CONFESSION
"Opinion is a flitting thing,
But Truth, outlasts the Sun-
If then we cannot own them both-
Possess the oldest one." - Emily Dickinson
Corinne stood in an archway entrance to one of the rooms off the foyer, clutching a wine glass. She wore, doubled upon itself to form two strands, the gleaming opera-length pearls which had become her signature piece, and was nervously twisting the necklace.
I walked slowly toward Corinne, my only remaining child. I couldn't hate her, completely. My feelings toward my daughter were a confusing mixture of affection, sadness, and disappointment, and more that I didn't care to analyze. We had been through too much turmoil for ours to be a simple relationship.
There was a room full of people with her, which included Bartholomew. I scanned their faces quickly, just enough to see that I didn't know them, and turned back to Corinne, drawing her out into the foyer. Bartholomew smiled and nodded a silent greeting to me, then turned back to his companion. No one took special notice of Mrs. Winslow's departure.
"Who are all of these people?"
"They're friends of ours, from South Carolina."
"I do hope you're not planning to let them stay."
"I didn't ask you here to discuss that." said Corinne, impatiently. She began to twist her pearls once more, casting her eyes downward, not meeting my gaze. "It's about the children. I received a court summons from South Carolina-"
"Court!"
"Keep your voice down, Mother! Come into the dining room, where we won't be disturbed."
We entered the dining room, and I shut the glass-paneled pocket doors, blocking out the din of voices and laughter from the other room. There was a narrow L-shaped hallway connecting the kitchen and dining room, and I checked that those doors were closed as well. Corinne turned to me immediately.
"Mother, you must help me! Tell me what to do. I've been sick with worry." she pleaded, her frantic state evident in the new lines on her face.
"It's a little late to be worrying."
She looked as if she might cry-a wasted performance, for I had become immune to her tears.
"You're as heartless as Malcolm was! I should have known you wouldn't care."
"I'm here, aren't I? I have other obligations, but I am here. Didn't Bartholomew inform you that I arrived yesterday?"
"I just got home, and we had this dinner party planned, which I'd forgotten about." she said.
"Corinne, is it true that John Amos has left Foxworth Hall?"
"John? I don't want to talk about John now!"
She sighed heavily, resigned, when she saw I intended to have an answer.
"He left last week. I don't know where he went; I didn't ask. I do my best to avoid him. Mother, I have a serious problem! Why are you concerned about John at a time like this?"
"Does Bartholomew know anything about the summons?"
"No, of course he doesn't know!"
"Try to calm yourself. Where are these papers? I'll need to see them." I said, coming to the point and hoping to avoid an hysterical scene.
"They're upstairs. I'll get them."
As I waited, one of the maids hurried over to me.
"Mrs. Foxworth, there's a phone call for you. The caller says it's an emergency."
I felt a chill of apprehension. Any phone call I received here could only be bad news.
Minutes later as I hung up the phone, and sipped the tea Sarah had provided, though I had been informed of the facts, I felt I was no closer to understanding what had happened in my absence. I needed to return home as quickly as possible, and this presented a problem. Corinne and Bartholomew didn't retain a permanent driver, and when I inquired about getting a taxi, I was told the wait would be several hours.
I went in search of Bartholomew, but was intercepted by Corinne, papers in hand.
"I don't have time to look at that now. Ask Bartholomew if he will drive me to the airport."
"Tonight? In this weather?"
"Yes! Of course tonight!" I leaned against the china cabinet for support. Corinne stared. "I have obligations."
"What obligations, Mother? You see we have guests. I can't ask Bart to-"
"Just minutes ago, you told me that John Amos had left Foxworth Hall for good, that he wanted nothing more to do with us. I've just learned that isn't true.
If you must know, that phone call was about him. He broke into my house tonight and vandalized the place."
"Well, you can stay here." she said.
"I cannot stay, as I've told you. I must go back to New London."
"I haven't seen you so flustered since Malcolm... was in the hospital."
"Yes," I admitted. "he is."
She looked startled only for a moment.
"You're taking this well. You knew, and you told John Amos!" I accused, but she shook her head,
denying it. "Do you know what he's done to your father?"
She expressed no concern, no curiosity.
