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"She looked so beautiful with that hair; that color was so right for her."
"I liked her better with dark hair," I said, but he didn't seem to hear me. He stared at the brush a while longer and then put it back on the table as though it were part of some valuable museum collection. As I looked over the counter and dressing table, I spotted other personal artifacts--hairpins, bobby pins, combs, even crumpled tissues, tinted yellow by time. Some of the things I saw were very personal things.
"Why would my mother leave these things here'?" I turned when he didn't answer immediately and saw he was staring down at me, his mouth curved into a half smile. "Tony?" He continued to stare. "Tony, what's wrong?" I turned my chair about so that I faced him completely. It snapped him out of his daze.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Seeing you seated there in your chair . . I saw Heaven seated at her vanity table, dressed in her nightgown, brushing her hair just before she would go to sleep."
How odd, I thought. Why would he be in Mommy's room watching her prepare for bed? That was more like something a husband would do with a wife, not a step-grandfather with a step
granddaughter. He was talking about Mommy as if she were Jillian, the wife he had lost. It was spooky. Maybe
he was losing his mind and I had the misfortune of being here just as all that was beginning.
"You watched her preparing for sleep?" I couldn't help but ask.
"Oh no, I would just come by and knock, and while I was standing in the doorway, she would answer my questions or converse while she continued to brush her hair," he said quickly; too quickly, I thought. He had the tone of a man guilty of something.
"Oh. But Tony, why did my mother leave so much after she left Farthy?" The counter was still covered with her powders, her bottles of perfume and cologne, cans of hair spray.
"She had doubles of everything so she didn't have to pack that much whenever she went to Winnerrow," he replied, also with that quickness that made me wonder if he were telling the truth.
"It looks more like she fled from here, Tony," I replied, so he would know I had not accepted his explanation. I wheeled closer to him. "Why did she leave so suddenly, Tony? Can't you tell me now?"
"But Annie, please--"
"No, Tony, I must tell you that I appreciate all you have done for me and for Drake, but I worry, knowing how things were between you and my mother. Sometimes I feel there are things you are hiding from me, bad things, things that would frighten me away."
"But you must not think--"
"I don't know how much longer I can remain here without knowing the truth, no matter how ugly or painful that truth might be," I insisted.
His sharp, penetrating gaze rested on me with deep consideration. His eyes blinked when he made his quick decision, and then he nodded.
"All right. Maybe you're right; maybe it is time. You seem a lot stronger today, and I do feel badly about the hard feelings between your mother and me. Also, I don't want there to be a wall of secrets between you and me, Annie. I'll do anything to prevent that."
"Then tell me all of it."
"I will." He pulled a vanity chair from the table and sat down in front of me. For what seemed to be an eternity, he sat with his elegant, well-manicured hands templed under his chin, saying nothing, and then he lowered his hands and looked around the room. "This is the right place to confess . . . in her rooms." He looked down and then up at me, his eyes as sad as a motherless puppy's, a puppy longing to be cuddled and loved. I took a deep breath and waited for him to begin.
FOURTEEN Tony's Confession
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"Annie," he began, his eyes two marbles of blue ice, "I don't ask you to condone or to forgive me for what I did. All I ask is you try to understand why I did it and how badly I felt about what I had done afterward, especially after Heaven found out and hated me for it."
He paused, waiting for me to reply, but I said nothing. Perhaps he hoped for some encouragement before he started, but all I could think was I was about to hear something so terrible, I would immediately ask--no, demand--to be taken from Farthinggale Manor.
I realized Tony was right about one thing--this was a perfect place for me to be to hear the story. Some of my mother's clothing still hung in the closets, and from the way the garments looked, I didn't doubt Tony had had them cleaned and pressed--all part of his obsession to keep the past alive, to keep his memories happy memories. I was positive I smelled the familiar scent of jasmine, and, although I knew I had to be imagining it, I thought I even heard the tinkle of a Chopin melody being played on a music box.
"Annie, you can't imagine what it was like for me after my brother passed away. I had always hoped he would overcome his fatalism and depression and find someone to love. He would marry and have children. Little Tattertons would once again be laughing and running through these great halls. There would be heirs and the family line would continue on and on."
"Why didn't you and Jillian have children of your own, Tony?" The question seemed natural and obvious to ask, but I could see from the reaction in his eyes and the way his lips tightened that it brought him great mental anguish. He shook his head slowly.
"Jillian wasn't a young woman when I married her, and she was a very vain woman who believed that after she had Leigh, she had lost some of her beauty. She claimed she had to battle to win back her figure.
"In short, Jillian did not want to have another child. Of course, I pleaded. I begged her to consider the Tatterton heritage and my desire for an heir."
"What was her response?"
