Gates of Paradise (Casteel Series #4)

by V. C. Andrews

  But what would I paint? 1 wondered. As if in answer, the window drew me to it and I gazed out toward the Tatterton family cemetery. I took out the pencil and began to sketch, working as if one of Rye Whiskey's spirits had taken hold of my arm and guided my fingers across the blank white sheet. And as I drew, the tears began to come.

  Just like any other time when I started a

  painting, I soon lost myself in my work. It was truly as though I had shrunk and become a tiny figure in the sketch, moving over the scene, directing my larger self to draw this and fix that. The world around me faded away; I lost track of time and even place. I didn't even hear Tony return, and I had no idea how long he was standing just behind me, watching me work. I jumped when I realized he was there.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you, but I didn't want to disturb you and ruin your mood. I know how you artists need your concentration. Jillian's just like that. I mean, she was just like that whenever she drew or painted something. I could be standing there for hours and hours and she wouldn't take the slightest note of it. It always amazed me—fascinated me, I should say—and I find you just as fascinating when you work, Annie," he added. He said it so intensely, I couldn't help but blush.

  He smiled and then remembered why he had

  come. "Oh. I wondered if you were going to need your sleeping pill. Before she left in a huff, Mrs.

  Broadfield left some instructions. If she hadn't, I would have reported her and she would have never gotten another job."

  "No, I think fall asleep without any help tonight,

  Tony. Thank you."

  "Fine. I'll just let you work awhile longer and then stop by to see if you need any assistance getting yourself to bed." He flashed a smile and started to leave.

  "Oh, Tony," I called. He turned back. "What happened when you phoned Luke?"

  "Oh, I haven't gotten to that yet, Annie. I dealt with Mrs. Broadfield first. I'm sure you understand.

  try to reach him right now," he said, and left. I went back to my work.

  Hours later I fell back in my chair, mentally exhausted. I had really been like one in a daze, because when I looked at my work now, it was as though someone else had done it and left it there before me.

  I had drawn a window frame to serve as the frame for the picture. The monument loomed large at the center of the picture, the other tombstones barely sketched in around it. There was a figure kneeling before the large stone. It wasn't Tony and it wasn't me; it was the dark, mysterious man I had seen before.

  His face was blank; but he was tall and lean.

  I looked at my palette and thought about the colors I would use. It seemed to me the painting should be all grays and blacks; they fit the mood. I decided to put off painting the morning, when I might be in a lighter and happier mood. When I turned from the window, I saw the charm bracelet Luke had given me. Mrs. Broadfield had taken it off quickly when she stripped me down after my stomach problems. Now it lay on the night table by the bed. It was well after eight PM, so Tony would have called him by now.

  Why hadn't he come up to report on the call as he had promised he would? Did this mean Luke was still unreachable or had made some other excuses for not coming to visit me?

  I sat back in my chair and took deep breaths to calm my pounding heart, which seemed more like a military drum being thumped in the middle of a battle.

  How I wished I could find things out for myself.

  I wasn't feeling sorry for myself as much as I was feeling angry, and something told me that was good, that was the beginning of a fight to return to health and strength. Frustration turned my hands into fists and tightened my spine like a rope being pulled firmly from both ends. None of this was going to change when Mrs. Broadfield's replacement arrived, no matter how nice she was.

  I would still have to get up when others wanted me to get up, eat when others wanted me to eat and what they wanted me to eat, take therapy when someone said it was time, nap at her command, dress, wash, go to the bathroom when she decided I should, and speak to people when she wanted me to speak to people. I've become a puppet, and my nurses, my doctors, even Tony, have become the puppeteers, I thought.

  "No!" I screamed to an empty room. I felt my anger and frustration flowing down my body, warming the blood that ran through my rebellious legs. Suddenly there was a twinge; something electric shot through my lower spine. At first it was like a pinprick on the backs of my thighs, then it became a tingling along my ankles and into the tips of my toes.

  I willed my feet to press against the pads of the chair.

