Garden of Shadows
: Part 3 – Chapter 18

I WAS BEING PULLED DOWN INTO A WHIRLING MASS OF confusion and terror. I felt betrayed and so angry, hurt and bruised. And yet, there was so much love—oh, but it was a sinful, ungodly love. Who had caused this? Was it my fault? Or was it Malcolm and his lustful lineage coming to its final fruition? One moment I would be overcome with rage, the next I would be beside myself with pity for them. I knew I had to tell Malcolm. It took all my strength to rise to my feet and tell John Amos to go. Then, slowly, clinging to the doorway for support, I entered the Swan Room and in a voice so strange and faint, I barely recognized it as my own, I told Christopher and Corinne to be in Malcolm’s library in fifteen minutes. Corinne was hiding her nakedness behind Christopher, who had draped himself in a sheet. Both of their eyes were already reddened by tears. Then I quietly shut the door behind me and, reeling slightly, went to replace Malcolm.

“I want you to brace yourself,” I said, opening the door of his library, “something … something terrible has happened.”

“The children? Oh, God, not again!” Malcolm said, bolting upright.

“Your father’s son has seduced our daughter!” I informed him.

Words cannot describe the torment that twisted Malcolm’s face. As I watched him, I felt I was seeing a mirror of my own feelings, yet, as the rage and bitterness and hatred and love for his daughter all fought for dominance, one emotion showed itself stronger, and banished all the others. Rage. Rage as I had never seen before.

“Now, Malcolm,” I warned, his lack of control helping me replace my own. “We must remain calm. We must figure out what is best for us to do. There is too much at stake here, you know it and I know it. They are coming here, to the library, in a moment. Please, Malcolm, please replace some strength within you so we can put a stop to this dreadful abomination.”

Just then we both heard the door creak open and Christopher, his arm protectively around Corinne, entered the library. They had had only a few minutes to throw on their clothes, and some of their buttons were unfastened. Christopher was wearing socks without shoes. Behind them I saw John Amos looming at the top of the stairs, looking down at us with the face of doom. He seemed to grow larger with every passing silent moment, for he had known, he had always known; and I had refused to believe. I heard his prophetic words in my memory.

“There are none so blind as those who refuse to see.”

And I knew the wrath of God had fallen hard and completely on the House of Foxworth. Every shadow, the ghost of every descendant, moaned in the wings. All that was left was to hear the words. Malcolm stepped forward and slammed the doors behind them.

“Daddy,” Corinne began, grasping hold of Christopher’s hand as they moved toward Malcolm. “We are in love. We’ve been in love for a long time. We are going to be married.” She looked at Christopher to gather her courage. He smiled that sweet, compassionate smile that had so charmed everyone at Foxworth Hall these past three years. “Christopher and I have been planning it almost from the day we first met, waiting until I reached eighteen. We were thinking of eloping; we didn’t know if you would approve. But we’d love to have a church wedding, to bless the sanctity of our love.”

Every word Corinne spoke drove the knife deeper and deeper into my heart. She had said everything I feared most. Malcolm looked as though he had heard nothing. He stared at Corinne in a strange way. It was as if he didn’t see her, but instead saw Alicia, or, perhaps, even his own mother. Then his face took on the worst contortion I had ever seen. The rage that built in him swelled up his face, inflamed his cheeks, and hoisted his shoulders until he looked gigantic.

I walked forward quickly to join him.

“We hoped you would be happy for us,” Corinne said, her voice beginning to quiver, “and give us your blessing. Of course, if you want to make us a big wedding and invite hundreds of guests and then have a big party here in Foxworth Hall, we would be thrilled. We want you to be as happy as we are,” she added.

“Happy?” Malcolm said, pronouncing the word as if it were as the strangest one he’d ever heard. “Happy,” he repeated, and then he followed it with a hollow, devilish laugh. Suddenly, he stepped forward, his right arm extended stiffly, forefinger out, pointing accusingly. “Happy? You two have committed a most heinous sin. How can anyone be happy? You know he is your uncle and he knows you are his niece. What you have done is incestuous. I will never give it my blessing and neither will God. You are making a mockery of the idea of marriage,” he thundered, zigzagging with his finger in the air before him as though he were annulling their love then and there.

