Garden of Shadows

THE MONTHS PASSED, EACH MUCH LIKE THE ONE BEFORE it, filled with tensions I thought were the result of Malcolm’s attitude toward Alicia. His belligerence showed in his sharp, often biting comments and in the way he often ignored her. He was more irritable about many things, especially Mal’s love of music. One afternoon he came home early and found Mal at the piano with Alicia at his side, teaching him the scales. I was crocheting a sweater for Joel and enjoying the way Mal was intuitively able to pick the right notes. There was no question that he had talent which, if properly nurtured, might grow into real musicianship.

Malcolm heard the piano and came to the salon, the rage already burning in his eyes. I looked up from my needlework just as he came charging through the doorway. He slammed the piano shut with such violence, he almost caught poor Mal’s hands beneath the lid. I think he wanted to do that to end Mal’s piano playing forever. Alicia gasped and embraced Mal as the two of them looked up at the towering Malcolm.

“What did I say about catering to these musical whims?”

“But, Malcolm, the boy is talented. He’s a prodigy. Look at what he can do at his age. Let us show you,” Alicia pleaded.

“I don’t care what he can do on a piano. Will that make him competent in business? Will that enable him to walk in my footsteps? You are turning him into a soft, effeminate man. Get him off that piano bench,” he said, but Alicia didn’t release her embrace of him. “Mal, stand up,” he commanded.

Mal moved away from Alicia and stood up, his lips trembling. He was afraid to cry, knowing how that would anger Malcolm even more. Usually, he sobbed silently, taking deep breaths and heaving up his shoulders. Joel, who sat on the floor playing with Christopher, looked up with the same terror in his eyes. The two boys shared their fear of their father. Whenever one was yelled at, the other would respond as if it were he. Christopher, on the other hand, simply looked interested in the sudden activity and noise. Alicia turned to me, hoping I would come to her aid.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“The boy must learn never to disobey me. I told him to spend his spare time on his school lessons, not on the piano.”

“He’s not disobeying you,” I said, “if his mother and his grandmother permit him to do it.”

“He’s disobeying me!” he repeated. “He knows what I said about it.” He reached forward and took Mal by the back of his neck, nearly lifting the terrified child off the ground, and dragged him out of the salon to the library for a whipping. Almost immediately, Joel began to cry. Christopher looked confused.

“Malcolm, don’t!” Alicia screamed after them.

“Concern yourself with your own offspring,” he said, spitting his words back at her, “and leave my boys to me.”

Alicia buried her face in her hands and then looked up at me. Joel had come running to my chair to embrace my leg.

“How can you permit him to do such things?” she asked.

“I can hardly prohibit him from expressing his opinion about his own children, especially in his own house.”

“But you’re the mother; you should have something to say, shouldn’t you?”

“Are you trying to engender an argument between my husband and myself?” I responded. I knew she wasn’t, but I wanted her to think I believed it.

“Of course not, Olivia. Oh, dear,” she said, “I feel responsible. I’ve been encouraging him and you’ve permitted it,” she added as though just realizing it. “You shouldn’t have if you knew it was going to come to this. Malcolm is so cruel. Aren’t you afraid for little Mal?”

“He will be all right,” I told her. “If he wants something enough, even his father won’t stop him. He’s more like me when it comes to that. Try to ignore Malcolm. Stay away from him,” I added, filling my words with another meaning. “The house is big enough.”

“I feel so sorry for him, though.” She was crying. She got up and left the room.

I didn’t call her back to comfort her; I was happy that there were strong differences between her and Malcolm. As long as there were such differences, I had no fear that she would ever respond to his amorous approaches.

Then things changed again.

On the occasion of Christopher’s third birthday, Garland and Alicia held a party and invited a number of neighboring couples who had children Christopher’s, Mal’s, and Joel’s age. The foyer of Foxworth Hall sounded like a school yard. There were children all about. Alicia arranged for games and hung colorful paper streamers and balloons. Mrs. Wilson made a huge birthday cake decorated with all sorts of bright little animals.

Malcolm went to work in the morning, but Garland remained home to help with the party, something Malcolm thought was a ridiculous thing for him to do.

“He’s ludicrous when it comes to Christopher,” Malcolm told me that morning after breakfast. Garland and Alicia had left the table to prepare for the party. “He acts like a man in his dotage. You would think it was his first child.”

