Joel paused before the double doors above two wide, carpeted steps that curved outward in halfmoons. He smiled in a slow, peculiar way. "Your mother's wing," he said shortly.
I paused and shivered outside those too familiar double doors. Helplessly I looked back at Chris. The rain had calmed to a steady staccato drumming. Joel opened one side of the doors and stepped into the bedroom, giving Chris the chance to whisper to me, "To him we are only husband and wife, Cathy--that's all he knows."
Tears were in my eyes as I stepped into that bedroom--and then I was staring bug-eyed at what I'd thought burned in the fire. The bed! The swan bed with the fancy rosy bedcurtains held back gracefully by the tips of wing feathers made into curling fingers. That graceful swan head had the same twist of its neck, the same kind of watchful but sleepy red ruby eye half open to guard the occupants of the bed.
I stared disbelievingly. Sleep in that bed? The bed where my mother had been held in the arms of Bartholomew Winslow--her second husband? The same man I'd stolen from her to father my son Bart? The man who still haunted my dreams and filled me with guilt. No! I couldn't sleep in that bed! Not ever.
Once I'd longed to sleep in that swan bed with Bartholomew Winslow. How young and foolish I'd been then, thinking material things really did bring happiness, and having him for my own would be all I'd ever want.
"Isn't that bed a marvel?" asked Joel from behind me. "Bart went to a great deal of trouble to find artisans who'd handcarve the headboard in the form of a swan. They looked at him, so he said, as if he were crazy. But he found some old men who were delighted to be doing something they found uniquely creative, and financially rewarding. It seems Bart has detailed descriptions of how the swan should have its head turned. One sleepy eye set with a ruby. Fingertip feathers to hold back filmy bed curtains. Oh, the flurry he made when they didn't do it right the first time. And then the little swan bed at the foot, he wanted that, too. For you, Catherine, for you."
Chris spoke, his voice hard. "Joel, just what has Bart told you?" He stepped beside me and encircled my shoulders with the comfort of his arm, protecting me from Joel, from everything. With him I'd live in a thatched hut, a tent, a cave. He gave me strength.
The old man's smile was faint and sardonic as he took notice of Chris's protective attitude. "Bart confided all his family history to me. You see, he's always needed an older man to talk to."
He paused meaningfully, glancing at Chris, who couldn't fail to catch the implication. Despite his control I saw him wince. Joel seemed satisfied enough to continue. "Bart told me about how his mother and her brothers and a sister were locked away for more than three years. He told me that his mother took her sister, Carrie, the twin left alive, and ran off to South Carolina, and you, Catherine, took years and years to find just the right husband to suit your needs best-- and that's why you are now married to . . . Dr. Christopher Sheffield."
There were so many innuendoes in his words, so much he left unsaid. Enough to make me shiver with sudden cold.
Joel finally left the room and closed the door softly behind him. Only then could Chris give me the reassurance I had to have if I was to stay here for even one night. He kissed me, held me, stroked my back, my hair, soothed me until I could turn around and look at everything Bart had done to make this suite of rooms just as luxurious as they'd been before. "It's only a bed, a reproduction of the original," Chris said softly, his eyes warm and understanding. "Our mother has not lain on this bed, darling. Bart read your scripts, remember that. What's here is here because you constructed the pattern for him to follow. You described that swan bed in such exquisite detail that he must have believed you wanted rooms just like our mother used to have. Maybe unconsciously you still do, and he knows that. Forgive us both for
misunderstanding if I'm wrong. Think only that he wanted to please you and went to a great deal of trouble and expense to decorate this room as it used to be."
Numbly I shook my head, denying I'd ever wanted what she had. He didn't believe me. "Your wishes, Catherine! Your desire to have everything she did! I know it. Your sons know it. So don't blame any of us for being able to interpret your desires even when you cover them with clever subterfuges."
I wanted to hate him for knowing me so well. Yet my arms went around him. My face pressed against his shirtfront as I trembled and tried to hide the truth, even from myself. "Chris, don't be harsh with me," I sobbed. "It came as such .a surprise to see these rooms, almost as they used, to be when we came here to steal from her . . . and her husband . . ."
