Dollenganger 05 Garden of Shadows

by V. C. Andrews

  I looked about the large dining room. Although it was well lit, there was still something gloomy about it. Perhaps the wallpaper needed to be changed. Those curtains looked drab, even dusty. I knew that with my spit and polish, and my inner strength and determination, I could turn this barren house into a home.

  Before I- left the table, Mrs. Wilson came out of the kitchen to ask me if I had any special orders for dinner. For a moment I was speechless. I really didn't know what Malcolm liked and didn't like.

  "What do you usually serve on Wednesdays?" I asked.

  "We have lamb on Wednesdays, but Mr. Foxworth said I should plan the menu with you from now on."

  "Yes, but for the time being, please stay with the menu as it is. We'll make the appropriate changes as we go along," I said.

  She nodded, that half smile around her eyes again. Could it be that she anticipated everything I would say? I wondered. I let myself relax. "Mrs. Wilson, I will come in later and you can tell me what you've been serving, what are Mr. Foxworth's favorite meals, what he likes when," I added. Whom was I fooling? She knew more about my husband than I did.

  "Whatever you wish, Mrs. Foxworth," she said. Mrs. Steiner went back into the kitchen and I began my exploration of Foxworth Hall, truly feeling like someone about to visit a museum, the only difference being that everything about this house would tell me something more about the man I had just married. It would have been so much nicer to have Malcolm at my side, I thought, showing me the things he cherished, describing the history behind certain pieces of furniture or paintings.

  I decided to begin with the library. It was an immense room, long, dark, and musty. Perhaps because three of the four walls were lined with books, it was as quiet as a graveyard within.

  The ceiling was at least twenty feet high and the shelves of books almost met it. A slim portable stairway of wrought iron slid around a track curved to the second level of shelves, and there was a balcony above from which one could reach the books on the top level. Never had I seen so many books. Being an avid reader, it pleased me immensely. Of course, I had to consider that my responsibilities were now such that I would have less time for leisurely reading. A quick perusal of the shelves showed me volumes of history, biography, and classics. It was clear that Malcolm didn't stay conversant with the currently popular authors.

  To the right of the entrance door was an enormous desk. I had never seen one that large. A tall leather swivel chair stood behind it. What surprised me most were the number of phones on the desk--six. Why would anyone need so many? How many conversations could he carry on at once? I imagined that he had to keep in contact with his various enterprises, like his cloth factories and such, and talk to lawyers and brokers, but six phones!

  To the left of the desk was a row of tall narrow windows that looked out on a private garden--a beautiful, colorful, peaceful view. I saw Olsen weeding. He must have sensed me in the window looking out at him, for he turned my way, nodded, and went back on working, only faster.

  When I turned back to the library, I noted a dark mahogany filing system made to look like fine furniture. Two long tan leather sofas were set out from the walls about three feet, providing plenty of room to move behind them. Chairs stood near the fireplace, and objets d'art were scattered on shelves.

  Despite the size of the windows, there was little sunlight. Perhaps, however, some flowerpots could be placed near the windows, I mused. Surely they would warm up the room.

  Then I saw the doorway at the end of the long library. Was this where Malcolm wanted me to work, or did he intend for me to work in whatever room that door opened to? Naturally curious, I went to the door and opened it to confront a small room with a much smaller desk and chair in the center. There were files piled on one corner of the desk, pens and inkwells and tablets in the center. The walls were bare and the once oyster wallpaper had faded into a dull gray.

  Had he set up this cold, distant place for me to work in? I wondered. I shivered and embraced myself. The room was like an afterthought, for some sort of storage, perhaps. It was a room in which to place a clerk or some secretarial servant, but a wife working on family affairs?

  Of course I had to consider that Malcolm made his decision to marry rather rapidly. It had all happened so quickly, he probably didn't have time to warm up the room. That would be left to me. I would change the drab, dusty-looking drapes, fill the place with as many plants and flowers as I could, get some colorful paintings to put on the walls, have some shelving put up, and get a bright rug. There was so much to do. I was actually excited by the prospect.

  And then, of course, I could envision myself working in here while Malcolm worked on his big deals in the library. We wouldn't be far away from each other. Perhaps that was why he wanted me in this back room. The thought cheered me.

