Fallen Hearts (Casteel Series #3)

by V. C. Andrews

  "What? You're kidding!"

  He shook his head. "It's up for sale," he said.

  The Hasbrouck House was a beautiful,

  colonial-style home a half mile east of the factory site.

  It was owned by Anthony Hasbrouck, who was considered "old money"; his family went back to pre-Civil War times.

  "I don't believe that Anthony Hasbrouck would sell that house."

  "His investments haven't been doing well lately and he is desperately in need of cash." Logan seemed to know a lot about Anthony Hasbrouck.

  "I see." I imagined that Logan, who now hob-nobbed with all the power brokers of Winnerow and the surrounding area, discovered this. By the way he was smiling, I thought he had probably already made Hasbrouck a handsome offer for the property.

  I couldn't hide my excitement about it; I knew the home. Tom and I had often walked past it when we were children. To us it always looked like one of those mansions described in great novels, with its sprawling, beautifully landscaped grounds and tall pillars in the front. There was an enormous carved-oak double door that looked as if it would take a giant butler to open. It was easy to imagine wonderful dinner parties taking place in this mansion. All sorts of romantic adventures would go on behind those great oak doors.

  We used to dream about living in it. Everyone in the family would have his or her own room. As the oldest daughter, I would dress like a Southern belle and take visitors out to the garden to drink mint juleps.. . . Tom would pretend he had his own string of racehorses. I smiled, remembering our silly, childish dreams that suddenly looked like some sort of prophecy. Oh, Tom, Tom, I still miss him so. My bright dreamer brother. And now every dream, one after another, was coming true, but never the way we had imagined it, never quite as bright and shiny and golden as the dream meant it to be. Logan saw the wistful smile on my face and brightened.

  "I'd hoped you would agree to the idea," he said, warming more to his plan, "and went ahead and made us an appointment to view the house tomorrow morning. Is that all right?"

  "Yes," I said, a little disappointed he hadn't spoken with me about it first. It reminded me too much of the way Tony did things. Logan was too much under Tony's influence, too eager to emulate him in every way. And though I was impressed with how quickly Logan was becoming a take-charge businessman, it was the soft, sweet, caring boy I had fallen in love with that I needed and missed.

  The next morning Anthony Hasbrouck, a man

  who wouldn't have given me a second look when I was a little girl living in the Willies, who had once chased Tom and me away from his front gate, now put out the red carpet for me as he guided us on a tour of the mansion. He wore a black velvet smoking jacket, black slacks, and velvet slippers and spoke with a syrupy thick Southern accent, calling me "Heavenly,"

  instead of "Heaven."

  "Why, thank you for showing us your place, Mr. Hasbrouck," I said.

  "You call me Sonny, all my friends do."

  "Sonny it is, then," I said, turning to Logan. "If we take this house," I whispered loudly enough for Mr. Hasbrouck to hear, "we're going to have to have the whole place redecorated. It's just been allowed to fall to pieces." I enjoyed going on and on about how much more glorious his house would become in my care, how many more rugs there would have to be, how the old kitchen wouldn't do at all. I rarely enjoyed flaunting my wealth, but with people like Mr.

  Hasbrouck, people who had looked down on us Casteels, who had chased my lovely Tom away from his dreams, I truly did enjoy it.

  "And most of all," I said, taking Logan's arm as we strolled through the grounds, "we are going to have to have a lot more servants and gardeners—I just can't believe what has happened to this old estate."

  Mr. Hasbrouck turned bright red. He kept

  twirling his mustache and gritting his teeth. I knew he couldn't stand to have to sell his house to a Casteel, but as Logan assured me, he needed the money.

  "Sonny," I said, smiling brightly and acting as charming as I could, "I do like your home, but I'm afraid the price is just too high for what we'll be getting." I forced my face into a frown.

  Logan was flabbergasted. He reeled around.

  "But, Heaven, darling—"

  "I suppose your pretty little wife is right," Mr.

  Hasbrouck said. His face was now as red as a tomato.

  "Heavenly, you sure do strike a hard bargain."

