Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger)

by V. C. Andrews

  One day, two weeks into her ninth month, Alicia asked me about the attic.

  “It’s rather an interesting place,” I said. I began to describe it and then stopped. “But really, it’s something you’ll have to see for yourself,” I said. I thought about her walking up those shaky little steps and wandering through the huge attic, things strewn about, presenting the possibility of her tripping and falling.

  “I was tempted to go through those double doors and go up the stairs.”

  “Oh, there’s another way up,” I said. “A secret way.”

  “Really?” She was intrigued. “Where?”

  “It’s through a doorway in a closet in the room at the end of the north wing.”

  “My goodness, a doorway in a closet. Do you want to go up with me?”

  “I’ve been there,” I said. “I’ll show you the way and you can amuse yourself going through the old things.”

  “Oh, I’d love it,” she said, so I led her down the north wing to the end room. She was fascinated by the room. “It’s like a hideaway,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “This house is so exciting, so mysterious. I must ask Garland about this room.”

  “Do that,” I said. “And tell me what he says,” I added.

  I showed her the closet doorway.

  “Now you must be careful,” I said when she looked back at me. “There’s a cord just above the first step. Pull it and it will light the stairway.”

  She did, but it didn’t turn on the bulb. I had unscrewed it earlier.

  “Must be blown,” I said. “Forget about it.”

  “No, that’s all right. I can see fine.”

  “Remember,” I said. “I told you not to go.”

  “Don’t be an old fuddy-duddy, Olivia. It’s nothing.”

  “Go on, then,” I said. “I’ll be down in the front salon, reading.”

  She started up and I closed the door behind her. I heard her gasp and then laugh. My heart was pounding in my chest. The dark, the darkness, those creaky steps and floorboards—all presented a terrible danger to a woman close to her delivery date. What a trusting young fool she was, I thought, and turned away. If anything happened to her, I would be too far away to be of any help. I had warned her. No one could blame me.

  I rushed out of the room and down the north wing. I settled myself in the salon and began reading, just as I told her I would. It was difficult for me to concentrate on anything. Every once in a while I looked up at the ceiling and imagined her tripping and falling, perhaps banging her head against one of those trunks or armoires, and lying there in the throes of a miscarriage.

  Afterward, when I told Malcolm how it had happened, he would thank me. Not in so many words, perhaps; but the thanks would be there. And maybe she wouldn’t go flitting through this house bringing smiles to everyone’s face. Maybe the miscarriage would affect her beauty, and darkness would cloak her eyes. Despair would wash the radiant colors from her face forever. Her voice would change and deepen, losing its melodious tones. Malcolm would no longer be enchanted by her chatter and wheedling charms. When we all sat around the dinner table and she spoke, it would be as if we had no ears to hear.

  I didn’t realize how much time had passed, but when Garland and Malcolm arrived home, she was still not down. Of course, Garland inquired about her.

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “I’ve been sitting here entranced with this book. She went up to the attic a while ago.”

  “The attic? Whatever for?”

  “To explore. She was bored.”

  “The attic?” Garland repeated. His face turned dark. “She shouldn’t be up there.”

  “I told her that, but she positively insisted. She called me an old fuddy-duddy for warning her against it and went up anyway.”

  He rushed out and up the winding staircase. Malcolm stood in the doorway watching him and then turned to me. Never did I see such a cold look in his eyes. It was an odd look, a mixture of fear and anger, I thought. It was as if he had just discovered something about me that he had never before realized.

  “Perhaps you should go along with him and see if anything happened,” I said. Suddenly a wry smile came to his face and he turned and left me.

  Not long afterward I heard Garland’s voice and I went out to the foyer.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. He was hurrying on toward the south wing.

  “What? Oh, yes. Can you imagine? I found her standing before the dusty mirror, trying on Corinne’s old dresses. I must say, she did them justice.”

