Dark Angel

  I continued to stare blindly out of the side windows. Oh dear God, how could I answer that without spoiling my chances? If they knew--and obviously they didn't know, it might change their attitude toward me. "It looks like it might rain," I said nervously, staring outside

  I pushed backward on the rich suede seat and tried to relax. Jillian had been part of my life for less than an hour, and already I guessed that she didn't want to hear of anyone's problems, neither mine nor my mother's. I bit down harder on my lower lip, trying to keep from showing my emotions, and then, like the blessing white-lies could sometimes be, my pride came back in full dress parade. I sat straighter. I swallowed my tears. I vanquished the throat lump. My shoulders stiffened. And to my utmost surprise, my voice came out, strong, honest, sincere:

  "My mother and father met in Atlanta and fell deeply in love on first sight. Daddy rushed her to his parents in West Virginia so she'd have a decent house in which to stay that night. His home was not exactly in Winnerrow, more on the outskirts. They were married in a proper church ceremony, with flowers, witnesses, and a minister to say the words, and later they drove away to honeymoon in Miami. And when they came back Daddy had a new bathroom added to our house just to please my mother."

  Silence!

  A dead silence that went on and on--didn't they believe my lies?

  "Why that was very nice, considerate," murmured Tony, looking at me in the oddest way. "Something I never would have thought of, a new bathroom, but practical, very practical."

  Jillian sat with her head turned, as if she didn't want to hear any of the details of her daughter's married life. "How many people lived with your parents?" persisted Tony.

  "Only Granny and Grandpa," I said defensively. "They were crazy about my mother, so much they called her nothing but Angel. It was Angel this, and Angel that. She could do no wrong. You would have liked my granny. She died a few years ago, but Grandpa still lives with Pa."

  "And what day and month were you born?" quizzed Tony. He had long, strong fingers, and his nails shone.

  "February the twenty-second," I said, giving the right date but the wrong year--I gave the year Fanny had been born, one year after me. "She'd been married to Pa for more than a year," I added, thinking that sounded better than a birth that came just eight months after marriage, which might have betrayed some frenzied need my parents had had for bedding down with each other . .

  And only when the words were out of my mouth did I realize just what I had done.

  I had trapped myself. Now they thought I was only sixteen. Now I could never tell them about my half brothers Tom and Keith, and my half sisters, Fanny and Our Jane. And it had been my solemn intention to enlist the help of my mother's parents so I could put my family back together again under one roof. Oh, God, forgive me for wanting to secure my own place first!

  "Tony, I am tired. You know I have to rest between three and five if I am to appear fresh for that dinner party tonight." A slightly troubled look shaded her expression before it quickly cleared. "Heaven dear, you won't mind if Tony and I step out for a few hours tonight, will you? You'll have a TV in your room, and there's a wonderful library on the first floor with thousands of books." She leaned to put a soft kiss on my cheek, smothering me with her perfume that already filled the enclosed space. "I would have canceled, but I completely forgot until this morning that you were due . . ."

  Numbness tingled in my fingertips, perhaps because I had my fingers locked so tightly together. Already they were finding reasons for escaping me. No one in the hills would leave a guest alone in a strange house. "It's all right," I said weakly. "I feel a little tired myself."

  "There, you see, Tony, she doesn't mind. I told you she wouldn't. And make up for it, Heaven dear, really I will. Tomorrow I'll take you riding. Do you know how to ride? If you don't, teach you. I was born on a horse ranch and my first horse was a stallion . . ."

  "Jillian, please! Your first horse was a timid little pony."

  "Oh, you are such a bore, Tony! Really, what difference does it make? It just sounds better to learn on a stallion than on a pony, but Scuttles was a dear, a sweet little dear."

  It didn't seem so nice to be called "Heaven dear" now that I knew she called everyone and everything "dear." And yet, when she smiled at me, and touched my cheek lightly with her gloved hand, I was so greedy for affection I trembled. I wanted more than anything for her to like me, eventually to love me, and I was going to try to make it happen fast, fast!

