Beneath the Attic Read online

  I thought a moment. “Did you say ‘bedrooms’?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So, Mr. Foxworth’s mother slept in a separate room from her husband?”

  She stared at me, probably wondering why I knew so little about the Foxworth family and Foxworth Hall.

  “I don’t really know all that much about the Foxworths, either,” she said, trying to sound more like an equal. We were suddenly resembling roommates in some boarding school, whispering about the other girls. “No one asks questions about them in this house.”

  “This house is built on a foundation of secrets,” I muttered.

  She didn’t nod. She looked like she was holding her breath to keep herself from having any reaction. It was clear to me, however, that she thought I was right. What was even clearer was the thought that secrets here were born almost daily. After all, if I was honest about it, I’d have to admit that I was probably the latest in a long line. I was carrying the heir whose existence had to be kept hidden for a while. I almost laughed aloud when I envisioned Garland bringing his mother’s ugly clothes to me with the excuse that they would be better than any fashionable maternity clothes. Why, if I was cooperative and wore those clothes, we could hide my pregnancy until I gave birth.

  My baby suddenly would appear one day like some immaculate conception, a new Foxworth born out of the very air trapped in this mansion. The sperm had floated through the house and found me sleeping in one of the bedrooms, perhaps the Swan Room. Of course the house knew; it knew all the Foxworth secrets. It was whispering about me in every dark corner. I actually shuddered for a moment thinking about it having a throbbing heart, the walls pulsating and the ancestors growling in their portraits.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” Dora asked. My thoughts surely made me look a fright.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, and dabbed Garland’s mother’s perfume on my neck and between the tops of my breasts. Later, as he had promised, he would come to me, and he would be so pleased. Of course, now I realized that was why he had brought it here, another dark secret.

  But there had to be some very good ones, too, didn’t there?

  I rose. Dora stepped forward to brush something off my dress and then smiled. “I’ll straighten up your room, ma’am,” she said. “And be down to help with dinner.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She started to curtsy.

  “Don’t do that,” I snapped. She looked confused. I smiled. “Some things just make me feel too old, and I’m not ready for that.” Thinking about things I had overheard my mother say about her pregnancy, I added, “And I will not permit my being a mother to age me a day more than I would anyway.”

  She nodded. I thought she was fighting a smile. Did she know more than I did? Did she think I was being naive? Perhaps she liked my self-confidence, wishing that she had an iota of it herself. In the back of my mind, I harbored the thought that I might just help her achieve it. Despite her being older than I was, she was like a new project for me, a challenge, almost as if she was all the silly little girls who folded their legs under them and listened to my wisdom at my womanly talks.

  “We’ve got to trust each other,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Even with our own secrets. That way, we can become more to each other than simply a servant and a mistress. Okay?” I asked.

  Garland’s own words had come back to me. We needed to treat our servants like any other investment. I’d invest everything I could, everything I knew about being a woman, and in return, she would give me her loyalty.

  Pleased, now she smiled and nodded. I thought she intended to curtsy again but saw the no in my eyes and stopped. I glanced at myself one more time in the mirror and then started for the door.

  “Wish me luck,” I said, as if my going to dinner was equivalent to being in the Roman Coliseum to fight for survival.

  She widened her eyes, and I walked out and down the hallway, proudly defying every ancestor in every framed portrait along the walls. I paused at the stairway when I heard laughter below. Was that my mother’s voice? What had Garland done to charm her so quickly? I wondered, and started down with more enthusiasm.

  They were all waiting for me in the study. My mother, to my surprise, was having a martini, something I rarely saw her do in the presence of anyone but my father. All three were drinking the same thing. My mother looked embarrassed by it, especially because of the expression on my face.

  “These two fools insisted I imbibe,” she said.

  “We all should,” Garland said, pouring one for me.

