"I've already said you shouldn't do that," said Chris with a frown. "It just wouldn't be right to let a family member live in such frugal style." Already we'd seen the huge garage, and the servants' quarters above could hardly be called frugal, just small
Let him! I
wanted to shout, but I said nothing.
Before I knew what was happening, Chris had Joel established on the second floor in the western wing. I sighed, somehow regretful that Joel would be under the same roof with us. But it would be all right; as soon as our curiosity was satisfied and Bart celebrated his birthday, we'd leave with Cindy for Hawaii.
In the library around two in the afternoon, Chris and I settled down to interview the man and woman who came with excellent references. There wasn't any fault I could find, except something furtive in both pairs of eyes. Uneasily I fidgeted from the way they looked so knowingly at both of us. "Sorry," said Chris, catching the slight negative gesture I made,' "but we've already decided on another couple."
Husband and wife stood up to go. The woman turned in the doorway to give me a long, meaningful look. "I live in the village,
Mrs. Sheffield,"
she said coldly. "Been there only five years, but we've heard a
great
deal about the Foxworths who live on the hill." What she said made me turn my head away. "Yes, I'm sure you have," said Chris dryly.
The woman snorted before she slammed the door behind them.
Next came a tall, aristocratic man with upright military bearing, immaculately dressed down to the slightest detail. He strode in and politely waited until Chris asked him to sit down.
"My name is Trevor Mainstream Majors," he said in his brisk British style. "I was born in Liverpool fifty- nine years ago. I was married in London when I was twenty-six, and my wife passed away three years ago, and my two sons live in North Carolina . . . so I am here hoping I can work in Virginia and visit my sons on my days off."
"Where did you work after you left the Johnstons?" asked Chris, looking down at the man's resume. "You seem to have excellent references until one year ago."
By this time Chris had invited the Englishman to seat himself. Trevor Majors shifted his long legs and adjusted his tie before he replied politely, "I worked for the Millersons, who moved away from the Hill about six months ago."
Silence. I'd heard my mother mention the Millersons many times. My heart began to beat more rapidly. "How long did you work for the Millersons?" asked Chris in a friendly way, as if he had no fears, even after having caught my look of anxiety.
"Not long, sir. They had five of their own children there, and nephews and nieces were always showing up, plus friends who stayed over for visits. I was their only servant. I did the cooking, the housework, the laundry, the chauffeuring, and it's an Englishman's pride and joy to do the gardening. What with chauffeuring the five children back and forth to school, dancing classes, sporting events, flicks and such, I spent so much time on the road I seldom had the chance to prepare a decent meal. One day Mister Millerson complained I'd failed to mow the lawn and hadn't weeded the garden, and he hadn't eaten a good meal at home in two weeks. He snapped at me harshly because his dinner was late. Sir, that was rather much, when his wife had ordered me out on the road, kept me waiting while she shopped, sent me to pick up the children from the movies . . . and then I was supposed to have dinner on time. I told Mr. Millerson I wasn't a robot able to do everything, and all at once--and I quit. He was so angry he threatened he'd never give me a good reference. But if you wait a few days, he may cool down enough to realize I did the best I could under difficult circumstances."
I sighed, looked at Chris and made a furtive signal. This man was perfect. Chris didn't even look my way. "I think you will work out fine, Mister Majors. We'll hire you for a trial period of one month, and if at that time we find you unsatisfactory, we will terminate our employment agreement."
Chris looked at me. "That is, if my wife agrees . . ."
Silently I stood and nodded. We did need servants. I didn't intend to spend my vacation dusting and cleaning a huge house.
"Sir, my lady, if you will, just call me Trevor. It will be my honor and pleasure to serve in this grand house. " He'd jumped to his feet the moment I stood, and then, as Chris rose, he and Chris shook hands. "My pleasure indeed," he said as he smiled at us both approvingly.
In three days we hired three servants. It was easy enough when Bart was highly overpaying them.
