Darkest Hour

by V. C. Andrews

"What is it?" I asked. His curious behavior made my heart beat faster. Slowly, he raised his head and fixed his eyes on me—eyes full of sadness and pain.

  "I got to tell you something. I've not been solely conducting business on my trips, especially the trips to Richmond. I've been gambling and . . . carousing." I released a trapped breath.

  "It doesn't come as any surprise to me, Bill," I said, sitting back. "I never demanded to know about your trips and I'm not demanding it now."

  "I know and I appreciate that. In fact, I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you," he said softly.

  "Why this sudden reform?" I asked.

  "I had a bad experience on this last trip. I was gambling on the train and it became one of these games that lasts for days. We took it off the train and into a hotel room in Richmond. I was winning. In fact, I was winning so much, one of the players who was losing accused me of cheating."

  "What happened?" Once again, my heart began to beat in anticipation.

  "He put a gun to my head. He told me there was only one bullet in the gun and if I was cheating, that was the chamber the hammer would hit. Then he pulled the trigger. I nearly emptied myself in my pants, but nothing happened. His friends thought it was funny and he decided that was just a test and he had to try one more time. He pulled the trigger again, and again it was an empty chamber.

  "Finally, he sat back and said I could go with my winnings. Just to prove he wasn't kidding, he pointed the gun at the wall and pulled the trigger once more, and this time the gun went off. I hurried out of there and got back home as fast as I could, thinking all the time that my life had nearly ended and what did I have to show for it. I could have died without any dignity in a hotel room somewhere in Richmond," he moaned. A little too dramatically, he raised his eyes toward the ceiling and sighed.

  "My sister Emily would like to hear this confession," I said dryly. "Maybe you should make a trip to The Meadows." He gazed at me again and in a breathless gush, his words spilled forth.

  "I know you're not in love with me and you still resent the way I got you to be my wife, but you're a woman with some inner strength. You come from good stock and I've decided . . . if it's all right with you, that is . . . that we should have children. I'm hoping for a son to carry on the Cutler heritage. I think if you want it, too, it will happen."

  "What?" I sat back, amazed.

  "I'm willing to reform my ways, to be a good husband and a good father, and I won't interfere with the things you want to do at the hotel. What do you say?" he pleaded.

  "I don't know what to say. I guess I should be happy you're not asking me to cut a deck of cards to decide," I added.

  He looked down. "I know I deserve that," he added, looking up, "but I'm being sincere now. I really am."

  I sat back and studied him. Perhaps I was a fool, but he did look sincere.

  "I don't know if I can get pregnant," I said.

  "Can we try at least?"

  "I can't stop you from trying," I said.

  "Don't you want a child?" he asked, shocked by my cold response.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I had one, but I swallowed the words and simply nodded.

  "Yes, I suppose I do," I admitted.

  He smiled and slapped his hands together.

  "It's settled then." He stood up and started to undress so we could begin that night. I didn't get pregnant that month. The next month we made love as much as we could around the time when I was supposed to be most fertile, but it took three more months. One morning I awoke with that familiar nausea after having missed my period and I knew what Bill wanted was going to happen.

  This time my pregnancy went much easier and I delivered in a hospital. The delivery itself went quickly. I thought the doctor suspected I had given birth before, but he didn't say anything or ask anything. I gave birth to a baby boy and we named him Randolph Boise Cutler after Bill's grandfather.

  The moment I set eyes on my child, I knew my indifference had disappeared. I decided to breastfeed and found that I couldn't stand being apart from him, nor did it seem he could stand being apart from me. No one could put him to sleep as easily or make him as content as I could. We hired one nanny after another until I finally decided that I would be the one who looked after him. Randolph would be one child in my life who never lost his real mother. We would never even be separated for a day.

  Bill complained I was spoiling him, making him a mamma's boy, but I didn't change my ways. When he was old enough to crawl, he crawled around in my office, and when he was old enough to walk, he walked with me through the hotel and greeted guests, too. In time, it was as if he was just another part of me.

  Once Bill had his son, he quickly forgot his promises and his reform. It wasn't long before he was back to his old ways, but I didn't care. I had my son and I had the hotel, which was still growing in many ways. I had tennis courts built and a ballfield constructed. I began motorboating for the guests and started more elaborate dinners. Building the resort became my sole purpose in life and I got so I would permit nothing to hinder or interrupt that progress. At the age of twenty-eight, I overheard one of the staff refer to me as "the old lady." At first it bothered me, and then I realized it was merely the staff's way of calling me the boss.

