Beneath the Attic

by V. C. Andrews

  “I doubt she’ll oppose what your father wants for you.”

  I wanted to say probably not, but not because she was an obedient wife. She was more likely seeing my marriage as lifting a burden off her shoulders. She’d rationalize and think she had to send me off eventually, so why not now?

  As soon as we entered the house, my father called to us. I could see from the opened bottle of his highly prized port and the four glasses that the decision had been confirmed.

  “Let us be the first to toast the future Mr. and Mrs. Garland Foxworth,” he said, and handed a glassful to Garland and one to me.

  “Oh, then, in that case,” Garland said, reaching into his pocket to produce a ring. “Another of my mother’s beautiful jewels, her engagement ring.”

  He held it out to me. It was a three-diamond gold ring.

  “Will you have me, Corrine Dixon?”

  I looked at my mother. She wasn’t smiling, and she wasn’t gloating.

  I held out my hand, and Garland slipped the ring onto my finger.

  “As I suspected, a perfect fit. My mother was remarkably similar to you in so many of her features. It’s uncanny.”

  I gazed at the ring and then looked again at my mother. For the first time I could recall since I was a little girl, she looked frightened.

  But not for herself.

  For me.

  I never fully appreciated what the word whirlwind meant until my upcoming marriage to Garland Foxworth was confirmed. On an almost daily basis for a week afterward, something was delivered to our house for my mother to consider: menu items, flower arrangements that featured irises, and the biography of the minister whom Garland had chosen to perform the ceremony. He hoped that was all right, because this minister had married Garland’s parents. My mother thought that was sweet and illustrated how respectful of his parents’ memory Garland was. How could a man like that be anything but a devoted husband?

  And then, the following weekend, Garland invited us all to Foxworth Hall. He even sent along our train tickets. My mother was all in a fluster, suddenly deciding that maybe her wardrobe indeed needed to be updated. After all, she was going to be constantly in the eyes of society now. Insecure about shopping for herself, she took Etta Benjamin and Louise Francis along on her search for new and appropriate clothes. For me, that was truly the blind leading the blind.

  Even my father was surprised at how many new things she bought. We needed an extra suitcase, and only for a weekend. I wondered if we would visit Great-aunt Nettie. I was afraid Hazel might slip and tell my parents how Garland had upset me.

  “Not this trip,” my mother said quickly. “We don’t want any unnecessary distractions. I can’t imagine inviting her to the wedding, but of course, we will.”

  “And Hazel,” I said.

  I didn’t mention Great-aunt Nettie’s dislike of the Foxworth family. If she thought about it, she probably wouldn’t want to attend, but Hazel would probably convince her she must. She’d keep her from saying nasty things. At least, I hoped she would.

  My mother made a face but reluctantly agreed, saying she wouldn’t want the responsibility of looking after Nettie. She would certainly be too busy entertaining the guests. I looked at my father, who had just the slight imprint of a smile on his lips. My wedding was suddenly, probably as he and Garland had planned, becoming more important to my mother than anything or anyone.

  She talked about it almost the entire train trip to Charlottesville, reminding my father about weddings they’d attended that lacked the proper attention to detail. Sometimes it sounded like she was talking more about her own wedding than mine. Parents did live vicariously through their children, I thought. That was why they wished everything would be better for them.

  Lucas was waiting for us at the railroad station with the same fancy carriage in which I had been taken to Foxworth Hall that life-changing night.

  “Mr. Foxworth is taking so much extra care with preparations for your visit,” Lucas said, “that he begs to be forgiven for not being here in person to greet you. He’s personally inspecting the grounds work, the cleaning of the manor house, and your chambers.”

  “Is that so?” my mother asked. “Our chambers?”

  It was clearly a question and not a simple acknowledgment, which surprised poor Lucas. How would he answer? He fluttered about, loading our luggage, and then assisted both my mother and me into the carriage.

