Beneath the Attic

by V. C. Andrews

  “What’s wrong with the dresses I have?” my mother asked. “I don’t think it’s necessary to put on airs, especially for your board chairman and his . . .” She looked at me and checked herself. “Woman,” she added, exploiting the underlying suggestions whispered in the circles of polite society. Everyone my mother knew talked about Lucy Wexler’s coquettish ways. There was even substantial gossip about assignations with secret extramarital lovers hovering in shadows. She had two nannies alternating to care for her eight- and six-year-old boys, supposedly so she would have time for all this indiscretion. I thought it was the most exciting topic of my mother’s frequent gossip sessions.

  “It’s really not putting on airs to be in fashion, Rosemary.”

  “My clothing is still in fashion, Harrington.”

  “Whatever you think is right to wear, certainly.”

  “Well, I need a formal dress. I have nothing for such an event, and it’s time I did,” I said, nearly stamping my right foot for emphasis. I was afraid my mother might successfully stop me. “Right, Daddy?”

  “Yes, it’s time you had something more in style, more fitting for your age,” he said, nodding. “Don’t you agree, Rosemary?”

  “What’s in style today is ridiculous and in some instances obscene,” she said, “especially for young girls.”

  My father didn’t change expression or look like he would change his mind. My mother sighed at the sight of another defeat. The words almost appeared on her forehead: Why bother anymore? Except I still have my own pride.

  “Now that you’re determined to do this, yes, I’d better come along and make sure you don’t buy her something that would make us look foolish,” she added, and left the living room, for a moment taking all the air out with her.

  My father gazed after her, shaking his head. Love had become pity, I thought, but I quickly brushed it all out of my mind. That wasn’t important now. I had lots of more important things to consider, headed by hair and nails and a new, more sophisticated fragrance.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I said, rushing into his arms.

  My father was six foot three and broad-shouldered. He had reddish-blond hair with a Vandyke that highlighted his firm, masculine mouth and Romanesque nose. His cheeks were habitually flushed, which served to emphasize the blueness in his eyes, eyes I had inherited.

  He looked down at me and kissed my forehead.

  “You can break any man’s heart you want, Corrine,” he warned, smiling and flirtatiously running his right forefinger along the softness of my cheek and over my perfectly shaped lips. “Just don’t break mine.” He feigned a threatening look.

  “Oh, never, Daddy. Never,” I said, and hugged him tighter until he laughed and begged to be released.

  “You’ll crack my ribs!”

  We both laughed then.

  I was laughing because in my heart, I knew confidently that I could use him to pry open any door locking away anything my Victorian mother and her stuffy friends deemed forbidden.

  Later that evening, I moaned and sighed suggestively, turning my head slowly from left to right and back again as I studied myself in my large gilded oval mirror, looking for my most favorable profile when I paused. I envisioned men on my right and then men on my left studying me at the Wexler gala.

  Was my face more attractive slightly tilted or with my chin raised? Did I hold my shoulders too stiffly, my nose so high that I looked like I was sniffing clouds? I wanted to move with good posture but not like my mother, who too often walked as if she had an iron rod up her spine. She had perfect posture, but she lacked the grace I had naturally. My body was a finely tuned instrument that played the melody of me. Hers was stuck in a statue labeled Decency, judging every sway, every smile, and every turn.

  Girls like Agnes and Edna, who still weren’t conscious of their habitual moves, were simply dullards. For nearly two years, I had tried to get them to understand a number of times after they had attended my womanly talk, but now they avoided me as if I could tempt them into prostitution or something. Thinking ahead and planning your smile wasn’t sinful. I believed that nothing a young woman did regarding her appearance should be accidental. It was preparation and practice that made the difference between success and failure with men, even for someone as truly beautiful as I was. What good was a horse that nature gave the ability to run very fast if it wasn’t trained to do so? More important, if it wasn’t given the opportunities to do so?

