together, even though I was reluctant to go along with this game. He hesitated only a moment, and then reached for Amelia, pulling her into his arms.
“You couldn’t fool me for more than ten seconds,” he said.
Amelia pouted her disappointment. “But how—”
Charles laughed. “Molly’s the old lady. You’re the child—a dead giveaway, Amelia.”
I wasn’t sure I liked that, but I felt relieved that the charade would fool no one for long. The differences between Amelia and me went deeper than the surface, and anyone who knew either of us would easily tell us apart.
I’d forgotten something in my surprise over Amelia’s hair. “Your mother wants to see you,” I told her, and she nodded.
“I’ll go right upstairs. I hope my hair won’t upset her too much. Go on out to the kitchen and see what you can put together for supper—both of you.”
Charles gave me his ready smile, and I was glad to be with someone who wasn’t full of dark subterfuges, as Garrett Burke seemed to be.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Molly. You’re good for your sister. But don’t worry—there’s no real identity crisis.”
“What she did bothered me for a moment,” I admitted. “I don’t want to lose me.”
“No danger. I do wish, however, that Amelia were more like you. Oh well, come along and we’ll see what’s for supper, Molly. And you can tell me about your afternoon.”
I edited as I went along, describing my walk through the Market, my exploration of Charleston Place—but without any mention of seeing Garrett and Daphne there. Then I retraced my steps and told him about my earlier meeting with Katy Jackson at the library.
“I understand you were all tutored together by Nathanial Amory, including Katy,” I said. This was a subject I didn’t seem able to leave.
“Right. Simon was always out in front with the civil rights movement. Kids don’t start out with prejudice—it’s handed to them by grown-ups. I’m glad
your father could help us to avoid that.”
“I remember something Douglas used to say—that prejudice means taking a stand against something you don’t understand.”
“The trouble is we don’t always know what we don’t understand. Well, enough of all this heavy stuff. Katy’s mother will be there tonight, and so will mine. I’ve persuaded them to come and watch, since their kids are in the show.”
Charles had led me away from the subject of Nathanial Amory, though this probably wasn’t deliberate.
“How is your hand?” I asked. “Can you manage the duel tonight?”
“It’s fine. I put on a bit of an act today to pay Garrett back. He was the one who got out of line, and I don’t much trust him. But we’ll do better tonight. Honoria will see to that.”
“Why don’t you like Garrett?”
Charles busied himself making sandwiches. “Who taught you to ask all these pointed questions, Molly? Is that the writer in you coming out? You remind me a little of your mother when she was younger and could be pretty feisty. Is this a throwback for you?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, I like your spirit and I like you. It’s too bad you couldn’t have stayed right here where you belonged. Just think how different things might be.”
He gave me a searching look that I couldn’t interpret. Just as I was beginning to feel ill at ease, Amelia joined us and fixed a plate for her mother. When she had taken it to Valerie and returned, we sat down to eat our informal meal.
Straight off, Amelia asked me a question, and her light-hearted mood had vanished. “Why did you show Mama our father’s letter, Molly? It upset her badly.”
“She knew about it and she wanted to see it. I couldn’t avoid showing it to her. But she already seemed tense when we met. We talked about a number of things—as strangers might.”
“But you’re not strangers!” Amelia wailed. “Charles, help me on this—make her understand!”
Charles shook his head amiably. “You’re on your own, honey. I’m sure Molly will manage just fine.”
Amelia herself was not managing. I could sense a deep unease that sometimes bordered on fear. This was what troubled me. What was it that so disturbed my sister?
Perhaps tonight, if I were watchful, I might be given some direction. There must be something I could do to help Amelia with whatever it was that troubled her.
9
The Mountfort Theater fronted on a narrow street with an alley stretching back along one side. It had once been an enormous warehouse and was a perfect building to contain a theater. The original brick construction showed on the lower half bordering the sidewalk, while the upper half still wore stucco that had been plastered over the brick. Two large arched doorways led into the lobby, and a colorful sign extended over the pavement in front.
On the sign, actors in fanciful costumes performed before an audience glimpsed in the background. The legend read:
STAGE CENTER PLAYERS
WORKSHOP
Charles opened a door, and Amelia and I stepped into the lobby, where photographs and playbills had been posted on the walls. The box office cage stood at one end, while two sets of swinging doors opened into the auditorium.
We entered through the left-hand door and I stood for a moment looking about in the dim light. Three banks of red upholstered seats, cut through by two aisles, sloped toward the brightly lighted stage. On either hand the exposed walls were the original redbrick. As a theater, it had not been prettified, but would serve its purpose very well. Once an audience was in place and the lights went down, only the stage would matter.
It was a small stage, probably best suited to intimate scenes. There was no proscenium arch, but a simple white border that framed it like a picture. A plain green backdrop separated the stage from whatever lay behind, and flies vanished into darkness overhead. Up on the stage, Daphne, Garrett, and Honoria appeared to be arguing enthusiastically. Honoria was not only directing this play, she was also performing—in her own role as director.
Tonight she wore jeans that must have been purchased in a child’s store, and a blue smock that hung below her knees. She had tied a scarf patterned in green-and-blue mosaic figures over her hair, and knotted it high to give her a bit more stature. There was no apron to the stage, no footlight area, and she came to the edge and stood looking down at us as we approached.
