Twilight's Child by V. C. Andrews
"I could stand here forever and look," Mother said. "Well, you'd better not, or our dinner will get cold," Bronson Alcott said.
All three of us spun around to see him standing in the doorway, his arms folded, a white meerschaum pipe in his right hand. He wore a dark blue velvet jacket with a gold lining on the collar and above the breast pocket. Instead of a tie, however, he had on a ruby cravat. In the twilight his chestnut hair and mustache looked a shade darker, like dark honey. The laughter around his sapphire eyes rippled down to widen his smile.
"Bronson," Mother cried. "Spying on us?"
"Hardly that," he said, stepping forward quickly to take her hand. "I did see your car drive up and wondered what was taking you all so long to ring my chimes. Poor Livingston is standing in the entryway fidgeting like an expectant father," he said, and Mother laughed.
"Livingston," Bronson explained to Jimmy and me, "is my butler. He's been with me . . . well, he's been around longer than I have. He actually worked for my father," Bronson said. He shook Jimmy's hand quickly. "Welcome. And you," he said, dropping his gaze to my feet and climbing up my legs and over my bosom to my face, "look absolutely beautiful. Like 'is other, like daughter," he declared, still staring at me.
"Now who's keeping us from dinner?" Mother asked, not hiding her annoyance at being ignored.
"Oh. Sorry. Right this way," Bronson directed, and he led us into the beautiful house.
Livingston, in coat and tails, stood just inside. He was a tall, lean old man who bent forward, making him seem to be climbing hills while standing on a flat surface. His hair was candle white and his eyes a pale, watery blue.
"Good evening, Livingston," Mother said.
"Good evening, ma'am," he replied in a somewhat raspy voice.
"This is Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp, Livingston," Bronson introduced. Livingston nodded.
"Hello," I greeted.
"Hi," Jimmy added.
Livingston went to close the door, and I turned my attention to the inside of the house. As we followed Bronson into the house I saw that there were paintings on all the walls, from Renaissance to modern. Colors and elegance were everywhere in evidence throughout the house, particularly in the hall, with its maroon velvet curtains, its marble floors and marble bench. We stopped first at the library, which was filled with rich leather furniture and dark oak tables and bookcases. Bronson showed us his office, where he had an enormous portrait of his parents above his desk. There was something vaguely familiar in his mother's face. She reminded me of someone, but I didn't have time to dwell upon it, for my attention was quickly drawn to the portrait of a young woman on the wall to our left.
She looked as though she was in her late teens. She had light brown hair brushed down over her shoulders and had a soft oval face with kind, light green eyes and a gentle smile. In the portrait she was seated on a wide cushioned chair. She had her graceful-looking hands crossed over each other on her lap, but there was something about her posture, the way her shoulders turned, that seemed odd. I thought she looked uncomfortable.
I looked at Bronson and saw the way he gazed admiringly at the portrait. There was a soft smile around his lips that resembled the smile on the young woman's face. In fact, as studied him and the girl in the portrait, I realized there were enough resemblances to make me suspect they were brother and sister.
"That's my sister Alexandria," he said, confirming my suspicion.
"Oh, she's very pretty," I said.
"Was," Bronson said, and he sighed. "She died a little more than two years ago."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"What happened to her?" Jimmy asked quickly.
"Despite what you see there, she was constantly in pain. She suffered from a degenerative bone disease. Posing for that portrait was a difficult thing for her to do, but she insisted on it. She wanted me to have it," he added, smiling at the memory.
"It's so depressing to dote on these tragic things," Mother said.
"What? Yes, yes, of course," Bronson said. "How rude of me, especially in light of Randolph's recent passing."
"Let's not talk about death and sickness tonight," Mother pleaded.
"Of course not," Bronson agreed. "Let me show you the rest of the house," he said to Jimmy and me. The tour continued. We passed under and to the right of the semicircular stairway with its white marble balustrade. He showed us his sitting room with its elegant French furnishings and even took us in to see his kitchen, where at the moment two chefs worked on our meal. The aromas were sumptuous.
"It's a gourmet feast," Bronson promised.
We went directly to the enormous dining room that had windows that soared up to the ceiling, framed by deep rose velvet swags lined with gold. There was a great teardrop crystal chandelier hanging over a table that could easily seat twenty people. The chairs were all high backed with arms and cushioned seats. The moment we sat down, servants appeared as if from out of the woodwork. There was a waitress and a waiter. The waiter brought out the iced champagne, and the waitress followed with our glasses on a solid silver tray. The bottle was uncorked and the champagne poured.
"I should like to begin by offering another toast," Bronson said, looking at me. "From everything I have heard . . ." He leaned toward-Mother to speak sotto voce. "And as you know, I have spies everywhere . . . I understand," he continued, sitting back and raising his glass, "that the new young owner of Cutler's Cove is proving to be a success. So," he said, "to the Cutler's Cove Hotel, whose future now looks bright again."
"Oh, Bronson, how can we toast a hotel? Toast people, not buildings," Mother complained.
"Very well," he said, undaunted. "To the two most beautiful women in Cutler's Cove."
"Now that's a toast," Mother said, and we drank.
