Seeds of Yesterday

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Seeds of Yesterday Page 26

by V. C. Andrews

himself. "Hey--look, here they come!"

  I watched the string of headlights in the

  distance, heading up the hill. "Get ready, everybody,"

  called Bart, giving Trevor an excited gesture to be

  ready to swing wide the doors.

  Chris strolled beside Jory's chair, which he

  guided expertly, as I caught hold of Bart's arm and

  went to form a receiving line. Trevor hurried up to

  give us all a bright smile.

  "I just love parties, I always have, I always will.

  Makes the heart beat faster. Makes old bones feel

  young again. I can tell it's going to be a jolly smashing

  one tonight."

  Two or three times Trevor said that--with less

  conviction each time, as still not one pair of those

  headlights climbed high enough to reach our drive. No

  one rang our bell, banged our door knocker.

  The musicians were in position under the

  rotunda, on a dais that had been constructed especially

  for them, centered directly between the curving dual

  stairways. They tuned their instruments over and over

  again as my feet in their high-heeled fancy slippers

  began to ache. I sat again on an elegant chair and

  wiggled my shoes off under the folds of my gown,

  which was growing heavier and more uncomfortable

  by the minute. Eventually Chris sat beside me, and

  Bart took the righthand chair, all of us very silent,

  almost holding our breaths. Jory had his own special

  chair that could buzz him around tirelessly. From

  window to window he drove, looking out and

  reporting.

  I knew that Cindy was upstairs, all dressed and

  ready, waiting to be "fashionably" late and impress

  everyone when finally she drifted down the stairs. She

  had to be growing very impatient.

  "They must be coming soon--" Jory said when

  the hour reached ten-thirty. "There's lots of banked

  snow on the side roads to confuse them . . ." Bart's lips were tight and grim, his eyes stony

  cold.

  No one said anything. I was afraid to even

  speculate on why no one had arrived. Trevor looked

  very anxious when he thought we weren't noticing. To give myself something pleasant to think

  about, I fixed my eyes on the buffet tables, which

  reminded me so much of that first ball I'd seen in the

  original Foxworth Hall

  Very much like what I was staring at. Red linen tablecloths, silver dishes and bowls.

  A fountain spraying champagne. Huge, gleaming,

  chafing dishes emitting delicious odors. Heaps and

  heaps of food on fancy tiered plates of crystal,

  porcelain, gold and silver. At last I could resist no

  longer and got up to taste of this and that while Bart

  frowned and complained I was ruining the beautiful

  designs. I wrinkled my nose his way and handed Chris

  a plate full of everything I knew he'd like best. Soon

  Jory was helping himself.

  Red beeswax bayberry candles burned lower

  and lower. Towering gelatin masterpieces began to

  sag. Melted cheeses began to toughen, and the heating

  sauces thickened. Crepe batter waited to be poured on

  turned over thin pans, while chefs eyed each other curiously. I had to look away from all that was going

  bad.

  Fires cheered all our main rooms, making them

  cozy, exceptionally lovely. Extra servants grew

  restless and anxious-looking as they fidgeted and

  began to mill about, whispering amongst themselves,

  not knowing what to do.

  Down the stairs drifted Cindy in a crimson

  hooped- skirted gown, so elaborate it put my

  delicately beaded gown to shame. Hers had a tight

  bodice, with a flounce of fluted ruffles to cover a little

  of her upper arms, displaying her shoulders to

  advantage and creating a magnificent frame for her

  creamy, swelling breasts. The red gown was cut very

  low. The skirt was a masterpiece of ruffles, caught

  with white silk flowers rain-dropped with iridescent

  crystals. A few of these white silk blossoms were

  tucked in her upswept hair, duplicating something

  Scarlett O'Hara might have liked.

  "Where's everybody?" she asked, looking

  around, her radiant expression fading. "I waited and

  waited to hear the music playing, then sort of dozed

  off, thinking when I woke that I was missing out on

  all the fun."

  She paused and glanced around before a look of dismay flooded her expression. "Don't tell me nobody's going to come! I just can't stand another disappointment!" Dramatically she threw her hands

  about.

  "No one has as yet arrived, Miss," said Trevor

  tactfully. "They must have lost their way, and I must

  say you look a dream of loveliness, as does your

  mother . "

  "Thank you," she said, floating his way and

  brushing his cheek with a daughterly kiss. "You look

  very distinguished yourself." She dashed past Bart's

  look of astonishment and ran to the piano. "Please,

  may I?" she asked a young, good-looking musician

  who seemed delighted to have something happening,

  at last.

  Cindy sat down beside him, put her hands on

  the keys, threw back her head and began to sing: "Oh,

  holy night, Oh, night when stars are shining." I stared, as did all of us, at the girl we thought

  we knew so well. It wasn't an easy song to sing, but

  she did it so well, with so much emotion even Bart

  stopped pacing the floor to turn and stare at her in

  amazement.