  I closed the door and retreated through the library to consider the next part of the house I should visit. My curiosity had been aroused the night before, when I had paused by the large white doors and Malcolm had said the room had once belonged to his mother. Eager to learn all that I could about him and his past as quickly as possible, I headed back upstairs to the south wing and the "secret room." When Malcolm said it was off limits to everyone, he surely couldn't have meant me.

  I paused before the double doors set above two steps. Just as I started forward, I heard Mrs. Steiner close a door down the hall. She looked at me, and although we were some distance apart, I noticed a worried frown distort her brow.

  I didn't like the way she made me feel, standing there and staring. It was as if I had been caught about to put my hand in the cookie jar. How dare a servant make me feel this way.

  "Are you finished with your work?" I asked sharply. "Not quite, Mrs. Foxworth."

  "Then go on with it, by all means," I commanded. I stood staring at her until she turned and continued on to Malcolm's room. She did pause to look back at me, but when she saw I was still watching her, she hurried into the room.

  I reached up and turned the knob on the door and stepped into what had been Malcolm's mother's room. The moment I did so, I gasped in awe. It wasn't like anything I would expect a room belonging to Malcolm's mother would be. Malcolm's mother slept here?

  At the center of the room on a dais was . . . the best way to describe it is a swan bed. It had a sleek ivory head, turned in profile, and appeared ready to plunge its head under the ruffled underside of a lifted wing. The swan had one sleepy red ruby eye. Its wings curved gently to cup the head on an almost oval bed that obviously required custom-made sheets. The bed's architect had designed the wingtip feathers to act as fingers to hold back the delicate transparent draperies that were in all shades of pink and rose and violet and purple. At the foot of the big swan bed was an infant swan bed placed crossways.

  There was a thick mauve carpet and a large rug of white fur near the bed. There were four-feet-high lamps of cut-crystal decorated with gold and silver. Two of them had black shades. In between the other two stretched a chaise longue upholstered in rosecolored velvet.

  I have to admit here and now I was shocked. The walls were covered with opulent silk damask, colored a loud strawberry-pink, richer than the pale mauve of what had to be at least a four-inch carpet. I stepped up to the bed and fingered the soft furry coverlet.

  What kind of a woman had Malcolm's mother been? Had she been a movie star? What would I feel like sleeping in such a bed? I wondered. I couldn't stop myself from lying on it, from feeling the soft, enticing sensuality of that bed. Was this what Malcolm wanted? Was this the bed he was conceived in? Perhaps I had misunderstood my handsome husband; perhaps what lurked in the shadows I was searching in him was a satin sheen, a sensuality I could never have dreamt or imagined

  "Who gave you permission to come in here!"

  I sat up with a start. Malcolm was looming in the doorway. For a moment I thought that he was going to come toward me lovingly, but then I noticed a strange look burning in his eyes, distorting his handsome features. An icy cold chi
ll ran down my spine. I held my breath and sat up quickly. I gasped as I brought my hand to my throat.

  "Malcolm. I didn't hear you come in."

  "What are you doing in here?"

  "I'm . . . I'm doing what you told me to do. I'm learning about our house."

  "This is not our house. This has nothing to do with our house." His voice was so cold, it seemed to be coming from the North Pole.

  "I was only trying to please you, Malcolm. I only wanted to learn about you and I thought if I could know your mother, I could know you." It was all so confusing, so unreal; it made me dizzy and anxious. I felt as though I had walked into someone's dream of the past rather than the past as it was.

  "My mother? If you think knowing my mother has anything to do with me, you are sadly deluded, Olivia. You want me to tell you about my mother. I'll tell you about my mother!"

  I sank back onto the silk sheets. I felt so weak and confused as he loomed above me.