  "Tell me that your mother was happy, that's all I need to know," whispered Jillian.

  "She was happy until the day she died," I whispered, not really lying. She had been happy, foolishly happy, according to Granny and Grandpa, despite all the hardships of a drafty, miserable shack in the hills, and a husband who couldn't give her anything like what she was accustomed to.

  "Then I don't need to hear anything more," crooned Jillian, putting her arm around me and pulling my head into the deep fur of her coat collar.

  What would they say if they knew the truth about me and my family?

  Would they just smile and think soon enough I'd be gone, and what difference did I make after all?

  I couldn't let them know the truth. They had to accept me as one of their own kind; I had to make them need me, and they didn't yet know that they needed me. And I was not going to be scared and let them see my vulnerability.

  Yet, they spoke a different kind of English than I did. I had to listen very carefully; even familiar words sounded strange in their pronunciation. But I was determined to see that I'd soon be accepted in their world, so different from all that I had known. I was smart, quick to learn, and I'd find a way sooner or later to find Keith and Our Jane.

  The perfume I'd considered delicate at first was now inundating me with its heavy base of jasmine, making me feel giddy and totally unreal. Thoughts of my stepmother Sarah came fleetingly to mind. Oh, if Sarah could only once in her life have a bottle of Jillian's perfume! A jar or box of Jillian's silky face powder!

  The rain that I had predicted earlier began with a soft drizzle, and in seconds sheets of water drummed on the blacktop. The driver slowed and seemed to take more care, as all three of us behind the glass barrier stopped talking and sat each with our own thoughts. Going home, going home, that's all I had in mind. Going to where it's better, prettier, where sooner or later feel truly welcomed.

  My dream was happening too fast for me to drink in all the impressions. I wanted to save and savor all of this first ride to wherever they were taking me, and ponder the memories later, when I was alone. Tonight, alone in a strange house. Better thoughts came. Oh, wait until I write and tell Tom about my beautiful grandmother! He'll never believe someone so old could look so young. And my sister Fanny would be so jealous! If only I could call Logan, who was only a few miles away, living in some big college dorm. But I had been gullible and naive enough to fall for Cal Dennison's seduction. Logan didn't want me now. He would no doubt hang up if I phoned him.

  Then, as the driver made a right turn, Jillian began to ramble on and on about the plans she would soon make to entertain me. "And we always make Christmas a special event, we go all out, so to speak."

  Now I knew. She was telling me in her own way I could stay through Christmas. And it was only early October . . but October had always been a bittersweet month: goodbye to summer and all the bright and happy things; wait now for winter, for all the cold and bleak and stark things.

  Why was I thinking like this? Winter wouldn't be cold and bleak in a fine rich house. There would be plenty of fuel oil, or coal or firewood, or electric heat, whatever, I'd be warm enough. By the time Christmas had come and gone, I'd have added so much fun to their lonely household, neither one would want me to go. No they wouldn't. They'd need me . . oh, God, let them need me!

  Miles passed, and to lift my spirits and my confidence, suddenly a brilliant sun peeked through the dreary clouds. Trees in vivid autumn colors lit up, and I believed God was going to shine
his light on me after all. Hope sprang into my heart. I was going to love New England. It looked so much like the Willies--only without the mountains and the shacks.

  "We'll soon be there," said Tony, lightly touching my hand. "Turn your head to the right and look for a break in the tree line. The first glimpse of Farthing-gale Manor is a sight to remember."

  A house with a name! Impressed, I turned to him and smiled. "Is it as grand as it sounds, is it?"

  "Every bit as grand," he answered somberly. "My home means a great deal to me. It was built by my great-great-great-grandfather, and every first son who takes it over improves it."

  Jillian snorted, as if contemptuous of his home. But I was excited, eager to be impressed. With great anticipation I leaned forward and watched for the break in the trees. It came soon after. The chauffeur made the turn onto a private road marked by high, wrought-iron gates that arched overhead and spelled out with ornate embellishments Farthinggale Manor.

