ESCAPE
"Your gentleness now which you just can't help but show,
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole-
With your holy medallion in your fingertips that fold,
And your saintlike face, and your ghostlike soul,
Who among them could ever think he could destroy you?" - Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands
When I opened my eyes that fateful November morning, the windows were still dark. First light would reveal that everything had changed, again, but I can't say that I sensed a change, for it seemed like any one of countless other mornings, begun just the same. The hour was too early for anyone in his right mind to be up and about, but to do so had been my routine for the past three years. The solitude of the quiet house and a few hours alone each morning had become a vital part of my day.
I dressed quickly, for there was a chill in the air. I made my way silently along the corridor to the spiraling stairs and stood for a minute,
looking down.
No one was stirring, Foxworth Hall was as soundless as a tomb. I shivered, suddenly facing the possibility that this idle thought might soon be reality. How long could three unhealthy children continue to exist-for it was not living-in a dim,
cramped room and musty, freezing attic?
The very thought of such a disaster deeply alarmed me. I had thought nothing could frighten me, or make me feel any emotion, but I had not thought ahead three years. It had never occurred to me that one of the children might sicken and die.
I used to feel that I controlled nearly everything that happened in Foxworth Hall, that the influence this house had over all who passed through its doors was mine-mine and Malcolm's. Somehow, I had lost that control; I had given it away, and although it had never been my intention to do so, I now knew what a mistake that had been.
I had become aware recently, in one of these morning rituals, that I myself felt trapped by this hideous scheme, and had felt this way for some time. I hated the sense of powerlessness I lived with. It was far too late to change anything, I knew. I could not have guessed that this unremarkable morning was the day I had-in the hidden places in my mind-hoped for, and dreaded. I feared it for its possible repercussions, and welcomed it, as the end of an unpleasant job.
When I walked past the library, its emptiness felt tangible-a burden that weighed upon me every day. I felt Malcolm's absence, keenly; even his churlish ways and demands were better than this profound silence. It came as a surprise to me to realize that John Amos hadn't been my only source of strength.
In the last few months, I'd done something which I found distasteful and hypocritical to do,
but necessary, nonetheless. Several times, I'd gone down the hill to the cemetery to visit Malcolm's grave. Kneeling on the unforgiving ground, I began to talk to him, pressing my palms against the hard, icy stone, as if to connect myself in some way with the one I spoke to, or to render myself and my anger at having to do this as frozen solid as the earth. After a while, I even felt the emotions I tried, in the beginning, to act out. Soon, I was no longer acting. If anyone under the Foxworth roof harbored the belief that I'd hated my husband, or that I was glad to see him dead, they must now be disabused of that notion, for my tears were real enough, though I hadn't supposed such a liquid drop of feeling could be wrung from my heart.
"Malcolm," I said, my strained voice, barely above a whisper, was whisked away into the gray, misty atmosphere, and I felt a chill at the sound of it in the encompassing silence of these surroundings. Dark clouds scudded across the bruised sky overhead, and I lowered my eyes to the ground, to the chiseled inscription: "Malcolm Neal Foxworth: March 24, 1891 - January 30, 1960."
The day was very much like the day on which we held his funeral-a pitiless, freezing afternoon that I would never forget. At the beginning, my grief was mild, for I hadn't lost anything I still needed, or so I'd thought. I'd worn a veil to cover my dry eyes as I suffered through that interminable, ludicrous service,
listening to the otiose, eloquent speeches praising my husband's virtues and piety. I fought a perverse urge to laugh, knowing it was likely just a product of hysteria. My tangle of emotions had been entirely unexpected. The only thing that made me want to weep on that day was knowing that no one grieved for Malcolm; no one felt sorrow at his passing out of their lives, except perhaps for me-the one person who had no reason for sorrow.
I wasn't the only one with dry eyes that day. Corinne, too, wore a veil. Hers, most likely, was to hide her triumph that she would soon be a very rich woman,
I'd thought, uncharitably. Everything had seemed so unreal during that time.
"Malcolm, I am so... alone." I confessed, knowing I'd never say these words if he truly could hear them. My voice choked on the tears that finally came to release my distress from the shell of reserve I lived in, sinking into the wintry ground as I spoke into the void of silence.
"I don't know how much longer I can stay here."
If only I could break out of the paralysis that had bound me since January. My life had become purposeless.
