himself. "Hey--look, here they come!"
I watched the string of headlights in the
distance, heading up the hill. "Get ready, everybody,"
called Bart, giving Trevor an excited gesture to be
ready to swing wide the doors.
Chris strolled beside Jory's chair, which he
guided expertly, as I caught hold of Bart's arm and
went to form a receiving line. Trevor hurried up to
give us all a bright smile.
"I just love parties, I always have, I always will.
Makes the heart beat faster. Makes old bones feel
young again. I can tell it's going to be a jolly smashing
one tonight."
Two or three times Trevor said that--with less
conviction each time, as still not one pair of those
headlights climbed high enough to reach our drive. No
one rang our bell, banged our door knocker.
The musicians were in position under the
rotunda, on a dais that had been constructed especially
for them, centered directly between the curving dual
stairways. They tuned their instruments over and over
again as my feet in their high-heeled fancy slippers
began to ache. I sat again on an elegant chair and
wiggled my shoes off under the folds of my gown,
which was growing heavier and more uncomfortable
by the minute. Eventually Chris sat beside me, and
Bart took the righthand chair, all of us very silent,
almost holding our breaths. Jory had his own special
chair that could buzz him around tirelessly. From
window to window he drove, looking out and
reporting.
I knew that Cindy was upstairs, all dressed and
ready, waiting to be "fashionably" late and impress
everyone when finally she drifted down the stairs. She
had to be growing very impatient.
"They must be coming soon--" Jory said when
the hour reached ten-thirty. "There's lots of banked
snow on the side roads to confuse them . . ." Bart's lips were tight and grim, his eyes stony
cold.
No one said anything. I was afraid to even
speculate on why no one had arrived. Trevor looked
very anxious when he thought we weren't noticing. To give myself something pleasant to think
about, I fixed my eyes on the buffet tables, which
reminded me so much of that first ball I'd seen in the
original Foxworth Hall
Very much like what I was staring at. Red linen tablecloths, silver dishes and bowls.
A fountain spraying champagne. Huge, gleaming,
chafing dishes emitting delicious odors. Heaps and
heaps of food on fancy tiered plates of crystal,
porcelain, gold and silver. At last I could resist no
longer and got up to taste of this and that while Bart
frowned and complained I was ruining the beautiful
designs. I wrinkled my nose his way and handed Chris
a plate full of everything I knew he'd like best. Soon
Jory was helping himself.
Red beeswax bayberry candles burned lower
and lower. Towering gelatin masterpieces began to
sag. Melted cheeses began to toughen, and the heating
sauces thickened. Crepe batter waited to be poured on
turned over thin pans, while chefs eyed each other curiously. I had to look away from all that was going
bad.
Fires cheered all our main rooms, making them
cozy, exceptionally lovely. Extra servants grew
restless and anxious-looking as they fidgeted and
began to mill about, whispering amongst themselves,
not knowing what to do.
Down the stairs drifted Cindy in a crimson
hooped- skirted gown, so elaborate it put my
delicately beaded gown to shame. Hers had a tight
bodice, with a flounce of fluted ruffles to cover a little
of her upper arms, displaying her shoulders to
advantage and creating a magnificent frame for her
creamy, swelling breasts. The red gown was cut very
low. The skirt was a masterpiece of ruffles, caught
with white silk flowers rain-dropped with iridescent
crystals. A few of these white silk blossoms were
tucked in her upswept hair, duplicating something
Scarlett O'Hara might have liked.
"Where's everybody?" she asked, looking
around, her radiant expression fading. "I waited and
waited to hear the music playing, then sort of dozed
off, thinking when I woke that I was missing out on
all the fun."
She paused and glanced around before a look of dismay flooded her expression. "Don't tell me nobody's going to come! I just can't stand another disappointment!" Dramatically she threw her hands
about.
"No one has as yet arrived, Miss," said Trevor
tactfully. "They must have lost their way, and I must
say you look a dream of loveliness, as does your
mother . "
"Thank you," she said, floating his way and
brushing his cheek with a daughterly kiss. "You look
very distinguished yourself." She dashed past Bart's
look of astonishment and ran to the piano. "Please,
may I?" she asked a young, good-looking musician
who seemed delighted to have something happening,
at last.
Cindy sat down beside him, put her hands on
the keys, threw back her head and began to sing: "Oh,
holy night, Oh, night when stars are shining." I stared, as did all of us, at the girl we thought
we knew so well. It wasn't an easy song to sing, but
she did it so well, with so much emotion even Bart
stopped pacing the floor to turn and stare at her in
amazement.
