Dark Garden

by Jennifer Fulton

  Mason knew what she had to do. If she wanted to end this enchantment, she had to cast a stronger spell of her own. She had to find a way to strike back with the only weapons she had.

  *

  Vienna jerked up on her elbows, roused by a sound she couldn’t identify. She listened in the darkness, her mind fogged with sleep. She’d been dreaming, a strange dream that almost suffocated her.

  She was standing at the gates of Laudes Absalom, calling for someone to open them. On the other side, nature had run wild, reclaiming the once rolling lawns and all but concealing the house from sight. The woods were dark and twisted, crowding the driveway with huge overhanging branches and rising roots. Moss and weeds clogged every crack, forming a confluence of green rivulets that would one day flow in a single stream and wash the house away.

  Pale saplings struggled up through the snarled confusion, their tender limbs grotesquely misshapen. Competing for sunlight, they sandwiched themselves between monstrous tree trunks and clumsy shrubs. Every plant fought its neighbors for the few inches of space as yet unspoken for. Vines bound them together in their struggles, creeping from the depths of the forest to strangle their unsuspecting hosts.

  No one had tended the grounds in years, and from what Vienna could see of the house, it was similarly abandoned. Helplessly, she rattled the gates and shouted for help. Grass grew out the broken windows of the gatehouse. No one was coming and the way was barred.

  She heard something then, a low soft whine, and a dog emerged from the dense undergrowth. It stood a few feet away, tall and elegant, its wheaten hair shimmering. A woman materialized next to it. She was dressed like a bride and her face was strangely familiar. Vienna could have been looking in a mirror that magically transformed her irregular features into finely wrought perfection. The eyes were a velvety dark blue that defied description. If rose petals came in such a color, their exquisite softness might compete. The woman’s expression was that of a nymph who’d stumbled into a strange new world. She wore her hair in a loose braid. Its color was hard to describe, somewhere between auburn and gold.

  She came toward Vienna and, with a beseeching look, stretched out a cupped hand. She was holding something. Vienna craned to see it but the dog was in her way. “Open the gates,” she said, but the lovely stranger didn’t hear her.

  The dog tugged at the bridal gown, drawing his mistress back toward the hideous tangle of vine and branches. She seemed to take root then, right in front of a willow, becoming one with the tree’s twisted form. The dog kept pawing at her gown, which was now a pale tree trunk. Finally the wooden folds parted to admit his slender body, then, from within the tree, he howled.

  Vienna opened her eyes and stumbled out of bed. The Saluki. The lost dog Mason had mentioned. Apparently it had stuck in her mind, along with pangs of conscience over her former plans to drive the last of the Cavenders away from her ancestral home. It wasn’t rocket science to interpret the dream; her mixed feelings were not exactly buried in her unconscious.

  She turned on a lamp and padded into the bathroom. As she splashed water on her face, a dark suspicion crawled out from the fringes of her dream, a latent knowledge inaccessible when she was fully awake.

  Her destiny was inextricably linked to Mason Cavender.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Now,” Vienna said, sucking in her stomach.

  Her makeup artist, Pimento, forced the zipper closed and leapt back as though expecting her to explode. “Okay, princess, breathe. Very slowly.”

  “Have I put on weight or was this dress a bitch to get into when I bought it?”

  Pimento twiddled absently with one of the heavy gold rings in his earlobes. “Both.”

  “You bastard.” Vienna turned slowly in front of the mirrors in her dressing room.

  The John Galliano evening gown was languidly form fitting, in Hollywood-siren style. No one could possibly imagine how hard it was to squeeze in and out of the carefully structured gray satin. The color made her auburn waves seem even redder and her skin absurdly pale.

  Pimento regarded her intently. “The lips are too dark.” He held up a tube of pale beige-pink and read the label, sarcastically intoning, “Voluptuous Virgin. What could be more appropriate?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not eighteen anymore. The ingénue look seems rather…desperate.”

