As by this point in the conversation we had finished our meal, and Mrs Makin had brought us some coffee, I said, "So I take it the story that brought me up here, about a bilocating priest, was false?"
"Yes and no. The cult makes no secret of the fact it bases its teaching on the words of its leader. Father Franklin is a stigmatic, and he's supposed to be able to bilocate, but he's never been seen doing it by independent witnesses, or at least not under controlled circumstances."
"But was it true?"
"I'm really not sure. There was a local doctor involved this time, and for some reason she said something to a tabloid newspaper, who ran a potted version of the story. I only heard about it when I was in the village the other day. I can't see how it can have been true: their leader's in prison in America, isn't he?"
"But if the incident really happened, that would make it more interesting."
"It makes it more likely to be a fraud. How does Doctor Ellis know what this man looks like, for instance? There's only the word of one of the members to go on."
"You made it out to be a genuine story."
"I told you I wanted to meet you. And the fact that the man goes in for bilocation was too good to be true."
She laughed in the way people do when they say something they expect others to find amusing. I hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.
"Couldn't you have just telephoned the newspaper?" I said. "Or written a letter to me?"
"Yes I could… but I wasn't sure you were who I thought you were. I wanted to meet you first."
"I don't see why you thought a bilocating religious fanatic had anything to do with me."
"It was just a coincidence. You know, the controversy about the illusion, and all that." Again, she looked at me expectantly.
"Who did you think I was?"
"The son of Clive Borden. Isn't that right?"
She tried to hold my gaze but her eyes, irresistibly, turned away again. Her nervous, evasive manner put tension between us, when nothing else was happening to create it. Remains of lunch lay on the table between us.
"A man called Clive Borden was my natural father," I said. "But I was adopted when I was three."
"Well then. I was right about you. We met once before, many years ago, when we were both children. Your name was Nicky then."
"I don't remember," I said. "I would have been only a toddler. Where did this meeting take place?"
"Here, in this house. You really don't remember it?"
"Not at all."
"Do you have any other memories from when you were that age?" she said.
"Only fragments. But none about this place. It's the sort of house that would make an impression on a child, isn't it?"
"All right. You're not the first to say that. My sister… she hates this house, and couldn't wait to move away." She reached behind her, where a small bell rested on a counter, and dinged it twice. "I usually take a drink after lunch. Would you care to join me?"
"Yes, thank you."
Mrs Makin soon appeared, and Lady Katherine stood up.
"Mr Westley and I will be in the drawing room this afternoon, Mrs Makin."
As we went up the broad staircase I felt an impulse to escape from her, to get away from this house. She knew more about me than I knew myself, but it was knowledge of a part of my life in which I had no interest. This was obviously a day when I had to become a Borden again, whether or not I wished to do so. First there was the book by him, now this. It was all connected, but I felt her intrigues were not mine. Why should I care about the man, the family, who had turned their back on me?
She led me into the room where I had first met her, and closed the door decisively behind us. It was almost as if she had felt my wish to escape, and wanted to detain me as long as she could. A silver tray with a number of bottles, glasses and a bucket of ice had been placed on a low table set between a number of easy chairs and a long settee. One of the glasses already held a large drink, presumably prepared by Mrs Makin. Kate indicated I should take a seat, then said, "What would you like?"
Actually I would have liked a glass of beer, but the tray bore only spirits. I said, "I'll have whatever you're drinking."
"It's American rye with soda. Do you want that too?"
I said I did, and watched as she mixed it. When she sat down on the settee she tucked her legs under her, then drank about half the glass of whiskey straight down.
"How long can you stay?" she said.
"Maybe just this drink."
"There's a lot I want to talk to you about. And a lot I want to ask you."
"Why?"
"Because of what happened when we were children."
"I don't think I'm going to be much help to you," I said. Now that she wasn't twitching around so much, I was beginning to see her more objectively as a not unattractive woman of roughly my own age. She obviously liked drinking, and was used to the effect of it. That alone made me feel I was on familiar territory; I spent most weekends drinking with my friends. Her eyes continued to disconcert me, though, for she was always looking at me, then away, then back, making me feel someone was behind me, moving about the room where I could not see them.
"A one-word answer to a question might save a lot of time," she said.
"All right."
"Do you have an identical twin brother? Or did you have one who died when you were very young?"
I could not help my startled reaction. I put down my glass, before I spilled any more, and mopped at the liquid that had splashed on to my legs.
"Why do you ask that?" I said.
"Do you? Did you?"
"I don't know. I think I did, but I've never been able to find him. I mean… I'm not sure."
"I think you've given me the answer I was expecting," she said. "But not the one I was hoping for."
#############
I said, "If this is something to do with the Borden family, I might as well tell you that I know nothing about them. Do you realize that?"
"Yes, but you are a Borden."
"I was, but it doesn't mean anything to me." I suddenly had a glimpse of this young woman's family, stretching back more than three hundred years in an unbroken sequence of generations: same name, same house, same everything. My own family roots went back to the age of three. "I don't think you can appreciate what being adopted means. I was just a little boy, a toddler, and my father dumped me out of his life. If I spent the rest of my own life grieving about that, I'd have time for nothing else. Long ago, I sealed it off because I had to. I've a new family now."
"Your brother is still a Borden, though."
Whenever she mentioned my brother I felt a pang of guilt, concern and curiosity. It was as if she used him as a way of getting under my defences. All my life the existence of my brother had been my secret certainty, a part of myself that I kept completely private. Yet here was this stranger speaking of him as if she knew him.
"Why are you interested in this?" I said.
"When you first heard of me, saw my name, did it mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Have you ever heard of Rupert Angier?"
"No."
"Or The Great Danton, the illusionist?"
"No. My only interest in my former family is that through them I might one day be able to trace my twin brother."
She had been sipping quickly at her glass of whiskey while we spoke, and now it was empty. She leant forward to mix another drink, and tried to pour more into my glass. Knowing I was going to have to drive later, I pulled my glass back before she could completely fill it.