  I gasped just to see the gates, the imps and fairies and gnomes that peeked between the iron leaves.

  "The Tattertons affectionately refer to our ancestral home as Farthy," informed Tony with nostalgia in his voice. "I used to think when I was a boy there wasn't a house anywhere in the world as fine as the one where I lived. Of course there are many that exceed Farthy, but not in my mind. When I was seven I was sent to Eton because my father thought the English know more about discipline than our private schools do. And in that he was right. In England I was always dreaming of coming home to Farthy. Whenever I felt homesick, which was most of the time, Pa close my eyes and pretend I could smell the balsam, fir, and pine trees, and more than anything, the briny scent of the sea. And I'd wake up aching, wanting to feel the damp, cool morning air on my face, wanting my home so badly it physically hurt. When I was ten my parents gave up Eton as a hopeless cause, or else I'd be forever homesick, and I was allowed to come back, and oh, that was a happy day."

  I could believe him. I'd never seen such a beautiful and huge house, made of gray stone so it sort of resembled a castle, and not unintentionally, I believed. The roof was red and soared, forming turrets and small, red bridges that assisted one in reaching portions of the high roof that would have been inaccessible otherwise.

  Then Miles pulled the limo to a slow stop before the tall and wide steps that led to the arching front door. "Come," called Tony, suddenly excited, "let me have the pleasure of introducing you to Farthy. I love to see the amazement on the faces of those who view it for the first time, for then I can see it freshly all over again myself."

  And with Jillian following less than

  enthusiastically behind us, we slowly ascended the wide stone stairs. Huge urns were beside the front door, holding graceful Japanese pine trees. I could hardly wait to see the inside. My mother's home. Soon I'd be inside. Soon I'd see her rooms and her belongings. Oh, Mother, at last I'm home!

  TWO Farthingale Manor

  . INSIDE THAT HOUSE OF STONE, ONCE MY COAT WAS OFF, I turned in slow circles, my breath caught, my eyes wide, staring, staring, and too late I realized it was bad manners to stare, country and gauche to be impressed by what others took for granted. Jillian looked at me with disapproval; Tony with pleasure. "Is it all that you thought it would be?" he asked.

  Yes, it was more than I'd dared hope for! Yet I recognized it for what it was, the object of my mountain wistfulness, my dreamscape.

  "I have to hurry, Heaven dear," Jillian reminded, suddenly sounding very happy. "Look around as much as you like, and make yourself at home in the castle of the toy king. I'm sorry I can't stay to witness your first impressions, but I have to hurry on so I can take my nap. Tony, show Heaven dear around your Farthy, then show her to her rooms." She gave me a sweet, pleading smile that took some of the hurt from my heart because she was neglecting me already. "Dearest girl, forgive me for rushing away to tend to my incessant needs. However, you'll see enough of me later on to grow bored with the sameness of what I am. Besides, you'll find Tony ten times more interesting; he never needs to nap. His energy is boundless. He has no health or beauty regimen, and he dresses in a flash." She gave him the strangest look, both of irritation and envy. "Somebody up there must like him."

  She was lighthearted now, as if her nap and beauty regimen and the promise of a dinner party later gave her more sustenance than I could ever bestow. Up the stairs she tripped, graceful, swift, not glancing back one time, while I stood staring up, completely in awe.

  "Come, Heaven," said Tony, offering his arm, "we'll make the grand tour before going to your rooms, or do you need to wash up, or something?"

  It took me a second or two to figure out what he meant, and then I blushed. "No, I'm fine."

  "Good. That means we have more time to spend with each other."

  At his side I viewed the enormous living room with its grand piano that he said his brother Troy used when he came. ". . . though I regret to say Troy finds little reason for coming to Farthy. He and my wife are not exactly friends, nor quite enemies. You'll meet him sooner or later."

  "Where is he now?" I asked, more from politeness than anything else, for the rooms with their marble walls and floors were demanding most of my attention.

  "I really can't say. Troy comes and goes. He's very bright, always has been. He graduated from college when he was eighteen, and since then he's been rattling around the world."

