Casteel 04 Gates of Paradise

by V. C. Andrews

  It made me feel so melancholy to think these thoughts. In the past when I had these depressions or became so deeply involved in something philosophical that it made my heart heavy and cheerless, I could go to Mommy and unload the burden my sad thoughts had placed on me. Mommy would greet me with the warmest smile, and almost immediately I was lighthearted and happy again. We would flip through the pages of fashion magazines and discuss the fads just like two teenage girls, giggling over something we thought silly, sighing over something we thought beautiful.

  I still hadn't gone into my parents' bedroom yet. I didn't have the courage to go into the room where they had slept, where I had often gone whenever I had a nightmare or an unpleasant thought, and where I had been comforted and loved. I was afraid to look at their empty bed, see their closets and clothing, my father's shoes, my mother's jewels, the pictures, everything that had belonged to them.

  But I knew that if I were to go on with my life and truly face the tragedy that had changed it so, I had to confront the things I loved that were gone; I had to face down the torment and the misery. Only then would I become strong enough to be the woman Mommy and Daddy wanted me to be, the woman I had to be for myself as well as for them.

  I made my way slowly out of my room, guiding myself with the cane. I paused in the hallway, once more hesitating to turn to my right and go to their bedroom doorway, but this time my argument with myself was short. I was determined.

  I opened the door. The curtains were open and the windows raised to air out the room. Everything was as neat and in place as it had been the night of the accident.

  I stood in the doorway for a while and gazed at everything, visually digesting each and every morsel of memory. There on the vanity table were Mommy's powders and perfumes, a set of blue seashell earrings she had left the night of Aunt Fanny's fateful party, and the dark mahogany jewelry box Daddy had bought her one Christmas. Lined up neatly beside it were her pearl combs.

  My heartrending gaze moved slowly across the room, pausing at the bed. Her soft red satin slippers peeked out from under it on her side, longing, I was sure, for the feel of her small feet slipping into them. A book she had been reading was still on the night table, a marker stuck between pages more than halfway through.

  Of course, the painting of the cabin in the Willies was still above their bed. Looking up at it now made me think of Luke going there to think things over and conclude he should go back to college and stay away from me for a while. Perhaps the spirits of his grandpa Toby and grandma Annie had advised him. Maybe it was the right advice after all.

  On Daddy's dresser was a large photograph taken of the two of them at their wedding reception at Farthy. Now I recognized the background. They both looked so young and so alive. Although when I studied the picture closely this time, it seemed to me there was also a longing in Mommy's face. From where they were standing, I knew they were facing the maze.

  Thinking about the maze made me think about Troy and the cottage. And suddenly a wave of realization rushed over me. I returned to my room and gazed at the toy cottage Mommy had given me on my eighteenth birthday. The gift had meant so much to me because I knew how much it meant to her, but when I looked at it now, I found that it intermingled with images of the real cottage on the other side of the maze at Farthy, and I realized that it had to have been Troy Tatterton who had made the gift and had sent it to Mommy shortly after my birth. She had never talked about who had sent it. All she and Daddy had said was they assumed some Tatterton artisan had made it.

  Was it that Mommy didn't know Troy was still alive and so couldn't imagine him making and sending it? Wasn't he afraid she might grow suspicious?

  Thinking about him now brought another picture to mind: the way he sat in the chair talking to me . . . the way he had his hands behind his head. That was the pose the little man in the toy cottage had, too. Was that just a coincidence? And the little woman looked like Mommy, had her hair color, wore her kind of dress. She had to have known who sent this. Who else but Troy could have captured that scene? If she knew he was still alive and had sent the replica of the cottage, why did she keep that a secret?

  I guided myself into the small chintz chair by my vanity table and set down my cane. Then, slowly, carefully, I lifted the roof of the toy cottage away, and instantly the tinkle of the Chopin nocturne began. It seemed to have been waiting all this time for someone to start it going again. I peered down at the small figures within and confirmed what I had thought: the man did look like Troy; the young lady was the tiny replica of Mommy.