“Perhaps he is proud of not only having been able to have a child, but having one so handsome and bright,” I said. Malcolm’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time I understood that he was jealous of Garland’s attention to Christopher. “Didn’t your father give you the same kind of attention?”

“Hardly. It was the other way around. I had to practically beg him to take me along on his business trips. After my mother left, he was so weak, he even tried to blame me for driving her away. I’ll never forgive him for that. My mother loved me more than anything, and it was his own inadequacies that forced her to abandon me. Don’t you understand, every time he looks into my blue eyes, he sees Corinne. He knows he could never make her love him the way she loved me. Oh, she must have hated him … otherwise she never would have left me. I’ll never forgive him for losing her.”

For the first time in years, I actually felt sympathy for my husband, and I reached out to touch his trembling hand. “But he spent more time with you when you were older, didn’t he?” I asked, hoping to calm his agitation.

“Not until I was much older and I could relieve him of some of his business responsibilities. I was sent to one private school after another until college, anything to keep me out of his sight. When I was away from home, he never wrote or answered any of my letters. One Christmas vacation I returned home from boarding school and found a house full of servants, but my father gone on one of his safaris. It never occurred to him to take me along. I had no friends to speak of, so I spent the entire holiday vacation wandering about Foxworth Hall, listening to the echo of my own footsteps.”

“Malcolm,” I said, seeing he was in the mood to talk about his past, something he rarely liked to do, “I’ve always meant to ask you. After your mother left, did she ever write to you? Did you ever hear from her?”

“Not a word, not a card, nothing. When I was young, I used to think my father was hiding her letters to me and I would stay alone up in my room for hours writing her endless letters that were never mailed. I would plead for her to come back to me. I was only five years old! I needed her! I couldn’t comprehend what possessed her to turn her back on her loving son. If I could talk to her right now, that’s all I’d want to know.”

“What good would that do you now?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, and left me rather than continue the conversation.

• • •

I was surprised to see him return home on the day of Christopher’s birthday party in time to attend the festivities. It wasn’t beyond him to ignore the boy’s special day, even though it would hurt his father. What surprised me was the way he looked at Alicia when he set eyes on her in the foyer, where she was entertaining the neighboring children.

She was wearing one of those sack dresses that made women look more like boys, although she didn’t wear any flattener to keep her breasts from poking up against the flimsy material. She had her hair up and she wore two strings of enormous pearls. At a party, with people around her, she grew radiant and alive again. She looked as she had when she first arrived at Foxworth Hall. Even Garland seemed regenerated; the tired, worn expression he had been wearing lifted like a mask.

Alicia’s laughter echoed through the large room. The children were delighted with her warmth and gaiety. They trailed after her, vying for her attention. Our two boys were at the forefront, chanting her name.

Malcolm stood like a statue watching her. I expected to see that characteristic sneer, that hateful look in his eyes, but instead, I saw his face soften and his lips relax. He looked like one of the children, enamored of her.

Something wild and frightening burgeoned in my heart. He was looking at her with the kind of longing only a man in love had for a woman. What I thought had died had not. It had been hibernating, sleeping like some giant bear, waiting for spring. Alicia’s beauty was that spring. It tempted him, awoke the strong feelings in him, and beckoned him in pursuit once again.

I heard it in the way he addressed her when they spoke. I saw it in his eyes, eyes that would not move from her as she went about the foyer, conducting the party. He was satisfied sitting in a chair, sipping tea, and observing Alicia all afternoon.

Long after the party ended and the guests were gone, Malcolm remained in the foyer watching Alicia supervise the cleanup. Garland, tired from the activity, retreated to his bedroom to rest. I saw to bathing the children and preparing them for bed.

Alicia announced she was retiring to the Swan Room to relax with a good book.

“Wasn’t it a wonderful little party?” she asked me.

“The children enjoyed it,” I admitted. “One wonders, though, if a three-year-old can appreciate such festivity.”

“Oh, Olivia, sometimes you sound just like Malcolm,” she sighed. I was sorry he wasn’t close enough to hear that.

I watched her go up the spiral staircase and then I went to gather my needlework and take it up to my bedroom. I didn’t rush right upstairs. The servants had some questions about some of the glassware and Mrs. Wilson wanted to discuss the menu for the coming week.

What happened next was later told to me by Alicia, but she was in such a hysterical state at the time, it was difficult to understand all of it.