“It is not incestuous,” Corinne said softly. “And our love is too pure and good for it to be sinful. These are not the laws of God, but the laws of man you quote. In many societies, marriage of cousins and close relatives is even expected. Why—”

“Incestuous!” Malcolm screamed, his arm still extended. His entire body shook with the effort and the blood rushed to his face. “Sinful! Ungodly! Unholy!” he shouted, pumping the air with his arm after each accusation. “You have betrayed me, betrayed me!”

“Please listen, Malcolm,” Christopher began, “Corinne and I have felt this way about each other from the first day I set foot in Foxworth Hall. Surely, it was something meant to be.”

“Judas!” Malcolm retorted, turning on him. “I gave you life; I gave you hope and opportunity. I spent money on you, placed my trust and faith in you. I opened my home to you and you have seduced my daughter.”

“He didn’t seduce me,” Corinne said, quickly coming to Christopher’s defense. She pulled him even closer to her. “What has happened between us I wanted as much as he did,” she said. “In fact, it was I who followed him about; it was I who pursued him and begged him to look at me as he would look at any other woman. I filled his every possible free moment with my presence, with my chatter, with my laughter and my love. He was always the gentleman, always talking about what you and my mother wanted. I was afraid that you might not understand at first, so I waited until I was eighteen. I haven’t betrayed you. I still love you and want to live here with Christopher. We will have our children here and—”

“Children?” Malcolm repeated as if stung by the concept. A cold chill ran up my spine.

“If you will just listen,” Corinne said.

“There is nothing to listen to,” Malcolm said. “You talk of having children. Your children will be born with horns, with humped backs, forked tails, hoofed feet; they will be deformed creatures,” he pronounced, his eyes hateful. Both Corinne and Christopher retreated from his accusing words. Corinne took on a look of terror and clung harder to Christopher’s arm.

“No,” Corinne said, shaking her head. “That’s not true; that won’t happen.”

“Beguiler,” Malcolm said. “Delilah, deceitful, lustful creature, cunningly beautiful, evil thing,” he continued, driving her back farther and farther with every pronouncement. “I want you both out of my house, out of my life, and out of my memory,” he said. “Go from this house,” he said, pointing to the door, “and never set foot in it again from this day forth. You are dead to me, as dead as …” Malcolm looked at me, and my eyes restrained him from saying anything more.

“You can’t mean this,” Corinne cried, the tears streaming down her cheeks, her chin quivering. Christopher looked to me for rescue, but I looked away. I felt almost as betrayed as Malcolm did. I had loved him as my own, and now he had betrayed me. Those happy years, when I believed in his devotion and love for me, it wasn’t for me at all, but for Corinne. He was as trapped by beauty as Malcolm was. Oh, it was true, all men were alike. I returned his look with a stare so cold, I hoped it froze his heart. Then and there I wanted to destroy them with the truth, but the new coldness and clarity I felt told me that I would destroy only myself.

“I mean every word,” Malcolm finally responded, his voice dry, cold, and as brittle and sharp as ice. “Go from this house and know that you are disinherited. Neither you nor your Judas shall receive one penny from me. I curse you; I curse you both and condemn you to a life of sin and horror.”

“We shall not be cursed,” Christopher stood tall as he defied Malcolm. “We shall go from your house but we shall not carry away your curse. We will leave your curses at the door.” As he spoke, he looked more like Malcolm than Malcolm looked himself.

“These are not Malcolm’s curses.” I finally spoke up. “They are the curses God Himself will lay on you for what you have done. It is incestuous and you will breed only horror,” I predicted. Christopher looked at me with great pain in his eyes. Now it was he who felt betrayed by me.

“Then we will go,” Christopher said. He turned Corinne from us and the two of them walked to the front door. He looked back once, defiantly. Corinne, still crying, looked lost and frightened.

After a moment they were gone.

