Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger) Read online

  “Malcolm. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I’m … I’m doing what you told me to do. I’m learning about our house.”

  “This is not our house. This has nothing to do with our house.” His voice was so cold, it seemed to be coming from the North Pole.

  “I was only trying to please you, Malcolm. I only wanted to learn about you and I thought if I could know your mother, I could know you.” It was all so confusing, so unreal; it made me dizzy and anxious. I felt as though I had walked into someone’s dream of the past rather than the past as it was.

  “My mother? If you think knowing my mother has anything to do with me, you are sadly deluded, Olivia. You want me to tell you about my mother. I’ll tell you about my mother!”

  I sank back onto the silk sheets. I felt so weak and confused as he loomed above me.

  “My mother,” he said bitterly, “she was so beautiful. So pretty and lively and loving. She was the world to me. I was so innocent then, so trusting, so unknowing. For then I did not know that ever since Eve, women have betrayed men. Especially women with beautiful faces and seductive bodies. Oh, she was deceptive, Olivia. For beneath her charming smiles and her cheerful love beat the heart of a harlot.” He strode over to the closet and roughly pulled open the door. “Look at these dresses,” he said as he pulled out a pale filmy frock and threw it on the floor. “Yes, my mother was a fashionable woman of the Gay Nineties.” He pulled out brightly colored lace evening gowns and fine petticoats, a large fan of curved ostrich feathers, and hurled them all on the floor. “Yes, Olivia, she was the belle of every ball. This is where she refined her charms.” He walked over to the golden dressing room in a recessed alcove. There were mirrors all around the vanity. As if in a trance, he picked up the silver-plated hairbrush and comb on the dressing table. “This room cost a fortune. My father gave in to her every whim. She was an undisciplined free spirit.” He paused and then said, “Corinne,” as if the mere pronouncing of her name would free her ghost from the sleeping walls. From the look in his eyes, I thought he saw her again, moving softly over the thick mauve carpet, the train of her dressing gown trailing behind her. I imagined that she must have been very beautiful.

  “What did she die of?” I asked. He had never gone into detail about her during any of our conversations, even though I had told him about my mother’s death. I just assumed that her death was so tragic and so sad for him that he could not talk about it.

  “She didn’t die of anything here,” he said angrily. “Except maybe boredom. The boredom that comes with getting everything you want, the boredom that comes with pleasing your senses until you are stupefied.”

  “What do you mean, she didn’t die here?” I asked. He turned from the mirrors and began toward the door as if to leave the room. “Malcolm, I can’t be your wife and not know about your past, not know the things other people, strangers, will know.”

  “She ran off,” he said, stopping with his back to me. Then he turned around. “She ran off with another man when I was barely five years old,” he added, practically spitting out the words.

  “Ran off?” The revelation left me trembling. He walked over and sat on the bed beside me.

  “She did what she wanted, when she wanted, as she wanted. Nothing mattered when it came to her own pleasure. My God, Olivia, you know the type,” he said as his hands rested on my shoulders. “They are exactly what you are not—flimsy, narcissistic, flighty women. They flirt, they have no loyalty to any man, and they can’t be trusted with anything,” he added, and I reddened immediately.

  Suddenly a new look came into his eyes. He blinked as if he had just convinced himself of something. When he looked at me again, there was a new expression on his face. He still had his hands on my shoulders, only his grip tightened and became close to painful. I started to pull back, but he held me even more firmly.

  I couldn’t turn away from him. The look in his eyes had become mesmerizing. After a moment he smiled, but smiled insanely, I thought. His fingers relaxed, but instead of lifting his hands from me, his fingers slipped down over my breasts. He pressed them against my bosom roughly.

  “Yes, she left me,” he whispered. “Left me only with the memory of her touch, of her kiss, of the sweet scent of her body,” he added and inhaled, closing his eyes.

  His fingers worked furiously, as if they had a mind of their own, and pulled the buttons of my blouse open. He brought his lips to my neck and whispered, “Left me forever in this room to see her, to feel her …”

  He pulled my blouse back roughly. I was too terrified to speak. I even held my breath.