  “This is a beautiful carriage, Harrington,” my mother said, running her hands over the new leather seats. “We should get a new one, perhaps. Perhaps something similar.”

  “I forget the name of this one,” my father said, “but I know it’s from England.”

  “It’s a brougham,” I said, speaking before thinking.

  My mother looked at me. “How would you know that?”

  “When he visited me at Great-aunt Nettie’s, he showed it to me.”

  She nodded but remained suspicious rather than impressed that I would have paid attention to such a detail. Had I said too much? I glanced at my father, who gently shook his head. I said nothing else until Foxworth Hall came into view. I was seeing it for the first time in the daytime, and it did look quite different. Garland was right. It changed its personality and appeared to be more austere, older, but still quite beautiful, resting in its stunning natural settings with the rolling hills behind it and the manicured lawns and flowers around it. He wasn’t overstating by telling me he had far more than the Wexlers when it came to his gardens.

  When I was here at night, I hadn’t seen all the windows on the two main floors, either, and now noticed the windows above the second floor, too, windows of what surely was that attic he had described. It seemed to go the length of the mansion. The driveway widened more than I had thought, and from this height in the daytime, the houses below looked like ones in a toy village.

  “Well, I do declare,” my mother said at first sight. “It’s so big. Is that lake part of his property?” she asked, nodding to our left.

  “Oh yes,” my father said. “And soon to be your daughter’s, too.”

  My mother gaped out the side window and then turned to me as if it wasn’t until that moment that she understood what was happening.

  “I don’t know how you’ll manage being the mistress of such a mansion. You hardly know enough to take care of your bedroom. A busy husband like yours will certainly be dependent on you to look after your domicile. I’m sure you won’t have the hours and hours to dote on yourself, Corrine. Now, finally, you’ll understand what I’ve carried on my shoulders all these years.”

  How could she compare our lives to this? I wanted to tell her that there would be servants, maids, cooks, grounds people, and drivers all at my beck and call. If she thought I hardly lifted a finger to care for myself and my things now, she’d be even more astounded at how much would be done for me after I was married.

  However, I did admit to myself that I was quite frightened about it as I looked out and was able to see so much more than I had anticipated after being here at night only once. To me, it looked like it needed a small army to maintain it. How would I begin life here? What was the proper etiquette for speaking to and ordering servants about to do this and that? Exactly what would my responsibilities be, what would Garland leave up to me to do? What, if anything, could I change, would Garland permit me to change? It almost felt like a rebirth into a totally new world. Maybe my mother was right; maybe I was being naive thinking I could successfully be the mistress of Foxworth Hall.

  Garland, having seen his carriage approaching, awaited us at the front entrance, wearing a riding jacket, cloth breeches, and a soft felt hat with black jackboots. He looked like he was dressed to go foxhunting on an English estate.

  Myrtle Steiner stood beside him in her plain blue housekeeper’s dress. It hadn’t occurred to me until just now that she might greet me in a way that clearly demonstrated I had been here, that she knew me. What should I do? Would she handle it as well as Lucas had? Surely my
mother would see the panic in my face the moment we stepped out of the carriage, but as it turned out, I had no reason to fear. Garland had set the scene. He introduced the three of us to her. Obviously, he had ordered her how to react.

  “Mrs. Steiner has an assistant we will introduce you all to later. She is someone she has been training herself, her niece Dora Clifford. She’s seeing to your chambers right now, especially yours, Corrine.”

  “Thank you,” I said. If my mother wasn’t standing right beside me, I probably would have said nothing. I would have taken that for granted, and I wasn’t going to thank my future husband for every little thing he did for me anyway. My tongue would collapse with fatigue.

  “After you settle in, Mrs. Dixon, I’d like to show you where we will set the entire affair, the altar, the chairs, and the tables. There will be bars on four ends and at least fifty people serving and caring for our guests. I have three different service uniforms on a table in the Foxworth ballroom from which you can choose. Afterward, perhaps at dinner, I’d like to discuss the music and complete the menu with you.

