Dreams of Idlewood Page 3

  I had just finished my practice session; my back and fingers ached, but Michael insisted that I spend the time necessary to perfect my piano performance. Our engagement party was tomorrow night, and he expected nothing less than perfection. I’d returned to Idlewood only this week, I’d temporarily moved back home to Cherry Hill at Michael’s request. He wanted to protect my reputation, he said, and would not tolerate gossip about me or him or the Ferguson family. It was bad enough that Percy had shamed me with his heartless abandonment, he said. And since the legal matters were not settled at that time because of his uncertain whereabouts, I had no one to provide care for me. In this my father eagerly accepted my brother-in-law’s offer of a monthly stipend. I did not know the amount, but apparently it had been a generous one. Cherry Hill was now filled with new furniture and even gas lighting. We were the talk of the town.

  For quite some time I secretly hoped Percy would return to me and to his family, but after six months I gave up hope. He might have been willing to abandon me, he might have suspected the truth about what I’d done, but he would never have abandoned his mother and youngest sister unless something prevented his return. That I fully believed. I read every newspaper I could find, visited the local jail once a month, and the asylum, and the hospital as often as I could. No one had laid eyes on Percy Ferguson, and Michael eventually managed to have him declared dead. I tried to talk him out of it, but he would not be dissuaded and even appeared offended by my intercession on his brother’s behalf.

  In my heart I couldn’t believe that my beautiful husband had died, but how could I prove otherwise? Now here I was returned to Idlewood, a place of unhappy memories and shadows and spirits. A place where my past crimes dogged my steps and oil paintings of dead Fergusons watched my every move. They knew who I was and what I had done. I felt my soul shrinking every time I traveled the hall of the upstairs gallery. The portraits of Percy and Tallulah haunted me, especially their eyes—so alike they were. Their images convicted me from their lofty places.

  After a year of mourning for Percy, I was told to put my black clothing aside and prepare to take on the Ferguson name for the second time. My father did not ask my thoughts on the matter, and I did not make a fuss. What would be the use? There would be no society wedding, just a quiet ceremony at the Ferguson Chapel on the grounds of Idlewood. I could not even invite my dearest and oldest friend, Laurel Bennett.

  Now Bridget fell into my lap and sobbed. With desperate eyes she gazed up into my face. “Please, sister. You have to help me! You know I cannot marry him. I don’t want to marry anyone.” Bridget clung to me, her bony fingers digging into my arm. I could feel the desperation in her voice, and her skinny body shook with fear, but what could I do? I had no control over my own destiny, much less hers.

  Any thought I had of encouraging rebellion was quickly quashed as Michael appeared over her shoulder. He watched me, his dark penetrating eyes boring into my soul. I had to get this right. “Oh no, Bridget. It is God’s service to be a wife.” I licked my dry lips and swallowed the horrible lump in my throat as I lied to her. “You get used to it, my sister. Trust me in this. We will prepare the most beautiful wedding gown and trousseau. Perhaps you will travel for your honeymoon.” I smiled at her and hugged her, avoiding those empty eyes.

  I whispered into her ear as I held her, “Don’t fight him, or it will go worse for you.” I spoke the truth. Although Michael and I had not spent much time alone together, he frightened me. He wielded the quiet power of a madman; even his own mother feared his anger. It was not an uncontrolled anger, not like a child’s. It was like fuel for his tempestuous soul, and it was the secret of his power. Unlike some men I had observed, mostly my father’s acquaintances, Michael’s anger did not confuse him. It had the opposite effect. It brought him clarity and did not cloud his mind. I did not love him, for he was not my Percy. He would not be gentle, and never would he love me. I was something to be owned, bartered and used when necessary.

  Just like Bridget was at this very moment.

  She crumpled under my words, then pushed me so hard I nearly fell off my bench. With the speed of a thin whirlwind, she whipped away and left me alone in the conservatory with her brother. She moved too fast for me to call her back. Bridget had always been a strange bird. “And how is your mother today, Michael? I have not seen her come down all day.”

