Gates of Paradise (Casteel Series #4)

by V. C. Andrews

  "But why would Tony mind?"

  "Maybe there are sections of this house that are no longer safe . . . weak floorboards or something.

  How would I know? He told me what he wanted. It was simple enough. Who would have thought you would do this? Oh dear." She turned into my suite quickly.

  "I'll ask him when he comes in."

  "Don't you dare mention it. Maybe he won't find out and it won't matter."

  She stopped at my bed and stepped back,

  looking at me and shaking her head.

  "There's someone else living here, isn't there?

  Who is it?"

  "Someone else?"

  "Beside Tony and the servants, you and me.

  That room's being used."

  "There's no one I've seen. See, you're starting to imagine things, make up stories. Mr. Tatterton will be furious. Don't say any more about this," she warned, her eyes narrow and cold. "If I get in trouble because of this . . . both of us will suffer," she added, the tone of threat quite clear. "I'm not losing this job because a crippled girl violates rules."

  Crippled girl! No one had ever put the label on me. Rage filled me until it spilled out my eyes in tears. The way she had pronounced "crippled," she had made it sound less than human.

  I was not a crippled girl!

  "I called for you," I asserted. "I was hungry, but there was no one here. Even after I got into the wheelchair, I called."

  "I just took a short break. I was coming right back. If only you would be a little more patient."

  "Patient!" I exclaimed. This time when my eyes met hers, I didn't shift them away. My rebellion rose like a giant fire. I glued my gaze to hers, the rage pouring out. She stepped back as if slapped. Her face became horribly animated, her mouth working as if to find the right shape to phrase words, her eyes growing large and then small. The veins in her temple became prominent in the light, the outline of their weblike shape pressing up against her thin, scaly skin. She took a few steps toward me.

  "Yes, patient," she repeated disdainfully.

  "You've been brought up spoiled. I've had patients like you before—rich young girls who have been pampered and given everything they've ever wanted whenever they've wanted it. They don't know what it is to sacrifice and struggle, to do without, to live through pain and hardship.

  "But I"ll tell you something," she continued, her face distorted in a mad smile, "rich, pampered, spoiled people are weak and they don't have the strength to fight adversity when it strikes, so they remain crippled

  . . . they're invalids, trapped by their own wealth and luxury, stupid blobs." She pressed her hands together and rubbed them vigorously, as vigorously as she would if she were out in the cold. "Clay to be molded, no longer able to mold themselves into anything. Oh, they're still soft and pretty, but they're like. . ." She looked over at the dresser. "Like silk lingerie, delightful to touch and wear and then put away."

  "I'm not like that. I'm not!" I cried.

  She smiled again, this time as if she were speaking to a complete idiot.

  "You're not? Then why can't you listen to my orders and do what I tell you when I tell you to do it, instead of fighting me every inch of the way?"

  "I do listen. I'm just . . ." The words caught in my throat. I thought I would choke on them.

  "Yes?"

  "Lonely. I've lost my parents, I've lost my friends, and I'm . . . I'm . . ." She nodded, encouraging me to say it. I didn't want to say it. I wouldn't.

  "Crippled?"

  "NO!"

  "Yes, you are! And you'll remain crippled unless you listen to what I tell you. Is that what you want?"

  "You're not God!" I snapped. I couldn't help my frustration.

  "No, I never said I was God." Her calm, professional tone only infuriated me more. "But I am a trained nurse, trained to treat people like yourself, and what good will all this training be if the patient is stubborn and spoiled and refuses to follow orders?

  "You think I'm being cruel? Perhaps it seems that way, but if I am, I'm being cruel only to be kind.

  You didn't listen to what I told you . . rich, pampered young girls, such as yourself, are weak; they have no grit when it comes to hardship. You have to toughen up, deal with your loneliness, form a crust around yourself . . a scab over your wounds so you can fight, otherwise you'll remain soft and the ugly thing that has made you an invalid will maintain its grip on you.