  As soon as we got into the car, Logan swept me into his arms. "Not only do I have the prettiest wife in town, but I have the smartest. I can't wait until we get back to Farthy so I can tell Tony how you handled this."

  It was three days later, when Tony ushered Logan and me into his office for a welcome-home drink, that Logan announced the news. "Tony," he began, his eyes glittering with pride and excitement,

  "Heaven and I have taken the first big step of our marriage. We've bought our own home."

  At first I could barely read Tony's response, it was such a mixture of muted surprise, sadness, loneliness. Then he simply looked bereft.

  He didn't say anything one way or the other about it, but I sensed he wasn't happy that we had bought the Hasbrouck house. It was too much of a home away from home, and the reality that we had another life, apart from the one at Farthy, was not something he liked. I felt sorry for him, knowing he feared being lonely, especially now, with Jillian gone.

  As the weeks passed, while I should have been absorbed in ordering wallpaper and draperies, rugs and furniture, and inquiring into household help, I found myself barely able to get out of bed. Tiredness had become my constant companion, and I felt somehow distant from myself, as if I didn't really know who I was or what I wanted. Had it been a mistake to buy the house? Why was I feeling so confused, so listless? I made several trips into Boston, to the posh department stores, to order things for our new home, only to return to Farthy wrung-out and exhausted.

  "Heaven," Logan said one night after dinner, when I told him I Was going to bed early, "you seem too tired these days. Is something wrong? I hope this new move isn't going to be too much of a strain on you."

  "I'm fine, darling," I murmured.

  "I want you to see the doctor tomorrow, Heaven. This isn't like you."

  The doctor's conclusion nearly left me

  speechless. "Pregnant?"

  "No doubt about it," he said, smiling.

  This was wonderful! Why hadn't I suspected it myself? I had to giggle to myself. Of course, this explained everything! A baby! I had always dreamed about having my own family, and now that dream was coming true. Oh, I was so happy! How I would cherish and love and protect my own little one! She would never see any of the pain and agony I and my brothers and sisters had endured. Although Logan and I hadn't sat down and planned it, it did seem to be the perfect time to have our first child. We would have the new factory; we would have the new house in Winnerow, and we would have a new baby.

  Fatherhood, I thought, would return to me the joyful, boyish Logan I had married, it would bring him back to earth, down from his business pedestal.

  "Mrs. Stonewall," the doctor said, bringing me back to earth, "I'm going to examine you so we can determine exactly how long you've been pregnant."

  My heart skipped a beat.

  "It's important that we know so that we can prepare properly for the little one's arrival."

  With great care and thoroughness the doctor examined me.

  "Why don't you get dressed now and step into my office," he said when he was finished, "so that we can go over everything."

  I was trembling so. "Please, Dr. Grossman, could you tell me how old the baby is?"

  He told me.

  I felt the blood drain from me. The baby was already two months old, it seemed. Two months. Two months ago was when I had visited Troy in the cottage. Oh, my God! Whose baby was it? I didn't know. Whose baby was it? Logan's . . or Troy's?

  "Mrs. Stonewall, Mrs. Stonewall." The doctor's voice brought me back to the room. "Are you all right?"

 
"Oh, forgive me, Doctor," I said, trying to gather myself. "I just felt a bit dizzy. It's such happy news, so unexpected. I just don't understand why I didn't suspect. Why I didn't keep track. There's been so much . ."

  I drifted off as he ushered me out of his office. I was happy to be alone in the back of the limo, as the same fear pounded and pounded through my brain.

  Whose baby was inside me? Logan's or Troy's? And worse, though God might look down and strike me dead, I didn't know whose I wished it to be.

  But by the time we pulled up to the front gate at Farthy, I knew I didn't care—I loved them both. And I knew in my heart that Logan would worship our child and be the best father in the whole world. I may not have known who my real father was, but the father who raised me, Luke, didn't love me the way I needed to be loved. Should I confess the truth to Logan and tell him that the child might be Troy's and take the risk that he would become as angry and bitter as Luke had been and treat our baby the way I had been treated? No, I couldn't let that happen, I couldn't do that to my baby. If I did confess the truth to him, and we couldn't tell whose baby it was when it was born, he would always have doubts and he wouldn't love the child as much as he would if he were sure. It wasn't a fair thing to do to Logan. Besides, it might be his, it might well be his! No, I decided in my heart, this secret would remain beside the others that remained locked there by sealed lips.

