Gates of Paradise (Casteel Series #4)

by V. C. Andrews

  Tony laughed again, this time at the expression on my face.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?"

  Everywhere I saw my mother's favorite color: wine red. The French Provencial furniture was upholstered in that color fabric, picking up the colors in the large Persian rug. The walls were done in a floral-patterned cloth paper, which picked up on the reds and whites in the upholstery and rug. Over the two large windows hung antique silk drapes, behind which were sheer curtains. But everything looked brand new.

  Tony confirmed my thoughts.

  "Everything has been replaced and restored to what it was. This is the way the sitting room looked the day your mother and father stepped into it for the first time."

  "Brand new?" I asked, puzzled. He nodded.

  "But . . why?"

  "Why? Why . ." He looked around as though the answer were obvious, "Why, maybe someday you and your husband will come to live here. Anyway," he said quickly, "it makes me feel better to bring things back to the way they were when we were all happier.

  And I can afford to do it, so why not? I told you I was going to bring Farthinggale Manor back to the way it was in its most glorious days."

  I shook my head. Someone might say this was the way a very wealthy, elderly man indulged himself.

  But why bring back a painful memory? Mommy refused to have anything to do with him all these years, and all these years he held on to his memories of her and Daddy, refusing to permit time to erase them. Why?

  "I'm afraid I still don't understand, Tony. Why was it so important to keep it . . . as it was?" I pursued. His face hardened.

  "I told you. I have the means to do it."

  "But you have the means to do many things, new things. Why dwell on the past?"

  "The past is more important to me than the future," he replied, almost snapping at me. "When you're my age, you'll realize how precious good memories are."

  "But with the rift between Mommy and you, I would have thought this painful for you. She was gone from your life; she was—"

  "No!" He looked furious. "No," he repeated, more calmly. Then he smiled. "Don't you see, by doing all this"—he extended his arms—"I've kept Heaven as she was to me . . always. I've cheated Fate." He laughed, a thin, hollow laugh. "That, my dear, is the true power of great wealth."

  I simply stared up at him. He looked at me and shook the wild look from his face.

  "But now come look at the bedroom. See what I have done here." Tony moved ahead and opened the bedroom doors. More tentative, a little reluctantly, I wheeled myself up to the entrance and gazed within.

  Even the huge king-size bed looked lost in this enormous room, the floors of which were covered with a beige carpet so soft and thick, I had trouble wheeling over it. It was like wheeling through marshmallow. It was obvious that this, too, was a brand-new carpet.

  All the linen was new. The bedspread matched the apricot canopy, and there were rust-colored throw pillows as well. I turned to the right and looked at the white marble vanity table, resting at the middle of a marble counter that ran nearly the length of the room.

  Under the counter were drawers framed in wood the shade of the marble counter. Above it was a wall of mirror, the edges of which were trimmed in gold.

  Something on the vanity table caught my eye, so I wheeled myself closer. There was a hairbrush there with strands of hair still caught in it, silvery-blond strands. I took the brush into my hand and studied it.

  "That was Heaven's," Tony whispered beside me. "When she had hair like Leigh's. She had done it herself, as if Leigh had come back through her, don't you see?" he asked, his eyes wide, wild and bright.

  My heart began to pound. "The hair is . . . it is Leigh's hair. It wasn't just Heaven's hair dyed . . . Leigh was coming back. I. . ."

  He saw the look of amazement on my face and shrugged, taking the brush from my hands and gently running the tip of his finger over the strands of hair.

  "She looked so beautiful with that hair; that color was so right for her."

  "I liked her better with dark hair," I said, but he didn't seem to hear me. He stared at the brush a while longer and then put it back on the table as though it were part of some valuable museum collection. As I looked over the counter and dressing table, I spotted other personal artifacts—hairpins, bobby pins, combs, even crumpled tissues, tinted yellow by time. Some of the things I saw were very personal things.