  My mother was about to say something when it must have suddenly occurred to her that I was going to marry this man. The door to my childhood had been slammed shut. And so, too, apparently was her mouth. She sat back when I took the filled martini glass. It wasn’t something I was used to drinking; in fact, I had barely tasted one once.

  “Shall I make a toast?” Garland asked.

  “I should be the one to do that,” my father said.

  “At dinner. Permit me this one first,” Garland said, raising his glass. “To my new family, who I hope will merge so smoothly with mine that there will truly seem to be no differences between the House of Foxworth and the House of Dixon.”

  “Hear, hear,” my father said, and we all sipped our drinks.

  “I’d like you all to be as familiar with Foxworth Hall as I am. Tomorrow we shall tour the house and then, depending on the weather, of course, take one of my carriages to traverse the property. We could even take rowboats, Harrington and I at the oars, of course, and have a spin around the lake. I hope that’s all to your liking,” he said, directing himself to my mother.

  “Very much,” she said. How quickly he was charming her, I thought.

  He smiled at me as if to say, See? This will be easy.

  Maybe it was already the effect of the martini. Maybe it was simply all that I had done, seen, and heard in so short a time, but I laughed a bit too loudly. My mother’s eyes widened, and my father smiled.

  “Only one of those for her,” my mother said.

  “Absolutely only one,” Garland agreed. He winked. For the moment, at least, he looked like he was enjoying keeping our secret hidden from my mother. He expected I did, too. Did he know me that well already?

  I looked from one to the other to my father. They were all staring at me and smiling like parents enjoying their child. The realization rolled about under my heart.

  I was feeling more like a ward of my husband and not an independent, mature woman who was his wife, and my parents looked like they approved of it.

  Most frightening of all, I realized that I was doomed to be a prisoner of Foxworth Hall once I began to show my pregnancy, at least until after the baby was born. The chains and the bars would be invisible, but nevertheless, they were there.

  Maybe I’m wrong, I hoped. Maybe it was all just a silly young girl’s reaction because everything was happening so quickly.

  Garland’s love for me was too strong for him to permit a drop of unhappy rain.

  He put down his empty glass and stepped forward to take my arm. “The future Mr. and Mrs. Garland Foxworth will lead you both to dinner,” he said, and took my glass from my hand, even though I had drunk less than half, and put it on a table. “Mrs. Foxworth,” he said, and gestured at the door. “Shall we?”

  I stepped forward quicker than he did. I was in my father’s stream, and I was swimming faster than the current, clinging to what was left of myself.

  Garland wanted the house to look exceptionally festive for our first family dinner. We all descended into the well-lit foyer.

  Garland held out his arm for my mother. My father and I followed them.

  “You’re marrying quite the charmer, Corrine,” he whispered.

  “Should I be worried, Daddy?”

  He raised his eyebrows and then smiled and said, “But you’re quite the charmer, too, daughter.”

  When I have to be, I thought, when I have to be.

 
My mother hadn’t ever drunk as much wine at any dinner, but Garland was pouring and insisted he had the best wines imported from France. He had four bottles out, each from a different region, and wanted my parents to try every one. He was hesitant to pour me any and gave me barely a taste. The talk was quite spirited about our wedding ceremony, and the more Garland described something else he had added or something else that would entertain our guests, like portrait photographs celebrating our occasion, the more excited I became. He hadn’t exaggerated when he declared that I was going to be the center of one of the biggest social events in Virginia.

  As I listened to him, especially when he talked about me, I thought he was doing a good job of covering up what led to our being here. Even if later on my mother found out why we were moving so quickly on our marriage, I didn’t think she would be upset. Despite how efficiently and how fast the details of our ceremony and reception were being spun, this had no resemblance to what some people might call a shotgun marriage. There wasn’t the hint of any arm twisting. Even my mother was overwhelmed with how much Garland loved and respected me. I could see how she was looking at me when he talked about me, elaborating on our first meeting each other, to the point where she began to wonder if he was still talking about me. It was as if my mother’s eyes had been opened to see a new daughter.

