Gates of Paradise (Casteel Series #4)

by V. C. Andrews

  "You poor child. If only you would have listened . . . to have such unnecessary pain on top of the agony already wreaked upon your tormented body."

  She knelt down beside me and took a washcloth to my face to wipe away my tears.

  "Just close your eyes and relax a little longer.

  I'll have you up and out of here in moments. We'll dry you off, dress you in a clean, crisp nightgown, and give you something to relieve the abdominal cramps.

  Then you'll sleep like a baby."

  "I don't understand . . . nothing I ate before did this to me."

  She lowered the washcloth to my neck and

  shoulders, wiping my skin in small, soft circles as lovingly as would one polishing fine china.

  "You're in my hands now. Let me do my work and you'll recuperate as you should, when you should, Annie. Will you let me do what I am being paid to do?"

  I nodded, my eyes closed now. The pain had eased some, although my stomach was still bubbling and threatening. Mrs. Broadfield ran her fingers down between my breasts and pressed the palm of her hand against my abdomen. When I opened my eyes, I saw her face was so close to mine I could read the pores in her skin, see the little hairs in her nostrils and the cracks in her lips.

  "It's still very active in there," she whispered.

  She turned her eyes on mine, but she had a faraway look.

  "Can I come out of the water now?"

  "What? Oh . . yes, yes." She stood up quickly and reached for the towels. Then she helped me out of the tub and wiped my body dry. After I put on the new nightgown, she assisted my return to bed and gave me two spoonfuls of a gray, chalky liquid. Moments later the bubbling in my stomach ended and she then gave me a sleeping pill.

  I did as I was told . . . closed my eyes and fell asleep, eager for the relief sleep would bring. Before I drifted off, I opened my eyes once and saw her standing beside me, looking down at me like a cat who had trapped its mouse in a corner and hovered confidently above its prey, now enjoying the torment it could lay upon its weaker and pathetic counterpart.

  Tomorrow I would feel better, I thought, and tomorrow Luke would receive my letter and would come to me. I had a dream about him. In it he was a knight on a white horse. He came galloping through the tall gates of Farthy and came charging into the mansion, rushing up the stairs to my room. He threw open the doors and came to my bed, where he quickly embraced me. I was so happy to see him, I put all restraint aside and kissed him fully on the lips. My nightgown slipped off my shoulders and he pressed his lips to my naked breasts, closing his eyes and inhaling as if I were a rose.

  "Oh, Luke," I moaned, "how I've waited for you, how I've longed for you."

  "My Annie." He caressed me gently, making my body sing with every kiss, until the tingles reached my legs and filled them with renewed strength and life. "I must take you away from here so we can be free to be lovers forever and even"

  He scooped me into his arms and carried me out and down the stairs. I was still half naked, but I didn't care. He put me on his horse and we rode off, away from Farthy. I looked back only once in the dream, and when I did, I saw Tony in a window watching, his face torn by sadness. Only there was also a dark, shadowy figure standing behind him. I couldn't see his face, but I felt sad about leaving him.

  I reached back, as if calling to him, and then I awoke.

  All the next morning and part of the afternoon, I remained in bed. Mrs. Broadfield decided we would have to skip my therapy for one day. She had Rye Whiskey prepare hot oatmeal for breakfast and allowed me very sweet tea and toast and jelly the rest of the day. Toward mid-afternoon I felt strong enough to get into my wheelchair. A little after two o'clock Rye appeared, still dressed in his apron. Mrs.

  Broadfield had gone for a walk.

  He entered, looking timid, remorseful. I knew immediately that he felt responsible for what had happened to me.

  "How ya feelin', Miss Annie?"

  "Much better, Rye. Now don't you go blaming yourself. There was no way for you to know what would and wouldn't disturb my digestion. Nothing you made had disturbed it before," I pointed out, widening my eyes for emphasis. He nodded thoughtfully. I could see there was something on his mind.

  "Dat's what I was thinkin', Miss Annie. I didn't put nothin' inta the meal I hadn't put in befo'."