  “Her name echoes throughout this mansion,” he said. “Corinne,” he said. “Corinne.”

  His hands were moving down my body, pulling at my skirt. I felt the garment tear loose and slip down. His hands felt like mad little creatures at my body, in and over the undergarments, pulling, tugging, stripping me roughly.

  “Corinne,” he said. “I hated her; I loved her. But you wanted to know about my mother. You wanted to know. My mother,” he added disdainfully.

  He sat back and unfastened his pants. I watched in amazement as he came at me, not as a loving husband, but as a madman, someone lost in his own twisted emotions, driven not by affection and desire, but by hate and passion.

  I raised my hands and he pulled my arms apart, pressing them to the bed.

  “My mother. You’re not like my mother. You would never be like my mother. You would never leave the children we will make together, will you, Olivia? Will you?”

  I shook my head and then I felt him press himself in between my legs, seizing me roughly. I wanted to love him, to make him happy, to caress him softly, but in this state, his face twisted, his eyes burning with rage, I could only close my own and fall back.

  “Please, Malcolm,” I whispered, “not like this. Please. I won’t be like her; I’m not like her. I’ll love you and I’ll love our children.”

  He didn’t hear me. When I opened my eyes, I saw he was lost in his anger and his lust. He came at me over and over again, thrusting into me viciously. I wanted to scream, but I was afraid of what it would do to him and I was embarrassed that my scream might be heard by one of the servants. I stifled my cries, biting down on my lip.

  Finally, his anger poured into me. It felt so hot I thought it would scald me. He stopped his thrusts; he was satiated. He groaned and then buried his face in my bosom. I felt his body shudder and go limp.

  There was one final “Corinne,” and then he lifted himself from me, dressed quickly, and left the room.

  So now I knew what lived in the shadows of Malcolm Neal Foxworth, haunting him. Now I know why he had chosen a woman like me. I was the opposite of his mother. She was the swan; I was the ugly duckling and he wanted it that way. The love I had longed for would never be mine.

  Malcolm’s love had already been taken and destroyed by the woman who haunted this room. There was none left for me.

  4

  The Ghosts of the Past

  I WEPT ALONE IN BED THAT NIGHT. FOR EVEN THOUGH I thought I knew what Malcolm wanted, everything grew confused in my mind. His mother had left him when he was five years old. She had not died and she was more alive than ever in his mind. The shadows of the night ridiculed me. So you wanted to know, they whispered, now you know. My true education about my husband had begun. It was not my softness that Malcolm had wanted me for; it was my hardness. It was not that mysterious, graceful, womanly magic he had longed for, but a solid, trustworthy woman like myself. I would never be one of those thrilling spring flowers for Malcolm. No, I would be like a hardy lily that survived the frost, the tallest flower in the garden, sturdy, proud, and defiant of even the coldest winter wind. That is what Malcolm had seen in me. That is what I would be. With this determination I consoled myself and drifted off to a troubled sleep.

  The next morning I awoke early and descended the staircase slowly. The beating of my heart m
ade me so dizzy I had to take hold of the balustrade and pause. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and continued into the dining room. Malcolm was at the end of the table, eating his breakfast, as if nothing had happened between us.

  “Good morning, Olivia,” he said coldly. “A place for you has already been set.”

  All my fears had materialized. My place was at the opposite end of the long table. I tried to catch his eye as I sat down; I tried to read what he was feeling. But I couldn’t penetrate his façade. All I could hope for was that Malcolm had lost himself in his mother’s room yesterday, and that he, like I, was hoping it was something we could quickly consign to the past and go about building our future together—a future I knew would be practical and filled with material wealth, a future that would contain none of the frivolousness that had so perplexed me and had so hurt Malcolm.

  I pressed my lips together and sat down.

