Pivoting about, Melodie headed for the house without answering, her face pale with anger.
Again, I should have known. What other theme would capture Bart's fancy as much?
Cindy ran to throw her arms about Jory. "Jory, let me dance the role of Delilah, I can! I just know I can."
"I don't want your amateurish attempts!" shouted Bart.
Ignoring him, Cindy tugged pleadingly on both of Jory's hands. "Please, please, Jory. I'd love to do it. I've kept up my ballet classes, so I won't be stiff and awkward and make you look unskilled, and between now and then you can help me gain better timing. I'll rehearse morning, night and noon!"
"There's not enough time to rehearse when the performance is two days away," complained Jory, throwing Bart a hard, angry look. "Good lord, Bart, why didn't you tell me before? Do you think just because I choreographed that particular ballet that I can remember all the difficult routines? A role like that needs weeks of rehearsing, and you wait until the last moment! Why?"
"Cindy's lying," said Bart, looking longingly at the door through which Melodie had disappeared. "She was too lazy to keep up her classes before, so why should she when Mother's not there to force her?"
"I have! I have!" cried Cindy with great excitement and pride, when I knew she hated violent exercises. Before the age of six, she'd loved the pretty tutus, the cute little satin slippers, the little sparkling tiaras- of fake jewels, and the fantasy of the fanciful productions had put her in a spell of beauty I'd once believed she'd never abandon. But Bart had ridiculed her performances just one too many times, and she'd let him convince her she was hopelessly inadequate. She'd been about twelve when he stole her pleasure in the ballet. From then on she'd never gone to classes. Therefore I was doubly amazed to hear she'd never really given up on the dance, only on allowing Bart see her perform.
She turned to me, as if pleading for her life. "Really, I am telling the truth! Once I was in the private girl's school, and Bart wasn't around to ridicule me, I started again and ever since have kept up my ballet classes, and I tap dance as well."
"Well," said Jory, apparently impressed, giving Bart another hard look, "we can devote what time we have left to practicing, but you were extremely unthinking to believe we wouldn't need to practice for weeks, Bart. I don't expect to have much difficulty myself since it's a familiar role--but Cindy, you've not even seen that particular ballet."
Rudely interrupting, Bart asked with great excitement, "Do you have the lenses, the white lenses? Can you really see through them? I saw you and Melodie in New York about a year ago, and from the orchestra you really did look blind."
Frowning at his unexpected question, Jory studied Bart seriously. "Yes . . . I have the contacts with me," he said slowly. "Everywhere I go someone asks me to dance the role of Samson, so I take the lenses. I didn't know you appreciated ballet so much."
Laughing, Bart slapped Jory on the back as if they'd never had a disagreement. Jory staggered from the strength of that blow. "Most ballets are stupid bores, but this particular one catches my fancy. Samson was a great hero and I admire him. And you, my brother, perform extraordinarily well as Samson. Why, you even look just as powerful. I guess that's the only ballet that has ever thrilled me."
I wasn't listening to Bart. I was staring at Joel, who leaned forward. Muscles near his thin lips worked almost spasmodically, hovering near a smirk or a laugh, I couldn't tell which. All of a sudden I didn't want Jory and Cindy to dance in that particular ballet, which included very brutal scenes. And it had been Bart's idea years and years ago . . . hadn't he been the one to suggest that the opera would provide the music for what he considered would make the most sensational ballet of all?
All through the night I thought and I thought of how to stop Bart from wanting that particular production. He'd never been easy to stop as a boy.
As a man . . . I didn't know if I had a chance. But I was going to give it a try.
The very next morning I was up early and running out into the yard to catch Bart before he drove off. He listened to me with impatience, refusing to change the theme of his party. "I can't now, even if I wanted to. I've had the costumes designed and they are almost finished, as are the sets and flats. If I cancel anything it will be too late to plan another ballet. Besides, Jory doesn't mind, why should you?"
