Beneath the Attic

by V. C. Andrews

  I wouldn’t tell them, but in the deepest, darkest, and most secret chambers of my heart, I couldn’t help but harbor the suspicion that my mother was simply jealous of me and used her heavy, thorny golden rules of humility to keep me from bursting out of the background in any room or place we had entered together. She knew I would quickly seize all the male attention, not that my mother was looking for any. She was simply drowned in my shadow and practically ignored when she brought me along.

  Of course, she wasn’t wrong to accuse me of being too forward. I sought to command every smile and all the praise the men around me could afford before their own wives turned their eyes into red-hot embers of disapproval, disapproval that would be directed at my mother for raising such a vamp. That was what it really was for her anyway: concern about her precious reputation.

  “My mother would be shocked, too, if she found out we were even discussing such things,” Agnes said. “She would forbid me from spending any time with you, any of you.”

  “Well, don’t say anything,” Edna warned. “We pledged that everything we tell each other is sacred, didn’t we?”

  “I won’t say anything.” She looked more frightened. “My mother would have my father take the strap to me.”

  “Mothers often forget what they were like when they were our age,” I said. I looked back at my house and then leaned toward them to impart a great secret, and the three leaned toward me. “Or they are afraid to confess it. Oh, they might give you a little advice when some proper gentleman asks permission to propose marriage, but until then . . .” I sighed and sat back. “Until then, we’re really on our own, aren’t we? We have to know how far we can go and what we can do and not do. My best advice is, nibble but don’t bite.”

  “What?” Edna said. “Nibble what?”

  “Don’t you have any imagination, Edna? Just dare yourself to think about it.”

  Agnes and Edna stared. They looked quite frightened. I smiled at Daisy.

  “Daisy and I know how to do that, don’t we, Daisy? We dare ourselves to think about it.”

  “Yes, but my guess is you’ll be the first who attracts a proper marriage proposal, whether your mother likes to admit it or not.”

  I smiled. She was probably right.

  There was nothing my mother could do about all this. Rules, lectures, and pouty faces were useless. It was simply my destiny to draw the admiration and desire, most assuredly the lust, of every man who stepped within the radius of my beauty. I had the power, the glow. To pretend I could stop it or even moderate it was as silly as pretending I could prevent the sun from rising.

  “My father would certainly agree when it comes to my attracting the interest of men. I wish it wasn’t indelicate for a father to have a conversation with his daughter about a man’s sexual needs and all that we must know to be successful at romance. Men know more than women when it comes to the art of lovemaking anyway.”

  “The art?” Edna said, nearly laughing. I didn’t smile.

  “Of course it’s an art, Edna. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Haven’t you listened to anything?”

  “You could probably get your father to talk about it,” Daisy said, half joking. “He dotes on you.”

  “Yes,” I said proudly. “He does. If I grimace at something my mother says about me, he comes to my defense, and a tear trickling down my cheek would rush along a gift or a promise of one to compensate for my bruised feelings. I know when that will work and when it won’t.”

  “Do you mean to say you do that deliberately? I mean, start to cry?” Agnes asked.

  I shrugged. “Whatever works, Agnes. It’s called a woman’s wiles, a chapter in that book I asked you to imagine. It’s part of what you have to learn to do when it comes to men.”

  “But your father isn’t . . .”

  “What? A man? Of course he is, and it’s good practice. There’ll be many other men.”

  “My father doesn’t dote on me like that,” Agnes said. “My crying wouldn’t matter.”

  I could practically see the jealousy dripping from the corners of her mouth. She was the youngest of four, and all three older than her were boys.

  “Yes,” I said. “Men do favor their sons.”

  “You’re an only child,” Agnes whined.

  “But my being an only child is not the only reason he treats me special.”

  “What other reason is there?” Edna asked. I could see her mind swirling with sinful and forbidden possibilities now that I had said he was a man.