  Now that I had been in the real cottage, I saw things I had never noticed before: the wee toys the tiny man had been making, the teacups on the table in the kitchen, and the partially opened back door. Did the door actually open and close?

  My fingers trembled as I reached in aid touched the tiny door, which was only three inches tall. It swung open on its small hinges, and when I lowered my head to peer into it, I saw there was a flight of stairs going down. Something there caught ity eye. A little ways down those mysterious stairs was a pale white piece of paper. My fingers were too large to fit through the doorway safely to reach in and retrieve whatever it was. There was only one way to do it, the way whatever it was had been put in there, I thought: with a pair of tweezers.

  I found a pair in Mommy's vanity-table drawer, and with both a surgeon's eye and a surgeon's dexterity, inserted the tip of the tweezers through the tiny doorway and took hold of the mysterious paper, inching it out carefully until I could see that it had been folded tightly until it had been small enough to hide.

  I brought it up and out of the cottage and put it down on the tabletop. Then I placed the cottage roof back on to stop the tinkle of the music and began to unfold the paper. It was brittle, and yellowed with age, like those replicas of historic documents made to look authentic. The ends broke away and threatened to disintegrate in my fingers.

  Finally I had it completely unfolded and placed before me on the table. It was a full letter-size sheet of paper. The creases were so deep, they made the words difficult to read, but I struggled through it.

  .

  My dear, dear forbidden love,

  Now, more than ever, last night seems like a dream. So many times this past year I had the fantasy, that now, now that it actually came to pass, I find it hard to believe it really happened.

  I sat here thinking about you, recalling our precious moments, the softness in your eyes and in your touch. I had to get up and go to my bed to search for strands of your hair, which, thank God, I found. I shall have a locket made for them and wear it close to my heart. It comforts me to know that I shall have something of you always with me.

  I had hoped to remain here awhile longer, even though I recognized it would be a torture, and from time to time spy on you at Farthy. It would have brought me pleasure as well as some pain to see you walking over the grounds or sitting and reading. I would have been like a foolish schoolboy, I know.

  This morning, not long after you left me, Tony came to the cottage and told me the news, news I expect you will be bringing to me, too. Only by the time you arrive I will be gone. I know it seems cruel of me to leave Tony at a time like this, but I gave him all the comfort I could while he was here and we had a chance to talk.

  I did not tell him about us, about your visit last night. He does not know you know of my existence. I couldn't add that to his troubles at this time. Perhaps there will be a time in the future when you feel he should know. I leave that to you.

  You are probably wondering why I feel it necessary to leave so quickly after Jillian's death.

  My dear Heaven, as hard as it may be for you to understand, I feel somewhat responsible. The truth is I enjoyed tormenting her with my presence. As I told you, she saw me a few times, and I knew it shocked her each time. I could have told her the truth, that I was not dead, that I was no ghost, but I chose to let her believe she was seeing a spirit. I wanted her to suffer some guilt, for even though it wasn't her f
ault you were born Tony's daughter, I always resented her for telling me, for exposing that horrible truth between you and me. She was always a very jealous person, resentful of the affection Tony had for me, even when I was just a little boy.

  Now I feel terribly guilty about it all. I had no right to punish her. I should have realized it would only bring pain to Tony and even to you. It seems that I bring sadness and tragedy to everyone around me. Of course, Tony doesn't feel this way. He didn't want me to leave, but in the end I convinced him it was best.

  Please stand by him during this time of great need, and comfort him as best you can. You will be acting for the both of us.

  I expect you and I shall never set eyes upon each other again or touch each other the way we touched each other last night. But the memory of you is so engraved in my heart that I take you with me no matter where I go.

  Forever and ever, Troy

  .

  I sat back, dazed.

  "Momma, did you know what you were bequeathing me when you gave me this cottage, the symbol of your love?" I whispered.