  Logan was in Tony's office, speaking on the phone, when I returned from the doctor's.

  "Could you please come up to our suite, Logan?

  I have something to tell you."

  He covered the phone with his hand. "Can't it wait a half hour or so, Heaven? I'm in the middle of an important negotiation."

  "Logan Stonewall! You be up in our suite in two minutes!" I ordered. "You're about to get the biggest acquisition of your life!" I turned and hurried from the room, not wanting him to guess the truth from my excited eyes.

  A couple of minutes later Logan stood in the doorway of our suite, his arms crossed, looking a little perturbed at my interruption. "This better be good, Heaven," he warned.

  I walked over to him, threw my arms around his neck, and looked deep into his eyes. "You're going to be a father," I announced.

  His face reddened with excitement; his sapphire eyes brightened like the morning sky on a clear summer's day, and he smiled from ear to ear.

  "Heaven," he said, "how can you stand there so calmly and say that?" He held me away from him and up and down his eyes scanned me, searching for some difference. Then he laughed and gave a boyish leap and hugged me again. "This is wonderful news! Wait until we tell Tony! Wait until we tell my parents! This is a cause for celebration! Let's all go out tonight and have the finest dinner possible! I'll go tell Tony and tell Rye to cancel the meal he's preparing. Oh, I'm so happy we bought that big house now. Have the contractors prepare a nursery room immediately, and we'll hire a nurse to help you when you're in Winnerow and when you're here, too."

  He clasped his hands together and raised them over his head. He looked like he was about to break out into one of Grandpa's jigs.

  "When the baby is born, we'll have two big celebrations—one here at Farthy for all our Boston friends and one in Winnerow. You're going to be a mother and I'm going to be a father!" he exclaimed.

  "Heaven, you look beautiful, radiant. What a wonderful surprise. Thank you, thank you," he said and embraced me again, falling on his knees and pressing his head against my belly. Suddenly he burst into tears. He couldn't stop crying as I caressed his head over and over.

  "Heaven," he sobbed, "I am the happiest man on earth, I am—" Then he looked up, his blue eyes all watery, tears streaking his face. “ don't deserve this happiness," he said, "forgive me."

  I wanted to be as happy as he was and join him in his excitement, but the more he poured out his joy, the more I wondered if I were going to present him with another man's child. It seemed so deceitful, but I couldn't say anything. It was time for us to have happiness in this house anyway, I thought. It was time to have new beginnings. I would do nothing to put a damper on that, not when we all needed it so.

  He was so elated, he rushed out of the suite half dressed. I laughed at him and pushed aside my dark worries and forebodings. I decided I would be just as excited and just as happy. Moments later Tony appeared at the door beside him.

  "What is this Logan is babbling about? I'm to be a great-grandfather?" Tony asked, his eyes glittering with pride and happiness.

  "It seems so," I said.

  "Congratulations, Heaven," he said and he came forward to embrace me. "Your timing couldn't be any better. It's like a jolt of new energy and hope; it's truly a spiritual gift."

  "We're going to the Cape Cod House," Logan announced. "I just made the reservations. Champagne, lobster dinners, the works, eh, Tony?"

  "Of course." He smiled as if Logan had hit on the most brilliant idea. "We must celebrate. It's good to hear good news for a change. And won't it be wonderful to hear a baby crying and laughing in the halls of Farthy once again! The Tattertons indeed will go on."

  "Yes," I said and then fear wrung my heart.

  Maybe the Tattertons would go on even more pure than he realizes, I thought. But I pushed the thought away. Instead, I let myself be carried off by Logan's exhilaration and energy. We all dressed like fashion plates, got into our limo, and went off to celebrate the coming of my new baby, all of us already intoxicated by happiness before we raised our first glasses of champagne to toast the future.

  We had had a wonderful time at the restaurant.