"I wondered why you left here so abruptly after the children... So, the two of you are hiding from John Amos," an ironic smile touched her lips. "and you call me crazy, Mother? All I've ever done was what you asked. I went along with your schemes-"
"That's enough!" There was a silence during which I tried to calm myself. "I can explain everything to you later, about your father."
Honestly, I didn't think she cared much. By the end, she and Malcolm had, at best,
tolerated each other, although one had to know them well to see that anything was amiss; they both maintained a pretense of affection.
Malcolm still loved her, even if it was a transient love, but as much as he wanted to, he could not trust her again. A barrier remained between them despite all she did to try and regain his favor. He could not forget that it was necessity, not affection, which had brought his daughter home.
"Don't worry." I said in a brittle tone, thinking I knew what was in her mind. "If you stay silent about it, you can keep your inheritance."
Myriad expressions crossed her face in rapid succession, and I couldn't read them.
"You've done this to keep John away from you." Corinne stated.
"John Amos was blackmailing us." I said. I hadn't planned to explain now, but I found myself telling her.
"One evening, I overheard a conversation between John and Malcolm, in which it was made plain to me that Malcolm had known for some time about your children."
"When did he find out?"
"I don't know, precisely. Malcolm may have suspected something, before John Amos told him. Malcolm says he didn't believe John-not at first."
"Christmas." she mumbled, and grew very pale, her eyes darting away like those of a guilty child.
Before going on, I glanced through the etched glass to be sure no one was close enough to overhear.
"My guess is that by telling him, John tried to undermine your relationship with your father, and also the tenuous connection Malcolm and I had built after the boys died. We've had some rough patches over the years. It's always been very... complicated."
She leaned forward, listening, her hands finally stilled.
"I never told you, Corinne, but it was John Amos's idea all along to lock up your children, supposedly to spare your father the scandal."
"You and Malcolm care for appearances, but John does not." said Corinne. "That was not his motive."
I scarcely took notice of this, for what could Corinne know of John's thoughts?
"Apparently, Malcolm's reaction to the news wasn't as John Amos wished. He ordered John Amos to leave Foxworth, once he fully realized John's schemes."
I summarized. "Malcolm had seen John for what he was from the start-sly, untrustworthy. Your father tried to tell me, in the beginning."
Corinne nodded, perhaps remembering when she was a girl, and the disagreements caused at the time by my decision to bring John Amos to Foxworth Hall.
"I thought John's intentions toward us were honorable, and Malcolm's initial negative impression of him changed, as you know. We needed to believe what he told us."
If she suspected that I omitted details from my story, she didn't comment.
"So what could have changed all of that?"
"It was the way he spoke to Malcolm, the way he spoke of me. I can't forgive or excuse it." I said, not willing to repeat my cousin's insulting words. "Malcolm insisted that he leave. John refused, threatening to expose our secrets, if we forced the issue."
I stil had her rapt attention.
"The only way to defeat John was to have him believe Malcolm died. Malcolm was already unwell, his health compromised by that illness he had the September before-when you and Bartholomew were away in Vermont-so it was believable. And," I took a breath. "I didn't think your father had much time left, anyway."
"But how did you do it, Mother?" she asked, incredulous. "There are always the servants coming and going. They report everything that goes on here, to John."
"John Amos seldom accompanied us to church on Sundays, especially not if we went to an early service."
She nodded.
"We counted on that, and I had it given out that Malcolm suffered another attack that morning on the way to church, and was rushed to the hospital, again.
Everything went smoothly. The story was credible, and it worked. I had him moved to a hospital in Maryland, where he spent several months.
Then his health worsened, and I was sure he would die, and I could not be there because... because of your children. When they escaped, I was free, myself, to leave Foxworth Hall."
"Damn him!" she burst out. "He's inhuman!" she said through clenched teeth, her face a mask of rage such as I'd never seen in her before. In her hysterical tones I heard traces of a mad woman approaching her breaking point. "Is he satisfied now that he's destroyed any chance of happiness I could have?"
It took a moment to realize she was talking about Malcolm, and not John.
"And you! You never would say a word to help me, to try and change his mind."
"Why should I? You deserve all that you've gotten, Corinne. Your father almost died, because of your selfishness. How can you expect me to have sympathy for you,
or even to care for you, after that? You expect the impossible."
"I don't know why I ever expected anything from you. You were never a true mother to me, and Malcolm was never much of a father."