  I was not fond of what my mother called “proper understatement” when it came to your appearance. Even with an expensive new dress and shoes, as well as a touch of tinted powder on your cheeks, even someone like me, with all this inherited loveliness, could be ignored and become practically invisible if I behaved like a mannequin and showed no apparent interest in myself, a Modest Mary. That sort of girl was so surprised by a compliment that she became flustered and attracted only clods. They deserved each other.

  Once, I had overheard my father tell a business associate that “something moving always has more attraction than something stuck in place.” Of course, he had been talking about who would be worthy of receiving a loan to expand his business and who wouldn’t be, but I was always thinking in terms of competition for the attention of men. Every day, I thought of and realized more that I could do to be attractive. A gesture that was just a little exaggerated, a shift of a shoulder with a suggestive smile, and a laugh only a trifle louder than most would laugh turned heads toward me. After that, it was my task to hold the gazes of those I wanted competing for my favor, by either dropping my eyelids to send a seductive message or wetting my lips with a swipe of the tip of my tongue before I smiled again.

  I wasn’t exaggerating during my womanly talks when I suggested some of this as part of a woman’s book. Lessons in romance like these were what I intended to memorialize in my diary. There were all sorts of sexy ways to softly close your eyes, hold your head just a little to the side, and sigh seductively. But how was I to explain it so that someone far more naive would understand? As Agnes and Edna and girls like them demonstrated, most girls my age were ignorant when it came to what made them more seductive. I had all this natural wisdom to share, but to talk to them was like trying to converse with someone who spoke a foreign language. Only Daisy seemed to care, to learn from me, but I doubted she would ever reach my level of magnetism and win the man she wanted, even if I got her a personal copy of my book of love.

  However, the proper words, words that really captured my feelings and thoughts, were so difficult to write. I was frustrated almost every time I lifted a pen, my diary opened to blank pages, and sat at the mahogany inlaid desk my mother had thought was far too expensive for “a little girl’s room.” Whenever my mother referred to me that way, my ears would burn, even when I was seven. I was never really just “a little girl.”

  It was so important to write in my diary, despite my struggle to express my feelings accurately. Most of my girlfriends kept one, but mine would be historic. It might even end up in a museum or be used to teach other young girls how to become fully developed women. Why, someday I could be as famous as Clara Barton or Louisa May Alcott. I was certainly more attractive than they were. And now I would prove it to Alexandria high society.

  A new dress, the Wexler gala! I really am breaking free, I told myself. I would fill the pages of my diary with memories of this time in my life, memories that would send my mother rushing hysterically into the street, pulling her hair out, even if she had read only one page.

  To prepare myself for what I saw as my coming out, I consumed anything I could read about the new dresses and hairstyles. By the time we set out to shop for my new clothes, I was as good as any fashion expert.

  Not surprisingly, from the moment my mother had walked into the department store with my father and me, I saw her face droop with disapproval at the sight of the dressed mannequins and hanging garments. She hadn’t bought anything new for herself for quite some time. No recent fashion was special enough or good
and proper as far as she could see, and it wasn’t a case of being deliberately critical of something you couldn’t have. My father had never discouraged my mother from buying new clothes and shoes. On the contrary, he was always encouraging her, but carefully, because if he mentioned someone else’s wife and how good she looked in something new, my mother would accuse him of lechery.

  But with my father’s help that day, I had been able to have a dress that clearly marked me as older, mature, a woman and not a child. It was expensive, too. Most important, the colors brought out my rich, magnolia-white complexion, something even the saleslady had to acknowledge, but carefully, especially when she looked at my mother and saw the disapproval sinking into her face. The saleslady came close to making the dress seem too sexy, even though ironically it was vintage Victorian. Most of that had to do with my figure, my small waist and perfectly proportioned hips. She nearly made a tragic mistake for me by saying, “No corset could shape your daughter any better.”

  “We need something appropriate,” my mother inserted. “Not shapely.”

