Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger)

by V. C. Andrews

  Somewhere in one of my books I read that a woman likes to feel that there is nothing more important to her man than she, that all he does, he does with her in mind.

  “That is truly love; that is truly oneness” was the quote I couldn’t forget. Married people should feel they are part of each other and should always be aware of each other’s needs and feelings.

  As the car turned off our street and I glanced at the Thames River crowded with ships moving up and down in their slow, careful, but determined way, I wondered if I would ever have that feeling with Malcolm.

  I realized it wasn’t something a woman should wonder on her wedding day.

  We dined on the train. I had been too nervous to eat a thing all day, and suddenly I felt famished.

  “I’m so hungry,” I told him.

  “You’ve got to order carefully on these trains,” he told me. “The prices are ridiculous.”

  “Surely we can make an exception in our economy tonight,” I said. “People of our means …”

  “Precisely why we must always be economical. Good business sense takes training, practice. That was what attracted me to your father. He never lets his money get in the way of good business sense. Only the so-called nouveau riche are wasteful. You can spot them anywhere. They are obscene.”

  I saw how intense he was about this belief, so I didn’t pursue it any further. I let him order for both of us, even though I was disappointed in his choices and left the table still hungry.

  Malcolm got into discussions with other men on the train. There was a heated debate about the so-called “Red Menace” engendered by the United States Attorney General, A. Malcolm Palmer. Five members of the New York State legislature had been expelled for being members of the Socialist Party.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say how horrible an injustice that was, but Malcolm vehemently expressed his approval, so I kept my thoughts to myself, something I would have to do more and more and I didn’t like it. I pressed my lips together, fearful that the words would fly out like birds from a cage when the door was carelessly left open.

  After a while I ignored the discussions and fell asleep against the window. I had wound down from physical and emotional exhaustion. Darkness had enveloped us and aside from some lights in the distance here and there, there wasn’t much to keep me interested in the scenery. I awoke to find Malcolm asleep beside me.

  In repose, his face took on a younger, almost childish look. With his lids closed, the intensity of his blue eyes was shielded. His cheeks softened and his relaxed jaw lost its firm, tense lines. I thought … rather, I hoped, that this was the face he would turn to me in love, the face he would bring to me when he knew I was truly his wife, his mate, his beloved. I stared at him, fascinated with the way his bottom lip puffed out. There were so many little things to learn about each other, I thought. Do two people ever learn all there is about each other? It was something I would have liked to ask my mother.

  I turned away and looked at the other passengers. The whole car was asleep. Fatigue had come silently down the aisle and touched each of them with fingers made of smoke and then slipped out under the car door to become one again with the night. The way the train wove around turns and shook from side to side made me feel as if I were inside some giant metallic snake. I felt carried along, almost against my will.

  Occasionally, the train passed through a sleepy town or village. The lights in the houses were dim and the streets were empty. Then, in the distance, I saw the Blue Ridge Mountains looming like sleeping giants.

  I was lulled into sleep again and awoke at the sound of Malcolm’s voice.

  “We’re coming into the station,” he said.

  “Really?” I looked out the window but saw only trees and empty fields. Nevertheless, the train slowed down and came to a halt. Malcolm escorted me down the aisle to the doorway and we descended the steps. I stepped out onto the platform and looked at the small station that was merely a tin roof supported by four wooden posts.

  The air was cool and fresh-smelling. The sky was clear and splattered with dazzling stars.

  So vast and deep was the sky, it made me feel very small and insignificant. It was too big, and felt too close. Its beauty filled me with a strange sense of foreboding. I wished we had arrived in the morning and been greeted by the warm sunlight instead.

  I didn’t like the deadly quiet and emptiness around us. Somehow, from Malcolm’s description of Foxworth Hall and its environs, I had expected lights and activity. There was no one to greet us but Malcolm’s driver, Lucas. He looked like a man in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair and a narrow face. He had a slim build and stood at least two full inches shorter than I did. I saw from the way he moved that he had probably fallen asleep waiting for us at the station.