How could I tell him that some small, intuitive voice was warning me not to let this particular ballet be performed near the place of our confinement--with Malcolm and his wife in the ground not so far away the music wouldn't fill their dead ears.
Jory and Cindy practiced and rehearsed night and day, both catching a certain excitement as they worked together and Jory found out that Cindy was good; certainly she wouldn't perform as well as Melodie would have, but she'd dance more than adequately, and she was so lovely with her hair bound up in classical ballerina style.
The morning of Bart's birthday dawned bright and clear, heralding a perfect summer day without rain or clouds.
I was up early with Chris, strolling in the gardens before breakfast, enjoying the perfume of roses that seemed to herald a beautiful, perfect birthday for Bart. He'd always wanted birthday parties, like the ones we threw for Jory and Cindy, yet when they came around, he somehow managed to antagonize every guest so that many left early, and usually in a huff.
He was a man now, I kept telling myself, and this time it would be different. Chris was saying that to me, as if we had some sort of telepathy, both with the same thoughts.
"He's coming into his own," I said. "Isn't it odd how he's hung onto that childish expression, Chris? Will the attorneys read the will again after the party?"
Smiling and happy looking, Chris shook his head. "No, darling, we'll all be too tired. The reading is set for the next day." A shadow came to darken his expression. "I can't remember anything in that will that would spoil Bart's birthday, can you?"
No, I couldn't, but at the time of our mother's will reading, I'd been too upset, crying, half hearing, not really caring if none of us inherited the Foxworth fortune that seemed to come with its own curse.
"There's something Bart's attorneys aren't telling me, Cathy . . . something they say indicates I must not have clearly understood at the time when our mother's will was read shortly after her death. Now they don't want to speak of it because Bart has demanded that I not be included in any legal discussions. They look at him as if he scares or intimidates them. It surprises me to see middle-aged men with years of experience yield under his pressure, as if they want to keep his good will, and mine be damned. It annoys me, and then I ask myself, what the hell do I care? Soon we'll be leaving and making a new home for ourselves, and Bart can take his fortune and rule with it . . ."
My arms went about him, angry because Bart refused to give him the credit he deserved for handling that vast fortune for so many years, and doing a darn good job of it, too, despite his medical practice that stole so much of his time.
"How many millions will he inherit?" I asked. "Twenty, fifty, more? One billion, two, three-- more?"
Chris laughed. "Oh, Catherine, you never grow up. You always exaggerate. To be honest, it's difficult to calculate the net worth of all those holdings when they are scattered into so many areas of investments. However, he should be pleased when his attorneys give a rough estimate . . . it's more than enough for ten greedy young men."
In the foyer we paused to watch Jory rehearsing with Cindy, both hot and sweaty from all their efforts. Other dancers who'd be in the ballet were with them, standing around idly, either watching Jory and Cindy or staring around at what they could see of the fabulous house. Cindy was doing exceptionally well, and that truly surprised me; imagine keeping up her ballet classes and not telling me. She must have used some of her allowance meant for clothes and cosmetics and other trivial things she was always needing.
One of the older dancers strolled over to me, smiling as she spoke of seeing me dance a few times in New York. "Your son is very much like his father," she w
ent on, glancing back at Jory, who was whipping himself up into such a passion I wondered if he'd have any energy left for tonight's performance. "Maybe I shouldn't say this, but he's ten times better. I was only about twelve when you and Julian Marquet danced in The Sleeping Beauty, but it was the inspiration that gave me the desire to become a dancer myself, Thank you for giving us another wonderful dancer like Jory Marquet."
What she said filled me with happiness. My marriage to Julian hadn't been a total failure when it had produced Jory. Now I had to believe
Bartholomew Winslow's son would eventually fill me with just as much pride as I felt right now.
The, rehearsal -over, Cindy came to me, quite out of breath. "Mom, how did I do, okay?" Her eager face waited for my approval.
"You did beautifully, Cindy, really you did. Now, if you just remember to feel the music . . . keep the timing, you will turn in a remarkable performance for a novice:"
She grinned at me. "Always the instructor, huh, Mom? I suspect I'm not nearly as good as you want me to believe, but I'm going to give this performance my everything, and if I fail, it won't be because I didn't try.'