  I felt the pressure against the soles of my feet. I felt tension in my legs, wobbly and weak, but nevertheless, tension. This time when I made an effort to rise out of the chair, I wasn't depending entirely on my arm strength. My legs were aiding. I was getting a response to my mental commands. It was working! I was doing it! Doing it! . . My entire body trembled, but I felt it . . . I could work myself into an unsteady standing position. I was making it happen, doing what I had taken for granted most of my life, but achieving what now was a major accomplishment! My heart pounded with anticipation and happiness. My body was responding!

  It seemed to take hours instead of moments, but I was rising out of the chair, guiding myself by holding the arms as I began to stand. Just as I reached the full upright position, my legs shaking like toothpicks asked to hold a weight far too heavy for them, Tony came in. He stopped and looked at me in amazement,

  "Tony . . . I just tried and it happened! My legs are working, Tony! Really beginning to work! But it feels so funny, like I'm standing on air." I wobbled when I laughed.

  "Easy," he said, stepping forward slowly and holding his hands out as though he were speaking to a potential suicide victim out on a window ledge. "Don't try to walk yet. You don't want to break any bones."

  He didn't look as happy and as excited by it all as I had expected he would. If anything, he looked annoyed. Why wasn't he as happy as I was? It was happening, what we had all hoped would happen was happening!

  "I'm going to get better! I am!" I emphasized, in an attempt to evoke some excitement in him. But he didn't change expression.

  "Of course you are," Tony said calmly. "But don't rush things now. Take it easy. You'd better sit down again," he said.

  "But I don't feel tired yet, and it feels so good to be standing on my own two feet! Oh, Tony, it feels so good . . . so wonderful to do a simple thing like stand up! I wish Drake could have been here to see; I wish Luke . . . what about Luke? You called him, didn't you?"

  "Yes, I called him," Tony said.

  "Oh, I'll stand for him! You'll tell me exactly when he's coming up and stand just as he comes through that door and—"

  "He can't come tomorrow," Tony declared flatly. "He has some sort of entrance exam to take."

  The excitement that had blown me up so,

  seeped out as if I were a leaking balloon. I could feel my newfound strength weakening, my pounding, stronger heart softening, that hateful shadow falling over it again.

  "What? But that can't possibly take him all day."

  "It's just not convenient. Maybe the day after or on the weekend. He wasn't sure."

  "Wasn't sure? Luke said he wasn't sure?"

  Suddenly my legs became like jelly. Without warning they lost all their firmness. I screamed. Tony lunged forward, unfortunately not reaching me in time to prevent me from crashing to the floor.

  EIGHTEEN

  Rebellion

  .

  The first thing I thought after I regained consciousness was I was wearing a different nightgown, one of the silk ones Tony had brought me at the hospital. That meant he had changed me before the doctor's arrival. But why? Had I torn it when I fell unconscious? It was embarrassing to realize he had taken off my nightgown and dressed me while I was unconscious. He was much older, a great-grandfather, but still . . . he was a man!

  Before I could ask him about it, he and Dr.

  Malisoff rushed into my room. My thou
ghts cleared and I remembered my physical accomplishments. It was happening—I was really recovering! Despite my collapse, I knew it was true. There was an end in sight to this existence as an invalid. My heart was cheered.

  Soon I would once again walk unaided, never again to be dependent upon nurses and doctors, medicines and equipment.

  I waited patiently but excitedly as Dr. Malisoff completed his examination of me—testing my reflexes. Tony waited near the door.

  As I lay there in bed, I again felt an awakening in my lower limbs and knew something significant had begun to happen. And even though the doctor wore his expressionless, analytical face, I could see something new in his eyes when he gazed down at me.

  "Well?" I asked anxiously. Tony stepped forward to hear what he would say. "Am I improving?"

  "Yes," he said, "your legs are coming back; your reflexes are stronger."

  "Oh, thank God! Thank God! Thank God!" I chanted. I looked at Tony, but he seemed troubled.

  The doctor decided to have a quick consultation with him. I waited again as they spoke in the sitting room.

