Garden of Shadows
: Part 1 – Chapter 5

THE GUESTS FOR THE RECEPTION BEGAN TO ARRIVE A LITTLE after one, fashionably late. Alone, with a few minutes to contemplate myself, I stood before the mirror and studied the image I presented. With my hair up in its usual manner, and the bodice of my blue dress some-what tight and adding to the uplift in my bosom, and the fullness of the skirt, I thought I looked gargantuan. Because of the way the full-length mirror had been hung, I actually had to step back a few extra feet to see my entire body, from head to toe, in the glass.

Was there any style I could wear that would make me look dainty and lovable? I could have let my hair down, but I was always so self-conscious about that. It made me feel rather undressed.

I wondered if I was wrong to hope that this dress, the one that had attracted Malcolm, was dignified enough. Would Malcolm’s friends and business acquaintances find me impressive? I closed my eyes and imagined myself standing beside him. Surely, this was something he himself had imagined before he took me as his bride. He must have been happy with the picture that formed in his mind, because he married me and he wanted to introduce me to fine society here. I tried to convince myself I should be more confident, but I couldn’t keep that small bird from fluttering its nervous wings inside my chest.

I pressed my hand against my breasts, took a deep breath, and started down the dual winding staircase to the foyer. Even though it was a bright day and we had more than the usual amount of sunlight pouring in the windows, Malcolm wanted to be sure that Foxworth Hall felt cheerful and gay, so he had ordered that all five tiers of the four crystal and gold chandeliers be fitted with candles and lit.

The room was brilliant, but my nervousness made my face feel so hot, it was as if I were descending into a pit of fire. I was breathing so quickly, I had to pause to catch my breath. My legs actually trembled and for a moment my feet felt glued to the steps of the winding staircase. I thought I would be unable to go any farther. I took a firm hold of the balustrade. My eyes filled with tears. The light from the lamps and the candles blurred, and the reflections that emerged from the giant crystal fountain spraying its pale amber fluid, and the silver receiving bowl at the center of the foyer, looked like threads forming a cobweb of light across the room. The mirrors reflected the light from the silver cups on trays, and sent it to be caught by the polished frames of chairs and sofas lining the walls.

Finally, I got hold of myself and continued down.

“This is to be a festive occasion,” I overheard Malcolm commanding the servants. “Make people feel comfortable and relaxed. Watch for emptied glasses and plates. Get them up and out of the way quickly. Circulate with the caviar, the small sandwiches, and petit fours continually. Guests should merely feel an inclination and then find you there beside them. But always, when you serve, smile, look pleasant, and be ready to be of some assistance. And carry napkins, do you hear? I don’t want people looking about for a place to wipe their fingers.”

Malcolm saw me descend the stairs. “Ah, Olivia, there you are,” he said. I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment pass over his face. “Come with me; we’ll greet all our guests at the entrance, just after Lucas announces them.”

I laced my arm through Malcolm’s, feeling nervous, tense, but doing my best not to show any of that. He looked remarkably cool and collected, as though he did this sort of thing every day. He looked handsome, in control, dashing. I hoped that on his arm, I would too.

The bell rang. The first guests had arrived! “Mr. and Mrs. Patterson,” Lucas announced. Mr. Patterson was a short, rotund man with a pink flush blushing his cheeks. Mrs. Patterson, however, was dainty, thin, rimmed in lace, and wearing a dress that barely covered her knees! Her hair was worn down in ringlets, held into place by a daring bejeweled headband. Why, I didn’t know people actually wore such costumes. I’d seen them only in fashion magazines.

“I’d like to present my wife,” Malcolm said. And as I moved to greet Mrs. Patterson, I saw her eyes climb up to the summit of my head, then slink once again to my feet, then climb again, this time to Malcolm, where they rested on his blue eyes as a wry smile formed on her lips.

Mr. Patterson broke the tension by grasping my hand warmly and saying, “Olivia, welcome to Virginia. I hope Malcolm is showing you all the pleasures of our Virginia hospitality.”

Mrs. Patterson, finally tearing her eyes from Malcolm’s, merely looked at me and sighed, “Indeed.”

The remainder of the guests followed in a steady stream, and soon the party was in full swing.

The men were correct and pleasant, but I was shocked to see that all the women wore sacklike dresses that ended just below or even above the knee and were either waistless or belted at hip level. The fine thin fabrics were all pale—creams, beiges, whites, and soft pastels. I thought they looked more like little girls than dignified women. Their large-scale accessories, huge artificial flowers of silk and velvet, and heavy ropes of beads, emphasized their diminutive size and added to their childish appearance.

Beside them, I was a veritable giant, Gulliver in Lilliput, the land of the tiny people. Every gesture, every move I made seemed exaggerated. There wasn’t a woman I didn’t look down on, and almost all the men were shorter than I was.

