Casteel 05 Web of Dreams (2 page)

She turned back to me again, her face flushed with anger. "Don't marry a man who is more in love with his business than he is with you."
I didn't know what to say. She had told me so much and overwhelmed me with so many new ideas and things to think about. And I had new questions to ask. When do men start trying to get you to go "all the way" and how do you know which men to trust and which not?
I wasn't ready, I thought and felt a panic coming over me.
Momma stood up and swept toward the door. "I'm so glad we've had this talk, darling, but we have to get dressed now, I'm afraid. You know how impatient your father gets when he has to wait. Everything's a schedule with him. He treats us like his ships. I'm sure he's downstairs in his office pacing about and mumbling to himself."
"I'll hurry."
"No, take your time," she said as if she were unaware she was contradicting herself. "It's good to practice keeping a man waiting for you. Spend time on your hair, put the lipstick on lightly, as I've showed you before, not pressing down, but gently running it over your lips as if you were caressing it with a kiss," she said, demonstrating. "Understand?" I nodded. "Good."
"And don't forget, put on your stockings and wear your new high-heeled shoes that are just like mine. Always wear high heels, they are much more flattering to one's legs," she said.
She started out and stopped again in the doorway.
"I almost forgot. I have another surprise for you," she announced.
"Something more? But you and Daddy have given me so much today."
"It's not another gift, Leigh. It's a trip, a place I want you to see," she explained. "I'm taking you with me this weekend."
"Where?"
"To that mansion I told you about, the one called Farthinggale Manor."
"Where you're painting the murals in the music room?" I asked. She had told me about it very quickly one day. Momma was doing illustrations for children's books, working for Patrick and Clarissa Darrow, the husband and wife owners of a publishing company here in Boston, who were neighbors of ours. Their decorator, Elizabeth Deveroe, was hired to do some work in a fabulous mansion outside of Boston. Momma and Elizabeth were good friends and Momma had accompanied her out there one day and made suggestions, which the owner apparently loved. She and Elizabeth then asked her to carry out the order, which was to paint murals depicting scenes from fairy tales, something Momma had been doing on the covers of books.
"Yes. I'm more than half done and I want you to see that as well as meet Tony."
"Tony?"
"Mr. Tatterton, the owner, and I want you to see this estate. If you would like to go, of course."
"Oh, I do! I can't wait to see what you've painted."
"Good." She smiled. "Now we both better get dressed before your father walks a hole in the floor."
I laughed, thinking about poor Daddy and how it would be for him to have to live with two mature women now, instead of only one. But I could never be cruel to Daddy, I thought. I could never deceive him or not tell him what I was really thinking. Wasn't there ever a time, I wondered, a time after you were in love and married, when you could trust your husband and be honest with him?
I put on the new bra and one of my new cashmere sweaters and the matching skirt. I brushed my hair back and put on the lipstick just the way Momma had instructed and then I found the shoes with the high heels and stood before my mirror to gaze at myself.
I looked so different. It was as if I had grown up overnight. People who didn't know me might not be able to guess my true age. How exciting, I thought, and yet, in a way it was a little scary. I looked older, but could I act older? I always watched Momma in public, how she seemed to slip in and out of parts, become this and become that, sometimes giggle and act silly and sometimes look so elegant and
aristocratic anyone would think she was a member of royalty.
Always, she was beautiful; she was the center of attention. Whenever she walked into a room, men stopped their conversations and spun their heads around so quickly, they nearly snapped them off their necks.
It made me nervous to think that the moment we entered the restaurant for my birthday dinner, all eyes would be turned our way and men and women would gaze closely upon me, too. Would they laugh? Would they think there's a young girl trying to be like her mother?
When I finally walked downstairs to Daddy's enlace, I was filled with apprehension. He would be the first man to see me so dressed up and he was the most important man in my life right now. Momma was still getting ready.
He was behind his desk, reading one of his reports. Two years ago, Momma had redesigned and redecorated the entire house, except for his office. That was the one room he wouldn't let her touch, even though its floor was covered with a rather wornlooking rectangular rug Momma considered an embarrassment. His desk had been his father's and was scratched and chipped, yet he would permit nothing to be done with it. His office looked cluttered because he had shelves of models of ships and nautical books on all the walls. There was one small, dark-brown leather settee and a worn hickory rocker with an oval maple table beside it. He worked by the light of a brass oil lamp.
