Beneath the Attic

by V. C. Andrews

  “You just want to be sure I don’t come back at you,” I said, and he raised his hands in surrender.

  “Now I’m happy that you will have your own bedroom after we’re married.”

  “What? Why my own bedroom?”

  “I like the idea of your being in your own room. I’ll have the room your parents are now in prepared as soon as they leave. It’s quite nice.”

  “But why?”

  “It will make our marriage more romantic and more exciting. Just like we just were because we’re doing this surreptitiously tonight. Don’t you see?

  “Besides, a woman has so many other needs. I’d be underfoot with my things and constantly stumble over yours. Your bedroom will be your world, solely your world. I’ll come to it only when I want you or when you ask me to come.”

  “But we’ll be married.”

  “Oh, I know about married people. Sex becomes something mechanical after a while. You know, carried on Tuesdays and Thursdays or something. Lovemaking should be spontaneous, even after years and years of marriage. It will be like the first time every time.”

  From the expression on his face, I understood that he wanted me to see this idea as tender and amorous, but it struck me as just the opposite of spontaneous. It was more like forbidden lovers planning affairs, trysts, and not people in a marriage. In a way, he made it all sound illicit, like we’d be sneaking love in the mansion.

  I dreamed of a different set of circumstances. In mine, I would often turn to him in our bed, my eyes filled with desire, which would immediately light up his. That was spontaneous, too, wasn’t it? Alone, busy with my clothes and hair, pins and scents, I wouldn’t feel his presence, his breath, and be touching his body with the tips of my fingers the way he would touch mine. Then our lovemaking would seem fitting, fulfilling. Wasn’t that all far more romantic?

  “Your bedroom is so large,” I said. “How can there not be room for the two of us? I don’t understand. Why can’t we share your room?”

  “Your parents don’t share a room, do they?” he asked. How did he know that? Why would my father confide such a thing in him. Did he just look at them and surmise? “Well?”

  “I don’t want to be my mother,” I said as sharply and firmly as I could.

  He smiled. “Oh, you won’t be. I know so little of her, but even in my wildest imagination, I wouldn’t call your mother an exceptionally passionate woman, would you?”

  I didn’t disagree about her. She wasn’t my touchstone when it came to marriage anyway. “But . . .”

  “You should return to your room now. We have so much to do with your parents tomorrow. Don’t forget, the tailor is arriving in the morning to adjust your wedding dress. Best we both get some sleep.”

  I sat up and began to dress.

  “Dora will be waiting for you in the guest room to attend to any of your needs before sleep.”

  “I don’t have any needs,” I said petulantly.

  “Don’t be angry. Just think about what I’m saying. You’re going to be into your pregnancy in a short while, and you’ll want more privacy then. You’ll see. I’m right about the separate bedroom,” he continued as I dressed.

  When I was finished, I turned to him. “I’m not angry. I was just thinking about it, that’s all. And I’ve made a decision.”

  “Oh?”

  “I agree.”

  “Oh, good,” he said, smiling.

  “But I don’t want to move into the bedroom my parents are using.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want to move into the Swan Room,” I said. “In fact, that is the only room I’d move into if not sharing yours.”

  He sat up, staring at me. “No one’s ever slept in it,” he said.

  “Exactly. Why waste something that beautiful? Have done whatever has to be done. I’ll move in right after my parents leave.”

  I walked to the doorway and then turned back to him.

  “And I’ll look at your mother’s wardrobe sometime tomorrow after the tailor works on my wedding dress. If there’s anything to rescue, I’d like to do it now. Okay?”

  “Sure,” he said, but he still looked a little dazed.

  “Good night, my love. I’m very excited about all you’re doing to make our wedding practically a historic event.”

  I blew him a kiss and left.

  I walked to my room and entered. Dora was there, just as Garland had said she would be, but she had fallen asleep in the chair by the bed.

  I started to undress. She heard me and quickly rose to help.

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling quite annoyed now. “I don’t need help with this. I’m not an invalid.”

  She looked devastated.

  “It’s all right,” I said with less annoyance. “Thank you.”

  She smiled with relief. Obviously, Garland had warned her never to do anything that would displease me.

  “I put out your nightgown,” she said, nodding at the bed.

  I looked at it and shook my head. It was a dull-gray gown with a square neckline and a capelike collar, puffed sleeves, and a pleated front bodice. The neckline had elaborate embroidery.

  “That’s not my nightgown. Where did you get it?”

  “Mr. Foxworth had me fetch it from his mother’s things and told me to lay it out for you.”

  “Take it back to whatever old chest it was stored in.”

  “I washed it, and it’s scented.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not sleeping in that. I’m going to the bathroom, where I will put on my own nightgown. I’ll be going right to sleep afterward, so go get some sleep yourself, Dora.”

  She stood there like someone afraid to move.

  “Go,” I nearly shouted.

  She jerked herself to the right, carefully gathered up the nightgown, and started out. “I’ll bring up some warm milk.”

  “I don’t want any warm milk. Go to sleep,” I ordered, and went for my own nightgown. She was still standing in the doorway when I turned back. “What?”