  Why they had to do it beyond my hearing, I couldn't understand. The only thing I could think was, he didn't want me to get too excited. When they returned, they both looked happier.

  "Annie," the doctor said, "you are definitely on the way to a complete recovery; however, it is very important, especially now, that you don't rush things and cause a setback."

  "Oh, I won't."

  "What you must do is follow my orders to the letter, okay?" I nodded. He could have told me to cut all the grass at Farthy with a pair of scissors and I would have agreed. "The reason you collapsed after you stood up is you are still physically exhausted. We want to build your strength for the battle ahead, now that your legs are returning. I am going to adjust your therapy. have given Mr. Tatterton some simple instructions to follow. In any case, I will return the day after tomorrow and examine you again."

  "Can't I begin to use the walker in the morning?

  I want to try to stand and walk as soon as I get up."

  Dr. Malisoif looked at Tony and then squeezed his chin with his thumb and forefinger as he considered me.

  "Annie, I've described the stages of your recuperation to Mr. Tatterton in great detail. Don't do anything without asking his permission first, okay?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "No buts. Buts create complications," he added, smiling. "Can I depend on you?" I shifted my eyes away, unable to hide the sad expression on my face.

  "Now, now, you should be happy. You're on your way." He patted my hand and started out. Tony shook his hand and then remained behind. He looked down at me with sad blue eyes.

  "After you passed out, I was sure we would have to bring you back to the hospital. Now we have good news, but you don't look happy."

  "I'm just anxious to get back to normal, Tony."

  "Of course." He stood thoughtfully a moment and then suddenly brightened as something came to mind. "But I have another surprise for you, and now that there is this definite degree of improvement, I'm even more excited about it"

  "What have you done?" He did look excited—his eyes young and soft blue again, his face flushed.

  "Since we put in the chair elevator for you to go up and down the stairway, I decided to have a ramp built in front of the main entrance this afternoon. You can wheel yourself to the stairway, go down, and wheel yourself to the front. Then you can wheel down the ramp and go along the sidewalks and paths to enjoy the grounds around Farthy. Of course, the first few times, I will take you, but in time—"

  "In time I will walk out on my own, Tony." I was sorry I had said it so quickly and so sharply. He looked dejected, like a little boy who had been turned down, but I couldn't help it. My progress had filled me with such hope, and now Tony and the doctor were telling me it would be a much longer wait than I had anticipated. I was still going to be confined to a wheelchair.

  "Of course. I didn't mean to—"

  "But I do appreciate what you have done, Tony.

  I can't wait to go out and around Farthy. Thank you, Tony. Thank you for everything, because I am sure without you I wouldn't be recovering so soon."

  His face brightened again.

  "I'm glad you feel that way, Annie. Oh," he said, looking over at the easel, "I see you have made progress on your painting. How wonderful." I studied his face as he turned a sharp, penetrating gaze on my work. His smile melted slowly, and with it went all that had made his expression bright and young. Then he looked out the window as if he could see through the darkness. He continued gazing as if he saw through the inky night. I didn't know what to say.

  "It's just a drawing right now."

  "Yes." When he turned back to me, his blue eyes looked troubled. He folded his brow and curled his lips inward like someone under great mental strain. "It's good, but I was hoping to see you paint the gardens and hedges, the little walkways and small, sparkling fountains."

  "But Tony, the fountains aren't running. They're stuffed with autumn leaves. And the gardens need pruning. Whatever flowers there are, are being choked by weeds. Some of the hedges are trim, but even they need more work." He stared ahead, his eyes unblinking. I didn't think he heard a word I said.

  "When the sun is out, the grounds glitter." He smiled. "Jillian says it's as if some giant stood on the roof and cast jewels over the lawns. She's an artist, so she has an artist's eye and imagination. She paints only pretty, pleasant things, happy things, things that make her feel young and alive. That's why she started with illustrations for children's books."

  "Jillian . you mean, my great-grandmother Jillian? But she's dead. Tony?" He was just staring at me again, that faraway look in his eyes. I felt myself tremble. Was something more happening to him?

  Were his journeys back to the past becoming more frequent, and to the point where he was having trouble returning to the present?