The only art in the room consisted of pictures of ships: Yankee Clippers and some of the first luxury liners, and some dried and treated driftwood pieces he had on his cluttered desk and on the oval table. On the wall behind him was a portrait of his father. Grandpa VanVoreen, who had died two years before I was born, had a hard stern face with deep wrinkles and weathered-looking cheeks. Daddy always said that he took after his mother, who had also died before I was born. In her photographs she looked like a diminutive, soft woman, from whom Daddy had probably inherited his quiet, conservative manner.
I often studied the photographs of Daddy's parents, searching for some resemblances to myself. I thought his mother's eyes were like mine in some pictures, but in others, they looked quite different.
He looked up slowly from his desk when he realized I had entered his office. For the first few moments, it was as if he didn't recognize me. Then he stood up quickly, his face filled with amazement.
"How do I look, Daddy?" I asked tentatively.
"You look so . . . grown up. What has your mother done to you?"
"Is it all right?" I asked anxiously.
"Oh, yes. I didn't realize how beautiful you were becoming, Leigh. I guess I'd better stop thinking of you as being a little girl." He simply stared a little longer. It made me very self-conscious. I felt myself blush. "Well now," he said finally, coming around his desk to me. "I'll have two beautiful women on my arms tonight. How wonderful." He hugged me to him, and warmed my cheeks with kisses.
"Are you sure I look all right, Daddy?"
"Of course, I'm sure. Come on now, let's see how many more hours it will be before your mother comes down those stairs." He put his arm around me and we walked out to the staircase hall and looked up at the scaled, suspended staircase because Momma was descending.
She looked as pretty as ever. Her eyes were sparkling so brightly, they were luminous. Her color was radiant and her hair had an angelic sheen to it. She winked at me as she made the turn.
"Good grief, Cleave, you could have at least changed into a different suit from the one you wore all day," she said stepping down.
"I did!" Daddy protested.
Momma shook her head.
"One is so much like the other, no one could tell." She brushed back a strand of my hair. "Doesn't Leigh look beautiful?"
"Absolutely. Overwhelming. I can't think of when you looked more like mother and daughter," he said, but she seemed hurt by that. He saw it too and corrected himself quickly. "Actually, you look too young to have a daughter who looks this old. You look more like sisters," he concluded. Momma beamed.
"See," she whispered as we started out, "you can always get them to do and say the right things if you want to."
My heart fluttered and my breath caught in my throat and seemed to stay. Momma was really doing it: she was really sharing her womanly secrets with me. Dressed the way I was, going off to a fancy restaurant, I felt more thrilled and excited than I could remember.
And then, at the restaurant, Daddy gave us another surprise. He announced that he had initiated a new Caribbean vacation cruise in hopes of stimulating more business. Primarily it was a cruise to Jamaica and he had made plans for us to go on the
commencing voyage. We would leave next week with a bon voyage party and all.
Momma was so speechless, she didn't look happy at first, even though just today she had complained about, ever going to Jamaica, which had become a vacation spot for the rich and famous.
"But what about Leigh's schooling?" she asked.
"We'll take her tutor along, just like the other times," Daddy replied and looked perplexed about her sudden concern.
I thought it-was peculiar for her to be concerned about that, too. She had never been worried about it before.
"I thought you'd be pleased," Daddy said. He looked heartbroken that Momma hadn't gotten more excited over his announcement.
"I am pleased. It's just. . . just so unusual for you, Cleave, to do anything spontaneous." Her voice sounded strange to me, brittle. "It takes a moment to get used to." She looked at me and after a moment, she laughed and we went on with our birthday celebration.
What a wonderful birthday this has been, I thought. And how perfect it was that Daddy had given me this diary in which to record these precious memories. It was as if he knew I would have so many special ones fins m now on and would want more than ever to put them down to save forever and forever.
Today I felt some of what it would be to feel like a woman instead of a little girl. Deep in my heart, I wondered if Daddy would still bring me home little presents and call me his little princess. Part of me feared that if I grew up his love for me would change, would lessen.
Momma came by after I had put out my lights and crawled into bed. She wanted to remind me about going to see Farthinggale Manor. I sensed how important it was to her that I like it. How could I not like the place she had described. It sounded like a fairy-tale kingdom.
And this Tony Tatterton . . he sounded like a king!