  "My mother," he said bitterly, "she was so beautiful. So pretty and lively and loving. She was the world to me. I was so innocent then, so trusting, so unknowing. For then I did not know that ever since Eve, women have betrayed men. Especially women with beautiful faces and seductive bodies. Oh, she was deceptive, Olivia. For beneath her charming smiles and her cheerful love beat the heart of a harlot." He strode over to the closet and roughly pulled open the door. "Look at these dresses," he said as he pulled out a pale filmy frock and threw it on the floor. "Yes, my mother was a fashionable woman of the Gay Nineties." He pulled out brightly colored lace evening gowns and fine petticoats, a large fan of curved ostrich feathers, and hurled them all on the floor. "Yes, Olivia, she was the belle of every ball. This is where she refined her charms." He walked over to the golden dressing room in a recessed alcove. There were mirrors all around the vanity. As if in a trance, he picked up the silver-plated hairbrush and comb on the dressing table. "This room cost a fortune. My father gave in to her every whim. She was an undisciplined free spirit." He paused and then said, "Corinne," as if the mere pronouncing of her name would free her ghost from the sleeping walls. From the look in his eyes, I thought he saw her again, moving softly over the thick mauve carpet, the train of her dressing gown trailing behind her. I imagined that she must have been very beautiful.

  "What did she die of?" I asked. He had never gone into detail about her during any of our

  conversations, even though I had told him about my mother's death. I just assumed that her death was so tragic and so sad for him that he could not talk about it.

  "She didn't die of anything here," he said angrily. "Except maybe boredom. The boredom that comes with getting everything you want, the boredom that comes with pleasing your senses until you are stupefied."

  "What do you mean, she didn't die here?" I asked. He turned from the mirrors and began toward the door as if to leave the room.Malcolm, I can't be your wife and not know about your past, not know the things other people, strangers, will know."

  "She ran off," he said, stopping with his back to me. Then he turned around. "She ran off with another man when I was barely five years old," he added, practically spitting out the words.

  "Ran off?" The revelation left me trembling. He walked over and sat on the bed beside me.

  "She did what she wanted, when she wanted, as she wanted. Nothing mattered when it came to her own pleasure. My God, Olivia, you know the type," he said as his hands rested on my shoulders. "They are exactly what you are not--flimsy, narcissistic, flighty women. They flirt, they have no loyalty to any man, and they can't be trusted with anything," he added, and I reddened immediately.

  Suddenly a new look came into his eyes. He blinked as if he had just convinced himself of something. When he looked at me again, there was a new expression on his face. He still had his hands on my shoulders, only his grip tightened and became close to painful. I started to pull back, but he held me even more firmly.

  I couldn't turn away from him. The look in his eyes had become mesmerizing. After a moment he smiled, but smiled insanely, I thought. His fingers relaxed, but instead of lifting his hands from me, his fingers slipped down over my breasts. He pressed them against my bosom roughly.

  "Yes, she left me," he whispered. "Left me only with the memory of her touch, of her kiss, of the sweet scent of her body," he added and inhaled, closing his eyes.

  His fingers worked furiously, as if they had a mind of their own, and pulled the buttons of my blouse open. He brought his lips to my neck and whispered, "Left me forever in this room to see her, to feel her . . ."

  He pulled my blouse back roughly. I was too terrified to speak. I even held my breath.

  "Her name echoes throughout this mansion," he said. "Corinne," he said. "Corinne."

  His hands were moving down my body, pulling at my skirt. I felt the garment tear loose and slip down. His hands felt like mad little creatures at my body, in and over the undergarments, pulling, tugging, stripping me roughly.

  "Corinne," he said. "I hated her; I loved her. But you wanted to know about my mother. You wanted to know. My mother," he added disdainfully.

  He sat back and unfastened his pants. I watched in amazement as he came at me, not as a loving husband, but as a madman, someone lost in his own twisted emotions, driven not by affection and desire, but by hate and passion.

  I raised my hands and he pulled my arms apart, pressing them to the bed.

  "My mother. You're not like my mother. You would never be like my mother. You would never leave the children we will make together, will you, Olivia? Will you?"

  I shook my head and then I felt him press himself in between my legs, seizing me roughly. I wanted to love him, to make him happy, to caress him softly, but in this state, his face twisted, his eyes burning with rage, I could only close my own and fall back.

  "Please, Malcolm," I whispered, "not like this. Please. I won't be like her; I'm not like her. I'll love you and I'll love our children."

