Authors: V.C. Andrews
Beguiled
, our word yesterday to add to our growing vocabulary Daddy insisted upon. “The world belongs to those who
know how to speak well, and fortunes are made by those who write well,” he’d said.
I admit, she beguiled me, that woman in her hard rocker, sitting so old and yet so proud. “Why don’t you open your shutters, pull your drapes, and let in some light and air?” I asked.
Her nervous gestures brought into play the sparkling rays of the many gems she wore. Rubies, emeralds, and diamonds on her fingers, each color spectrum. Her jewels seemed so out of place when she had to wear that plain black chiffon—but today her eyes were revealed, her blue, blue eyes. Such familiar blue eyes.
“Too much light hurts my eyes,” she explained in a faint husky whisper when I kept staring.
“Why?”
“Why does the light hurt my eyes?”
“Yes.”
Her sigh was small. “For a long time I lived locked away from the world, shut up in a small room, but even worse than that, locked up within myself. When you are forced to encounter yourself for the first time in your life, you draw back from the shock. I recoiled when first I looked deep within myself, staring in a mirror they had in my room, and I was frightened. So now I live in rooms full of mirrors, but I cover my face so I can’t see too much. I keep my rooms dim as I no longer admire the face I used to adore.”
“Then take down the mirrors.”
“How easy you make it. But you are young. The young always think everything is easy. I don’t want to take down the mirrors. I want them there to remind me constantly of what I’ve done. The closed windows, the stuffy atmosphere are my punishments, not yours. If you want, Jory,” she went on as I sat silently, “open the windows, spread the shutters; let in the sunlight and I will take off my veils and let you look at the face I hide from—but you won’t find it pleasant. My beauty
is gone, but it is a small loss compared to everything else that has come and gone, all the things I should have held on to valiantly.”
“Valiantly?” I asked. That was a word not too familiar to me in any meaningful way, just a word suggesting bravery.
“Yes, Jory, valiantly I should have protected what was mine. I was all they had, and I let them down. I thought I was right, they were wrong. I convinced myself each day I was right. I resisted their pitiful pleas, and even worse, at the time I didn’t even think they were pitiful. I told myself I was doing all I could because I brought them everything. They grew to distrust me, dislike me, and that hurt, hurt more than any pain I’ve ever felt. I hate myself for being weak, so cowardly, so foolishly intimidated when I should have stood my ground and fought back. I should have thought only of them and forgotten what I wanted for myself. My only excuse is that I was young then, and the young are selfish, even when it comes to their own children. I thought my needs were greater than theirs. I thought their time would come and then they could have their way. I felt it was my last chance at happiness. I had to grab for it quick, before middle age made me unattractive, and there was a younger man I loved. I couldn’t tell him about them.”
Them? Who was she talking about?
“Who?” I asked weakly, for some reason wishing she wouldn’t tell me anything—or at least not too much.
“My children, Jory, My four children, fathered by my first husband, whom I married when I was only eighteen. He was forbidden to me, and yet I wanted him. I thought I never would find a man more wonderful . . . and yet I did find one just as wonderful.”
I didn’t want to hear her story. But she pleaded for me to stay. I sat on the edge of one of her fine chairs.
“So,” she continued, “I put my fear out in front, allowed my love for a man to blind me to their needs, and I ignored
what they wanted—their freedom—and now, as the result, I cry myself to sleep every night.”
What could I say? I didn’t understand what she was talking about. I reasoned she must be crazy, and no wonder Bart was acting just as nutty. She leaned forward to peer at me more closely.
“You are an exceptionally handsome boy. I suppose you know that already.”
I nodded. All my life I’d heard remarks about my good looks, my talent, my charm. But talent was what counted, not looks. In my opinion looks without talent were useless. I knew, too, that beauty faded with the passing years, but still I loved beauty.
Looking around, I saw this woman loved beauty as much as I did, and yet . . . “What a pity she sits in the dark and refuses to enjoy all that’s been done to make this place beautiful,” I murmured without thought.
She heard and replied tonelessly, “The better to punish myself.”
I didn’t reply, only sat on in the chair while she rambled on and on about her life as a poor little rich girl who made the mistake of falling in love with her half uncle, who was three years older, and for this she was disinherited. Why was she telling me her life history? I didn’t care. What did her past have to do with Bart? He was my reason for being here.