I was hoping Daddy would come along with us to see Momma's murals, but even though it was a weekend, he had to go down to his office. He usually spent Saturdays there and often a part of Sunday afternoon. This particular weekend he was more depressed than ever about his business because it looked certain that he would have to sell off one of his ocean liners and cut staff. Airline companies were expanding even faster than he had first thought they would and continued to eat away his clientele. He said the airlines were going to offer people gourmet meals on board, food even made by famous chefs, and that people were more and more in a rush to get places. I didn't want to tell him that some of my girlfriends at school were dreaming of becoming airline
stewardesses.

Momma told him to invest in something else besides steamships and luxury liners, but he shook his head and replied that that was all he knew.

"Right, Princess?" I felt terrible for him, but Momma didn't seem upset or concerned at all. She thought the new Caribbean cruises would help. She said she had been encouraging him to start them for some time.

"But like all men," she told me, "he hates to let a woman tell him what to do. Really," she said, "men never stop being little boys. They like to be babied and pampered, and they are always so stubborn."

I listened to what she said, but I didn't think Daddy was so stubborn, except about his office at home. But everyone is stubborn about something, I thought. Momma was stubborn about a lot of things too, and when I asked her about that, she said it was a woman's prerogative to be difficult at times. She said that it made men appreciate women more.

"Never let a man take you for granted," she advised. We were having this discussion on the way to Farthinggale Manor. Usually we had a driver take us places, but this time Momma wanted to drive herself.

It was a very bright and unusually warm day. Daddy said we were having an extended Indian summer and if it continued like this, we wouldn't see snow until January. I hoped we would see it for Christmas. It made such a difference to hear the sound of sleigh bells or hear the singing of carols while snowflakes fell. When I mentioned that to Momma, she laughed and said, "Tony Tatterton is planning to have a Christmas party and if Tony Tatterton wants to see snow on Christmas and it hasn't snowed, he'll have it flown in."