  Tears were in my eyes. Oh, Cindy, how could

  you keep that voice a secret for so long? Her piano playing was only adequate, but that voice, the feeling she put into her phrasing. All the musicians then joined in to drown out her piano playing, if not her

  voice.

  I sat, stunned, hardly believing that my Cindy

  could sing so beautifully. When she'd finished, we all

  applauded enthusiastically. As Jory called out,

  "Sensational! Fantastic! Absolutely wonderful, Cindy!

  You sneak--you never told us you continued with

  your voice lessons."

  "I haven't. It's just me expressing the way I

  feel." She cast her eyes down, then took a sly, hooded

  look at Bart's astonished expression, which showed

  not only his surprise but some pleasure as well. For

  the first time he had found something to admire about

  Cindy. Her small smile of satisfaction fleeted quickly

  by, kind of a sad smile, as if she wished Bart could

  like her for other reasons as well.

  "I love Christmas carols and religious songs,

  they do something for me. Once in school I sang

  'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,' and the teacher said I

  had the kind of emotional feeling to make a great

  singer. But I still want most to be an actress." Laughing and happy again, she asked us to join

  in and we'd make this a real party, even if no one showed up. She began to bang out a tune resembling

  "Joy to the World." Then "Jingle Bells."

  This time Bart was not moved.

  He strode again to the windows to stare out, his

  back straight. "They can't ignore my invitations, not

 
; when they responded," he mumbled to himself. I couldn't understand how his business friends

  could dare to offend him when he had to be their most

  important client, and everyone loved a party, especially the kind of party they had to know would be

  sensational.

  Somehow or other, Bart was accomplishing

  miracles with that five hundred thousand a year,

  making it grow in ways that Chris would have found

  too risky. Bart risked everything . . . calculated

  gambles that paid off handsomely. Only then did I

  realize that perhaps my mother had meant it to be this

  way. If she had given Bart all the fortune in one grand

  huge sum, he wouldn't have worked as hard to build

  his own fortune, which would, if he kept it up, far

  exceed what Malcolm had left him And in this way

  Bart would find his own worth.

  Yet what did money matter when he was so

  disappointed he couldn't eat a thing that was lavishly

  displayed? However, disillusionment drove him to the liquor, and in a short while he'd managed to swallow half a dozen strong drinks as he paced the floors,

  growing angrier by the second.

  I could hardly bear to watch his

  disappointment, and soon, despite myself, tears were

  silently wetting my face.

  Chris whispered, "We can't go to bed and leave

  him here alone. Cathy, he's suffering. Look at him

  pacing back and forth. With every step he takes his

  anger grows. Somebody is going to pay for this

  slight."

  Eleven-thirty came and went.

  By this time Cindy was the only one having a

  good time. The musicians and servants seemed to

  adore her. Eagerly they played and she sang. When

  she wasn't singing, she was dancing with every man

  there, even Trevor and other male servants. She

  gestured to the maids, inviting them to dance, and

  happily they joined in the festivity she created around

  her as they took turns to see that she, at least, was

  entertained.

  "Let's all eat, drink and be merry!" Cindy cried,

  smiling at Bart. "It's not the end of the world, brother

  Bart. What do you care? We're too rich to be well

  liked. We're also too rich to feel sorry for ourselves. And look, we have at least twenty guests . . . let's

  dance, drink, eat, have a ball!"

  Bart stopped pacing to stare at her. Cindy held

  high her glass of champagne. "My toast to you,

  brother Bart. For every ugly thing you've said to me, I

  give you back blessings of good will, good health,

  long life and much love." She touched his highball

  glass with her champagne glass and then sipped,

  smiling into his eyes charmingly before she offered

  another toast. "I think you look absolutely terrif, and

  the girls who don't show up tonight are missing the

  chance of their lifetimes. So here it is, another toast to

  the most eligible bachelor in the world. I wish you

  joy, I wish you happiness, I wish you love. I would

  wish you success, but you don't need that." , He couldn't move his eyes away: "Why don't I

  need success?" he asked in a low tone.

  "Because what more could you want? You have

  success when you have millions, and soon enough

  you'll have more money than you know what to do

  with."

  Bart's dark head bowed. "I don't feel successful.

  Not when no one will even come to my party." His

  voice cracked as he turned his back.

  I got up to go to him. "Will you dance with me,

  Bart?" "No!" he snapped, hurrying to a distant window

  where he could stand and stare again.

  Cindy had a wonderful time with the musicians

  and the men and women who'd come to serve Bart's

  guests. However, I was deeply downcast, feeling sorry

  for Bart, who had counted so much on this. Out of

  sympathy for him, all of us but Cindy and the hired

  help moved into the front parlor, and there we sat in

  our fabulous expensive clothes and waited for guests

  who obviously had accepted, only to trick Bart later

  on--and in this way tell us what they thought of the

  Foxworths on the hill.