Malcolm’s fury burst. He lifted his arms toward the ceiling and released a howl that emerged from the deepest recesses of his being. It was the howl of a beast in fatal agony, a howl that shook Foxworth Hall, echoing down the corridors and through the shadows, seemingly gaining volume and intensity as it traveled. Perhaps the ghosts of all his ancestors howled with him. For a moment there was a chorus of Malcolms crying their pain and torment.

The scream that had emerged suddenly died quickly. Malcolm turned toward me, his eyes bulging, and he grasped at the air, churning at it to bring oxygen to his face. He clutched his chest and his legs crumpled. As he fell to the floor, I heard John Amos behind me.

“God’s wrath has come to this house today,” he muttered. Then he joined me at Malcolm’s side.

Malcolm was sprawled on his stomach, his right arm under his head. John turned him over and we saw the distortion in his mouth. The right side of his face was collapsed. The corner of his lips dipped, revealing his clenched teeth. His eyes were turned upward as though he were trying to see into his own head. He made an effort to speak, but nothing could be heard or understood.

“Call the physician,” I shouted.

• • •

The doctor insisted Malcolm be taken to the hospital. I saw the resistance in his eyes; he shook his head and begged me silently to oppose the doctor’s orders.

“Of course, Doctor,” I said. “I want only what is best for my husband. Call for the ambulance.” Later I would learn that the doctor told people I was one of the strongest women he had ever encountered in the midst of a terrible crisis.

The ambulance attendants came and took Malcolm, speeding him off to the hospital, where he remained for nearly a month in a private room with round-the-clock personal nurses. Every time John Amos and I visited him, he pleaded with us to take him home. At first he could plead only with his eyes, for he had experienced a stroke as well as a heart attack and the entire right side of his body was paralyzed.

By the time we brought him home, he had regained some of his muscle control and he could make distorted sounds that resembled words. Sometimes I thought I heard him calling Corinne.

The days dragged by monotonously. It was as though time itself had weakened and could barely move on from hour to hour. Malcolm remained confined to a wheelchair and could not go to his offices. All his work was brought to me. And I was thankful for every bit of it because while I had things to occupy my mind I did not wander through Foxworth Hall, torturing myself with memories, wondering how I could have made things end differently.

The house seemed like a giant tomb. Our footsteps echoed through the emptiness. The clang of dishes and utensils could be heard from the kitchen across the great foyer.

The servants traded information as each learned another tidbit, whispering, listening eagerly. None of them would ask anything about Corinne or Christopher directly, but I knew John Amos gave them just enough information to fan the embers of their curiosity.

Our dinners were mime shows. From the moment Malcolm was wheeled up to the table, not a word was spoken. He ate mechanically, his gaze ahead, looking through me, looking, I was sure, at the pictures he saw behind his eyes. His daydreams were like cobwebs, easily torn to shreds as he muddled through the memories, groping for some understanding of Corinne’s betrayal.

For days he wouldn’t mention her name, nor would anyone in his presence. If he said anything, it was always prefaced with, “When this is over …” I could imagine his nightmares, the nightmares that shadowed his days. Corinne’s hauntingly beautiful face had seized him and dragged him into endless dreams of loss and defeat. They lingered on the surface of his skin until he became a ghost himself.

John Amos and I would take out the Bible and lay it across Malcolm’s chest, open to the pages we wanted to read. I had, like Malcolm before me, gone through a transformation with John Amos’s help. I now knew I could trust his connection to God completely, for, not even knowing the secret about just who Corinne was, he had instinctively seen the truth, and tried to lead me to it before it was too late. But I, indeed, had been too blind to see. I was determined never to be blinded again. “Olivia,” John Amos would comfort me, “the ways of the Lord are mysterious but always just. I know He will give you an opportunity to redeem the heinous sin of your daughter and her uncle.”

His words froze my heart.

“The truth is always found in our Lord,” he continued. “Get down on your knees, woman, and save your soul.”

“I can’t get down on my knees, for I haven’t been honest with the Lord. You don’t know the whole truth.”

“Come, Olivia, confess everything.”

I knelt beside him. “Oh, John, it’s worse than you imagined.” I felt the devil gripping my throat, but I forced the words through his evil fingers. “Christopher is not really Corinne’s half uncle. He is her half brother.”