  Malcolm appeared behind me as though he had been waiting in the wings. I could see that he was boiling with rage, and yet … yet … I saw that faraway look in his eye, a look, that if I didn’t know better, I would have called love.

  Two weeks later, almost to the day, Alicia gave birth. Dr. Braxten was there to deliver the child. Malcolm and I waited in the foyer. Garland came to the rotunda and shouted down to us.

  “It’s a boy! A boy! And Alicia is just fine! Why, she’s ready to go dancing.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. He clasped his hands together and raised them in the air before returning to their suite. Malcolm said nothing, but when I turned to him, I saw the rage in his face.

  “I was praying if a child had to be born, it would be a girl,” he said.

  “What difference does it make now? Come, let’s see the child.”

  He hesitated, so I started up without him. The new baby, when I first saw him cradled in his mother’s arms, did take my breath away. He had my sons’ blond hair and blue eyes, but this infant radiated a quiet and a beautiful peace such as I had never seen in a child. He looked directly at everyone with clear, understanding eyes—and I knew newborns just didn’t do that.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?” whispered Alicia, snuggling him protectively closer against her side. “I’m going to name him Christopher Garland for his father.”

  Garland stood by, looking as proud as any young papa. At that moment I thought he did look twenty years younger. Were they a magical couple? Could they turn back time? Had they found the Fountain of Youth, or was this what true love could do for people? Never was I as envious and as jealous of anyone as I was of Alicia that moment. She had everything—beauty, a loving and adoring husband, and now a beautiful child.

  “Congratulations, Father,” Malcolm said, appearing in the doorway.

  “Thank you, Malcolm. Come on in and take a closer look at your stepbrother.”

  Malcolm stood beside me and looked down at Alicia and the child.

  “Good-looking. A true Foxworth,” he said.

  “You betcha,” Garland said. “We’ll be handing the cigars out tomorrow, eh, son?”

  “Yes, we will,” he said. “You did it, Father.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if he did it alone,” Alicia said. It even made me laugh. Malcolm’s face reddened.

  “Well, I meant… I … of course, congratulations, Alicia,” he said, and knelt down to brush a kiss across her cheek. From the way he closed his eyes, I knew he wanted that kiss to last longer.

  What a hypocrite he could be, I thought. I knew he hated that baby, and yet he could mouth all the right words, and do all the correct things.

  He stood up quickly and backed away from the bed.

  “Well, I’d better let you rest,” he said. He and I left the room. Garland had hired a nurse for the first few weeks, something Malcolm had not thought of doing for me. We joined Dr. Braxten in the hallway, preparing to leave.

  “So, Malcolm,” he said, “you can be proud of your father, eh?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said dryly.

  “Looks like I was wrong,” Dr. Braxten added.

  “Pardon?”

  “There was to be another Foxworth born in Foxworth Hall after all, eh?” he said.

  For a moment Malcolm didn’t respond. His lips whitened and he looked toward me.

  “Yes, Doctor,” he said, “you were wrong.”

  He followed th
e doctor down the staircase. Their footsteps sounded like thunder, the thunder that comes to warn us of an impending storm.

  8

  Days of Passion

  AFTER THE BIRTH OF CHRISTOPHER, GARLAND BEGAN TO spend a great deal more time at home. Malcolm claimed he was happy to have his father out of his hair at the office.

  “He doesn’t understand the intricacies of high finance and I have to spend too much time explaining things to him. He annoys everyone with his questions,” he said. “It’s better that he behaves more like a retired man. I wish he would officially retire,” he added.

  Garland never did anything intentionally to upset me, but it was upsetting for me to have him around so much because I was forced to witness his and Alicia’s love.

  He hovered about Alicia, watching her feed the baby, and then he took them both for walks or for short rides. Occasionally, they asked me to accompany them, but I always refused. The few times I caught my reflection and Alicia’s in a mirror, I thought I looked more like her mother than the wife of her stepson. I found it ridiculous to think of her as a mother-in-law. I knew it would just be too uncomfortable for me to go anywhere with Garland and her, unless Malcolm were with us too. And then something more disturbing began to take place.

