Days of Winter

by Cynthia Freeman

  It was impossible to mistake their indifference. She was unloved by her own parents, for which she felt a sense of shame, as if she was unworthy of their affection.

  Had it not been for her cousin Randolph Goodhue, three years her senior, who was sent from Manhattan to visit from time to time, she would have had no friends at all. But even then, her sense of worthlessness increased when she was five and Violet, despite her vow never to have another child, unexpectedly became pregnant. Her memories of Lily’s birth had faded and she was almost enthusiastic about the possibility of giving Charles a son. And this time, she swore, it would be a boy. She had just returned from a trip to Europe late in her sixth month when Lily first became aware of the change in her mother’s figure.

  “Mamma, why is your tummy so fat?” she asked that night at dinner.

  Violet looked at her daughter reprovingly. “Children should be seen and not heard.”

  That night Lily asked Michelle, her French nursemaid, “Pourquoi est-ce que Maman est si grosse maintenant?”

  “Parce que ta maman va te donner un frère, mon petit chou.”

  Lily squealed in excitement. “C’est vrai? Un bébé!”

  She was ecstatic the day little Charles was born. He was so beautiful, like a little doll—her very own baby brother.

  However, her joy was short-lived. She was chastened every time she tried to embrace him or make him smile. And as Charles began to walk and talk, she found herself standing silently by, watching, as her parents lavished love and affection on him. Seeing her mother and father play with Charles, Lily felt a sense of loss so strong, it was almost a physical pain. She decided the reason they never played with her was that she was so ugly. Everyone said so. She heard them whispering, even fat old Cook. And she would gaze into the mirror, comparing her thin childish form and unruly red hair, first with her mother’s dainty perfection, and then with Charles’s fat rosy limbs and curling dark hair, and be filled with self-loathing.

  At night, she would cry into her pillow with unfulfilled longing. Michelle, fiercely loyal, would try to comfort her. “But you are beautiful, chérie—you are! And of course your parents love you.”

  “They don’t love me!” Lily would sob. “I’m ugly. I wish I could die!” And sometimes her thoughts were darker still. If Charles would die, she would be all they had. Surely they would love her then. She knew such dreams were wicked, but no matter how she fought them, they came back, unbidden.

  As little Charles grew, the children became a little closer. The Long Island house was a lonely place and even their affection for their son did not keep Violet and Charles from their extensive travels. Lily had almost overcome her resentment by the time she was eleven. She rather liked having someone to follow her around.

  Then, one Indian summer day, glorious and warm, Lily rode her dappled mare into the field at the rear of the Long Island compound. Charles was on his fat little pony. It was a lazy, lovely afternoon as the sun filtered down through the trees. While the children rode, the elderly English governess gradually nodded off.

  She was awakened by Lily’s screams. “What is it?” she cried out, her heart pounding.

  “It’s Charles. He fell off the horse!” Lily screamed hysterically.

  “The horse? You mean the pony!”

  “No, no—I let him ride my horse for a minute, and he fell off!”

  Tears pouring down her cheeks, she led the governess to where Charles lay on the ground. His face was covered with blood, and as the governess came closer, she saw with growing horror that his head was turned at an unnatural angle. Falling to her knees, she pressed her ear to his small chest, listening for a heartbeat. “Oh, dear Lord! He’s dead!” she cried, grabbing his wrist and searching frantically for a pulse.

  “You evil girl, you devil,” she shouted at Lily. “How could you let Master Charles ride your big horse?” The woman knew that she had been at fault for dozing off. She dreaded the consequences. She would never be able to find another job. And all because of this wicked little red-haired monster!

  Terrified by the insane look in the governess’s eyes, Lily ran to her horse, leapt on, and galloped off into the nearby trees.