  A college grad at eighteen? What kind of brain did this Troy have, anyway? Here I was at seventeen with another year in high school to go. And, unexpectedly, a strong resentment against this Troy, with all his blessings, rose in my chest, so I didn't want to hear any more about him. I hoped I would never meet anyone so gifted that he'd make me feel like a dummy, when I'd always considered myself a good student.

  "Troy is much younger than I am," said Tony, looking at me with detachment. "When he was a little boy he was sick so much of the time I rather considered him a millstone around my neck. After our mother died, and later on our father, Troy thought of me as his father, not just his older brother."

  "Who painted the murals?" I asked, to move the subject away from his brother. On the walls and ceiling of the music room were exquisite murals depicting scenes from fairy tales shadowed woods with sunlighi 'drizzling through, winding paths leading into misty mountain ranges topped with castles. The domed ceiling arched overhead, causing me to tilt my head so I could stare upward. Oh, how wonderful to have a painted sky overhead with birds flying, and a man riding a magic carpet, and another mystical, airy castle half-hidden by clouds.

  Tony chuckled. "I'm happy to see you so taken with the murals. They were Jillian's idea. Your grandmother used to be a very famous illustrator for children's books; that's how I first met her. One day when I was twenty I came home from playing tennis, eager to shower and dress and get away before Troy saw me and demanded I not leave him alone . . . when up on a ladder were the shapeliest legs I'd ever seen, and when this gorgeous creature came down and I saw her face, she seemed unreal. It was Jillian, who had come with one of her decorator friends, and it was she who suggested the murals. 'Storybook settings for the king of the toymakers,' was the way she put it, and I fell for the idea hook, line, and sinker. Also it gave her a reason for coming back."

  "Why would she call you king of the toymakers?" I asked, full of puzzlement. A toy was a toy, though certainly the portrait doll of my mother had been more than just a toy.

  Apparently I couldn't have asked a question that pleased Tony more. "My darling child, did you come thinking I made ordinary toys of plastic? The Tattertons are king of the toymakers, for what we make is meant for collectors, for wealthy people who cannot grow up and forget their childhood when they had nothing to find under their Christmas trees, and never enjoyed a birthday party. And you would be truly surprised at the number of the rich and famous who weren't given a chance to be children, so that now, in their middle or even old age, they must have what they always dreamed about. So they buy the instant antiques, the winning colle
ctibles made by my craftsmen and artisans the best in the world. When you step into a Tatterton Toy Shop, you step into fairyland. You step also into any time you desire, be it the past or the future. Oddly enough, the past intrigues my richest clients most. We have a five-year backlog of demands for stone castles built in scale, with the moats, the drawbridges, the bailiwick, the cook houses, the stables, the quarters for the knights and squires, the sheds for the cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens. Those who can afford it can set up their own kingdom, dukedom, or whatever, and people it with the appropriate servants, the peasants, the lords and the ladies. And we make games so difficult they keep the best minds intrigued for hours and hours. For the wealthy and famous after a while become so bored, Heaven, so everlastingly bored, and that's when they turn to collecting, be it toys, paintings, or women. In the end, it is a curse, this ennui, for all who have so much they can find nothing new to purchase . . . and I try to fill the gap."

  "There are people who will pay hundreds of dollars for a toy chicken?" I asked, my voice full of awed amazement.

  "There are people who will pay thousands to possess what no one else has. So all Tatterton collectibles are one of a kind, and that sort of detailed work is very costly."

  It scared, awed, and impressed me to know there were people in the world who had so much money to waste. What difference did it make if you owned the only swan made of ivory with ruby eyes, or the only pair of chickens carved of some semiprecious stone? A thousand starving kids in the Willies could be fed for a year on what one rich potentate paid for his one-of-a-kind chess set!

  How did I talk to a man whose family had emigrated from Europe, bringing with them their skills, and right away had begun to increase their fortune tenfold? I was lost in such territory, so I turned to something more familiar.