Beneath the Attic

by V. C. Andrews

  “The bed is a little oversized for a bachelor,” he said, “but we Foxworths have our superstitions.”

  “And what is this one?”

  “Since I’ve slept in this bed so long, the babies made in it will inherit our best features and health. Looks like a wasted pillow right now.” He leaned closer to whisper, “But I alternate nights with each.”

  He laughed at my expression of surprise. Was he serious?

  There was a large mirror to our left, and beside it was a dressing table of cherrywood. Everything on it was neatly organized.

  Beside the dressing table was a large dresser and what looked like a very large closet next to that. There was one blue cut-velvet chair oddly facing the bed as if someone sat there to watch him sleep, perhaps watching something else as well. On the right were another closet and another small dresser. The room had a fireplace, which was now unlit.

  “Where do your few servants sleep?”

  “Their quarters are above the carriage garages in the rear.”

  “You called your maid ‘Mrs.’ Is her husband here as well?”

  “I’m afraid not. He died of smallpox seven years ago. They had no children, which might be a blessing. He wasn’t very good-looking, either.”

  He smiled widely. I poked him.

  “You are a terrible man, Garland Foxworth. Do you know that?”

  “I’ve been told so on occasion, even by my own mother,” he said, laughing. “Shall we continue? There is another bedroom to show you. It’s never really been used. My mother had the bed made on a whim, according to my father, and after it had been constructed, she was embarrassed to use it. It is something special.”

  He paused at the closed door.

  “You could count on the fingers of one hand how many people I’ve shown this room, but somehow, for some reason I can’t explain at the moment, I think you will appreciate it as much as my mother hoped she would. She was a little too . . . shy, perhaps,” he added, and opened the door.

  At the center of the room on a dais was a bed with the sleek ivory head of a swan, turned in profile, looking like swans do when they are just about to plunge their heads under the ruffled underside of a lifted wing. I’m not sure if I gasped or not, but I had never seen anything like it. Although Garland didn’t move forward, standing back almost as if he was afraid to enter any farther, I did.

  Looking at it more closely, I saw that the swan had one sleepy red ruby eye. Its wings curved gently to cup its head on an almost oval bed. The wing-tip feathers were like fingers holding back the delicate transparent draperies that were in all shades of pink and rose and violet and purple.

  “Your mother wanted this?” I asked.

  He stepped up beside me. “She designed it herself. It was sort of a hobby of hers. My father never thought much of her talent or vision when it came to designing things. He made fun of it, actually, sometimes bringing her to tears.”

  “How cruel. Anyway, he was quite wrong. This is beautiful. The swan was a perfect choice because of its grace.”

  “Somehow I knew you would say that.”

  I gazed around. “The whole bedroom is unique.”

  There was a thick mauve carpet and a large rug of white fur near the bed. There were four lamps four feet high made of cut crystal and decorated with gold and silver. Two of them had black shades, and placed between the other two was a chaise longue upholstered in rose-colored velvet.

  “What a shame that it’s gone unused.”

  “My father hated all this color. He wouldn’t come into the room after she had it completed. If he could have, he would have nailed the door shut. Even though she didn’t sleep in that bed, she spent lots of time in here. It was sort of an escape for her, escape from my father and even from me.”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t have to believe that so fast.”

  “I’m sure you don’t lie,” I said.

  He laughed.

  I looked at the walls covered with opulent silk damask in a bright strawberry-pink and then stepped up to the bed to feel the soft, furry coverlet.

  “Sleeping in this bed would be like sleeping on a cloud, I imagine.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. “It doesn’t look the same in the daytime.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Nothing does, including most people.”

  He laughed heartily again and reached for my hand. “Come on. I have the most interesting new drink to share with you, something I discovered in Italy. I brought back the recipe and have it made for me here in Charlottesville now.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “They call it limoncello. Some say it began with monks; others say fishermen. Every part of Italy seems to take credit for its origin. I’ll venture to say you won’t find it anywhere else right now in all of Virginia, even all of the United States, but here. I do like discovering new things and bringing them to Foxworth Hall, delicious and beautiful things. I’ll show you what I can tonight.”