  Less than two months after Christopher’s birth, Garland and Alicia began going up to their suite in the middle of the afternoon. At first I didn’t understand their eagerness to do so. They would come in from a walk looking somewhat flustered, always clinging so closely to each other, forever kissing and embracing. Sometimes they walked past me as though I weren’t even there.

  With his arm around her shoulders and her arm around his waist, they would practically run up the spiral staircase and disappear into their suite for most of the afternoon. The maids and Lucas would smile slyly at one another when they saw them gallivanting up the stairs. On a number of occasions I overheard them talking about Garland and his young bride. Once, I was just about to go into the kitchen, when I stopped at the partially opened doorway because I heard Mrs. Steiner talking to Mrs. Wilson.

  “It’s remarkable,” Mrs. Steiner said, “how they are always at it. I can’t get into that bedroom to clean!”

  “In the beginning it was like that with the first Mrs. Foxworth too,” Mrs. Wilson said.

  “Such a contrast between the elder Mr. Foxworth and his bride and Malcolm Foxworth and Olivia,” Mrs. Steiner said. “I can’t recall them ever showing affection for each other so openly.”

  “Affection for each other?” Mrs. Wilson said.

  “Olivia is so cold. Those gray eyes of hers are like two granite slivers. I’m so happy the boys have his eyes.”

  “Yes. Whenever Alicia is in a room, there is such light and happiness, even if Olivia is in the same room. Alicia’s brightness is too strong for Olivia’s cloudy face,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I wish she were the real mistress of Foxworth Hall, as she should be. She is just too sweet to exert her authority.”

  “It would be as different as night and day, wouldn’t it? One has a constant smile on her face, and the other has only a scowl, no matter how hard I work. She told Mary to dust after me in the foyer yesterday.”

  “When a woman is unhappy in love, she takes it out on whoever is around,” Mrs. Wilson said.

  “Which is why I wish Alicia were the true mistress of Foxworth Hall.”

  I stepped away from the door, my heart beating so hard and my rage so strong, I was afraid what I would do if I heard any more. Was Alicia conniving to win over the servants? She would never criticize any of them. She was making me out to be the ogre. And their obscene passion for each other was something the servants admired? Where was decency? Where was self-respect? How could they be so loving and hot-blooded anyway? I wondered. Was it real or just a show?

  One day, intrigued with their passion and energy, I followed them up the spiral staircase. I went into my room and placed my ear to the wall by my dressing table. What I heard brought the blood to my cheeks.

  Their kisses were one thing, but the sounds of Garland’s moaning in passionate ecstasy and Alicia’s little cries were overwhelming. I heard them in their bed and I knew exactly when Alicia was experiencing the climax of her lovemaking, or should I say the climaxes, for she cried out loudly each time, and each time Garland said things like, “Oh, my love, my love. It’s good, is it not? I’m far from an old man.”

  Sometimes they would grow very quiet afterward and I would think they were both asleep, but soon I would hear her pleas for more and their passion would begin again. Then I would lie in my own bed and try to imagine what it would be like if Malcolm made love to me the way his father made love to his bride. Never did I feel the need to cry out the way she did and never did Malcolm say the things to me that Garland said to her when she was in his embrace.

  Their lovemaking, whether it be night or day, was soon something to which I looked forward. Listening to them, imagining them in bed together, I could find far more excitement than I could in reading my novels.

  One day I listened to them talking in the dining room and understood that they were going for a walk for the express purpose of making love by the lake. Just thinking about such a thing made my heart flutter. My face flushed so, I had to go and dab cold water on my cheeks. Looking out of a window, I saw them start off toward the path that led to the lake. Garland carried little Christopher in his cradle. I watched them disappear around a corner and then I followed them.

  I felt guilty about it, but I couldn’t turn myself back. It was one thing to listen through the walls, but to actually see them making love was too great a temptation. They were too far ahead of me to know I was following.