The moment our glasses touched the table, the feast began.
We started with escargots and then had a radicchio salad with an absolutely delicious dressing and loaves of homemade French bread. Bronson warned me that every recipe was his chef's secret, and I would not be able to steal anything to bring back to the hotel.
"Don't worry, Nussbaum wouldn't appreciate my suggesting someone else's recipe," I said, just imagining. "He has too much pride."
"Oh, that egotistical Hungarian," Mother moaned. "He can be such a bore."
After we were served a few tablespoons of sherbet to cleanse our palates, the main course was served. We had duck a l'orange and wild rice with a side dish of asparagus in a hollandaise sauce that was sumptuous. The waiter served us wine, and the waitress hovered about, just waiting for the opportunity to refill our water glasses.
I noticed that as usual, Mother ate like a bird, despite the delicious food. But Jimmy and I stuffed ourselves and nearly burst when the waiters brought out our dessert: baked Alaska. How we found the room for it all, I'll never know. But by the time we finished having our coffee, I thought I would need a crane to lift me out of the chair.
"Why don't we all take a walk about the grounds," Bronson suggested, "before we have our after-dinner drinks? I think we could all use the exercise."
"Sure," Jimmy said, eager to continue his study of the house and grounds.
"I need it," I confessed.
"Well, I don't," Mother said. "And I've seen the grounds. I'll wait for you all in the French room, Bronson."
"Everyone could use the exercise, Laura Sue," Bronson coaxed. His eyes twinkled with persuasion. Mother sighed deeply.
"Oh, well, if everyone insists, I'll go," she said, making it look as if she was doing us all a great favor. Somehow, Bronson didn't mind Mother's performances. If anything, I saw a look of amusement in his face.
He took us back out the front, where Livingston rushed as best he could to open the door, and we followed a slate walkway around the house, past gardens, a gazebo and a small pond, to the rear of the house, where we found the tennis courts and a rather large swimming pool. Everything, including the walkway, was lit up.
Jimmy walked ahead with him and talked about th
"1 would hardly call this a hike, Mother," I said, but that didn't dissuade her from whining until we made our way back and she could drop her body into the soft cushions of the settee in the drawing room. Moments later Livingston arrived with a tray bearing a bottle of sherry and four glasses. He poured us each a glass and brought the tray around. Jimmy and I were seated in the two wing-back chairs to the right of the white marble fireplace. Bronson remained standing. As soon as Livingston left, Bronson raised his glass again, this time smiling in a conspiratorial way at Mother.
"It's time for the main toast of the evening," Bronson said, "and an announcement"
Mother followed that with one of her nervous little laughs.
My heart began to thump like a lead drum against my chest. Some little voice within me had been whispering suspicions all night, but I had chosen to ignore it, chosen to ignore the way Mother and Bronson Alcott gazed into each other's eyes, chosen to ignore the way he placed his hand over hers and held it there at the dinner table.
I looked at Jimmy, who gazed back at me with eyes betraying a similar suspicion. There had been ulterior motives for this dinner after all.
"We wanted you two to be the first to know," Bronson said. "Right, Laura Sue?"
"Yes," she said, smiling.
"We're announcing our engagement tomorrow," he declared. "It won't be much of an engagement, however," he added quickly. "We intend to be married within a week."
"A week!" I couldn't help my exclamation. "But it's been less than two months since Randolph's death," I cried.
Like a tender flower without the admiration of rain to nourish her faith in herself, Mother wilted before me.
"I knew it," she moaned. "I knew she would say something like that. I just knew it! My happiness means nothing to you, does it, Dawn?"
"Well, how can you expect me to say anything else?"
I looked up at Bronson and then turned back to Mother. "How can you do this so soon after Randolph's death?"
"You of all people should know, Dawn," she replied coldly, "that my marriage to Randolph was not much of a marriage anyway. He was married to his mother, her every shadow, her every word. You don't know how much I suffered," she added, her throat choking and her eyes filling with tears and quickly overflowing in streams down her dainty cheeks.
"Now Laura Sue, don't," Bronson chided gently, putting his glass of sherry down and going to her. He sat beside her and put his arm around her shoulders.
"Well, she doesn't know. She hates me because she doesn't know what I went through." She looked up at him, gazing into his eyes through her tears now.
Bronson turned to me, his eyes showing such intensity and purpose, it made my breath catch and a lump come into my throat.
"Perhaps," he said, "it's time she knew it all, then." Mother looked up sharply, fear shadowing her face. Bronson patted her hand.
"It's time, Laura Sue," he repeated.
"I just can't," Mother cried. "It's too painful for me even to think about and remember these things, much less talk about them anymore," she pleaded, and she shook her head vigorously.
"Then let me," Bronson said. "If possible, I don't want any hard feelings among us—not now, not at the beginning of a new start. I want us to all feel like family."
Mother closed her eyes and sucked in her breath. Then she pulled herself to her feet.
"Do what must be done," she said. "I'm exhausted and too upset to listen. I want to go back to the hotel," she said.
"All right," Bronson said. "Perhaps James will escort you, and Dawn can stay here and talk. I'll send her home with my car and driver."