  Malcolm introduced me formally. Lucas nodded, put on his cap, and hurried to fetch my trunks as Malcolm led me to the car. I watched Lucas load my trunks and then saw the train pull away slowly, sneaking off into the night like some silvery dark creature trying to make an unobtrusive escape.

  “It’s so desolate here,” I said when Malcolm got in beside me. “How far away are we from population?”

  “We are not far from homes. Charlottesville is an hour away and there’s a small village nearby.”

  “I’m so tired,” I said, wanting to lean my head against his shoulder. But he sat so stiffly, I hesitated.

  “It’s not far now.”

  “Welcome to Foxworth Hall, ma’am,” Lucas said when he finally got behind the wheel.

  “Thank you, Lucas.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Drive on,” Malcolm commanded.

  The road wound upward. As we drew closer to the hills, I noted how the trees paraded up and down between them, separating them into distinct sections.

  “They act as windbreaks,” Malcolm explained, “holding back the heavy drifts of snow.”

  A short while later I saw the cluster of large homes nestled on a steep hillside. And then, suddenly, Foxworth Hall appeared, jetting up against the night sky, filling it. I couldn’t believe the size of the house. It sat high on the hillside, looking down at the other homes like a proud king surveying his minions. And this was to be my home—the castle of which I would be queen. Now I understood better Malcolm’s driving ambition. No one brought up in such a regal and expensive home could think small or ever be satisfied with run-of-the-mill accomplishments. Yet, how lonely, how threatening, how accusing such a house could seem to someone timid or small. I shivered at the thought.

  “You live here only with your father?” I asked as we drew closer. “It must have been lonely for you since he began his traveling.”

  Malcolm said nothing, just looked ahead, as if trying to see his mansion through my astonished eyes.

  “How many rooms are in this house?”

  “Somewhere between thirty and forty. Maybe one day, to pass the time, you’ll make a count.” He laughed at his own joke, but I couldn’t put aside my awe.

  “And servants?”

  “My father had too many. Since he’s been traveling, I have cut back somewhat. We have a cook, of course, and a gardener who complains constantly that he needs an assistant, a maid, and Lucas, who serves as butler and driver.”

  “Can that possibly be enough?”

  “As I said, now there is you too, my dear.”

  “But I’m not coming here to be a servant, Malcolm,” I said. He didn’t reply for a few moments. Lucas pulled up in front of the house.

  “Obviously, we don’t use all the rooms, Olivia. At one time there were dozens of relatives ensconced within. Fortunately, the parasites have been removed.” His face softened. “After you are settled in, you will evaluate our staff needs and do what is efficient and economical, I’m sure. The house is to be your responsibility. I don’t have the time for it anymore, and I needed a woman like you who could manage it properly,” he said. He made it sound as though he had gone shopping for a wife.

  I
said no more. I was terribly eager now to go in and see what such a mansion looked like, a mansion that was to be my home. It both thrilled and frightened me. I was sorry that we had come to it at night, for at night it had an ominous air about it. It was almost as if this house had a life of its own, as if it could make judgments about its inhabitants while they slept and cause those it did not like to suffer.

  Also, I had learned something from my father about the places people lived. Their homes always reflected their personalities. He himself was evidence of that. Our home was quite simple, but genteel. There was warmth to it as well.

  What would this house tell me about the man I had married? Did he dominate people as much as this house dominated its surroundings? Would I become lost within the vast structure, grow lonely as I wandered from room to room through the long hallways?

  Lucas rushed up to open the large double entrance doors and then Malcolm led me into my new home. As he guided me through the grand entrance, with his hand resting on my back, my heart sank. I knew it was foolish but I had hoped he would carry me over the threshold into my new home, my new life. I wanted for just this one day to be one of those charming, delicate women men cherish and look after. But that was not to be.

