Fallen Hearts (Casteel 3)

I looked at Martha Goodman, who closed her eyes gently and nodded before returning to her chair, and then I entered.

Jillian sat at her marble-top vanity table, dressed in one of her loose-fitting ivory floats trimmed with peach lace. She looked like a circus clown. Her hair was dyed a bright yellow and stuck up in thin, stiff strands. Her face looked like cracked porcelain, her cheeks blotched with bright red rouge. Eyeliner was slashed across her lids, the line drooping at the crinkly corners of her eyes. Her lipstick was thick, vibrant, caked at the corners of her mouth.

But when I looked past her, to her mirror, I saw to my horror a blank oval of bare wall. The gips in the mirror that had once hung over the vanity table had been removed Jillian sat before the empty frame staring into a memory of herself

I looked to her bed and saw dress after dress laid over the quilt. Dozens of pairs of shoes were on the floor beside the bed. Dresser drawers were left open with undergarments and stockings dangling over the sides. All her jewelry boxes were open. Glittering necklaces, bejeweled earrings, diamond and emerald bracelets were scattered over the top of the dresser. The room looked as though it had been ransacked by a madwoman. I didn't know what to do. Jillian had deteriorated far more than even I could have imagined.

Then Jillian spotted me and smiled widely, a demonic smile that made her clownish appearance even more frightening and pathetic.

"Leigh," she said, with forced cheerfulness. "Thank goodness you're here. I'm going absolutely mad trying to decide what to wear today. You know who's coming, don't you?" she added in a loud whisper. She looked about the room as though there were other people within who could hear. "Everybody who's anyone. And they're all coming to see my theater."

"Hello, Grandmother," I said, ignoring her mad ramblings. I thought that if I didn't go along with it, I might snap her out of it. Instead, she sat back and glared at me as though she had heard other words.

"What do you mean, you don't want to attend? I purposely invite influential people to Farthinggale so they and their sons will meet you. You should be interested in boys your own age. It's not healthy for you to . . . to be around only Tony."

"Grandmother, I'm not Leigh," I said. "It's Heaven; it's your granddaughter," I added, stepping farther into the room. "I have gotten married, Grandmother. His name is Logan, Logan Stonewall, and we've come back to Farthy because Tony's making us a gala reception."

She shook her head, obviously not hearing a word I was saying.

"I told you, time and time again, Leigh, not to come to my bedroom half dressed. You're not a child anymore. You can't parade about like that, especially in front of Tony. You should have more self-respect, be more discreet. A lady, a real lady, doesn't do this sort of thing. Now, go finish dressing."

"Jillian." I thought if I used her Christian name, she might acknowledge me. I knew how much she hated being thought of as a grandmother. "Leigh's gone; Leigh's dead," I said softly. "I'm Heaven."

She blinked heavily and pulled herself into a stiffer sitting position.

"This is the last time I will put up with this," she croaked. "You are turning everybody against me. But everybody knows the truth, Leigh, the truth about your vile seductive behavior. Jealous? Me?" she huffed. "Jealous of my own daughter? Ridiculous." She turned and looked into the imaginary mirror and smiled a serene self-confident smile. "You will never be able to compete with my beauty, Leigh, a mature woman's beauty. You're still a child."

She studied herself in the imaginary mirror and then began brushing her hair again. "Yes, I know what you do, Leigh," she continued. "Tony's complained about it and I've seen you do it, so don't try to deny it. Your body's developing. I'm not going to deny that. After all, you're my daughter. You will be beautiful, vibrantly beautiful, and if you listen and work hard on your coiffure and your makeup, take care of yourself the way I do, why, you'll be as beautiful as I am someday." Suddenly she stopped brushing her hair and pounded her brush on the vanity. "What do you expect Tony to do? Of course he'll look at you, but that doesn't mean what you think it means. I've seen you brush your body up against his seductively, oh, yes, I have."

"Jillian "I couldn't believe she was still blaming my mother for all that had happened. "You're mad, old woman, quite mad! My mother never did any of that! It was you! You who caused it all. My mother was pure and innocent! I know she was!" I was shaking with rage. I wouldn't believe my own mother had provoked Tony. Wouldn't, couldn't believe that! "It was your jealousy that killed my mother. Even your madness cannot change that."

She stopped speaking and straightened up sharply.

"Why are you looking at me like that? You never knew I had been following you, did you? You never knew I was there, just outside his door, in the shadows, watching. But I was . . I was. I couldn't bring myself to go in and put an end to it, but I was there. I was there," she whispered.

I stared at her. Could what she was saying be true? Could my mother have seduced Tony? I refused to believe. And yet . . . yet . . . I had seduced Troy. I knew the passion that ran in my blood; was it my mother's passion I had inherited? Perhaps that was what the Reverend Wise had seen in me when he predicted I would destroy all that I love and all who love me.

I rushed out to Martha Goodman, who sat calmly in the high-back chair, knitting.

"You've got to stop her!" I exclaimed. "She's going mad in there, making herself up over and over with layers and layers of rouge and lipstick."

"Oh, she'll get tired soon," Martha said smiling softly. "I'll talk her into her medication, convincing her it's a vitamin that will help keep her young forever, and then I'll scrub her face clean and clean up the mess and she'll take a long nap. Don't worry."

"But doesn't Tony understand how bad she's gotten? Haven't there been doctors?"

"Of course there have, my dear. The doctors recommend she be institutionalized, but Mr. Tatterton won't hear of it. There's no harm. Actually, she's happy most of the time."

"She doesn't remember me, then, does she?" I turned back toward her bedroom.

"Not now, no. She talks about your mother a great deal," Martha said and looked down at her knitting, and I understood that she had overheard much ugly truth in my grandmother's mad babbling.

I left Jillian's suite quickly, actually fleeing from the images she had resurrected. When I returned to our suite, I searched for and found my mother's fat photo album. I studied her school pictures again, hoping to reaffirm my own belief that she was beautiful but innocent, wild but pure. If only for a moment, one moment, I could truly look into those blue eyes, I thought, I would know the truth. But did I want to know it?

"Don't tell me you're still cloistered in these rooms." Logan startled me as he strode into the room. I hadn't realized how long I had been sitting there, thinking about the past. I closed the photo album quickly.

"No," I mumbled. "I spent some time with my grandmother." Then I turned to my husband and put a bright smile on my face. "So, what has Tony shown you?"

"All of it," Logan said, shaking his head with admiration. "All of this paradise called Farthinggale Manor. I can't believe there's an indoor pool! That maze, the lake, those stables, acres and acres of beautiful land, and a private beach."