He held me hard against him "What do you really feel about Joel?" I asked.
Considering thoughtfully before he answered, Chris spoke. "I like him, Cathy. He seems sincere and overjoyed that we're willing to let him stay on here."
"You told him he could stay?" I whispered.
"Sure, why not? We'll be leaving soon after Bart has that twenty-fifth birthday when, he 'comes into his own.' And just think of the wonderful opportunity we'll have to learn more about the Foxworths. Joel can tell us more about our mother when she was young, and what life was like for all of them, and perhaps when we know the details, we will be able to understand how she could betray us, and why the grandfather wanted us dead. There has to be an awful truth hidden back in the past to warp Malcolm's brain so he could override our mother's natural instincts to keep her own children alive."
In my opinion Joel had said enough downstairs. I didn't want to know more. Malcolm Foxworth had been one of those strange humans born without conscience, unable to feel remorse for any wrong thing he did. There was no explaining him, and no way to understand.
Appealingly Chris gazed into my eyes, making his heart and soul vulnerable for my scorn to injure. "I'd like to hear about our mother's youth, Cathy, so I can understand what made her the way she turned out to be. She wounded us so deeply I feel neither one of us will ever recover until we do understand. I have forgiven her, but I can't forget. I want to understand so I can help you to forgive her . . ."
"Will that help?" I asked sarcastically. "It's too late for understanding or forgiving our mother, and, to be honest, I don't want to find understanding--for if I do, I might have to forgive her."
His arms dropped stiffly to his sides. Turning, he strode away from me. "I'm going out for our luggage now. Take a bath, and by the time you're finished I'll have everything unpacked." At the doorway he paused, not turning to look my way. "Try, really try, to use this as an opportunity to make peace with Bart. He's not beyond restoration, Cathy. You heard him behind the podium. That young man has a remarkable ability for oratory. His words make good sense. He's a leader now, Cathy, when he used to be so shy and introverted. We can count it a blessing that at last Bart has come out of his shell."
Humbly I bowed my head. "Yes, I'll do what I can. Forgive me, Chris, for being unreasonably strongwilled--again."
He smiled and left.
In "her" bath that joined a magnificent dressing room, I slowly disrobed while the black marble sunken tub filled. All about me were gold-framed mirrors to reflect back my nudity. I was proud of my figure, still slim and firm, and my breasts that didn't sag. Stripped of "everything, I lifted my arms to take out the few hairpins still left. Deja vu-like, I pictured my mother as she must have stood, doing this same thing while she thought of her second and younger husband. Had she wondered where he was on the nights he spent with me? Had she known just who Bart's mistress was before my revelations at the Christmas party? Oh, I hoped she had!
An unremarkable dinner came and went.
Two hours later I was in the swan bed that had given me many daydreams, watching Chris undress. True to his word, he'd unpacked everything, hung my clothes as well as his own and stowed our underwear in the bureau. Now he looked tired, slightly unhappy. "Joel told me there will be servants coming for interviews tomorrow. I hope you feel up to that."
Startled, I sat up. "But I thought Bart would do his own hiring."
"No, he's leaving that up to you.
"
"Oh."
Chris hung his suit on the brass valet, again making me think of how much that valet seemed the same one Bart's father had used when he lived here-- or in that other Foxworth Hall. Haunted, that's what I was. Stark naked, Chris headed for the "his" bath. "I'll take a quick shower and join you shortly. Don't fall asleep until I'm through.'
I lay in the semidarkness and stared around me, feeling strangely out of myself. In and out of my mother, I flitted, sensing four children in a locked room overhead in the attic. Feeling the panic and guilt that surely must have been hers while that mean old father below lived on and on, threatening even when he was out of sight. Born bad, wicked, evil. It seemed I heard a whispery voice saying this over and over again. I closed my eyes and tried to stop this craziness. I didn't hear any voices. I didn't hear ballet music playing, I didn't. I couldn't smell the dry, musty scent of the attic. I couldn't. I was fifty-two years old, not twelve, thirteen, fourteen or fifteen.
