I do not own The Dollanganger Saga or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews. Aura Lea written by W. W. Fosdick, circa 1861. A lyric appearing in this song served as inspiration for the chapter title as well.
A/N: Upon realizing how similar the surname "Ainsworth" is to "Foxworth", I went back and replaced Ainsworth with "Aldridge". It's nowhere near as classy as Ainsworth, but at least it won't sound silly when placed beside Foxworth. ;)
It was later that same day, just a quarter past two in the afternoon. The Radcliffe's garden party was set to begin at precisely three o'clock, and I didn't particularly want to go. But Grandmother Alicia thought it would do us all a world of good to escape the house and our problems for a few hours.
And so I'd put on my yellow sundress with its sweetheart neckline and overall pattern of tiny pink flowers. The sandals I wore were white and had gold straps with buckles on the outer sides. Momma had bought me the dress and the sandals back in April when we'd gone shopping for Daddy's birthday present. They were only a handful of belongings that hadn't been sold or repossessed, and this was the first time I'd worn either of them. As an added accessory, I'd taken the red scarf my father had given me when I was nine and tied my hair up in a ponytail.
Grandmother Alicia hadn't said one word regarding her conversation with Momma or the one with Grandfather Garland's painting. Christopher warned me not to mention either, lest our grandmother sink back into the state of frailty she'd been in at our father's funeral.
"Don't worry, Cathy," Christopher assured me as he stood before the bathroom mirror, knotting his maroon tie. "I've already spoken to Grandmother Alicia. She called Momma earlier to tell her where we'll be this afternoon."
Christopher was sporting a white shirt and tan trousers with dark brown Oxfords. His hair, which he normally gave little thought to, had been parted to the side. His stylish clothing and sophisticated hairstyle gave him the appearance of someone much older. Someone who, at first glance, made me think of only one person.
Daddy.
I was seated on the lid of the toilet, using a pair of bright red, satin ribbons to fashion two ponytails for Carrie. Grandmother Alicia wanted everyone to look their best for the party, and I'd always loved ponytails on my sister. But all that mattered to Carrie was that she had something red to go with her purple sundress. She took no notice of the appealing effect her shiny black Mary Jane shoes and white socks with lace trim had on the rest of her outfit.
"Grandmother Alicia called her?" I demanded of Christopher."Why didn't she tell us? She's spoken twice to Momma already—and us not once!"
In my frustration I accidentally yanked on Carrie's hair while styling her second ponytail. She let out a yelp of pain and pivoted to face me.
"That hurt, Cathy! You're too rough! If you keep on being rough, then I'm not gonna let you do my hair no more!"
"I'm sorry, Carrie."
"Well, for one thing," Christopher informed me, "Grandmother Alicia called while you were getting dressed."
"Did you get to talk to her?"
"Can I go now?" Carrie asked. She was eager to join Cory, who Grandmother Alicia was tying a tie for in her bedroom.
"Yes. Just let me finish doing your hair first."
Carrie was eyeing me as if she didn't trust me. Holding tightly to the part of her hair still hanging loose, she took two steps back.
"Please, Carrie," I said. "I promise to be gentle."
Not trusting me enough to hold true to my promise, she hesitated. When at last she relented, I took great care as I spun the red ribbon around the tress of golden hair.
"No," Christopher replied in answer to my former question. "I was getting dressed, too."He backed temporarily away from the mirror, as Carrie dashed in between him and the sink. She skipped out of the bathroom, her ponytails dancing behind her.
"You don't sound very concerned," I pointed out to my brother.
"Just because I'm choosing not to express my emotions doesn't mean I'm not having them. Besides, if there was anything wrong with Momma, then Grandmother Alicia isn't the sort who would keep the truth from us."
"How can you be so certain, when both she and Momma are already keeping secrets from us?"
"With good reason, I'm sure. They're probably just waiting for the right time to share them with us."
"You don't know that for certain, Christopher. Don't you remember Grandfathers Garland and Alistair? They loved Grandmother Alicia, and yet they both kept their health problems secret from her until it was too late. What if, by the time we find out what's really happening with Momma, it'll be too late to do anything about it?"
"Honestly, Cathy. Slow down and have a listen to what you're saying. You're getting yourself all worked up, when all you have to go by are endless theories and no facts. Theories that your mind has conjured up in response to a conversation you've heard only one side of. Momma will call when she can, so stop worrying. In the meantime, we have a party to get to. So if you're content to stay here and mope about while the rest of us enjoy ourselves, then do so to your heart's content. But don't expect the rest of us to share in your misery."