  A small figure emerged from the gloom, and my fantasy popped. “Welcome to Foxworth Hall, Mrs. Foxworth,” a voice greeted me, and for a moment I couldn’t respond. It was the first time anyone had called me Mrs. Foxworth. Malcolm quickly introduced Mrs. Steiner, the maid. She was a small woman, barely five feet four, and, as I towered above her, I flushed at my thoughts of being carried over the threshold. This woman, fiftyish though she was, would be a better candidate for such shenanigans. But she seemed kind as she smiled up at me. I looked to Malcolm but he was busily directing Lucas to carry in my trunks.

  “I have your bed turned down and a small fire going, ma’am,” she announced. “It’s a bit chilly tonight.”

  “Yes.” For a moment I was startled by the mention of bed. Why, it was almost morning! Was my wedding night to proceed now? Somehow I didn’t feel ready yet, but I quickly hid my confusion. “I suppose Virginia mountain weather is something I’ll have to get used to.”

  “It takes some getting used to,” she said. “The days can be warm in late spring and summer, but the nights are cool. Come along now,” she beckoned to me.

  I hadn’t moved from the entryway, but now the time had come to move forward and meet Foxworth Hall.

  All the lights were dimmed, the candles burned low. I walked slowly, like a somnambulist lost in a dream, through the long entryway with its high ceiling. The walls were peppered with oil portraits of people I assumed were ancestors who had preceded me in Foxworth Hall. As I walked down the hall I gazed at them, one by one. The men looked austere, cold, haughty. So did the women. Their faces were pinched tight, their eyes saddened by some trouble. I looked in each of the portraits for some hint of Malcolm, some resemblance in the faces. Some of the men had his light hair and straight nose, and some of the women, especially the older ones, had his intense expression.

  At the end of the front foyer, large enough to be used as a ballroom, I came to a pair of elegant staircases that wound up like ruffles on a queen’s sleeves. The curving staircases met at a balcony on the second floor, and from there became a single staircase that rose another flight. The three giant crystal chandeliers hung from a gilt carved ceiling some forty feet above the floor and the floor was made of intricate mosaic tiles. The magnificence took my breath away. How drab and gawky I felt in this elegant room.

  As Mrs. Steiner led me forward, I gazed at the marble busts, the crystal lamps, the antique tapestries that only the extremely wealthy could afford. Lucas hurried past us, lugging one of my trunks. I paused at the foot of the stairs, my mind numbed in a trance. I was to be the mistress of this magnificent mansion! Then Malcolm was beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

  “Well, do you approve?” he asked.

  “It’s like a palace,” I said.

  “Yes,” Malcolm said. “The seat of my empire. I expect you will manage it well,” he added. He pulled off his gloves and looked about. “That’s the library there,” he said, gesturing to my right. I looked through the open doorway and caught a glimpse of walls lined with richly carved mahogany bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. “I have something of an office in the rear, where you can work on our accounts. The main hallways above,” he said, turning my attention back to the staircases, “join at the rotunda. Our bedrooms are in the southern wing, with its warmer exposure. There are fourteen rooms of various sizes in the northern wing—plenty of room for guests.”

  “Yes. I believe that.”

  “But I tend to agree with Benjamin Franklin, who said fish and guests tend to smell after three days. Please keep that in mind.”

  I started to laugh, but I saw that he was serious.

  “Come, you’re tired. You can explore and explore tomorrow. I suspect you might find one of my older relatives still living in one of the rooms in the north wing.”

  “You don’t mean that?”

  “Of course not, but there was a time when that might have been possible. My father was often carefree about such things. Mrs. Steiner,” he said, indicating she should continue leading me upstairs.

  “This way, Mrs. Foxworth,” she said, and I began to ascend the staircase on the right, running my hand over the rosewood balustrade as I walked up. Lucas came down the left staircase quickly to retrieve my remaining baggage. Malcolm walked beside me, just a step or two behind.

  We reached the top of the stairs, and when we made the turn to the south wing, I confronted a suit of armor on a pedestal and I really felt I had entered a castle.

