Mirror Image

by Danielle Steel

Genres: World War I; Women's Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

To look at one was to see the other. For family, even the girls' own father, it was a constant guessing game. For strangers, the surprise was overwhelming. And for the twins Olivia and Victoria Henderson, two remarkable young women coming of age at the turn of the century, their bond was mysterious, marvelous, and often playful-a secret realm only they inhabited.

Olivia and Victoria were the beloved daughters of a man who never fully recovered from his wife's death bearing them in 1893. Shy, serious Olivia, born eleven minutes before her sister, had taken over the role of mother in their lush New York estate, managing not only a household but her rebellious twin's flights of fancy. Free-spirited Victoria wanted to change the world. She embraced the women's suffrage movement and dreamed of sailing to war-torn Europe. Then, in the girls' twenty-first year, as the first world war escalated overseas, a fateful choice changed their lives forever.

It began when Victoria's life was about to become a public scandal. It led to a painful decision, and brought handsome lawyer Charles Dawson into the Henderson's life and family. Hand-picked by the twins' father to save his daughter's reputation, Charles was still mourning his wife's death aboard the Titanic, struggling to raise his nine year-old son alone, determined never to lose his heart again. Charles wanted to believe that, for the sake of his son, he could make an unwanted marriage work. But in an act of deception that only Olivia and Victoria could manage, the twins took an irrevocable step, which changed both their lives forever; and took one of the twins to the battlefields of France, the other into a marriage she longed for but could not have.

From Manhattan society to the trenches of war-ravaged France, Mirror Image moves elegantly and dramatically through a rich and troubled era. With startling insight, Danielle Steel explores women's choices: between home and adventure, between the love for family and the passion for a cause, between sacrifice and desire. But at the heart of Mirror Image is a fascinating, realistic portrait of identical twins, two vastly different sisters who lead their lives and follow their destinies against a vivid backdrop of a world at war.

Release date: February 27, 2009

Publisher: Dell

Print pages: 560

Sample

The sound of the birds outside was muffled by the heavy brocade curtains  of Henderson Manor, as Olivia Henderson pushed aside a lock of long dark  hair, and continued her careful inventory of her father's china. It was a  warm summer day and, as usual, her sister had gone off somewhere. Her  father, Edward Henderson, was expecting a visit from his lawyers. Nestled  as they were in Croton-on-Hudson, nearly a three-hour drive from New  York, his attorneys came to see him fairly often. Edward Henderson ran  all his investments from here, as well as overseeing the steel mills  which still bore his name, but which he no longer ran himself. He had  retired from business entirely, two years before, in 1911, maintaining all  his holdings, but trusting entirely in his attorneys and the men who ran  the mills for him. With no sons, he no longer had the interest in  business that he once did. His daughters would never run his steel mills.  He was only sixty-five, but his health had begun to fail over the past few years, and he preferred viewing the world from his peaceful perch in  Croton-on-Hudson. Here, he could observe the world quietly, and it was a  healthy, wholesome life for his two daughters. It was not exciting,  admittedly, but they were never bored, and they had friends among all the  grand families up and down the Hudson.

The Van Cortlandt manor was nearby, as were the Shepards on the old  Lyndhurst estate. Helen Shepard's father had been Jay Gould, and he had  died twenty years before, and left the extraordinary property to his  daughter. She and her husband, Finley Shepard, ran it beautifully, and  gave frequent parties for the young people nearby. The Rockefellers had  finished building Kykuit in Tarrytown that year, with its splendid  gardens and magnificent grounds, and a house which rivaled Edward  Henderson's just north of them at Croton-on-Hudson.