  “Alas, poor Mother. She was too weak to leave her room this morning, but I am sure she would welcome a visit from you.” I doubted that very much. Mrs. Ferguson did not approve of me or of my impending marriage to Michael, and she was not silent on the matter. I was surprised Michael allowed someone to speak so openly against him. As I carefully folded the sheet music and placed it on the top of the piano, my hands shook, revealing my perpetual nervous state. “Since you have finished your practice Aubrey, come with me. There is something we need to discuss.”

  “Very well,” I said as I walked behind him. I followed him to the second floor and into his private rooms. I had peeked inside once, but that had been while I was still happily married to Percy. (If you could describe our marriage as happy. I had been, certainly.) It was a dark room—the darkest in the house, possibly because it was in the southwestern corner—but I noticed that heavy, dark curtains hung in here.

  “Please come in.” I swatted a fly that buzzed around me and did as he asked. He closed the door behind me. This felt wrong, I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to come here. All of his dealings with me had been proper until this point. He’d never so much as kissed me or held my hand longer than a few seconds. Now I worried that he had something illicit in mind. This after all my brave talk to Bridget.

  Oh, Percy! How am I ever going to allow him to touch me?

  I glanced around the room—even the furniture was dark; only a few lamps burned low. It was certainly a man’s room. There were no flowers, no woman’s touch, not even a picture. It was austere, sparse and much cooler than my small but sunny room. Michael sat in a padded wooden chair, but he did not invite me to join him. I waited to see what would happen. What could he want to discuss?

  He had a silver coin on the table, which he played with as he eyed me curiously. “Do I make you nervous, Aubrey?”

  “I am not sure what to say, Michael.” He rose from his chair, a stiff smile on his face. Finally I asked, “What is it you want?”

  “I want you to look at me like you looked at Percy.” He touched my hair, whispered my name in my ear and then circled me as if he were inspecting a piece of furniture that he might like to purchase. “You aren’t the most beautiful woman in the county, or even the brightest, but it is you that I want. Tell me why that is, Aubrey.”

  Angered by his appraisal of me and before I could think properly, the words slipped out of my mouth. “Because I was your brother’s wife. I think you want all things that belonged to him. I see his footstool there. And his hunting rifle. Am I to be added to this collection?”

  He stopped his pacing, but I did not venture to look at his face. Michael sat down again; his hands rested on his knees now, and his piercing gaze sank my soul. “At least you understand me. More than some. I would not want you to enter into a marriage with me thinking that I loved you; that I worshiped you or adored you. Not that Percy did either. The only person he ever loved beyond himself was Tallulah. I think you are the reason she hanged herself from that tree. Don’t you?”

  I stared at him and stammered, “I…I don’t know. How can I know?” I spotted the glint of his silver-topped walking stick nearby. I swallowed and remembered the first time I had witnessed his use of it. It had been last year when a visitor to Idlewood made an offhand comment about Michael’s horse. He’d snatched him down and beaten him bloody while the rest of the Ferguson family watched. I’d begged Percy to do something, but he’d left the mess behind, taking me with him. I’d not seen such an evil outburst since, but that was enough to frighten me into submission. Even the servants whispered in fear when Michael’s dark anger threat
ened to emerge from within him.

  Rubbing his mustache thoughtfully, he unabashedly stared at my breasts. “I want to see what I am purchasing. Remove your dress.”

  “What?” I asked stupidly, my face flushing with embarrassment at the thought.

  “Remove the dress. I want to see your body. Just to settle my mind. I need to know that I will be fully satisfied with whatever you have hiding under there.”

  “I am not a horse or an animal to be purchased. If you are to marry me, why would you shame me in this way?” I whispered, red-faced.

  Michael reached for the walking stick and slammed it once on the table. “I am not accustomed to disobedience, Aubrey. Do as I ask.” With fumbling fingers I complied. I untied my ribbon and let the skirt fall to the floor, hoping that would be enough. I covered my most intimate area with my hands, but he would not be denied.

  “More,” he said in a low, commanding voice.