  The grandfather clock began to toll the hour of

  twelve. Bart left the windows and fell upon the sofa

  before the guttering log fire. "I should have known it

  would turn out this way." He glanced bitterly at Jory.

  "Perhaps they came to my birthday party only to see

  you dance, and now, when you can't--to hell with

  me! They've snubbed me--and they're going to pay

  for it," he said in a hard, cold voice, louder and

  stronger than Joel's but with the same kind of zealot's

  fury. "Before I'm through, there won't be a house in a

  twenty-mile radius that doesn't belong to me. I'll ruin

  them. All of them. With the power of the Foxworth trust behind me I can borrow millions, and then I'll buy out the banks and demand they pay off their mortgages. I'll buy out the village stores, close them down. I'll hire other attorneys, fire the ones I have now and see that they're disbarred. I'll find new stockbrokers, hire new real estate agents, see that real estate property values are undermined, and when they sell cheap, I'll buy. By the time I'm through, there won't be one old aristocratic Virginia family left this side of Charlottesville! And not one of my business colleagues will be left with anything but debts to pay

  off!"

  "Then will you be satisfied?" asked Chris. "NO!" flared Bart, his eyes hard, glaring. "I

  won't be satisfied until justice has ruled! I have done

  nothing to deserve this night! Nothing but try to give

  them what our ancestors did--and they have rejected

  me! They'll pay, and pay, and then pay some more." He sounded like me! To hear my very own

  words coming from the mouth of the child I'd carried

  when I'd said them made all my blood drain into my

  feet. Shivering, I tried to appear normal. "I'm sorry,

  Bart. But it wasn't a total loss, was it? We're all

  together under one roof, a united family for once. And

  Cindy's music and singing made this a festive

  occasion after all."

  He wasn't listening.

  He was staring at all the food that had yet to be

  eaten. All the champagne with the bubbles gone flat.

  All the wine and liquor that could have loosened

  many a tongue and given him information he wanted

  to use. He glared at the maids in their pretty black and

  white uniforms, drunken and staggering around, some

  still dancing as the music played on and on. He

  glowered at the few waiters who still held trays of

  drinks gone warm. Some stood and looked at him and

  waited for his signal to say the night was over. The

  impressive centerpiece of an ice crystal manger, with

  the three shepherds, the wise men and all the animals,

  had melted into a puddle and spilled over to darken

  the red cloth.

  "How lucky you were when you danced in The

  Nutcracker, Jory," said Bart as he headed fast for the

  stairs. "You were the ugly nutcracker that turned into

  the handsome prince. You dominated every male role

  --and won the prettiest ballerina every time. In

  Cinderella, in Romeo and Juliet
. In The Sleeping

  Beauty, Giselle, Swan Lake--every time but the last

  time. And it's the last time that counts, isn't it?" How cruel! How very cruel! I watched Jory wince, and for once he allowed his pain to show,

  making my heart ache for him.

  "Merry Christmas," Bart called as he

  disappeared up the stairs. "We'll never again celebrate

  this holiday, or any other in this house as long as I run

  it. Joel was right. He warned me not to try and

  conform and be like others. He said I shouldn't try to

  make people like or respect me. From now on, I'll be

  like Malcolm. I'll gain respect by inflicting my will on

  others, with fists of iron, and with ruthless

  determination. All who have alienated me tonight will

  feel my might."

  I turned to Chris when he was out of sight. "He

  sounds crazy!"

  "No, darling, he's not crazy--he's just Bart,

  young and vulnerable again and very, very hurt. He

  used to break his bones when he was a child to punish

  himself because he failed socially and in school. Now

  he's going to break the lives of others. Isn't it a pity,

  Cathy, that nothing works out for him?"

  I stood at the newel post looking upward to

  where an old man hid in the shadows, seeming to

  shake from his silent laughter.

  "Chris, you go on up, and I'll follow in a few

  seconds." Chris wanted to know what I was planning, so I lied and said I was going to have a few words with our housekeeper about cleaning up the mess. But

  I had something far different in mind.

  As soon as everyone was out of sight, I ducked

  into Bart's huge office, closed the door and was soon

  rifling through his desk to find the R.S.V.P. cards that

  had dutifully arrived weeks ago.

  They must have been fingered many a time

  from the ink smudges on the envelopes. Two hundred

  and fifty cards had accepted. My teeth bit down on my

  lower lip.

  Not one rejection, not even one. People didn't

  do things like this, even to someone they disliked. If

  they hadn't wanted to come, they would have tossed

  the invitations into the trash along with the return

  card, or sent back the card declining.

  Carefully I replaced the cards and then headed

  up the back stairs to Joel's room.

  Without even a preliminary knock I opened his

  door to find him sitting on the edge of his narrow bed,

  doubled over in what appeared to be a terrible

  stomach cramp, or that hateful silent laughter. He was

 

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