  She looked absolutely frightened. “Can I just leave this here, maybe in the closet?”

  “You’re afraid Mr. Foxworth would blame you for my not wearing that?”

  She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to.

  “Just leave it and go,” I said.

  She hurriedly brought it to the closet, hung it up carefully, and then left. If I had the slightest doubt before, it was gone. I was marrying a man who ruled his mansion like a king ruled his palace. It wasn’t a total surprise, but I did believe he was enchanted with me. And after all, I was not coming here to be another servant; I was coming to be his wife, his queen, if he liked. Our wedding was certainly being organized as if it was a royal event.

  Besides, as I once told some girls at one of my womanly talks, a man is not unlike any other wild animal. Once you corral him in marriage, capture him with your beauty and charm, you lead him to the belief that he exists now for only one thing: pleasing you.

  “How do you do that?” Bethany Sue Andersen had asked skeptically.

  “You lasso him like a wild horse.”

  They had all laughed.

  “With what, a rope of steel?” Mabel Warren had said, smiling, thinking she was so clever. The girls had laughed again.

  “No, Mabel. With a rope of sex,” I’d said, and everyone had stopped laughing.

  Maybe a woman couldn’t vote, couldn’t run a company, couldn’t be an executive like my father or do half the things a man was permitted to do.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t get a man to do everything she wanted him to do for her.

  In the end, he would.

  It was that confidence, after all, that brought me to Foxworth Hall and soon to the altar to promise my obedience to Garland.

  Few who would attend would know my opinion of promises, but Garland certainly did, and if he didn’t, he would.

  I was tired. I hurried to the bathroom and then to bed, snuggling up comfortably in my own confidence, unaf
raid of anything, even a nightmare. I decided instead to relive the lovemaking we had just enjoyed, and for a few moments, I even forgot I was pregnant.

  Garland wasn’t exaggerating about how full the following day would be.

  Right after breakfast, the tailor arrived. My mother accompanied him to my room and, with me, waited for Dora to bring in what would surely be known as “the Foxworth wedding gown.” Even my mother thought that passing it down from one generation to another was a wonderful idea.

  My mother said it was quite elegant, nicer than her own. It was an ivory satin with an attached wide gathered skirt. The neckline was trimmed with a handmade lace ruffle, and the bodice featured a black-laced closing. Underneath, I would wear a corset over an embroidered chemise. Layers of full petticoats would be worn with a crinoline hoop, creating a full bellowed skirt. The Limerick lace veil was edged with a nine-inch border of floral motifs.

  The tailor took my measurements and then announced he would have little to adjust. He kept saying, “Remarkable,” after each measurement. “It’s as if the dress was already made just for you, Miss Dixon.”

  “Maybe it was,” my mother quipped, and they both nodded and smiled.

  Not if I had anything to do with it, I wanted to say, but I swallowed back my thoughts and impatiently waited for him to finish. What he had to do would take no time. Garland had asked him to return in a couple of days to help with what I would choose from his mother’s wardrobe. There wasn’t time for it today.

  As soon as the tailor left, Garland began the tour of Foxworth Hall. I had really seen so little of it, perhaps a third of the tapestries, art, and statuary. Soon I would be the mistress of this mansion and part of the Foxworth legacy, but for now, it felt like I was visiting a famous museum and should be taking notes. How would I remember what artist did what painting or sculpture and where each originated? Someday in the not-so-distant future, perhaps, I would be taking a visitor through Foxworth Hall, and Garland would expect me to be familiar with and proud of what we possessed.

  Because my mother had cross-examined Mrs. Steiner so much, she already knew many of the details, like how old the house was, who were the first Foxworths, how they had acquired so much land, and how the children of some distant cousins had been moved in for a while during a smallpox epidemic.

  “They hired a tutor and homeschooled them in the attic,” she told my father, as we followed Garland down the hallway.

  He overheard her whispering. “Education, books, have always been important to the Foxworth family,” Garland said. “Especially first editions.”

  My father was quite impressed with Garland’s library and envied him for his private office in his house. That gave him some ideas for the new house he was contemplating.

  “A man should have a private place for his business homework,” my father said.

  My mother looked at me and rolled her eyes. “I’m for that. Right now, the whole house is his private office,” she said, and Garland laughed.

  Perhaps the most impressive part of the house was the grand ballroom. Garland had obviously had it prepared for a dramatic viewing. The curtains were closed so that the room was made brilliant with all five tiers of the four crystal and gold chandeliers fitted with candles that had been lit. The light that spilled from the chandeliers reflected off the grand crystal fountain, weaving threads of radiance over the walls. Mirrors captured it and carried it further, illuminating everything silver and gold. The room was dazzling.

  “It’s a veritable wonderland,” my mother said. I spun to look at her when she added, “This house is filled with magic.”

  Did she actually feel that?

  The ballroom was so large that our footsteps echoed, because there wasn’t anything much in it at the moment, except for the long table with samples of service uniforms with different color combinations and the new piano. The hardwood floor looked as new as the day it was installed. A corridor in the house ran above the far wall. It was difficult to make out too much because it was dark. Would I ever get to know every nook and cranny? How does anyone call such a vast residence home?