I must say the crowd was extraordinarily gay. Whatever inhibitions they possessed were immediately dropped as they moved from the punch bowls to the trays of food. The sound of chatter and laughter grew with every passing moment. By the time Malcolm thought it best we begin to circulate among our guests, the foyer roared with laughter and loud conversation. I had never been at such a gathering of exhilarated people.

My first reaction was to feel happy about it; it looked like my reception was off to a wonderful start, but as I began to circulate amongst the guests, my exuberant feelings fizzled, for I felt a chill in the air between me and these gay, lighthearted, and surprisingly whimsical people.

The women were drawn into small groups, some of them smoking cigarettes held in long ivory cigarette holders. All of them, I thought, looked very sophisticated and worldly. Whenever I joined a group of them, however, they ended their line of conversation and looked at me as though I were an intruder. They made me feel like an uninvited guest at my own party.

They asked how I liked living in Virginia, and especially, how I liked living in Foxworth Hall. I tried to give them intelligent answers, but most of them seemed impatient with my responses, as though they didn’t really care about my opinion, or as though they didn’t really expect me to make such an elaborate response.

Almost immediately after I finished speaking, they began to talk about the latest fashions. I had no idea what some of the things they were referring to were.

“Can you see yourself in one of those middy blouses?” Tamara Livingston asked me. Her husband owned and operated the biggest lumber mill in Charlottesville.

“I—I’m not sure what they are,” I said.

The group stared at me and then they carried on as though I weren’t standing there. As soon as I walked away, there were peals of laughter.

These women were so silly, I thought. All they talked about was clothing styles or ways to redecorate their homes. None of them said anything about politics or business and in none of my conversations did I hear mention of a book. As the reception went on, they looked sillier and sillier to me, laughing and giggling, flirting with their long eyelashes, their shoulders and hands.

I expected Malcolm would become outraged at the loss of decorum as time passed, but whenever I looked for him, he was standing among a group of these women, laughing, permitting them to put their hands on him, letting them rub up against him, petting him rather suggestively.

I was shocked. These were the kind of women he despised—vapid, frilly types without an ounce of self-respect. But there he was, rushing to bring a glass of punch to this one or that one or feeding a petit four to a woman who let him press the small cake through her lips. One even licked the crumbs off the tips of his fingers.

When I heard Amanda Biddens, the wife of one of Malcolm’s business associates say, “I simply must see your library, Malcolm. I want to see where you sit and dream up all those schemes to make millions,” I was appalled to see him take her arm and lead her through the heavy double doors. I felt as if I’d been publicly slapped in the face. My cheeks stung and tears sprang to my eyes. It took all of my strength not to follow them, but to remain dignified and in control, wandering about the party, giving the servants orders from time to time, eating and drinking very little myself. No one sought me out for any prolonged conversation. Some of the men asked me questions about my father’s business, but when I began to give them detailed answers, they seemed bored.

Eventually, I began to hear things being said about me. Those in conversation didn’t realize I was within earshot or simply didn’t care.

One woman asked another why Malcolm Neal Foxworth, a man with such looks and wealth, would burden himself with someone so tall and plain, stern and Yankeeish as me.

“Knowing Malcolm,” the other said, “it has to have something to do with business.”

I could see from the way others were talking softly and looking at me that as the reception wore on, I had become the subject of ridiculing remarks. I even heard someone criticize my dress. She said I looked like I walked out of a museum.

“Maybe she’s a statue brought to life,” her companion replied.

“You call that ‘brought to life’?”

They laughed and laughed. I looked hopefully for Malcolm. But he was nowhere to be found. From out of nowhere Mr. Patterson appeared, and took my arm. “Let’s get that husband of yours to help me see Mrs. Patterson to the car. I’m afraid she’s had a bit too much to drink.”

Before I could stop him, Mr. Patterson had swung open the library doors. I was shocked to find Malcolm seated behind his desk, with Amanda Biddens draped across the mahogany top. He had a silly smile on his face. His hair was ruffled, his tie askew. “Olivia,” he called, “come meet Amanda.”

She propped her head on an elbow and looked up at me. “Don’t you remember, Malc?” she cooed. “I’ve already been introduced to your bride.”

I was practically shaking with rage and humiliation, but once again Mr. Patterson intervened. “Malcolm old man, I need some help with the little missus again,” he said pointedly. Cheerfully, Malcolm rose, and without so much as a look my way, followed Mr. Patterson out the door. Through one of the windows, I could see them lifting Mrs. Patterson into the chauffeur-driven car, her entire leg exposed all the way up to her garter. Her foot was bare. Malcolm retrieved her shoes from the drive and tossed them into the backseat. Amanda, hovering beside me, said teasingly, “Your husband always was there for a damsel in distress. I’m glad to see marriage hasn’t changed that.”

