Gates of Paradise (Casteel Series #4)

by V. C. Andrews

  What things, I longed to ask him, but I held my tongue, biding my time. Rye slapped his hands to his thighs and sighed.

  "So, is there anythin' special I can make you?"

  he asked to quickly change the subject.

  "I like fried chicken. My cook in Winnerrow makes a batter—"

  "Oh, he does . . . well, you ain't tasted mine yet, chile, make you that this week. Unless your nurse says otherwise." He looked back to be sure Mrs. Broadfield wasn't there. "She come inta the kitchen with a list of do's and don'ts. Made my assistant, Roger, as nervous as the Devil on Sunday."

  "I don't see how Southern fried chicken could hurt. Rye," I said, swinging my eyes toward the window, "Farthy was a much prettier place when my mother lived here, wasn't it?"

  "Oh, and how! Why, when the flowers would bloom, it looked like Heaven's Gate."

  "Why did Mr. Tatterton let it fall apart?"

  He shifted his eyes away quickly. I saw that my question made him nervous, but that only made me more curious about his answer.

  "Mr. Tatterton's had a hard time, Miss Annie, but he sho' has changed a whole lot since yourself arrived. Almost back to the way he was—talking 'bout fixie this and buildin' that. Things are comin' back to life 'round here, which is good for us aid bad for the ghosts," he whispered.

  "Ghosts?"

  "Well, like any big house that had so many people movin' through it, spirits linger, Miss Annie."

  He nodded for emphasis. "But I ain't one to challenge that, and neither is Mr. Tatterton. We live side by side with 'em and they don' bother us none and we don'

  bother them."

  I saw he was serious.

  "Are there many servants here now who were here when my mother lived here, Rye?"

  "Oh no, Miss Annie. There's jes' myself, Curtis, and Miles. All the maids and grounds helpers are gone, mostly dead and gone."

  "Is there a tall, thin man working here, too, a man much younger than Curtis?"

  He thought a moment and shook his head.

  "There's groundsmen, but they're all short and stocky."

  Who was that man at my parents' tomb? I wondered. Rye continued to gaze at me, a fond smile on his face.

  "Has it been hard for you these past years, Rye, because of the way Mr. Tatterton was?"

  "No, ma'am, not hard. Sad, but not hard.

  'Course, I stayed in my room after supper and left the house to the spirits. Now," he smiled, "they gonna retreat and hover 'bout their graves mostly, 'cause we got light and life again. Spirits hate young people roamin' 'bout. Makes 'em jittery 'cause the young folks got so much energy and brightness 'bout 'em."

  "You really heard these spirits in the house, Rye?" I tipped my head and smiled, but he didn't smile back.

  "Oh yes, ma'am. Many a night. There's one spirit, very unhappy one, who roams the halls, goes from room to room, searchin'."

  "For what?"

  "Don' know, Miss Annie. Dan' talk to and he don' talk ta me. But I've heard him walkin"bout and I've heard the music."

  "Music?"

  "Piana music. Sweet music."

  "Did you ever ask Mr. Tatterton about it?"

  "No, Miss Annie. Didn't have to. Saw it in his eyes." "Saw what?"

  "That he heard and saw the same things I did.

  But you forgets all about that, Miss Annie. You get strong and better fast. Ole Rye will cook up a storm now that there's someone to cook for."

  I thought a moment.

  "Rye, is there a horse here called Scuttles?"

  "Scuttles, Miss Annie? There ain't no horses now. H'ain't been any for some time. Scuttles?" His eyes went from side to side as he thought, scanning his memory. I saw him stop thinking, a realization coming to him.

  "Scuttles, why that was the name Miss Jillian gave to her ridin' pony. She lived on a horse ranch when she was a young girl. I remembers her talkin"

  „bout that pony all the time. But we never had one here named Scuttles. Her horse was called Abdulla Bar. A devilish animal," he added, his eyes brightening with fear.

  "Why do you say that, Rye?"

  "He let no one but Miss Jillian ride 'im, so Mr.

  Tatterton kept everyone else off, 'cept that one terrible time. But it wasn't his fault," he added quickly.