  “Michael, please,” I whispered, but his eyes told me he would not relent. I unlaced the bodice and let the fabric slide off my body. I cupped my breasts with my hands and bowed my head in shame.

  He leaned back, and the chair creaked under his weight. After a minute he leaned forward on his walking stick and said in a rough voice, “More.” The only thing left between my future husband and me was a thin muslin skirt. I tugged at the knot, refusing to cry. I could not show weakness; men like him reveled in it. How alike he was to my father! Finally the knot released, and I let the skirt fall to the ground. I stepped out of the fabric and refused to look at him. Instead I fixed my gaze on Percy’s rifle that hung on the wall. This is how you survived! You didn’t think about the moment!

  Michael walked toward me, staring at various parts of my body like a man looked at a squirrel he was about to dress. Yes, I’ll cut here, here and here. I shivered at the thought. Without a word he walked out of the room; I could hear his boots thumping down the hallway. I dressed quickly, before he returned. Who knew what he would do next? I had no mirror to rearrange myself in, but I left the room thankful that nothing more severe had happened than the crushing blow to my pride.

  If only every night would be like that. I could endure his nasty stares, but his touch—I could not stomach the idea that he would touch me in the most intimate of manners. Before I retreated to my room to hide in shame, I had to visit Mrs. Ferguson. She didn’t care two figs if I visited, but I knew Michael would know whether I had obeyed. And I was an obedient woman.

  I tapped on the door, but no one answered. Her personal maid, a shriveled wasp of a woman named Lita, was not lingering by her door as she usually did. Bridget was God knew where. I swung the door back and saw a shadow dart across the room. “Lita? It is Aubrey. May I come in?” No answer came, and I pushed the door open a bit more. I saw it again. A small shadow. My hand froze on the doorframe. “Hello? Mrs. Ferguson? May I come in?” No answer, only the ticking of a clock. It was well past dark now, and there was no light to fight back the invasion of inky blackness. I remembered that Lita usually kept matches and a lamp on the side table. Mrs. Ferguson could not see very well and sometimes needed additional light even on bright days. Leaving the door open, I lit the lamp and carried it to Mrs. Ferguson’s bedside. Immediately I could see the woman was dead and in a horrible state. I nearly dropped the lamp when I saw the frightened, frozen look on her face. Her eyes were wide and staring at something horrific. Her mouth was open too. She wore her nightgown and kerchief still, and her hands were folded neatly on the coverlet above her body.

  I heard a stirring behind me. Felt the shadow before I saw it. There was something in here with me. I heard the giggling of a familiar voice.

  I screamed and didn’t stop screaming until Michael found me.

  It was true. This was a house of death.

  Chapter Three – Carrie Jo

  Feeling tired and sunbaked, I collapsed on the hotel bed and laughed at Momma as she did the same. “Whatever calories we ate today, we had to have worked them off. I’ve never walked so much in my life. Have you?” My feet felt hot and my cheeks were stinging, but it had been a wonderful day.

  “Nope,” she confessed. “And I’ve never eaten so much shrimp in my life either. I think it’s safe to say I ate like a pig. It’s a good thing these shorts have a stretchy waist.” As we lay in our beds enjoying the air conditioning, we both sighed happily. This had been a welcome vacation for us both. The first ever, actually. Momma’s recovery from her head injury hadn’t been as quick as she or any of us would have liked, but at least she remembered who I was now. Until her freak accident I’d never heard of post-traumatic or retrograde amnesia. I kept my fingers crossed that all was well with her now.

  We’d had a glorious time strolling the beach boardwalk. Like a pair of excited tourists, we’d cruised the endless rows of artists’ booths and naturally came back to the hotel room with ocean-themed knick-knacks, hats and t-shirts. I had seen it all, but we weren’t scheduled to return home until tomorrow evening. I resisted the urge to immediately pick up the phone and check on baby AJ. Surely Ashland wasn’t feeding him chocolate or doing some other crazy dad thing with our son. But despite my frequent “mommy moments,” I was glad I came. This was my first National Shrimp Festival. It was billed as one of the largest festivals in Alabama, and judging by the crowds there was no arguing that. I looked forward to returning next year, hopefully with Ashland.

