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"Did you always want to live in a grand style, Momma, even when you were my age back in Texas?" I asked. I had never dreamed about living on an estate or going to parties with aristocratic people whose homes were so old and famous they had their own names like Tara in Gone With the Wind. Was I supposed to want these things? Or was this something that happens when you get older, more mature? I wondered.
"Hardly," Momma said. She laughed at a private thought again. "I wanted to live in a garret, be the lover of a poor poet in Paris and be a starving artist displaying her works along the iver Seine. At night I would sit at outdoor cafes and listen to naylover read his poetry to friends, but when I told my mother these things, she laughed and ridiculed them. She thought it was silly for me to want to be an artist. A woman had only one purpose in life--to be a wife and a mother."
"But couldn't she see how talented you were? Wasn't she proud of your paintings and drawings?" I asked, even though it was very hard for me to imagine Momma living in a garret and not having fine clothes and jewels and all her makeup.
"She didn't even want to look at them and yelled at me for spending too much time drawing or painting. My sisters were not above sabotaging something I had drawn or painted. You have no idea how I suffered when I was your age, Leigh."
How horrible, I thought, for your own mother to ignore you and not support you. Poor Momma, living with those terrible sisters and a mother who didn't care about the things that were her passion and most important to her. She was really all alone until Daddy arrived to sweep her away, to rescue her so she could become an artist and still have the things she loved and wanted.
"But now you're happy, aren't you, Momma? You have all the things you want, right? And you're able to be an artist, aren't you?" I asked, pressing for her to agree. She took a while to respond, but I kept silent because I sensed that she would.
"I have many expensive things, Leigh, but I did think my life would be different." She smiled softly. I loved this smile, the way her eyes twinkled because of some precious memory. Daddy was so right when he said memories are more precious than jewels.
"I used to imagine going to all sorts of gala events, parties, christening ships while the newsreel cameras and reporters surrounded me," she said.
"But you've done some of that. I saw the pictures, the newspaper clippings."
"Yes, yes, here and there, we had an event, but I always had to talk your father into doing such things. He comes from such a practical, puritanical
background. Look at how he keeps his office at home. Everything in it is all right, according to him. Everything's good enough because it was good enough for his father, who probably died with the first nickel he ever made still clutched in his fist. Honestly, I have to keep his office door closed whenever I have anyone at the house, but he doesn't care. Do you know anyone who loves to work more than he does?" she asked.
"He's just trying to make his business successful so we'll be happy," I said in his defense.
"Yes, yes. So we'll be happy," she said and let her voice trail off. "We're getting closer, Leigh. Now turn your head to the right and look for a break in the tree line. The first glimpse of Farthinggale Manor is a sight to remember," she added, her voice full of excitement.
The sun was just over the tops of the trees now and as we made a turn to the right on a private road, the rays lit up an enormous wrought-iron gate that arched overhead and spelled out with ornate embellishments the words FARTHINGGALE MANOR. I gasped at the imps and fairies and gnomes that peeked between the iron leaves. I did feel as if I were entering a special place, a magical kingdom. Even before I saw the great house looming ahead, understood Momma's excitement. Our town house in the city was large and luxurious, but there was something different about having acres and acres of land with fields and hills and great fences around you. Back in Boston, we lived in a rich part of the city, but here . . . here we would have our own private city, our own private world.
"Farthinggale Manor," I whispered. Those words had an enchanted ring to them. It was as if uttering them changed the world around me. The grass did look richer, greener and thicker here. Most of the lawns in the city had already begun to turn yellow and brown. Along the way, I had seen many trees that had already lost their autumn gold and brown leaves, but the trees on the grounds of Farthy still clung to their precious leaves, made more precious by the way the sunlight caressed them and lit them like jewels in the bright light. A part of Farthy was nestled protectively in the embrace of surrounding hills, protecting the trees from the harsh winds off the ocean. Some of the leaves were so still, they looked painted on the branches.
I saw at least a half-dozen grounds people raking, trimming and nurturing plants and saplings. Some were on their hands and knees around sparkling fountains with small statues of Cupid and Neptune and Venus at their centers. Elsewhere, workers were trucking wheelbarrows of landscaping stone and dust to new locations. There was such a sense of activity and life on the grounds, it was hard to believe that we were at the end of October and approaching winter. Riding down the long driveway, I felt as if Momma and I were reentering spring, as if we had turned back time or entered a kingdom that never experienced a bleak, dreary day.
And then I looked up at the great house and thought I was right to think of this place as a storybook realm. The huge building made of gray stone did resemble a castle. The roof was red and soared, forming turrets and small red bridges connecting portions of the high roof that would have been inaccessible otherwise. I could just imagine the views from the windows on the upper floors. Surely, you could see the ocean from there.
As we drew closer and closer, the house seemed to grow taller and wider. I thought it was at least as big as half a city block. Our town house could easily fit inside it with room for a few more. As we got closer, Momma cut her eyes toward me, watching for my reaction. She stayed silent but drove right up to the wide stone steps that led to an enormous arching front door, a door that looked so heavy and thick, I imagined it must have taken ten men to bring it there.
"We're here," Momma declared and shut off the engine. Almost instantly, an attendant came around to open her door for her. He was a tall, dark man, perhaps only in his early twenties. He wore a chauffeur's uniform and took his hat off as we stepped out of the car.
"Good afternoon, Miles," Momma said. "This is my daughter Leigh."
Miles looked at me quickly. I thought he was rather shy, but cute, and quickly tried to imagine what it would be like to have him as a boyfriend. I wondered nervously whether he thought I was pretty and I couldn't keep my face from turning crimson. I wondered if Momma noticed.
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sp; "Pleased to meet you, Miss Leigh," he said and nodded. It sounded so funny and so stuffy to be greeted so formally, but before I could even think of smiling, Momma shot a look of expectation at me.
"Thank you, Miles," I said. "I'm pleased to meet you, too." He moved quickly behind the steering wheel to park our car.
"Miles is Mr. Tatterton's chauffeur," Momma explained as we started up the steps. "He's only been here two weeks."
Before we reached the door, it was opened by the butler, a very tall, thin man with a sad, deeply creased face that made me think of Abraham Lincoln. He had his thin, dark brown hair brushed back and lying flat with a part nearly at center.
He moved so slowly and so softly, he made me think of an undertaker.
"Good afternoon, Curtis," Momma said. "This is my daughter Leigh."
"Good afternoon." Curtis nodded, his eyes down as if he were greeting royalty, and then stepped back to let us enter. "Mr. Tatterton is awaiting you in the music room."
"Thank you," Momma said and we moved down the enormous entryway. "He's only in his late twenties, but he looks like someone's grandfather," she whispered and then giggled. Momma was acting more excited than I'd ever seen her, almost like a little girl, or someone my very own age. It made me nervous, almost scared, but I didn't know why. I only knew I wanted her to stop, to act like a mother again.