  “Pride,” I said. “And not simply because I’m his daughter, Edna. My father is quite experienced and objective when it comes to attractive women. His work and his important responsibilities require him to be a connoisseur of beauty, especially when it comes to the wives of his clients and business associates.”

  They nodded, but I doubted that they fully understood. Not even Daisy completely understood. Before he had married my mother, my father was already a rising star in the newly formed First United Bank of Alexandria, Virginia, and thus one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. While it was men who were doing the investing in the booming businesses, their elegant wives and daughters were players in a constant parade of social events, wearing the most fashionable clothes and winning the hearts of powerful entrepreneurs.

  “I once heard my father say that some men wear their beautiful women like expensive jewelry.”

  “Wear them? Like jewelry?” Agnes said. She started to laugh. “How do you wear a wife?”

  “Think about it a moment, Agnes. What powerful man wants a plain-looking wife on his arm? My father greets many of these women and knows whom to bestow his attention on and whom to ignore.”

  “That makes sense,” Daisy said.

  “Yes. It’s a business thing. He’s quite aware of which women are worshipped by their husbands and could order them about, even when it comes to business decisions.”

  They were all quiet, thinking.

  “Gosh,” Agnes said with a painful grimace. “There’s so much for a girl to learn before she’s a woman.”

  “Precisely, and my father does help and encourage me in little ways.”

  “What little ways?” Edna asked.

  “He’s always bringing me presents, trinkets, a pin for my clothes or a new hair clip. Usually, he’s observed something one of the more fashionable women is wearing or hears about what she is thinking of buying and then he thinks of me. He thinks of me as more of a woman than a young girl.”

  “What does your mother say about that?” Daisy asked. Even she was unaware of all my father’s gifts.

  “What do you expect from my mother? You know her well enough.” I paused and then imitated my mother with exaggeration. “ ‘You spoil her. You’ll frustrate my efforts to mold her into a decent, respectable, and humble young woman.’ ”

  “Well, isn’t that what we should all want to be,” Agnes asked, “respectable and humble?”

  “Not me. Is there anything that promises a more mundane life than what my mother calls respectability and humility? It will weigh you down with the most boring days, days devoid of any thrills and excitement. There are no surprises in a life like that. Look at how my mother lives and most likely yours as well.

  “She spends most of her free time doing needlework or having tea and gossiping with her few spinster and widowed friends. How droll. For me, it’s simply a slower way to die. They all might as well grow whiskers and smoke corncob pipes.”

  “Some do,” Daisy said, and she and I laughed.

  “Does your mother know what you think of her, how she lives?” Edna asked, practically breathless.

  “Probably,” I said. “I’ve made enough comments about it and even told her she’s losing her femininity.”

  I sat back on my hands and let the sun wash my face.

  “I would never say anything like that to my mother,” Agnes said, aghast. “Would you, Daisy?”

  I opened my eyes and looked at her to see how
she would answer.

  “Maybe,” Daisy said. “I haven’t yet, but I could.”

  “You don’t understand, Agnes. A daughter can be different from her mother. Mine hates the wind in her hair, whereas I seek every opportunity to get it in mine. We’re truly oil and water. We don’t mix well.”

  “Does your mother think that, too?” Edna asked.

  “Let me put it this way,” I said, sitting forward again. “If my mother could hire a witch to turn me into an ornament that she could plant in her Victorian sitting room, she would. Although not really above the door, my mother keeps the words hovering everywhere in our house.”

  “What words?” Agnes asked.

  “ ‘Children should be seen and not heard, but Corrine especially should not be seen until she is gagged, bound, and fitted into an approved marriage,’ ” I recited. “And I’m sure like all your mothers would say, ‘Afterward she can speak only when her husband deems it is proper.’ Well, maybe that’s how you see your futures, but not me.”

  No one spoke for a moment. Daisy was looking down, but Agnes and Edna stared at me as if they had just seen a ghost.

  “I think I have to start for home,” Agnes said. She looked like she was going to get sick.

