Garden of Shadows (3 page)

THERE WERE SO MANY PLANS TO BE MADE AND SO little time to plan. We decided to have the wedding two weeks hence. "I've been away quite a long time," Malcolm explained, "and I have many pressing business concerns. You don't mind a bit, do you, Olivia? After all, we shall have our whole lives from now on to be together, and we shall have a honeymoon later, after you're all settled in at Foxworth Hall. Do you agree?"

How could I not agree? The size of my wedding, the abruptness of it, did not lessen my excitement. I kept telling myself I was lucky to have this one. Besides, I was never comfortable being on display in front of people. And I really had no friends to celebrate with. Father invited my mother's younger sister and her child, John Amos, our only living close relatives. "Poor relations," my father always called them. John Amos's father had died several years before. His mother was a dark drab thing, seemingly still in mourning after all these years. And John Amos, at eighteen, seemed already old. He was a hard, pious young man who always quoted the Bible. But I agreed with Father that it was only appropriate that we invite them. Malcolm brought no one. His father had recently begun traveling and intended to visit many countries and travel for a number of years. Malcolm had no brothers or sisters and apparently no close relations he cared to invite or, as he explained, who could come on such short notice. I knew what people would think about that--he didn't want his family to see what he was marrying until it was too late. They might talk him out of it.

He did promise to hold a reception at Foxworth Hall soon after we arrived.
"You'll meet anyone of consequence there," he said.
The next two weeks for me were filled with arrangements and fears. I decided I would wear my mother's wedding gown. After all, why spend so much money on a dress you would wear only once? But, of course, the gown was much, much too short for me and Miss Fairchild, the dressmaker, had to be called in to lengthen it. It was a simple dress of pearly silk, not full of frippery, lace, and doodads, but stately, beautiful, elegant, just the sort of dress Malcolm would appreciate, I thought. The dressmaker frowned as I stood on a bench; the dress reached only my midcalves. "My dear Miss Olivia," she sighed, looking up at me from where she knelt on the floor, "I'm going to have to be a genius to hide this hem. Are you certain you don't want a new dress?"
Oh, I knew what she was thinking. Who's marrying this tall, gangly Olivia Winfield, and why does she insist on squeezing herself into her dainty mother's dress like one of Cinderella's stepsisters trying to get into the at me, he seemed to be looking right through me. Perhaps he thought it would be sinful to show desire and affection in church.
Malcolm pronounced his wedding vows so emphatically that I thought he sounded more like the minister than the minister did. I couldn't keep my heart from thumping. I feared my voice would tremble when I pronounced the vows, but my voice did not betray me as I vowed to love, honor, and obey Malcolm Foxworth till death us did part. And as I pronounced these words, I meant them with all my heart and all my soul. In the eyes of God I meant them and in the eyes of God I never broke them my entire life. For whatever I did for Malcolm, I did to please God.
When we had completed our vows and exchanged our rings, I turned to Malcolm expectantly. This was my moment. Gently he lifted the veil from my face. I held my breath. There was a deep silence in the church; the world seemed to be holding its breath as he leaned toward me, his lips approaching mine.
But Malcolm's wedding kiss was hard and perfunctory. I expected so much more. After all, it was our first kiss. Something should have happened that I would remember for the rest of my life. Instead, I barely felt his taut lips on mine before they were gone. It was more like a stamp of certification.
He shook hands with the minister; he shook hands with my -father. My father hugged me quickly. I suppose I should have kissed him, but I was very self- conscious about the way John Amos was looking at us. I saw it in his face--he was as disappointed in Malcolm's kiss as I was.
My father looked pleased, but terribly thoughtful as we all left the church together. There was something in his look that I had never seen before, as I caught him gazing up at Malcolm from time to time. It was as though he saw something new, something he had just realized. For a moment, only a moment, that frightened me; but when I looked his way, happiness washed the darkness from his eyes and he smiled softly the way he sometimes smiled at my mother when she did something that pleased him a great deal or when she looked especially beautiful.
Did I finally look beautiful, even if just for today? Did my eyes sparkle with new life? I hoped this was true. I hoped Malcolm felt it too. My father suggested we all adjourn quickly to our home, where he had planned a small reception. Of course, how large could a reception be, with only a bride and groom, a father, a grieving aunt, and a boy of eighteen. But reception it was as Father brought out a bottle of vintage champagne. "Olivia, my dear and only daughter, and Malcolm, my distinguished new son-in-law. May you live in happiness and harmony forever." Why did a tear squeeze from his eye as he raised his glass toward us? And why did Malcolm look at Father rather than at me as he drank his champagne? Suddenly I felt lost, not knowing what to do, so I turned up my glass and over the rim saw my cousin, John Amos, scowling at Malcolm. Then he walked over to me.