  He didn't hear me. When I opened my eyes, I saw he was lost in his anger and his lust. He came at me over and over again, thrusting into me viciously. I wanted to scream, but I was afraid of what it would do to him and I was embarrassed that my scream might be heard by one of the servants. I stifled my cries, biting down on my lip.

  Finally, his anger poured into me. It felt so hot I thought it would scald me. He stopped his thrusts; he was satiated. He groaned and then buried his face in my bosom. I felt his body shudder and go limp

  There was one final "Corinne," and then he lifted himself from me, dressed quickly, and left the room.

  So now I knew what lived in the shadows of Malcolm Neal Foxworth, haunting him Now I know why he had chosen a woman like me. I was the opposite of his mother. She was the swan; I was the ugly duckling and he wanted it that way. The love I had longed for would never be mine

  Malcolm's love had already been taken and destroyed by the woman who haunted this room. There was none left for me.

  4 The Ghosts of the Past

  . I WEPT ALONE IN BED THAT NIGHT. FOR EVEN THOUGH I thought I knew what Malcolm wanted, everything grew confused in my mind. His mother had left him when he was five years old. She had not died and she was more alive than ever in his mind. The shadows of the night ridiculed me. So you wanted to know, they whispered, now you know. My true education about my husband had begun. It was not my softness that Malcolm had wanted me for; it was my hardness. It was not that mysterious, graceful, womanly magic he had longed for, but a solid, trustworthy woman like myself. I would never be one of those thrilling spring flowers for Malcolm. No, I would be like a hardy lily that survived the frost, the tallest flower in the garden, sturdy, proud, and defiant of even the coldest winter wind. That is what Malcolm had seen in me. That is what I would be. With this determination I consoled myself and drifted off to a troubled sleep.

  The next morning I awoke early and descended the staircase slowly. The beating of my heart made me so dizzy I had to take hold of the balustrade and pause. I closed my
eyes, took a deep breath, and continued into the dining room. Malcolm was at the end of the table, eating his breakfast, as if nothing had happened between us.

  "Good morning, Olivia," he said coldly. "A place for you has already been set."

  All my fears had materialized. My place was at the opposite end of the long table. I tried to catch his eye as I sat down; I tried to read what he was feeling. But I couldn't penetrate his facade. All I could hope for was that Malcolm had lost himself in his mother's room yesterday, and that he, like I, was hoping it was something we could quickly consign to the past and go about building our future together--a future I knew would be practical and filled with material wealth, a future that would contain none of the frivolousness that had soperplexed me and had so hurt Malcolm.

  I pressed my lips together and sat down.

  "Olivia," Malcolm said, and I heard kindness in his voice. "It's time to celebrate our wedding. Tomorrow night will be our wedding party. Mrs. Steiner has made all the preparations and I have invited anyone who is anyone in the vicinity. I shall do you proud, my wife, as I expect you to flatter my own appearance."

  I was thrilled. Obviously he, too, had decided to put yesterday's events behind us and start our wedding afresh with, a celebration. "Oh, Malcolm, can I help?"

  "That won't be necessary, Olivia. It's already all set for tomorrow night, and as I said, Mrs. Steiner has taken care of everything. My family has always been known for hosting the finest, most extravagant parties, and this time I intend to outdo myself. For as you know, Olivia, I have big plans, and of course you are part of them. Soon I will be the richest man in the county, then the richest man in the state, then, perhaps, the richest man in the entire United States. My parties always reflect my status in society."

  I could barely eat. I wanted to make the best possible impression on Malcolm's friends and colleagues, but all I could think about was that I had nothing beautiful enough to wear. As Mrs. Steiner poured my coffee, I kept seeing my wardrobe floating before my eyes--the hanging gray dresses, the high button collars, the practical blouses. The moment my plate was whisked away, I ran to my room and hurriedly rummaged through my closet, so neatly hung by the servants the day before. I came upon the blue dress I had worn that night I had first met Malcolm. If it had impressed him then, surely it would impress everyone else now. I felt satisfied that the dress would reflect everything Malcolm wanted in a wife, a woman who was proud, conservative, wellbred, and, most of all, the match of Malcolm Foxworth.