Garden of Shadows

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 mid-calves. “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 glass slipper? And perhaps I was. But I needed to be close to my mother on my wedding day, as close as I could get. And I felt protected in her dress, protected by the generations of women who had married men and borne them children before me. For I knew and understood so little of any of this. And I wanted to be beautiful on my wedding day, no matter how much pity and mockery I saw in the dressmaker’s eyes. “Miss Fairchild, I must wear Mother’s wedding dress for scores of sentimental reasons I’m sure it is not necessary to explain to you. Now, can you lengthen this dress or shall I have to call in someone else?” I put coldness in my voice and superior social standing in my posture and Miss Fairchild was back in her place. She did the rest of her work in silence, as I gazed in the mirror. Who was that woman gazing back at me—a bride in a white dress. A bride about to be taken by a man and made his own. And what would it feel like, to walk down the aisle. Oh, I knew my heart would stampede like wild horses. I’d try to smile, to make my face as sweet as the bride atop the wedding cake, as sweet as the faces of the young wives I saw in the society columns in the newspapers.

How could they look so sweet and innocent? Surely, they didn’t go through their whole life looking like that. Was it something they learned or something that came naturally? If it was something learned, maybe there was hope for me. Maybe I could learn it too.

But still I’d be as shy as ever, knowing what people were thinking—she’s so tall and her arms are so long. That beautiful head of hair is wasted atop that plain face. Even if I smiled back at them and they smiled and nodded at me, I knew they would be turning to one another immediately afterward, quiet laughter around their eyes. How foolish she looks. Those shoulders in such a dainty wedding dress. Those big feet. Look how she towers over everyone but Malcolm.

And Malcolm, so handsome and stately standing beside such an ugly duckling. Oh, people would have so much fun making jokes about the eagle and his pigeon, one bird magnificent, beautiful, and proud; the other plain, awkward, drab.

As I stood before the mirror and Miss Fairchild busied herself about my body with needles and pins and basting threads, I was happy that my wedding would be attended only by Aunt Margaret and John Amos, my father, Malcolm, and myself. No one would be there to make my worst fears come true, and I hoped that now my chance had come, my brightest rainbow dreams would be mine to claim.

• • •

On my wedding day it rained. I had to run into the church with my white dress covered by a gray raincloak. But, disappointing as it was, I would not let the weather dampen my excitement. We had a simple church service in the Congregational Church. As I started down the aisle, I hid my fears and nervousness behind a mask of solemnity. Wearing this face, I was able to look directly at Malcolm as I walked down the aisle to meet him. He stood waiting at the altar, his posture stiff, his face more solemn than mine. That disappointed me. I was hoping when he saw me in my mother’s wedding dress, something of the magic would occur again and his would light with pleasure, anticipating our love. I searched his eyes. Was he hiding his true feelings behind the same mask I was? When he looked 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 so-called “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.

“You live here only with your father?” I asked as we drew closer. “It must have been lonely for you since he began his traveling.”

Malcolm said nothing, just looked ahead, as if trying to see his mansion through my astonished eyes.

“How many rooms are in this house?”

“Somewhere between thirty and forty. Maybe one day, to pass the time, you’ll make a count.” He laughed at his own joke, but I couldn’t put aside my awe.

“And servants?”

“My father had too many. Since he’s been traveling, I have cut back somewhat. We have a cook, of course, and a gardener who complains constantly that he needs an assistant, a maid, and Lucas, who serves as butler and driver.”

“Can that possibly be enough?”

“As I said, now there is you too, my dear.”

“But I’m not coming here to be a servant, Malcolm,” I said. He didn’t reply for a few moments. Lucas pulled up in front of the house.

“Obviously, we don’t use all the rooms, Olivia. At one time there were dozens of relatives ensconced within. Fortunately, the parasites have been removed.” His face softened. “After you are settled in, you will evaluate our staff needs and do what is efficient and economical, I’m sure. The house is to be your responsibility. I don’t have the time for it anymore, and I needed a woman like you who could manage it properly,” he said. He made it sound as though he had gone shopping for a wife.

I said no more. I was terribly eager now to go in and see what such a mansion looked like, a mansion that was to be my home. It both thrilled and frightened me. I was sorry that we had come to it at night, for at night it had an ominous air about it. It was almost as if this house had a life of its own, as if it could make judgments about its inhabitants while they slept and cause those it did not like to suffer.

Also, I had learned something from my father about the places people lived. Their homes always reflected their personalities. He himself was evidence of that. Our home was quite simple, but genteel. There was warmth to it as well.

What would this house tell me about the man I had married? Did he dominate people as much as this house dominated its surroundings? Would I become lost within the vast structure, grow lonely as I wandered from room to room through the long hallways?

Lucas rushed up to open the large double entrance doors and then Malcolm led me into my new home. As he guided me through the grand entrance, with his hand resting on my back, my heart sank. I knew it was foolish but I had hoped he would carry me over the threshold into my new home, my new life. I wanted for just this one day to be one of those charming, delicate women men cherish and look after. But that was not to be.