  "What terrible time, Rye?"

  "Oh, this ain't the time to talk 'bout sad things, Miss Annie. You got your own hardship ta bear."

  "Please, Rye, I don't want to ask Mr. Tatterton, but I want to know."

  He looked back and stepped closer to the bed.

  He shook his head and lowered his eyes.

  "It was his brother, Mr. Troy, Miss Annie. One day he jes' hopped on that stallion and rode him into the sea. Only a Devil horse woulda done it. Any other horse woulda refused to go in."

  "So that's what Drake meant when he said Troy committed suicide. He rode my great-grandmother's horse into the ocean and—"

  "And he drowned, Miss Annie. Seems this house has had more'n its share of hardships ta bear, hasn't it, Miss Annie?" He shook his head.

  "Sometimes it's harder ta live ta a ripe ole age. Yer haunted by the many bad memories and ya hear the many lonely spirits."

  "But why did he do such a thing, Rye?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't know," he said quickly; too quickly, I thought. "Troy was as handsome a young man as y"all ever see, and talented, too. He made many of the toys, ya know. Only, I never called 'em toys. They was more like art." He shook his head and smiled, recalling. "Lil" houses and lil" people, some made inta music boxes."

  "Music boxes?"

  "Beautiful melodies . . . like soft piana music."

  "Chopin," I muttered. The memory of my mother's musical cottage sent my heart pitter-pattering, overwhelming me with a flush of sadness.

  "What's that, Miss Annie?"

  I shifted my eyes away quickly, not wanting him to see my tears.

  "I was just thinking of a composer."

  "Oh. Well, I best get my ole self back down ta the kitchen and see what Roger's up to. He's my—what do you call 'im—apprentice. Ole Rye can't expects he'll be workin' in that kitche forever, and Mr.

  Tatterton needs a good cook when I gets the call to join my maker. 'Course, rights now, I play deaf to that, Miss Annie," he said, smiling widely. We laughed.

  "Oh, I almost forgot yer Je11-0." He put the dish on my tray.

  "Sorry 1 can't have your chocolate cake, Rye. It looked delicious."

  "Oh yes, she brought that right down again." He looked back and then leaned toward me. "Course, find away to sneak a piece back up. Jest ya wait."

  "Thank you, Rye. And come back to see me, please."

  "Sho' will."

  "Well, what's this?" Tony said, suddenly appearing in my doorway. "The chef checking up to see how well his food's gone over?"

  "Someone had ta bring up some Jell-O, and I thought it was as good a time as any to pay my respects, Mr. Tatterton." He turned back to me and winked. "Gots ta be gettin' back ta my kitchen now."

  "Thank you, Rye," I called as he hurried out.

  Tony watched him leave and then turned to me.

  "Why didn't Millie bring up the Jell-O?" he wondered aloud.

  "I asked Millie to send him up."

  "Oh?" His blue eyes narrowed.

  "I hope that was all right," I said quickly. He looked upset.

  "I was going to tell him to come see you after dinner. It's all right," he added, his eyes softening.

  "He's still one of the best chefs on the East Coast. I'd wager his Yorkshire pudding against any."

  "He's everything my mother said he was. He must be over eighty, right?"

  "Who knows? He can't really remember his birthday, or he lies about his age. So, how are you doing? Feeling a bit stronger?"

  "Tired from the therapy, and frustrated. I want to get out and about the mansion and the estate."

  "Well, maybe Mrs. Broadfield will approve a short trip down this corridor late tomorrow morning.

  The doctor wi
ll be here the day after."

  "Has Luke called?" I asked hopefully.

  "Not yet."

  "I don't understand why not." My heart plunged. Had Drake's predictions already come true?

  "Just giving you a chance to get settled in, I'm sure."

  He brought a chair up beside the bed. When he sat down, he crossed his legs and meticulously ran his fingers down the sharp crease of his gray trouser leg.

  "It's not like him. We're very close," I explained. "Did you know we were born on the very same day?"

  "Really? How extraordinary!"

