"Valiantly?" I asked. That was a word not too familiar to me in any meaningful way, just a word suggesting bravery.
"Yes, Jory, valiantly I should have protected what was mine. I was all they had, and I let them down. I thought I was right, they were wrong. I convinced myself each day I was right. I resisted their pitiful pleas, and even worse, at the time I didn't even think they were pitiful. I told myself I was doing all I could because I brought them everything. They grew to distrust me, dislike me, and that hurt, hurt more than any pain I've ever felt. I hate myself for being weak, so cowardly, so foolishly intimidated when I should have stood my ground and fought back. I should have thought only of them and forgotten what I wanted for myself. My only excuse is that I was young then, and the young are selfish, even when it comes to their own children. I thought my needs were greater than theirs. I thought their time would come and then they could have their way. I felt it was my last chance at happiness. I had to grab for it quick, before middle age made me 104 unattractive, and there was a younger man I loved. I couldn't tell him about them."
Them? Who was she talking about?
"Who?" I asked weakly, for some reason wishing she wouldn't tell me anything--or at least not too much.
"My children, Jory. My four children, fathered by my first husband, whom I married when I was only eighteen. He was forbidden to me, and yet I wanted him. I thought I never would find a man more wonderful . . . and yet I did find one just as wonderful."
I didn't want to hear her story. But she pleaded for me to stay. I sat on the edge of one of her fine chairs.
"So," she continued, "I put my fear out in front, allowed my love for a man to blind me to their needs, and I ignored what they wanted--their freedom--and now, as the result, I cry myself to sleep every night."
What could I say? I didn't understand what she was talking about. I reasoned she must be crazy, and no wonder Bart was acting just as nutty. She leaned forward to peer at me more closely.
"You are an exceptionally handsome boy. I suppose you know that already."
I nodded. All my life I'd heard remarks about my good looks, my talent, my charm. But talent was what counted, not looks. In my opinion looks without talent were useless. I knew, too, that beauty faded with the passing years, but still I loved beauty.
Looking around, I saw this woman loved beauty as much as I did, and yet . . . "What a pity she sits in the dark and refuses to enjoy all that's been done to make this place beautiful," I murmured without thought. She heard and replied tonelessly, "The better to punish myself."
I didn't reply, only sat on in the chair while she rambled on and on about her life as a poor little rich girl who made the mistake of falling in love with her half uncle, who was three years older, and for this she was disinherited. Why was she telling me her life history? I didn't care. What did her past have to do with Bart? He was my reason for being here.
"I married for a second time. My four children hated me for doing that." She stared down at her hands folded on her lap, then began to twist the sparkling gems one by one. "Children always think adults have it so easy. That's not always true. Children think a widowed mother doesn't need anyone but them." She sighed. "They think they can give her enough love, because they don't understand there are all kinds of love, and it's hard for a woman to live without a man once she's been married."
Then, almost as if she'd forgotten me, she jolted to see me there. "Oh! I've been a poor hostess. Jory, what would you like to eat and drink?"
"Nothing, thank you. I came only to tell you that you must not encourage Bart to come over here anymore. I don't know what you tell him, or what he does here, but he comes home with weird ideas, acting very disoriented."
"Disoriented? You use large words for a boy so young."
"My father insists we learn one new word each day."
Those nervous hands of hers flitted up to her throat to play with her string of large pearls with a diamond butterfly clasp. "Jory, if I ask you a hypothetical question, would you give me an answer--a truthful answer?"
I got up to go. "I'd really rather not answer questions. . . ."
"If your mother or your father ever
disappointed you, failed you in some way, even a major one--could you find it in your heart to forgive them?"
Sure, sure, I thought quickly enough, though I couldn't imagine them ever failing me, Bart or Cindy. I backed to the door that would allow me to leave while she was waiting for my answer. "Yes, Madame, I think I could forgive them anything."
"Murder?" she asked quickly, standing too. "Could you forgive them for that? Not premeditated murder, but accidental?"
She was crazy, just like her butler. I wanted to get out of there, and fast! I cautioned her one more time to send my brother home. "If you want Bart to stay sane, leave him alone!"
Her eyes teared before she nodded and inclined her head. I'd hurt her, I knew that. I had to harden my heart not to say I was sorry. Then, just as I was leaving, a deliveryman was banging on the door, and I opened it to allow him to carry in a huge oblong crate. It took two men to rip off the nailed cover.
"Don't go, Jory," she begged. "Stay! I'd like you to see what's inside this crate."
What difference did it make? But I stayed, having the same curiosity as most people about the contents of a closed box.
The old butler came tapping down the hall, but she shooed him away. "John! I didn't ring for you. Please stay in your part of the house until you're sent for."
He gave her a smoldering look of resentment and hobbled into his hole, wherever that was.
By this time the crate was open, and the two men were pulling out packing straw. Then they lifted a huge thing wrapped in a gray quilt from its nest in the crate.