  I read her mind. Was I really that sophisticated? Could I really be that charming? As far as she could tell, I had completely won this worldly man’s heart instantly. She even looked a little jealous. Perhaps in her mind, my romance, as short as it was, was ten times as romantic as hers and my father’s had been. By the end of the evening, Garland had certainly succeeded in wining and dining my parents. At our nuptials, there would be no hint of anything but his and my love for each other and my parents’ joy.

  How pleased my father looked. It was, in fact, his acceptance of how strong Garland’s love for me was and his belief in Garland’s remorse over nearly losing me that helped convince me I wasn’t making a mistake. My father rarely made significant errors, and in my heart of hearts, I still believed he only wanted not only what was best for me but what would make me happy.

  Mrs. Steiner and Dora had served us so well my mother compared our dinner service to the service at the best restaurant in Alexandria. When we were up to dessert, Garland asked Mrs. Steiner to bring out his cook, Marion Wilson, to be introduced. She was a very pleasant-looking, tall, light-brown-haired woman with a soft-spoken English accent. Her hair was severely pulled and pinned back and tight into a bun. Her cheeks were crimson, perhaps from the heat of the kitchen, but they made her large hazel eyes dazzling. I didn’t think she was much more than thirty years old, if that. Wisely, she directed herself mainly to my mother.

  “Very pleased to meet you, mum,” she said, and nodded at my father, barely glancing at me. I supposed she thought she and I would have a lifetime to get to know each other.

  Garland suggested a return to the study for a cordial after dinner, but my mother, who had eaten too much and had way too much wine, protested her fatigue. She looked to my father, who quickly agreed.

  “Yes,” Garland said. “Very wise for us all to get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  “Well, then,” my father said, standing and helping my mother with her chair, “we will bid you good night and thank you for your hospitality.”

  “And please confer my appreciation to your cook. I suppose I should call her a chef. Is it Miss or Mrs. Wilson?” my mother asked.

  “It’s Mrs. Her husband looks after my horses and carriages, but I think she’s more married to her kitchen.”

  My mother laughed loudly. The wine had reddened her face and brightened her eyes until they looked like the hearts of tiny candle flames.

  “It was a wonderful dinner. Don’t let her get a divorce,” she added, which for my mother was quite witty.

  Both my father and Garland laughed.

  “Little chance. No worries. And you’ll always be invited to dinner, Mrs. Dixon.”

  “That’s very kind,” my mother said. Suddenly, her eyes were drooping as if the whole day had hit her like a pillow in the face.

  “To bed, my dear,” my father said. “Good night.”

  He took her arm. I could see how she was leaning on him for support. He threw me an amused glance.

  Garland nodded and then gave me a conspiratorial look as my parents started out to go to their room, my mother now complaining how my father was rushing her away. Frankly, I had never seen her as funny and as talkative. But strangely, as I saw them walking arm in arm toward the stairway, I felt an unexpected pang of sadness. It was the first time I really thought of them as older. So much of my life seemed like a pull and tug with them, but suddenly, the thought of leaving them, even for all this, was disturbing.

  As soon as they were gone, Garland reached for my hand.

  “How tired are you?” he asked.

  “Pleasantly but not totally exhausted.”

  “Then let’s continue in the fumes of this wonderful evening.”

  My parents were up to the bedroom floor. My father was hurrying her along. Could it be with the goal of sex? Maybe this house brought the lust out in people. Garland ascribed so much magic to it.

  He paused at the foot of the stairs. “Although I am ecstatic over the results from your first night here, which I realize wasn’t pleasant for you, of course, I want to be sure I make this second night much, much different. Shall we?” he asked.