I glanced about, carefully avoiding the sight of those other markers, which bore the names of my sons. I never visited them; this place held nothing of Mal and Joel, and I wondered if my coming here now evoked suspicion.
On a previous occasion, I had glimpsed John Amos spying on me through the trees. I wondered if he was spying now. I was glad that at least he couldn't hear the weak words I uttered in my desperation. He would believe only that I was mourning, and in truth, I was. Since those weeks early this year, things had only gone down hill. How could I do anything but mourn?
Everything had gone wrong, Corinne had gone too far this time, and I'd stood by, doing nothing, too late trying to force her to take responsibility. Why had my reason and strength deserted me? That made two times I'd let myself down; that made two people against whom I held resentments. But most of all, I had lost some of my self respect. I'd handled this whole situation with Corinne's children poorly.
Through the kitchen's wide north window, I watched the early winter snow falling, as I waited for soup to heat on the stove. I set about gathering the other items for the children's basket of food for the day.
As I fitted the key into the lock of the children's door, I heard no sound from within, but it did not occur to me to wonder about it. Since Malcolm's last hospitalization, I had been less strict with the children, less concerned if they failed to follow my rules.
Something was amiss, however, and I struggled with the lock for a few seconds, realizing finally that it wasn't engaged! Strength seemed to drain from my limbs, and I lowered the heavy picnic basket to the floor, then pushed open the door, scanning the vacated room, in disbelief. The room was in disarray,
signs of recent activity everywhere, but I could not see the children. The attic above was silent, as well. The unlocked door left no chance for denial.
Moving aside a heap of clothing, I walked to the window and drew back the draperies to peer out into the gloomy dawn. The grounds of my home gave no clues, from this vantage point. They must have left on the first train of the morning. I let the curtains fall back into place.
I felt hollow inside, and fearful. They would surely go to the police, to a hospital, to some authority, and then what? What would happen when the inevitable knock or phone call came?
How would I explain, or attempt to defend myself? There was no reasoning or argument solid or sane enough to save me.
I rushed down the corridor, into the warmth of the south wing. I was alone. Corinne wasn't here to handle this, I thought with considerable resentment.
As usual, it would have to be me, and I would have to think quickly. I did not feel up to the challenge, but some action must be taken.
The nearest telephones-where I could be sure of privacy-were in the trophy room, and in Malcolm's bedroom. The latter had hurriedly been installed after his first heart attack, before it had been necessary for him to stay downstairs. I had never liked or felt comfortable in the trophy room-or the "safari room," as Mal had called it-so I hurried past its closed doors and on to the last door on the left.
Malcolm's room was dark, and cold from disuse. I had been awake only an hour, but I sank onto the high bed, wearily. I longed for the oblivion of forgetfulness in sleep, but it was time to awaken from the long nightmare of the past three years. A sense of my own isolation and a wave of pure self-pity washed through me then for what I had lost and never known, and for what I'd thrown away.
I shivered with cold and panic. Brighter light was pouring in around the edges of the heavy draperies covering the three windows, but it brought no warmth.
I did not have the strength to walk across to the radiator to turn the handle which would bring heat into the room. Instead, I kicked my shoes to the floor and pulled the covers around me. I must think. I must form a plan.
I snatched up the heavy black telephone receiver and began to dial. I wasn't certain of Corinne's whereabouts, but she wouldn't be difficult to track down.
I told the long-distance operator where I wished to call, and waited nervously for Corinne's voice on the line, hoping desperately that Bartholomew would not be the one to answer.
When I heard her soft questioning "Hello," my own voice failed me, so great was my level of anxiety.
"C-Corinne. You must come home immediately."
"Mother, do you realize that it's three in the morning here? What do you want?"
"It's the children! They've gone-all of them!"
I expected Corinne to be accusing, reproachful, but this was not the time for blame and trivial bickering. She must have decided this too. Her next words shocked me. It was her fault, she said.
"I'll have to convince Bart to stay and enjoy the rest of his vacation. I don't know what I'll tell him, but I'll be on the first flight home. I should be in Virginia by tomorrow night."
What complicated feelings must Corinne have for her children, and for Bartholomew? Which would be stronger? I pitied her, although I couldn't understand her. I felt sorry for the confusion she must live with.