  Tony and Logan drank a bottle and a half of champagne. Every time I reached for my glass, either one or the other would say, "Now, now, you've got to be careful what you eat and drink, little mother." For some reason just saying it would set them both off, laughing hysterically. Before long, everyone in the restaurant was watching us.

  That light, carefree abandon remained with us throughout the evening and all the way home. We had taken the opportunity for happiness and used it like a salve to cover and heal our scars of sorrow and bereavement. We got into a discussion about names for the baby, and Tony complained that modern-day parents just didn't seek dignified names for their children anymore.

  "They're naming them after everything nowadays, from soap-opera characters to racehorses.

  If it's a boy, I'd love to see you name him Wilfred or Horace, after my great-great-grandfather and great-grandfather. He should have a middle name with equal dignity .. say, Theodore or . ."

  "Or Anthony," I interjected.

  "Wouldn't be so bad," Tony agreed, quirking an eyebrow and smiling. Logan laughed nervously.

  "If it's a girl, I'd like to name her after my granny— Annie," I told him.

  "Annie? Shouldn't you call her Ann?" Tony asked. Logan nodded. He would agree with anything at this moment, I thought. The champagne had gone to his head.

  "No, I think Annie is perfect," I pronounced emphatically.

  "Oh, well, as long as you don't call her 'Late for dinner," Tony said and he and Logan fell into another fit of boyish laughter.

  We were all still in a gay and celebrating mood as we entered Farthinggale Manor. Curtis's face sobered all of us immediately, however. He greeted us with a formal nod, sadly shaking his head.

  "What is it, Curtis?" Tony asked, a worried frown crushing his smile.

  "A telegram arrived for you, sir, and then shortly afterward, there was a phone call from a Mr."—he looked down at his note pad—"J. Arthur Steine, an attorney representing Luke Casteel,"

  "Luke Casteel!" I looked at Tony, bewildered.

  His face blanched as he stepped forward to take the telegram from Curtis. What was this? My mind roamed like a blind beast, trying to find a familiar landmark. Why would Pa's lawyer be sending a telegram to Tony? Logan grabbed my hand and I waited at his side while Tony ripped open the envelope and read the contents. His face drained of color until it looked like the pale mask of a ghost.

  "My God," he s
aid softly and simply handed me the telegram. It was addressed to Anthony Tatterton. It read:

  .

  TERRIBLE AUTO ACCIDENT STOP

  LUKE AND STACIE CASTEEL FATALLY

  INJURED STOP DETAILS TO FOLLOW STOP

  J. ARTHUR STEINE

  .

  "What is it?" Logan asked. Without speaking, I handed him the telegram.

  "Oh, my God," he said. He put his arm around me. "Heaven . ."

  I raised my hand to indicate I would be all right and ran directly into the living room. It felt like my heart had stopped beating and my blood had frozen in place. I no longer felt the floor beneath me.

  "Curtis, bring Mrs. Stonewall some water,"

  Logan ordered. He followed me in and Tony went off to his office to call J. Arthur Steine. I sat on the couch and leaned back, closing my eyes. Logan sat beside me, holding my hand.

  "I know it's terrible news," Logan said, "but you've got to think of your own health and the baby's."

  "I'll be all right, Logan," I whispered. "I'll be all right."

  Pa. Luke Casteel. The man whose love I had craved but never won. But now only good and happy scenes came to mind. I saw him outside our cabin pitching a baseball to Tom and Tom swinging with the bat, the only plaything left over from Luke's own childhood. I saw him out in the yard on a warm summer's day, his ebony-dark hair shining. He was handsome enough to be a movie star when he was clean shaven and neatly dressed. How the women would gaze at him! I remembered how much I longed for him to look kindly and lovingly at me, and when I was lucky enough to catch him staring at me, probably seeing his beloved Angel Leigh in my face, I remember how it filled my heart with such excitement and joy.

  Pa, the beautiful, unattainable man I loved and hated, now gone and lost forever, no chance of us ever meeting on some quiet day and forgiving each other for our hates and our loves, no chance to explain or to understand, no chance to mend things or heal wounds, no chance for soft words.

  How many times in my deepest thoughts had I rehearsed the scene.

  Luke would look at me and I at him and we