As accurate an example of my behavior as this was, I couldn't say I appreciated it. If there was one thing I despised, it was being analyzed—especially by someone who knew me as well as my brother did. As was so typical of me during our disagreements, I removed myself from the situation. I did so ungraciously, retaliating by slamming the bathroom door in Christopher's face. I hoped he took note of the mockery in relation to his own affable action toward me the previous night.
I had just thrown myself down on my bed and was preparing to let loose with a private temper tantrum. But before I could shed even a single tear, a knock at the door put a stop to my intentions. Thinking it was Christopher come to inflict more torture—not that criticisms were torture, but being only twelve, I was prone to dramatization—I shouted back angrily: "Go away!"
Whoever it was on the other side of the door either hadn't heard me, or had simply chosen to ignore my command. Silently I watched the brass knob turn and the door edge forward, revealing the small figure of my grandmother.
Immediately I regretted my harsh words, having had no prior warning that she was the one who'd come to check on me. Grandmother Alicia was garbed in a white dress with a light green, checkered pattern that emphasized her hourglass figure. She had run a curling iron through her chestnut hair, and then fastened it into place with two white hairclips. Her black peep-toe pumps added a few inches to her height (I would later learn they made her exactly one and a half inches taller than me).
"Are you all right, Cathy? I thought I heard a door slam."
"I'm fine."
"I thought I heard you speaking to Chris as well."
Grandmother Alicia was well known for her kindness, and so there was no way she was going to let my behavior go unnoticed. Her compassion was just too strong, and one of the many traits that made her so much like my father.
As a result, I burst into tears.
"Oh, darling, darling!" Not waiting for me to grant her admission to the sewing room (not that it mattered to me at this point), Grandmother Alicia rushed forward. Within seconds she had gathered me into her arms and was slowly, gently rocking me back and forth. "There now, it's all right. You poor baby…that's it, just let go. Let it go."
My grandmother held me in a way I'd seen Momma hold Christopher many, many times before. I had never been either of my parents' favorite—Christopher had been Momma's, and all four of us had been Daddy's. But Grandmother Alicia and I shared a secret, and that was that I had always been her favorite grandchild. I looked too much like she had at my age and was too caught up in tales of fancy and love not to be the object of her biasness.
With my head resting against her flat chest, she began to thread her slim fingers through my hair. She hummed softly, and even as she comforted me was careful not to untangle the scarf clasping my hair in place. She rarely sang, claiming that her lack of a singer's voice made her uncomfortable. Its exposure occurred only on very special occasions.
This was one of those rare times.
"When the blackbird in the Spring,
'Neath the willow tree,
Sat and rock'd, I heard him sing,
Singing Aura Lea.
Aura Lea, Aura Lea,
Maid with golden hair;
Sunshine came along with thee,
And swallows in the air."
Oh, the melody my grandmother produced was more beautiful than any ballet music I'd ever heard! I closed my eyes, feeling her words work their magic and alleviate the disturbances inside my heart. The reverberation and vibrations of her vocals were so soothing. It was as if the music was the blood that pumped unremittingly through my veins.
"Aura Lea, Aura Lea,
Maid with golden hair;
Sunshine came along with thee,
And swallows in the air.
"In thy blush the rose was born,
Music, when you spake,
Through thine azure eye the morn,
Sparkling seemed to break.
Aura Lea, Aura Lea,
Birds of crimson wing,
Never song have sung to me,
As in that sweet spring."
The more my grandmother sang, the closer my mind drifted to a state of blissful sleep. I had lost so much of it the night before, that my willingness to surrender to it now came easily. Her voice played in the back of my mind like the music box my father had given me. That music box was yet another of the treasures I'd been forced to part with, and the one possession I missed most of all.
"Aura Lea! the bird may flee,
The willow's golden hair
Swing through winter fitfully,
On the stormy air.
Yet if thy blue eyes I see,
Gloom will soon depart;
For to me, sweet Aura Lea
Is sunshine through the heart."
In my twilight sleep I saw myself dancing the lead role in Snow White, as I had during my ballet class's production back in March. Seated in the front row of the audience I spotted my family, whose eyes twinkled with admiration and fascination at my performance.
"When the mistletoe was green,
Midst the winter's snows,
Sunshine in thy face was seen,
Kissing lips of rose.
Aura Lea, Aura Lea,
Take my golden ring;
Love and light return with thee,
And swallows with the spring."
I saw Daddy, who had come to my dressing room following the performance. His arms were overflowing with two-dozen pink roses (my favorite) and I could smell his cologne. "For my favorite ballerina," he said as he presented me with the roses
He kissed me on the cheek, and only then did I open my eyes.