  Is that what you want to happen?" she asked. My heart was pounding because she sounded so right. I wasn't trapped by my physical problems; I was trapped by her words.

  "I told you," I said, lowering my head in defeat,

  "I was hungry and felt deserted. I heard no one and no one answered my calls . . . not Tony, not Drake, and not you."

  "All right, go down and see if your meal is ready yet."

  "If Drake is still here, send him up," I pleaded.

  "He's not; he had to return to Boston."

  "Where is Tony, then?"

  "I don't know. I have enough trouble looking after you," she muttered, and left the suite.

  I sat there for a few moments staring into empty space, into the wake of her cold presence. She might be a good nurse, even a great nurse, I thought, but I didn't like her. Despite all that Tony had done for me—the doctors, the machinery and the private care, I wished I could leave here. Maybe my aunt Fanny was right; maybe I was better off recuperating among people I loved, people who loved me.

  I had to admit that I jumped at the opportunity to come to Farthy not only because I had always had a secret desire to come here, but for the same reason Drake told me he wasn't anxious to return to Hasbrouck House and Winnerrow. I didn't have the courage to go back there and look at my parents'

  room, see their clothing and their possessions, awaken every morning expecting to hear Daddy's footsteps and warm "Good morning, princess." I knew I would continually look up in anticipation of Mommy coming in to talk to me about this or that.

  No, coming to Farthy had postponed the

  inevitable reality I would have to face. But now I wondered if I had made the right decision. Perhaps with Aunt Fanny there, keeping me amused in her inimitable way—gossiping about the rich people of Winnerrow, laughing about the way they treated her—I might be better off, even without all the special equipment and private nursing care.

  I wished Luke would have come to see me by now so he and I could have discussed it. It was no use talking to Drake about it. He was so infatuated with Tony and the business that he was blind to any of the failings and problems in Farthy. Now he was almost as blind as Tony was even when it came to the rundown sections of Farthinggale.

  I had to contact Luke, I thought. I must see him.

  I must!

  I wheeled myself to the desk and found some more stationery. Then I wrote Luke another letter, and this time allowed myself to sound desperate.

  .

  Dear Luke,

  It seems one confusing thing after another has happened to keep you from paying me a visit here at Farthy. Messages are not delivered or perhaps left confusing.

  I need to see you immediately. A great deal has happened since my arrival at Farthy. I think I am somewhat stronger, but I haven't made any dramatic progress with my legs yet, despite the therapy.

  The truth is I'm not sure I should remain here much longer and I want to talk with you about it.

  Please come now. You don't need special permission.

  Come the day you receive this.

  Love, Annie

  .

  I put it into an envelope, sealing it immediately.

  Then I addressed it the same way I had addressed the first letter I wrote him, the one Millie Thomas never gave Tony.

  "Do you want to remain in your wheelchair to eat or return to bed?" Mrs. Broadfield asked as soon as she returned with my tray of food.

  "I'll remain in the wheelchair."

  She put the tray down to fetch the small table that went over the arms, fit it into pl
ace, and brought me the tray. I lifted the silver cover and looked at a breast of plain boiled chicken, a portion of green peas and carrots, and a slice of buttered white bread. It looked like hospital food.

  "Rye Whiskey prepared this?"

  "I had his helper prepare it, following my specific instructions."

  "It looks . . . blah."

  "I thought you were hungry."

  "I am, but I was expecting something different .

  . something Rye made. Everything he makes is special."

  "He's been using too much spice and making your food too exotic."

  "But I like it; I eat everything now, and that's what Dr. Maiisoff wanted, isn't it?" I protested.

  "He also wants you to eat things that are easy to digest. Considering your condition—"

  I slammed down the lid over the plate.

  Something proud sprang into my spine. I could put ice into my words, too, I thought. I sat back, crossing my arms over my chest.

  "I want something Rye makes. I won't eat this."

  She stared down at me. I knew she was burning with anger, but she kept her eyes clear, calm, and unreadable. There was even a small, tight smile around her lips.

