House of Secrets

by V. C. Andrews

  “Everything’s going to be all right, Fern,” my mother said, as if she had just heard the lake whisper it in the breeze. “Just let a little time pass. The amount of harm done to us in this life is proportional to how we accept it. That was the one lesson I permitted my father to teach me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When you’re young, everything is far more dramatic. A pimple on your face is as bad as a scar. If age does anything worthwhile, it certainly is the way it thickens your skin, hardens your resolve, and helps you endure disappointments and defeats. That’s the conundrum, our riddle we have to solve as human beings. Would you rather remain young and vulnerable or grow older and wiser and calmer?”

  “What’s your choice, Mummy?”

  She widened her smile and nodded at the lake, at some memory, for sure. “It’s a common tragedy we share, I guess. We’d rather be young and suffer emotional pains. What’s that quote? ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ ”

  Why was she talking about love?

  She put her arm around me, but I was thinking she was doing it for herself more than for me. She was suddenly more vulnerable than I had ever seen her. I wondered if this was the moment when I could get her to reveal who my father was. It was on my lips to ask, but I had a terrible sense of guilt taking advantage of her, too. I couldn’t do it.

  “Let’s go back,” she said. “You probably have homework to do.”

  We walked like that for a while, slowly, her arm still around my shoulders. Wyndemere loomed ahead of us. It always seemed to be looking down at me. It was never just there. It was always towering, impressive, and demanding respect. It was the only world I had known. I wanted to hate it. I often did, but now more than ever.

  And yet I couldn’t deny the power it held over me, over us all. It gave us a special sense of security. It was like a fortress, full of secrets, yes, and visited daily by the winds of family turmoil. But I recalled when I was very little and was permitted to follow my mother about that the chandeliers drove back the darkness, and the halls were filled with the laughter and conversations of the important political and social guests, all dressed in tuxedos and gowns, glittering with expensive jewelry. To me, it was more like a castle, a house of fantasies. It was no wonder that invitations to a Davenport event were highly prized and sought. It was no wonder that my classmates and people I met in the community wanted to know more about Wyndemere. Maybe that was why it was no wonder that my mother hadn’t left or still didn’t talk of doing so.

  Back in my room, I did my homework but occasionally paused and thought about Ryder, surely sulking in his room. I was afraid to reveal that I knew what he was suffering, that I had eavesdropped on Dr. Davenport reprimanding him. I thought he might be embarrassed, and I would only bring him more pain. In the end, I decided it was better that he tell me anything he thought I should know.

  I dreaded tomorrow, beginning with him sullenly getting into the limousine with Sam and then later at school, when surely the famous second shoe would be dropped, and we’d all know more about what was going to happen to Paul and Barry and anyone else tied to the prom-night events. How many would resent me—and Ryder, for that matter? What would our teachers have learned, and how would they act toward us? What would Alison be like? Would she spread stories about me now? Those who had been envious of me would bask in the nasty comments. I would read that forever dreaded question on the faces of many. Why expect anything better from an illegitimate child who couldn’t be sure who among all her mother’s lovers was her father?

  My mother came in to check on me, and then she went to bed. Slowly, I did the same, trying to hold back time. The faster I went to sleep, the faster morning would come. Maybe I would pretend I was sick and not go to school, but then I thought it would be worse to stay home. Nothing would change by skipping a day.

  I slipped under my blanket and stared up at the dark ceiling, where some of the full moonlight was streaking along it and down the wall to my right. If there really were ghosts in Wyndemere, tonight was going to be a party night for them for sure.

  I closed my eyes and began to drift into a welcoming sleep. I didn’t know how long I was asleep before I heard something that snapped my eyes open again. The shadow I saw moving toward me did look ghostly. I was about to scream just before it moved into a slight glow of the starlight, and I saw it was Ryder.

  I knew that, especially now, this visit was strictly forbidden, that he was defying his father and Bea and risking getting himself into even more trouble, but I didn’t want to say it.

  I sat up quickly. He was in his robe and slippers. He didn’t say anything at first. He simply sat near my legs and leaned forward, taking the posture of Rodin’s famous sculpture The Thinker. I reached for his left hand, lying on his knee. He turned to me slowly, his face pale in the starlight coming through my open window.

  “I won’t be riding with you on the bus,” he said.

  “I told you that would be all right, Ryder. I won’t let anyone bother me.”

  “You tell me who does,” he said. “I’ll deal with them.”

  “Right. I get you into more trouble and give Bea more ammunition.”

  I was still holding his hand. He looked down at our hands and put his right hand over mine. “I’ll tell you what my mistake was, Fern. My mistake was not taking you to the prom myself.”

  I couldn’t speak. Had I heard correctly?

  He lowered himself beside me. I moved over slightly. He pulled himself up so he was able to share part of my pillow, and he turned fully on his back.

  “I always wondered what it would be like sleeping here. Did your mother ever tell you that I often cried to have a sleepover night when I was about six and you were about four?”

  “No.”

  “It always seemed like an adventure to follow your mother into this section of Wyndemere. I think I thought I was going to another country or something.”