I was halfway up the staircase when I heard her scream. That was followed by a loud crash against the wall of the Swan Room. I hurried up the remaining steps and rushed down the hallway to her doorway in time to see Garland crumple on the floor, clutching his chest. He was in a nightdress; apparently he had been woken from his sleep, and had come running barefoot to the Swan Room.

Alicia was sprawled over the bed, her nightgown torn from the right shoulder to the waist, her breasts exposed. Malcolm stood over his father’s collapsed body, his hands clenched into fists, his face beet-red, his eyes bulging. There was a long scratch down the right side of his face.

“What’s happened?” I screamed.

“Quick, call for the doctor,” Malcolm commanded, gathering some control of himself when he set eyes on me. I looked at Alicia, who was now crying hysterically and trying to cover herself with the torn shred of her nightgown. Garland wasn’t moving, so I rushed to the nearest phone, the one in the trophy room, and called Dr. Braxten.

By the time he arrived, Malcolm had dragged Garland’s body back into his own bedroom and placed him on his bed. Alicia, wearing a robe over her torn nightgown, was at Garland’s side, sobbing and holding his limp hand.

“What happened?” Dr. Braxten asked, rushing to the bed. Malcolm looked first at me, then at Alicia before replying.

“He had an attack of some sort and yelled out. By the time I arrived, he was like this,” he explained.

The doctor placed his stethoscope on Garland’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. Then he checked his eyes and his pulse.

“Must have been a heart attack,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing left for me to do.”

Alicia wailed and threw her body over Garland’s.

“No! No! No!” she screamed. “It can’t be. We just celebrated our son’s birthday. Please, no. Please. Garland, wake up! Show them you’re not dead! Garland! Garland!” Her sobbing was so intense, it shook the bed.

Malcolm turned and fled. He didn’t look at me on the way out.

“I’ll contact the undertaker,” Dr. Braxten said softly. He looked back at Alicia. “It’s best they get here as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” I said.

“He did come to see me a few weeks ago,” Dr. Braxten explained, “and I told him I wasn’t happy with his heart then, but he made me swear not to tell anyone, especially Alicia. He was that kind of a man.”

“Yes,” I said, understanding Garland’s motives. He never wanted to admit his age. He did everything possible to make life rosy for Alicia.

“Will she be all right? I can give her something to help her sleep,” he said. I went to her, hesitating to put my hands on her. Finally, I touched her shoulder.

“Alicia, the doctor wants to know if you want him to give you something to help you sleep.”

She shook her head and then raised herself slowly from Garland’s body. She wore a dazed look and gazed about the room as if she were in a dream. The doctor moved to her.

“It will be better for you if you go back to your own bed,” he said. “Sleep is the only cure for such great sorrow.”

She nodded and permitted him to help her to her feet. As he walked her to the door, she looked back at Garland’s corpse and began to cry hysterically again. I followed them out and closed the door behind me.

Malcolm was nowhere about. He had retreated to some room in the house, but I wasn’t interested in locating him at the moment. I went with the doctor and Alicia to the Swan Room. Alicia permitted him to put her into her bed like a child.

“You should stay with her for a while,” he told me.

“Of course I will,” I said. I felt quite dazed by the events myself, but I was never one to lose control and dignity. It pleased me that the doctor sensed my ability to handle affairs in the midst of a crisis. Alicia was, after all, more like a child.

“I’ll go call the undertaker,” he whispered. “Call me if you need me.”

“Thank you, Dr. Braxten.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “He was a fine … I’m sorry,” he added, and left.

I looked down at Alicia. She had turned her face into the pillow and was sobbing softly. I went to the doorway and closed the door, locking it behind me. I didn’t want us to be disturbed for a while. Then I returned to the swan bed and sat down beside her.

“Alicia,” I said. “I must know what happened here before I came upon the terrible scene. What was Malcolm doing in your room?” Her sobbing intensified. “Alicia, you must tell me. You have no one else now,” I added, thinking that was a good point to bring up at this moment. It struck home, for her sobbing lessened and she began to turn to me. She pressed her hands against her face as if to stop the tears, and then brought the blanket to her face.

“It was horrible, horrible,” she began.

“What was?”

“I was just lying here, reading, feeling so good about the party and how happy everyone was. Garland …” She started to cry again. “He was so proud, so happy.”

“What happened here?” I asked, pursuing.