  “That banging and knocking you hear is coming from the area for the wedding. I’m having a stage constructed and painted. As to the supervision of the food preparation, I have a wonderful cook, Marion Wilson, whom”—he leaned in to whisper—“I stole away from an English lord. She’s quite familiar with planning large events, and she will have an army of assistants.

  “Mrs. Steiner, who has been with me a while now, will escort you to your chambers, and Lucas will see to your luggage.”

  He finally stopped to take a breath, but before my mother could utter a word, he turned to my father and said, “Aren’t we lucky to have so fine a day for all this, Harrington?”

  “You mean you didn’t arrange it?” my father said, and Garland laughed.

  He shifted his eyes. “Of course, I should offer you something to help you relax a bit first, Harrington. The women can see to the chambers. Better than we can, I’m sure,” he added, laughing. “My mother used to tell me I could sleep in a pigsty. Sometimes, when you do as much traveling as I do, you don’t sleep in quarters much better than that, but you’re too exhausted to care.

  “So? We can go to my study and wait for them before touring the grounds? Talk a little bank business, perhaps. Mrs. Dixon wouldn’t mind?”

  “No. I’m sure it’s fine,” my father said before my mother could reply.

  My mother smirked. I thought she was going to complain, but when we entered and she saw the art, the family portraits, the impressive stairways, the ceilings, and the vastness of it all, she was struck speechless. Mrs. Steiner barely glanced at me and led us up to our bedrooms. My mother gasped at the height of the bedroom ceiling. Her eyes were scanning everything like someone who had been kept in the dark for years. Not a single work of art, sculpture, sconce, or chandelier escaped her interest and questions. Just before Mrs. Steiner brought her to what would be her and my father’s room, she turned to me.

  “Have you even an iota of an idea of the wealth displayed just in this part of the house?”

  I shrugged. I had had a similar reaction but kept that under lock and key, of course. “No, but I’m sure Garland will explain it eventually,” I said, as if money was the very last thing that moved me.

  She shook her head. “How will you survive? You’re still a child,” she muttered, and entered the bedroom.

  Dora Clifford was brushing down a chair and turned. She didn’t look a day older than me. I thought she was very pretty with her rich strawberry-blond hair pinned in a bun and startlingly unusual greenish-blue eyes. Her skin was creamy, with a splash of freckles on the crests of both cheeks. She was a little taller than I was, with a bigger bosom straining the buttons of her uniform, the hem of which was shorter than any maid’s skirt I ever had seen.

  “This is my niece,” Mrs. Steiner said. “She, as well as I, will attend to all your needs.”

  Dora smiled and curtsied.

  I smiled back and then waited in the hallway while Mrs. Steiner explained everything about the room to my mother, including the bathroom, closets, and lights. Of course, my mother followed her out to see what my room would be. As we walked farther down the hallway, I glanced back in the direction of the Swan Room. I wondered if Garland would show it to my parents, not that it mattered. My mother certainly would think it quite odd.

  Dora came out of my parents’ bedroom, and after glancing at us, she turned and walked in the opposite direction. It wasn’t until then that I noticed she had a slight limp, as if her left leg was shorter than her right.

  “Quaint,” was my mother’s comment about the room I would have. It was half the size of hers and my father’s. The bed was as long and as wide, which made the room seem crowded. The windows were smaller than those in my parents’ room; however, there was an impressive Persian area rug with a floral medallion woven in a brilliant crimson. I thought it was too big for the room as well. Before I could mention it, my mother did.

  “This rug would fit better in the room we’re occupying,” she told Mrs. Steiner.

  “Everything in this house is designed and organized the way Mr. Foxworth’s mother had decided. Nothing’s been changed, and I doubt it ever will be.”

  My mother glanced at me, her face full of silent criticism but also anticipating my insistence that it would be. I didn’t really care about some guest room. There were so many others anyway. Once Garland and I were married, I’d probably never even glance at this room. And I didn’t think it wise to start an argument with Mrs. Steiner at the moment over what power I would or would not have.