Sentiments of this kind were rare for me, but I was aware in that moment that we were both in a precarious position. For all my personal struggles and my core of inner strength-for which I so prided myself, I was as vincible and as guilty as she was in this. I was not prepared for the consequences that might follow. My social position and money had protected and sheltered me from so much. They, and my family, both before and after marriage, had kept me safely away from commonplace hardship, but it had not kept me innocent, and had not kept me from committing unpardonable crimes.
I pulled open the upper drawer of the night table in search of some implement with which to write her flight information. I rummaged through the drawer,
tossing aside bits of paper, novels and ancient bottles of medicine. Beneath the miscellaneous items, in the bottom of the drawer lay a plain, unmarked envelope. As Corinne continued speaking, I brought it out and glanced inside. It seemed to be nothing but random papers and small envelopes, and two red leather-bound books, probably journals or account books. I laid them aside to examine later. If there were important legal documents there, I should be aware of them.
Curiosity warred with weariness as I spread the contents of the envelope around me on the bed, and picked up one of the leather books. A glance at the pages told me this was a journal. Malcolm's small, neat handwriting filled every page.
The date on the last entry was a few months before Corinne's birth, so this must be the first volume. I opened the other book, and saw that I'd been correct.
There were blank pages in this one, and the writing had become a shaky scrawl near the end, the entries much shorter. I closed it, and held the two books against my chest where my heart pounded violently.
My breathing had become shallow, and I tried to calm myself. I was afraid. Here I held what I'd longed for-answers. Here was the key, Malcolm's private thoughts. Oh, part of me felt compelled to read every page of these books, to absorb everything I could learn, but another voice cautioned me to put them back and pretend I'd never found them. The cautious voice warned that I might find pain in these yellowing pages. I might find words that could destroy me as my own musings and speculations of the years could not.
Over the years, I had often tried-by various means, from eavesdropping to sneaking about to spy-to discern truth that I felt was being withheld from me.
All of these endeavors had only brought more anguish, and caused me to suffer more acutely than I had in the dark of my ignorance. Would reading these journals be just another such instance? I would find truth, and I was unsure if I was ready, or if I really wanted to know it. Knowing what I did about Malcolm, perhaps I had no right to look, now or ever. It was an intrusion, one which I would not appreciate if these were my words and thoughts in writing.
Did one keep a journal because they hoped to be remembered when they were gone, or was it only an exercise in knowing oneself? Malcolm was given more to self-aggrandizement than to honest self analysis, and though I held the slim volumes in my hands, I had trouble accepting that they had in fact been written by him.
I opened to a random page, and began to read about a difficult, lonely childhood, and the emerging self-preserving, hard-edged responses that developed as a result. I had often glimpsed this hurt, frightened child behind the mask of power and anger in the man Malcolm was, a man driven to hurt those who cared for him. These pages showed me clearly how he was terrified of being trapped, and even more terrified of being abandoned.
I skimmed forward, skipping many pages, and discovered that quite a few sections had been torn out of the book! The entries from 1916-the entire first year of our marriage-had been removed.
Reading further, I concluded that what this book contained was not recollections of cherished moments, but misinformation and self-congratulatory drivel.
It was Malcolm's history as Malcolm wished his descendants to believe it had happened. There was little that could rightly be called truth in those pages.
He wrote the majority of it long after the events he relayed had occurred, and during a time when writing something-anything-may have been his only means of expelling internal frustration at the turns his life had taken. I closed the journals in annoyance and bewilderment. I would decide what to do with them later.
That very day, I began making plans. I would not be here to greet Bartholomew and Corinne when they returned. I would not be picking up the pieces and calming Corinne's hysterical worry this time,
for I was certain her show of courage would have deserted her by the time she reached home.
She had fled Foxworth Hall weeks before, after her younger son died, hoping to run away from her own guilt, I suppose. Now she was running home again, and she would expect me to find a solution to this new predicament, but I'd already done my part. Three years is a very long time, even from the other side of the locked door. Only Corinne had been truly free. While she lived like a princess, with all made easy for her, basking in her recaptured youth, I kept her unwanted children alive, while she turned her eyes and her heart away from them. I felt old, very tired, and I wanted to wash my hands of the entire situation. I would do nothing more to help Corinne.
