Lauren Baratz-Logsted - The Twins Daughter

Copyright 2010 by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any formor by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by anyinformation storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First published in the United States of America in September 2010
by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers
E-book edition published in September 2010
www.bloomsburyteens.com

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write toPermissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Baratz-Logsted, Lauren.
Twins daughter / by Lauren Baratz-Logsted.1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In Victorian London, thirteen-year-old Lucys comfortable world with her loving parents begins slowly to unravel the day that a bedraggled woman who looks exactly like her mother appears at their door.
ISBN 978-1-59990-513-6
[1. TwinsFiction. 2. AuntsFiction. 3. MurderFiction. 4. London (England)History18001950Fiction. 5. Great BritainHistoryVictoria, 18371901Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.B22966Tw 2011 [Fic]dc22 2010008234

ISBN 978-1-59990-616-4 (e-book)

For Melanie

One

I was thirteen the year everything changed with a single knock at the door.

It was a strong door, sturdy oak, the kind designed to keep the worst of the worlds elements outside while keeping safe the occupants on the inside. My mother was making the rounds of the neighborhood, as she often did on weekdays, preferring the use of her own feet to the carriage, while my father was no doubt at his club, regaling his friends with stories concerning the progress of the latest novel he was writing; born into great wealth, my father could afford to treat his career with leisure.

I dont know where the servants were when that knock came. For surely it should have been one of their jobs to answer it. But as I sat on the floor of the back parlor, in front of the fire, my long skirts all about me on the carpet with the drawings I was working on spread out along the perimeters of those skirts, the knock came again, more insistent this time. I thought to ignore itthe self-portrait I was working on, showing my long dark hair off to best advantage, was really coming along too nicely to be disturbed! It was probably just one of my mothers friends. Or perhaps it was one of the beggars who occasionally found their way to our front steps, quickly made short shrift of by Cook providing food we no longer wanted at the back. But then the thought occurred to me: what if it was somethinghowever improbableimportant?

With reluctance, I set down my charcoal pencil. Brushing off my skirts to straighten them as I rose, I made my way to the source of the knocking, opening the door just in time to see the caller turning away.

The callers back to me, from behind I made out the tall figure of a woman, so painfully thin as to make me want to feed her, her long gray dress bearing the stains of the elements we usually tried to keep out. Her hair, also glimpsed only from behind, was a naggingly familiar thick hank of gold that no amount of living hard could tarnish, nor could it be kept completely under control by the pins that sought to bind it up in a twist; the tendrils would escape, wisping their way onto the air. Both hands were gloveless despite the frigid day, and in one she carried a threadbare carpetbag.

Can I help you? I asked, catching her attention before she started away.

She turned slowly. At first, her eyes were downcast, but as she moved them upward to meet mine, there came a shock of recognition as I took in the familiar bright blue of her eyes and knew where I had seen that hair before. It was the same place I had seen that porcelain skin, although, I must confess, I had never seen it quite like this: with soot smudges on it. It was as though she had been cleaning out fireplaces herself and hadnt a looking glass to consult before leaving her home.

I couldnt prevent a gasp from escaping my body. Mother? I said, reaching a hand out to her. What has happened to you?

.....

Of course, as it turned out, it wasnt my mother who had come knocking on the door. Does not a child recognize her own mother?

Is Aliese Sexton at home? she asked, speaking in an accent reflective of her lower class attire, naming my mother and ignoring my gasp and what Id said.

No, she is not, I said.

I hope you wont mind, then, she said, slithering around me and into the entryway without so much as a by-your-leave, if I wait inside.

Shutting the door behind herit felt good to shut out the coldI turned just in time to catch sight of the surprise and surprising visitor taking in our vestibule. She nodded as her eyes swept across the soaring height of the ceiling, as though approving it, nodding a second time at the pink marble floor, a third time at the ornate hat rack with its mirrored back and bench seat.

I started to offer to take her cloak, as I would that of any visitor arriving in the winteror as my parents or the servants wouldbut then I stopped myself short. Of course, she hadnt a cloak.

Would you like to leave that here? I said, indicating the carpetbag she still clutched and pointing at the bench.

If its all the same to you, she said coolly, I prefer to keep it close to my person.

Of course, I said, trying to smile, trying to appear natural, trying to behave as I thought the adults I knew might behave in similar circumstances as if there ever could be similar circumstances. I dont think Mother will be much longer, I said. With a hand I gestured toward the front parlor. My drawing things, which I was missing now with that longing you have for safe objects when the world has turned confusing, were in the back parlor, but I couldnt bring her there. That cozy room was for family, while the front parlor was for more formal visitors and was surely where my parents or the servants would have shown this woman. Perhaps you would like to wait in here?

She followed the direction of my hand, seating herself on one of the white silk sofas, her back ramrod straight, hands tightly clasped in her lap, her carpetbag so close to her legs it touched against the ankle of one of her worn boots. She did not change her position even when I called a servant to bring tea and the tray arrived, the servant barely containing her shock at the appearance of my guest. For my part, it surprised me that the woman did not take any refreshment, since I would have thought she would have accepted a cup, if only to hold something warm in her hands, which I could see now were chapped and raw.

I sat with my own teacup and saucer balanced in my lap, my legs delicately crossed at the ankle beneath my skirts, and it occurred to me for the first time: I didnt even know her name! And yet how do you ask that of someone after you have invited them into your home and after you have offered them tea and a comfy seat in the front parlor? Do you say, Oh, by the way, and what are you called and who might you be? Just as odd, when I stopped to think about it, she hadnt asked my name at the appropriate juncture either, and so that time had passed.

I dont think Mother will be much longer, I said again, striving for a bright tone, while inside I was hoping my father would arrive first. My father, even if he had been drinking with his friends, would still be better equipped than Mother to deal with whatever this was.