  Blinded by tears, she almost didn’t see the high stone wall looming up ahead, but she reined in just in time, slid from the saddle, and flung herself down in the high grass, weeping hysterically. She had committed the most horrendous crime imaginable in allowing Charles to ride her horse. It was no excuse that he had been begging her for weeks. His voice echoed in her ears, even as she covered them now with her hands. “Please let me ride Sugar, Lily. You have all the fun. It’s not fair. I have to ride around on this slow old pony. Come on, please?”

  “No, Charles. You’re too little.”

  “How come you get to ride Sugar? You’re mean,” he pouted.

  “No, I’m not mean, Charles. I’m eleven and you’re only six. And just because you ask doesn’t mean you get everything you want. Maybe with Mother and Daddy, but not with me.”

  Charles, lip trembling, had pleaded, “Please, Lily, please! I’ll love you forever.” He looked so sweet she had given in. She had been planning to mount behind him when Sugar reared at a garter snake and bolted.

  Shrieking, “Hang on, Charles,” Lily had leapt onto the small pony. She was desperately trying to catch up when the mare drew up short before the property fence, catapulting Charles over her head.

  No wonder she was unworthy of love—she was unworthy even to exist. She had wished Charles would die—and now he had. Closing her eyes, she willed Charles back to life. Maybe this was only a dreadful nightmare and she would awake in the morning in Michelle’s arms. But Michelle too was gone, dismissed for some minor infraction when Lily was eight.

  Gradually the shadows lengthened and night descended. It was pitch-dark when she saw lights flashing in the distance. They had come for her. Maybe they would kill her too or lock her away in the cellars. Too frightened to run, she sobbed convulsively. The last thing she remembered was a dark figure looming over her as she lost consciousness.

  When she woke up she was home in her own bed. But she was hardly safe. When she tiptoed into the hall she saw all the draperies had been drawn. The servants tended her needs in silence as if she were too evil for speech. From time to time she heard Violet weeping, but neither her mother nor her father came to see her.

  Then, after so much silence and her mother’s occasional weeping, came the sound of an automobile on the cobblestone driveway, the door opening, then the murmur of subdued voices. With trepidation, Lily slipped from her room and crept to the balustrade, looking out between the posts.

  Below, in the vast hall, was a small black casket, and she saw Charles lying there on ruched satin. His mouth was delicately red, his cheeks pink, and his dark hair curled about his face. He looked so lifelike, she almost cried out, “Charles, you’re not dead! You’re just pretending!”

  But he was, and the heavy scent of hundreds of white gardenias wafted upward, making her ill. She ran to the bathroom and vomited, then stood drenched in perspiration. She felt so dreadfully sick, she knew she must be dying.

  But she had survived, and the next day she was ordered to dress for the funeral. She could scarcely bear it. At the gravesite, the smell of the gardenias almost made her sick again. Oh, why hadn’t she died instead of Charles? She sobbed uncontrollably until the tiny casket was lowered into the grave, when once more she was rescued by merciful oblivion.

  It wasn’t until another week passed that her father spoke to her. Towering over her like the wrath of God, he spoke quietly and deliberately. “Even though you may have meant no harm, you are responsible for this terrible tragedy. Your mother is totally destroyed. She will recover faster perhaps if she doesn’t have to face you. I think it would be best if we send you away to school.” Then, as a fresh wave of grief washed over him, he added, “Right now I too would be glad never to lay eyes on you again.”

  Lily willed herself not to hear those devast
ating words, not to remember them. But they left a scar that never healed.

  Enrolled at Madame Sauvier’s, a school for girls in Lucerne, she was unable to forget the past. Although her room looked out on a vivid blue lake, surrounded by Alps, beneath which was a green pasture with yellow buttercups, she saw little of the beauty. Her eyes were always clouded by the past. There was no reprieve. Her nights were filled with anguish, and her days were spent in loneliness. She was too withdrawn to make friends. It was too painful for her to try to play with the other girls whose families loved them and cared about them. As children will, they whispered about her behind her back, and Lily shrank from them, knowing herself to be an outcast.