Tears were in my eyes. Oh, Cindy, how could
you keep that voice a secret for so long? Her piano playing was only adequate, but that voice, the feeling she put into her phrasing. All the musicians then joined in to drown out her piano playing, if not her
voice.
I sat, stunned, hardly believing that my Cindy
could sing so beautifully. When she'd finished, we all
applauded enthusiastically. As Jory called out,
"Sensational! Fantastic! Absolutely wonderful, Cindy!
You sneak--you never told us you continued with
your voice lessons."
"I haven't. It's just me expressing the way I
feel." She cast her eyes down, then took a sly, hooded
look at Bart's astonished expression, which showed
not only his surprise but some pleasure as well. For
the first time he had found something to admire about
Cindy. Her small smile of satisfaction fleeted quickly
by, kind of a sad smile, as if she wished Bart could
like her for other reasons as well.
"I love Christmas carols and religious songs,
they do something for me. Once in school I sang
'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,' and the teacher said I
had the kind of emotional feeling to make a great
singer. But I still want most to be an actress." Laughing and happy again, she asked us to join
in and we'd make this a real party, even if no one showed up. She began to bang out a tune resembling
"Joy to the World." Then "Jingle Bells."
This time Bart was not moved.
He strode again to the windows to stare out, his
back straight. "They can't ignore my invitations, not
; when they responded," he mumbled to himself. I couldn't understand how his business friends
could dare to offend him when he had to be their most
important client, and everyone loved a party, especially the kind of party they had to know would be
sensational.
Somehow or other, Bart was accomplishing
miracles with that five hundred thousand a year,
making it grow in ways that Chris would have found
too risky. Bart risked everything . . . calculated
gambles that paid off handsomely. Only then did I
realize that perhaps my mother had meant it to be this
way. If she had given Bart all the fortune in one grand
huge sum, he wouldn't have worked as hard to build
his own fortune, which would, if he kept it up, far
exceed what Malcolm had left him And in this way
Bart would find his own worth.
Yet what did money matter when he was so
disappointed he couldn't eat a thing that was lavishly
displayed? However, disillusionment drove him to the liquor, and in a short while he'd managed to swallow half a dozen strong drinks as he paced the floors,
growing angrier by the second.
I could hardly bear to watch his
silently wetting my face.
Chris whispered, "We can't go to bed and leave
him here alone. Cathy, he's suffering. Look at him
pacing back and forth. With every step he takes his
anger grows. Somebody is going to pay for this
slight."
Eleven-thirty came and went.
By this time Cindy was the only one having a
good time. The musicians and servants seemed to
adore her. Eagerly they played and she sang. When
she wasn't singing, she was dancing with every man
there, even Trevor and other male servants. She
gestured to the maids, inviting them to dance, and
happily they joined in the festivity she created around
her as they took turns to see that she, at least, was
entertained.
"Let's all eat, drink and be merry!" Cindy cried,
smiling at Bart. "It's not the end of the world, brother
Bart. What do you care? We're too rich to be well
liked. We're also too rich to feel sorry for ourselves. And look, we have at least twenty guests . . . let's
dance, drink, eat, have a ball!"
Bart stopped pacing to stare at her. Cindy held
high her glass of champagne. "My toast to you,
brother Bart. For every ugly thing you've said to me, I
give you back blessings of good will, good health,
long life and much love." She touched his highball
glass with her champagne glass and then sipped,
smiling into his eyes charmingly before she offered
another toast. "I think you look absolutely terrif, and
the girls who don't show up tonight are missing the
chance of their lifetimes. So here it is, another toast to
the most eligible bachelor in the world. I wish you
joy, I wish you happiness, I wish you love. I would
wish you success, but you don't need that." , He couldn't move his eyes away: "Why don't I
need success?" he asked in a low tone.
"Because what more could you want? You have
success when you have millions, and soon enough
you'll have more money than you know what to do
with."
Bart's dark head bowed. "I don't feel successful.
Not when no one will even come to my party." His
voice cracked as he turned his back.
I got up to go to him. "Will you dance with me,
Bart?" "No!" he snapped, hurrying to a distant window
where he could stand and stare again.
Cindy had a wonderful time with the musicians
and the men and women who'd come to serve Bart's
guests. However, I was deeply downcast, feeling sorry
for Bart, who had counted so much on this. Out of
sympathy for him, all of us but Cindy and the hired
help moved into the front parlor, and there we sat in
our fabulous expensive clothes and waited for guests
who obviously had accepted, only to trick Bart later
on--and in this way tell us what they thought of the
Foxworths on the hill.