“You’re late, Charles! We can’t get into the next scene without you and Amelia.”
Charles hurried up the steps at the left to join her, but Amelia’s hand on my arm kept me beside her as we looked up at Honoria. I was aware of Orva Jackson and Evaline Landry in the front row, and of Katy in the wings, waiting to come on.
Honoria stared from Amelia to me. “My God! Which of you is which?”
Before we’d left the house Amelia insisted that in this first appearance as identical twins, we should dress as nearly alike as possible. She had loaned me jeans and a denim shirt like the ones she was wearing, and of course her clothes fit me perfectly.
Amelia smiled up at her sweetly and pointed to me without speaking.
“Then get up here,” Honoria ordered, accepting the deception. “We’ll talk about your hair later.”
“Take another look, Honoria,” Charles told her as he strode out on the stage. “They’re not that much alike.”
Honoria could move faster than anyone I knew. She sped across the stage to the steps and flew down as though she hardly touched them. When she stopped before Amelia, she was bristling with disapproval.
“Your hair was so beautiful, Amelia! How could you bear to cut it?”
“There wasn’t time to wait for Molly’s to grow,” Amelia told her. “And I wanted to see if we really looked alike. Don’t be angry.”
Charles laughed in enjoyment of Honoria’s confusion, and Daphne, who handled the props for the play, came to stand beside him, looking down. Even Katy stepped from the wings to see what was happening, and I was aware of Orva’s arrested attention. Mrs. Landry’s expression seemed guarded, as though she avoided family arguments. Garrett remained apart, studying the script in his hands, though I suspected that he missed nothing.
“Charles was right,” Daphne said. “If you keep your mouths shut, nobody can tell you apart.” Her eyes danced with their own green light, and up there on the stage she seemed an impressive figure, nearly as tall as Charles.
I couldn’t join in the fun. “I’ll certainly open my mouth,” I told Daphne. “I don’t want to confuse anybody.”
“Good for you, Molly,” Honoria approved. “No tricks.”
Garrett—never the handsome hero, shorter and stockier than Charles—looked up from the pages in his hand and caught my eye with an oddly sympathetic look. I wondered wryly if he thought we were aligned against southern forces.
“Never mind!” Honoria cried impatiently. “Do get up there, Amelia, so we can get on with this scene.”
I sat beside Orva in the front row, while Amelia ran up to join the others.
Honoria returned to her director’s duties. “This is the scene where Amelia has hidden the Union soldier, and you, Charles, come in right center, expecting to be greeted joyfully by your sweetheart—Miss Sunshine here—whose hair is now all wrong for her part.”
Amelia didn’t mind the jibe. She bent to drop a kiss on Honoria’s cheek, and was rebuffed at once.
“Don’t take liberties with the director! You can’t get around me that way. I want to see you do a lot better with the dialogue than last time. You may be the author, but we still have to make you into an actor.”
As they went on, I found that Honoria was the one I watched. She seemed to know everyone’s part, and when one of the actors’ attempts didn’t please her, she would throw herself into the role and play the scene vigorously. She even caught Garrett’s northern accent when he was hauled out of hiding by
the Confederate soldier. And she could mimic Amelia beautifully.
Once she stopped everything to lecture the whole company. “Stage Center doesn’t usually put such amateurs into its plays. Charleston will come to see you because of the Mountfort name. You’re family, in a sense, and they’ll enjoy and forgive. But I’d like to see you give a good performance and surprise everyone.”
After that, Charles and Amelia seemed to make more of an effort, though I wasn’t sure about Garrett.
Katy, as the family maid, had a few lines when she first opposed Charles as he burst into what was apparently the parlor of a southern mansion. She delivered her lines pertly and made her own small impact, so that I hoped Orva was pleased. I couldn’t tell by looking at her handsome profile, but she was pulled forward slightly in her seat and I felt sure she was enjoying herself.
Daphne dealt capably with props, and acted as stage manager, keeping well out of Honoria’s way. There was no question about who was in charge, and after one of Honoria’s outbursts, Orva surprised me by laughing softly. As I’d thought, Honoria, too, was performing.
Charles would look wonderful in a Confederate uniform—born to the part. Garrett, by contrast, as the Union soldier being hidden by the southern belle, played his role less gallantly. I could only hope that Honoria would whip him into shape before the actual performance.
The duel scene, to be fought with the type of swords officers had worn, was executed with gusto, and Charles managed all of his choreographed moves with natural grace. Garrett, far the clumsier of the two, at least behaved properly, and fell wounded at stage left as he was supposed to do. He looked over the edge of the stage at me and winked as the scene ended where the curtain would come down on the first act. In the next scene Amelia was a delightful spitfire, excoriating Charles as a murderer, weeping wildly over her dying hero, and clearly enjoying a role that was far from her everyday nature.
“Good!” Honoria approved. “You’re just right, Amelia. But, Charles, don’t turn your part into a caricature. Play down the noble hero, or the audience will laugh. Besides, they won’t be sure who the hero is when Garrett comes back in his spirit role. All right—let’s take a break, and then we’ll get into the first ghost scene.”
Woman Without a Past Page 14