“I didn’t lock my door. Sometimes … sometimes Garland comes to me in the middle of the night,” she said. “When I heard it open, I assumed it was Garland, but it was Malcolm,” she said, looking at the door quickly, her face twisting as though the entire scene were being reenacted before her very eyes.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted—” She stopped as if telling me were the most indecent thing she could do. “He wanted me,” she said, her anger growing. “He came to my bed. I told him he shouldn’t be in here. He laughed and said not to worry. Garland was asleep. He said terrible things to me. He told me Garland was too old to satisfy me now, that now I would need him more than ever and it was all right since he was Garland’s son.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him to get out or I would call Garland, but he wouldn’t leave the room. I sat up, preparing to scream if he came any closer. He must have realized that, because he rushed onto the bed and put his hand over my mouth, pressing me back to the pillow and … fondling me roughly. I tried to fight him off and he ripped my nightgown. During the struggle I knocked over that small night-table lamp and I managed a scream. Garland heard it and came to the doorway in time to see Malcolm trying to smother me with his body.”

“I thought as much,” I said.

“Garland rushed to the bed and pulled Malcolm off. They began to wrestle, Garland cursed him, and Malcolm said all sorts of terrible things about Garland’s first wife, this room, his manhood. They fell to the floor and continued struggling, but neither struck the other with his fist.

“Finally, Malcolm broke free of Garland’s hold and crawled toward the doorway, but Garland was in such a rage, he wouldn’t permit him to escape. He took hold of him again and they threw each other about until Garland screamed. He slipped out of Malcolm’s arms and fell to the floor where he … he, oh, God. Is it true? Is Garland dead?”

“It’s true,” I said.

“Garland. Garland, my Garland.” She fell back against her pillow and began to sob again. I knew she would cry herself into an exhaustion and fall asleep. There was nothing more I could do for her. I left her there and went out to seek Malcolm.

I found him in the trophy room and imagined he had been watching us through his peephole the entire time. He was seated in a leather chair, staring at the doorway, his face silkily white and his eyes wide and wild like the eyes of a man looking at his own death. His hands clutched the arms of the chair so hard, I could see the veins popping below his knuckles. He seemed to be holding on for dear life.

“What have you done?” I asked him.

“Leave me alone.”

“Do you know what will happen when people hear of this?”

“No one will hear of anything. It wasn’t my fault. He was a sick man anyway. The doctor will testify to that. Now, get out and leave me be,” he said, speaking through his clenched teeth.

“You’re a hateful person, Malcolm. You’ll never be a happy man after this.”

“It was her fault,” he said. “Not mine.”

“Her fault?” I almost laughed.

“Get out,” he repeated. I shook my head.

“I pity you.” At that moment I really did pity him. No matter what kind of face he put on, I knew he would suffer guilt that would haunt him for the rest of his life. It would change him in other ways later, but for the present it would work like a knife, cutting into his heart. It was obvious that he was trying to ease his own pain by blaming it all on Alicia. In his twisted mind she was responsible because she resisted him and called for Garland’s help. In his twisted mind the woman was always responsible, never the man.

Sometime later he would tell me that Alicia tempted him, tormented him. That was why she got what she deserved. He would blame it on the type of woman she was. He hated her and he loved her the way he hated and loved his mother.

I left him in that dark room, sitting in the shadows.

• • •

It was a large funeral, despite Malcolm’s hope that it wouldn’t be. People came from all over, some traveling great distances—business acquaintances, old friends, relatives, and many who were curious about the death of one of the area’s richest men.

Malcolm wanted his father’s body cremated, followed by a small, short ceremony, but Garland had anticipated his son’s indifference. He had left specific instructions with the minister, in writing; and when Reverend Masterson produced the document, Malcolm could do nothing about it. The elaborate funeral would be held, the money spent.

The only fortunate thing, from his point of view, was Alicia’s condition right before, during, and after the funeral. She was on heavy tranquilizers and moved about like a sleepwalker in a nightmare, her face ashen, her eyes vacant, hearing no one, seeing no one, saying nothing. Her mother, quite a sick woman herself at this point, was unable to make the journey. As I had told her the night Garland died, she had no one but me.

I saw that she was dressed properly, that she took some nourishment, and that Christopher was well taken care of. I guided her through the ceremony, remained at her side, sometimes literally holding her up. I could see the way people were watching us, how they remarked on my concern for her to one another, how they were impressed by the way I took care of her.

Mrs. Whipple, a middle-aged woman who had served as Garland’s personal secretary for many years, told me: “Garland would be so grateful to you for the way you are helping Alicia. He was so fond of her, so fond.”