  One summer day, a particularly beautiful day with an almost cloudless sky and a cool, refreshing breeze coming in from the ocean, I returned to my office after inspecting the activities out by the pool and speaking to the grounds keeper about creating some new gardens in the rear of the hotel. The mail was piled on my desk waiting for me as usual, and as usual it was stacks high. I waded through most of it, putting the bills aside and sorting out the reservation requests along with the personal letters some of our former guests wrote in response to my cards of thanks and special occasions.

  One letter caught my attention. It was written in nearly illegible scribble and had obviously been sent from one place to another before arriving at The Meadows and then being forwarded to Cutler's Cove. I didn't recognize the name. I sat back and tore open the envelope to remove a thin sheet of stationary, the ink nearly faded too much to read. "Dear Miss Lillian," it began.

  You don't know me, but I feel as if I know you. My granduncle Henry, he's been talking about you from the moment he arrived until the day he died, which was just yesterday.

  Most of his days with us were spent telling and retelling about his life at The Meadows. The way he told it, it sure sounded good. We especially liked to hear about them big parties on the lawns, the music and the foods and the games you people played.

  When Uncle Henry talked about you, he talked about you as a little girl. I'm sure he never thought of you as being a grown woman. But he thought so much about you and talked so much about how sweet and pretty you was and how nice to him you was that I thought I'd write to you to tell you that the last words he spoke was words about you.

  I don't know how he looked at me and thought it, but he thought I was you sitting by him. He took my hand in his and told me not to fret. He said he was going back to The Meadows and if you looked hard enough for him, you'd see him coming up the driveway real soon now. He said he'd be whistling and you'd recognize the tune. There was such life in his eyes when he said it, I just thought it might happen. So I wanted you to know.

  I hope you are feeling good and don't laugh at my letter.

  Sincerely yours,

  Emma Lou, Henry's grandniece

  I put the letter aside and sat back, the tears streaming down my cheeks. I don't know how long I was there just sitting and remembering, but it must have been a while for the sun fell low enough to cast long shadows through the windows. It did seem like I was sitting back in The Meadows and I was just a little girl again, and when I turned and looked out my office window, I didn't see the hotel.

  I saw the long driveway leading up to the plantation house and for a moment I was thrown back in time. There was a lot of commotion in the house. Servants were rushing all about and Mamma was singi
ng out her orders. Preparations were underway for one of our grand parties. Louella rushed by on her way to brush Eugenia's hair and help her dress. I could see everyone just as clearly as I could the day I was there, but no one seemed to be able to see me. Everyone walked right by and when I called to Mamma, she kept doing what she was doing as if she didn't hear me. It made me frantic.

  "Why doesn't anyone hear me?" I cried. Frightened, I rushed out of the house onto the porch. It seemed to age right under my feet and turn rickety and old, the food fading, the steps leading up looking chipped and broken. "What's happening?" I cried. A flock of chimney swallows burst into the air and swooped over the front lawn before sailing off over the trees. I spun around and looked at the plantation. It looked as neglected and deteriorated as it did now. My heart thumped. What was happening? What would I do?

  And then I heard it—Henry's whistling. I skipped down the porch steps and ran down the driveway just as he started to come around the turn. He had his old suitcase in hand and his sack of clothes over his shoulder.

  "Miss Lillian," he cried. "Why you rushing about so?"

  "Everything's different, Henry, and no one's paying any attention to me," I moaned. "It's as if I don't exist anymore."

  "Oh now, you don't pay that any mind. Everyone's busy right now, but no one's gonna forget you," Henry assured me. "And nothing's changed."

  "But can that happen to you, Henry? Can you just suddenly become invisible, disappear? And if you do, where do you go?"

  Henry put down his suitcase and sack and lifted me into his strong arms.

  "You go to the place you love most, Miss Lillian, the place you feel's your home. That's something you never lose."

  "Are you there, too, Henry?"

  "I expect I am, Miss Lillian. I expect I am."

  I hugged him and then he put me down, picked up his suitcase and sack, and continued up the driveway toward The Meadows.

  And somehow, some magical way, the old, worn and neglected mansion began to shine again, became what it was, full of excitement and laughter and love.

  Henry was right.

  I was home.

  Table of Contents

  ONCE UPON A TIME

  SISTERS

  NO DENYING THE TRUTH

  LESSONS LEARNED

  FROM JONAH TO JEZEBEL

  FIRST LOVE

  VICIOUS TRICKS

  TRAGEDY STRIKES

  MAMMA GETS STRANGER

  GOOD NIGHT, SWEET PRINCE

  ALL MY LUCK IS BAD

  PAPA'S NURSE

  MY CONFINEMENT

  LITTLE CHARLOTTE, SWEET CHARLOTTE

  THE PAST IS LOST AND THE FUTURE IS FOUND

  GOOD-BYE

  CUTLER'S COVE