  Luke's and my birthday was such a major

  touchstone in my life that it seemed incredible Tony would know nothing about the coincidence. How completely my father and mother had shut him out of their lives, I thought. I wondered if he knew that Luke and I were really half brother and half sister.

  "Yes. And since then our relationship has been sort of what my mother's was like with her brother Tom, the one who died tragically in that circus accident."

  "Oh yes.” He gazed at me with the same intensity again, staring so hard I could almost feel his eyes drilling into my soul. "Your mother had a very hard time of it, but she was a very strong woman, as I am sure you will be. 'What doesn't destroy me, makes me stronger,' as my father used to tell me. He'd borrowed the expression from some German

  philosopher, I can't remember which one.

  "Anthony, he'd say," Tony recalled, pulling himself up stiffly into what he must have remembered as his father's posture, "you've got to learn something from every defeat in life or life will defeat you." He relaxed and smiled. "Of course, I was barely five or six when he was giving me all this advice, but oddly enough, it stuck with me."

  "The Tattertons are a fascinating family, Tony."

  "Oh, I'm sure some of my relatives are quite boring.

  I've never spoken to half my cousins. Dreary people.

  And Jillian's side of the family wasn't much better.

  Both of her sisters and her brother passed away some time ago. Actually, I only found out by reading the obituaries. Once Jillian died . ." His eyes became somewhat glassy as he got lost in a memory.

  "Tell me about your brother, Tony. Please," I added quickly, seeing his face begin to harden and his eyes say no.

  "I should really let you rest."

  "Just a little. Tell me just a little." Perhaps because he was no longer here, or perhaps because I had learned only a tidbit here and a tidbit there, Troy lingered in my mind as someone mysterious. "Please."

  His eyes warmed and his smile trembled

  through his lips. Then he leaned over and surprised me by stroking my hair just the way Mommy often had.

  "When you plead like that, you remind me so much of Leigh as a young girl, pleading with me to take her here or there, to show her this or that. She would burst into my office, interrupting anything I was doing, no matter how important, and ask me to take her on the sailboat or horseback riding. And no matter how busy I was, just like now, I would relent.

  Tatterton men spoil their women, but," he added, his eyes twinkling, "they enjoy doing it."

  "About Troy?" Did he purposely drift of so much or was it something he couldn't help?

  "Troy. Well, as I told you, he was much younger than I. When he was a little boy, he was sick so much of the time, I'm afraid I considered him a millstone around my neck. You see, our mother died when he was very small, and soon after that our father. Troy grew up thinking of me as his father and not just his older brother.

  "He was a very bright young man, however, and graduated from college when he was only eighteen."

  "Only eighteen!" I exclaimed in astonishment.

  "And then what did he do?"

  "He worked in the business. He was a talented artisan and designed many of our most famous toys.

  So, there you are," he said, intending to end his tale of Troy.

  "But why did he commit suicide, Tony?"

  His soft blue eyes hardened as if they had instantly turned to ice.

  "He didn't commit suicide; it was an accident, a tragic accident. Who said it was suicide? Did your mother tell you that?"

  "No. She never mentioned him," I replied, swallowing hard. He looked so angry. His lips grew so tight and thin that a white line developed around them. This chase in his face frightened me, and I think he saw that because he quickly softened his look. In fact, he looked very sad, very distraught.

  "Troy was a melancholy man, very sensitive, deep, convinced that he wasn't going to live long. He was very fatalistic about life. No matter what I did, couldn't change him. I don't like talking about him because . . because I feel somewhat responsible, you see. I couldn't help him, no matter what I did."

  "I'm sorry, Tony. I didn't mean to make you feel bad." I saw that he couldn't face up to the idea that his brother killed himself. It was cruel of me to try to make him do so.

  "I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt me; you're too sweet, too pure." He broke out into a wide, warmer smile. "Let's not talk about sad things. Please.

  For a while, anyway, let's just concentrate on the beautiful, the pleasant, the hopeful, and the miracu-lous. Okay?"

  "Okay," I said.

  "Now, if you feel up to it, I've made a list of books you should read, and have them brought up to your room. Also, I'm having a television set brought in here tomorrow. I'll go through the television guide and underline some of the better programs for you,"

  he added.