Jory was surrounded by admirers, while Melodie sat quietly on a love seat beside Bart. They didn't appear to be conversing, nor did they seem friendly. Yet, seeing them on that lovely small seat for two, I felt somehow uneasy. Tugging Chris forward, we moved closer to the pair on the love seat. "Happy birthday, Bart," I said cheerfully. He looked up and smiled with genuine charm.
"I told you it was going to be a great day, with sun and no rain."
"Yes, you told us."
"Can we all eat now?" he asked, standing and reaching for Melodie's hand. She ignored him and stood without assistance. "I'm starving!" Bart went on, looking only a little crestfallen from another of her rebuffs. "Those little Continental morning snacks just don't satisfy me."
We made a happy assembly at the luncheon table, all but Joel, who sat at his own small, round table on the terrace, apart from the rest of us. It was his claim that we were too rowdy and ate too much, insulting his monkish tastes, which dictated a serious attitude toward food and long prayers before and after eating. Even Bart grew annoyed with Joel when he became too pious, and especially on this day his impatience showed. "Uncle Joel, do you have to sit there all by yourself? Come, join the family group and wish me a happy birthday."
Joel shook his head. "The Lord scorns ostentatious displays of wealth and vanity. I
disapprove of this party. You could show your gratitude to be alive in a better way, by contributing to charities."
"What have charities done for me? This is my time to shine, Uncle, and even if dear old dead Malcolm flips over in his grave, I'm having the time of my life tonight!"
I was flooded with delight. Quickly I leaned to kiss him. "I love to see you like this, Bart. This is your day . . . and the gifts we have for you are going to open your eyes wide."
"Hope so," he said, all smiles. "I see they're heaping up on the gift table. We'll open them soon after the guests are here, so we can get on to the entertainment."
Across from where I sat, Jory was staring into Melodie's eyes with concern. 'Honey, are you feeling all right?"
"Yes," she whispered, "except I'd like to be dancing the role of Delilah. It feels strange watching you dance with someone else."
"After the baby comes, we'll dance together again," he said before he kissed her. Her eyes clung worshipfully to him as he got up to practice again with Cindy.
That's when Bart lost his happy expression.
Delivery men were constantly at the door bringing Bart more gifts. Many of his fraternity brothers from Harvard were coming with their girlfriends or wives. Those who couldn't make it were sending presents. Bart came and went, almost on the run, checking on every aspect of the party. Bouquets of flowers arrived by the dozens. The caterers filled the kitchen, so I felt an intruder when I wanted to prepare my own kind of midday snack. Then Bart had me by the arm and was pulling me through all the rooms that were overflowing with flowers. "Do you think my friends will be impressed?" he asked worriedly. "You know, I think I might have done a bit too much bragging when I was in school. They'll expect a mansion beyond compare."
I took another look around. There was something about a house ready for a party that made it especially beautiful, and Foxworth Hall was not only festive but spectacular with all its fresh flowers to give it warmth and grace, as well as beauty. All the crystal sparkled, the silver gleamed, the copper glowed . . . oh, yes, this house could rival the very best.
"Darling, stop fretting. You can't out-best everyone in the world. This is a truly beautiful house, and your decorators have done a marvelous job. Your friends will be impressed, don't you doubt that for one second. The caretakers did keep it well over the years, and gave all the gardens a chance to become well established."
He wasn't listening, just staring beyond me, frowning slightly. "You know, Mother," he said in a low voice, "I'm going to rattle around here after you and your brother go, and Melodie and Jory leave. It's a good thing I've got my Uncle Joel, who will stay on until he dies."
I heard this with a sinking heart.
Cindy's name wasn't mentioned, for obviously he'd never miss her. "Do you really like Joel that much, Bart? This morning he seemed to irk you with his monkish ways."