Fresh tears speckled my cheeks as Grandmother Alicia's tender touch shook me wider awake. She gave me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks—just as Daddy had done each time I'd finished crying in his arms. My love for my grandmother was on the same par as my grief over my father's death. Although he was no longer with us, I felt God had blessed my siblings and me with someone who loved us the same way he had. The way I knew he still did, and always would.
Grandmother Alicia plucked from her handbag a small bag of Kleenex (she was well aware of Cory's invariable hay fever and thought to take along the necessities). Taking a few sheets, she dried my tears and then handed me the Kleenex so I could blow my nose.
"I was an only child," she began. "And so I can't honestly say I can relate to the complexities of having a sibling. But I can identify with the feeling of dealing with someone who's older. What was it Chris said that upset you so much?"
I shrugged, knowing I couldn't tell her the whole truth of what he and I had talked about. Therefore, I revealed all that I could without risking the exposure of what I'd discovered. "He just thought my concerns for Momma were an overreaction."
"Did he mention that I spoke to her while all of you were upstairs?"
I nodded.
Taking her hands in mine, Grandmother Alicia pressed them to her chest and smiled. "Your mother isn't in any danger, Cathy. That long trip she made from Richmond to Charlottesville just took a lot out of her. She was tired the other night when she called, that's all. But I gave her the Radcliffe's phone number, and she promises to call us while we're there this afternoon. When I spoke to her, all she could talk of was how much she misses you four precious darlings."
Just as she had managed to earlier, Grandmother Alicia's words put a stop to my anxieties. I felt the tension inside me ease, and I smiled for what I'm sure was the first time all day. She put her arm around me and we headed for the door.
No sooner were we standing outside the sewing room then did Cory come bounding up the stairway. He ran toward us, his blond curls bouncing like springs around his head. Between the four of us, it was Cory who was most excited about the party. He was sure to lapse into silence when confronted by so many unfamiliar faces, but he was looking forward to eating a barbecued hotdog. Hotdogs were his favorite food, although he only ate those which were prepared on a grill. No boiled hotdogs for Cory. Trying to get him to eat one was akin to trying to get a cat to eat fish food. It was simply an unfeasible attempt.
"Cathy! Granma! Do I look handsome?"
Indeed, Cory looked as though he was preparing for a photo shoot in a fashion magazine. He was dressed smartly in a pale blue dress shirt and little green tie. His shorts were light gray and the shoes he wore were dark brown Oxfords like Christopher's. Cory was grinning from ear to ear, eagerly anticipating the reactions of Grandmother Alicia and myself.
"Yes, Cory," I gushed. "You look very handsome!"
"Oh, yes!" added our grandmother, her manner one of equal enthusiasm. "You look just like a little prince."
"Do princes eat hotdogs?"
"Of course they do, sweetheart."
"What about…a million hotdogs?"
She giggled. "I don't think there are that many hotdogs alone in the state of Virginia. Will His Royal Highness settle for two instead?"
Cory threw his arms up in the air with the ardency of a child on Christmas morning. "Yes!"
"Where are Carrie and Christopher?" I asked my small brother.
"Swinging."
Thinking Cory meant the swing-set, the three of us started down the stairway. We crossed the foyer and departed through the front door, prepared to turn right and head into the back yard. We had barely gotten past the doorway when we were met by Christopher and Carrie, who were sitting together on the porch swing.
"Don't like this swing, Christopher," Carrie was saying. "Wanna go on the one with the slide."
"No," he replied with the same resolve as Daddy each time one or both twins had made an impossible request. "We'll be leaving soon, and you can't afford to dirty up your dress. You don't want to be the only filthy person at the party, do you?"
I was expecting Carrie to retort with one of her most famous phrases—"I don't care"—but the opportunity never presented itself. For Christopher took that moment to raise his hand in greeting to the rest of us. Carrie was seated on the area of the bench that was furthest from the door and closest to the porch railing. Christopher was beside her, his much larger frame blocking her out like a cloud does the sun. The only clue other than her voice that indicated Carrie was nearby was her legs, which dangled off the edge of the swing.
Then, quick as lightning, she leapt off the swing. The soles of her Mary Janes clicked loudly against the wooden planks of the porch. She ran straight to Cory and embraced him, forcing a high-pitched laugh from him.
Meanwhile I avoided Christopher's eyes like the plague, concentrating on a nearly nonexistent scuff on the strap of my sandal. I was still angry with him over the way he'd spoken to me earlier inside the bathroom. I wasn't ready to forgive him just yet…even if his words had been as insignificant as the mark upon my sandal.