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"I'm glad," he said. "The scent brings back only good memories. Don't forget the earrings," he said. He put them into my palm, holding my hand for a moment. "Don't be too much longer. I want to get to the theater a little early and show you off."
"Oh, Tony, please . . ."
"I'll be waiting downstairs. The limo awaits you," he said and was gone. He was so excited, he looked twenty years younger.
I put on the earrings quickly and took one more look at myself. I felt like a woman playing with fire by resurrecting Tony's memories of my mother, a young girl who, if I were to believe Jillian's mad utterances, seduced him, but found him a willing victim.
But I am not as young and as inexperienced about men as my mother was, I thought. Surely events couldn't run away with me as they had with her. I was in control; I knew what I was doing. I was going out to have a good time. It was good to feel beautiful and to be appreciated. What was so wrong with that? Didn't every woman want that? Long for that? Fantasize about being the center of attraction?
Yet wasn't it sinful to feel this way, to fall in love with your own image? That had been Jillian's sin, hadn't it: falling in love with herself, wanting to be forever young and beautiful? Was her madness her punishment? Would it be mine as well?
I scooped up my shawl and draped it about my shoulders, taking one last look at myself as I did so. For a moment, only a moment, one of the pictures of my mother in her photo album flashed before me. Her father, Cleave Van Wren, was gone. Jillian had divorced him and started up with Tony. There was Mommy with a new man, a much younger and handsomer man, twenty-year-old Tony Tatterton. And strangely, in this photograph, the beautiful, radiant girl who had smiled with confident candor into the camera lens before could not manage even a faint, false smile. Darkness troubled her eyes just the way they did in the flashing image I saw in my mirror.
Was I looking at a memory of her or of myself? The picture had been so prophetic. What did this image predict for me?
Refusing to permit anything to interfere with my warm, vibrant, and exciting feelings, I laughed at what I called my foolish imagination and ran from the room, my own laughter trickling behind and finally shut away behind the bedroom doors to linger in the shadows with all the other ghost sounds that haunted Farthinggale Manor.
The play was marvelous, a hilarious domestic comedy with not a single dry spot. It was a period piece about a young girl who had been promised in marriage to a doddering old millionaire. She was really in love with his son, but the marriage contract stipulated that if she didn't marry the old man, the son couldn't inherit a penny. The old man died before the first act ended, but the son and the beautiful young girl kept up the guise that the old man was still alive. He was always either asleep or napping in a chair. There were many opportunities for humorous situations. Of course, all ended happily ever after with the two lovebirds marrying.
"Don't you wish life could be like a play or a movie?" Tony asked me on the way back to Farthy. "Always ending happily ever after?"
"Of course," I agreed.
"You know,1 sometimes feel all my money is like a fortress. It's true, you can't buy happiness, but you can buy away unhappiness, use your money to make things easier, more comfortable."
"Like you've done with Jillian?"
"Yes," he said. He turned to me in the darkness of the backseat of the limo. His eyes were obscured in that darkness, but occasionally a passing automobile or a passing street light flickered and revealed the sad look in his face. "Like what I've done with Jillian."
"And what you've done with me," I added.
"What do you mean?"
"Buying Logan," I said. I said it simply, matterof-factly, as if it were something too obvious to deny.
"Why, Heaven, you don't mean to sit there and say--"
"It doesn't matter," I assured him. "I let it happen, so I must want it myself . . . this rich life, Farthy, surrounded by so many good things, and yet feeling as though I'm doing worthwhile things by sending Logan to construct that factory in Winnerow. I just hope it all has a happy ending, too," I added.
"It will," he promised and squeezed my hand for reassurance. "But let's not be maudlin tonight," he said, casting away the heavy tones from his voice. "The evening's been too wonderful. Did you see the looks you were getting? How jealous some of my friends were? They didn't know who you were at first." He chuckled. There was something about him that seemed very much like a little boy again. He was having fun, playing. Tony was such a serious man most of the time, absorbed in his schemes and in the business. It was rare to see this light, gay side of him.
For the first time I thought about him as a man and I wondered what was it like for him to be married to Jillian, to have a wife who was mentally ill. Never to have a companion, never to have anyone to take to dinner or to shows. In short, to have no one to love.
I remembered how gay and active he and Jillian had been when I first arrived at Farthy. All those exciting trips they took, to California, to Europe, all the big parties, the elegant dinners . . . suddenly all that had ended for him. All he had left was his work . . . and me.
Loneliness was the cruelest season of all, I thought; more damaging than all the frosts of winter, sending the heart into hibernation. It had no one to live for, to be awake for, to beat fast and furiously for. The lonely had only memories and hopes, dreams and illusions. Under their Christmas trees were beautiful fully wrapped empty boxes.
It was cruel of me to resent him for using his money to keep Logan and me at Farthy, I thought. With Troy gone and Jillian deranged, we were all he had now. I could understand his jealousy of anything that took my attention from Farthinggale. He wasn't like Luke. Pa lost his beautiful young wife in childbirth and then married another woman who bore him children. When she deserted him, he gave up and sold his family, but soon found a new woman and a new life. Tony was different. Even with all his money and power, he couldn't discard his past, cast off his memories, and start anew. I had to admire his steadfast devotion and loyalty, even though some might say my much poorer father who had become tied down to the circus he now owned was much better off.
"How about a brandy before going up to bed?" Tony asked me as we drew close to Farthy. "It always takes me a while to unwind and I'd like to get the chill out."
I agreed and we went directly to the living room, where Curtis had already made a fire in the fireplace. He brought us the drinks and Tony and I talked a little more about the play, about some of the people he had introduced me to, and about his plans for the further expansion of Tatterton Toys. Finally, feeling very tired, I excused myself and went up to my rooms. He remained sitting there, sipping his brandy, staring into the fire.
On the landing I looked in the direction of Jillian's suite and saw Martha Goodman beckoning me. She was dressed in a robe and slippers and appeared more than a little agitated.
"She's having a bad night," she whispered, coming out of the doorway as I approached. "Whenever the weather gets like this, she has a bad time."
"Did you give her
