Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger)

by V. C. Andrews

  “Are you sick?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said, offering no other explanation. She continued to pick at her food and then put her fork down.

  “You certainly look sick. And you’ve left practically everything on your plate.”

  “I’m not sick,” she repeated. She looked at me with tear-filled eyes. I held my breath, expecting her to tell me some great secret, but she simply bit her lip and got up from the table.

  “Alicia,” I called. She did not turn around but returned to her room, where she remained for most of the day.

  She was like that on and off over the next few weeks. Sometimes she would be talkative and full of energy and I would think she was herself again, and then she would become moody and quiet and withdrawn. She either couldn’t or wouldn’t explain why.

  A week later I was again awoken by the sound of her cries. This time they were shrill but short. They stopped before I even decided to go to her door. In the morning she was dreary and tired, moving like one in a daze. Both Malcolm and I had finished our breakfast, so she ate alone. She spent the whole afternoon alone in the Swan Room. Finally, driven more by my curiosity than anything, I went up to her.

  She was lying on her back, fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling. She didn’t even hear me knock or open the door, nor did she hear me approach her.

  “Alicia,” I said. “Are you ill? Is this something that comes and goes?”

  She looked at me as if she were accustomed to people simply appearing beside her in the room. There was no surprise in her face.

  “Ill?”

  “Again, you hardly ate today and you spent no time with Christopher. You’ve been up here for hours, apparently just lying here in your clothing.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m ill.” She turned away, eager for me to leave, but I was determined to know what was going on.

  “What is wrong with you? Are you in pain? Do you wake up with pain every night?”

  “Yes, I’m in pain.”

  “Where is this pain?”

  “In my heart,” she said.

  “Oh.” I shook my head and looked down at her. “I think it will be that way for you until you leave this house,” I said. Her lips began to quiver and she brought her hands to her face. “Crying won’t help; nothing will help but doing what I say. If you want to leave, I will pressure Malcolm into ending this deliberately prolonged settlement of your estate. Frankly, I think it would be better for everyone. You don’t realize how depressing you can be and—”

  “Oh, Olivia,” she said, suddenly turning on me, taking her hands away from her face and looking more distraught than I had ever seen her look. “You are so intelligent, so strong. Don’t you know what is happening? Surely you sense it.”

  I stared down at her, unable to speak for a moment. She bit her lower lip and shook her head as if she were trying to prevent herself from saying any more.

  “What?” I asked. “Tell me.”

  “You knew. You always knew. You expected it. I saw it in your face, but I was afraid to say anything to you.”

  “Malcolm,” I said. I looked about the Swan Room, instinctively understanding that it was this room, this magnificent bed, these sensual surroundings that were partly responsible. Why had she remained in here after Garland’s death? “Tell me exactly what has happened.”

  She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  “He has been coming to me at night and forcing himself on me,” she confessed, speaking barely above a whisper.

  I pressed my fingers into my own palms so hard that the nails cut my skin. Of course. In my heart I had known what she was going to tell me. I came in here and forced her to say it, partly to punish myself and partly, by forcing her to say it, to punish her. What had almost happened at the lake and what Garland had prevented with his death had finally happened. From the day I stood by Malcolm’s side and first set eyes on her getting out of that car with Garland, I knew it was inevitable. I saw it in the way Malcolm had looked at her then and the way he looked at her whenever she moved through this house, her rich chestnut hair tumbling about her neck and shoulders, her eyes bright with life and energy.

  “Why didn’t you lock your door?”

  “I did, but he had a key. He always had a key. He didn’t have to use it until after Garland’s death. I never told you this, but even before Garland died, he came in here one night. He knew I left the door open for Garland. I heard him. Of course I thought it was Garland at first, but when I looked up and saw it was Malcolm, I pretended to be fast asleep.

  “He came to the side of my bed and he stood there staring down at me for the longest time. I thought if I moved, even in the slightest way, he would … he would attack me, so I remained as still as I could. I felt him touch my hair ever so gently and I heard him sigh. Then he turned and slipped out of the room as silently as he had come in.”

  “But you never told Garland?”

  “No. I was afraid of what he would do, and as you see, I was right. It all came to tragedy. Oh, Olivia, Olivia.”

  “So you locked your door now and he came in. Why did you permit it this time? Garland was already dead.”

  “He told me he would hurt Christopher. He would find a way. It would be easy for him, he said. There was no one to stop him from doing anything anymore, he said. And he was violent at times.”

  I sat down beside her, my heart pounding. I recalled the first night he had come to me, how rough he had been. She had every reason to fear he would harm Christopher. Malcolm was capable of great violence in order to get what he wanted.

  “How long has this been … has he been coming to you?”

  “It’s been on and off for over a month.”

  “A month?” I hadn’t realized it had been going on that long. How could she have kept it to herself that long?

  She sat up. “The first time he came, I thought it was a dream, a nightmare. It was late at night. He slipped in so silently, I never heard him until he was actually beside me in the bed. I turned and there he was, naked. He embraced me and pressed his mouth against mine before I could utter a word, a scream, and he held it there so long, I thought I would smother.”