  "It was my fault," I stressed. "I shouldn't have sent Mrs. Broadfield back with the food your helper had prepared."

  "I'll say. She come rushin' inta dat kitchen, flames in her hair, and slaps the tray down. I jumped a mile. Den she says, fix your special chicken, vegetables and potatas. I was doin' it anyway for Mr.

  Tatterton, so I said, it's all ready, ma'am. She grunts and I dished out de platter."

  "Then what happened?"

  "Nothin'. I give it to her to take back, 'cause we ain't got the maid no more, an' she takes the tray.

  Only I forgots the bread, so I come after her. I catched her because she stopped in the dining room to add in the medicine and—"

  "Medicine? What medicine?"

  Rye shrugged. "Medicine, she told me. To help you digest the food."

  "I never had that before."

  "I gives her the bread and she goes up ta yer room and next thing I know, Mr. Tatterton's rushing about, frantic because the food made ya so sick. He come in ta see me 'bout it and I said, yessir, listen to whatever the nurse tells me. Dat was dat. But ya feelin' better now?"

  "Yes, Rye. You're sure she put medicine in my food?"

  "In de potatoes. She was mixing it up when I comes out of the kitchen. Hope it didn't ruin the taste, I thought, but I was too scared ta say dat ta her. She must be a good nurse; she can scare the sickness right outta ya."

  "If she wants . ." I said knowingly. That was no medicine. She was taking revenge on me for insisting on the food, for defying her. My God, I thought, I'm in the hands of a sadistic, vengeful, hateful person. All this pain and embarrassment was her doing? "Or maybe she puts the sickness into you, too," I added, nodding knowingly. Rye understood.

  "Miss Annie . ." He turned and looked at the empty doorway to be sure no one was coming. "Maybe ya better already. Maybe it be best ya go on home now."

  "What?" I smiled with confusion. "You want me to go home?"

  "I better gets back to ma kitchen. Glad ya feelin' better, Miss Annie." He hurried out before I could ask him another question, but there was no doubt in my mind that he knew more, much more, about what was going on at Farthy.

  Tony didn't appear until dinner time. I was given the meal I had originally sent back: a breast of boiled chicken, peas and carrots, and bland mashed potatoes. Mrs. Broadfield smiled widely as she brought in the tray and placed it on my chair table.

  She stood nearby and watched me eat, just to be sure I could take in solid food again, she said.

  "Did you put anything in this to help my digestion?" I asked. Her smile evaporated.

  "What? Like what?"

  "I don't know . . . like what you put in my food when you brought me my dinner the second time last night," I said, my eyes narrowing on her.

  "What? Who told you such a thing?" She didn't look angry; she looked amused, as if she were talking to a complete idiot. The tight, cynical smile around her lips infuriated me.

  "Rye told me;" I spit back at her. "He came up to see how I was doing and he told me he saw you putting in what you told him was medicine after you took the tray out of the kitchen."

  "What a story." She laughed; a thin, chilling laugh. "Why would he make up such a thing? It's ridiculous to suggest it."

  "You did it," I said accusingly.

  "My dear girl, he's merely trying to cover up his own guilt for what happened to you. The first day we arrived here, I went to see him and specifically told him he must eliminate spicy foods from your diet.

  You'll remember I told him not to give you heavy sweet things, but he sent up that chocolate cake anyway. He's either stubborn or stupid. I'm sure Mr.

  Tatterton was quite upset
with him and might even have fired him."

  "Fire Rye?" It was my turn to laugh and make her feel ridiculous. "You don't realize how long they've been together. Rye's family here; he'll be here until the day he dies. And as for him feeling guilty, that's even more ridiculous. Rye is a wonderful cook.

  People don't get sick from the food he makes," I continued, challenging her, my eyes burning through her. She shook her head and looked away. That confirmed my suspicions.

  "Nevertheless, Mr. Tatterton was upset with him. Now why don't you finish your food before it gets cold. I'd like it to be warm when it hits your stomach." She spun on her heel and left the room.

  Soon after, Tony arrived.

  "How are you doing, Annie? I called Mrs.

