what made her the way she turned out to be. She wounded us so deeply I feel neither one of us will ever recover until we do understand. I have forgiven her, but I can't forget. I want to understand so I can help you to forgive her . . ."
"Will that help?" I asked sarcastically. "It's too late for understanding or forgiving our mother, and, to be honest, I don't want to find understanding--for if I do, I might have to forgive her."
His arms dropped stiffly to his sides. Turning, he strode away from me. "I'm going out for our luggage now. Take a bath, and by the time you're finished I'll have everything unpacked." At the doorway he paused, not turning to look my way. "Try, really try, to use this as an opportunity to make peace with Bart. He's not beyond restoration, Cathy. You heard him behind the podium. That young man has a remarkable ability for oratory. His words make good sense. He's a leader now, Cathy, when he used to be so shy and introverted. We can count it a blessing that at last Bart has come out of his shell."
Humbly I bowed my head. "Yes, I'll do what I can. Forgive me, Chris, for being unreasonably strongwilled--again."
He smiled and left.
In "her" bath that joined a magnificent dressing room, I slowly disrobed while the black marble sunken tub filled. All about me were gold-framed mirrors to reflect back my nudity. I was proud of my figure, still slim and firm, and my breasts that didn't sag. Stripped of "everything, I lifted my arms to take out the few hairpins still left. Deja vu-like, I pictured my mother as she must have stood, doing this same thing while she thought of her second and younger husband. Had she wondered where he was on the nights he spent with me? Had she known just who Bart's mistress was before my revelations at the Christmas party? Oh, I hoped she had!
An unremarkable dinner came and went.
Two hours later I was in the swan bed that had given me many daydreams, watching Chris undress. True to his word, he'd unpacked everything, hung my clothes as well as his own and stowed our underwear in the bureau. Now he looked tired, slightly unhappy. "Joel told me there will be servants coming for interviews tomorrow. I hope you feel up to that."
Startled, I sat up. "But I thought Bart would do his own hiring."
"No, he's leaving that up to you."
"Oh."
Chris hung his suit on the brass valet, again making me think of how much that valet seemed the same one Bart's father had used when he lived here-- or in that other Foxworth Hall. Haunted, that's what I was. Stark naked, Chris headed for the "his" bath. "I'll take a quick shower and join you shortly. Don't fall asleep until I'm through.'
I lay in the semidarkness and stared around me, feeling strangely out of myself. In and out of my mother, I flitted, sensing four children in a locked room overhead in the attic. Feeling the panic and guilt that surely must have been hers while that mean old father below lived on and on, threatening even when he was out of sight. Born bad, wicked, evil. It seemed I heard a whispery voice saying this over and over again. I closed my eyes and tried to stop this craziness. I didn't hear any voices. I didn't hear ballet music playing, I didn't. I couldn't smell the dry, musty scent of the attic. I couldn't. I was fifty-two years old, not twelve, thirteen, fourteen or fifteen.
All the old odors were gone. I smelled only new paint, new wood, freshly applied wallpaper and fabric. New carpets, new scatter rugs, new furniture. Everything new but for the fancy antiques on the first floor. Not the real Foxworth Hall, only an imitation. Yet, why had Joel come back if he liked being a monk so much? Certainly he couldn't want all that money when he'd grown accustomed to monastery austerity. There must be some good reason he was here other than just wanting to see what remained of his family. When the villagers must have told him our mother was dead, still he'd stayed. Waiting his chance to meet Bart? What had he found in Bart that
"Will that help?" I asked sarcastically. "It's too late for understanding or forgiving our mother, and, to be honest, I don't want to find understanding--for if I do, I might have to forgive her."
His arms dropped stiffly to his sides. Turning, he strode away from me. "I'm going out for our luggage now. Take a bath, and by the time you're finished I'll have everything unpacked." At the doorway he paused, not turning to look my way. "Try, really try, to use this as an opportunity to make peace with Bart. He's not beyond restoration, Cathy. You heard him behind the podium. That young man has a remarkable ability for oratory. His words make good sense. He's a leader now, Cathy, when he used to be so shy and introverted. We can count it a blessing that at last Bart has come out of his shell."
Humbly I bowed my head. "Yes, I'll do what I can. Forgive me, Chris, for being unreasonably strongwilled--again."
He smiled and left.
In "her" bath that joined a magnificent dressing room, I slowly disrobed while the black marble sunken tub filled. All about me were gold-framed mirrors to reflect back my nudity. I was proud of my figure, still slim and firm, and my breasts that didn't sag. Stripped of "everything, I lifted my arms to take out the few hairpins still left. Deja vu-like, I pictured my mother as she must have stood, doing this same thing while she thought of her second and younger husband. Had she wondered where he was on the nights he spent with me? Had she known just who Bart's mistress was before my revelations at the Christmas party? Oh, I hoped she had!
An unremarkable dinner came and went.
Two hours later I was in the swan bed that had given me many daydreams, watching Chris undress. True to his word, he'd unpacked everything, hung my clothes as well as his own and stowed our underwear in the bureau. Now he looked tired, slightly unhappy. "Joel told me there will be servants coming for interviews tomorrow. I hope you feel up to that."
Startled, I sat up. "But I thought Bart would do his own hiring."
"No, he's leaving that up to you."
"Oh."
Chris hung his suit on the brass valet, again making me think of how much that valet seemed the same one Bart's father had used when he lived here-- or in that other Foxworth Hall. Haunted, that's what I was. Stark naked, Chris headed for the "his" bath. "I'll take a quick shower and join you shortly. Don't fall asleep until I'm through.'
I lay in the semidarkness and stared around me, feeling strangely out of myself. In and out of my mother, I flitted, sensing four children in a locked room overhead in the attic. Feeling the panic and guilt that surely must have been hers while that mean old father below lived on and on, threatening even when he was out of sight. Born bad, wicked, evil. It seemed I heard a whispery voice saying this over and over again. I closed my eyes and tried to stop this craziness. I didn't hear any voices. I didn't hear ballet music playing, I didn't. I couldn't smell the dry, musty scent of the attic. I couldn't. I was fifty-two years old, not twelve, thirteen, fourteen or fifteen.
All the old odors were gone. I smelled only new paint, new wood, freshly applied wallpaper and fabric. New carpets, new scatter rugs, new furniture. Everything new but for the fancy antiques on the first floor. Not the real Foxworth Hall, only an imitation. Yet, why had Joel come back if he liked being a monk so much? Certainly he couldn't want all that money when he'd grown accustomed to monastery austerity. There must be some good reason he was here other than just wanting to see what remained of his family. When the villagers must have told him our mother was dead, still he'd stayed. Waiting his chance to meet Bart? What had he found in Bart that
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