  “What then?” I asked.

  “He frightened me, not because I thought he would hurt me so much, but because of the way he was acting, the things he was saying.”

  “What things?”

  “He didn’t call me Alicia when he stroked my body and kissed my breasts.”

  For a moment I thought I couldn’t breathe. I pressed my palms against my chest and tried to swallow. In my heart I knew what she was going to say now, too, but I was terrified at hearing her say it.

  “He called me Corinne. I thought he was having a dream, walking in his sleep, so I tried to reason with him, to tell him I was not Corinne, that he should wake and go back to his bedroom, but he didn’t hear me. He pressed on, not roughly, but persistently, intently. It was no good trying to fight him off; he was too strong. When I finally tried to resist, he held my arms down, and every time I cried out, he pressed his mouth against mine so hard and roughly, I feared for my very life. I had to subdue my cries and let him have his way. It was awful, awful,” she said, burying her face in her hands.

  “What happened when it was over? Did he still call you Corinne?” She looked up and shook her head.

  “When it was over and he had spent himself, he knew exactly where he was and who I was. That was when he told me never to speak about it or he would harm Christopher. I thought, I hoped and prayed, that would be it; but he came again and again. He was here last night,” she added, and brought her hands to her face again.

  “I came to your door once when I heard your cries. Didn’t you hear me knock and call to you?”

  “Yes, but he had his hand around my throat and he squeezed so hard, I couldn’t breathe. Then he brought his face to mine and forbade me to utter a sound. I knew he would kill me if I did.”

  “Why didn’t you com
e to me before this?”

  “I told you. I was afraid for Christopher. Malcolm seems always to get whatever he wants one way or another. Even if you stopped it from happening, he would take his revenge, don’t you see? I’m sorry, Olivia. I know I should have told you, but I was frightened. Please, forgive me for that.”

  I couldn’t blame her for being afraid. There were times when I feared Malcolm myself.

  For a few moments I sat there in silence, thinking about this room, thinking about what Malcolm had done. It was as if his mother’s spirit still lived here, still tormented him. For him to come back to Alicia, even after the terrible and fatal scene with his father, was unbelievable. I knew Alicia felt safe because she didn’t believe Malcolm could do that after being responsible for Garland’s death.

  “Does he always start off by calling you Corinne?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he always ends by knowing you’re Alicia?”

  “Not always. Sometimes he leaves without calling me Alicia. He just gets up and walks out like he’s asleep. One time, the third time, he made me do something terrible. He’s insane.”

  “What did he make you do?”

  “He took one of those old nightgowns out of the closet and made me put it on before he … before he got into the bed beside me. I had to walk about this room and sit at the dressing table. He put her brush into my hand and sat on the bed while I ran it through my hair. He even made me go into the bathroom and come out as though I were getting ready for bed. I felt just sick doing it, but I couldn’t refuse him. He became even more enraged when I hesitated.”

  How horrible, I thought. How sick and how horrible. I spun around and looked at the wall between the Swan Room and the trophy room. Then I turned back to her angrily.

  “You should have had all those dresses taken up to the attic when you first moved in here,” I said. How could she ever have anticipated what Malcolm would make her do?

  And yet, I couldn’t help but think her responsible, she had been too trusting and innocent. I looked at her. She had been given all the warnings. I had practically pleaded with her to listen to me, but she was foolish and stubborn, insisting on holding on to a dead love.

  Maybe she was lying to me; maybe she really enjoyed what Malcolm had done and was doing and now felt guilty about it. I knew Alicia was that kind of woman—the kind of woman who wore sex about her like a racy undergarment. “Have you done something to tempt him? Did you ever invite him to this room?”

  “No; oh, no. You must never believe that, Olivia. I did nothing, nothing,” she protested. “In fact, he once followed me to the lake when I went for a dip and tried to get me to make love to him. I ran from him and told him that if he didn’t stop his advances, I would tell Garland.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell Garland before …?”

  “I didn’t want what finally happened to happen. Do you think I’m responsible for Garland’s death, that if I had told him about Malcolm earlier, I might have prevented it? Do you, Olivia?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he would have died earlier.” I looked at her suspiciously. “Why did you finally tell me this? If you’re afraid of what Malcolm could do to Christopher?”

  “Because I had to now.”

  “Why? What makes it any different now?”

  “Oh, Olivia,” she hesitated. “I’m in such trouble.” She started to cry again.

  “I can’t help you if I don’t know everything,” I said. “All right, then. Why are you in so much trouble?”

  “I am in trouble because …”

  I felt all the shadows of Foxworth Hall gathering around me, to drown me in their darkness.

  “… because I’m pregnant with Malcolm’s child.”

  I stood up and went to the window. I saw Olsen below trimming hedges and I thought, here I have all this—all this land, this beautiful house, two good-looking boys, wealth beyond imagination, and I was one of the most unhappy women in the world. It was unfair; it was a cruel joke. I wished that I would awaken and find that all of this—my marriage to Malcolm, the death of my father and of Garland, the rape of Alicia—was just a long terrible dream. I thought I might even welcome being back in my father’s house with the prospects of being a spinster for the rest of my life.