  “But it is beautiful,” I said. “Can we buy it, Daddy?”

  I avoided my mother’s eyes.

  “Buying you something beautiful is what we’re here for,” he said.

  Now that dress hung on my closet door in my bedroom. It was an evening dress of red and white; the underskirt was white satin, kilted in front and trimmed with Mechlin lace and a garland of red roses. The overdress was red silk with a low neck and short sleeves. Of course, I had to have a pair of gloves to the elbow and chose black. Whenever I entered my room after my father had bought the dress for me, I would practically genuflect. Every day until the day of the gala, I would put it on and move around my bedroom, practicing how to turn and sit or simply walk wearing it. I wanted it to look like I’d been wearing sophisticated clothing for some time. This wasn’t some little girl bursting out of a shell.

  Daisy came over to see me in it one day. Her parents weren’t invited to the gala, so she wouldn’t be there.

  “You are coming out,” she said when I paraded across my room. She didn’t sound envious, just amazed. We had, after all, practically grown up together, and I could see she felt left behind.

  “Soon you’ll be just as gorgeous and elegant, Daisy,” I said, even though I hardly believed it.

  “Right,” she said, sounding so sad. It was really as if this was a final good-bye between us, and there was nothing either of us could do about it. I was leaving on a train she had yet to board.

  I hugged her. “You will be. Who should know better than the woman who runs our womanly talks?”

  That made her feel better, and we sat afterward for hours talking about the good-looking young men I might see at the gala.

  “Promise to tell me all about it as soon as you can,” she said.

  I assured her I would remember every important detail. “It will be like you were there.”

  That was enough to put a smile on her face when she left.

  I returned to perfecting my appearance. I preferred her not being there when I concentrated on all this. Despite everything I had taught her, she wouldn’t know what to emphasize and what not, and I would have to spend and waste time explaining why little things mattered.

  My mother was adamant about me not tinting my cheeks, but that was fine. With my youthful complexion and a little trick pinching them before I entered the gala, I was confident it wouldn’t matter.

  When it came to preparing my hair, I was already far better at it than my mother was at doing her own. I wore it in a high coiffure. My mother wasn’t going to lend me any of her jewelry, but when I asked her again in front of my father, he insisted that she should.

  “I won’t have her looking underdressed, Rosemary. Either lend her what’s appropriate, or I’ll buy her what’s appropriate.”

  Seeing he was serious, my mother reluctantly offered me a double row of pearls for my necklace and a gold brooch with pearls to wear at the center of my neckline. However, she didn’t give me any of it until the day of the gala, claiming I might dare to wear something away from the house and lose it, especially if I wore it riding my bicycle.

  I didn’t argue. I concentrated on my complete appearance without the jewelry daily, however. Right after they had bought my dress, they had bought my shoes. I loved the gold satin slippers with pointed toes trimmed with rosettes of mousseline de soie, very large and full. Even my mother was impressed when I told the saleslady exactly what I wanted. My father first thought my mother had explained that much about fashion, but he quickly understood I knew it all myself.

  “Maybe I’ll start having her choose my clothes,” he said, half kidding.

  Now overwhelmed herself, my mother quickly volunteered to give me one of her evening cloaks. My father would have told her to anyway. I asked for her velvet full shoulder cape.

  “I was going to wear that,” my mother said, almost wailed. I didn’t change expression. “Oh, well. I’ll do something else.”

  I smiled. Seemingly, there was no stopping me now, and I knew I just had to take advantage of every opportunity.

  When I stepped out of her room and joined my parents in the study the night of the gala, my father broke into the proudest, warmest smile I could recall.

  “Who is this young lady?” he said, pretending he really didn’t know me. He turned to my mother and growled, “Why do you surprise me with strangers in my own home?”

  My mother raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “Please, Harrington,” she said.

  “What, ‘please’? I do believe she’ll steal the evening from Lucy Wexler.”

  I beamed, but my mother shook her head and scowled.