"You look beautiful today, Cousin Olivia. I want you to remember, you are my only family, and whenever you need me, I will be there for you. For God planned families always to stick together, always to help one another, always to keep his sacred trust of love." I didn't know how to respond. Why, I barely knew this young man. And what a thing to say on my wedding day. What in heaven's name could John Amos, the poor relation, ever hope to do for me, who was headed for a life of Southern gentility filled with wealth and ambition? What, indeed, did he know, even then, that it took me too long to discover?
Malcolm had booked passage for us on the train leaving at three that day. We were going right to Foxworth Hall. He said he had no time for a prolonged honeymoon and saw no practical sense in it anyway. My heart sank in disappointment when he told me that, yet at the same time I felt relieved. I'd heard enough stories about men and their wedding nights, about a woman's duty to her husband, that I had no wish to prolong my ordeal of initiation. Frankly, I was terrified at the idea of conjugal relations, and somehow, knowing we'd be traveling through the night, safe on a cozy train with people all around us, set my mind at ease.
"For you, coming to Foxworth will be romantic adventure enough, Olivia. Trust me," he said as if my face had turned to glass and he could read my thoughts within.
I didn't complain. The description he had given me of Foxworth Hall made it sound like a fairy tale castle so grand and fascinating it would make my dollhouse dream of beauty seem ant-sized.
At precisely two-fifteen Malcolm announced that it was time for us to get started. The car was brought around and my trunks were loaded.
"You know," my father told Malcolm as we left the house, "I'll have to do my dandiest to find an accountant as good as Olivia."
"Your loss is my gain, sir," Malcolm replied. "I assure you, her talents will not go unused at Foxworth Hall."
I felt as if they were talking about some slave who had been exchanged.
"Perhaps my wages will be improved," I said. I half meant it to be a joke, but Malcolm didn't laugh.
"Of course," he said.
My father kissed me on the cheek and looked sad when he said, "You take good care of Malcolm, now, Olivia, and don't give him any trouble. Now Malcolm's word is law." Somehow that frightened me, especially when John Amos popped up, grabbed my hand, and said, "The Lord bless you and keep you." I didn't know how to respond, so I just thanked him, pulled my hand away, and got in the car.
As we drove away, I looked back at the Victorian house that had been more than a home to me. It had been the home of my dreams and my fantasies; it had been the place from which I had looked out at the world and wondered what would be in store for me. I had felt safe there, secure in my ways and in my room. I was leaving my glass-encased dollhouse, with its tinted windows and rainbow magic, but I would no longer need it to dream on. No, now I would live in the real world, a world I could never have imagined existed in that precious dollhouse world that had formed my hopes and dreams.
I took Malcolm's arm and moved closer to him He looked at me and smiled. Surely, I thought, now that we were alone, he would be more demonstrative of his love and affection.
"Tell me again about Foxworth Hall," I said, as if I were asking him to tell me a bedtime story about another magical world. At the mention of his home, he straightened up.
"It's over one hundred and fifty years old," he said. "There's history in it everywhere. Sometimes I feel as if I am in a museum; sometimes I feel as if I am in a church. It's the wealthiest home in our area of Virginia. But I want it to be the wealthiest in the country, maybe even the world. I want it to be known as the Foxworth castle," he added, his eyes becoming coldly determined. He went on and on, describing the rooms and the grounds, his family's business and his expectations for them. As he talked on, I felt as if I were descending deeper and deeper into his
ambitions. It frightened me. I hadn't realized how monomaniacal he could be. His whole body and soul fixed itself on his goals and I sensed that nothing, not even our marriage, was more important to him.
Somewhere in one of my books I read that a woman likes to feel that there is nothing more important to her man than she, that all he does, he does with her in mind.
"That is truly love; that is truly oneness" was the quote I couldn't forget. Married people should feel they are part of each other and should always be aware of each other's needs and feelings.
As the car turned off our street and I glanced at the Thames River crowded with ships moving up and down in their slow, careful, but determined way, I wondered if I would ever have that feeling with Malcolm.
I realized it wasn't something a woman should wonder on her wedding day.
We dined on the train. I had been too nervous to eat a thing all day, and suddenly I felt famished.
"I'm so hungry," I told him.
"You've got to order carefully on these trains," he told me. "The prices are ridiculous."
"Surely we can make an exception in our economy tonight," I said. "People of our means . . ."