  “Yes, me, too,” Edna said.

  They both leaped to their feet.

  “Remember, I brought you here,” Daisy said, “and you swore everything said and heard is sacred.”

  “We know,” Agnes said.

  “You’d better,” Daisy told them with steely eyes. They looked afraid to swallow.

  Daisy turned to me.

  “I’ll help you bring in the blanket, glasses, and jug of lemonade.” She obviously wanted to remain for a few minutes to talk about them.

  “Thank you.”

  We started to fold the blanket. Edna and Agnes said good-bye and quickly walked off together, holding hands and never looking as small to me. Daisy watched them, too.

  “They’re such children,” she said. “Sex is still a dirty word to them. A kiss on the neck will seem more like a mosquito bite when and if a boy ever does kiss them.”

  “If he sucks hard enough, it could have the same result,” I said.

  Daisy laughed but looked a little astounded at the thought and image. The truth was that Daisy and I pretended we knew so much, but if we were honest, we would have to admit we didn’t know all that much more than Agnes and Edna did when it came to actually having sex. Everyone by now had been taught about the birds and the bees, but except for a forbidden kiss Daisy referred to, usually something quite unsatisfactory, neither of us had ventured to do much more.

  We brought everything into the house, and Daisy said good-bye. We promised to see each other soon without the other two, or any other girl for that matter, so we could have more revealing discussions.

  “I’m amazed at how much I’m still learning from you, Corrine.”

  We hugged, and she left.

  Where was I to get much more to tell her? Despite how wise and mature I appeared to her, I was still forced to live in an asexual world, ignoring every thrilling sensation and avoiding every carnal fantasy. My mother was good at sensing when I had these feelings and erotic illusions, too, especially now that I was older and they came more often. She would take one look at me and say, “Clean up your mind,” which brought the blood to my face, a revelation as good as a verbal confession.

  Desire and passion were hanging there with all the other forbidden fruit dangling in our home. God forbid I mentioned having erect nipples, and although it was never clearly stated, only vaguely suggested, satisfying the overwhelming urge to masturbate was the same as opening the lid to the hole that dropped you directly into the arms of Satan.

  Often I wanted to scream, “I am not made of stone!” Was I to ignore my perfectly shaped, firm breasts that had appeared almost overnight, disregard this smooth curve in my waist, and completely overlook the deliciously formed rear end that Nature herself had designed?

  But was it all, this body that Venus herself was sculpting, to be hidden in those awful clothes my mother favored, not only for herself but for me? Maybe my mother wished my hourglass figure would turn into a jar.

  No matter what looks my mother gave me at the first sign of flirtation or what waves of ice-cold warnings she declared about the dangers men by their very nature possessed, I couldn’t let go of the dream. One day, despite my mother, I would emerge like a dazzling butterfly and lift myself away from her constraining reach. I would hover freely for a while, maybe just to torment her, and then explore the promises that attracted me, each a branch, a leaf, or a soft petal upon which I could land and from which I could shine the beacon of my beauty like a lighthouse of love.

  Once I was free, I would bask in the looks of admiration and welcome the wave after wave of compliments unchecked. Men would strain the very limits of their imaginations to outdo each other with flowery praise simply to win my smile. Those who were granted a touch of my hand would struggle to keep themselves from exploding with desire. My beauty was that powerful.

  I knew I sounded very brave and sophisticated, which was why my womanly talks had become so famous among my peers, but I felt like a runner who had her ankles chained together or a bird whose mother wouldn’t let her try out her wings. What good was my beauty and charm if it was all kept locked up until my parents, like the parents of practically all the girls I knew, decided what man deserved the key?

  Maybe that would be their futures, but for me, it was something I was determined I’d decide for myself, no matter what the risks.

  And I had no doubt there would be some.

  I was just not prepared for how many and how quickly they would come.