“I married for a second time. My four children hated me for doing that.” She stared down at her hands folded on her lap, then began to twist the sparkling gems one by one. “Children always think adults have it so easy. That’s not always true. Children think a widowed mother doesn’t need anyone but them.” She sighed. “They think they can give her enough love, because they don’t understand there are all kinds of love, and it’s hard for a woman to live without a man once she’s been married.”
Then, almost as if she’d forgotten me, she jolted to see me there. “Oh! I’ve been a poor hostess. Jory, what would you like to eat and drink?”
“Nothing, thank you. I came only to tell you that you must not encourage Bart to come over here anymore. I don’t know what you tell him, or what he does here, but he comes home with weird ideas, acting very disoriented.”
“Disoriented? You use large words for a boy so young.”
“My father insists we learn one new word each day.”
Those nervous hands of hers flitted up to her throat to play with her string of large pearls with a diamond butterfly clasp. “Jory, if I ask you a hypothetical question, would you give me an answer—a truthful answer?”
I got up to go. “I’d really rather not answer questions . . .”
“If your mother or your father ever disappointed you, failed you in some way, even a major one—could you find it in your heart to forgive them?”
Sure, sure, I thought quickly enough, though I couldn’t imagine them ever failing me, Bart, or Cindy. I backed to the door that would allow me to leave while she was waiting for my answer. “Yes, Madame, I think I could forgive them anything.”
“Murder?” she asked quickly, standing too. “Could you forgive them for that? Not premeditated murder, but accidental?”
She was crazy, just like her butler. I wanted to get out of there, and fast! I cautioned her one more time to send my brother home. “If you want Bart to stay sane, leave him alone!”
Her eyes teared before she nodded and inclined her head. I’d hurt her, I knew that. I had to harden my heart not to say I was sorry. Then, just as I was leaving, a deliveryman was banging on the door, and I opened to allow him to carry in a huge oblong crate. It took two men to rip off the nailed cover.
“Don’t go, Jory,” she begged. “Stay! I’d like you to see what’s inside this crate.”
What difference did it make? But I stayed, having the same curiosity as most people about the contents of a closed box.
The old butler came tapping down the hall, but she shooed him away, “John! I didn’t ring for you. Please stay in your part of the house until you’re sent for.”
He gave her a smoldering look of resentment and hobbled into his hole, wherever that was.
By this time the crate was open, and the two men were pulling out packing straw. Then they lifted a huge thing wrapped in a gray quilt from its nest in the crate.
It was like waiting for a ship to be launched. I grew sort of breathless in anticipation, even more so because she had such a look on her face . . . as if she couldn’t wait for me to see the contents. Was she giving me a gift, like she gave Bart anything he wanted? He was the greediest little boy ever born, needing double the amount of affection most people required.
I gasped then and stepped backward.
It was an oil painting the men unwrapped.
There stood my beautiful mother in a formal white gown, pausing on the next to the bottom step with her slender hand resting on a magnificent newel post. Trailing behind her lay yards and yards of the shimmering white fabric. The curving stairs behind her rose gracefully and faded into swirling mists through which the artist had cleverly managed to give the impression of gold and glittering jewels, hinting at a palace-like mansion.
“Do you know whose portrait that is?” she asked when the men had hung it in place in one of the parlors she didn’t seem to use often. I nodded, dumbfounded and speechless.
What was she doing with my mother’s portrait?
She waited for the two men to go. They smiled, thrilled with the tip she gave them. I was panting, hearing my heavy breathing and wondering why I felt sort of numb. “Jory,” she said softly, turning again to me, “that’s a portrait of
me
that my second husband commissioned shortly after we were married. I was thirty-seven when I posed for that.”
In the portrait the woman looked just like my mother
looked today. I swallowed and wanted to run, suddenly needing the bathroom badly, but still I wanted to stay. I wanted to hear her explain, even though I was paralyzed with the fear of what she might tell me.
“My second husband, who was younger, was named Bartholomew Winslow, Jory,” she said quickly, as if to make sure I heard before I got up and ran. “Later on, when my daughter was old enough, she seduced him, stole his love away from me, just so she could hurt me with the child she gave him. The child I couldn’t have. Can you guess who that child is, can you?”