What did she mean by that? Had she somehow guessed the truth of her parentage?
"Neither of you ever really loved me, you only pretended to, as long as what I did fit into his plans, and met with your approval. When we were children,
Malcolm never once said he loved Mal and Joel, and he never said it to me; he only asked if I loved HIM."
"For heaven's sake! It didn't need to be spoken."
"Just once, it did! Malcolm doesn't know how to love, so of course he couldn't understand what I felt for Christopher."
"From where have you suddenly gotten such preposterous ideas? I suppose you think you've gained some remarkable insight." I said, with a sneer.
"You may mock me, but I had fifteen good years with Christopher, and they were such a contrast from the years when I lived here, as a girl. They were so uncomplicated."
Her deliberate use of the same word I'd chosen to describe my own marriage didn't escape me. Was she implying that she'd had fifteen years of happiness,
while I'd had none? It would be like her to try and make such a point, and it only showed how little she really knew, but it still rankled, and it still hurt. Not all marriages are the same, and not all people expect the same things from marriage. The inside of a marriage is often very different from the picture that those on the outside of it see.
Despite what Corinne said about her life with Christopher, I assume this was also true in their case. She told me once that he spent weekends at home, and was away working during the week. Did she truly believe he had been faithful to her during those week-nights away? I didn't.
Perhaps I am cynical and suspicious by nature, but I am also realistic; I can't believe that a man wouldn't be tempted to stray, when the opportunity is so often at hand. According to Malcolm, (and countless gossiping busy-bodies I'd known) such base behavior is commonplace. Even Garland-elevated nearly to sainthood as he was by the esteem of decent women-had been suspected of making secret visits to a local woman of accommodating nature. Whispers of this sort had gone around after the birth of Christopher. Malcolm had delighted in the knowledge that, if he chose, he could lend credence to the rumor by making it known that Garland and Alicia had ceased to share a bedroom by that point.
I have few reasons to believe that Garland's second son was any better in this respect than his father and his half-brother. Still, it couldn't have been easy being married to Corinne. She can be selfish and demanding. She thinks first of her own happiness,
which is why they were in so much debt by the time Christopher died. I often wonder how a daughter of mine could turn out the way she has, as if I've had no influence on her at all.
"Christopher loved me without condition."
"No one loves unconditionally, Corinne, no one."
She went on, as if I had not spoken, only hearing what she wanted to hear, as usual.
"Chris didn't expect perfection, as you and Malcolm did. You expected perfection from each other, and from us-your children. Chris accepted me as I am."
"Then he was a fool." I snapped, impatient with her smug attitude, and with hearing about this fairy tale marriage she had built up in her own memory.
"Why? Because he chose love over money? Money has always been most important in this family, even to you, Mother."
"And to you. Don't try to pretend otherwise. Your sainted Christopher was shortsighted and foolish to throw away his name and education, an education we paid for, for which he never had the courtesy to repay us."
"It wasn't Christopher who insisted on going to Yale,
Mother. If Malcolm hadn't been trying so hard to replace Mal-"
It wasn't often anymore that the boys' names were spoken. My look of shock brought her up short.
"How dare you say such a thing! No one-not even your precious Christopher-could EVER take the place of my son." I said. She stepped back as if I'd threatened to strike her. "You understand so little."
"I understand all I need to about you and my father. I thought about it during the fifteen years I was away from here, and never heard from my parents.
I wondered how you could turn your back on your only remaining child. And I thought about how you could have helped us in the beginning,
Mother. You could have talked to Malcolm. Was that too much to ask?"
"After all I've done for you, after all I've risked, you don't even have enough respect and gratitude to-" I began, quietly, flatly, intending not so much an accusation, as a statement of disbelief.
"All you've done?"
"I gave you a home again when you had nothing. Make no mistake, Corinne, if not for me, your father would not have allowed you back into this house after you and that... that man you ran off with-" I stopped to catch my breath, I was becoming too upset. "after the two of you-with your immoral and indecent behavior-caused Malcolm's heart attack."
"Oh, I'm so tired of hearing that! It's all I've heard from you for the last four years. You're as heartless as Malcolm is, and just as unreasonable!"
"Believe what you will, Corinne." I said, with forced patience. "We did our best."
"Your best?" Her exclamation was disdainful. "From the first day I returned here, Malcolm never failed to remind me of my sins. He never had any intention of forgiving me."