  “Please, don’t hate me, Olivia,” she begged. I did hate her; I couldn’t help but hate her. I would always hate her and women like her.

  I closed my eyes, straightened my back, and took hold of myself again. I vowed that nothing Malcolm Neal Foxworth did or would do would ever reduce me to the sniveling weakling Alicia now was. I turned to her slowly. She saw the resolve in my face and sat up in the bed.

  “Does Malcolm know this?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I told him this morning.”

  “This morning? When this morning? He was with me this morning at breakfast and left before you came down.”

  “I didn’t sleep all night. I wanted to tell him last night before he left my room, but he was like a man walking in his sleep again and he wouldn’t respond.” She looked down. “So I went to his room before he rose.”

  “You went to his room?” After all that had happened, that should not have seemed so important to me, but throughout all the years Malcolm and I had been married, I had never gone to his bedroom while he was there. “While he was still asleep?”

  “Yes. I stood by his bed and waited for him to realize I was standing there. When he opened his eyes, he looked at me as though I were a ghost. It took him a few moments to realize it was me. At first he was angry I had come to his room, but I had to tell him what he had done, don’t you see?” she said. “I blurted it out before he could say anything else.”

  “What did he say?” I asked, remembering how calm, how ordinary Malcolm’s behavior had been at breakfast. But then again, I realized that it was his “poker face,” his cool and controlled manner that enabled him to outsmart so many in the business world.

  “First he smiled,” Alicia said, “but so coldly, it gave me the chills. Then he said many terrible things, making it seem as if it were all my fault. I wanted to shout, to scream, to cry, but I was afraid to wake the house,” she said. “He gave me an ultimatum. I don’t know what to do,” she added quickly. “I’m sure he would do what he said he would if I don’t agree. I’m afraid, afraid for myself and for Christopher.”

  Now I understood that she had worked herself up to appeal to me for help. She had been lying here all day, trying to figure out a way to come to me. I had made it easier for her by coming to her.

  “What was the ultimatum?”

  “He wants me to remain here and have the child in secret. Then Christopher and I are to leave. We will get all the money Garland left to us. He explained that it has been invested in the stock market, but he will liquidate what we need to start somewhere new and then I will have full control of our funds.”

  “But why have the baby in secret? What difference does it make if you leave now and have the baby someplace else where no one knows you?”

  She looked down. There was something more, something more terrible for her to add.

  “He wants the baby,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The child is to be his, yours.” She spoke quickly. “He said if I didn’t agree, he would accuse me of being a fortune hunter. He said that because I’ve become pregnant after Garland’s death, he will be able to have his lawyers drag me through the courts and prove I am a woman of little virtue who married an elderly man to gain wealth, and after he died, I gave myself to Malcolm in order to blackmail him for even more wealth. He said he didn’t care what kind of publicity it brought to the Foxworths. Publicity couldn’t hurt him; it could hurt only me.

  “He said he would drive me out of here penniless, and put me through a scandalous court trial. I would have a reputation and no one would want to be seen with me. The headlines and publicity would kill my mother, who, as you know, is already deathly ill.

  “I
wouldn’t even know how to fight him. I have no lawyers, no contact with that sort of person. Garland took care of all that, and after he died, Malcolm has been handling my legal affairs. Here I would be, a widow with a three-year-old child, at the mercy of the cold world.”

  “He wants the child?” I repeated.

  “Yes. He says he knows it will be a girl. I am to live in the north wing, secluded until after the birth. Then I will be free to leave with Christopher and my money intact.” She wrung her hands and looked at me with plaintive eyes. “Oh, Olivia, what shall I do? You must help me decide! You must!”

  I stared at her, and for a long moment, I felt helpless. Malcolm Neal Foxworth always got what he wanted, one way or another. He wanted a daughter. Now he had gotten one. In my mind I had no doubt Alicia’s child would be a girl.

  All this had been going on right before my eyes. I had sensed and suspected, but I had refused to permit myself to believe it, and now I had to swallow the bitter pill of truth. I couldn’t close my door or look the other way. I was as much a part of it as she was because I had not prevented it. I was like a mother who had to take responsibility for the actions of her child who knew no better. Malcolm had used and abused her in the worst way a man could abuse a woman, and she had been helpless to protect herself.

  Perhaps worst of all, she was now pregnant with the child that should have been mine. If a daughter was indeed to be born to the Foxworths, it should be my daughter, not hers.

  I envied her, but I didn’t respect her. In that moment I felt all sympathy for her slip away.

  “Olivia,” she repeated, “what should I do?”

  “Do?” I said. “I think you’ve done enough.” I looked at her and her eyes skipped guiltily away. She knew she shouldn’t have let it get this far; she knew that now, but she was hoping I would come up with some sort of solution that would save her.

  I looked at my own reflection in the mirror above the dressing table and saw that I had already taken on the hardness that was to characterize me for the rest of my life. I was looking at myself with flint-hard gray eyes. My lips, pressed tightly together, formed a thin, crooked knife slash, and my breasts looked like twin hills of concrete.