Henderson Manor was a handsome home, and one which people came from miles  to see, peering through the gates into the lovely gardens. They could  barely see the house from where they stood, shielded as it was by tall  trees, and little turns in the road which led to the formal driveway. The  house itself sat high on a cliff, looking over the Hudson River. And  Edward liked to sit in his study for hours, watching the world drift by,  remembering times past, old friends, and the days when his life had moved  a great deal more quickly . . . taking over his father's mills in the  1870's . . . being instrumental in the many industrial changes at the end  of the last century. His life had been so busy then. When he was younger,  his life had been so different. Edward Henderson had married when he was  young, and lost a wife and a young son to diphtheria. After that he had  been alone for many years, until Elizabeth came along. She had been  everything any man could ever dream of, a bright shining streak of light, a comet in a summer sky, so ephemeral, so dazzling, so beautiful, and so  much too quickly gone. They were married within the year they met. She  was nineteen, and he was in his early forties. By twenty-one, she was  gone. Much to Edward's horror, she had died in childbed. After her death,  he had worked even harder than usual, driving himself until he was numb.  He had left his daughters to the care of his housekeeper and their  nurses, but finally, he realized that he had a responsibility to them. It  was then that he began building Henderson Manor. He wanted them to have  healthy, wholesome lives, out of the city. New York was no place for  children in 1903. They had been ten when he'd actually moved them, and now  they were twenty. He kept the house in the city and worked there, but he  came up to see them as often as he could. At first only on weekends and  then, as he fell in love with it, he began spending more time on the  Hudson, rather than in New York, or Pittsburgh, or Europe. His heart was there in Croton with his daughters, as he watched them grow, and little  by little his own life began moving more slowly. He loved being with  them, and now he never left them anymore. For the past two years, he had  gone absolutely nowhere. His health had begun to fail three or four years  before. His heart was a problem, but only when he worked too hard, or let  things upset him, or got terribly angry, which he seldom did now. He was  happy in Croton with his daughters.

It had been twenty years since their mother had died in the spring of  1893, on a warm balmy day that had appeared to him to be God's ultimate  betrayal. He had been waiting outside, filled with such pride, and so  much excitement. He had never dreamed it could happen to him again. His  first wife and infant son had died in an epidemic of diphtheria more than  a dozen years before. But this time, losing Elizabeth had almost killed  him. At forty-five, it was a near mortal blow to him, and he almost  couldn't bear going on without her. She had died in their home in New  York, and at first he felt her presence there. But after a while, he came  to hate the emptiness of it, and he had hated being there. He had  traveled off and on for months after that, but avoiding the house meant  avoiding the two little girls Elizabeth had left him. And he couldn't  bring himself to sell the house his father had built, and that he had  grown up in. A traditionalist to the core, he felt an obligation to maintain it for his children. He had closed it eventually, and it had  been two years since he'd been there. Now that he lived in Croton  full-time, he never missed it. Neither the house, nor New York, nor the  social life he'd left there.

And as the summer sounds droned on, Olivia continued her painstaking  inventory of the china. She had long sheets of paper on which she wrote  in her meticulous hand, making note of what they needed to replace, and  what had to be ordered. Sometimes she sent one of the servants to the  house in town to bring something up to them, but for the most part, the  city house was closed, and they never went there. She knew her father  didn't like it. Her father's health was frail, and, like him, she was  happy here in their quiet life in Croton-on-Hudson. She had actually spent  very little time in New York since she was a child, except for the brief  time two years before, when her father had taken them to New York, to  present them to society and all his friends. She had found it  interesting, but truly exhausting. She was overwhelmed by the parties,  the theater, the constant social demands made on them. She had felt as  though she were onstage the entire time, and she hated the attention. It was Victoria who had thrived on it, and who had been in a state of total  gloom when they returned to Croton at Christmas. Olivia had been relieved  to return to her books, their home, her horses, her peaceful walks high  on the cliff which led her sometimes to neighboring farms. She loved  riding here, and listening to the sounds of spring, watching winter melt  slowly away from them, seeing the splendor of the turning leaves in  October. She loved taking care of her father's house for him, and had  since she was a very young girl, with the help of Alberta Peabody, the  woman who had raised them. She was "Bertie" to them, and the closest to a  mother the Henderson girls had ever known. Her eyes were poor, but her  mind was sharp, and she could have told the two young women apart in the  dark, with her eyes closed.