Her voice grew louder and more shrill with each word she spoke to skew and exaggerate the truth. All of the meekness she usually used to such advantage had melted away.
"Malcolm Neal Foxworth is the only one in this family allowed to make mistakes, and then to be forgiven, isn't that right? If anyone else makes even the smallest mistake, they are tainted forever; they are immoral, as you constantly remind me."
"Small!" I exclaimed. "You call the unwholesome, impure relationship you carried on, a SMALL mistake?"
"Is it right for a father, looking on, to order his grown daughter to be stripped and whipped? And you complied, as if it was the most natural request, ever!
Is that moral behavior,
Mother?"
"That's quite enough, Corinne."
"In God's eyes, is that acceptable for a father toward a daughter, or even for a husband and wife?" she asked pointedly.
Her words were like physical blows. She tried to shame me, but I held my ground, keeping my stance, tall and assured as ever.
"When this hysterical outburst is quite over," I said scathingly, "I shall be better able to talk to you."
She took a step away.
"You were given everything, Corinne. You were loved. You can't contradict that. Whatever happened later, you brought upon yourself. It wasn't all my fault, but if it eases your conscience to believe otherwise, then continue to cling to your own half truths, by all means." I paused for breath. "Tell me, where is your oldest daughter? Is she as unforgiving toward you as you are now, of me? Or are you still rejecting her, still denying that you have a daughter? At least I never did that; I never denied my own flesh and blood."
She flinched. With an expression of fury such as I'd not known her capable, she delivered her response, her answer to my condemnation of her. The rose-sprigged china shattered, the dark liquid leaving a stain on the white cuff of my sleeve as the cup was knocked from my hand.
A second before I felt the sting of her slap, I saw what she would do. Something that had blocked memories buried deep in my consciousness gave way. Suddenly,
Corinne seemed very tall, but then, I wasn't seeing Corinne at all. I was seeing another woman's face in another time, in a place scented with candlewax and camphor, a place which existed only in my suppressed memories of early childhood, which was-until now-the last time anyone had lifted a hand against me in such a way.
I saw again a dim chintz and lace parlor, lighted by carcel lamps. I heard the husky voice of Kathleen Winfield, my grandmother. I saw her standing over me, her face contorted by hate that only I ever witnessed, and no one else believed. Her eyes were so like my father's eyes, but lacked warmth. Her high cheekbones were like my own, though she wouldn't see the resemblance. Her hazel eyes smoldered with anger as she held up a lighted candle in her hand, its flames dancing too close to my long hair. She relished my fear, even as she scolded and ridiculed me for it.
I'd spent five summers in Yarmouth Port with her, before she perished, the winter of my eighth birthday. It was the start of the new century, but it was not to be a new beginning for me, for by then she had managed to undermine the foundation of my self-confidence.
"People will have no use for a sniveling, ill-tempered,
weakling." she assured me, and she certainly had no use for her only grandchild, who should have been a son for her only son. She could find no kindness to offer an awkward, "worthless" red-haired child who preferred the books to people. She could see nothing lovely, promising or endearing in me, and I believed what she slyly uttered, when my parents were not present. She told me what they never would say because they loved me, and love kept people from being truthful,
she claimed.
Somehow, the messages she instilled had an impact, despite the opposite influence of my parents. What good was an educated, opinionated girl, after all?
Could she get and keep a husband? The answer was that I could expect nothing from my miserable life. I was not especially pretty, not sweet, not worthy,
and I was advised to make myself useful in some other way, so as not to be a burden to my father.
"An industrious spinster can be an asset to her family. Heaven knows no man will ever marry you, Olivia, no man of substance and good breeding."
And then there were the "accidents" that I could not manage to avoid while staying with her. Her cruelty was subtle,
and I was never sure myself whether I had merely been clumsy-as she said in response to my mother's frantic questions-or if my various injuries were caused with purpose.
That was what "Grandmother" meant to me.
Greater damage had been done to Corinne's children. Perhaps I did deserve to be called "Grandmother." Her ghost had been there throughout my life-when I'd married so hastily, each time I hadn't spoken up to defend myself, and when I turned away from a Christmas gift with a card that read: "To Grandmother, from Chris,
Cathy, Cory and Carrie." The irony was that I hadn't remembered her at all until now, after Corinne's children escaped, but it wouldn't have mattered.