  “Olivia,” Malcolm said, and I heard kindness in his voice. “It’s time to celebrate our wedding. Tomorrow night will be our wedding party. Mrs. Steiner has made all the preparations and I have invited anyone who is anyone in the vicinity. I shall do you proud, my wife, as I expect you to flatter my own appearance.”

  I was thrilled. Obviously he, too, had decided to put yesterday’s events behind us and start our wedding afresh with a celebration. “Oh, Malcolm, can I help?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Olivia. It’s already all set for tomorrow night, and as I said, Mrs. Steiner has taken care of everything. My family has always been known for hosting the finest, most extravagant parties, and this time I intend to outdo myself. For as you know, Olivia, I have big plans, and of course you are part of them. Soon I will be the richest man in the county, then the richest man in the state, then, perhaps, the richest man in the entire United States. My parties always reflect my status in society.”

  I could barely eat. I wanted to make the best possible impression on Malcolm’s friends and colleagues, but all I could think about was that I had nothing beautiful enough to wear. As Mrs. Steiner poured my coffee, I kept seeing my wardrobe floating before my eyes—the hanging gray dresses, the high button collars, the practical blouses. The moment my plate was whisked away, I ran to my room and hurriedly rummaged through my closet, so neatly hung by the servants the day before. I came upon the blue dress I had worn that night I had first met Malcolm. If it had impressed him then, surely it would impress everyone else now. I felt satisfied that the dress would reflect everything Malcolm wanted in a wife, a woman who was proud, conservative, well-bred, and, most of all, the match of Malcolm Foxworth.

  That afternoon the house was abustle with party preparations. Since Malcolm had made it clear that my help was not necessary, I felt I should stay out of the way. It was sweet, actually, since the party was in my honor, that he insisted I have the day to myself. I hesitated to continue my explorations of Foxworth Hall, fearful now of what I might find lurking in the shadows. But I had already begun, and was it not better to know the whole truth than only part? Now I was determined more than ever to learn about the people who had lived here. As I walked down the hall of the northern wing, I counted fourteen rooms. Malcolm had told me that these were his father’s rooms. These hallways were even darker, colder than the rest of the house. Finally I came to a door that was slightly ajar. I checked to make sure that no one was watching me and opened it to a good-sized bedroom, although to me it appeared cluttered with furniture. So far away from the main life of the house, it seemed to be a room for hiding people; for unlike the other rooms in the north wing, with the exception of his father’s room, this one had its own adjoining bath. I could just imagine Malcolm condemning one of his more unpopular cousins to these quarters.

  The furniture consisted of two double beds, a highboy, a large dresser, two overstuffed chairs, a dressing table with its own small chair between the two front windows that were covered with heavy, tapestried drapes, a mahogany table with four chairs, and another smaller table with a lamp. I was surprised that beneath all the ponderous dark furniture was a bright Oriental rug with gold fringes.

  Had this room indeed served as some sort of hideaway, perhaps an escape for Corinne? It was most intriguing. I went farther into it and discovered another, smaller door at the far end of the closet. I opened it and broke the intricate cobwebs that spiders had spun undisturbed for some time. After the dust settled before me, I confronted a small stairway and realized that it must lead up to the attic.

  I hesitated. Attics like this one had more than a sense of history to them. They had mystery. Faces in portraits were easy to read. No one cared if you saw some resemblances, and when I asked about the ancestors, only the facts, details, and tales Malcolm wished to tell me would be told.

  Truly though, in an attic hidden behind a small door in a closet, there had to be buried family secrets better kept undiscovered. Did I want to continue? I listened to the house for a moment. From this position it was impossible to hear anyone or anything going on below.

  The moment I took my first forward step and broke the wisp of cobweb drawn across the stairway by some guardian spider, I felt it was too late to turn back. A spell of silence had been broken. I was going up.

  Never had I seen or imagined an attic as big as this one. Through the cloud of dusty particles that danced in the light coming through the four sets of dormer windows stretched across the front, I gazed down at the farthest walls. They were so distant, they seemed hazy, out of focus. The air was murky; it had the stale odor of things untouched for years, already in the early stages of decay.