“I’m doing only what is right,” I told her. “No one need thank me.”

“Of course,” she said.

The mourners came to comfort Alicia, but she looked through every one of them. Garland’s death had turned them all into strangers. In a sense all those she knew through or because of him died with him. She had already begun her transition into another world, a world without Garland, without his laughter and love, a world filled with echoes and memories. Perhaps I clung to her so tightly because I understood the world she was about to enter better than she ever would. It was almost as though I were welcoming her to it, understanding that she would be joining me, and from now on, we would both suffer the same loneliness.

During the month that followed, Alicia was practically an invalid. Still under great mental strain and taking medication, she often had to be reminded to do simple things for herself, like come down to breakfast or dinner. She herself chose darker, more simple dresses to wear. Her complexion remained pale. Her broken heart had come up and darkened her eyes until they looked as vacant as the artificial eyes of some of the animals stuffed and mounted in the trophy room. The only thing that brought any light to her face was Christopher. If it weren’t for him, she would probably never have come out of her room.

During the days of mourning, Malcolm behaved as if Alicia were no longer there. Whenever he did see her, he looked through her, beyond her. He never spoke to her and she never said a word to him. He never asked me anything about her either. I knew it was his way of avoiding his own guilt. Perhaps he hoped she would languish and die and his responsibility for what had occurred would never be revealed.

Of course, she had made it easy for him to do all this, walking about like a ghost, dressed in either black, dark gray, or dark blue, with no makeup, her hair pinned back sternly, and she always avoided his eyes.

Our dinners, the ones she attended, were like funeral feasts. She ate slowly, mechanically. Malcolm sat looking forward, sometimes asking me a question, sometimes making a comment. There was never any long conversation—just questions and answers. Even though she ate, her fingers trembled when she took the fork into them. She cut her meat slowly, laboriously, as though the knife were terribly dull. Alicia didn’t even realize when the dinner had ended. Malcolm would get up suddenly and leave the table, and she would look up, surprised. It was as if she had just realized she was sitting there.

She would look down at Garland’s seat pathetically. The absence of a setting pained her every time she sat at the dinner table. I was sure that was why she resisted attending.

And when she did look at Malcolm, I saw her look of confusion. I imagined she was trying to put all of the events into some perspective, organize them in a way that would permit her to deal with them. He looked as calm and collected as ever. She couldn’t see any change in him. Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe Garland was coming down to dinner any moment. Once, I thought she even sat there waiting for him. I had to tell her to begin eating.

Malcolm didn’t permit her eerie presence at these meals to disturb him. His appetite was good. Nothing weakened him. If he were haunted by any dreams, I never knew. He seemed satisfied with the way things were, especially the way things were between him and Alicia.

But her attitude was wearing on my nerves, and sending all three of the boys into a funk.

Finally one day I went in to have a stern talk with her. I thought it was time. I was hoping that once she recovered from Garland’s death, she would think about leaving Foxworth Hall. I thought that she herself would want to start someplace new, once the financial situation was clear. She was young enough to find a new husband, especially with the kind of wealth she enjoyed. What man wouldn’t want a beautiful, rich woman with a beautiful child?

“None of us is happy about what happened,” I said, “but you still have responsibilities. You are still Mrs. Garland Christopher Foxworth, and as his wife you should overcome your grief and begin to take care of your son properly.” She wanted to start to cry, but I wouldn’t permit it, even though I pitied her sitting there on her bed, looking as fragile as a baby robin. Despair had washed all the color from her face.

“What kind of an example are you setting for Christopher? For Mal and for Joel?” I continued. “They all see what you are and what you are doing. Your attitude is turning this house into a morgue.”

“Oh, Olivia, I can’t get it through my head that Garland is really gone.” She pressed her hands together and began to turn them as though she were wringing out invisible wet clothes.

“He is gone, and it shouldn’t be such a surprise. Some time ago, I had a discussion with you about your marriage, and I pointed out that he would die long before you. You didn’t seem to care.”

“I cared. I just didn’t believe it would happen.”

“I tried to warn you about living in a dream world. Now you are living in reality, just as I have had to from the first day I walked into this house.”

She looked up at me sharply. That she understood.

“You’re so much stronger than I am, Olivia. You’re not afraid of anything; you’re not afraid of being alone.”

“Life makes you strong. If you don’t let it make you strong, it will kill you. Is that what you want? Do you want to leave your son?”

“No!”

“Then shake off this self-pity and be a mother to your child.”