All the old odors were gone. I smelled only new paint, new wood, freshly applied wallpaper and fabric. New carpets, new scatter rugs, new furniture. Everything new but for the fancy antiques on the first floor. Not the real Foxworth Hall, only an imitation. Yet, why had Joel come back if he liked being a monk so much? Certainly he couldn't want all that money when he'd grown accustomed to monastery austerity. There must be some good reason he was here other than just wanting to see what remained of his family. When the villagers must have told him our mother was dead, still he'd stayed. Waiting his chance to meet Bart? What had he found in Bart that kept him staying on? Even allowing Bart to put him to use as a butler until we had a real one. Then I sighed. Why was I making such a mystery of this when a fortune was involved. Always it seemed money was the reason for doing anything and everything.
Fatigue closed my eyes. I fought off sleep. I needed this time to think of tomorrow, of this uncle come from nowhere. Had we finally gained all that Momma had promised, only to lose it to Joel? If he didn't try to break Momma's will, and we managed to keep what we had, would it carry a price?
In the morning Chris and I descended the right side of the dual staircase, feeling we had at long last come into "our own" and we were finally in control of our lives. He caught my hand and squeezed it, sensing from my expression that this house no longer intimidated me.
We found Joel in the kitchen busily preparing breakfast. He wore a long white apron and cocked on his head was a tall chefs cap. Somehow it looked ludicrous on such a frail, tall, old man. Only fat men should be chefs, I thought, even as I felt grateful to have him take on a chore I'd never really liked.
"I hope you like Eggs Benedict," said Joel without glancing our way. To my surprise, his Eggs Benedict were wonderful. Chris had two servings. Then Joel was showing us rooms not yet decorated. He smiled at me crookedly. "Bart told me you like informal rooms with comfortable furniture, and he wants you to make these empty rooms cozy, in your own inimitable style."
Was he mocking me? He knew Chris and I were here only for a visit. Then I realized perhaps Bart might want me to help with the decorating and was reluctant to say so himself.
When I asked Chris if Joel could break our mother's will and take from Bart the money he felt so necessary for his self-esteem, Chris shook his head, admitting he really didn't know all the ins and outs of legal ramifications when a "dead" heir came back to life.
"Bart could give Joel enough money to see him through the few years he has left," I said, wracking my brain to remember every word of my mother's last will and testament. No mention of her older brothers, whom she'd believed dead.
When I came back from my thoughts, Joel was in the kitchen again, having found what he wanted in the pantry stocked with enough to feed a hotel. He spoke in reply to a question Chris had asked and I hadn't heard. His voice was somber. "Of course, the house isn't exactly the same, for no one uses wooden pegs for nails anymore. I put all the old furniture in my quarters. I don't really belong, so I'm going to stay in the servants' quarters over the garages
"I've already said you shouldn't do that," said Chris with a frown. "It just wouldn't be right to let a family member live in such frugal style." Already we'd seen the huge garage, and the servants' quarters above could hardly be called frugal, just small
Let him! I wanted to shout, but I said nothing.
Before I knew what was happening, Chris had Joel established on the second floor in the western wing. I sighed, somehow regretful that Joel would be under the same roof with us. But it would be all right; as soon as our curiosity was satisfied and Bart celebrated his birthday, we'd leave with Cindy for Hawaii.
In the library around two in the afternoon, Chris and I settled down to interview the man and woman who came with excellent references. There wasn't any fault I could find, except something furtive in both pairs of eyes. Uneasily I fidgeted from the way they looked so knowingly at both of us. "Sorry," said Chris, catching the slight negative gesture I made,' "but we've already decided on another couple."
Husband and wife stood up to go. The woman turned in the doorway to give me a long, meaningful look. "I live in the village, Mrs. Sheffield," she said coldly. "Been there only five years, but we've heard a great deal about the Foxworths who live on the hill." What she said made me turn my head away. "Yes, I'm sure you have," said Chris dryly.
