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"Why do you think? They adored Tony. They still do. They think he's some sort of God walking around here. He can't be blamed for anything; nothing's his fault. When your mother threw herself at him and he didn't reject her, they thought it was because of the way I treated him. Don't you see? Everything's my fault. Everything. Even Troy's death."
"Troy's death!" I stepped closer to her.
"Yes, Troy's death. For what horse did he choose to ride? As though it were my fault that he chose it."
"Abdulla Bar," I said, repeating lines
memorized ages ago.
"Abdulla Bar." She nodded. "My horse, the horse no one but I could ride. And so, it was my fault. Don't you see? My fault," she repeated, waving her handkerchief at me and turning back to the window. "And now they're all coming back to haunt me, to punish me."
"Jillian," I said, realizing now what she meant.
"That's silly; that's foolish. Ghosts and spirits don't exist, they're merely the creations of uneducated and superstitious minds. People like Rye Whiskey rattle or such silly stories to entertain themselves. There's nothing out there, nothing but reality, hard and true. Please," I said, going to her and taking her hand into mine. She looked at me and I knelt beside her and looked into those troubled blue eyes, willing with all my might that she would hear and see me and understand, willing with all my might that I could be significant in her eyes, that for once I could be her granddaughter and we could share our deepest feelings with each other. "Please. Don't torment yourself. You're suffering enough as it is."
Suddenly she smiled and with her free hand she stroked my hair. It was the first time she had ever really touched me with any sign of affection.
"Thank you, Heaven. Thank you for caring. But," she said, turning away, "it's too late, too late."
Jillian," I repeated. "Grandmother." She didn't turn back. She was locked in a gaze now, locked in her maddening stare. I stood up and looked out the window, too, down at the maze.
A mist had blown in from the ocean. It looked as though the clouds had fallen from the sky to swallow up the secret and dark passageways. The sky was becoming overcast quickly. We were soon to have a summer thunderstorm. The darkness seemed appropriate.
I stood there by the window with my mentally tormented maternal grandmother and looked out at a continually evolving world below as if I, too, expected the spirits she thought were haunting her to come forth. It wasn 't until Martha came to the door to see what had transpired that I realized how long I had been standing there, staring. I had been holding Jillian's hand the whole time. When I released her, she put her hand on her lap, and I went to Martha.
"You're right," I said in a low voice. "She is quite different." Martha nodded softly and looked at her, the sadness making her eyes heavy.
"I think she might become catatonic eventually, Mrs. Stonewall."
"I agree, Martha. have to get Mr. Tatterton to send for her doctor."
"Oh, I'm glad you agree, Mrs. Stonewall," Martha said. "I mentioned the changes to Mr. Tatterton just a few hours ago and he said he would stop by, but he hasn't yet."
"He will. I'll see to it," I assured her.
"Thank you," Martha said. We both turned and looked at Jillian once more. She hadn't moved an eyelash.
"Guilt is one of the most difficult weights for the mind to endure," I said, almost in a whisper, more for myself than for Martha, but she overheard and quickly agreed.
I left the suite and rushed to ours. I didn't want any of the servants to see the tears of terror that had come into my own eyes. I knew that the things that Jillian had said, the things she felt people blamed her for and she had obviously come to blame herself for, had always been somewhere at the bottom of her thoughts, seemingly asleep, but merely waiting for the opportunity to rise and wield their power of destruction on the rest of her mind.
The same thing was true for me. Up until now I had been relatively successful in keeping those thoughts buried, but after seeing and hearing Jillian, I couldn't help but wonder when they would rise to haunt me, when I, like Jillian, would see a ghost as well .
Troy's ghost. I should have done more to keep him from despair. Surely I shouldn't have left him and gone traveling about while he lingered here at Farthy, living in that cottage that had been our love nest, the site of so many happy hours for us.
How many nights had he lain awake thinking of me in that cottage, believing I had put him aside, believing I had accepted our fate? I knew how sensitive and prone to despair he could be. How easy it was for him to suffer, and yet I left him to endure the greatest pain of all . . a broken heart. I left him without hope, thinking that all the dark thoughts he had had his whole life were meant to be.
Looking into Jillian's eyes, seeing the pain that made those orbs its new home, I felt the agony she felt. I fled from those reminders as much as I fled from her madness. Would guilt twist and torment me as it had her, until I, too, became mad and lived alone with my troubled thoughts?
Oh, Troy, Troy, surely you must have known you were the last person in the world I would want to harm.
But I had to drive the black thoughts of Troy from my mind. Now I was Logan's wife, and I wanted to make sure I never caused him to suffer the way Troy had.
I showered and dressed and went back downstairs to find Tony to tell him to go right up to talk to Martha Goodman.
Tony and Logan were not in the office. Curtis found me searching for them and told me they had left a message that they had gone into Boston.
"Something about plans for the factory in Winnerow," Curtis said, troubled that he hadn't remembered the message word for word.