A small figure emerged from the gloom, and my fantasy popped. “Welcome to Foxworth Hall, Mrs. Foxworth,” a voice greeted me, and for a moment I couldn’t respond. It was the first time anyone had called me Mrs. Foxworth. Malcolm quickly introduced Mrs. Steiner, the maid. She was a small woman, barely five feet four, and, as I towered above her, I flushed at my thoughts of being carried over the threshold. This woman, fiftyish though she was, would be a better candidate for such shenanigans. But she seemed kind as she smiled up at me. I looked to Malcolm but he was busily directing Lucas to carry in my trunks.

“I have your bed turned down and a small fire going, ma’am,” she announced. “It’s a bit chilly tonight.”

“Yes.” For a moment I was startled by the mention of bed. Why, it was almost morning! Was my wedding night to proceed now? Somehow I didn’t feel ready yet, but I quickly hid my confusion. “I suppose Virginia mountain weather is something I’ll have to get used to.”

“It takes some getting used to,” she said. “The days can be warm in late spring and summer, but the nights are cool. Come along now,” she beckoned to me.

I hadn’t moved from the entryway, but now the time had come to move forward and meet Foxworth Hall.

All the lights were dimmed, the candles burned low. I walked slowly, like a somnambulist lost in a dream, through the long entryway with its high ceiling. The walls were peppered with oil portraits of people I assumed were ancestors who had preceded me in Foxworth Hall. As I walked down the hall I gazed at them, one by one. The men looked austere, cold, haughty. So did the women. Their faces were pinched tight, their eyes saddened by some trouble. I looked in each of the portraits for some hint of Malcolm, some resemblance in the faces. Some of the men had his light hair and straight nose, and some of the women, especially the older ones, had his intense expression.

At the end of the front foyer, large enough to be used as a ballroom, I came to a pair of elegant staircases that wound up like ruffles on a queen’s sleeves. The curving staircases met at a balcony on the second floor, and from there became a single staircase that rose another flight. The three giant crystal chandeliers hung from a gilt carved ceiling some forty feet above the floor and the floor was made of intricate mosaic tiles. The magnificence took my breath away. How drab and gawky I felt in this elegant room.

As Mrs. Steiner led me forward, I gazed at the marble busts, the crystal lamps, the antique tapestries that only the extremely wealthy could afford. Lucas hurried past us, lugging one of my trunks. I paused at the foot of the stairs, my mind numbed in a trance. I was to be the mistress of this magnificent mansion! Then Malcolm was beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

“Well, do you approve?” he asked.

“It’s like a palace,” I said.

“Yes,” Malcolm said. “The seat of my empire. I expect you will manage it well,” he added. He pulled off his gloves and looked about. “That’s the library there,” he said, gesturing to my right. I looked through the open doorway and caught a glimpse of walls lined with richly carved mahogany bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. “I have something of an office in the rear, where you can work on our accounts. The main hallways above,” he said, turning my attention back to the staircases, “join at the rotunda. Our bedrooms are in the southern wing, with its warmer exposure. There are fourteen rooms of various sizes in the northern wing—plenty of room for guests.”

“Yes. I believe that.”

“But I tend to agree with Benjamin Franklin, who said fish and guests tend to smell after three days. Please keep that in mind.”

I started to laugh, but I saw that he was serious.

“Come, you’re tired. You can explore and explore tomorrow. I suspect you might find one of my older relatives still living in one of the rooms in the north wing.”

“You don’t mean that?”

“Of course not, but there was a time when that might have been possible. My father was often carefree about such things. Mrs. Steiner,” he said, indicating she should continue leading me upstairs.

“This way, Mrs. Foxworth,” she said, and I began to ascend the staircase on the right, running my hand over the rosewood balustrade as I walked up. Lucas came down the left staircase quickly to retrieve my remaining baggage. Malcolm walked beside me, just a step or two behind.

We reached the top of the stairs, and when we made the turn to the south wing, I confronted a suit of armor on a pedestal and I really felt I had entered a castle.

The southern wing was softly lit. Shadows draped the hallway like giant cobwebs. The first door on the right was closed. From the size of the door, however, I imagined the room was a large one. Malcolm must have caught my interest.

“The trophy room,” he muttered, “my room,” he added with a definite emphasis on “my,” “in which I keep artifacts I have collected during my travels and hunts.”

I was immediately curious about that room. Surely the things within it would tell me more about the man I had married.

We passed door after door until we reached a set of double doors on the right. The only doors we had passed which were painted white. I paused.

“No one goes into this room,” Malcolm declared. “It was my mother’s room.” His voice was so cold and hard when he said that, and his eyes so far away, that I wondered what it was about his mother that bothered him so. He spat out the word “mother” almost as if it were poison. What kind of man could hate his mother so?

Of course, I wanted to know more, but Malcolm took my arm to lead me on quickly. Mrs. Steiner stopped before an opened doorway and stood to the side to allow me to enter.

The bedroom was large. An ornately carved cherry bed stood in its center. Its hand-carved posts were topped with a white canopy, and the bed was covered with a spread of quilted satin. There were two large white pillows with hand-crocheted pillowcases.