The woman snorted before she slammed the door behind them.
Next came a tall, aristocratic man with upright military bearing, immaculately dressed down to the slightest detail. He strode in and politely waited until Chris asked him to sit down.
"My name is Trevor Mainstream Majors," he said in his brisk British style. "I was born in Liverpool fifty- nine years ago. I was married in London when I was twenty-six, and my wife passed away three years ago, and my two sons live in North Carolina . . . so I am here hoping I can work in Virginia and visit my sons on my days off."
"Where did you work after you left the Johnstons?" asked Chris, looking down at the man's resume. "You seem to have excellent references until one year ago."
By this time Chris had invited the Englishman to seat himself. Trevor Majors shifted his long legs and adjusted his tie before he replied politely, "I worked for the Millersons, who moved away from the Hill about six months ago."
Silence. I'd heard my mother mention the Millersons many times. My heart began to beat more rapidly. "How long did you work for the Millersons?" asked Chris in a friendly way, as if he had no fears, even after having caught my look of anxiety.
"Not long, sir. They had five of their own children there, and nephews and nieces were always showing up, plus friends who stayed over for visits. I was their only servant. I did the cooking, the housework, the laundry, the chauffeuring, and it's an Englishman's pride and joy to do the gardening. What with chauffeuring the five children back and forth to school, dancing classes, sporting events, flicks and such, I spent so much time on the road I seldom had the chance to prepare a decent meal. One day Mister Millerson complained I'd failed to mow the lawn and hadn't weeded the garden, and he hadn't eaten a good meal at home in two weeks. He snapped at me harshly because his dinner was late. Sir, that was rather much, when his wife had ordered me out on the road, kept me waiting while she shopped, sent me to pick up the children from the movies . . . and then I was supposed to have dinner on time. I told Mr. Millerson I wasn't a robot able to do everything, and all at once--and I quit. He was so angry he threatened he'd never give me a good reference. But if you wait a few days, he may cool down enough to realize I did the best I could under difficult circumstances."
I sighed, looked at Chris and made a furtive signal. This man was perfect. Chris didn't even look my way. "I think you will work out fine, Mister Majors. We'll hire you for a trial period of one month, and if at that time we find you unsatisfactory, we will terminate our employment agreement."
Chris looked at me. "That is, if my wife agrees . . ."
Silently I stood and nodded. We did need servants. I didn't intend
to spend my vacation dusting and cleaning a huge house.
"Sir, my lady, if you will, just call me Trevor. It will be my honor and pleasure to serve in this grand house. " He'd jumped to his feet the moment I stood, and then, as Chris rose, he and Chris shook hands. "My pleasure indeed," he said as he smiled at us both approvingly.
In three days we hired three servants. It was easy enough when Bart was highly overpaying them.
The evening of our fifth full day here, I stood beside Chris on the balcony, staring at the mountains all around us, gazing up at that same old moon that used to look down on us as we lay on the roof of the old Foxworth Hall. That single great eye of God I'd believed when I was fifteen. Other places had given me romantic moons, beautiful moonlight to take away my fears and guilts. Here I felt the moon was a harsh investigator, ready to condemn us again, and then again and again.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" asked Chris with his arm about my waist. "I like this balcony that Bart added to our suite of rooms. It doesn't distract from the outside appearance since it's on the side, and just look at the view it gives us of the mountains."
The blue-misted mountains had always represented to me a jagged fence to keep us forever trapped as prisoners of hope. Even now I saw their soft rounded tops as a barrier between me and freedom. God, if you're up there, help me through the next few weeks.
Near noon the next day, Chris and I, with Joel, stood on the front portico, watching the low-slung red Jaguar speeding up the steeply spiraling road that led to Foxworth Hall.
Bart drove with reckless, daredevil speed, as if challenging death to take him. I grew weak just watching the way he whipped around the dangerous curves.
"God knows he should have better sense," Chris grumbled. "He's always been accident prone--and look at the way he drives, as if he's got a hold on immortality."