“What! My God, woman, how could this happen!”

“You see, John Amos, Malcolm was in love with Alicia and he made her pregnant after Garland died, and he forced her to give Corinne to us. And then she went away. And no one ever knew I wasn’t really Corinne’s mother.” I looked at the floor, my face filled with shame, too much shame to face John Amos.

“Rise up, woman,” he commanded me. “For you know the depth of your sin—you have not so much sinned as been sinned against, and God has already sent down his sword to fell your husband. He shall do the same to his children, I assure you, He shall do the same. Now we must watch over Malcolm, Olivia, watch over his business dealings, take control of this heathen household and turn it to God again. Let us pray, Olivia. Our Father, who art in heaven …”

As though my confession brought hope back into Foxworth Hall, Malcolm’s speech began improving. The doctor explained that although he might improve even more, he would never speak normally again. Because of the way his facial muscles had collapsed, he looked as though he wore a perpetual happy smile. In a strange, almost eerie way, that smile of distortion suggested the charm and handsomeness he had once enjoyed as a young man. It was as though a mask of his former self had been cast in ceramic and pressed onto his face forever.

• • •

When I felt charitable, I permitted him to be wheeled to his desk so he could look over the papers and the business dealings I had managed. At first I simply followed the regular order of things, studying Malcolm’s work and making decisions in a like manner. But after a while, when I felt confident enough, I made decisions that were purely my own. I moved money around the stock market, changed procedures in some of the mills, bought and sold some real estate.

At first he was shocked by my independent activity. He demanded I return things to the way they had been, but I ignored those demands.

I had also provided a large annual salary for John Amos, transferring funds regularly to his personal accounts. Despite Malcolm’s illness, it took him only moments to realize it. He held up the bank statement.

“Malcolm, you have to understand that things are not as they were. You should be grateful for what you have left considering all that you brought upon yourself. And you should be grateful that you have me and John Amos at your side. Could you imagine a woman like Alicia or even your daughter contending with all this? Would she be able to assume these business responsibilities? Would things be running as smoothly? Could she even set eyes on you in your deformed state?” I asked bitterly. “What she would do is run off with all your money; that’s what,” I added in a fury. I walked over to the desk and easily took the bank sheet out of his hands.

One day, almost two years after his stroke, Malcolm looked up from his wheelchair while I worked behind his desk. I had him wheeled into the library occasionally while I worked and read him some of the decisions I had made and some of the results. I knew he didn’t want to be there, and he especially didn’t want to hear of my actions; but it brought me some pleasure, so I had him wheeled in and excused his nurse.

This particular day, an early spring day, the sunlight pouring through the window behind me and warming my back, I saw that Malcolm had a new expression on his face. It was a softer expression than usual. His eyes were gentle, the blue in them almost warm. I knew he was thinking of something that brought him good memories. I paused in my work and looked up expectantly.

“Olivia,” he said. “I must know something; I must learn something. Please,” he pleaded. “I know you have hard feelings for me, but be merciful enough to grant me this one request.” I was reminded of the Malcolm who had first come to New London, the one who filled my heart with such hope and promise, the one who had walked with me along the ocean front and made me feel I could be cherished and loved like any other woman.

“What is this request?” I asked, sitting back in the seat. He leaned forward hopefully.

“Hire some detectives to replace out what happened to Corinne and Christopher. Where have they gone? What are they doing? And … and …”

“And if they have had any deformed children?” I asked coldly. He nodded.

“Please,” he begged, leaning as far forward as he could in his wheelchair.

So many nights I had lain awake thinking about Christopher and Corinne, trying to harden my heart against them, but in a small corner that perhaps even God didn’t see, loving them still. “You told her she was dead that day she revealed her love for Christopher. Resurrecting her now will bring only pain and agony.”

“I know, but I can’t face the fact that I will go to my death not knowing the full extent of what … of what I’ve begun. Please grant me this. I beseech you. I promise never to ask anything else of you, to make no demands, to sign over anything you want, whatever,” he said. The tears rolled from his eyes, a symptom of his condition. He often cried at the slightest provocation, but the doctor told me he was often not aware of it himself.