The bed itself was set between two large paneled windows that faced the south. The windows were draped in light blue pleated antique silk curtains. The room had a polished hardwood floor, but there was a thick light-gray wool rug beside the bed.

I looked at the dressing table on the left with its oval-framed mirror. There was a large dresser beside it, a tremendous closet beside that, and a blue cut-velvet chair facing the bed. There was another closet on the right and another, smaller dresser to the right of it. The fireplace, now aglow with a dancing fire, was opposite the bed.

Although the curtains, the bedding, and the rug suggested warmth and femininity, the room had a cold appearance. As I stood there, I had the distinct impression the room had been thrown together rather quickly. In such a glorious house, why would Malcolm want such a bedroom?

My question was answered immediately. This was not our bedroom.

This was my bedroom.

“You’ll want to get right to sleep,” he said. “It’s been a hard day, with all our traveling. Sleep as late as you wish.”

Malcolm leaned over and kissed me quickly on the cheek and then turned and left before I could say anything.

It occurred to me that Malcolm might just be very shy and made these remarks for Mrs. Steiner’s benefit. He probably intended to come to my bed before or in the morning.

Mrs. Steiner remained with me a while longer, showing me the bathroom facilities, explaining the order of the house, how she handled the linens, when she cleaned the rooms, how the orders for meals were made.

“Of course, it’s so late I can’t give proper thought to all these things,” I said, “but in the morning I’ll go over it all again with you and decide what we’ll continue and what we’ll change.” I think she was surprised by my firmness.

“Every Thursday the servants go to town. We do our own shopping then as well,” she said, frightened that I would end that practice.

“Where do the servants sleep?” I asked.

“Servants’ quarters are above the garage in the rear. Tomorrow you’ll meet Olsen, the gardener. He’ll want to show you the gardens in the rear. He’s rather proud of them. Our cook is Mrs. Wilson. She’s been with the Foxworths for nearly thirty years. She claims to be sixty-two, but I know she’s closer to seventy,” she added. She chatted on and on in her somewhat thick German accent while she unpacked my trunks and began to organize my wardrobe. Finally her words melded into one long, monotonous rhythm, so I could no longer follow. She saw she was losing my attention and excused herself.

“I hope you enjoy your first night’s sleep at Foxworth,” she said. Of course, it was practically morning.

I took out the blue dressing gown I had taken such pains to have made for my wedding night. It had a deep cut V-shaped neckline and it was truly the most revealing garment I had ever owned. I remembered when they had first come out with the V neck, it had been denounced from the pulpit as indecent exposure. Doctors said it was a danger to health and a blouse with a triangular opening in the front was dubbed a “pneumonia blouse.” Women continued to wear it, though, and it had come to be popular. Up until now, I avoided anything that revealed so much of the bosom. Now I wondered if I should wear it.

Anticipating the possibility that Malcolm would come to me in the morning, I decided to do so. After I slipped into it, I let my hair down around my shoulders and contemplated myself before the dressing mirror. The glow of the fire put a tint on my skin and made it look as though the flame were burning within me.

Looking at myself like that made me think of an unlit candle, for that was what an unloved woman was, I thought. No matter how beautiful she was, if she did not have a man to love her, she would never burn brightly. My chance to light my candle had come. I longed to see the flame.

The desire lit my eyes. I ran the tips of my fingers down the strands of my hair and touched my shoulders. Standing there and thinking about Malcolm coming to my room finally to take me in his arms, I recalled love scenes I had read in books.

He would press his lips to my shoulders; he would hold my hand between his and gently stroke it. He would whisper his love for me and press me closely to him. My size that had always been my burden would arouse him. In his arms I would be a perfect fit, as graceful and soft as any woman could be, for that was the power of love—to turn the ugliest of ducklings into a swan.

I felt like a swan in this dressing gown. I had finally become a woman to be desired. The moment Malcolm came through that door, he would see it, and if there were any doubts in his mind about me, those doubts would be blown away like fall leaves in the wind. I longed for him to come through that door. I was ready for him to come through that door.

I put out the lights and slipped under the blanket. Fiery shadows danced on the ceiling; they looked like shapes that had emerged from the walls. The spirits of Malcolm’s ancestors, asleep for years, had been nudged and awakened by my arrival. They performed a ritual of resurrection, excited with the prospect of a new mistress to haunt with the past. Rather than frighten me, the thought fascinated me, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the dancing forms brought alive by the red glow of the fire.

From somewhere down the long, empty hallway, I heard a door close. Its echo reverberated, bouncing between the walls and threading its way through the darkness until it reached my doorway.

Then there was a deep, cold silence that pierced my heart, a heart so eager to be warmed and loved and cherished. I brought the blanket closer to my chin and inhaled the scent of newly washed sheets.

I listened hard for Malcolm’s footsteps, but I never heard them. The fire weakened; the shapes grew smaller and retreated again into the walls. My eyelids grew heavier and heavier until I was unable to keep them open. Finally, I welcomed sleep. I told myself that when I awoke, Malcolm would be beside me and the bright new life I had anticipated would begin.