  We started up the stairway, his arm around my waist, brushing his lips over my neck, tickling me as we ascended, giggling. When we reached the top landing, I anticipated his turning toward the guest room I was occupying, but instead, he turned right, and we walked quietly past my parents’ room, him putting his finger over his lips so we tiptoed silently deeper into the house. My body tightened as we drew closer to what I was doomed to call the Limoncello Room. I wouldn’t go back in there for some time. Maybe he felt my body stiffen. He never paused, leading me on until we reached his bedroom.

  “Now that I got your parents asleep . . .”

  He opened the door. His lamps were lit dimly, casting a romantic glow over his bed. I suspected either Lucas or Dora had, at his order, prepared it while we were all at dinner.

  “Got to practice,” he said, and then he lifted me gracefully into his arms, kicked the door closed behind us, and carried me to his bed. He held me while we kissed and then lowered me tenderly, carefully, as if I was made of thin china. For a moment, he just stood there looking down at me. “You are so beautiful,” he said.

  “Grace Rose, who is a nurse and a friend of my mother’s, told me women blossom when they are pregnant.”

  “Are you pregnant?” he joked. “Might be a false alarm.”

  “Is that what you wish?”

  “Hey, it would have happened sooner or later. Might as well be sooner. I wasn’t going to let you get away,” he said, and lowered himself to his knees beside the bed, where he began to undress me like a little boy unwrapping his Christmas or birthday present slowly, luxuriating in the expectation. I moved only to make it easier for him.

  When I was totally naked, he paused and just looked at me without touching me. In my mind, I felt his fingers exploring. I saw him lean in to kiss my breasts and then work his way down over my stomach, his lips on the insides of my thighs. I moaned and heard him laugh.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw he hadn’t moved.

  “Maybe you don’t need me,” he said, with that irritating arrogant smile.

  “Maybe I don’t.” I put my hands over my breasts.

  “Like hell you don’t,” he said, and pounced to do everything I had envisioned.

  He began ravenously, but suddenly, probably recalling his promise to make this night dramatically different from my “limoncello night,” paused and became far more gentle, moving like a man unsure about how far he should go, anticipating my command to stop. Instead, I closed my eyes and reached for his shoulders, clearly urgi
ng him to enter me and begin our climb toward ecstasy.

  I smiled to myself, remembering how I had once described it, described what I imagined it to be, to Daisy and two others at one of my womanly talks. “It’s like climbing a steep mountain at first. You warn yourself to stop, to turn back, but the top looks so inviting, and soon it becomes effortless. It’s more like sliding down now until . . .”

  “Until what?” Faith Grover had asked in a breathless voice.

  I had opened my eyes and looked from her to the others. Even Daisy was holding her breath now.

  “Until you explode and explode until you think you’re going to die and love it all the way.”

  “How can you love it if you think you’re going to die?” Mildred Petersen had asked.

  “That’s the mystery. You’ll see. Someday maybe,” I’d added.

  “How did you know all that?” Daisy had asked after the other two left. “You made it sound so real.”

  “It’s not hard to imagine if you’re doing it right,” I’d said. Her eyes had looked like they were spinning. I’d smiled. “Don’t ask me to show you. Practice,” I’d said, and she had laughed the nervous laugh of a virgin, someone who had to first conquer fear to settle into pleasure. Whether it was evil of me or not, I had never had the fear.

  I certainly didn’t now, even after making the cardinal mistake mostly made by foolish women, who, despite all they knew and all the warnings, thought, It won’t happen to me. Now that I was beyond caring, past that point of no return, I didn’t hold back. Yes, this was going to be different tonight, but there was nothing tentative about my lovemaking. If anything, I was so demanding Garland was the one to rush to finish. He looked like he thought he would die in my arms if he didn’t.

  When he rolled over, he was laughing but also exclaiming how I might kill him with love.

  “And to think you were a virgin,” he said.

  “Only technically,” I replied. He thought that was very funny.

  After a while, we were both quiet, clearly both exhausted.

  “You had better get back to your room, or you’ll fall asleep beside me and shock your mother in the morning.”