  Broadfield twice today and she said you were coming along fine."

  "She's been lying to you," I snapped. I was determined this would all come to an end or I would leave immediately.

  "What? Lying?"

  "I didn't get sick from any spicy food, Tony.

  The food wasn't overly spiced, it was poisoned!" I declared. He stared at me a moment, his eyes widening.

  "Poisoned? Do you realize what you're saying?

  Maybe you're just—"

  "No, Tony, listen. If you really care for me, listen," I said. That got to him. He came closer. "Mrs.

  Broadfield is a competent nurse, technically competent, but she's not a nice person and she hates wealthy people. She thinks wealthy people, especially young wealthy people, are spoiled rotten and weak. You should see her face when she talks about it —she becomes even uglier, ghastly, hideous, monstrous."

  "I had no idea," he said in amazement.

  "Yes, and she can't stand being challenged.

  Why, even if I ask a question about what she's doing, she becomes enraged. When I demanded Rye's tasty food and challenged her command, she made up her mind to teach me a lesson. Rye was just here to apologize, and he told me she had taken his food and put something in it, claiming it was medicine, but I don't get any medicine in my food, Tony. You know that. She brought about this painful and embarrassing scene just to teach me a lesson," I repeated, my rage and fury bright, my face hot with anger.

  He nodded. "I see. Well then, I think it's time we terminated her services, don't you?"

  "Yes, Tony. I won't stay here another day with that woman."

  "Don't you worry about it. You won't have to.

  I'm going to pack her off tonight. We'll spend a little more time finding a suitable replacement, but I'm sure we will very quickly," he added with confidence.

  "Thank you, Tony. I didn't want to make trouble, but—"

  "Nonsense. If you're not happy and comfortable with your nurse, you won't improve. And I certainly don't want someone as sadistic as this woman seems to be. Anyway," he said, "put all that behind you now.

  I'll handle it. Let's turn our attention to other, brighter and more cheerful things." He looked around. "I know just what else is wrong. You're sitting and lying around doting on your illness too much. Look at this room . . it's a duplication of a hospital room . . .

  wheelchairs, walkers, medicines, special trays and basins . . depressing," he said, shaking his head. "But I've got just the magical medicine for you." His blue eyes twinkled with glee like the eyes of a mischievous little boy.

  "Magical medicine! What is it?"

  He held his hand up to indicate I should be patient.

  Then he went out of the suite. A moment later Parson appeared, carrying a long carton. He put it down by the window and turned to Tony.

  "You want it here, Mr. Tatterton?"

  "Exactly."

  "What is that?"

  "You'll see," he said and took my now empty tray off my wheelchair. He put it on the dresser and pulled my wheelchair back to the bed so he could sit beside me on the bed and both of us could watch Parson unpack whatever was in the carton. Moments later I realized what it was—an artist's easel. Parson assembled it quickly and adjusted it so I could paint from a sitting position.

  "Oh, Tony, an easel! How wonderful," I cried.

  "It's the best one money can buy," Tony announced proudly.

  "Oh, Tony, thank you, but—"

  "No buts. You've got to get back into the swing of things. That's what everyone I've spoken to about you tells me." He nodded to Parson, who left and returned with two more cartons, one filled with artist's supplies and one with paper. Tony set up a sheet on the easel immediately.

  "I don't know much about the rest of this stuff. I simply gave orders to my purchasing agent to go out and buy everything a budding young artist requires.

  There's even a beret in here somewhere." He sifted through the carton until he found it, a black beret, and put it on me. I laughed.

  "See? I've already got you smiling and laughing." Then he came over and put the hat on me.

  "Black is your color, Annie." He turned me toward a mirror so I could see myself. "Feeling inspired already?"

  I was. Just the sight of myself in that beret brought back the dreams I had almost forgotten. Art filled my life with an inner joy and meaning nothing else could. I hadn't realized how much I had missed it.