  The wide wooden planks of the floor creaked softly beneath my feet as I ventured forward slowly, each step tentative and careful. Some of the planks looked damp and possibly weakened to the point where they might split beneath my weight.

  I heard some scampering to my right and caught sight of some field mice that had found their way into what must have been to them the heavens.

  As I looked about, I realized there was enough stored in this attic to furnish a number of houses. The furniture was dark, massive, brooding. Those chairs and tables that were uncovered looked angry, betrayed. I could almost hear them ask, “Why leave us up here unused? Surely there is someplace for us below, if not in this house, then in another.” Why had Malcolm and his father kept all this? Were they both hoarders? Were these pieces to be valuable antiques someday?

  Everything of value had been draped with sheets on which dust had accumulated to turn the white cloth dingy gray. The shapes beneath the sheets looked like sleeping ghosts. I was afraid to touch one or nudge one for fear it would awaken and float right to the ceiling of the attic. I even stopped to listen, thinking I had heard whispering behind me, but when I turned around, there was nothing, no movement, no sound.

  For a moment I wished there were voices, for they would be the voices of Malcolm’s past and what they would say would prove most revealing. All of the secrets of Foxworth Hall had found sanctuary here. I was sure of it, and it was that certainty that moved me forward to look at the rows of leather-bound trunks with heavy brass locks and corners. They lined one entire wall and some still bore the labels from travel to faraway places. Perhaps one or two of these trunks had been used to carry Corinne’s and Malcolm’s father Garland’s clothing when they went off on their honeymoon.

  Against the farthest wall giant armoires stood in a silent row. They looked like sentinels. I opened the drawers of one of them and found both Union and Confederate uniforms. Because of the geographical position of this part of Virginia, it made sense to me that some of the Foxworth family would go their separate ways and even end up in battle against one another. I imagined Foxworth sons as stubborn and determined as Malcolm, hotheaded and angry, shouting oaths at one another as some joined the northern cause, some the southern. Surely those who saw the value and importance of industrialization and business went north. Malcolm would have gone north.

  I put the uniforms back and looked at some old clothing like my mother
used to wear. Here was a frilly chemise to be worn over pantaloons, with dozens of fancy petticoats over the wire hoops, all bedecked in ruffles, lace, embroidery, with flowing ribbons of velvet and satin. How could something so beautiful be hidden away and forgotten?

  I put the garment back and moved across the floor to look at some of the old books left in stacks. There were dark ledgers with yellowing pages, the ends of which crumbled when I opened the covers. Beside them were dress forms, all shapes and sizes, and birdcages and stands to hold them. How wonderful! I thought. I should bring these cages back downstairs and bring back the music of birds. Surely that would enliven Foxworth Hall. I slapped my hands together to rid them of the dust and started back toward the stairway, when a picture left atop a dresser caught my eye.

  I went to it and looked down at a pretty woman, perhaps no more than eighteen or nineteen. She wore a faint, enigmatic smile. She was ravishingly beautiful. Her bosom swelled out suggestively from a ruffled bodice. I was mesmerized by her smile, a smile that seemed to promise more and more right before my eyes. Suddenly it occurred to me who this was. I was looking at Malcolm’s mother! This was Corinne Foxworth! There were clear resemblances in the eyes and in the mouth.

  Could Malcolm have brought her picture up here to hide away with the rest of his past? But there was something even more unusual about this picture: it sparkled unlike anything else in the room. Everything else I had touched had a film of dust over it. Everything else left smudges on my fingers. This picture was clean, clear, freshly dusted and polished. It was just like her room. It seemed that everything that was Corinne’s was kept spotless, shining, and cherished. Who in this house was preserving Corinne Foxworth so lovingly? It couldn’t be Malcolm’s father—he was in Europe. The servants? Or … was it Malcolm?

  How many other things up here had once belonged to Malcolm’s mother? I wondered. Surely they tormented him. He must have put them up here to keep them from his view and from stirring up his childhood memories, and yet, just like the swan room, drew him back.