I'd slept late on this particular morning, to my dismay, for I had much to do. I'd been feeling run-
down and unwell for the last few weeks, with a cold and flu symptoms I couldn't seem to shake, and that was unusual. I was rarely ill. Today, however,
I'd awakened refreshed and reasonably happy, for this was to be an important day-a milestone of sorts. At one o'clock I would leave, and this departure,
I hoped, would be permanent.
After a light breakfast, I was checking for anything I might have inadvertently left behind, and attending to other last-minute tasks. I'd just had my suitcase carried down to the foyer, and had instructed Livvie to bring a cup of Darjeeling tea to me. She placed the well-arranged tray with my cup and saucer and a sugar bowl and demitasse spoon on a low table, and retreated.
"You can't leave!"
John Amos, glowering, stood in the doorway of the north salon.
"Well, if it isn't God's spokesman, back from his mysterious wanderings. How convenient and timely that you should appear today." I said sardonically.
"You are going on a trip without informing me-without a word?"
His powers of observation were phenomenal.
He came into the room, placing a plate of powdered-sugar doughnuts down next to my teacup. Absently, I took one of them.
"I wasn't aware that I owed you an explanation, or that I needed to account to you for my movements, but I suppose it doesn't matter now. It is an errand of personal business. I have to see to a sick relative. It is a family matter, and I no longer consider you as such. You know why." I said waspishly.
John smirked.
"Who-" he began to ask, but I cut him off.
"I might ask you where you've been, but I'm not interested. However, I did leave you in charge here, and just as before, you've disregarded my orders."
"What orders? For months, you've hardly spoken to me." he said petulantly.
"I'd still like to know why you neglected to follow my explicit instructions; they were simple enough."
"What instructions?"
"Enough of this pretense, John! Your negligence and idiotic rebellion has caused a serious problem, or what may become one, very soon."
"Is this about the children again?" He smiled coldly. "Really, Olivia, that was over a year ago. Why are you still making such an issue of it? You do hold grudges forever."
"Malcolm was in the hospital. You KNEW I had to stay with him; the doctors told me he had only days left. I asked you to feed those children! Why didn't you?" I hissed. This confrontation was long overdue. "It is an issue now, because of you. Because you starved them, and because the younger boy died, Corinne's children have run away! Do you REALIZE what that means, John? You'll be implicated right along with Corinne and myself, if it comes to that. It can be proven that you knew those children were living here."
"You're getting hysterical." he said, sounding very nearly on the brink of that state himself. "You can't pin blame on me."
"Can't I?" I said warningly. Our angry gazes locked. He dropped his eyes first.
"What did you do with the child, John?"
"Ask your daughter." he said.
"I am asking YOU. The last time I saw the boy, he was breathing. I must know what you've done." I demanded, but John Amos refused to answer.
"Where are you going, Olivia, and when will you be back?"
"I won't be returning here."
"Won't be returning?" he questioned, as if not understanding.
"That's right." I confirmed, calmly.
"But you can't leave!"
"I must, and I will. The location where I'll go is no concern of yours. You gave up your right to know my plans, John Amos. Now, I'll thank you to leave me. I wish to enjoy my last hour at Foxworth Hall."
I took a second doughnut. John studied me intently.
"You can't force me to leave this house, or even this room. I pull the strings now, Olivia. Don't wear yourself out, giving orders. You know how easily I could dislodge you from that queenly perch you so enjoy." He smiled coldly, mocking. "Or is it being a widow that makes you so disagreeable?
I should think it would have improved your disposition."
"Spare me your ridiculous assumptions and thoughts on my temperament."
"You have no choice but to listen to me, Olivia. You're just as powerless as Malcolm was, in the end."
"Don't speak to me of Malcolm!"
"Ah, I've hit a nerve. I'm sure your grief makes him an unpleasant subject."
I scowled.
"Malcolm Foxworth... nothing but a foolish, weak man." he went on. "The two of you, always trying to convince yourselves of your superiority, and constantly cutting the other down to build yourselves up. Was that the game, Olivia?"
"The only game was yours, John Amos. You wanted us to be divided, because you thought you'd have a greater influence on us individually. Together, we wouldn't have needed you, or your false advice so much." I said, my voice tremolant with rage and regret. "If not for you, Malcolm might have forgiven Corinne."