The evening of our fifth full day here, I stood beside Chris on the balcony, staring at the mountains all around us, gazing up at that same old moon that used to look down on us as we lay on the roof of the old Foxworth Hall. That single great eye of God I'd believed when I was fifteen. Other places had given me romantic moons, beautiful moonlight to take away my fears and guilts. Here I felt the moon was a harsh investigator, ready to condemn us again, and then again and again.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" asked Chris with his arm about my waist. "I like this balcony that Bart added to our suite of rooms. It doesn't distract from the outside appearance since it's on the side, and just look at the view it gives us of the mountains."
The blue-misted mountains had always represented to me a jagged fence to keep us forever trapped as prisoners of hope. Even now I saw their soft rounded tops as a barrier between me and freedom.
God, if you're up there, help me through the next few weeks.
Near noon the next day, Chris and I, with Joel, stood on the front portico, watching the low-slung red Jaguar speeding up the steeply spiraling road that led to Foxworth Hall.
Bart drove with reckless, daredevil speed, as if challenging death to take him. I grew weak just watching the way he whipped around the dangerous curves.
"God knows he should have better sense," Chris grumbled. "He's always been accident prone--and look at the way he drives, as if he's got a hold on immortality."
"There are some who do," said Joel
enigmatically.
I threw him a wondering glance, then looked again at that small red car that had cost a small fortune. Every year Bart bought a new car, never any color but red; he'd tried all the luxury cars to find which he liked best. This one was his favorite so far, he'd informed us in a brief letter.
Squealing to a stop, he burned rubber and spoiled the perfection of the curving drive with long black streaks. Waving first, Bart threw off his sunglasses, shook his head to bring his dark tumbled locks back into order, ignored the door and jumped from his convertible, pulling off driving gloves and tossing them carelessly onto the seat. Racing up the steps, he seized me up in his strong arms and planted several kisses on my cheeks. I was stunned with the warmth of his greeting. Eagerly I responded. The moment my lips touched his cheek he put me down and shoved me away as if he tired of me very rapidly.
He stood in full sunlight, six feet three, brilliant intelligence and strength in his dark brown eyes, his shoulders broad, his well-muscled body tapering down to slim hips and long legs. He was so handsome in his casual white sports outfit. "You're looking great, Mother, just great. His dark eyes swept over me from heels to hair. "Thanks for wearing that red dress . . . it's my favorite color."
I reached for Chris's hand. "Thank you, Bart, I wore this dress just for you." Now he could say something nice to Chris, I hoped. I waited for that. Instead, Bart ignored Chris and turned to Joel.
"Hi, Uncle Joel. Isn't my mother just as beautiful as I said?"
Chris's hand clenched mine so hard it hurt. Always Bart found a way to insult the only father he could remember.
"Yes, Bart, your mother is very beautiful," said Joel in that whispery, raspy voice. "In fact, she's exactly the way I would imagine my sister Corrine looked at her age."
"Bart, say hello to your--" and here I faltered. I wanted to say
Father
but I knew Bart would deny that rudely. So I said
Chris.
Turning his dark and sometimes savage eyes briefly to stare at Chris, Bart bit out a harsh hello. "You don't ever age either, do you?" he said in an accusatory tone.
"I'm sorry about that, Bart," answered Chris evenly. "But time will do its job eventually."
"Let's hope so."
I could have slapped Bart.
Turning around, Bart ignored both Chris and me and surveyed the lawns, the house, the luxurious flower beds, the lush shrubbery, the garden paths, the birdbaths and other statuary, and smiled with an owner's pride. "It's grand, really grand. Just as I hoped it would be. I've looked the world over and no mansion can compare with Foxworth Hall."
His dark eyes moved to clash with mine. "I know what you're thinking, Mother, I know this isn't truly the best house yet, but one day it will be. I intend to build, and add new wings, and one day this house will outshine every palace in Europe. I'm going to concentrate my energies on making Foxworth Hall truly an historic landmark."
"Who will you impress when you accomplish that?" asked Chris. "The world no longer tolerates great houses and great wealth, or respects those who gain it by inheritance."
Oh, damn it! Chris so seldom said anything tactless or rude. Why had he said what he did? Bart's face flamed beneath his deep bronze tan. "I intend to increase my fortune with my own efforts!" Bart flared, stepping closer to Chris. Because he was so lean, and Chris had put on weight, especially in the chest, he appeared to tower over Chris. I watched the man I thought of as my husband stare challengingly into my son's eyes.
