The Reverend thoughtfully eyed me as if I were still only a white pawn on his chessboard, and if he could but move his black queen he'd find a way yet to thwart me.
"I hear you've been sick," he said in a soft, conversational voice. "You don't look well, girl, not well at all. And by the way, what do you think of that nice house your grandfather is living in? Do you believe your paltry gifts could build such a fine log cabin? Out of the kindness of my heart I took from my own pocket the extra money needed to see that cabin was finished after the foundation was laid, so the great-grandfather of my daughter would have enough cash to see it through. For I am human . . . pitifully, shamefully human."
Minutes passed, many minutes, and the Reverend never moved his eyes from my face.
I heard the baby wailing upstairs, as if suddenly awakened from a nap. I turned to see Rosalynn Wise carrying Fanny's child. And when I saw her tearful eyes, her red pouting lips, dark curling hair, and very fair skin, I was more than touched by her beauty. I was also touched by her small hand that clung tightly to the fingers of the only mother she knew. And then my storm of rage began to break, and I realized that Fanny was only using Darcy as an instrument of revenge. What was I doing here upsetting this baby and her mother? And all the time the Reverend droned on and on, filling my ears with just what I didn't want to think about.
"I had a feeling one day you would come after me, Heaven Casteel. You used to sit on a back pew and stare at me with those clear blue eyes of yours, and you questioned every word that left my lips. I could tell by your face that you wanted to believe, needed to believe, and were trying hard to believe, and yet I could never put the words in the right order to convince you that there is a God, a loving, caring God. So I began to judge all my sermons by your reaction to them . . . and once in a great while it seemed I did manage to reach you. Then that day came when your granny died, and I said the words over her grave, and over the tiny grave of that stillborn child of your stepmother; I felt a complete failure. I knew I would never reach you, for you don't want to be reached. You seek to control your own destiny, when that is not totally possible. You want no help from man, and none from God."
"I didn't come for a lecture on what you think I am," I said stiffly. "You don't know me."
He jumped to put himself always in front of me. His eyelids parted to mere slots so his eyes glittered in the shade of his lids. "You are wrong, Heaven Leigh Casteel. I do know you very well. You are the most dangerous kind of female the world can ever know. You carry the seeds for your own destruction, and the destruction of everyone who loves you. And a great many will love you for your beautiful face, for your seductive body; but you will fail them all, because you will believe they all fail you first. You are an idealist of the most devastatingly tragic kind--the romantic idealist. Born to destroy and self-destruct!"
His solemn, hateful, pitying eyes gazed at me, seemingly staring through me and reading my mind.
"Now it's time for me to discuss my daughter, Darcy. I did not, as you said, bring your sister into my home with anything but good intentions, hoping to help by taking one more mouth to feed from your father at the time of his great distress. You refuse to believe that, I can tell by your expression. Rose and I have done what we think God wanted us to do. We legally adopted (and we have papers signed by your sister) the child your sister gave birth to. And now to tell you the real truth, if your father had not shoved his second daughter at us so forcefully, I would have chosen you! Do you hear that? You! Now ask me why." When I only stared at him with shock, he answered himself. "I wanted to explore at close hand your resistance to God . . ."
Contemplating me with serious eyes, with compassionate eyes, with eyes expert at concealing duplicity, I realized I was no match for anyone as clever as Reverend Wayland Wise, and it was no wonder he had managed to become the richest man in our area of the state. Even knowing all the games he played to gain respect from those too ignorant to know better, I was feeling snared in the same web as any stupid fly.
"Stop talking, please stop!"
Flooded with guilt, I knew I had lost
everything. Tom was already headed for his goal, and he didn't need me. Keith and Our Jane were wise enough even when they were young to turn away from a destructive sister. Grandpa, living where he most wanted to be, close to his Annie, in a mountain cabin ten times better than he had any right to expect, would lose his home. I was crashing the world down on everyone's head.