The grandfather clock began to toll the hour of
twelve. Bart left the windows and fell upon the sofa
before the guttering log fire. "I should have known it
would turn out this way." He glanced bitterly at Jory.
"Perhaps they came to my birthday party only to see
you dance, and now, when you can't--to hell with
me! They've snubbed me--and they're going to pay
for it," he said in a hard, cold voice, louder and
stronger than Joel's but with the same kind of zealot's
fury. "Before I'm through, there won't be a house in a
twenty-mile radius that doesn't belong to me. I'll ruin
them. All of them. With the power of the Foxworth trust behind me I can borrow millions, and then I'll buy out the banks and demand they pay off their mortgages. I'll buy out the village stores, close them down. I'll hire other attorneys, fire the ones I have now and see that they're disbarred. I'll find new stockbrokers, hire new real estate agents, see that real estate property values are undermined, and when they sell cheap, I'll buy. By the time I'm through, there won't be one old aristocratic Virginia family left this side of Charlottesville! And not one of my business colleagues will be left with anything but debts to pay
off!"
"Then will you be satisfied?" asked Chris. "NO!" flared Bart, his eyes hard, glaring. "I
won't be satisfied until justice has ruled! I have done
nothing to deserve this night! Nothing but try to give
them what our ancestors did--and they have rejected
me! They'll pay, and pay, and then pay some more." He sounded like me! To hear my very own
words coming from the mouth of the child I'd carried
feet. Shivering, I tried to appear normal. "I'm sorry,
Bart. But it wasn't a total loss, was it? We're all
together under one roof, a united family for once. And
Cindy's music and singing made this a festive
occasion after all."
He wasn't listening.
He was staring at all the food that had yet to be
eaten. All the champagne with the bubbles gone flat.
All the wine and liquor that could have loosened
many a tongue and given him information he wanted
to use. He glared at the maids in their pretty black and
white uniforms, drunken and staggering around, some
still dancing as the music played on and on. He
glowered at the few waiters who still held trays of
drinks gone warm. Some stood and looked at him and
waited for his signal to say the night was over. The
impressive centerpiece of an ice crystal manger, with
the three shepherds, the wise men and all the animals,
had melted into a puddle and spilled over to darken
the red cloth.
"How lucky you were when you danced in The
Nutcracker, Jory," said Bart as he headed fast for the
stairs. "You were the ugly nutcracker that turned into
the handsome prince. You dominated every male role
--and won the prettiest ballerina every time. In
Cinderella, in Romeo and Juliet
. In The Sleeping
Beauty, Giselle, Swan Lake--every time but the last
time. And it's the last time that counts, isn't it?" How cruel! How very cruel! I watched Jory wince, and for once he allowed his pain to show,
making my heart ache for him.
"Merry Christmas," Bart called as he
disappeared up the stairs. "We'll never again celebrate
this holiday, or any other in this house as long as I run
it. Joel was right. He warned me not to try and
conform and be like others. He said I shouldn't try to
make people like or respect me. From now on, I'll be
like Malcolm. I'll gain respect by inflicting my will on
others, with fists of iron, and with ruthless
determination. All who have alienated me tonight will
feel my might."
I turned to Chris when he was out of sight. "He
sounds crazy!"
"No, darling, he's not crazy--he's just Bart,
young and vulnerable again and very, very hurt. He
used to break his bones when he was a child to punish
himself because he failed socially and in school. Now
he's going to break the lives of others. Isn't it a pity,
Cathy, that nothing works out for him?"
I stood at the newel post looking upward to
where an old man hid in the shadows, seeming to
shake from his silent laughter.
"Chris, you go on up, and I'll follow in a few
seconds." Chris wanted to know what I was planning, so I lied and said I was going to have a few words with our housekeeper about cleaning up the mess. But
I had something far different in mind.
As soon as everyone was out of sight, I ducked
into Bart's huge office, closed the door and was soon
rifling through his desk to find the R.S.V.P. cards that
had dutifully arrived weeks ago.
They must have been fingered many a time
from the ink smudges on the envelopes. Two hundred
and fifty cards had accepted. My teeth bit down on my
lower lip.
Not one rejection, not even one. People didn't
do things like this, even to someone they disliked. If
they hadn't wanted to come, they would have tossed
the invitations into the trash along with the return
card, or sent back the card declining.
Carefully I replaced the cards and then headed
up the back stairs to Joel's room.
Without even a preliminary knock I opened his
door to find him sitting on the edge of his narrow bed,
doubled over in what appeared to be a terrible
stomach cramp, or that hateful silent laughter. He was