She nodded slowly.

“I know you’re right. I am indebted to you in so many ways. I knew from the first day I came here that you were a wise and intelligent woman. Malcolm never intimidates you, no matter what he does.”

“Get dressed, come down to dinner, and end this wallowing in grief,” I commanded.

Perhaps I should have permitted her to remain forever in mourning. Perhaps I should have encouraged it. My little talk was too effective. When she came down to dinner that night, she began a rather quick recovery. Grief, no matter how you cater to its gloom, has a way of dissipating. She appeared at the table that night as someone who had just awoken from a long sleep. She had rouged her cheeks, and painted her lips, put on a bright blue dress and wore one of the diamond necklaces Garland had bought her. I had forgotten how beautiful and charming she could be. I should never have forgotten that. The moment she stepped into the dining room, I realized I had resurrected more than Alicia’s beauty. Malcolm’s eyes widened; his undertaker face disappeared. Not only did he look at her intently again, but before the dinner ended, he spoke directly to her. He put on his haughty manner like a hat as he explained some of the details of Garland’s estate and how he planned to invest her money.

“It will be a while yet before I have things straightened out,” he said, “but soon I will sit down with you and explain your financial situation.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Why is it taking so long?” I asked. “It didn’t take this long after my father died.”

“Things were not quite as complex. My father insisted on some intricate clauses that the probate lawyers have to work out. Our money is invested in diverse areas. Your father was a businessman, not an investor. His fortune should have been doubled by now,” he added for my benefit.

“It’s all right, Olivia,” Alicia said. “I’m sure it won’t be much longer.”

Malcolm was very pleased by her comment. It was almost as though she had come to his defense. If she wants to be the fool, I thought, let her.

Her recovery continued. She looked after Christopher completely and, as before, devoted most of the time to all the children. She went out to shop for some new clothing for herself and for Christopher and she grew stronger, brighter, even prettier every day.

I saw the way Malcolm watched her recovery. Although they said only what was necessary to each other, I was surprised at how civil she was to him. Surely she blamed him for everything, I thought. Surely she despised him. How could she even look at him? Was there no anger and hate in her? Was she so innocent and pure that vengeance could find no home in her bosom? Her tolerance, her softness, her returning happiness infuriated me. I had even hoped to see her plot against Malcolm; perhaps enlist me in some plan to force him to give her more money, for that was the one thing that would have hurt Malcolm the most—expanding on the settlement.

But she was entirely trusting and patient. Didn’t she understand how dangerous it was to be kind to a man like Malcolm? When I could tolerate it no longer, I confronted her and was astonished at her thinking.

“Malcolm must be suffering too,” she said. “It was his father. He has to live with it.”

“Look how well he is living with it,” I said. “Has it slowed him down even a little? He’s at his business just as vigorously as before. He’s even happier because Garland isn’t around to question anything he does!”

“Perhaps it’s just an act.”

“An act! Do you know that he didn’t want to spend half as much as was spent on Garland’s funeral? Do you know he still complains about that?”

She smiled like some nun refusing to admit to violence and cruelty in the world God created. Everything had a reason, a purpose, and would be explained in the hereafter. She was incapable of facing or admitting the existence of evil in the hearts of men.

“I understand his motives. He couldn’t face the funeral; he wanted to keep it small so it would be easier for him.”

“You fool,” I said. “He cared only about the cost, not the significance. Why don’t you pressure him more to settle your estate? Who knows what he’s doing to cheat you?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin, Olivia. I was never very business-minded. He’ll follow Garland’s wishes, I’m sure,” she said.

“Do you want to languish here forever, waiting? You’re young, still very beautiful. Don’t you envision a new life for yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking around. “I can’t see myself leaving Foxworth Hall just yet. Garland’s spirit is still here. Shouldn’t his son grow up here?”

I sat back, frustrated with such simplicity, such innocent trust and faith.

“What about a new husband?” I said. “Do you think if you took a new husband, he could come here to live with you? Do you think Malcolm would tolerate that?”

“Oh, I don’t want to think about a new husband.” She smiled as though the idea were farfetched.

“You are making a mistake,” I said. “You should be planning your future and the future of your son. No one else is going to do that for you, especially not Malcolm. Put the past away.”

“There’s a time for that. I don’t think anyone would be in so great a rush.”

“I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I assure you,” I said, flushing with anger, “I would. And someday you’ll wish you had listened to me.” Someday was to come even sooner than I had expected.