  "Very well." She took the tray. "Maybe you're not as hungry as you think."

  "I am hungry. Tell Rye to make me something."

  "Something was made for you; you don't want it," she said as if stating the obvious, simple fact.

  "I may be crippled, but I still can enjoy food.

  Ask Tony to come here, please," I instructed.

  "You don't realize how you're acting, Annie.

  I'm just trying to do what I know is best for you."

  "I have had no trouble digesting anything Rye has made so far."

  "All right," she said, relenting. "If you have to have something he makes, I"ll ask him to fix the chicken."

  "And I want him to fix the vegetables and potatoes, too. And I want some of his homemade bread."

  "Don't complain later when you have stomach problems," she said before leaving. She just had to have the last word. But I saw how to get her to do what I wanted—just ask for Tony.

  Tony arrived before Mrs. Broadfield returned with my new food.

  "Well now, how are you feeling?"

  "Tired, but hungry. I'm waiting for Mrs.

  Broadfield to return with something Rye Whiskey makes. I don't want to be troublesome, but I didn't like what she had brought me." I told him because I thought she would complain to him about me later and give only her side of the story.

  "Don't you worry about that," he soothed.

  "You're no trouble. I'm sure Rye wouldn't mind cooking around the clock for you."

  "No, I know he won't mind."

  "You sound irritable."

  I didn't respond for a few moments, and then I turned to him abruptly.

  "Tony, I know Mrs. Broadfield is a professional and I'm lucky to have a nurse who has experience with my problems and who is a therapist as well, but she can be very trying."

  "I'll speak to her," he said. His eyes were soft and sympathetic, and I trusted he knew just what I meant. "My main concern is that you be happy, Annie. Everything else comes second. You know that, don't you?"

  "Yes, Tony. I do appreciate what you have been doing." I felt myself calm down. Then I remembered the letter in my lap.

  "Tony, I have written another letter to Luke.

  Would you please see that it is delivered to him . . .

  special delivery, so he gets it immediately."

  "Of course."

  He took it from me and put it into his suit jacket quickly.

  "Let me go down and look into your food. Can't have you going hungry long in my house."

  "It's all right now. I can wait."

  "I'll just look into it anyway. And I"ll speak to Mrs. Broadfield."

  "I don't mean to make extra trouble."

  "Nonsense. I told you. You come first. It's the way I want it," he assured me, and pivoted on his heel.

  "Oh, Tony . ."

  "Yes?" He turned back at the door.

  "Is there someone else here? A woman?"

  "A woman? You mean besides Mrs.

  Broadfield?" His blue eyes narrowed.

  "Yes. I wheeled myself out before and wandered into another suite, just like this one, and---"

  "Oh." He took a few steps back. "You mean you went to Jillian's suite."

  "Jillian's?" But Jillian had been dead so long, I thought. That suite looked like it was being used today.

  "Yes. I must have left the door open. I usually don't like anyone going in there," he said, his tone harder and sterner than it had ever been.

  "I'm sorry. I—"

  "That's all right," he said quickly, "no harm done. I've kept the room just the way it was the day she died. It's always been hard facing the fact that she's gone."

  "Why are all the mirrors gone?"

  "That was part of her madness toward the end.

  Anyway, there's no one else here," he said quickly.

  Then he forced a laugh. "Don't tell me you, too, are seeing Rye's ghosts." He shook his head and strutted off.

  Another room kept like a museum? Did Tony

  move from one moment in the past to another, keeping his memories vivid by keeping up the illusion of Jillian still being here? I could understand why a lonely man might hold onto mementoes, pictures, letters, things that had a special and loving meaning for him, but to keep her room the way it had been the very day she died . . that was eerie. A chill passed through me and for the first time I wondered if it wasn't time for me to demand I be returned to Winnerrow.

  Shortly afterward, Mrs. Broadfield returned with a new tray of food. This time she had brought me some of Rye's famous fried chicken, his special whipped potatoes, and steamed vegetables that smelled fresh and delicious. I was so hungry and everything looked so good, I gobbled my food.