John Amos stood before me, a mass of anger and hate, with his flashing black eyes and reddened face. We were in the parlor, facing each other with all vestiges of our former ties gone. There was no pretense left between us, only bitterness, since I'd realized the magnitude of the mistake I'd made in placing my trust in yet another person who had lied to me. At least Malcolm had not made promises to me, time and again. John's betrayal was worse, in some ways.
So often, John had promised me his loyalty, and I'd believed. All the confidences I shared with him were turned against me. Why had I been so easily misguided?
I had ignored good sense. I ignored the fact that I knew Malcolm always was an accurate judge of character, even if I disagreed with his opinions.
His face red with indignation, John took a step nearer. I flung up my hands in a warding-off gesture.
"Just go. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear your voice."
"Get control of yourself, woman." he said, feigning a calm I knew he didn't feel.
"I shall not be spoken to in that way again, John. I find it insulting and condescending. I won't tolerate that from you any longer."
"I will pray for you, Olivia, that God will see fit to pardon your sins and your doubt of one of his servants." said John.
"Pray? Who will you pray to? I don't think you believe your God exists. Save the insincere prayers for yourself." said I, a derisive note creeping into my voice.
"Your eternal soul will burn for that." spluttered John.
"In a universe where you exist, John, I hope there is no such thing as an eternal soul. I no longer believe the version of that fairy tale you've been telling.
You've even robbed me of that comfort." I said quietly, feeling defeated. I rose, and started toward the foyer.
"Come back!" he shouted. "You've cheated me out of what's rightfully mine."
I had, just this morning, closed out the bank account into which I'd been paying John's sizable monthly salary, but he couldn't yet know of the change.
"Rightfully yours? What in heaven's name can you mean?"
"All my life I had nothing. Your father treated my mother and I like poor relations."
"Why should that surprise you, John? You were no relation of my father's."
"What difference does that make? My mother was your own mother's sister! Constance," he spat my mother's name. "Constance couldn't be bothered with her own family, after she married a rich business man."
Was that what Margaret had really believed? I suppose I should have felt some guilt, but I did not. I remember how my father had referred to them as "poor relations."
I had been brought up with that outlook, and never questioned it.
"Your father could have helped us! What good was giving everything to you, a useless daughter? You had money, then you married even more of it, and still you wouldn't part with a penny of it for the only family you have. Then you bring me here as your butler. A butler! Do you think I wanted to be your servant?
Did you think you were doing me a favor, Olivia?"
"You've never expressed this before." I said quietly, feeling hurt, but I recovered quickly. "Why did you expect to profit from the work of other men? My father and I owed you nothing-because you are nothing. If I had not given you employment, you would have continued to flounder, accomplishing nothing.
You're a pathetic, sniveling excuse for a human being. Malcolm saw that right away."
"I'll tell you, Olivia, what Malcolm saw. He saw an opportunity, an easy way to manipulate you. He and I had an agreement, all along.
That mistrust he expressed was just a clever part of the plan."
"That is complete nonsense."
"Well, you keep telling yourself that, Olivia, if it helps you to feel less of the fool that you are."
I thought my head would explode from the pressure of my rage.
"I may have been a fool, but I at least am not a liar and a hypocrite, as you are. The only game is yours. The only plan was your devious one to swindle as much money from Malcolm and myself as you could get your hands on-you've as much as admitted it. You are responsible for most of the evil at Foxworth Hall; you compounded it. I will never forgive what you've done to all of us. Never!"
"Mother," Corinne had once said to me, "you have the most unbelievable capacity for excusing John's reprehensible deeds. I'll never understand it. You give that man more authority than you give God himself."
Sadly, I thought, she had been right.
With my next words, I realized my enraged speech was becoming absurdly melodramatic, but I was too angry to care.
"I see you for what you are, now, and I curse you, John Amos! I curse you to suffer the punishment you preached. All the agony and suffering you predicted,
let it be yours."
With that, feeling exhausted, I left the room, and John Amos forever, hoping that God's vengeance on him would be worse than mine.
I would go back to New England and live out the rest of my days quietly. I left the shambles of life at Foxworth Hall behind, finally. I left Corinne and John Amos to torment each other, and get on as best they could under the same roof.
The walls of secrecy among us had been torn down, but we could not repair the damage done, nor did we want to do so. Corinne's children were gone. Now John Amos had nothing more to hold over us as a threat. The children themselves were the only threat.