"He must be very, very rich!" I exclaimed. "When you feast your eyes on Farthy, and see the sports cars and Rolls-Royces, the Arabian horses and the grounds with the olympic-size pool, you'll understand why even that is an understatement," she said. We left the city and headed toward the ocean.
"Farthy? What's Farthy?"
"Oh," she laughed again, a thin, short laugh, the kind of sound people make when they are thinking of something quite private, something only they or someone close to them would appreciate. "It's Tony's nickname for his home. I told you, it's called Farthinggale Manor."
"It sounds like a storybook place. Only in stories do people name their homes."
"Oh no," Momma explained. "People with histories, with houses that have histories, really do name their homes. You'll see other grand estates, and I hope you'll meet these sorts of people more often now."
"Did you always want to live in a grand style, Momma, even when you were my age back in Texas?" I asked. I had never dreamed about living on an estate or going to parties with aristocratic people whose homes were so old and famous they had their own names like Tara in
Gone With the Wind.
Was I supposed to want these things? Or was this something that happens when you get older, more mature? I wondered.
"Hardly," Momma said. She laughed at a private thought again. "I wanted to live in a garret, be the lover of a poor poet in Paris and be a starving artist displaying her works along the iver Seine. At night I would sit at outdoor cafes and listen to naylover read his poetry to friends, but when I told my mother these things, she laughed and ridiculed them. She thought it was silly for me to want to be an artist. A woman had only one purpose in life--to be a wife and a mother."
"But couldn't she see how talented you were? Wasn't she proud of your paintings and drawings?" I asked, even though it was very hard for me to imagine Momma living in a garret and not having fine clothes and jewels and all her makeup.
"She didn't even want to look at them and yelled at me for spending too much time drawing or painting. My sisters were not above sabotaging something I had drawn or painted. You have no idea how I suffered when I was your age, Leigh."
How horrible, I thought, for your own mother to ignore you and not support you. Poor Momma, living with those terrible sisters and a mother who didn't care about the things that were her passion and most important to her. She was really all alone until Daddy arrived to sweep her away, to rescue her so she could become an artist and still have the things she loved and wanted.
"But now you're happy, aren't you, Momma? You have all the things you want, right? And you're able to be an artist, aren't you?" I asked, pressing for her to agree. She took a while to respond, but I kept silent because I sensed that she would.
"I have many expensive things, Leigh, but I did think my life would be different." She smiled softly. I loved this smile, the way her eyes twinkled because of some precious memory. Daddy was so right when he said memories are more precious than jewels.
"I used to imagine going to all sorts of gala events, parties, christening ships while the newsreel cameras and reporters surrounded me," she said.
"But you've done some of that. I saw the pictures, the newspaper clippings."
"Yes, yes, here and there, we had an event, but I always had to talk your father into doing such things. He comes from such a practical, puritanical
background. Look at how he keeps his office at home. Everything in it is all right, according to him. Everything's good enough because it was good enough for his father, who probably died with the first nickel he ever made still clutched in his fist. Honestly, I have to keep his office door closed whenever I have anyone at the house, but he doesn't care. Do you know anyone who loves to work more than he does?" she asked.
"He's just trying to make his business successful so we'll be happy," I said in his defense.
"Yes, yes. So we'll be happy," she said and let her voice trail off. "We're getting closer, Leigh. Now turn your head to the right and look for a break in the tree line. The first glimpse of Farthinggale Manor is a sight to remember," she added, her voice full of excitement.
The sun was just over the tops of the trees now and as we made a turn to the right on a private road, the rays lit up an enormous wrought-iron gate that arched overhead and spelled out with ornate embellishments the words FARTHINGGALE MANOR. I gasped at the imps and fairies and gnomes that peeked between the iron leaves. I did feel as if I were entering a special place, a magical kingdom. Even before I saw the great house looming ahead, understood Momma's excitement. Our town house in the city was large and luxurious, but there was something different about having acres and acres of land with fields and hills and great fences around you. Back in Boston, we lived in a rich part of the city, but here . . . here we would have our own private city, our own private world.
"Farthinggale Manor," I whispered. Those words had an enchanted ring to them. It was as if uttering them changed the world around me. The grass did look richer, greener and thicker here. Most of the lawns in the city had already begun to turn yellow and brown. Along the way, I had seen many trees that had already lost their autumn gold and brown leaves, but the trees on the grounds of Farthy still clung to their precious leaves, made more precious by the way the sunlight caressed them and lit them like jewels in the bright light. A part of Farthy was nestled protectively in the embrace of surrounding hills, protecting the trees from the harsh winds off the ocean. Some of the leaves were so still, they looked painted on the branches.
I saw at least a half-dozen grounds people raking, trimming and nurturing plants and saplings. Some were on their hands and knees around sparkling fountains with small statues of Cupid and Neptune and Venus at their centers. Elsewhere, workers were trucking wheelbarrows of landscaping stone and dust to new locations. There was such a sense of activity and life on the grounds, it was hard to believe that we were at the end of October and approaching winter. Riding down the long driveway, I felt as if Momma and I were reentering spring, as if we had turned back time or entered a kingdom that never experienced a bleak, dreary day.
And then I looked up at the great house and thought I was right to think of this place as a storybook realm. The huge building made of gray stone did resemble a castle. The roof was red and soared, forming turrets and small red bridges connecting portions of the high roof that would have been inaccessible otherwise. I could just imagine the views from the windows on the upper floors. Surely, you could see the ocean from there.
As we drew closer and closer, the house seemed to grow taller and wider. I thought it was at least as big as half a city block. Our town house could easily fit inside it with room for a few more. As we got closer, Momma cut her eyes toward me, watching for my reaction. She stayed silent but drove right up to the wide stone steps that led to an enormous arching front door, a door that looked so heavy and thick, I imagined it must have taken ten men to bring it there.
"We're here," Momma declared and shut off the engine. Almost instantly, an attendant came around to open her door for her. He was a tall, dark man, perhaps only in his early twenties. He wore a chauffeur's uniform and took his hat off as we stepped out of the car.