  Mrs. Broadfield stood back, her face

  expressionless but her eyes cold. It was as if she wore a mask and only her eyes peeped through this granite face. She went into the sitting room and returned soon after I had completed my meal.

  "It was delicious," I said.

  "Do you want me to help you back into bed?"

  "No, I think I'll remain sitting up in the chair and watch television."

  She took the tray and left. I took the remote control and turned on the television set. I settled on a movie I had never seen and sat back, but what seemed to be only minutes later a sharp pain stabbed across my abdomen. I groaned and pressed my palms against my belly. The pain ceased and I sat back, taking deep breaths; but then it came again, this time with a great deal more ferocity, tearing up and down my stomach and sending pain into my chest.

  I heard my stomach bubble. I knew that I was going to have an accident any moment.

  "Mrs. Broadfield!" I called. "Mrs. Broadfield!"

  I screamed. But she didn't respond. I started to wheel myself toward the doorway. "Mrs. Broadfield!"

  It was happening. My body was rebelling.

  "Oh no. Mrs. Broadfield!"

  By the time she arrived, I was doubled up in the wheelchair and a mess.

  She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, a sharp, cold smile of self-satisfaction carved on her stone face.

  "Don't say I didn't tell you so," she said, shaking her head.

  Bent over in the chair, I could only moan and plead for her to help me.

  SEVENTEEN

  Mrs. Broadfield's Revenge

  .

  Mrs. Broadfield wheeled me in to the bath-

  room quickly. She began to fill the tub, and then she stripped me down, peeling the clothing off me roughly. I felt like a ripe banana in the hands of a starving monkey. If she could have torn off my skin, I think she would have done it. All the while she said nothing, but I could read the repeated "I told you so's"

  in her furious eyes. I moaned, still clutching my stomach.

  "It feels like someone's in
there lighting matches," I cried, but my complaints fell on deaf ears.

  She wiped me down with some towels and then, pulling me up and tugging me out of the wheelchair, she literally dumped me into the hot water. She was very powerful for a woman her size.

  As soon as I was submerged, she turned off the faucet and I slipped lower and lower until the water was up to my neck. Although it was as hot as ever, it seemed to bring some relief. I closed my eyes and lay back, still whimpering softly.

  But I opened my eyes as soon as I heard Tony.

  He had heard the commotion and had come running to my aid.

  "What's wrong?" he called from the sitting room.

  "Close the bathroom door!" I pleaded.

  Mrs. Broadfield smirked,

  "Just sit there and soak," she commanded and left the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Even so, I overheard their conversation.

  "Has something happened to Annie, Mrs.

  Broadfield?"

  "I pleaded with her not to eat those spicy, exotic meals your chef often makes. I even had the other cook prepare something proper and nutritious, but she was stubborn and insisted on having your chef's food, so I had to go back and have him prepare it."

  "I know, but—"

  "Her stomach is sensitive, as is most of her body. I tried to explain, but she is in a rush to recuperate, and like most teenagers, won't listen to older people who have experience."

  "Should I send for the doctor?" he asked anxiously.

  "No, I can handle it. She will be uncomfortable for a while, but there is no need to send for the doctor."

  "Is there anything I can do?" God bless Tony, I thought. He sounded so concerned, his voice full of worry and sympathy in contrast to Mrs. Broadfield's stern, correct tones.

  "No, get her cleaned up, medicated, and comfortable. By morning she should be better, but her stomach will be even more sensitive. What you can do is speak to that chef and tell him to prepare food exactly as I instruct him from now on."

  "I will.'

  I heard Tony leave, and moments later Mrs.

  Broadfield returned to the bathroom. She loomed over me. My tears mingled with the droplets of steam that ran down my reddened cheeks. Suddenly her stone face softened and, like a wax bust a little too close to heat, her lips dipped, the corners of her mouth widened, her puffy cheeks drooped, and her eyes watered with sympathy.