  On my sixteenth birthday, my father presented me with a new, very fashionable cherry-red bicycle, one with pneumatic bicycle tires, top of the line. Especially for young women in 1890, cycling had become the rage. Some wore puffed knickerbockers when they rode, but I saw the gift as a doorway opening me to more sophisticated clothing. I immediately asked for a divided skirt with a shorter hemline so I could ride more comfortably. My mother, so unaware of sportswear, started to object until I explained how the skirt would look like a normal full skirt when I dismounted.

  “I must have a new hat and new shoes, too,” I declared. “How silly I’ll look now wearing a child’s bonnet. I should have a new pair of lace-up boots, proper stockings, and pretty petticoats.”

  “Pretty petticoats! Why does that matter? Who would see you in them when you cycle?” my mother asked, her face lit by lightning.

  “Not when I cycle, Mother, but when I dress, I would, and so would you,” I said calmly. I was sure she could see defiance swimming in my eyes. “Why can’t young women be proud of themselves, proud of how they look, even if it’s only in their mirrors?”

  “Women proud of themselves? Look what you’ve started, Harrington Dixon,” my mother complained. She waved her right forefinger at him like a hell-and-brimstone preacher. “Pride goeth before a fall. Remember that.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing really that terrible, Rosemary,” he said calmly. “All young women are driven by the same fancies. You were simply better at hiding it.”

  “Fiddlesticks. I never—”

  “Rosemary . . .” He smiled. “You’ll come along and help choose nice things.”

  My face soured, even though he hadn’t added “proper,” which to me was as bad as any profanity. It was one of those “lock and chain” words that restricted you to the point of screaming. I had been hoping to go shopping only with my father, who would stand on the sidelines laughing while I ran wild with my selections.

  “Apparently, I have no choice but to do so,” my mother said, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes with frustration. “Now that you’ve gone and done it.”

  Despite her ugly faces of disapproval and what I believed were her efforts to hide her natural beauty out of some silly, stern modesty, my mother was an attractive woman with nearly perfec
t features. She was tall and regal and had hands as pretty as mine. When I would catch her sitting quietly by herself, her face was like one carved in ivory, a cameo, and her blue-gray eyes, not stained with anger or disgust, would be strikingly attractive. Why else would my father have married her? Her family hadn’t been as well off as his. As difficult as it was for me to believe, there must have been some iota of romantic love between them.

  “What terrible thing have I done?” my father asked, obviously fighting a smile, the smile his eyes betrayed.

  “You’ve opened Pandora’s box, Harrington Dixon. That’s what you have done.”

  I hope so, I thought.

  “Well, actually, there is something special that would require us to do some shopping for Corrine as well as you anyway, Rosemary,” my father said.

  “And that is?” my mother asked, tucking in the right side of her mouth. If she only realized how ugly that made her and how it would eventually add more wrinkles in her face, she would stop doing it, I thought.

  “Simon Wexler, the chairman of the bank’s board of trustees, and his wife have decided to celebrate their tenth anniversary with a gala at their home on May fifteenth. It will be a formal affair, of course. You two will need new dresses. For Corrine, it will truly be like her coming out. And it’s time she did.”

  “Really, Daddy?”

  Were my feet off the ground?

  His eyes twinkled his yes, which made my heart race with the possibilities. I would be making a grand entrance at a gala attended by the rich and powerful, their wives wearing the latest in fashion. I would finally step onto the stage as a young woman and not a child tagging along behind her parents.

  For the past year or so, I had been rehearsing for this dramatic entrance into Alexandria, Virginia’s social world, practicing my walk, my posture, and shaping my smile. My mother’s busybody friends surely would fan their heated faces harder once they saw me grown and developed, my sexuality revealed, I thought. Men would turn their heads quickly as I passed by. Some would suffer neck strain. All the daughters of other people, especially my parents’ friends, would gasp so hard with envy that they might pee in their knickers. My closest friends certainly would. Daisy’s eyes would shed green tears, even though we were best friends.