My fever seemed to come back. I slumped in the chair. A hot flush of nerves rose up from my waist and tingled behind my ears. Fanny didn't need this baby. Fanny had refused to do one thing for Keith and Our Jane, so why had I thought she'd be a good mother for her own? My head throbbed with sharper pain. Who was I to try and take this baby from the only mother she had ever known? It was clear that the child belonged here, with the Wises, who loved her and were in a position to give her the best of everything. What could a Casteel offer this child in comparison to this happy home? I wanted to get away from there as quickly as I could. Shakily I stood up and looked at Rosalynn Wise. "I'm not going to help Fanny take the baby away from you, ma'am," I said. "I'm sorry I came here. I won't bother you again." And as my tears began to flow, I turned and hurried to the door, even as I heard the Reverend calling after me, "God will bless you for this."
Nineteen Rising Winds
. LOGAN DROVE ME TO THE NEAREST AIRPORT AND SAT WITH me in the terminal until my flight was announced. He gazed solemnly into my eyes and told me again that I had done the right thing when I left Fanny's baby in the arms of Rosalynn Wise.
"You did the right thing," said Logan for the third time, when I voiced my doubt to him about the logic of my rationalizations. "Fanny isn't the mother type, you know it and I know it."
Far back in my mind maybe I'd harbored the thought of taking the baby back with me to Farthinggale Manor, praying against hope that her sweet innocence and beauty would win Troy over, and he'd want to raise her as his daughter. Foolish, idiotic thought. What an idiot I'd been even to make an attempt. Fanny didn't deserve a child like Darcy. Maybe I didn't either.
"Goodbye," said Logan, standing and gazing over my head. "I wish you all kinds of good luck and happiness," and whirling on his heel, he strode off before I could thank him again for taking care of me.
He looked back and smiled in a tight way. Across fifty feet we stared at one another before I turned and hurried onto the plane.
Hours later I arrived in Boston. Exhausted, half-sick, and ready to collapse into bed, I slipped into a taxi and hoarsely whispered the address. Then slumping to the side, I felt dizzy and faint. I closed my eyes and thought of Logan and the way he'd smiled at me when I told him how I'd left things with the Wises. "I understand why you did what you did. And you keep remembering if Fanny had really wanted that little girl she could have found a way to keep her. You would have found a way."
It was all so unreal, so terribly unreal. The smile the butler Curtis wore when he opened the door because I couldn't find my key, not like him at all. Nor were his welcoming words. "It is good to have you back, Miss Heaven."
Startled that he would speak to me and address me by my Christian name, I watched him disappear with my suitcases before I turned to stare into the huge room that had been formed by throwing open the wide doors to the major salon and the one beyond that. A party. And I wondered absently what occasion was about to be celebrated? But then Tony was home, every day was a reason to celebrate.
From room to room I wandered, staring at the huge bouquets of fresh flowers everywhere. Crystal, silver, gold, and brass gleaming. And in the main kitchen, where the entrees were prepared, Rye Whiskey smiled as if he hadn't even noticed my absence. I left the kitchen, the sight of all that food making my stomach queasy, and headed for the stairs.
"So, you are back!" called a strong,
authoritative voice. Tony strode from his office, his good-looking face grim. "How dare you do what you did? You didn't keep your word. Do
you know what you have done to Troy, do you know?"
I felt myself go pale. My knees began to quiver. "He's all right, isn't he? I was sick. I wanted to come back."
Tony strode closer, his full lips set in a long thin line. "You have disappointed me, girl. You have disappointed Troy, and that's more important. He's over there in his cottage in such a deep depression he refuses to answer his telephone. He doesn't leave his bed, not even to finish work that he's started."
My legs gave way and I sagged to sit on a step. "I had the flu," I said weakly. "My fever rose to a hundred and two. The doctor couldn't come because it rained every day and the bridges went down, and the roads flooded." He heard me out, patiently heard me out. He stood with his hand on the newel post, looking up at where I crouched on the steps, and in his eyes I saw something that I'd never seen before. Something that scared me. My excuses took too long. He waved his hand, dismissing what else I had to say. "Go to your rooms and do what you have to, then come to my office. Jillian is giving a shower this evening for one of her friends who plans to marry soon. You and I are going to settle a few things."