She came to check on Olivia now, and asked her how far she had gotten.  She didn't have the patience, or the eyes, to do this kind of minute work  anymore, and she was always grateful when Olivia did it for her. Olivia  carefully checked the embroidery, the crystal, the linens. She kept an eye  on everything, and she loved doing it, unlike Victoria, who detested all  things domestic. Victoria was, in every possible way, different from her  sister.

"Well, have they broken all our plates, or will we still be able to  manage Christmas dinner?" Bertie smiled as she held up a glass of  ice-cold lemonade and a plate of gingersnaps fresh out of the oven.  Alberta Peabody had spent twenty years caring for the two girls she had  come to think of as "her children." They had become hers at birth, and  she had never left them for a day, not since their mother had died, and  she had first looked into Olivia's eyes and realized instantly how much  she loved her.

She was a short, round woman, with white hair in a small bun at the back  of her head. She had an ample bosom where Olivia had rested her head  through most of her childhood. She had comforted them whenever they  needed it, and whenever their father wasn't there, which had been often  when they were young. For years, he had grieved silently for their mother  and kept his distance. But he had warmed toward them in recent years, and  softened considerably since his health had begun to fail and he had  retired from business. He had a weak heart, which he attributed to the  shock and grief of losing two young wives, and the aggravations of modern  business. He was far happier now that he was running things from here,  and everything could be filtered for him through his attorneys.

"We need soup plates, Bertie," Olivia reported solemnly, brushing the  long dark hair back again, totally unaware of her startling beauty. She  had creamy white skin, huge dark blue eyes, and thick shining black hair  the color of a raven. "We need fish plates too. I'll order them from  Tiffany next week. We must tell the girls in the kitchen to be more  careful." Bertie nodded, smiling up at her. Olivia could have been  married by now, she could have had her own soup plates to inventory,  instead she was still here, and perfectly at ease, taking care of her  father and his house, and all his people. Olivia had no desire to go  anywhere. She never even thought of it. She was happy right here at  Henderson Manor. Unlike Victoria, who talked constantly about places  halfway around the world, or at the very least in Europe. She glowered  every time she thought of the house they were wasting in New York, and  the fun they might have had there.

Olivia looked down at Bertie then with a childlike grin. She was wearing  a pale blue silk dress, which reached almost to her ankles, and it looked  like a piece of summer sky wrapped around her as she stood there. She had  had the dress copied from a magazine, and made by a local seamstress. It  was a Poiret design, and it looked lovely on her. It was Olivia who  always selected and designed their dresses. Victoria didn't really care.  She let Olivia choose them, particularly, as she put it, since Olivia was  her older sister.

"The cookies are awfully good today, aren't they? Father will love them."  Olivia had ordered them especially for him, and John Watson, his  principal attorney. "I suppose I should organize a tray for them, or have  you already done it?" The two women exchanged a smile, born of years of  sharing responsibilities and duties. And slowly, over the past few years,  Olivia had grown from child to girl, to young woman, and mistress of her  father's home. Olivia was very much in control of her surroundings, and  Bertie knew it. She respected that, and most of the time deferred now to  Olivia's opinions, although she thought nothing of opposing her, or  scolding her, when she went out in the pouring rain, or did something  childishly foolish, which she was still sometimes wont to do even at  twenty. But nowadays Bertie found that less worrisome than refreshing.  Olivia was so serious and responsible, that it did her good sometimes to  forget all that she was supposed to be doing.

"I've set the tray up for you, but I told Cook you'll want to order it  yourself at the last minute," Bertie told her.

"Thank you." Olivia came down the ladder gracefully, and kissed the old  woman's cheek as she wrapped her long, elegant arms around her. Olivia lay  her head on Bertie's shoulder for an instant, like a child, and then,  after kissing her cheek affectionately again, she hurried off to the  kitchen to see to the tray for her father and his lawyer.