Clouds shadowed his already dark eyes, made grave his handsome face. "My uncle is helping me find myself, Mother, and if sometimes he annoys me, it's because I'm still so uncertain about my future. He can't help his habits formed over all those years living with monks who weren't allowed to speak, only pray out loud and sing at services. He's told me a bit about how it was, and it must have been very grim and lonely .. . yet he says he found peace there, and belief in God and everlasting life."
My arm dropped from his waist. He could have turned to Chris and found everything he needed-- peace, security, and the faith that had sustained Chris throughout life. Bart had blind eyes when it came to seeing the goodness in a man who'd tried so hard to make a son out of Bart.
But my relationship with my brother
condemned him, blinded Bart to anything but that.
Sadly I left Bart and climbed the stairs to find Chris on the balcony staring down at the workers in the yard. I joined him there, feeling the sun hot on my head. Silently we watched all that bustle of activity, while I prayed this house was finally going to give us something other than misery.
We napped for two hours, then ate a small dinner before all of us hurried back up to dress for the party. I went again out onto the balcony that gave Chris and me so much pleasure. Below me spread the birthday fairyland. The colors of the fading day filled the heavens with deep rose and violet, streaked it with magenta and orange, and sleepy birds flew like dark tears toward their nests. Cardinals were making their little beeping sounds, not chirps or cheeps but more like electronic, metallic bleeps. When Chris stepped up beside me, damp and fresh from his shower, we didn't speak or feel the need to; we just embraced, looking downward, before we finally turned away and went inside.
Bart, the child of my revenge, was coming into his own. I held fast to my hopes--wanting a party that turned out well and gave him the assurance he needed that he had friends and was well liked. I held off my fears and told myself over and over again that it was Bart's just due, and ours, too.
Maybe Bart would be satisfied tomorrow when the will was reread. Maybe, just maybe . . . I wanted the best for him, wanted fate to make up for so many things.
Behind me Chris moved in our dressing room, stepping into his tux trousers, stuffing in his shirttails, tying his own bow tie, then asking me to do it all over again. "Make the ends even." Gladly I retied it for him. He brushed his beautiful blond hair that was just a bit darker in back than it had been when he was forty. Each decade both darkened the blond and brought a touch more of silver in both our heads of hair. Easily I could keep mine colored, but Chris refused to do that. Fair hair had a lot to do with the w
ay I thought about myself. My face was still pretty. I was both mature and young looking.
Chris's reflection moved closer to my dressing table, hovering over my shoulders. His hands, so familiar to me now, moved to slip inside my bodice and cup my breasts before his lips pressed on my neck. "I love you. God, knows what I would do if I didn't have you."
Why was he always saying that?
As if he expected one day I'd leave or die before he did. "Darling, you'd live, that's what. You're important to society, I'm not."
"You're the one who keeps me going," he whispered in a hoarse voice. "Without you I wouldn't know how to continue on--but without me, you'd go on and probably marry again."
I saw his eyes, his blue eyes wistfully waiting.
"I've had three husbands and one lover, and that's enough for any one woman. If I am so unlucky as to lose you first, I'll sit day by day before a window, staring out and remembering how it used to be with you."
His eyes turned softer, meeting and locking with mine as I went on. "You look so beautiful, Chris. You'll make your sons envious."
"Beautiful? Isn't that an adjective used to describe females?"
"No. There's a difference between handsome and beautiful. Some men can look handsome, but not radiate inner beauty--like you do. You, my love, are beautiful--inside and out."
Again his blue eyes lit up. "Thank you very much. And may I say that I find you ten times as beautiful as you find me."
"My sons will be jealous when they behold the beauty of my Christopher Doll."
"Yes, of course," he answered with a wry grin. "Your sons see much to envy in me."
"Chris, you know Jory loves you. Someday Bart's going to find out he loves you, too."
"Someday my ship will come . . ." he sang lightly.
"It's his ship, too, Chris. Bart is at last coming into his own. And with that fortune in his control, rather than yours, he'll relax, find himself and turn to you as the best father he could have had."