I had come up here hoping to discover answers and had found more puzzles and more mystery. I put the picture down carefully and started toward the front stairway, when I discovered another, separate room to the attic, right off a second stairway. It looked like a school classroom because it had five desks facing a large desk up front. Blackboards lined three walls over low bookcases filled with faded and dusty old volumes.
I went to the desk and saw where names and dates were etched: Jonathan, age eleven, 1864 and Adelaide, age nine, 1879. There were two coal or wood stoves in the corners. It wasn’t just a playroom; it had been a real classroom and could easily be restructured into one now. Was it traditional for the Foxworth children to receive their early education?
Wealthy, special, provided with a tutor, the Foxworth children were schooled in the attic of Foxworth Hall, far enough away from the adults so as not to be any bother. Why, they could even play up here on rainy days, I thought, noticing the small rocking horse. How many hours of his childhood had Malcolm spent up here?
I went over to one of the dormer windows and looked out at what would have been his view, but all I saw was a slate black roof fanning wide beneath the windows, blocking the view of the ground below. Beyond the roofs were treetops; beyond the treetops, enclosing mountains were shrouded by blue mists. It was not the kind of view that would distract children.
In a way, I thought, looking back down the vast attic, they were imprisoned here. I shuddered, remembering my mother shutting me in a closet because I had tracked in mud all over her bedroom carpet. Although the door wasn’t locked, I was forbidden to open it. I was told if I did, I would be kept in longer, so although I was terrified of the terrible darkness and the small space around me, I sobbed silently and kept my fingers from the closet door.
The revived memory lingered like molasses on my fingers. I couldn’t shake it off while I remained in the attic, so I hurried to the front stairway, which I noticed was far clearer than the rear stairway. There were no cobwebs here. I descended the steps and left the long, dark, and dusty room behind me, its secrets and its mysteries still intact.
I had barely scratched the surface of who the Foxworths really were and here I was, now one of them.
That evening, when Malcolm asked how I had spent my day, I didn’t dare tell him about finding his mother’s picture in the attic, but I did tell him I had found the room at the end of the north wing.
“There were some cousins who were an embarrassment to the Foxworths many years ago,” he said, “and they were cloistered there for a time.”
“It looked like a place for someone to hide from the world,” I said. He grunted, not keen to tell me more about the cousins or why they were kept living there. When I told him I had wandered up to the attic and found the birdcages, which I wished to bring down, he became rather annoyed.
“My mother had them all over this place,” he said. “At times it sounded like an aviary. Leave them where they are. Think of more dignified things to do when you re-decorate the house.”
I was not about to argue any matter that concerned Malcolm’s mother. We talked a bit about Charlottesville and he described his offices and why he was so busy. He blamed it on a number of slipshod practices and poor decisions his father had made just before beginning his travels and going into semi-retirement. But then he returned to a happier note.
“I made a rather good move in the stock market today. I bought one thousand shares at twenty-four and by late afternoon it was up to fifty. A brilliant move, if I do say so myself. Do you know much about the stock market, Olivia?”
“No, not really,” I said. “I kept track of my father’s investments, of course, but I couldn’t advise him as to where to place his funds and where not to.”
“Precisely why you ought to reconsider what you do with your own fortune, Olivia. In my hands it could be developed, increased, grow the way it is meant to grow.”
“Must we talk about that tonight, Malcolm? There’s so much for me to get used to.”
His eyes clouded over, and he picked up his water and drank the entire glass down. “Of course, dear. As a matter of fact, I have to be going now anyway. I have some business to attend to. But I shan’t be late. I’ll return just after you retire for the day,” he said. Then, to be sure his meaning was clear, he added, “Olivia, don’t bother to wait up for me.”