  “For you, the look is far from ingénue,” Pimento assured her. “It’s natural. Confident. Effortless.” He steered her to a high stool, fastened a nylon cape around her neck.

  “Whatever, so long as you’re not turning me into one of those pinky-dink Tinsley Mortimer clones.”

  “As if.” He carefully removed the burgundy shade from her lips. When he’d finished applying the dewy nude tone, he stepped back and examined her. “Divine.”

  Vienna gazed at the results, pleasantly surprised. She hadn’t expected the understated look to work so well. “Nice. Pity we have to spoil the effect.”

  “Ah, yes.” Pimento removed the cape and lifted an oblong jeweler’s attaché case onto the dressing table. “What have we dragged out of the bank vault today?”

  “Something you haven’t seen before.” Vienna entered the combination and lifted the lid.

  “Oh, dear God.” Pimento clutched his throat. “Are those the real thing?”

  “What do you think?”

  Vienna lifted the diamond necklace uneasily from its velvet tray. Her father had given it to her for her twenty-first birthday and she’d only worn it a few times since. She felt embarrassed to be seen in opulent jewelry, normally preferring to be discreet about her wealth. The necklace also brought back some unhappy memories, but Vienna was fed up with running from a past she had no power to change. Buffy Morgan de Rochester’s party was one of the most important on the calendar, and this year De Beers was offering a prize for the most beautiful diamond necklace. A hundred thousand dollars would be donated to the charity of the winner’s choice. The least Vienna could do was try to win the money for a good cause.

  She fastened the glittering gems around her neck and positioned the pear-shaped center stone just above her modest cleavage. It beamed white light like a large, icy teardrop.

  “Does it have a name?” Pimento hadn’t stopped drooling over the rock. “Like the Hope Diamond?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Her mother had suggested various silly-sounding names for the stone, but Vienna flatly refused. It was one thing to acquire a famous diamond with a history, quite another to dignify a gem of shady origins with a pretentious sobriquet. Her father had been cagey about how he came by the necklace, merely referring to “a private sale years ago.” He assured her that he’d verified the gem’s provenance, but Vienna didn’t care to dwell on Norris Blake’s idea of an acceptable past.

  Looking pleased with himself, Pimento said, “Violà. The lips are a perfect match.” He indicated the three round peach-pink diamonds set on the platinum bail above the suspended pear. “You look disgustingly elite, my darling. Don’t forget to mention my name to that Russian gangster’s wife.”

  “You can’t seriously want her as a client.” Vienna slid on the ring that went with the necklace, a five carat solitaire in the same pear cut. “She’s so…”

  “Blatant? Appallingly sable-clad? Fantastically Botoxed. Preposterously big-haired and generous with her tips.”

  “Let’s just say she makes a dramatic entrance.” Vienna groaned. “God, I sound like such a snob.”

  “Duh.” Pimento brushed some lint off his jacket, a Vivienne Westwood design in purple silk velvet. This was teamed with paisley pants, a yellow shirt, and a floppy crimson bow-tie.

  “Get out of here,” Vienna told him. “You’re a bad influence.”

  “And you, my angel, are a vision. Those Park Avenue vipers will be baring their fangs in envy.” The buzzer chimed and he picked up the intercom. “Your car’s here. Sure you don’t want me to be your exquisite guest?”

  Vienna shook her head. “I think Buffy�
�s fixed me up with one of her über-tan walkers.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  Vienna gathered up her evening purse and coat. “Come on. It’s early. I can drop you off downtown before I head to the party.”

  As they rode the elevator to the lobby, she sampled the new fragrance Pimento had dabbed on her wrists, Sarrasins by Serge Lutens. The initial jasmine-and-leather rush had faded, making room for the scent of honeyed almonds.

  “How do you like it?” Pimento asked.

  “Delicious. Not quite as sweet as A la Nuit.”

  “It’s a non-import,” he divulged with satisfaction. “Available only in Europe.”

  “Did you leave the bottle?”

  “Heavens, no. I don’t like you that much.”

  “I thought you were supposed to suck up to your clients.”