"I have to see Troy!" I cried, as I wearily rose to my feet. "He'll understand even if you don't."
"Troy has waited this long. He can wait another hour or so."
I ran up the remaining stairs. I felt his eyes following me until I disappeared into my rooms. The maid Percy was in my bedroom unpacking my bags. She gave me a small smile. "I'm glad you are home again, Miss Heaven."
The look I gave her was distraught. Home? Would I ever feel at home in this huge house?
Quickly I washed my face and changed my clothes and did what I could for my hair, which had not been set after my shampoo in the rebuilt cabin. My dressing room mirror showed shadows under my eyes, and a weakness in my expression, and yet there was strength in the set of my lips.
As I descended the stairs, my makeup only a light dusting of face powder, the door chimes began to sound. Curtis hurried to answer the door, admitting several women carrying beautifully wrapped gifts. They were so taken with the party appointments they didn't seem to notice me, thank God. I didn't want to be seen by any of Jillian's friends, who always had too many questions.
Lightly I tapped on the door to Tony's office. "Come in, Heaven," he called. He was seated behind his desk. Through the row of windows behind him, shades of night were chasing away the soft violet colors of twilight. Because the first floor of Farthy was at least fifteen feet above the ground, his windows gave a perfect view of the maze that seemed so private when you were within it. The maze represented to me the mystery and the romance of Troy, and the love that we had found. I couldn't pull my eyes away from the ten-foot hedges.
"Sit down," he ordered, his face shadowed and hidden in the deepening gloom. "Tell me now about your shopping spree in New York. Tell me again about the days of deluging rain, and the bridges going down, and the flooded roads, and the doctor that couldn't come."
Thank God Logan had talked to me a great deal about the weather when he washed my face and brushed my hair, so easily I could speak of the terrible rainstorm that had brought disaster to the entire East Coast, even as far north as Maine. And Tony listened without asking one question until I had thoroughly hung myself.
"I, despise people who lie," he said when my voice faded away, and I could only sit with folded hands that tried not to twist, just as my feet tried not to shuffle nervously. "A great many things have happened since you went away. I know that you did not go to New York to shop for a trousseau. I know that you flew to Georgia to visit your half-brother Tom. You drove to Florida to see your father. You later flew to Nashville to visit your sister Fanny, whose stage name is Fanny Louisa."
I couldn't see his expression. By this time the room was in deep shadows, and he made no effort to turn on even one of his many lamps. Through the walls I could very faintly hear the voices of many women gathering. Nothing they said was
distinguishable. I wished like crazy to be out there with them, instead of in here, with him. Heavily I sighed and started to stand.
"Sit down." His voice was cold, commanding. "I have not finished. There are a few questions you have to answer, and answer honestly. First of all, you must tell me your truthful age."
"I am eighteen," I said without hesitation. "I don't know why I lied to you about my age when I came and said I was sixteen, except it has always made me a bit embarrassed the way my mother rushed into marriage with my father, when she had never seen him before that day they met in Atlanta."
His silence was so viable it quivered the air. I wished desperately for light.
"And what difference does one year make?" I asked, gone breathless from the scary way he just sat there in the dark and didn't speak. "I told Troy right from the beginning that I was seventeen, and not sixteen, for he didn't seem as critical as you are. Please, Tony, let me go to him now. He needs me. I can pull him out of his depression. Truthfully, I was very sick. I would have crawled back to Troy if I could have."
He moved in his chair, to put his elbows on his desk, and he cradled his head in his hands. The window light behind him made a dark-purplish frame, and the quatter moon slipped in and out of dark, stringy clouds. Tiny stars twinkled on and off. Time was slipping by. Time that could be better spent with Troy. "Let me go now to Troy, please Tony."
"No, not yet," he said, his voice hoarse, gritty. "Sit there now and tell me what you know about how your mother met your father--the month, the day, and the year. Tell me the date of their marriage. Tell me all that your grandparents said about your mother, and when you have answered every question I ask, then you may go to Troy."