  Her parents saw her twice a year. On her birthday, and at Christmas, but their visits were coldly formal and they never suggested she return home. Had it not been for Randolph, she would have been utterly friendless. He wrote regularly and after a year he actually came to see her. He was with his parents in France and took the train alone to come to Lucerne. It was the happiest day of her life when she met him at the station with the inevitable chaperone.

  “Lily, Lily, Lily—I’m so happy to see you!” he said, lifting her up and twirling her around.

  He tucked her hand in his as they ran to the village, the chaperone trailing behind them. Walking the narrow streets, Lily saw the real beauty of Switzerland for the first time.

  As she sat across from him at the pâtisserie, sipping her hot chocolate, he observed her eyes above the rim of her cup. The brutality she had endured at her parents’ hands was scored in their expression. She had been wounded, as surely as if she’d been struck. Randolph raged silently at the waste. Couldn’t her parents see how beautiful and sensitive Lily was? He had always hated the way Uncle Charles and Aunt Violet had favored Charles, but it seemed incredible that they could blame her for the little boy’s death. He resented his own parents for not intervening.

  “Lily, how are you?” he said, taking her hand.

  “Fine, Randolph, really. Fine.” Lily smiled, but her eyes remained sad. She seemed so beaten.

  “Have you made any friends yet?” he asked gently.

  “No,” she shrugged, a little hopelessly. “They don’t seem to like me much. I guess it must be my fault.”

  “That’s not true, Lily,” he said softly. “You’re the most lovable girl in the world.”

  “No one else seems to think so.”

  “You’re wrong, Lily. Your parents do.”

  Lily looked at him incredulously.

  “Well, even if they don’t, Lily, I do. I’ve always loved you, ever since we were little.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away. “Do you, Randolph? Even with these glasses, and the bands on my teeth, and my red hair?”

  “Especially your red hair,” he laughed.

  Over the years, Randolph’s visits and the knowledge that he loved her slowly repaired Lily’s self-esteem. She began to do more things with the other girls and gradually made a few friends. By the time she finished Madame Sauvier’s and went to the College of the Holy Sepulchre in Bern, she had come out of her shell. She even had a best friend, Colette Valois.

  The two girls were totally different. Lily was five feet six, with pale skin and flaming red hair. Colette was four feet eleven, with olive skin and dark brown curls. Her parents referred to her as their précieuse poupée. She giggled and bubbled. Life had been good to her. She was the youngest of five, her four older brothers ranging from twenty to thirty, all tall and handsome.

  “You are beautiful, Lily,” said Colette. “When the braces come off your teeth, you will be magnifique.”

  Lily laughed. “I don’t think that getting rid of my overbite will bring about a miracle.”

  “You will see, chérie—Colette has plans for you.”

  She was right. When the bands Lily had worn for four years were removed, her mouth was perfectly sculptured, her teeth white and even. True to her word, Colette whisked her off to Paris, where her mother spent two days transforming the awkward schoolgirl into a swan. Her hair was styled, her face made up, her nails manicured, and even her eyebrows plucked. Then Colette took her to her favorite couturier and made her buy a wardrobe that really set off her slender height. That evening as Lily dressed for dinner, she saw herself as she really was, and not through her parents’ eyes. And the girl who gazed back at her from the mirror was truly beautiful. She had a delicate heart-shaped face with provocative cheekbones, and the emerald eyes which had always been hidden behind glasses and bangs were large and luminous. Her body, which just last week had seemed gangling, was now slim and lovely in her new dress which showed just enough rounded bosom to make her desirably feminine.

  When she went downstairs she flung her arms around Colette’s mother, but she knew she would never be able to thank her enough.