  "Why would my mother leave these things here'?" I turned when he didn't answer immediately and saw he was staring down at me, his mouth curved into a half smile. "Tony?" He continued to stare.

  "Tony, what's wrong?" I turned my chair about so that I faced him completely. It snapped him out of his daze.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Seeing you seated there in your chair . . I saw Heaven seated at her vanity table, dressed in her nightgown, brushing her hair just before she would go to sleep."

  How odd, I thought. Why would he be in

  Mommy's room watching her prepare for bed? That was more like something a husband would do with a wife, not a step-grandfather with a step-granddaughter. He was talking about Mommy as if she were Jillian, the wife he had lost. It was spooky.

  Maybe he was losing his mind and I had the misfortune of being here just as all that was beginning.

  "You watched her preparing for sleep?" I couldn't help but ask.

  "Oh no, I would just come by and knock, and while I was standing in the doorway, she would answer my questions or converse while she continued to brush her hair," he said quickly; too quickly, I thought. He had the tone of a man guilty of something.

  "Oh. But Tony, why did my mother leave so much after she left Farthy?" The counter was still covered with her powders, her bottles of perfume and cologne, cans of hair spray.

  "She had doubles of everything so she didn't have to pack that much whenever she went to Winnerrow," he replied, also with that quickness that made me wonder if he were telling the truth.

  "It looks more like she fled from here, Tony," I replied, so he would know I had not accepted his explanation. I wheeled closer to him. "Why did she leave so suddenly, Tony? Can't you tell me now?"

  "But Annie, please—"

  "No, Tony, I must tell you that I appreciate all you have done for me and for Drake, but I worry, knowing how things were between you and my mother. Sometimes I feel there are things you are hiding from me, bad things, things that would frighten me away."

  "But you must not think—"

  "I don't know how much longer I can remain here without knowing the truth, no matter how ugly or painful that truth might be," I insisted.

  His sharp, penetrating gaze rested on me with deep consideration. His eyes blinked when he made his quick decision, and then he nodded.

  "All right. Maybe you're right; maybe it is time.

  You seem a lot stronger today, and I do feel badly about the hard feelings between your mother and me.

  Also, I don't want there to be a wall of secrets between you and me, Annie. I'll do anything to prevent that."

  "Then tell me all of it."

  "I will." He pulled a vanity chair from the table and sat down in front of me. For what seemed to be an eternity, he sat with his elegant, well-manicured hands templed under his chin, saying nothing, and then he lowered his hands and looked around the room. "This is the right place to confess . . . in her rooms." He looked down and then up at me, his eyes as sad as a motherless puppy's, a puppy longing to be cuddled and loved. I took a deep breath and waited for him to begin.

  FOURTEEN

  Tony's Confession

  .

  “Annie," he began, his eyes two marbles of blue ice, "I don't ask you to condone or to forgive me for what I did. All I ask is you try to understand why I did it and how badly I felt about what I had done afterward, especially after Heaven found out and hated me for it."

  He paused, waiting for me to reply, but I said nothing. Perhaps he hoped for some encouragement before he started, but all I could think was I was about to h
ear something so terrible, I would immediately ask—no, demand—to be taken from Farthinggale Manor.

  I realized Tony was right about one thing—this was a perfect place for me to be to hear the story.

  Some of my mother's clothing still hung in the closets, and from the way the garments looked, I didn't doubt Tony had had them cleaned and pressed—all part of his obsession to keep the past alive, to keep his memories happy memories. I was positive I smelled the familiar scent of jasmine, and, although I knew I had to be imagining it, I thought I even heard the tinkle of a Chopin melody being played on a music box.

  "Annie, you can't imagine what it was like for me after my brother passed away. I had always hoped he would overcome his fatalism and depression and find someone to love. He would marry and have children. Little Tattertons would once again be laughing and running through these great halls. There would be heirs and the family line would continue on and on."