"Sure,″ Jimmy said, rising.
"Jimmy should hear anything that has to be said, too," I declared. Jimmy stepped in front of me and leaned down to whisper.
"Maybe he wants to talk to you alone, Dawn. Maybe he'll be uncomfortable with another man listening. You can fill me in later." He squeezed my hand reassuringly and then turned and nodded to Bronson and Mother.
"Thank you, Bronson," Mother said, relieved. "It was a wonderful evening, and I would like to keep it that way in my storehouse of memories." She flashed a smile at me. Randolph escorted her and Jimmy out.
Moments later he returned, sat down across from me, crossed his legs, lifted his glass of sherry to his lips and began.
7
MORE SECRETS FROM THE PAST
"FIRST I SHOULD TELL YOU A LITTLE ABOUT MYSELF," BRONSON said, "so that you will be able to better understand how and why events unfolded as they did."
That charming yet provocative smile left his face, and his manner turned very intense as he leaned forward to lock his eyes with mine.
"I was born into money and position and had a rather comfortable childhood. My father was a firm man who came from hardy stock, but my mother was a very warm and devoted person, devoted to my father, devoted to her children and devoted to the Alcott image.
"Right from the start, both Alexandria and I were taught how important that image was. We were made to understand that we had a responsibility to maintain our high standing. We were told that people looked up to us, that we were, in a sense, the new ruling class of the South. We had money and power—power to affect other people's lives.
"As an investor and a banker, my father controlled the destinies of many. In short, I was brought up believing I was some sort of prince, and some day I would inherit my father's throne and rule in the Alcott tradition."
He leaned back, templing his fingers under his chin a moment, and then smiled.
"It was all a bit overdramatized, but as it is with most people of some position and wealth, they began to believe their own publicity. Father certainly did.
"Anyway," he continued, his eyes somewhat wistful now, "as I told you, Alexandria was born with a crippling ailment. Because of that and because of how self-important we were made to feel, she became more and more melancholy. She felt the disease was somehow her fault and always believed she was disappointing my parents, especially my father.
"Despite her sickness, she was an excellent student, always trying harder and harder to achieve. I loved her dearly and would do anything in my power for her."
He smiled softly.
"She was always chastising me for spending too much time with her. 'You should be off doing things with your friends,' she would say, 'chasing after pretty girls and not spending all your time with your crippled sister.' But alas, I couldn't desert her.
"When no one asked her to the high school prom, I took her myself and forced her to go, even though she couldn't dance. I would be the one to take her to movies or shows, the one who insisted she go for motor rides down the seashore or into the mountains. I took her sailing and even horseback riding, when she was still well enough to do those things. After a while anything she saw or did, she saw or did because of my insistence.
"Oh, what difference does it make, Bronson?' she would ask when I would stubbornly persist. I didn't want to say it, but I wanted to squeeze everything into her life that I could, knowing she didn't have long to live. But then again, it didn't have to be said; she understood.
"Anyway, I suppose my devotion to Alexandria put some young women off. There were snide remarks and ugly rumors spread about us—to most it was unnatural that a brother and a sister should be so close—but I wasn't about to turn my back on Alexandria just to please some gossips and chase some conceited, pretty young skirt."
"My mother was one of those young women, wasn't she?" I asked confidently.
He stared at me blankly for a moment or so, drumming his fingertips on the arm of his chair before he got up to stand before the wide wall of windows, staring out at the gardens and beyond toward the sea. Finally he turned back to me, his eyes revealing a deep inner agony I could understand, for I recognized it as the agony a man feels when he longs for a woman who seems forever beyond his reach. I had seen this l
"Your mother," he began, "was and still is one of the most beautiful women in Cutler's Cove, and like all beautiful women, she has a certain amount of vanity."
"Mother," I said dryly, "has far more than her fair share of vanity."
He started to smile but stopped and shook his head.
"I won't deny that, but I understand why it is so." He paused for a moment and thought. "You don't know much about your mother's family, her childhood, do you?"
"No. She never talks about it, and whenever I did ask her questions she always answered quickly, impatiently, as if I were annoying her, so I stopped. All I really know," I said, "is that she was an only child, and that both her parents are dead."
"Yes, she was an only child, a young girl who adored—no, practically worshipped her father. But Simon Thomas was a rake if there ever was one and didn't give her the attention she needed so desperately. His reputation for womanizing was always a topic of conversation. Her poor mother suffered so and tried to pretend all was well. Laura Sue," he stressed, "comes from a world of illusion and deceit, distrust and betrayal.
"Consequently," he continued, his eyes serious, "she craved attention, craved love, and was far more demanding than any other woman I knew.
"But I was desperately in love with her from the first moment I set eyes on her. I remember," he said, a smile returning to those aqua eyes, "parking my car at the corner of her street and sitting in it for hours just to catch a glimpse of her coming and going."
He paused, as if the image of my mother as a young girl was projected on the wall across from him.
"Anyway," he said, snapping out of his reverie, "I began to court her, and for a while we were quite a striking couple. But after my mother contracted a rapidly destructive blood cancer and died, I felt even more of a need to spend time with Alexandria. She was so shattered by my mother's unexpected passing."