  There was a clearing near the dock where we kept a canoe. By the time I was close enough to spy on them, they had spread their blanket out and they were lying upon it. The baby was asleep.

  Alicia’s figure had returned rapidly after she gave birth. It was impossible to look at her and know she was already a mother. She looked younger and more vibrant than ever. Her bosom was still high and her waist was so tiny. She had the perfect hourglass figure.

  Her hair spilled down around her shoulders. She sat in her blouse and skirt and embraced her knees as she looked out at the lake. Garland sat beside her, leaning back on his hands. They were like that for the longest time, and I began to feel very silly and guilty about spying on them. I continually looked behind me to be sure Olsen or some other servant wasn’t close enough to see what I was doing.

  Suddenly Garland turned to Alicia and kissed her on the neck. She dropped her head back and closed her eyes as though that single kiss was a key opening the doorway to her ecstasy. I pressed my fingers against my own neck and watched in fascination as Garland brought his lips to the bodice of her blouse, untying the string that held it together.

  He peeled the garments off her so gently and gracefully, it was as if they melted away. When they were both naked and in each other’s embrace, the soothing words between them, spoken too low for me to understand, sounded like a soft religious chant, the cadences were so regular and continuous. I watched them go from great passion to gentle caressing, the words turning to laughter.

  When I had seen enough, I turned to go back to the house and found myself so short of breath and weak, I was afraid to take a step. I heard the baby’s cry and their laughter, and I took deep breaths to get control of myself. Finally I was able to walk back to Foxworth Hall.

  I went directly upstairs to my bedroom and lay there for over an hour staring up at the ceiling, recalling vividly the love scene I had just witnessed. How much I had been cheated! How much of what should be every woman’s was not mine and would never be mine! I felt as if fate were pulling me through a knothole, dragging me to a destiny I never wanted to accept.

  Someday, perhaps, my portrait would be painted in dark oils and hung on the walls of Foxworth Hall. With gray eyes and pale lips pressed together so tightly they looked sewn shut, I would regard my descendants. My great-grandc
hildren would look up at me and conclude that I was a very unhappy woman, a woman haunted by the other austere faces of Foxworth Hall, a woman pained by her own existence. And they would know.

  While I was still in my room, I heard Garland and Alicia return from the lake. They were laughing, their voices high and gay. They both sounded so young, I felt as if I were the stepmother and Malcolm was Garland’s father.

  That night after dinner, Garland and Malcolm had a long meeting in the trophy room. Alicia and I were sitting in the salon, tending the three children. Mal was showing Joel and Christopher his toys, explaining each to each as though they could understand. There must have been some strong filial feeling among them, because the infants were quiet, entranced, attentive.

  Alicia and I were crocheting. She was better at it than I anticipated she would be. Apparently, she had learned a great deal from her mother before she married Garland. Alicia smiled at the children and smiled at me.

  “It’s going to be wonderful for them all to grow up together,” she said. “They’ll marry beautiful, brilliant women and raise their families here at Foxworth Hall.”

  “Maybe their wives won’t get along,” I said. I couldn’t stand her childish fantasies. Just because life was all roses for her didn’t mean it would be that way for everyone.

  “Oh, but they will. I’m not saying they won’t have small differences. Everyone does, but they’ll be Foxworths and their children will continue the traditions.”

  “We’re not royalty,” I said. “Neither you nor I are queens.” She looked at me a moment and then smiled as though she had to humor me. I couldn’t believe the audacity that came from such a simple mind. I was about to let her know how I felt about her smiling, when finally Garland and Malcolm emerged from their tête-à-tête and they came down to join us.

  I could see from the expression on Malcolm’s face that their discussions had been intense, and I could also sense that he wanted to tell me something; so I gathered Mal and Joel together, saying that I had to take them up, and left the room. Malcolm followed me to the nursery, something he rarely did. He watched me put the children to sleep.