I jumped up and backed away. Holding out my hands to ward off any more information I didn’t want to hear.
“Jory, Jory, Jory,” she chanted, “don’t you remember me at all? Think back to when you lived in the mountains of Virginia. Think of that little post office, and the rich lady in the fur coat. You were about three then. You saw me, and smiling, you came to stroke my coat, and you told me I was pretty—remember?”
“No!” I cried more stoutly than I felt. “I have never seen you before in my life, not until you moved here! And all blondes with blue eyes look somewhat alike!”
“Yes,” she said brokenly, “I suppose you’re right. I just thought it would be amusing to see your expression. I shouldn’t have played a trick on you. I’m sorry, Jory. Forgive me.”
I couldn’t look at those blue, blue eyes. I had to get away.
I felt miserable as I slowly trudged home. If only I hadn’t stayed. If only the portrait hadn’t been delivered while I was there. Why did I have to sense that that woman was more a threat to my mother than my stepfather? What had I accomplished?
Was it you, Mom, who stole her second husband’s love?
Was it? Didn’t it make good sense when Bart had the same name as him? Everything she’d said confirmed the suspicions that had been sleeping in my mind for so many years. Doors were opening, letting in fresh memories that almost seemed like enemies.
I climbed the stairs of the veranda Mom jokingly called “Paul’s kind of southern veranda.” Certainly it wasn’t the customary California patio.
There was something different about the patio today.
If I had been less troubled, perhaps I would have spotted immediately what was missing. As it was, it took me minutes to realize Clover wasn’t there. I looked around, distressed, calling him.
“For heaven’s sake, Jory,” called Emma from the kitchen window, “don’t yell so loud. I just put Cindy down for a nap and you’ll wake her up. I saw Clover a few minutes ago heading into the garden, chasing a butterfly.”
Of course, I felt relieved. If one thing brought out the puppy in my old poodle, it was a fluttery yellow butterfly. I joined Emma in the kitchen and asked, “Emma, I’ve been wanting to ask for a long time, what year did Mom marry Dr. Paul?”
She was leaning over, checking inside the refrigerator, grumbling to herself. “I could swear there was some fried chicken in here, left over from last night. Since we’re having liver and onions tonight I saved what was left of the chicken for Bart. I thought your finicky brother could eat the leftover thighs.”
“Don’t you remember the year they were married?”
“You were just a little one then,” she said, still rummaging through covered dishes.
Emma was always vague about dates. She couldn’t remember her own birthday. Maybe deliberately. “Tell me again how my mother met Dr. Paul’s younger brother . . . you know, the stepfather we have now.”
“Yes, I remember Chris, he was so handsome, tall and tan. But not one whit better-looking than Dr. Paul was in his own way . . . a wonderful man, your stepfather Paul. So kind, so soft-spoken.”
“It’s funny Mom didn’t fall for a younger brother instead of an older one—don’t you think it’s odd?”
She straightened and put a hand to her back, which she said hurt all the time. Next she wiped her hands on her spotless white apron. “I sure hope your parents aren’t late tonight. Now you run and hunt up Bart before it’s too late for him to take a bath. I hate for your mother to see him so filthy.”
“Emma, you haven’t answered my questions.”
Turning her back she began to chop green bell peppers. “Jory, when you need answers, you go to your parents and ask. Don’t come to me. You may think of me as a family member but I know my place is that of a friend. So run along and let me finish dinner.”
“Please, Emma, not just for my sake, but Bart’s too. I’ve got to do something to straighten out Bart, and how can I when I don’t have all the facts?”
“Jory,” she said, giving me a warm smile, “just be happy you have two such wonderful parents. You and Bart are very lucky boys. I hope Cindy grows up to realize how blessed she was the day your mother decided she had to have a daughter.”
Outside the day was growing old. Search as I would I couldn’t find Clover. I sat on the back steps and stared unhappily at the sky turning rosy with bright streaks of orange and violet. I felt overwhelmingly sad and burdened, wishing all this mystery and confusion would go away. Clover, where was Clover? I never knew until this moment how very much he added to my life, how much I’d miss him if he was gone for good. Please don’t let him be gone for good, God, please.