  “How many bedrooms are there?” my mother asked Mrs. Steiner.

  “In this, the southern wing, the family wing, there are fourteen,” she replied. “We don’t open the rooms in the other wing unless there are guests.”

  “Well, we’re guests,” my mother said, a little too sharply, I thought.

  “Mr. Foxworth considers you more family than guests.”

  “I see,” my mother said.

  She then peppered Mrs. Steiner with many other questions about the house, silly things, I thought, like the size of the pantries and linen closets. Again, how many rooms in total? Where did Garland sleep? Where had his parents slept? At least she had the restraint not to ask to see those rooms immediately.

  Lucas brought in my bag, smiled at me when my mother wasn’t looking, and then hurried out.

  “Garland is waiting to show you the grounds for the ceremony, Mother,” I said.

  I thought she’d keep us here forever with her cross-examination of Mrs. Steiner, who looked grateful for my interrupting.

  “What? Oh yes. I would like to see more of the house, of course. But first things first. Besides, if we give them too much time, your father will drink himself into a stupor before dinner.”

  Mrs. Steiner shifted her eyes quickly to look away. It wasn’t that long ago that I was in a stupor in Foxworth Hall. I was anxious to move on to other things.

  However, it really wasn’t until we were on the way down the stairs that I realized Garland hadn’t included me in his invitation to inspect the area for our wedding ceremony and party. Now that I thought more about it, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been asked for my opinion about anything, not even the menu. Was that because he was so intent on pleasing my mother and, along with my father, keeping my pregnancy still a grand secret? Get her so excited about the event that even if she learned the truth, she might not care? Right now, I couldn’t imagine that, but how much should I protest? I wondered. What was the proper role for the bride, especially one with my disadvantages?

  The moment we entered the study, Garland suggested my mother follow him and my father out through the French doors he had recently installed. He said he was determined to do even more modernizing. “Especially now that I’m getting a wife,” he added. It sounded like a wife was something he had ordered from a catalog.

  Before my mother could respond, she paused to look a
t the head of a tiger that was so well stuffed and preserved it appeared as though it was just peering at us through the wall on our right and might leap in our direction at any moment.

  “My Lord,” she said, stepping back with her hand over her heart.

  Garland laughed. “Wait until later, after dinner, when we all retire for the evening,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll take you first to my father’s trophy room. This one,” he said, nodding at the tiger, “was his, but I’ve added a few up there.”

  My mother looked at him and then turned to me. I could read her mind as well as I could if I were inside her head.

  Are you another trophy?

  Funny, I thought, until this moment, I had never considered that possibility. Foxworth Hall was filled with things Garland and his father had collected. They seemed to be the lifeblood of the mansion. It consumed paintings, statues, vases, and jewels. Why not people, too? Now that the idea hovered in the air, I wondered if courting women was simply another form of hunting to Garland. More important, of course, if that had been true until now, would it stop?

  In one of our very rare mother-daughter talks, as short as it was, my mother had told me marriage either changes a man or reinforces who and what he is. She meant my father was a very responsible and organized person, and marriage not only fit nicely into that but emphasized it. It was one of the few times she bragged about winning him before any other woman could.

  Of course, right now, I was worried more that this marriage would change me in ways I wouldn’t want. That was what probably made every soon-to-be bride nervous, although most of the girls I knew would likely be concerned their fiancés would discover something terrible about them right before the wedding and cancel.

  We all walked out, and Garland immediately began explaining how he envisioned the event’s layout. It was all far too much for my mother or me to comprehend, with “this squared with that and that at right angles to this.” He and my father were quite into it, however. Like two emperors surveying their kingdom, they walked ahead of us, gesturing to each other as if we were no longer there. We saw the stage being constructed on our right. While Garland and my father were talking, a bulky, thick-necked young man, stocky and with hands that looked too big for his short arms, quickly approached.