She ordered a pitcher of lemonade, a large plate of cookies for both of  them, and small watercress and cucumber sandwiches, with paper-thin  slices of tomatoes from their garden. There was sherry for them as well,  and stronger spirits if they preferred them. Having grown up in her  father's company, Olivia was not a girl who shrank from the thought of  men drinking whiskey, or smoking cigars, in fact she liked the smell of  them, as did her sister.

When she'd approved the linens and the silver tray Bertie had set out,  she left the kitchen, and found her father in the library. The curtains  were drawn to keep the room cool, they were deep red brocade with heavy  fringe, and Olivia adjusted them instinctively as she glanced at her  father over her shoulder.

"How are you feeling today, Father? It's terribly hot, isn't it?"

"I rather like it." He smiled proudly at her, well aware of her  outstanding domestic talents. He often said that if it weren't for  Olivia, he couldn't have run his home, or certainly not as smoothly. He  had even jokingly said that he was afraid one of the Rockefellers might  try and marry her, just so she could run Kykuit. He had been over to see  it recently, and it was a spectacular home that John D. Rockefeller had  built. It had every possible modern amenity, including telephones,  central heating, and a generator in the carriage barn, and Olivia's  father had teased that it made their home look like a bumpkin's cottage,  which was hardly the case, but Kykuit was certainly their grandest  neighbor.

"This heat is good for my old bones," he said comfortably, lighting a  cigar, as he waited for his lawyer. "Where's your sister?" he asked  casually. It was always easy to find Olivia somewhere in the house,  making lists, writing notes to the staff, checking on something that  needed to be fixed, or arranging flowers for her father's table. Victoria  was a great deal more difficult to keep track of.

"I think she went to play tennis at the Astors'," Olivia said vaguely,  with no clear idea of where she was, but only a vague suspicion.

"Typical of her," he said with a rueful grin at his older daughter. "I  believe the Astors are in Maine for the summer," as were most of their  neighbors. The Hendersons had gone to Maine in previous summers too, and  Newport, Rhode Island, but Edward Henderson no longer liked leaving  Croton, even in the hottest of summers.

"I'm sorry, Father." Olivia blushed in embarrassment at the lie she'd  told on behalf of her sister. "I thought perhaps they were back from Bal Harbor."

"I'm sure you did." He looked amused. "And God only knows where your  sister is, or what mischief she's been up to." But they both knew that  her vagaries were fairly harmless. She was an individual, a person on her  own, and full of spirit and determination. She was as independent as  their late mother had been, and in some ways, Edward Henderson had always  suspected that his younger daughter was faintly eccentric. But as long as  she didn't indulge it too excessively, it was something he could  tolerate, and she could come to no great harm here. The worst she could do  was fall out of a tree, get heat prostration walking miles to her nearest  friend's, or swim a little too far down the river. The pleasures were all  quite genteel here. Victoria had no romances in the neighborhood, no  young men in hot pursuit, although several of the young Rockefellers and  Van Cortlandts had certainly shown considerable interest in her. But  everyone was well behaved, and even her father knew that Victoria was actually far more intellectual than romantic.

"I'll look for her after I leave you," Olivia said quietly, but neither  of them were particularly concerned, as the tray from the kitchen was  brought in, and she told the kitchen boy where to put it.

"You'll need another glass, my dear," her father instructed her as he  relit his cigar and thanked the boy whose name he never remembered.

Olivia knew all of the people who worked for them, she knew their names,  their histories, their parents, their sisters, their children. She knew  their foibles and their strengths, and whatever mischief they occasionally  got into. She was indeed the Mistress of Henderson Manor, perhaps even  more than her own mother would have been, had she lived. In some ways,  Olivia suspected that their mother had been far more like her sister.

"Is John bringing someone with him?" Olivia looked surprised. Her  father's attorney usually came alone, except when there was some problem  at the mill, and she had heard nothing about it this time if there was.  Usually, their father shared that kind of information with them. All of  that would be theirs one day, although more than likely, the girls would  sell the mills, unless they married men who were capable of running them,  but Edward considered that less than likely.