  How odd, I thought. How did he think I was brought up? I knew what books to read and what programs to watch. My mother often praised my taste in literature. Tony acted as if he thought I was some hillbilly who needed direction and instruction. But I didn't want to complain and hurt his feelings. He looked sa happy to be doing all this.

  "And I've got to make that list of things for Drake to bring from Winnerrow," I reminded him.

  "Right. He'll be here in the afternoon. Let's see, is there anything else?"

  I shook my head.

  "All right, then. I have to do some work. I'll see you in the morning. Have a good night's rest, Heaven." "Heaven?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just you had me thinking about your mother then and I—"

  "That's all right, Tony. I don't mind if once in a while you make a mistake and call me Heaven. I loved my mother very much." My tears came so fast, it was as though they had been just waiting for an opportunity to show themselves.

  "There, now I've gone and made you sad again." "No, it's not your fault."

  "Poor Annie." He leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek, his lips lingering. He inhaled deeply, as if he wanted to drink in the scent of my hair. Then he pulled himself back abruptly, realizing how long he was taking to kiss me good night. "Good night," he said, and left the room.

  I rested my head on the pillow and thought about some of the things I had learned. How right Rye was. This house had had more than its share of tragedy. Was this the way it was with all great families; rich, powerful families who had so much and yet suffered so much?

  Was there a curse on the Tattertons and all who came into close contact with them? Perhaps Rye Whiskey wasn't so wrong about spirits wandering about. Perhaps that man I had seen in the distance visiting my parents' tomb was one of them.

  Maybe Drake was right; maybe I should leave the sad things alone. I knew that I couldn't, though.

  There were things I just had to know. They itched, and just like a persistent itch, they had to be scratched.

  At the moment one of the things that bothered me was Luke's silence. It just wasn't like him to keep away this long. It was so frustrating not being able to call him, not even to know which dorm he was in.

  Millie came in to get my supper tray, and I thought of something.

  "Millie, would you look in the desk drawer there to see if there is a pen, a sheet of stationery, and an envelope, please."

  "Yes, Annie." She did so and found the stationery and a pen. "It's perfumed
stationery," she said, bringing the sheet to her nose and inhaling. "Still smells very nice."

  "I don't care. I just want to write a quick letter.

  Please come back in fifteen minutes to get it and have it mailed out for me."

  "I will."

  She left with the tray, and I used the bed table to write my letter to Luke.

  .

  Dear Luke,

  I know you have spoken to Tony since

  graduation, and I was happy to hear about the reception you received for your speech. You deserved it. I wish only that I could have been there, that my mother and our father could have been there.

  Drake has visited me at Farthy and told me of your arrival at Harvard. The doctors want me to continue my quiet rest and recuperation, so I have no phone yet, otherwise I would try to call you rather than send this letter. I'll ask that it be sent special delivery, so you should get it quickly.

  I can't wait to hear from you and to see you. I'm already planning just how to go about our

  explorations of Farthy.

  Please call or come as soon as you can.

  Love, Annie

  .

  I addressed the letter to Luke Toby Casteel, Dormitories, Harvard College, and wrote "Special Delivery" on the bottom of the envelope. When Millie returned, I called her to the side of my bed to give her special instructions,

  "Take this to Mr. Tatterton, please, and ask him if he would put the rest of the Harvard address on here for me and send this right out in the morning."

  "Right away, Annie," she said.

  I watched her go, and thought Luke would

  surely respond immediately when he received that.

  Confident that he would be with me in a day or so, I lowered my head to the pillow and closed my eyes. I opened them slightly when I, heard Mrs. Broadfield come in. She took my blood pressure and checked my pulse, fixed my blanket and then put out the light.

  With the sun down and the sky overcast again, darkness fell around me like a heavy curtain. It was my second night at Farthy, but unlike the first, I had something to listen for: Rye Whiskey's spirits. Maybe I dreamt it because he had been so dramatic when he spoke, but sometime during the middle of the night, I thought I heard the soft tinkle of a piano playing a Chopin waltz.