  The accident and the aftermath had separated me from all the people and things I loved, especially my artwork. Maybe that was another but more significant reason why I had felt like half a person up until now. I was so afraid that all the sadness and the tragedy had made me incapable of calling up the innermost feelings and inspiration that could be transformed into something beautiful. What if I lifted the brush to the canvas and saw only a blank, stark-white field forever and ever?

  "I don't know, Tony."

  "Well, you'll try, won't you? You'll at least try.

  Promise?"

  I hesitated, looking at him hopefully.

  "Well? Do you promise?"

  "I'll try, Tony. I promise."

  "Well now." He clapped his hands. "I'll just leave you to your work, then. In a day or so I expect to see something magnificent."

  "Don't expect too much, Tony. I was never really that good anyway and—"

  "You're much too modest. Drake has told me.

  He even brought back one of your paintings."

  "He did!" I exclaimed.

  "It's hanging in my office downstairs."

  "He didn't tell me he did that. Which painting?"

  "The one with the little sparrow on the magnolia tree. I love it. I hope you don't mind his bringing it to me."

  "It's not that I mind . . . but he should have told me. He should have asked," I said, gently chastising, even though I felt flattered and happy about Drake's appreciation of my artwork.

  "Well, I asked him to bring one and he was just trying to please me. Don't be too hard on him," Tony pleaded.

  "All right, Tony. I won't." He smiled and started to leave the room. "Tony," I called.

  "Yes?"

  "If Luke doesn't call by seven o'clock, I want you to have me taken to a phone to call him. I can't understand his failure to come or to respond to our letters and calls. Something must be wrong."

  "If something is wrong, Annie, you should be shielded from it awhile longer. I'll tell you what—I'll call him myself if he doesn't call."

  "But you just said you won't tell me if something is wrong."

  "I'll tell you. I promise."

  "Tony, I want a phone installed here. I can't stand the isolation. Please ask the doctor to put permit it."

  Tony seemed pained by my use of the word

  "isolation," but I couldn't help it. That was how I felt.

  He grimaced.

  "It's not that you're not doing everything you can for me, Tony. And I do appreciate it, really I do, but I miss my friends and the life I had before. I'm a young woman who was about to start the most exciting part of her life. I can't help being lonely, even though you and Drake have paid as much attention to me as you can. Please, speak to the doctor," I begged.

  His face softened. "Certainly. I'm sure he'l
l agree. You're on your way toward a full recuperation.

  I'm positive. Paint, eat well, rest, and you'll be on your feet sooner than you think."

  "Come right up after you call Luke." He nodded and left.

  I sat there quietly for a moment, thinking about all that had happened. Perhaps Tony was right . . I shouldn't dote on my illness and these sad thoughts any longer. He had promised to get rid of Mrs.

  Broadfield immediately. But even with a thoughtful, compassionate nurse, I would still feel entrapped.

  Tony could surround me with the most

  expensive equipment and bring me one thing after another: televisions, stereos, whatever, and I still wouldn't be content. I missed my own room, the scent of my linens and pillow, the fluffy feel of my feathered quilts. I missed my own dresses and shoes and combs.

  I missed giggling on the phone with girlfriends, listening to music alone or with friends at the luncheonette. I missed parties and dancing and laughing with people my age. I missed the simplest things and the most complicated things. I missed seeing flowers blossom in our front yard or watching Mommy cro-chet quietly in the living room. I missed Daddy reading the newspaper, turning those big pages thoughtfully, and occasionally looking over them to wink at me.

  Most of all "missed Luke. I missed the sight of him coming down the street or watching him without his being aware as he sat outside on the gazebo waiting for me. I missed our nightly talks on the phone.

  Once upon a time, hardly a day passed that we didn't see each other or speak to each other, and now he seemed thousands of miles away, a lifetime away, distracted by his own private world, perhaps. It tore my heart to shreds just thinking about it. But Tony was right. I shouldn't dote on my condition. The only way to be with Luke was to get hold of myself and make myself well again.

  I should begin to return to my former self as much as possible, and one way to start that return was to paint again. I wheeled myself to the easel and looked into the carton of supplies. Slowly, I unpacked the things I would need to begin.