I had only myself to blame for what I'd done, not John Amos, not Kathleen Winfield.
I cringed, the horror of what this memory meant crashing in upon me. It hadn't all been John Amos' doing-the brainwashing, the censure, the pattern I recognized now as a vicious circle of unjust blame and hatred. But my feet had been set on this path long ago, and it was no use trying to turn away now.
Corinne watched me with a small smile of triumph that I just couldn't endure.
"You are mad, Corinne. There is madness in your family; one of your aunts was locked away in a lunatic asylum, which is where you undoubtedly belong."
"An aunt?" she was perplexed. I smiled coldly.
"You and Malcolm had no siblings." she said, thinking she'd caught me in a lie.
"We adopted you. Your father wanted another child."
"So why didn't you-" she stopped abruptly, and I was glad to be spared the need to answer the tactless question she seemed on the verge of asking. I knew by her next question that she didn't yet believe my story. "But Mother, I've seen pictures from the year I was born, and you obviously were-"
"I miscarried." I said shortly. I could easily imagine the scenario forming in Corinne's mind as she considered what she'd heard.
"It was all a very long time ago." I added unnecessarily, dismissing the subject. I was still seething. "I never thought I would say this to you, but I am glad you are not our natural daughter."
"Not your daughter?" she mumbled, still disbelieving.
"Your biological parents were Garland and Alicia Foxworth."
Her eyes expressed blank incomprehension, then filled with dawning horror. She staggered backward and fell into a chair.
"Then Christopher and I... Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you stop us from marrying?"
"We tried, as you may recall."
"You did not try!" she lashed out. "Neither of you told us! It is your fault, the two of you."
"You believed he was your uncle, and that should have been sufficient to keep you from engaging in improper relations. It should have been enough to keep the two of you apart." I said.
"You just can't stand to see anyone happy because neither of you has ever been happy. Isn't that the truth of why you felt it necessary to punish me? And Malcolm is still punishing me, even when he's gone, whether he's dead or not. Or was that codicil your idea, Mother? He didn't think of adding it until just a few days before he died... left."
"I didn't know about it until the reading of his will." I insisted.
She might not believe me, but I would admit to nothing more.
Malcolm had been concerned about her; even as he made plans to depart Foxworth Hall, he worried about leaving Corinne here, with John. I still felt some bitterness, remembering that. I had finally broken my long silence, that night; I gave him Alicia's letter, which pre-dated the letter in which she'd asked us to aid Christopher, and I told him that Corinne wasn't his daughter. Malcolm must have added the codicil subsequent to hearing what I had to say, so perhaps I was indirectly responsible.
But I would not tell Corinne any of this, for the same reasons I hadn't told her years ago that she was Alicia's daughter.
A tap on the glass of the dining room door interrupted our conversation.
"Mrs. Foxworth, your taxi is waiting, and I've already taken your suitcase down."
"Wait!" Corinne exclaimed, grabbing my arm as I started to leave. She held up the papers. "What should I do about this?"
"What you always do in a tough situation, Corinne. Do nothing."
I rushed out into the night and to the car that would take me away from this house of memories, and Corinne's histrionics, to the airport, and closer to home. The driver, pressed by me to hurry, swerved to avoid an approaching car as we turned out of the long driveway. Corinne had a busy evening ahead, and it looked like her guests were still arriving.
Corinne would have to put on a brave front, but by tomorrow, I was sure she'd be rejoicing in the fact that she was not our daughter. I tried to convince myself of that, but I knew better. To receive such news must be greatly shocking. Despite the enmity between us, I had never meant her to know that particular secret. Already, I regretted telling her, and regretted the way in which I'd done it. I should never have thoughtlessly blurted it out in anger.
I settled back in my seat for the short drive to Earlysville. Images of Malcolm, near death, kept flashing through my mind, crowding out the thoughts of Corinne and the problem of her children. Even if Malcolm was unconscious, I couldn't let him die alone, among strangers.
"Here you are. Want help with that suitcase?" the driver cut into my thoughts. Where would I be tonight without the assistance of kindly strangers? I was grateful for his help, as this was to be my first flight, and I was unaware of the procedures. But I felt calm as I finally boarded the plane.
I would be home soon.