  “In the horrid event that it rains on our wedding day, we can, as you see, hold the ceremony and reception in here and not feel crowded at all,” Garland told my parents. “My family has held many a big event in this ballroom, including a reception for Robert E. Lee, among other famous people like senators and congressmen. There’s an extension to the kitchen with an additional stove, sinks, and storage when we have to service a large number of people.”

  “Have you had such a big event here recently?” my mother asked.

  “No, not recently,” Garland said. He thought a moment and then smiled to add, “Not since my father was alive.”

  “Hopefully, you will have many now,” my mother said wistfully.

  “Oh, without doubt, Mrs. Dixon, without doubt. In the meantime, shall we choose the uniforms for the reception?”

  The two of them started for the table. I looked at my father. Wasn’t my opinion important for this, at least?

  He stepped up beside me to whisper, “Let her get totally involved, Corrine. The deeper she’s invested herself, the more she’ll accept any surprising news if we have to reveal it beforehand for some reason.”

  At this point, I almost didn’t care whether or not she accepted anything, but I took his point and held back. Garland cast a satisfied, conniving glance at me while my mother debated this color or that. She never asked for my opinion or my father’s.

  When they were finished, we walked out to another one of Garland’s carriages, driven now by Mrs. Wilson’s husband, John, a tall, lanky, light-brown-haired man who turned out to be quite the expert when it came to Civil War stories.

  “Gretta Foxworth, Mr. Foxworth’s grandmother, took in war wounded at one point toward the end of the war,” he said. “Both Union and Confederate wounded. There was a battle not two miles from the Foxworth estate. The Union Army outgunned the rebels. Dozens died, and they said the field was an ocean of red. I can take you to see the battlefield if you like.”

  “It isn’t still red, is it?” my mother asked.

  “Stained forever in other ways,” John suggested.

  “There are skeletons all over this property,” Garland added, just to tease my mother, who looked like she would faint. He and my father laughed.

  The ride to the border of the Foxworth property took so long that my father joked we had just entered another state. He continually put value on everything he saw, from lumber to possible housing sites.

  “My hope,” Garland said, “is never having to sell anything and certainly never to break up this property.”

  My father nodded as if he agreed, but I could see in his eyes that he didn’t. “Bankers,” Garland would tell me later on, “see only the monetary value in everything. The only time they’re emotionally involved with a dollar is when they lose it. Do you know a romantic banker?”

  I didn’t like thinking or saying anything negative about my father, so I was silent.

  When we reached the lake, another carriage arrived behind us, this one carrying our picnic lunch, blankets, and cool drinks. Both Dora and Mrs. Steiner began to set up.

  “Perhaps you’d like to take Mrs. Dixon for a bit of a row before we have lunch,” Garland said to my father. “Build your appetite.”

  “Rosemary?”

  My mother glanced at me and then smiled. “We haven’t done that since—”

  “Since Adam,” my father quickly inserted, and everyone laughed.

  Garland helped them into the boat, and then my father pushed off with surprisingly strong and graceful strokes. We watched them go farther and farther, and then we sat on the blanket and drank some lemonade.

  “You are a charmer, Garland Neal Foxworth,” I said. “Right now, my mother would say you can do no wrong.”

  “Isn’t she right?”

  I just looked at him skeptically, and he laughed.

  “So, are you really seriou
s about wanting the Swan Room to be your room?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I look forward to making love to you while embraced by the wings of a swan.”

  He nodded and looked away.

  “Dr. Ross will be here to examine you in the afternoon tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I’d like to hire my mother’s friend, Nurse Grace Rose.”

  “Let’s wait for Dr. Ross’s examination. If all is good, you might not need anyone else until the time comes. I’m sure Dora could ably assist anyway.”

  I didn’t want to tell him how frightened I was because of how difficult my mother’s pregnancy with me had been. He sensed my nervousness, put his arm around me, and kissed my cheek.

  “I won’t wait for our nuptials to begin protecting you, Corrine. Worry not,” he said.

  I relaxed against him. My parents disappeared around a corner.

  “Hope your father doesn’t get too rambunctious out there,” he quipped, his meaning in his coy smile.

  “My father? Doubt it.”

  “I would,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to exhaust myself before the evening starts.”

  I glanced back at Mrs. Steiner and Dora, who were sitting in the carriage, waiting to serve us. It didn’t seem right to have servants at a picnic watching our every move to anticipate something we might want. I imagined most women, especially young women my age, would be jealous of me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever get used to this life.

  “I have a great idea. Later, let’s practice the waltz for your parents. Your mother claims she never saw us dancing at the Wexlers’. I bet we can get them up and dancing, too. Great rehearsal for our wedding reception, us dancing alongside your parents. I can hear the applause now.”

  He smiled and then kissed me softly.

  “You are so lovely, no matter what time of day,” he said.

  Would I ever be happier than this?

  Close to an hour later, my parents returned, my father looking hot under the collar from the effort to cross the lake or, as Garland was suggesting with his laughing eyes, something else.

  “Shall we call it midday delight?” he whispered.