  The unfairness, the sadness, the tragedy of it all struck me like a cold gust of wind. How horribly history had repeated itself. Something I had sensed in my heart, but hadn't quite put into words in my thoughts, had been true: Mommy and Troy Tatterton had been lovers, but their love was just as Troy had written at the top of the letter--forbidden. It was as forbidden a love as the love between Luke and myself, for Troy was Tony's brother, my mother's uncle. A blood relationship had made their love for one another foul, just as our blood relationship had made my love for Luke and his love for me foul.

  So my mother always knew that Troy was still alive, but she could never speak to him, or write to him, or go to him again. Now I understood why Troy Tatterton had looked at me the way he had when he had first set eyes on me. I had surely roused his memories, especially with my hair colored the way Mommy's hair had been.

  Much of what was written in the letter made sense to me, since I had been at Farthy. I understood the references to Jillian's madness, the idea of spirits wandering the big house, Tony's torment and the reason Troy had made himself invisible to the world around him. But what I didn't understand or know until this moment, of course, was Mommy's agony, for it seemed from the way Troy wrote, that she had loved him as much as he had loved her.

  How well she would have understood what was happening between Luke and myself now, I thought; and now I understood why she was so concerned about the time he and I spent with one another. She anticipated all this because it had happened to her.

  "Oh, Mommy," I whispered, "how I wish you and I could have just one more conversation. How much I need your counsel and wisdom. I would easily see that you had lived through this kind of pain and I would be guided by your words."

  Until the first tear splattered on the letter, I did not realize I had been crying. Much of what Troy had written here to Mommy, Luke could have written to me. In fact, as I had read the words, I had heard Luke's voice.

  I refolded the letter and lifted the roof from the cottage once again to return it to its special hiding place where it had been kept all these years. It belonged with the cottage; it was part of it. The music tore at my heart much the same way it must have torn at Mommy's whenever she sat alone and listened, for while it played, she surely saw Troy's face and heard his words of farewell, time after time after time.

  Perhaps this had much to do with why she never wanted to return to Farthy. It wasn't only her anger at Tony. The memories of lost love were too painful. And all those times Luke and I talked about the maze and fantasized about Farthy . . . the pain we were inflicting on her without realizing it. Oh, Mother, I thought, forgive us. Our little fictions must have sent you back to this little toy cottage to mourn the love you had buried forever.

  Just then Mrs. Avery knocked on my door. I called to her to come in. She looked unusually flustered and excited.

  "There's a gentleman on the phone who says he's calling from Farthinggale Manor. He says it's very important."

  Would I ever be free of Tony Tatterton and his mad hallucinations and confusions? Bubbles of anger began to boil in me. "Well, you'll have to tell Tony Tatterton--"

  "No, Annie, it's not Mr. Tony Tatterton. He says it's about Mr. Tony Tatterton. He says he thought you ought to know."

  "Know? Know what?" My heart stopped and then began to pitter-patter.

  "He didn't say, Annie. He asked to speak directly to you and I came looking for you."

  "Oh. Tell him I'm coming." I took a deep breath and drove back the cold shiver that had started to climb my spine.

  I followed Mrs. Avery as quickly as I could. Now that was up and about, I was frustrated by my slow and awkward gait.

  Mrs. Avery handed me the telephone receiver and I sat down to speak.

  "Hello," I said in a tiny frightened voice. I thought the pounding of my heart could be heard over the phone; it was that loud to me.

  "Annie," he said. I had no trouble recognizing the voice, just as imagined Mommy would have had no trouble had she heard it after years and years. "I thought you would want to know and might want to come to the funeral."

  "Funeral?" My heart paused and I held my breath. "Tony passed away a few hours ago. I was at his bedside."

  "Passed away?" Suddenly I felt sorry for him, pining away at Farthy, thinking the woman he loved had left him again. Through me he had relived his own tragedy. I had unwillingly been an actress in a play cast years and years ago. Like some understudy, I had stepped into a role Mommy had been forced to play, too. Now, finally, mercifully perhaps, the curtain had been brought down, the lights had been turned off, the players had all left the stage. For Tony Tatterton, the agony had come to an end.