5
My Wedding Party
THE GUESTS FOR THE RECEPTION BEGAN TO ARRIVE A LITTLE after one, fashionably late. Alone, with a few minutes to contemplate myself, I stood before the mirror and studied the image I presented. With my hair up in its usual manner, and the bodice of my blue dress some-what tight and adding to the uplift in my bosom, and the fullness of the skirt, I thought I looked gargantuan. Because of the way the full-length mirror had been hung, I actually had to step back a few extra feet to see my entire body, from head to toe, in the glass.
Was there any style I could wear that would make me look dainty and lovable? I could have let my hair down, but I was always so self-conscious about that. It made me feel rather undressed.
I wondered if I was wrong to hope that this dress, the one that had attracted Malcolm, was dignified enough. Would Malcolm’s friends and business acquaintances find me impressive? I closed my eyes and imagined myself standing beside him. Surely, this was something he himself had imagined before he took me as his bride. He must have been happy with the picture that formed in his mind, because he married me and he wanted to introduce me to fine society here. I tried to convince myself I should be more confident, but I couldn’t keep that small bird from fluttering its nervous wings inside my chest.
I pressed my hand against my breasts, took a deep breath, and started down the dual winding staircase to the foyer. Even though it was a bright day and we had more than the usual amount of sunlight pouring in the windows, Malcolm wanted to be sure that Foxworth Hall felt cheerful and gay, so he had ordered that all five tiers of the four crystal and gold chandeliers be fitted with candles and lit.
The room was brilliant, but my nervousness made my face feel so hot, it was as if I were descending into a pit of fire. I was breathing so quickly, I had to pause to catch my breath. My legs actually trembled and for a moment my feet felt glued to the steps of the winding staircase. I thought I would be unable to go any farther. I took a firm hold of the balustrade. My eyes filled with tears. The light from the lamps and the candles blurred, and the reflections that emerged from the giant crystal fountain spraying its pale amber fluid, and the silver receiving bowl at the center of the foyer, looked like threads forming a cobweb of light across the room. The mirrors reflected the light from the silver cups on trays, and sent it to be caught by the polished frames of chairs and sofas lining the walls.
Finally, I got hold of myself and continued down.
“This is to be a festive occasion,” I overheard Malcolm commanding the servants. “Make people feel comfortable and relaxed. Watch for emptied glasses and plates. Get them up and out of the way quickly. Circulate with the caviar, the small sandwiches, and petit fours continually. Guests should merely feel an inclination and then find you there beside them. But always, when you serve, smile, look pleasant, and be ready to be of some assistance. And carry napkins, do you hear? I don’t want people looking about for a place to wipe their fingers.”
Malcolm saw me descend the stairs. “Ah, Olivia, there you are,” he said. I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment pass over his face. “Come with me; we’ll greet all our guests at the entrance, just after Lucas announces them.”
I laced my arm through Malcolm’s, feeling nervous, tense, but doing my best not to show any of that. He looked remarkably cool and collected, as though he did this sort of thing every day. He looked handsome, in control, dashing. I hoped that on his arm, I would too.
The bell rang. The first guests had arrived! “Mr. and Mrs. Patterson,” Lucas announced. Mr. Patterson was a short, rotund man with a pink flush blushing his cheeks. Mrs. Patt
erson, however, was dainty, thin, rimmed in lace, and wearing a dress that barely covered her knees! Her hair was worn down in ringlets, held into place by a daring bejeweled headband. Why, I didn’t know people actually wore such costumes. I’d seen them only in fashion magazines.
“I’d like to present my wife,” Malcolm said. And as I moved to greet Mrs. Patterson, I saw her eyes climb up to the summit of my head, then slink once again to my feet, then climb again, this time to Malcolm, where they rested on his blue eyes as a wry smile formed on her lips.
Mr. Patterson broke the tension by grasping my hand warmly and saying, “Olivia, welcome to Virginia. I hope Malcolm is showing you all the pleasures of our Virginia hospitality.”
Mrs. Patterson, finally tearing her eyes from Malcolm’s, merely looked at me and sighed, “Indeed.”
The remainder of the guests followed in a steady stream, and soon the party was in full swing.