Her father sighed over his cigar in answer to her question.  "Unfortunately, my dear, John is bringing someone today. I'm afraid I've  come too far in this world. I've outlived two wives, a son, my doctor  last year, most of my friends in the last decade, and now John Watson  tells me he's thinking of retiring. He's bringing along a man who's  recently joined his firm, and whom he seems to think quite a lot of."

"But John's not that old," Olivia looked surprised, and almost as  disturbed as her father, "and neither are you, so stop talking like  that." She knew he had begun to feel ancient since he'd been unwell, and  even more so since he'd retired.

"I am ancient. You have no idea what it's like when everyone around you  starts disappearing," he said, scowling and thinking of the new attorney  he didn't want to meet that afternoon.

"No one is going anywhere, and neither is John for the moment, I'm sure,"  she said reassuringly, as she poured him a small glass of sherry and  handed it to him, with the plate of fresh ginger cookies. He took one,  and looked extremely pleased as he looked at her.

"Perhaps he won't go after all, after he tastes these cookies. I must  say, Olivia, you get them to make miracles in that kitchen."

"Thank you." She leaned over and kissed him, and he looked up at her with  all the pleasure he felt each time he saw her. She looked remarkably  comfortable and cool on such a hot day, and she took one of the  gingersnaps herself and sat down next to him as they waited for John  Watson. "So who's the new man?" she asked curiously after a few minutes.  She knew that Watson was a year or two younger than her father, but it  still seemed young to retire, to her, and he had always seemed very  youthful. But perhaps he was wise, bringing someone new into their affairs  sooner rather than later. "Have you met him before?"

"Not yet. This will be the first time. John says he's extremely good at  what he does, mostly business affairs, and he's done some estate matters  for some of the Astors. He came to John's office from an excellent firm,  with a very good recommendation."

"Why did he change?" she asked, intrigued. She liked hearing about her  father's business. Victoria did too, but she was far more hotheaded in her  opinions. Sometimes the three of them had rare go-arounds about some  issues of politics or point of business, but all three of them thoroughly  enjoyed it. Perhaps because he had no son, Edward Henderson loved  discussing intelligent matters with his daughters.

"According to John, the new man, Dawson, had a hard blow last year.  Actually, it made me feel sorry for him, and I think that's why I let  John bring him . . . it's the sort of thing I'm afraid I understand  rather too well." He smiled sadly at her. "He lost his wife last year on  the Titanic. She was a daughter of Lord Arnsborough's, and I think  she'd gone home to visit her sister. Damn shame she came back on the  Titanic. Nearly lost his boy too. Apparently, they got him off in  one of the last lifeboats. It was already too full, and she put another  child in her place, and said she'd come on the next one. There was no  next one, and she didn't get in the last of the lifeboats. I gather he  left the firm he was with, took the boy, and spent the year in Europe. It  only happened sixteen months ago, and I think he's only been with Watson  since May or June. Poor devil. John says he's very good, but a bit  gloomy. He'll come out of it, we all do. He'll have to, for the boy's  sake." It reminded him all too much of when he'd lost Elizabeth, although  his loss had been due to complications of childbirth and not a disaster  of the magnitude of the Titanic. But still, it had been disastrous  to him, and he knew only too well how the man felt. Edward Henderson sat lost in thought for a moment, as did Olivia, digesting what her father  had said, and both of them looked startled when they looked up and suddenly saw John Watson standing in the doorway.

"Well, how did you get in unannounced? Have you taken to climbing in the  windows?" Edward Henderson laughed at his old friend, as he stood to greet  him, and crossed the room looking extremely healthy. He was in good form  these days, thanks to Olivia's constant care, and in spite of his  complaints about how badly he was aging.