  Chapter 3

  UPON GRADUATION, LILY ASKED permission to stay abroad with cousins who lived near the Valois in Paris. It had taken little persuasion on her part for Charles and Violet to say yes. With their lack of blessings, she closed her eyes and found herself catapulted into a glamorous new world of excitement of holidays in Biarritz, skiing in Gstaad, and weekends in the country outside of Paris. She was no longer protected by the strict rules of a Catholic school, and men began to pursue her. Most were impoverished aristocracy and they weren’t seduced just by Lily’s beauty. One had to be smart to secure one’s future these days and her money was worth more than their titles. Who cared about coronets anymore, except for their value in securing a wealthy American wife? Still, her dazzling looks made the chase all the more exciting and she was soon considered one of the most desirable American women in Paris.

  For the next year or two, Lily was wined and dined in almost every European capital. She had more proposals than she could count—but her answer was always no. She had yet to fall in love. Each time a man aroused her feelings, she pulled away. She found she could not give herself, emotionally or physically. Had her parents’ rejection permanently crippled her feelings? Having never been loved, was she incapable of loving? The thought frightened her. She wanted to be loved, to have a family, children of her own.

  She was celebrating her twenty-first birthday at the Valois’ villa in Cannes. Corks were popping and the champagne flowed, but Lily felt somehow detached. Doubts about her ability to love and be loved continued to plague her as she wandered out onto the terrace, then into another pavilion.

  The previous day she had received an unexpected letter—one from her parents, whom she hadn’t heard from in months. After all these years, at last they had written for her to come back.

  “It is time for you to return home, Lily. You must settle down. We have forgiven you. Your place is here, not roaming around in a foreign country….”

  Until she received the letter, Lily had thought of herself as being beyond shock, but her parents’ letter had stunned her. Why did they want her back? For what reason? Had she unwittingly done something to redeem herself? They had been perfectly content not to see her for long periods of time. Had they suddenly come to realize now that she had not been responsible for the death of Charles? In the next week, Lily kept asking herself over and over: Was it possible—she was almost afraid to think it—that they regretted their treatment of her?

  Lily had changed from the stumbling, unsure creature who had been sent away to school. She was now full of grace and, though she little realized it, beauty. For as much as she thrived abroad, she was gradually becoming aware of a feeling that she didn’t belong there either. Europe had always somehow been a strange and foreign world—one that she never truly felt a part of. Now, with this missive from home calling her back, Lily found herself only too glad to go. She was filled with an overwhelming sense of longing to return to her home.

  It made no sense, perhaps, to go back to a home where she had been so miserably unwanted and lonely, and yet, for reasons she could not articulate, Lily knew that was where she wanted to be
.

  She had always hungered for her parents to love and forgive her. Perhaps the time had come when it would happen—at last.

  As she got up and walked back into the villa, she had made her decision—she would leave for home as soon as she could book passage.

  Yet as she stood at the rail of the Ile de France and waved down to Colette standing below, the moment was bittersweet. Europe, after all, had been the only home she’d known for years and years. Tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked as she bid her dearest friend and the land of her youth adieu.

  At home the reunion with her parents was strained and awkward. Years of brief visits had forged little common ground. After a couple of strained dinners with their daughter the elder Goodhues resumed their social life, leaving Lily to amuse herself as best she could at home. It seemed any hopes for a real relationship with her parents were not about to materialize.

  Lily wandered through the house as though seeing it for the first time. Outside Charles’s old room she hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Her parents had kept everything exactly as it had been the day he died. They had even hung his small jodhpurs over the end of the bed. Dear Charles, she thought. I loved you too much to ever have hurt you. She walked back into the corridor and closed the door.

  Two weeks later she received the first hint of what had prompted her father’s decision to bring her home. She was at a dinner party seated next to Roger Humphreys, the son of one of her father’s best friends. Glancing down the table she saw that she was finally earning her parents’ approval. Not because of her sweetness of character, but because she exuded glamour and beauty. Colette would have been proud. Lily was a beauty. The candlelight played upon the delicate bloom of her cheeks, and her faintly accented English enchanted not just Roger but the whole table. Suddenly it dawned on Lily that she had been brought home to make a good match and provide her father with an heir to the family fortune. Strangely enough, Lily found herself not resenting that. It seemed only fitting that she, as their daughter, should marry well.