I was glad when the reception began to wind down. Guests sought us out to say their good-byes and wish us good luck. Malcolm had to take a position beside me again. He reverted to his usual self and became more dignified. I knew that the women who promised to call on me would never do so, but I didn’t care about it.

By the time the last couple left, I was exhausted, hurt, humiliated, but grateful it was over. I told Malcolm I was tired and I was going up to my room.

“It was rather a nice affair, don’t you think?” he asked me.

“I didn’t think much of the guests, especially the women,” I responded. “Although I saw you did.”

He looked at me with some surprise in his face as I pivoted and ascended the staircase. I felt defeated and let down. Malcolm should not have gone into the library with that lascivious woman, leaving me in that crowd of vipers. If this was what Virginia society was, I was glad they didn’t take to me, I told myself.

And yet, I couldn’t help thinking about the way some of those women moved about—the freedom they seemed to enjoy, the confidence they had in their own looks and desirableness, and the way the men in the party looked at them. No one looked at me that way—with eyes filled with admiration and longing.

My exhaustion wasn’t as much physical as it was mental and emotional. When I slipped under my blanket and lowered my head to the pillow, I felt like crying. The reception that I had hoped would give me the respect I longed for had done just the opposite. How could I show my face anywhere now after the way Malcolm had behaved at his own wedding party? I hugged my pillow in solace and fell into a tortured sleep. Demons in the guise of flappers haunted my dreams, so that I never slept for more than a few minutes, and my tears fell again and again until I broke out into sobs. Finally, I sobbed myself to welcome sleep.

Sometime before morning I heard the door creak open, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Malcolm Neal Foxworth, naked in the moonlight, his manliness looming over me. “I want a son,” he said.

I shuddered and glared my eyes at him, but I didn’t say a word.

“You must concentrate on what we are about to do, Olivia,” he said as he climbed onto the bed. “That way we have a better chance of succeeding.”

• • •

He peeled back my blanket and came at me. I was frightened by his intensity and determination. Once again, he gave me no tenderness or affection.

I turned into him, hoping for a kiss, listening for some soft words, but his face was stone serious, his sky-blue eyes curiously lifeless. It was as though he had turned them off and was seeing only what was behind them.

What did he see as he had his way with me? Did he envision Amanda Bidden? His mother? Someone else? Was he making love to some dream woman? In his mind did he hear the words of love? It wasn’t fair.

I fell back against the pillow and turned my face away from his. My body shook and trembled. When I felt his seed emerging, I looked into his glassy eyes and thought I could almost hear him willing it to find its destination.

Afterward, he fell against me like an exhausted marathon runner, but I was grateful for the way he clung to my body. At least there was some warmth in that.

“Good,” he muttered, “good,” and backed off me. He put on his robe and gazed at himself in the mirror as if his image would now congratulate him. He saw something very pleasing in his own contented smile and smiled at me. “I hope, Olivia,” he said, “that you are as fertile as I expected.”

“You can’t command nature, Malcolm. Nature is neither your servant, nor mine.”

“I want a son,” he repeated. “I married you because you are the serious type of woman who can be mistress of a great house, but also because you have a full body that can provide me with the children I require,” he said. I stared at him, unable to respond. His eyes were hard; he was a stranger to me.

I knew that everything he said was true—a woman should be a good wife, a good mistress of her husband’s house, sensible and reliable, someone on whom he could depend, and, of course, a good breeder of children; but all of this was missing something even more important, and that was love.

I would live in this big house and have everything a woman could want materially. People living below in small houses and with small incomes would be envious of me whenever I came down from the hill, but could anything grow strong and beautiful in Foxworth Hall if there wasn’t love and affection to nourish it? I thought of all the shadows, all the damp and dark corners, the dimly lit hallways, the cold, closed rooms, that dusty, dingy attic filled with the dead past, and I shuddered.

“Malcolm, when you first looked at me, when you courted me, there must have been stronger feelings, feelings that—”

“Please,” he said, “don’t talk to me about feelings. I don’t want to hear about bells ringing and the world turning rose-colored. My mother’s letters are filled with such silly references.”

“Letters?”

“She wrote to my father when they were courting.”

“Where are her letters?”

“I burned them, turned them back to the smoke they were. I have a busy day tomorrow, Olivia,” he said, obviously wanting to change the subject quickly. “Get a good night’s sleep,” he said. And with that, he left my bedroom.

In his wake he left a deep, deadly silence, like the silence that comes before a great storm. Even his footsteps echoing down the hallway sounded miles away. I embraced myself and sat up in my bed.

No wonder he clumped me with the servants when we first drove up to Foxworth Hall. In his mind I was hired on to perform a role, fulfill a specific set of functions, just the way a house servant would be hired. No wonder when he spoke about having a son it sounded like a command.

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