"No one pays any attention to me at all," John Watson laughed. He was  tall, and had a shock of white hair, much like Olivia's father, who was  also tall and aristocratic, and had once had the same shining black hair  as his daughters. The blue eyes were the same too, and they came alive  now as he chatted animatedly with John Watson. The two men had known each  other since school. Edward had actually been the closest friend of John's  slightly older brother. He had been dead for years, and Edward and John  had long since become fast friends, and associates in all of the  Henderson legal matters.

Seeing them engaged in earnest conversation almost at once, Olivia  glanced at the tray again, to see that all was in order, and prepared to  leave the room, and then she turned and was startled to almost walk into  the arms of Charles Dawson. It was odd seeing him there, after they had  just talked about him, and embarrassing to know so much of his loss, and  his grief, without ever having met him. As she looked at him, he seemed  very handsome and somewhat austere, and she thought she had never seen  sadder eyes on anyone. They were like dark pools of green, almost the  color of seawater. But he managed a small smile when her father introduced  them. And as they spoke, she saw something more than just tragedy about  him. There was great kindness in his eyes, and gentleness, it almost made  her want to reach out and console him.

"How do you do," he said politely, shaking her hand, and seeming to take  every inch of her in with interest. He didn't look her over improperly,  although he was certainly aware of how beautiful she was, but he seemed  mostly curious about her.

"May I offer you some lemonade?" she asked, feeling suddenly shy, and  hiding behind her comfortable duties. "Or would you prefer sherry? I'm  afraid Father prefers sherry, even on days as hot as this one."

"Lemonade would be fine." He smiled at her again, and the two older men  went back to their conversation.

She gave John Watson a glass of lemonade as well, and all three men  gladly accepted the gingersnap cookies. And then, having fulfilled her  responsibilities to them, Olivia quietly withdrew and closed the doors  behind her. But as she left the room, something about the look in Charles  Dawson's eyes haunted her, or maybe it was just because she knew his  story from her father. She wondered how old his little boy was, and how  Charles managed without a wife, or perhaps he had someone in his life by  now. She tried to shake off her thoughts of him, it was ridiculous to be  worrying about one of her father's attorneys, and quite inappropriate in  fact, she scolded herself, as she turned quickly to go back to the  kitchen, and nearly collided with her father's under-chauffeur. He was a  boy of sixteen who had worked in the stables for years, but knew a great  deal more about cars than he did about horses. And since her father had a  great love for the modern machines, and had bought one of the earliest cars while they still lived in New York, Petrie, the stable boy, had made  a rapid and pleasing transition.

"What is it, Petrie? What's wrong?" she asked matter-of-factly. He looked  totally disheveled, and completely flustered.

"I have to see your father right away, miss," he said, obviously near  tears, as she tried to lead him away from the library before he disturbed  her father in his meeting.

"I'm afraid you can't. He's busy. Is there something I can help you  with?" she said gently but firmly.

He hesitated, and then looked around, as though afraid someone would hear  him. "It's the Ford." He looked terrified as he told her. "It's been  stolen." His eyes were round with tears, he knew what would happen to him  when word got out. He would lose the best job he could ever have, and he  couldn't understand how it had happened.

"Stolen?" She looked as startled as he did. "How is that possible?  How could someone come on the property and just take it, and no one  notice?"

"I don't know, miss. And I seen it just this morning. I was cleaning it.  It was all bright and shiny like the day your father bought it. I just  left the garage door open for a little while, to air the place out,  because it gets so hot, you know, with the sun directly on it, and half  an hour later, it was gone. Just gone." His eyes filled with tears again,  and Olivia put a gentle hand on his shoulder. There was something about  his story which had struck her.

"What time would that have been, Petrie? Do you remember?" Her voice and  her manner were extremely calm, most unusually so for a girl of twenty,  but she was used to handling minor crises on the estate daily. And this  one had a particular ring to it.

"It was eleven-thirty, miss. I know it exactly." Olivia had last seen  her sister at eleven. And the Ford he was so distraught over was the car  her father had bought the year before for staff purposes, errands into  town, m