The men were correct and pleasant, but I was shocked to see that all the women wore sacklike dresses that ended just below or even above the knee and were either waistless or belted at hip level. The fine thin fabrics were all pale—creams, beiges, whites, and soft pastels. I thought they looked more like little girls than dignified women. Their large-scale accessories, huge artificial flowers of silk and velvet, and heavy ropes of beads, emphasized their diminutive size and added to their childish appearance.
Beside them, I was a veritable giant, Gulliver in Lilliput, the land of the tiny people. Every gesture, every move I made seemed exaggerated. There wasn’t a woman I didn’t look down on, and almost all the men were shorter than I was.
I must say the crowd was extraordinarily gay. Whatever inhibitions they possessed were immediately dropped as they moved from the punch bowls to the trays of food. The sound of chatter and laughter grew with every passing moment. By the time Malcolm thought it best we begin to circulate among our guests, the foyer roared with laughter and loud conversation. I had never been at such a gathering of exhilarated people.
My first reaction was to feel happy about it; it looked like my reception was off to a wonderful start, but as I began to circulate amongst the guests, my exuberant feelings fizzled, for I felt a chill in the air between me and these gay, lighthearted, and surprisingly whimsical people.
The women were drawn into small groups, some of them smoking cigarettes held in long ivory cigarette holders. All of them, I thought, looked very sophisticated and worldly. Whenever I joined a group of them, however, they ended their line of conversation and looked at me as though I were an intruder. They made me feel like an uninvited guest at my own party.
They asked how I liked living in Virginia, and especially, how I liked living in Foxworth Hall. I tried to give them intelligent answers, but most of them seemed impatient with my responses, as though they didn’t really care about my opinion, or as though they didn’t really expect me to make such an elaborate response.
Almost immediately after I finished speaking, they began to talk about the latest fashions. I had no idea what some of the things they were referring to were.
“Can you see yourself in one of those middy blouses?” Tamara Livingston asked me. Her husband owned and operated the biggest lumber mill in Charlottesville.
“I—I’m not sure what they are,” I said.
The group stared at me and then they carried on as though I weren’t standing there. As soon as I walked away, there were peals of laughter.
These women were so silly, I thought. All they talked about was clothing styles or ways to redecorate their homes. None of them said anything about politics or business and in none of my conversations did I hear mention of a book. As the reception went on, they looked sillier and sillier to me, laughing and giggling, flirting with their long eyelashes, their shoulders and hands.
I expected Malcolm would become outraged at the loss of decorum as time passed, but whenever I looked for him, he was standing among a group of these women, laughing, permitting them to put their hands on him, letting them rub up against him, petting him rather suggestively.
I was shocked. These were the kind of women he despised—vapid, frilly types without an ounce of self-respect. But there he was, rushing to bring a glass of punch to this one or that one or feeding a petit four to a woman who let him press the small cake through her lips. One even licked the crumbs off the tips of his fingers.
When I heard Amanda Biddens, the wife of one of Malcolm’s business associates say, “I simply must see your library, Malcolm. I want to see where you sit and dream up all those schemes to make millions,” I was appalled to see him take her arm and lead her through the heavy double doors. I felt as if I’d been publicly slapped in the face. My cheeks stung and tears sprang to my eyes. It took all of my strength not to follow them, but to remain dignified and in control, wandering about the party, giving the servants orders from time to time, eating and drinking very little myself. No one sought me out for any prolonged conversation. Some of the men asked me questions about my father’s business, but when I began to give them detailed answers, they seemed bored.
Eventually, I began to hear things being said about me. Those in conversation didn’t realize I was within earshot or simply didn’t care.
One woman asked another why Malcolm Neal Foxworth, a man with such looks and wealth, would burden himself with someone so tall and plain, stern and Yankeeish as me.
“Knowing Malcolm,” the other said, “it has to have something to do with business.”