  “You were; you are.”

  “I’d probably be better off,” he said. “I had a bad fight with my father and Bea. He’s forbidden me to go anywhere on weekends and is telling Parker not to take me anywhere until I basically kowtow to Bea. He’s rescinded his promise to buy me a car on my birthday until he’s confident I’ll be obedient and respect whatever Bea tells me.”

  “Do whatever you have to, Ryder. Don’t defy her just for me.”

  He turned. “That’s the best reason to defy her,” he said. He raised himself a bit and suddenly kissed me on the neck. The warm electric feeling shot through my breast to the pit of my stomach so quickly that it took my breath away. When I turned slightly to him, he brought his lips to mine. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a soft brush of his lips, and then he lowered his head and brought his mouth to my chest, nudging the buttons of my pajama top open with his fingers, his lips traveling between my breasts first and then to my nipples. He turned his face so the fullness of my breast was against his cheek. Then he rose again and kissed me on the lips, this time a long kiss.

  I hadn’t moaned; I hadn’t spoken. It seemed more like one of my fantasies. The moment I uttered a sound, it would go away. He wouldn’t be in my room. I would realize I had dreamed it all.

  But he didn’t disappear when I said his name. Instead, he twisted himself around, slipping under my blanket, and embraced me. When he pressed himself against me now, I felt his hardness and shuddered. His hands were on my waist. I was excited, happy, but frightened, too. He lay like that for a while, his head now resting on my shoulder.

  “I guess I’ve shocked you,” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m glad you kissed me, touched me.”

  He lifted his head and kissed me on the tip of my nose. “I’m angry and frustrated,” he said. “I almost wish Bea would come walking through that door and find us together.”

  A frightening thought came to me. “You’re not doing this f
or that reason, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.” He pulled back. “Maybe not. I don’t know. I was thinking about you, imagining myself here beside you. I didn’t hesitate to go down the stairs and come here.”

  He sat up when we both heard what sounded like my mother going into the kitchen. Neither of us spoke; both of us were holding our breath. I could hear her footsteps. Would she look in on me to see how I was?

  Ryder moved very, very slowly, lifting the blanket away. Then he slipped off my bed and lowered himself to the floor just as my mother opened my door. I had pulled my blanket up and turned on my side. I didn’t move. She was standing there watching me. Seconds felt like minutes, but finally she closed the door softly and returned to her bedroom.

  Ryder rose. “That was close,” he whispered. “I’d better get back. I’ll be waiting for you in the school lobby when the bus arrives tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He started for the door.

  “Ryder,” I whispered.

  He turned back. “What?”

  “I’m glad you came here tonight. For whatever reason.”

  “Me, too,” he said, and quietly opened the door and slipped away.

  Go on, Fern, I challenged myself. Just try to fall asleep.

  12

  I DID FALL asleep quicker than I imagined I would. The tension and fear I brought to bed with me had been swept away by Ryder’s kisses and caresses. It was a fantasy realized, but what did it mean? How could we ever care for each other in this house, in the Davenport world? Would every moment have to be stolen and hidden? Would I have to lie to my mother?

  What a wonder Wyndemere was, I thought. It not only housed many secrets, it created new ones. It was as if the deep shadows, the moans and creaks in the walls, and antiques full of memories encouraged additional mystery. It welcomed more whispers and clandestine activities. It was a garden ripe for lies. Black roses grew everywhere, and now Ryder and I were about to plant a new one.

  Suddenly, Bea Davenport’s forbidding me to enter the main house for any purpose other than something that was absolutely necessary was welcomed, for how could I be in the same room with Ryder and not have my deeper, loving, sexual affection for him unmasked? Bea’s ever suspicious and condemning eyes would pounce on a look, a smile, a surreptitious touch. Now that I thought about that, I did have new nightmares.

  There! she cried, loudly enough to bring Dr. Davenport out of his office or down the stairway. She was pointing her long right forefinger at us. The fingernail looked like a razor. Didn’t I warn you? Didn’t I have good reason to prohibit her from socializing with your son, whether it was something as seemingly innocent as riding along with him and our daughter in the limousine or as dangerous as having her at dates and parties with him?

  In my horrible dream, Dr. Davenport’s handsome face then became disfigured. His beautiful silvery eyes reddened with rage, and his lips contorted as his teeth grew more like vampire fangs.

  No! he cried, and slammed his fist against the wall. Every chandelier shook, some paintings fell off walls, and a trembling expensive antique vase tumbled and smashed on the floor.

  Of course, I woke up with that sound. It was nearly morning and useless to try to return to sleep. I lay there with my eyes open, thinking and planning, with panic stinging my spine. Ryder had to beware of this show of affection toward me. He should be especially careful when he looked at me, even when he gazed my way while I was waiting for the school bus. Bea must never see his face at those moments. And when we were in school, we had to be even more careful. For all I knew, Alison had sensed something in Ryder as well as in me, and that was the real reason she was so angry and wanted to break up with him. She would be the first to point out how close Ryder and I were now. Hopefully, he would understand when I would avoid sitting with him in the cafeteria or walking with him in the hallways between classes.