  “Only the ones who really need it.” He held the door for Vienna to move ahead of him and they strolled to the limo. As they settled into the backseat, he said, “Promise you’ll kiss someone gorgeous for me.”

  Vienna laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  *

  Thickets of pillar candles poured saffron light in pools across a gleaming dark maroon floor. The walls were hung with sensuous art. Black bamboo grew in huge glazed tubs that sectioned the vast space into schmoozing zones furnished with soft couches and armchairs, all upholstered in ivory. Several chic modern chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling in mesmerizing crystal cascades. Enormous floral arrangements created lush focal points, each a mass of blooms in shades of cream and pale green. Handsome waiters ferried platters of faux-rustic finger food from one clique to the next. Atop a two-level dais at the far end of the room, a well-known performer played a Steinway grand piano.

  “Darling.” Buffy Morgan de Rochester kissed the air somewhere near Vienna’s cheek. “Do come and meet Stefan. The poor fellow has only been in town for a month and doesn’t know a soul. I thought you two would hit it off. His sister married a Winthrop.”

  They arrived in front of a handsome guest with silver streaking his temples, and Buffy rattled off a string of names that identified him as minor European aristocracy. Stefan’s handshake was brief and genteel, his accent vaguely Italian, and he smelled of costly cologne and fine cigars. After Buffy left them to get acquainted, they sipped Dom Perignon, remarked on the sweeping views from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and watched various haute society regulars drift in.

  Predictably, when Oxana Ivanova arrived, she noticed Vienna immediately, or at least she noticed the rope of diamonds around her throat. Abandoning her husband at the bar, she charged through the gathering like a Versace-clad rhinoceros.

  “Exquisite.” She elbowed Stefan aside and fluttered her stumpy fingers over the necklace. “Magnificent.”

  Vienna fought the urge to back out of reach, instead halting a waiter and selecting a creamy lobster canapé dusted with shaved truffle. She wasn’t hungry but eating the elegant morsel would allow her to keep a polite distance. Between nibbles, she said, “Nice to see you again, Oxana. It’s a lovely party, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, very high class. We can fortunately count on Buffy to invite the right people. Such beautiful fashions. And the diamonds…” Back on message, Oxana plucked the pear-shaped stone from between Vienna’s breasts and tilted it so the light radiated from its facets. “Over thirty carats?”

  “You have a good eye.” Pretending to be riveted by the idea of comparing baubles, Vienna said, “Are you wearing something special yourself tonight?”

  Oxana shoved a hand triumphantly in front of her. A large octagonal-cut pink diamond weighed down her ring finger. “Want to swap? My ring for your necklace?”

  She laughed at her own joke, but Vienna recognized the unsubtle hint. Oxana and her husband Sergei were avid art and jewelry collectors. Unlike many of Russia’s newly minted billionaires, Sergei had never been part of the governing oligarchy. He came from humble beginnings and compensated for his miserable childhood with lavish purchases. Oxana helped him in this cause by squandering large sums of money at every antique auction she attended. Between times, they indulged their many pets and traveled between several glamorous houses around the world.

  They’d purchased their Upper East Side duplex six years earlier, and it had taken them a while to realize that their 10021 zip code did not confer the automatic social success they’d expected. Being rich and flaunting it was not enough to get them invited to A-list gatherings like Buffy’s. There was no underling they could bribe or threaten, and no “somebody” who owed them a favor and would pull strings. The best they could hope for from their publicist was the occasional picture in New York magazine. Social climbers were common currency in the city that drew them from all over the world. The Ivanovs had realized that if they wanted an entrée to the highest tiers of Manhattan society, they would have to exchange self-indulgence for self-promotion.

  To that end they’d hired a team of social consultants and endured a complete makeover. They had their duplex redecorated by a celebrity designer and their walls hung with the right art. They cadged invitations to upscale store openings and trolled the benefit circuit, trying to strike up conversations with the right people. Oxana signed on to New Yorkers for Children, a charity known to put up with anyone if they had enough money.