  What he could? Was there a surprise behind every door?

  We stopped at the one just past the Swan Room.

  “Another little hideaway of mine,” he announced. “The house lends itself to secrets.”

  “Do you have so many that you need so many rooms?”

  He laughed. “We’ll see,” he said, and opened the door.

  It was just another bedroom.

  Lucas was a conspirator, I thought. He had gone ahead and lit the lamps, which burned low, casting an enticing glow over the bed and the thick, white, furry rug in front of the fireplace. It looked like the material I had felt on the swan bed.

  On the table beside it was a bottle of lemon-colored liquid and some glasses.

  “You’re in for a treat,” he said, smiling.

  My heart was pounding. I was lost somewhere in this great house and captured by that smile. It was a little frightening, but even that was something I had sought. Passion without danger seemed incomplete, even false.

  He was still holding my hand. His look was more intense.

  “You’re even more beautiful here, Corrine, but that’s another proof of Foxworth’s magic. Diamonds twinkle brighter within its grasp. I can feel it,” he said, gazing around. “The house likes you. You glitter in its light. I can only imagine what it would be like to have you here all the time. You’d fall so in love with it I’d be jealous.”

  All the time? I thought. Jealous?

  If my body wasn’t craving it, I might not have taken a breath.

  After my second glass of his delightful liquid, Garland’s laugh seemed to grow thinner and a little longer every time he did laugh. He had poured me my first glass after he had us lie down in front of the fireplace where he then proceeded to describe his travels in Italy and how he had fallen upon this drink in a small inn near the Amalfi coast. It was like listening to someone spin a tale of wonder and make-believe, and I was a little girl again, willing to be enchanted by his words.

  “From my first sip, I knew that this was something very special. I had gone thousands of miles to find it after I heard about it at a dinner in Rome,” he said, making himself sound like Marco Polo. He held his glass up, looking through the yellow liquid as if he was judging fine wine. “This batch is perfect. I’d have never discovered it had I not been enamored of pleasure journeys.”

  Travel was always to be part of my future. My best friend, Daisy, and I imagined ourselves in many exotic places, but no one described the sights, the views of the seas, and the quaint little villages with the enthusiasm Garland did, which made me want to do it so much more. From what he was relating in one tale after another, he had been over much of England and had visited France, Germany, Spain, and Italy. Now he was planning on trips to the Middle East and Asia.

  His descriptions were vivid, always stressing the romantic aspects: the piazzas in Italy at sunset with musicians playing and singing, the patios in southern France overlooking the Mediterranean with views that could take your breath away, the
pebble-stone streets in Greece with their small shops and restaurants, and the seaside on the Costa del Sol in Spain where he said he ate tapas and walked miles on the beach barefoot.

  “I can still feel the warm sand between my toes. Have you ever walked on a beach?”

  “No,” I said sadly.

  “You’ll walk on one with me someday.”

  “Will I?”

  He tossed out his predictions for me with such assurance. Anyone hearing him would think he had a crystal ball that revealed every day of my future, and every day included him.

  While he spoke, I drank more and more of his delicious lemon drink. He poured me a third and kept describing details of his most recent travels. Many of these places Daisy and I had seen pictures of in books. At home, I voiced a desire to actually see them, be there, even before I was eighteen, but my mother was not fond of real traveling, and my father always seemed to be too busy for long holidays.

  “Did you always travel alone?” I asked, fishing for more information about his romantic life. After all, how does a man alone enjoy such beauty, the music, and the wonderful dinners he had described?