  It wouldn’t be easy. I had no confidence in being able to quiet my demanding heart. I would surely long for his hand, his touch, and a soft loving word. Could I avert my gaze, pay attention to anyone else’s conversations, and keep my distance, especially today, when everything about prom night had come to a loud crash for Ryder and myself at Wyndemere? Somehow I had to be measured enough in my exchanges with him to keep even the most suspicious and envious of my classmates unaware.

  As usual, I heard my mother up ahead of me, preparing some breakfast. I washed, brushed my hair, and dressed. I’d wear no makeup today, not even a touch of lipstick. I wanted to be more like a nun in my appearance so I could assume that demeanor and keep the lid on my new boiling, raging desires. My mind was full of expectations. Ryder would return to my bedroom, maybe not tonight or tomorrow night, but he would return, and our kisses would be longer, his caresses more demanding, exploring, driving away my fragile virgin resistance. He’d be prepared for that. It would happen, and whatever we did in our lives, wherever we were, even if we were with someone else, we would never be able to forget those loving, erotic moments.

  Of course, I could not say that for him it would be a first as well. Whenever I fantasized about making love for the first time and imagined the boy doing it for the first time, I envisioned us both fumbling and stumbling, like two people blindly walking on the deck of a rocking boat on the darkest night. When some of my more revealing girlfriends described their first times, a few made it sound so terrible that they were seriously considering abstinence until marriage. For them, it had been painful and unsatisfying. The boy had his orgasm, his initiation, but they hadn’t come close.

  “I don’t fancy myself being someone’s training ground,” I told them, which made them widen their eyes.

  “Fancy?” Carla Sheldon said. “What’s that mean?”

  “Don’t forget her mother’s English,” Kim Green reminded everyone. “English people always fancy this or fancy that.”

  I had grown so accustomed to my mother’s expressions that I didn’t think twice about repeating them, but I was always sensitive to any allusions to my mother, for fear that the next statement would pave the way for a comment about her getting pregnant with me and my never knowing who my father was.

  All this played in my mind in a twisted ball of rubber-band thoughts entangling with each other. My mother immediately saw how distracted I was, but she blamed it entirely on my fear of what awaited me at school regarding the infamous second shoe. There would be more collateral damage. Others who were in the vicinity of the illegal activity or tied to it would suffer anything from relatively minor reprimands to suspension from school. Families would be tainted. There would be an avalanche of rage in our community, perhaps aimed not solely at the ones who brought it about but also at those who revealed it.

  Paul was obviously at the top of that list. Other students who took the drug would complain about him. Why didn’t he just wait until it had worn off or sought the help of someone who would have covered up for him? They wouldn’t believe his health was in such danger. His extreme reaction was so rare. Everything could have been avoided. I couldn’t believe that I was actually feeling a bit sorry for him, but I was.

  Another thought popped into my head. Maybe they would spread the rumor that Dr. Davenport, embarrassed that his son, Ryder, was in some way tied to all this, exaggerated Paul’s health issues and blew them up far more than necessary. And by cooperating with the police and the school administration, all Ryder Davenport and Fern Corey did was enable this terrible blot on our community to happen. How could I not be distracted and afraid?

  “Whatever happens to other students because of all this is not your fault, Fern. You must not act as though you have done something wrong,” my mother said, pouring my juice. “You go to school just like you always have, and you do your work and ignore any nasty remarks, just the way I told you yesterday.

  “If the dean calls you to his office to talk about any of this because of something new they’ve learned, you are to ask him or his secretary to call me im
mediately, and you are to say nothing more. I know that makes you look guilty to other people, but things said are often twisted or exaggerated.”

  She sat with her coffee. She had made me a soft-boiled egg and toast.

  “I haven’t lied about any of it,” I said.

  She nodded. “I know. I believe you.”

  She sat there, watching me eat.

  “Last night, Dr. Davenport asked to see me,” she revealed after a long and obviously thoughtful silence, during which she had debated whether to tell me.

  “How?” I asked, probably too quickly. Had he come to our part of the house?

  “How? The usual way, through the intercom.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Not long after you had gone to sleep,” she said.

  My mind spun with a myriad of frightening questions. On her way to Dr. Davenport’s office, had she seen Ryder go into my room but kept it to herself? Did Dr. Davenport anticipate all this? Was that why he had called her to his office? Did he threaten her? Was Bea present? Afterward, did she come to my door to signal to Ryder that he should leave?

  There was more than one second shoe dropping today. There were three, maybe four.

  “Why?” I asked, in a voice so low that I wasn’t sure I had said it out loud. “I had no idea you went there.”

  “I didn’t stay in the office long,” she said. “He simply wanted to tell me what I’m telling you now. He’s concerned that no one hold you and, for that matter, Ryder to blame. He said police and prosecutors are often overly anxious when it comes to prosecuting a case and winning accolades. It’s why, he says, we all need attorneys most of the time. He has one of his standing by in case we need him, and he said he would pay any expenses. I was not to worry. That’s very kind of him, don’t you think?”