  But Troy's voice was filled with sincere sorrow, not relief. He had lost a brother who had once been more of a father to him.

  "Oh, Troy. I'm sorry. I didn't think he was physically unwell. You were with him?"

  "I had just made up my mind to make myself more visible and give him some comfort at a time in his life when he desperately needed someone to care for him, for what I had told you was true--he did care for me whenever I was sick. And," he added, his voice cracking, "he did love me very much. Ultimately, we had no one but each other."

  My throat closed up and I couldn't swallow for a moment. I felt my eyes fill with tears. It was not difficult for me to imagine Troy at Tony's bedside, Tony's hand in his, Troy's head bowed, his shoulders shaking with sobs when the life left his older brother.

  "How did he die?" I finally asked, my voice so thin it was nearly in a whisper.

  "It was a stroke. Apparently, he had had a minor one some time back, but I never knew."

  "Drake called me recently and told me he had spoken with him, but he didn't mention he was seriously ill."

  "He shut himself up in his room, so that even Rye didn't know what was happening. By the time he realized it, it was already too late. At least I was with him at the end. He babbled a great deal, confusing people. After a while I wasn't sure he knew who I was, but he did mention your name and he made me promise I would look after you and be sure you were all right.

  "I . . . I know that he had been going through strange mental torments, and I imagine you witnessed some of it, but he was harmless. He was just someone searching for love and a way to make up for his sins . . . something we all end up doing one way or another."

  "I know." I wondered if he could hear in the way I had said that just how much I already did know. "I know who Tony really was to me, Troy. He shouted it out as I was leaving, and my aunt Fanny confirmed it."

  "Oh. I see." His voice drifted off. "I'm not making any excuses for him, but he did have a complicated and difficult marriage."

  "Yes." I wasn't eager to talk about all that now. "But Troy, I want to come to the funeral. When is it?"

  "Day after tomorrow, two o'clock. Everything will be at the family cemetery. From what your maid just told me, I understand you've be
en improving steadily. I'm happy for you, Annie, and I don't want anything to set you back, so if making such a journey is too much of a strain--"

  "It won't be, and I won't have a setback. I'm anxious to see you again. I never had a chance to thank you for calling my aunt Fanny and having Luke and her come and get me. It was you who did that, wasn't it?"

  "I didn't watit to see you go; I was hoping we would have more opportunities to be together, but I saw what was happening to you here and I knew you really belonged with the people you loved, even though I can imagine how painful it must have been for you to go home. I remember Tony telling me how it was for him when he came to my cottage a long time ago, thinking I was dead and gone."

  "It was painful. I wish I had a cottage to hide away from sadness and pain like you do with a maze to keep unwanted people away."

  "Tragedy has a way of discovering the right turns and finding you anyway if it is meant to, Annie. I've learned that too well," he said sadly.

  "I know." My voice was barely audible, just a shade above a whisper. I was about to say more, perhaps even mention the secret letter in the toy cottage. He must have sensed something, for he spoke quickly to end our conversation.

  "I'll see you day after tomorrow, Annie. I'm happy you'll be there with me. Good-bye until then." "Good-bye, Troy."

  I cradled the receiver slowly, my thoughts turning to Tony. Despite the madness and the lies, I couldn't help cry for him. Troy had been right: even though Tony was rich beyond imagination, he was lonely and lost, and very much like everyone else, searching for someone to love who would love him back.

  Perhaps Rye Whiskey was right about the spirits at Farthy. Maybe they had finally ended Tony's torment by claiming him as one of their own.

  Aunt Fanny was upset when I told her I planned to attend Tony's funeral.

  "No one know'd he was yer grandpappy, Annie. No one expects ya ta travel all the way ta see 'im buried."