  “Yes,” he said quickly. “I like to go about when I feel the need, move on a whim and a wish, and not have to discuss it to death,” he added, but he didn’t deny that he might have met women at these places. I sensed he might have left broken hearts trailing behind him. From what he described, a wife, at least back then, when he started his extensive traveling, was the last thing he had wanted.

  “What about your parents? Did they ever go along?”

  “My father was too tethered to my mother’s moods and looked forward more than anything to his hunting expeditions, because she would never go on one. He took me on a few when I was older, which is how I acquired the taste for it. I try to do at least two a year.”

  “But how do you do these trips and keep up with your businesses?” I was really thinking about my father, who had much, much smaller responsibilities than Garland did and took almost no holidays.

  “Good managers. Although I’m away, it doesn’t mean I don’t keep track of things. Besides, most of my investments take care of themselves. Cash cows, my accountant and I call them. Moo, moo,” he added, and laughed.

  Although I didn’t think it was all that funny imagining a cow being milked for dollars, I laughed, too, but at this point, I felt I might laugh at anything. It was truly like doors opening and restraints weakening. I felt so light that I thought I might just start to float.

  He poured me a little more limoncello when he saw my glass was almost empty.

  “You do like it, don’t you?” he asked when I hesitated. He sounded like it would break his heart if I said otherwise. He waited anxiously for my answer.

  “Oh yes, it’s . . . quite wonderful. Like you said, ‘It’s like drinking a spring day.’ ”

  He stared at me a moment, holding his smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You don’t forget anything I say. Perhaps you’ll write my autobiography,” he added.

  “I doubt it. I have enough trouble trying to write my diary.”

  “Oh, I’d like to have a look at that.”

  “Never,” I said, and he laughed.

  “Am I in it yet?”

  “Maybe.”

  That obviously pleased him.

  He continued to talk about his trips, describing a recent one to England on business. I was listening, but his words were beginning to flow together, and I was hearing the cadence of his voice more than I was hearing what he was actually saying.

  Suddenly, he paused, his eyes so fixed on mine I couldn’t look away. I had heard about hypnotism but had never seen it performed or met anyone who claimed to have been hypnotized. However, from the way I felt myself drifting, swimming, in his strong focus, I thought it might just be happening to me right now. I wasn’t panicked or afraid. The warmth that came with every sip of the lemon drink was washing through my body. It made every part of me feel like it was softening. I liked the feeling, but soon the room began to spin. I felt myself sway and turned quickly to lie on my back and close my eyes.

  As I did so, he took the glass of limoncello from my hand before I spilled it on myself and the rug.

  “Can’t waste a drop of this,” he said with a laugh.

  Even though my eyes were closed, it still felt like the floor was tilting and turning. I wasn’t frightened as much as I was a little embarrassed. I had had wine and even rum and never felt this way. I had thought his drink was nothing much more than lemonade. I tried to laugh, but it was as if I couldn’t move.

  “Corrine,” I heard him whisper. And then I felt his lips on mine.

  I didn’t want to open my eyes. My body seemed to be sinking into the soft rug. He said my name again and kissed me on the neck, unbuttoning my blouse so he could move his kisses to my shoulder and then down between my breasts. A tiny streak of lightning shot up my legs, into the small of my stomach, and up to my breasts.

  His lips were nearly touching my ear when he whispered, “You are so beautiful.”

  Was I smiling? My face felt as if it was drifting away. I think I wore a silly grin. I heard him chuckle.

  “I’m floating away,” I said. “Hold me down before I disappear.”

  I laughed after I said it, and he laughed, too.

  “No, you’re not disappearing. You’re dreaming. I just happened to slip into your fantasy, which is now mine as well.”

  His lips were on my neck again, moving like silk over my cheeks and my closed eyes, pressing softly and then pressing harder to my lips. While he kissed me, his hands were moving all over my body. I wanted to lift my arms to bring a moment of hesitation to us, but they were so heavy I didn’t get them an inch off the rug. I felt his fingers undoing all my clothes, and all I did was moan. I’m sure that only encouraged him.