  However, despite several years of perseverance, their diligent efforts had only landed them in the same boat as every other preening poseur trying to make a splash. Worse still, the Ivanovs lacked the advantages of youth and beauty. They were in their late forties and Oxana was no swan. Even after starving off a hundred pounds, she couldn’t follow the path carved out by pretty young things who wore the right dresses and married into the Park Avenue peerage. Oxana already had a husband, and no one who mattered was playing golf with him.

  Yes, it seemed the Ivanovs would never make it onto the short lists of the party wranglers who determined which of the ever-swelling tide of arrivistes had actually arrived. For while anyone could attend the Met’s Costume Institute Benefit Gala, a personal invitation from a Memorial Sloan-Kettering matron was a rare and coveted commodity, and so far the gatekeepers had deemed the Ivanovs unworthy. If they wanted success, they would have to get Oxana accepted by the ladies who lunch. The trouble was, nothing devalued an exclusive brunch or soirée more than the presence of outsiders who corrupted the rarefied atmosphere with the “wrong vibe” and scared off the real elite.

  So, Sergei and Oxana remained out in the cold, languishing at boring charity circuit bashes where publicists shoved their clients in front of the cameras and organizers paid alleged celebrities like Paris Hilton to show up. They plumbed a depressing low at the annual Dressed to Kilt fashion extravaganza, when they were snubbed by Donald Trump, himself only resentfully tolerated by the old guard. The incident was then mocked on Socialite Rank, the since defunct Web site run by those nobodies, the Rei step-siblings.

  Most people would have lost patience and joined the migration to the more democratic social order downtown, no longer cutting hefty checks to the Smithsonian. But the Ivanovs were nothing if not determined. They ratcheted up the scale of their donations and hoped someone would eventually notice. And to their surprise, they discovered a certain enthusiasm for giving away chunks of their fortune. They began to worry less about making it to an important table at the Whitney Gala and more about the people they could help. Philanthropy was an art, however, and when giving ceased to be a mere expedience, benefactors needed expert advice. Unsure who to ask about a couple of hefty endowments, Oxana had finally sought help from the head of one of the charities she’d adopted.

  A day later, after a series of phone calls, one of Buffy Morgan de Rochester’s cronies called her to plead Oxana’s case, claiming the Ivanovs seemed “genuinely good, underneath it all.” Buffy, a woman who liked to make her own decisions, had decided to inspect the couple firsthand. Her party provided the ideal opportunity, she’d confided in Vienna, formal but also small
and private, so people could be themselves.

  Vienna had met Oxana at a few events over recent years and found her overwhelming, but she and her husband were refreshing characters in a social milieu that often felt stifling. Vienna supposed it was easy for her to grumble about the insularity of these circles. As a Blake, she was automatically a member of the tribe. Various scions had made Manhattan their first or second home over the generations, intermarrying with families listed among Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred, and the Blakes were fixtures at every event that mattered.

  When Vienna’s family wasn’t at their Upper East Side apartment, as she grew up, they were on Beacon Hill, in the original family townhouse built in 1820 by Benedict Blake’s father. Benedict and his Famous Four sisters had grown up there and that was where he was murdered by Hugo Cavender. The townhouse subsequently became the Boston base from which generations of Blake patriarchs ran the family’s ever-expanding empire. Marjorie lived there now and Vienna had her city apartment in the top floor of the Blake Industries building.

  “If you ever wish to sell…” Oxana’s croaky whisper startled her from her thoughts. “Think of me.”

  “Of course. I would only want to sell to a true connoisseur.”

  Oxana flushed with pleasure. “What a sweet girl you are. May I ask you a personal question?”

  “Certainly.” Vienna adopted a warm playful tone. “Although I can’t promise to answer.”

  Chuckling, Oxana leaned in close and asked in a loud whisper, “Why aren’t you married? Are these men fools?”

  “Let me tell you a secret.” Vienna produced a shy pause that had Oxana eating from her hand. “I’ve promised myself to my childhood sweetheart.”