To me he looked pitiful.

Suddenly, a feeling of utter defeat came over me as I looked at the broken, twisted man in the wheelchair. For the first time, I realized that something of mine had been damaged. Once I had had a strong, powerful husband, a man respected and feared in the community and business world. Despite what our relationship had been, I was still Olivia Foxworth, wife of Malcolm Foxworth, a leader of men. Now I had a pathetic invalid, merely a shadow of his former self.

In a real sense, Corinne and Christopher had done this to us. Where were they now? How well had they fared? Did the God who could wreak such havoc and vengeance upon the House of Foxworth follow them too?

“Very well,” I said. “I will do so immediately.”

“Oh, thank you, Olivia. God bless you.”

“It’s time for you to go back to your room and rest,” I told him.

“Yes, yes. Whatever you say, Olivia.” He turned about, making a pathetic effort to wheel himself away. I called for the nurse and she pushed him to his room. All the while he kept mumbling, “Thank you, Olivia. Thank you.”

I sent for John Amos immediately.

“I want you to go into Charlottesville,” I said as soon as he came into the library, “and hire the best detectives you can replace to trace the whereabouts of Corinne and Christopher. I want to know all about them, every little detail that can be discovered.”

John scowled.

“What is the reason for this?” he asked. Then he saw the anger rise in my face. “Of course, if it’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” I said distinctly.

He nodded quickly. “I’ll go immediately.”

A little more than a month later, we received our first detailed report. John Amos brought the detective into the library. Malcolm was still in his room. I wasn’t going to tell him anything until I learned it first myself.

The detective was a homely little man who looked more like a bank teller. Later I was to learn that that was an advantage for him. No one took any notice of him. His name was Cruthers and he had poor-fitting thick-lensed glasses that continually slipped down the bridge of his nose as he spoke. I was impatient with him, but I forced myself to listen.

“They live under the name of Dollanganger,” he began. “That’s why it took me a while to track them down.”

“I’m not interested in the details of your struggle, Mr. Cruthers. Just give me the facts you have learned,” I demanded sternly.

“Yes, Mrs. Foxworth. Christopher Dollanganger is working as a public relations executive for a large firm located in Gladstone, Pennsylvania. From what I could gather, he is very well liked,” he added.

“Public relations?” I said.

“Of course, after you and Malcolm pulled out your financial support of Christopher, he could not continue in medical school,” John Amos said, and smiled. Cruthers stared at John.

“Go on with your report, Mr. Cruthers,” I commanded.

“Mrs. Dollanganger is considered an attractive and good wife and mother.”

“Mother?” I said quickly.

“They presently have a son, a boy almost two. The boy’s name is Christopher.”

“What have you learned about him?” I asked softly. My heart beating quickly in anticipation.

“A beautiful child,” he said. “I saw him. Golden hair, blue eyes. Seemingly a bright boy.”

“It can’t be,” I said. I sat back. “These are not the same people. Perhaps these two are a different Christopher and Corinne. Yes,” I said, convinced of the possibility. “You’ve traced the wrong couple.”

“Oh, but pardon me, Mrs. Foxworth, no. No, there’s no doubt about who they are. I had pictures, don’t forget. I’ve seen them both close up. They are your Christopher and Corinne.”

“They are not mine,” I insisted. He looked to John Amos and then stood there silently. “What else have you learned about them?” I asked.

“Well now, Mrs. Dollanganger is pregnant again,” he said tentatively.

“Pregnant?” I looked to John Amos. There was a wry smile on his face again. He nodded. “This time the child will be different,” I whispered.

“What’s that, Mrs. Foxworth?” Cruthers asked.

“Nothing. I want you to stay with this and report here the day Mrs. Dollanganger gives birth. I want to know all about the new child. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do, Mrs. Foxworth. I’ll stay on it. She’s due soon.”

“Good,” I said. “You shall receive a check in the mail tomorrow.” I gestured for John Amos to show the detective out.

For a while I simply sat there digesting the information. Then I rose and started for Malcolm’s door. I paused just before opening it.

No, I thought. Not yet. Not until we know about the new child.