"Good afternoon, Miles," Momma said. "This is my daughter Leigh."
Miles looked at me quickly. I thought he was rather shy, but cute, and quickly tried to imagine what it would be like to have him as a boyfriend. I wondered nervously whether he thought I was pretty and I couldn't keep my face from turning crimson. I wondered if Momma noticed.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Leigh," he said and nodded. It sounded so funny and so stuffy to be greeted so formally, but before I could even think of smiling, Momma shot a look of expectation at me.
"Thank you, Miles," I said. "I'm pleased to meet you, too." He moved quickly behind the steering wheel to park our car.
"Miles is Mr. Tatterton's chauffeur," Momma explained as we started up the steps. "He's only been here two weeks."
Before we reached the door, it was opened by the butler, a very tall, thin man with a sad, deeply creased face that made me think of Abraham Lincoln. He had his thin, dark brown hair brushed back and lying flat with a part nearly at center.
He moved so slowly and so softly, he made me think of an undertaker.
"Good afternoon, Curtis," Momma said. "This is my daughter Leigh."
"Good afternoon." Curtis nodded, his eyes down as if he were greeting royalty, and then stepped back to let us enter. "Mr. Tatterton is awaiting you in the music room."
"Thank you," Momma said and we moved down the enormous entryway. "He's only in his late twenties, but he looks like someone's grandfather," she whispered and then giggled. Momma was acting more excited than I'd ever seen her, almost like a little girl, or someone my very own age. It made me nervous, almost scared, but I didn't know why. I only knew I wanted her to stop, to act like a mother again.
Trying to take my mind off my silly uneasiness I looked at the dozens of enormous ancestral portraits we were passing, as well as pictures of beautiful horses, pictures of the ocean, pictures, pictures, pictures, and great drapes spread over the marble walls, too. Against the walls were white and black marble tables and ornamental stone benches, obviously far too uncomfortable and cold to sit upon. Ahead of us was a long, circular staircase twice, no, three times as long and as wide as ours. Above us was a tremendous chandelier with so many bulbs in it, I imagined it was as bright as the sun whenever it was turned on. The floors of the entryway were covered with enormous Persian rugs that looked so clean and new, it seemed sinful to walk over them.
"Come along," Momma urged, and I followed beside her as we walked past an enormous living room. I caught a glimpse of a grand piano. We stopped at the doorway of the music room and I gazed up at the domed ceiling arching overhead. There was a tall ladder with scaffolding hanging just at the point where the paintings still had to be completed.
So far, Momma had painted a bright blue sky with terns and doves flying. At the center was a man riding a magic carpet and just ahead of him was the drawing of a mystical air castle, half hidden by clouds. That had yet to be painted.
I looked at the murals on the walls and recognized some of the scenes because they were pictures she had done to illustrate various children's books. The far wall consisted entirely of a shadowed woods with sunlight drizzling through and winding paths leading into misty mountain ranges topped with castles.
"What do you think?" she asked softly.
"Oh Momma, it's beautiful, just beautiful. I love it!"
I had been so entranced by the murals and paintings on the ceiling, I hadn't noticed the man sitting on the small sofa with an elaborately decorated frame. The sofa was facing the doorway, so that he had been looking at the two of us while I had been turning in slow circles, my breath caught, my eyes wide, gaping in awe.
"Oh," I said retreating a step closer to Momma. I couldn't help blushing with embarrassment.
The handsome young man with the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen laughed. He was dressed in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket and dark slacks and had thick, rich dark brown hair. His lips were full and even I could see they were more than a little sensual, and his face was as tanned as a movie star's. I thought he had an air of elegance and celebrity about him.
When he stood up, I saw that he was stronglooking with wide shoulders. He was tall, maybe an inch or so taller than Daddy, and had long, gracefullooking hands. There was power emanating from him and a confidence and certainty he seemed too young to possess.
"Forgive me," he said, "but I had to look at the two of you freely for a moment. There is no question this is your daughter, Jillian. She has inherited your joie de vivre and her eyes sparkle with your exuberance." I looked at Momma to see how she reacted to such lavish compliments. Oh, she seemed to blossom under them, like a flower in a warm summer rain. "Welcome to Farthy."
"This is Mr. Tatterton, Leigh," Momma said, not taking her eyes from him.
Mr. Tatterton? I was astonished. From the way Momma had spoken about him, I just assumed he was a much older, gray-haired man. I thought all millionaires somehow looked like the men in our history texts: the Rockefellers and Carnegies, and oil barons--stuffy old men who cared only about Wall Street or cartels and monopolies.
I looked at Momma and saw from the brightness in her face that she was amused with my reaction and she liked Tony Tatterton very much.
"Hello, Mr. Tatterton," I said.
"Oh, please, please, call me Tony. So, how do you like your mother's work?" he asked gesturing toward the ceiling and then toward the walls.
"It's wonderful. I love it!"
"Yes." He turned back to me and gazed at me with a sharp, penetrating look that made my heart pound and brought a warmth to my neck. I hoped I hadn't broken out in blotches. Ever since I was a little girl, the slightest bit of excitement could make me do that.
"I love it too," Tony said, "and I am forever indebted to Mrs. Deveroe for bringing your mother around. Well," he said, clasping his hands together. "First things first. I'm sure you want a tour of Farthy."
"Me, too," I heard a small voice cry and turned to my left to see a small-boy with dark, inquisitive eyes as big as half dollars staring up at me from the corner of the couch. He had obviously been hiding behind it. He had the very same dark brown hair that Tony Tatterton had and he wore it long, but cut neatly around, making him look like a little prince. He was dressed in a dark blue sailor suit.
"Come over here, Troy," Tony Tatterton urged, "and let me introduce you properly. Come on."
The little boy hesitated and continued to stare up at me. "Hi," I said. "My name's Leigh. Want to shake hands?" He nodded quickly and stood up to rush over.
"Well, we can see that Troy has already developed good taste at the age of four. Troy is my little brother," Tony explained as I took Troy's little hand into mine. Troy looked up at me anxiously. "I suppose you might say I'm more like a father than a brother to him since both our parents are gone," Tony added.
"Oh." I looked down at this cute little boy and felt sorry for him. He looked as fragile and as tiny as a small bird that had fallen from its test and lost the warmth and care of its a other. There was a longing in his eyes, a cry for someone warm and loving.