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Now I thought, she had lived in a shack in the Willies, poorer than a church mouse, and then lived with this strange couple, the Dennisons, and then suddenly arrived here in this mansion where she was presented with a magnificent suite of rooms. She must have paused in this doorway, just as I was now pausing, and looked with charmed, astonished eyes at what was before her: a pretty four-poster bed with an arching canopy of blue silk and ivory lace, a blue satin chaise, crystal chandeliers, a long dressing table with a wall of mirrors, and three chairs that matched the sofa and love seat in the sitting room.
The room looked as though it had been left as it was the day my mother departed. Silver-framed photographs sat on the long dressing table, some standing, some facedown. A hairbrush lay on its side. A pair of wine-red velvet slippers were tucked under the chair by the table, slippers that matched the robe Tony had brought me at the hospital. Was it a new robe, as I had thought, or had he taken it from these very closets?
I detected a vague, musty odor, as if the doors and windows had been kept closed for years. Fresh flowers had been placed everywhere to freshen the staleness.
The closets were full of garments, some in plastic bags, some looking as if they had just been hung. I saw the dozens and dozens of pairs of shoes, too. Tony realized I was staring at the clothing.
"Some of those belonged to your mother and some to your grandmother. They were remarkably close in size. Just your size. You won't need to send for a thing. You have an enormous wardrobe right here, waiting for you."
"But Tony, some of these things have to be out of style."
"You'd be surprised. I noticed that many of the old styles have returned, Why should we let all that go to waste, anyway?"
Mrs. Broadfield came out of the bathroom and turned down the blanket on the bed.
"I was going to have a regular hospital bed brought in," Tony explained, "but I thought this would be more comfortable and pleasant. We have extra pillows, a hospital table, and a pillow with cushioned arms for when you want to sit up and read."
"I don't want to go right into bed!" I insisted. "Wheel me to the windows so I can see the view, please, Tony."
"She should get some rest," Mrs. Broadfield advised. "She doesn't realize how tiring it is to leave a hospital and make such a trip."
"A few more moments, please," I begged.
"Just let me show her the view."
Mrs. Broadfield folded her arms under her heavy bosom and stood back, waiting. Tony wheeled me to the windows and opened the curtains wide so I could look out over the grounds. From this
perspective, looking to my left, I could see at least half of the maze. Even in the late-morning sunlight the paths and channels looked dark, mysterious, dangerous. When I looked out to my right, I saw beyond the driveway and the entrance to Farthinggale. In the distance I recognized what had to be the family cemetery and I saw what I was sure was my parents' monument.
For a long moment I could not speak. Pain and mourning claimed me and I felt lost, helpless, paralyzed with grief. Then, shoving the memories away and taking a deep breath, I leaned forward to get an even clearer view. Tony saw what had caught my attention.
"In a day or so, I'll take you out there," he whispered.
"I should have gone right to it."
"We've got to worry about your emotional strength. Doctor's orders," he reminded me. "But I promise to bring you out there very soon." He patted my hand reassuringly and stood up straight again.
"I guess I am tired," I confessed, and sat back against the chair, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Two tears slipped between my lids and fell like drops of warm rain onto my cheeks, zigzagging to the corners of my mouth. Tony took out his folded handkerchief and gently wiped them away. I mouthed a thank-you and he turned my wheelchair and brought me to the bed. He helped Mrs. Broadfield lift me onto it.
"I'll get her into her nightgown now, Mr. Tatterton."
"Fine. I'll be back in a few hours to check on things. Have a good nap, Annie." He kissed me on the cheek and left, closing the bedroom doors softly behind him.
Just before the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of his face. He looked ecstatically happy, his eyes blazing and bright like the blue tips of gas-fed flames. Did doing things for me fulfill his life so? How ironic it was that one person's misery provided an
opportunity for another person to regain his
happiness.
But I could not hate him for it. It wasn't his design that brought me here, and what would I fault him for anyway--providing the best medical treatment money could buy? Turning his home and his servants over to me for my recuperation? Doing everything he could to ease my pain and my agony?
Perhaps it is I who should pity him, I thought. Here he was, a lonely, broken man living alone in a mansion echoing with memories, and all that could bring him back to life was my own misery and misfortune, If our family tragedy hadn't occurred, I wouldn't be here and he couldn't do what he was doing. Surely one day he would realize this and it would make him unhappy again.
Mrs. Broadfield began to undress me.
"I can do this myself," I protested.
"Very well. Do what you can yourself and ni help you with the rest." She stepped away and took out one of my nightgowns.