I could see from the way others were talking softly and looking at me that as the reception wore on, I had become the subject of ridiculing remarks. I even heard someone criticize my dress. She said I looked like I walked out of a museum.
“Maybe she’s a statue brought to life,” her companion replied.
“You call that ‘brought to life’?”
They laughed and laughed. I looked hopefully for Malcolm. But he was nowhere to be found. From out of nowhere Mr. Patterson appeared, and took my arm. “Let’s get that husband of yours to help me see Mrs. Patterson to the car. I’m afraid she’s had a bit too much to drink.”
Before I could stop him, Mr. Patterson had swung open the library doors. I was shocked to find Malcolm seated behind his desk, with Amanda Biddens draped across the mahogany top. He had a silly smile on his face. His hair was ruffled, his tie askew. “Olivia,” he called, “come meet Amanda.”
She propped her head on an elbow and looked up at me. “Don’t you remember, Malc?” she cooed. “I’ve already been introduced to your bride.”
I was practically shaking with rage and humiliation, but once again Mr. Patterson intervened. “Malcolm old man, I need some help with the little missus again,” he said pointedly. Cheerfully, Malcolm rose, and without so much as a look my way, followed Mr. Patterson out the door. Through one of the windows, I could see them lifting Mrs. Patterson into the chauffeur-driven car, her entire leg exposed all the way up to her garter. Her foot was bare. Malcolm retrieved her shoes from the drive and tossed them into the backseat. Amanda, hovering beside me, said teasingly, “Your husband always was there for a damsel in distress. I’m glad to see marriage hasn’t changed that.”
I was glad when the reception began to wind down. Guests sought us out to say their good-byes and wish us good luck. Malcolm had to take a position beside me again. He reverted to his usual self and became more dignified. I knew that the women who promised to call on me would never do so, but I didn’t care about it.
By the time the last couple left, I was exhausted, hurt, humiliated, but grateful it was over. I told Malcolm I was tired and I was going up to my room.
“It was rather a nice affair, don’t you think?” he asked me.
“I didn’t think much of the guests, especially the women,” I responded. “Although I saw you did.”
He looked at me with some surprise in his face as I pivoted and ascended the staircase. I felt defeated and let down. Malcolm should not have gone into the library with that lasc
ivious woman, leaving me in that crowd of vipers. If this was what Virginia society was, I was glad they didn’t take to me, I told myself.
And yet, I couldn’t help thinking about the way some of those women moved about—the freedom they seemed to enjoy, the confidence they had in their own looks and desirableness, and the way the men in the party looked at them. No one looked at me that way—with eyes filled with admiration and longing.
My exhaustion wasn’t as much physical as it was mental and emotional. When I slipped under my blanket and lowered my head to the pillow, I felt like crying. The reception that I had hoped would give me the respect I longed for had done just the opposite. How could I show my face anywhere now after the way Malcolm had behaved at his own wedding party? I hugged my pillow in solace and fell into a tortured sleep. Demons in the guise of flappers haunted my dreams, so that I never slept for more than a few minutes, and my tears fell again and again until I broke out into sobs. Finally, I sobbed myself to welcome sleep.
Sometime before morning I heard the door creak open, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Malcolm Neal Foxworth, naked in the moonlight, his manliness looming over me. “I want a son,” he said.
I shuddered and glared my eyes at him, but I didn’t say a word.
“You must concentrate on what we are about to do, Olivia,” he said as he climbed onto the bed. “That way we have a better chance of succeeding.”
He peeled back my blanket and came at me. I was frightened by his intensity and determination. Once again, he gave me no tenderness or affection.
I turned into him, hoping for a kiss, listening for some soft words, but his face was stone serious, his sky-blue eyes curiously lifeless. It was as though he had turned them off and was seeing only what was behind them.
What did he see as he had his way with me? Did he envision Amanda Bidden? His mother? Someone else? Was he making love to some dream woman? In his mind did he hear the words of love? It wasn’t fair.
Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger) Page 7