  "Why didn't you and Jillian have children of your own, Tony?" The question seemed natural and obvious to ask, but I could see from the reaction in his eyes and the way his lips tightened that it brought him great mental anguish. He shook his head slowly.

  "Jillian wasn't a young woman when I married her, and she was a very vain woman who believed that after she had Leigh, she had lost some of her beauty.

  She claimed she had to battle to win back her figure.

  "In short, Jillian did not want to have another child. Of course, I pleaded. I begged her to consider the Tatterton heritage and my desire for an heir."

  "What was her response?"

  "Jillian was like a child, Annie. She couldn't conceive of her own death; she couldn't even face getting old. That problem just didn't exist for her.

  "During the earlier times, she would drive me away by saying Troy should be the one to have heirs.

  After he died . . well, it was too late for Jillian by then."

  "But what does this have to do with why my mother refused to have anything more to do with you?"

  "This is all by way of preface, Annie, so that you will understand my motives for what I did. By that time Troy was gone; Jillian was . . . well, Jillian was so lost in herself, she was well on her way to the world of insanity she was to inhabit until the day she died.

  "When Heaven first came along, you can't imagine how my heart cheered when I set eyes on her, JiIlian's granddaughter. Troy was already in deep depression by then, living alone, convinced he was to die soon. Jillian was wrapped up in herself, in her beauty regimen.

  "Heaven was bright and alive and eager to learn and to become someone. As you know, I enrolled her in an expensive private school, lavished her with expensive clothing, made sure she had everything she could ever want. When she wanted to go back to Winnerrow and try to bring her Casteel family back together again, I financed her." He leaned toward me and lowered his voice as if he didn't want any of his ancestors to hear. "I would even have permitted her to bring the whole clan hack here, as long as she would remain and become my heir.

  "You can't imagine how it broke my heart when she decided to go back to Winnerrow to become a schoolteacher. I couldn't believe she had given all this up for a teaching position in a small town, where the people didn't even appreciate her, where they still looked down on her and called her àscumbag Casteel.'"

  "It. was her lifelong dream to be there for the children just the way her teacher had been there for her," I said. "I remember how proud she was of what she had been able to do as a teacher."

  "Yes, yes, I know. And I was wrong to belittle that. I realized it too late.

  "Anyway, after I learned she was going to marry your father, I panicked. This would surely keep her away from Farthinggale forever, I thought. She would marry and set up a modest little home in Winnerrow, and . ." He swallowed. "And she would make up with her father Luke Casteel and be rooted solidly in that world again.

  "Can you understand how I felt?" he pleaded.

  "It was all going to end with me . Tatterton Toys, Farthy, all of it. What had it been for? Nights I would walk through these dark halls feeling the angry eyes of my ancestors on me looking down from the portraits. I began to despise the echo of my own footsteps, to hate the face that gazed back at me from the mirrors, to wish I had never been born a Tatterton.

  "And then, one day, I thought, why can't there be a way to bring Heaven and her world to Farthy?

  "When I learned of Heaven's engagement to Logan, I contacted him and we discussed his future. I saw that he was a bright and perceptive man, ambitious and eager. I offered him an important position with my company and I requested that he and Heaven permit me to make them a wedding reception here."

  "I know. I've seen the pictures. It must have been wonderful."

  "There hasn't been a party like it since. It was that day, just before that party, that I presented Logan and Heaven with the idea of joining my company and building the factory in Winnerrow. Your mother consented, and then I showed them this suite." He stopped and stared at the memory of victory. "And she was overwhelmed. I had won her back. I had used all my resources, used all I was, and all I had, to do so."

  "But Tony, why did she hate you?"

  He looked down and turned his hands about in his lap as though inspecting them for scars.

  "She hated me for the one additional thing I had done to secure my plan." He looked up.

  "What was it, Tony?" My voice was soft and breathless.