  When his hand caressed my uncovered breast and his lips closed on my nipple, I finally opened my eyes. He went from one breast to the other, muttering how perfect I was and how much he wanted me.

  “You want me to,” he said. “Just as much, if not more. Am I right?”

  Before I could speak, he was pressing his mouth on mine, and his hands were softly lowering my chemise and then my drawers.

  I wondered if this was really happening or if I was, as he had said, in a dream.

  “Oh, Corrine,” he whispered. “Oh, Corrine, you’re like a goddess come to earth.”

  I knew what I was feeling between my legs. I wanted to warn him, to stop him from thinking I was so easily willing to do this, but he pressed on, grunting and pushing until he was in me.

  It was a little more painful than I had anticipated. I uttered a small cry.

  “I thought you were a woman of the world,” he said, not whispering now but sounding more like someone complaining. “You had me fooled.”

  Nevertheless, he continued. I started to cry but at this point offered not even the suggestion of resistance, because I felt some pleasure building, too. It was like kissing someone wonderful in the middle of a raging storm. I lifted my arms and grasped his shoulders, digging my fingers deeply into him. If I was hurting him with my fingernails, he didn’t care. I remember thinking pleasure could overcome pain for us both.

  The room was spinning again. I think I was clinging to him out of fear I would faint, but the harder I grasped him, the more encouraged he was. He said so many things, but I couldn’t hear him. There was thunder in my ears, his groans and grunts and cries of delight almost drowning it out.

  When he throbbed inside me, matching my own throbbing, he cried out, “Yes, yes!” dropping his face against my breasts. A long moment passed, and then, to my surprise, he laughed. He turned over on his back. I didn’t move. There was so much warmth between my legs.

  “Well, there goes a good rug,” he said. “But you’re definitely worth it.”

  I had yet to speak. My whole body felt as though it was still vibrating. I had just done the most intimate thing
a woman could do with a man, but it hadn’t been how I had imagined it would be. It was too quick and too rough. Where was the fantasy I had designed for myself in so many daydreams? Where were those magic chimes? Why didn’t I feel lifted and free, wanting more and more?

  I heard the snap of a match and turned to see him light up a cigar. He crossed his legs. He was still wearing nothing below his waist. The strong odor of the cigar made my stomach churn. I groaned. Smoke streamed out of his mouth.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Does this bother you?”

  “Yes!” I cried, swallowing back my urge to throw up. Didn’t he remember what I had said in the Wexler garden?

  “It’s a pretty expensive one,” he declared, turning it in his fingers. “But . . . for someone so pretty, I’d burn and waste a dozen.”

  He snuffed it out on the wooden floor, as if his massive home was simply a big ashtray.

  I realized I was still naked and reached for my underthings.

  “Oh, don’t do that,” he said, seizing my wrist. “The night is young.”

  “I should be thinking of going back to my great-aunt’s home.”

  “You said they wouldn’t know if you were there or not, and I saw what that house is like. Why rush back to that when you have all this to enjoy here?”

  I reached down to feel the warmth between my legs and then looked at my fingers.

  Blood!

  “Oh my God,” I said. I saw there was some on his rug.

  “Don’t worry about it. I won’t even bother having it washed. Maybe I’ll pin it up in that trophy room I showed you.”

  “What?”

  He laughed. “Just joking. I’ll have it burned up. But they say the first man a woman makes love to is the last man she’ll forget. How do you feel about that?”

  “I feel a little sick,” I said.

  He laughed again.

  “I do!”

  “It’ll pass. Just relax. Everything will be better for you this next time. You won’t have to wait long. I’m loaded for bear tonight.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My father’s expression. Now that we’ve opened the door, tilled the soil, let’s return to where we were,” he said. He took a long sip of his glass of limoncello, and then he looked at me and smiled. “This never disappoints,” he said, holding up the glass. “And you liked it, too.”