"Precisely why we must always be economical. Good business sense takes training, practice. That was what attracted me to your father. He never lets his money get in the way of good business sense. Only the so-called nouveau riche are wasteful. You can spot them anywhere. They are obscene."
I saw how intense he was about this belief, so I didn't pursue it any further. I let him order for both of us, even though I was disappointed in his choices and left the table still hungry.
Malcolm got into discussions with other men on the train. There was a heated debate about the socalled "Red Menace" engendered by the United States Attorney General, A. Malcolm Palmer. Five members of the New York State legislature had been expelled for being members of the Socialist Party.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say how horrible an injustice that was, but Malcolm vehemently expressed his approval, so I kept my thoughts to myself, something I would have to do more and more and I didn't like it. I pressed my lips together, fearful that the words would fly out like birds from a cage when the door was carelessly left open.
After a while I ignored the discussions and fell asleep against the window. I had wound down from physical and emotional exhaustion. Darkness had enveloped us and aside from some lights in the distance here and there, there wasn't much to keep me interested in the scenery. I awoke to find Malcolm asleep beside me.
In repose, his face took on a younger, almost childish look. With his lids closed, the intensity of his blue eyes was shielded. His cheeks softened and his relaxed jaw lost its firm, tense lines. I thought . . . rather, I hoped, that this was the face he would turn to me in love, the face he would bring to me when he knew I was truly his wife, his mate, his beloved. I stared at him, fascinated with the way his bottom lip puffed out. There were so many little things to learn about each other, I thought. Do two people ever learn all there is about each other? It was something I would have liked to ask my mother.
I turned away and looked at the other passengers. The whole car was asleep. Fatigue had come silently down the aisle and touched each of them with fingers made of smoke and then slipped out under the car door to become one again with the night. The way the train wove around turns and shook from side to side made me feel as if I were inside some giant metallic snake. I felt carried along, almost against my will.
Occasionally, the train passed through a sleepy town or village. The lights in the houses were dim and the streets were empty. Then, in the distance, I saw the Blue Ridge Mountains looming like sleeping giants.
I was lulled into sleep again and awoke at the sound of Malcolm's voice.
"We're coming into the station," he said.
"Really?" I looked out the window but saw only trees and empty fields. Nevertheless, the train slowed down and came to a halt. Malcolm escorted me down the aisle to the doorway and we descended the steps. I stepped out onto the platform and looked at the small station that was merely a tin roof supported by four wooden posts.
The air was cool and fresh-smelling. The sky was clear and splattered with dazzling stars.
So vast and deep was the sky, it made me feel very small and insignificant. It was too big, and felt too close. Its beauty filled me with a strange sense of foreboding. I wished we had arrived in the morning and been greeted by the warm sunlight instead.
I didn't like the deadly quiet and emptiness around us. Somehow, from Malcolm's description of Foxworth Hall and its environs, I had expected lights and activity. There was no one to greet us but Malcolm's driver, Lucas. He looked like a man in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair and a narrow face. He had a slim build and stood at least two full inches shorter than I did. I saw from the way he moved that he had probably fallen asleep waiting for us at the station.
Malcolm introduced me formally. Lucas nodded, put on his cap, and hurried to fetch my trunks as Malcolm led me to the car. I watched Lucas load my trunks and then saw the train pull away slowly, sneaking off into the night like some silvery dark creature trying to make an unobtrusive escape.
"It's so desolate here," I said when Malcolm got in beside me. "How far away are we from
population?"
"We are not far from homes. Charlottesville is an hour away and there's a small village nearby."
"I'm so tired," I said, wanting to lean my head against his shoulder. But he sat so stiffly, I hesitated. "It's not far now."
"Welcome to Foxworth Hall, ma'am," Lucas said when he finally got behind the wheel.
"Thank you, Lucas."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Drive on," Malcolm commanded.
The road wound upward. As we drew closer to the hills, I noted how the trees paraded up and down between them, separating them into distinct sections.
"They act as windbreaks," Malcolm explained, "holding back the heavy drifts of snow."
A short while later I saw the cluster of large homes nestled on a steep hillside. And then, suddenly, Foxworth Hall appeared, jetting up against the night sky, filling it. I couldn't believe the size of the house. It sat high on the hillside, looking down at the other homes like a proud king surveying his minions. And this was to be my home--the castle of which I would be queen. Now I understood better Malcolm's driving ambition. No one brought up in such a regal and expensive home could think small or ever be satisfied with run-of-the-mill accomplishments. Yet, how lonely, how threatening, how accusing such a house could seem to someone timid or small. I shivered at the thought.