  "I was afraid of the relationship she would develop with Luke Casteel. I knew how much she loved him and wanted him to love her. After all their years apart, she was going to forgive him for selling her and her brothers and sisters; she was inviting him and his new wife Stacie to her wedding in Winnerrow.

  And I knew that Luke would go. I was positive that once she had made up with him, she would have no need of me—not my money, not the factory, nothing would make any difference. I felt I had to stop it."

  "What did you do?" I asked, with anticipation.

  "I knew from my discussions with Heaven that Luke had always dreamt of owning his own circus. At the time he worked for a man named Windenbarron. I bought the circus from Windenbarron and offered it to Luke for one dollar."

  "One dollar!"

  "One dollar and one stipulation . . . he was not to go to the wedding and he was not to have any contact with Heaven. If he did, he would lose the circus."

  I stared at him; even though I was unable to speak, I couldn't help the flood of thoughts that rushed through my mind. One dollar! Tony had been like the Devil buying a man's soul, tempting him with all that he wanted and dreamt of having, but making him surrender the things that should have been most precious to him. I felt sick, disgusted, as weak as I would had I just learned my own father traded me for a circus, and only for a dollar!

  The silence between us seemed eternal. How wished I could get up and run from that room, run from these terrible revelations. What kind of a man was Luke Casteel? Luke Jr. surely hadn't inherited these traits, I prayed. Not the Luke Jr. knew and loved.

  "Luke agreed?" I finally asked, knowing the answer full well.

  "Yes, and lived up to his agreement until the day he and his wife were killed. It was only then . . .

  Heaven found out what I had done. I tried to explain it to her, just as I am explaining it to you. I begged her to forgive me, but she was so enraged she left Farthinggale immediately and never returned."

  He lowered his head.

  "She left me a broken, guilt-ridden man, wandering alone in this enormous house to ponder my selfish acts. After what I thought was a sufficient time for the wounds to heal, I tried to get Heaven to talk to me, to answer my calls and letters, but she would have nothing more to do with me, and nothing I could do would make a difference.

  "I retreated to the shadows, and I have been there ever since." He looked down and then he looked up quickly. "But what kept me alive was learning about you and about Heaven and Logan's life in Winnerrow. I had my people bring me reports abou
t your progress, your growth into the beautiful young lady you've become, as well as reports about the success of the Willies Toy Factory and Heaven and Logan's wonderful life in Winnerrow, where they came to be respected and envied. I. . I couldn't help wanting to see you, to learn about you.

  "Many times I toyed with the idea of simply appearing there, risking being thrown out of the house. I even planned to go to Winnerrow in a disguise and watch you from a short distance," he said, but in such a way that I wondered if he had indeed not done such a thing.

  "You can't imagine how much it has meant to me during all these dry and lonely years to live with you and Heaven even vicariously, through stories," he said, and I saw the tears in his eyes and realized how deeply sincere he was. He had been waiting all these years for either Mommy's or my appearance at Farthinggale. How he had longed for it. I couldn't help but pity him for his desperate longing.

  "Oh, Annie, don't think for one moment I wouldn't give all that I have to go back in time and change what I had done, but I couldn't. Please . .

  please don't hate me for it. Give me the chance to correct my wrong by helping you, by making you whole and well and happy again."

  He took my hands into his, his eyes pleading, begging, beseeching me to accept him. I looked away and took a deep breath. My heart was pounding. I thought I might swoon again if I didn't get back into bed.

  "I want to go back to my room, Tony. I need to rest and to think."

  He nodded sadly, resignedly.

  "I don't blame you for hating me, too."

  "I don't hate you, Tony. I believe you are sorry for what you did, but I also understand now why my mother was so sad when it came to talking about her father and why she was so upset whenever we talked about Farthinggale and mentioned you. He died before they had a chance to reconcile with each other after so many years of estrangement. Unlike you, Tony, my grandfather never had a chance to ask for forgiveness."