  “What’s next on the agenda, Momma? You still want to make the historic homes tour in the morning? It’s a lot of walking too. Trust me. But I’m game if you are!”

  “Ugh. My feet are going to need more time than that to recover. How about we skip that this time? Let’s sleep late and have a nice brunch together. I’d like to check out Hemingway’s, the little restaurant in the hotel lobby downstairs.”

  I flopped back on the pillow and closed my eyes. “That sounds perfect.”

  She added cautiously, “And…maybe we can chat.”

  I opened one eye and looked at her. By her tone I could tell chat meant talk about us, about our troubled past, and that caught me by surprise. “Okay, Momma. Who gets the shower first?” I wanted to immediately ply her with questions, but I showed some restraint. My mother’s therapist encouraged me to be patient, to let her initiate the conversation and take responsibility for what she did. But to say that it was difficult was an understatement.

  One thing for sure was that Deidre Jardine had a difficult time talking about any kind of painful memories. And to compound the situation, that freak accident left her with some memory loss. Recently, I’d walked in on her crying more than once, and on another occasion she’d surprised me with a long, desperate hug before walking away again in tears.

  Honestly, the change in her was beyond remarkable. Three years ago I would never have dreamed that we’d ever have a happy relationship. She’d never physically harmed me growing up, but the mental abuse—for that’s what it had been—left me struggling with trust issues. To this day I had no idea why she decided to finally seek medical help, much less move to Mobile to be near me. Whatever the reason, I was grateful. At first I had been extremely suspicious, even leery about letting her back into my life or near my family, but I’d taken a chance at Ashland’s and Detra Ann’s encouragement. One last chance. And I hadn’t regretted it. My mother was truly a changed person.

  “Dibs!” she shouted like a kid. “Boy, one of those big fruity drinks with the pineapple chunks would be good right now. Without the booze, of course.”

  “You got it! I think I’ll call home. Make sure Ash hasn’t diapered the baby’s head or left him at Small Steps.”

  “Haha! Give him more credit than that, Carrie Jo. He can handle two days with the baby, and AJ is such a good little boy. He hardly ever fusses.”

  I laughed in agreement. “I know I’m being ridiculous. But you must know how it is. Detra Ann calls it New Mommy-itis.”

  With a wistful look and a nod she said, “Yes, I remember.”

  “I really hav
e enjoyed myself the past few days, Momma. I hope you know that. And look at our tans.”

  “Me too, kiddo. And as you can see, I don’t tan nearly as well as you. I spot and freckle. I’ll be out of the shower soon.” She slipped off into the bathroom, and I dialed home from the hotel phone.

  I waited for it to ring, heard static on the line and then heard muffled voices. What a horrible connection! “Ashland? Is that you?”

  The whispering continued, as if I’d connected with multiple lines, like an old-fashioned party line, not just my home number. One voice, a woman’s, sounded louder than all the others. I couldn’t make out a single word, but her tone was desperate, as if her life were hanging in the balance. Perhaps it was!

  “Hello? Is someone there?” Static blasted in my ear, and I hung up the phone, my heart pounding ninety miles per hour. I dialed the number once again, and this time my husband’s husky voice poured through the receiver. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Whoa, kiddo! Hey, babe! You caught us at bath time, and your son thinks he’s at Splash Mountain.” He sounded amused, and baby AJ’s delighted squeals in the background made me miss him all the more. Unlike some children, he loved his bath.

  “Um, I just called to see how y’all were doing. The first time I called I had a weird connection. You having problems with the phone?”

  “Nope. We’ve been outside playing in the yard.”

  On a hunch I lowered my voice and asked, “Anything else going on? Any kind of…activity?”

  He got quiet and then said, “Ah. No. All is well here. You sure you aren’t just looking for a reason to cut your vacation short? I swear we are both alive and looking forward to our pizza later.”