  "What? Oh, I meant, Jillian used to say." He laughed, a short, dry laugh and looked at my easel again. "It's just when I see artwork, art supplies, I think of her and vividly remember those early days.

  Oh well, after you're up and about, you'll set yourself up down there in the gardens and paint and paint until you wear the brushes down to nothing.

  "I'm not surprised you chose a sad scene, closed up in this room the way you are. An artist needs space, to roam, to breathe. Only Troy could lock himself up and create one beautiful thing after another. They were already alive in his mind, I suppose."

  "I'd like to see more of Troy's work."

  "Oh, you will. When you come downstairs, we'll go to my office and look at all the models on the shelves. He created each and every one, down to the smallest detail."

  "Maybe I'll come down tomorrow," I said hopefully.

  "Yes. We'll arrange your first outing. Isn't this wonderful—to have you moving through the corridors of Farthinggale Manor once again!"

  "Once again?"

  He clapped his hands together. Everything he was saying seemed mixed up. Perhaps it was just the excitement of my impending recovery, I thought. I had to keep reminding myself—Tony was no

  youngster. Having all this thrust upon him after so many years of living in relative solitude had to be mind boggling.

  "Now, I should let you get your rest."

  "I'm too excited to sleep." I was reminded about my nightgown. "But Tony, why am I wearing a different nightgown from what I was wearing before I collapsed?"

  "Different nightgown?" His smile became a smile of confusion. "I don't understand."

  "I wasn't wearing this one before. You changed me, didn't you?"

  He shook his head.

  "You're probably just confused. You always wore that nightgown. It's your favorite. You've often told me so,"

  "I .. I did?" He had me wondering myself, now.

  I shook my head. It didn't seem all that important anyway.

  "Maybe I should give you something to help you sleep. The doctor left instructions to contin
ue your sedatives."

  "I hate sleeping pills. They give me

  nightmares," I cried.

  "Now Annie, you've got to continue to do the things that have helped you reach this point of recovery, don't you?" he said in a soothing voice. "The doctor thinks you should, and after all, that's what we're paying him for—his medical knowledge. I'll be right back."

  Moments later he returned with the pill and a glass of water. Reluctantly, I took it and swallowed it.

  Then I fell back against the pillow. He fixed my blanket and turned down the lights. Then he returned to my bedside and took my hand.

  "Comfortable?" he asked.

  "Yes." My voice sounded so small. I wished so much that it was my daddy's hand I was holding.

  "That's good; that's the way it will be from now on," Tony said. "I'll always be here for you. Just call.

  I'll listen for your call, Annie, and I'll come as quickly as I can."

  "But you can't devote all your time to me, Tony. You have a business to run," I declared.

  "Oh, I don't worry about my business. It runs itself, and I have competent people in charge, including Drake now. Don't you ever think you're a burden for me," he added, patting my hand.

  "Are you going to get a new nurse tomorrow?"

  "I'll call the agency first thing in the morning,"

  he assured me. "Sleep well." He knelt down and kissed my cheek, this time his lips lingering much longer against my skin, his hand pressed firmly over my shoulder as if he never wanted to let go. "Good night."

  "Good night; Tony," I said, and watched him walk slowly out of the room, moving like one of Rye Whiskey's ghosts, turning off the lights as he went, the darkness dropping behind him.

  Even with the sleeping pill, I was too excited to fall asleep quickly. Every once in a while I would try to move my toes and feel the tingle in my feet and the sensation of them moving against the blanket. I imagined I was not unlike a newborn baby

  discovering her limbs, discovering her own body.

  Each tiny movement, each feeling, brought new wonder. Oh, how I wished I had someone who was close, someone very close to share this physical comeback with me! How wonderful it would be if Luke were here when I stood up! He would embrace me and hold me against him, kiss me and stroke my hair. I smiled to myself imagining it, hearing him whisper in my ear as he ran his fingers along my shoulders. It made me tingle just to imagine it. Oh, Luke, I cried, am I being horribly sinful thinking these thoughts?