"I've been doing that for you," said Chris.
To my surprise, Bart seemed pleased. "You mean as trustee you have increased my share of the inheritance?"
"Yes, it was easy enough," said Chris
laconically. "Money makes money, and the
investments I made for you have paid off
handsomely."
"Ten to one I could have done better."
Chris smiled ironically. "I could have predicted you'd thank me like that."
From one to the other I looked, feeling sorry for both of them. Chris was a mature man who knew who and what he was, and he could ride along on that confidence with ease, while Bart was still struggling to find himself and his place in the world.
My son, my son, when will you learn humility, gratitude? Many
a night I'd seen Chris working over figures, trying to decide on the best investments, as if he knew that sooner or later Bart would accuse him of poor financial judgment.
"You'll have your chance to prove yourself soon enough," Chris responded. He turned to me. "Let's take a walk, Cathy, down to the lake."
"Wait a minute," called Bart, appearing furious that we'd leave when he'd just come home. I was torn between wanting to escape with Chris and the desire to please my son. "Where's Cindy?"
"She'll be coming soon," I called back. "Right now Cindy is visiting a girlfriend's home. You might be interested to learn that Jory is going to bring Melodie here for a vacation."
Bart just stood there staring at me, perhaps appalled with the idea, and then came that strange excitement to replace all other emotions on his handsome, tanned face. "Bart," I said, resisting Chris's desire to hurry me away from a known source of trouble, "the house is truly beautiful. All that you've done to change it has been a wonderful
improvement."
Again he appeared surprised. "Mother, you mean it's not exactly the same? I thought it was . . ."
"Oh, no, Bart. The balcony outside our suite of rooms wasn't there before."
Bart whirled on his great-uncle. "You told me it was!" he shouted.
Smiling sardonically, Joel stepped forward. "Bart, my son, I didn't lie. I never lie. The original Hall did have that balcony. My father's mother ordered it put there. And by using that balcony, she was able to sneak in her lover without the servants seeing. Later she ran off with that lover without waking her husband, who kept their bedroom door locked and the key hidden. Malcolm ordered the balcony torn down when he was the owner . . . but it does add a certain kind of charm to that side of the house."
Satisfied, Bart turned again to Chris and me. "See, Mother, you don't know anything at all about this house. Uncle Joel is the expert. He's described to me in great detail all the furniture, the paintings, and, in the end, I'll have not only the same, but better than the original."
Bart hadn't changed. He was still obsessed, still wanting to be a carbon copy of Malcolm Foxworth, if not in looks, in personality and in determination to be the richest man in the world, no matter what he did to gain that title.
Not long after Bart arrived home, he began making elaborate plans for his upcoming birthday party. Apparently, to my surprise and delight, he'd made many friends in Virginia during the summer vacations he'd spent here. It used to hurt that he spent such a few of his vacation days with us in California, where I had considered he belonged. But now it seemed he knew people we'd never heard of, and had met young men and women in college that he intended to invite down to help him celebrate.
I'd only spent a few days at Foxworth Hall and already the monotony of days with nothing to do but eat, sleep, read, look at TV, and roam the gardens and woods had me on edge and eager to escape as soon as possible. The deep silence of the mountainside gripped me in its spell of isolation and despair. The silence wore on my nerves. I wanted to hear voices, many voices, hear the telephone ring, have people drop in and say hello, and nobody did. There was a group of local society members that had known the Foxworths well, and this was the very group Chris and I had to avoid. There were old friends in New York and California that I wanted to call and invite to Bart's party, but I didn't dare without Bart's approval. Restlessly I prowled the grand rooms alone, and sometimes with Chris. He and I walked the gardens, strolled through the woods, quiet sometimes, garrulous others.
He had his old hobby of watercoloring to begin again, and that kept him busy, but I wasn't supposed to dance anymore. Nevertheless I did my ballet exercises every day of my life just to keep myself slim and supple, and willingly enough I'd pose when he asked me to do that. Joel came upon me once as I held on to a chair in our sitting room, exercising in red leotards. I heard his gasp from the open doorway and turned to find him staring at me as if I were naked. "What's wrong?" I asked worriedly. "Has something terrible happened?"