  The southern wing was softly lit. Shadows draped the hallway like giant cobwebs. The first door on the right was closed. From the size of the door, however, I imagined the room was a large one. Malcolm must have caught my interest.

  “The trophy room,” he muttered, “my room,” he added with a definite emphasis on “my,” “in which I keep artifacts I have collected during my travels and hunts.”

  I was immediately curious about that room. Surely the things within it would tell me more about the man I had married.

  We passed door after door until we reached a set of double doors on the right. The only doors we had passed which were painted white. I paused.

  “No one goes into this room,” Malcolm declared. “It was my mother’s room.” His voice was so cold and hard when he said that, and his eyes so far away, that I wondered what it was about his mother that bothered him so. He spat out the word “mother” almost as if it were poison. What kind of man could hate his mother so?

  Of course, I wanted to know more, but Malcolm took my arm to lead me on quickly. Mrs. Steiner stopped before an opened doorway and stood to the side to allow me to enter.

  The bedroom was large. An ornately carved cherry bed stood in its center. Its hand-carved posts were topped with a white canopy, and the bed was covered with a spread of quilted satin. There were two large white pillows with hand-crocheted pillowcases.

  The bed itself was set between two large paneled windows that faced the south. The windows were draped in light blue pleated antique silk curtains. The room had a polished hardwood floor, but there was a thick light-gray wool rug beside the bed.

  I looked at the dressing table on the left with its oval-framed mirror. There was a large dresser beside it, a tremendous closet beside that, and a blue cut-velvet chair facing the bed. There was another closet on the right and another, smaller dresser to the right of it. The fireplace, now aglow with a dancing fire, was opposite the bed.

  Although the curtains, the bedding, and the rug suggested warmth and femininity, the room had a cold appearance. As I stood there, I had the distinct impression the room had been thrown together rather quickly. In such a glorious house, why would Malcolm want such a bedroom?

  My question was answered immediately. This was not our bedroom.

&n
bsp; This was my bedroom.

  “You’ll want to get right to sleep,” he said. “It’s been a hard day, with all our traveling. Sleep as late as you wish.”

  Malcolm leaned over and kissed me quickly on the cheek and then turned and left before I could say anything.

  It occurred to me that Malcolm might just be very shy and made these remarks for Mrs. Steiner’s benefit. He probably intended to come to my bed before or in the morning.

  Mrs. Steiner remained with me a while longer, showing me the bathroom facilities, explaining the order of the house, how she handled the linens, when she cleaned the rooms, how the orders for meals were made.

  “Of course, it’s so late I can’t give proper thought to all these things,” I said, “but in the morning I’ll go over it all again with you and decide what we’ll continue and what we’ll change.” I think she was surprised by my firmness.

  “Every Thursday the servants go to town. We do our own shopping then as well,” she said, frightened that I would end that practice.

  “Where do the servants sleep?” I asked.

  “Servants’ quarters are above the garage in the rear. Tomorrow you’ll meet Olsen, the gardener. He’ll want to show you the gardens in the rear. He’s rather proud of them. Our cook is Mrs. Wilson. She’s been with the Foxworths for nearly thirty years. She claims to be sixty-two, but I know she’s closer to seventy,” she added. She chatted on and on in her somewhat thick German accent while she unpacked my trunks and began to organize my wardrobe. Finally her words melded into one long, monotonous rhythm, so I could no longer follow. She saw she was losing my attention and excused herself.

  “I hope you enjoy your first night’s sleep at Foxworth,” she said. Of course, it was practically morning.

  I took out the blue dressing gown I had taken such pains to have made for my wedding night. It had a deep cut V-shaped neckline and it was truly the most revealing garment I had ever owned. I remembered when they had first come out with the V neck, it had been denounced from the pulpit as indecent exposure. Doctors said it was a danger to health and a blouse with a triangular opening in the front was dubbed a “pneumonia blouse.” Women continued to wear it, though, and it had come to be popular. Up until now, I avoided anything that revealed so much of the bosom. Now I wondered if I should wear it.