  “What dreadful thoughts are you stuffing into her already swollen ego? It is quite, quite impolite to steal away the evening from Lucy Wexler on the occasion of her anniversary, Harrington.”

  “I thought you weren’t that fond of her.”

  “I’m not, but it is their anniversary, and I wouldn’t want any woman, even a Lucy Wexler, to be mistreated.”

  She turned to me, her eyes too familiarly cold and angry.

  “You mind your manners, young lady, and remember what I told you about being modest, especially in the company of unmarried men. You make sure you are properly introduced to strangers and always by an adult.”

  “Oh, yes, Mother. Thank you. I certainly wouldn’t want to make a terrible social faux pas and embarrass you and Daddy after you’ve taught me so much about social etiquette from your own experiences,” I said. I was dripping so with sarcasm that my father risked a smile. My mother ignored it.

  “Shall we go, then?” my father asked my mother.

  My mother nodded, looking more like she was about to attend a funeral than a celebration, while I could barely contain myself.

  Even if I hadn’t had new, more sophisticated clothes and believed this was my coming out, I would have been excited to attend a gala at the now-famous Wexler mansion. The nearly 15,000-square-foot house was built on 180 acres that featured a half-mile-long lake. The mansion had grand Doric columns and a triangular pediment that resembled a temple. There were over fourteen grand-sized rooms and a ballroom. It had originally been built and owned by a large slave owner. The rumor my father told me was that Simon Wexler had outmaneuvered another bank that had foreclosed on the property to buy it all for almost half its value.

  Although the gala had been advertised as a gathering of close friends and relatives, it was quickly apparent from the line of carriages as we approached that this was no small gathering. The moment my father turned into the long entry drive, over which grew very old oak trees creating a dramatic green tunnel, my mother gasped.

  “There must be over a hundred people!” she exclaimed.

  “Most likely close to two hundred, Rosemary,” my father said. He turned to look at me. “Lots of cousins.”

  I smiled at his laughter. We were only halfway down the long entry when we heard the music. It sounded like a
very big band with more than three banjos.

  “They’re playing ‘Oh, Them Golden Slippers,’ ” I cried. “And that’s my shoes!”

  What a good omen, I thought.

  The entry drive curved at the front of the mansion. As we drew closer, we saw it was swarming with carriages unloading and men and women in the most elegant clothes stepping out. There were dozens of servants taking care of the horse-drawn carriages. As we drew even closer, the music was louder, and I could see that people were being greeted at the front entrance by help serving glasses of champagne as they entered. The festive atmosphere was explosive.

  “May I have a glass of champagne, Daddy?” I quickly asked.

  “Of course not,” my mother said.

  “Oh, I think one is appropriate, Rosemary. Corrine’s old enough to toast the Wexlers.”

  My mother shook her head but said nothing more.

  My eyes went everywhere, evaluating the dresses other women wore, searching for someone who was young and pretty enough to be my competition. I was heartened by how many girls my age were still dressed like young girls, some still looking more like bleary-eyed children, too unsophisticated to be anything but bored, even here with all this.

  My father held out his right arm. My mother was on his left. We’d do the stairs that way. My father looked prouder than a peacock with me and my mother at his side, and he looked more like a Roman emperor surrounded by an adoring crowd. I could feel the eyes turning our way and thought most were looking at me. For many who knew my father and mother well, there was an obvious moment of curiosity: was I their young daughter?

  I froze my soft smile the way I had practiced before the vintage mirror, to be another Mona Lisa. In a moment, everyone, especially the men, would realize that I was miles past being a child.

  Simon and Lucy Wexler were just inside the front entrance. Simon was stout, with a small potbelly, graying dark-brown hair, and a graying brush mustache. Lucy was an attractive woman with chestnut hair that complemented her strikingly green eyes. I thought she looked at least a decade or so younger than her husband. She was so bedecked with jewelry that I thought she resembled a walking Christmas tree with all those diamonds twinkling in the light.