I lost track of time as I sat in the dark and talked to a man that I saw only in silhouette, on and on telling the story of the Casteels and their poverty; Leigh VanVoreen and what I knew of her, which was pitifully little, and when I'd finished, Tony had a thousand questions to ask. "Jailed brothers, five of them . ." he repeated. "And she loved him enough to marry him. And your father hated you right from the beginning? Did you ever have a clue as to why he hated you?"
"My birth caused my mother's death," I answered simply. All the security my new clothes gave me had vanished. In the gloom and chill of that early evening, with the party guests so far away now even their loudest laughter couldn't be heard, the hills came again and surrounded me, and I was again a hillbilly scumbag Casteel, no good, no good, no good. Oh, God, why did he stare at me like that? Little bits of all my doubts congealed to form a mountain in front of me. I wasn't good enough for the Stonewalls; I couldn't possibly be suitable for a Tatterton. So I perched, uneasily, waiting, waiting.
It seemed thirty minutes passed after I answered his last question, and he just sat with his back to the window, while the moonlight fell upon my face, and turned the rose of my summer dress to ash. When he spoke his voice was calm, perhaps too calm. "When you first came I thought you were an answer to my prayers, come to save Troy from himself. I thought you were good for him. He's a withdrawn young man, difficult for most girls to know, I suspect for fear he will be hurt. He's very vulnerable . . and he has those strange ideas about dying young."
I nodded, feeling blind in a world that only he could clearly see. Why was he talking so cautiously? Hadn't he encouraged us to marry by not saying anything to prevent us from making plans? And why, for the first time since I'd known him, was he devoid of humor, of all lightheartedness?
"He's explained to you about his dreams?" he asked.
"Yes, he's told me."
"Do you believe as he believes?"
"I don't know. I want to believe because he believes that dreams often foretell the truth. But I don't want to believe his dream about dying young."
"Has he told you . . . about how long he thinks he will live?" His voice sounded troubled, as if a little boy who had cried in the night had partially convinced him--when he should know better.
"When Troy and I are married and there are no more lonely, shadowed nights in his lif
e, he'll forget all about dying. I'll study him. I'll learn what gives him pleasure. I'll make him the core and essence of my life, so he can be set free from worries that no one will ever care enough to stay. For that is the seat of his anxieties, fear of losing again."
At last he turned on his desk lamp. I had never seen his eyes burn so blue, so deeply blue. "Do you think I didn't do my best for Troy, do you? I was only twenty when I hastened into marriage just to give Troy a mother, a real mother and not just some teenage girl who wouldn't want to be bothered with a needing little boy who was frail and often seriously ill. And there was Leigh to be his sister. I was trying my best."
"Perhaps when you explained his mother's death you made paradise seem better than what he could find in life."
"You may have something there," he said with sadness in his voice, shrugging and leaning back, looking around as if for an ashtray, and finding none he put his sparkling cigarette case back in his pocket. (I'd never seen him pull out a cigarette before.) "I've thought the same thing myself--but what was I to do with a child who cherished grief and never let it go? After I married Jillian, Troy attached himself to Leigh, so when she ran from this house he cried every night, blaming himself as the cause for her leaving. For three months after she went he was confined to bed. I used to go to him when he cried out in the night and I'd tell him one day she'd come back, and he fastened on that like a leech. I suspect he began daydreaming about the time when she did come home again, and she'd be just nine years older, not so old he couldn't love her as he wanted to love her . . . and so all these years, until your father called, Troy has been biding his time, waiting for your mother to return, and be the woman he couldn't seem to find anywhere. And you showed up, not Leigh."
Thunderstruck, I felt my head swim. Now I was the one to wince and blanch! "Are you trying to tell me I am just a substitute for my own mother?" I cried out in rising hysteria. "Troy loves me for what I am! I know he does! A little boy of three, four and five can't possibly fall in love and stay in love over a period of seventeen years! That's too ridiculous to even suggest!"
Dark Angel Page 30