“Your father killed her.”
Alexandra spoke in a haunted whisper, looking beyond her mother at the garden. “And my father committed suicide. They told me he had killed himself …” Her hand flew to her lips and a sob escaped her, as Margaret took her in her arms and let her cry. “And I forgot … I forgot all of it … how could I forget that? … and my mother had red hair … and … she spoke French, didn't she? Oh, my God … but that's all I remember.” And then she looked up at Margaret again, the pain of the memories etched on her face ravaged by the tears born of what she suddenly remembered. “Was she French?”
Margaret spoke with obvious pain as she answered. It was terrible beyond words, and she hated John Chapman and Arthur Patterson for visiting this on them so unnecessarily, so many years later. “I think she was French … probably …” And she probably had red hair, because Alexandra did, when she wasn't rinsing it blond to please her husband. And little Axelle looked so exactly as Alexandra had at the same age. It was like seeing her again as she had the first time each time Margaret saw her.
“Why did my father kill himself? Because he killed her?” She wanted to know. It was awful, but suddenly she needed the answers to questions that were so long forgotten.
“He killed himself because he was convicted of killing her. It was a terrible, shocking story. And it left you and … it left you an orphan.” But she couldn't keep avoiding the rest of the story. That was the worst of it. She had to tell her. She took Alexandra's hand in her own again, and gently stroked the graceful fingers that looked nothing like her own. In fact, physically, they were very different, but Alexandra had never given it much thought. And suddenly she understood it … but all she could remember was the red hair, and nothing else … there was no face to go with it. She felt her heart was being torn from her chest, as though pain and memories long buried were rising to haunt her. “You had … you had two sisters as well.” Her words struck through Alexandra like a knife, and she could feel them echo in her head like ricocheting bullets … two sisters … two sisters … two sisters … Axie, I love you … I love you … My God, how could she have forgotten? She remembered the touch, the smell … black, black hair, and big sad eyes … Hillie … Hillie … and a baby. Without thinking Alexandra pulled away from her mother and walked across the room to stare out at the garden. “We couldn't take all three of you … we didn't feel …” Alexandra wasn't listening to the voice, the apologies, she kept hearing the same words … “always remember how much I love you … I love you, Axie …” and a little girl sobbing uncontrollably. Who was that little girl? Was it her sister?
“What were their names?” She had to know now. She had to, but Margaret shook her head. She knew very little about the others.
“I don't know. I only know that one was older than you …”
Alexandra finished the sentence for her as though in a trance, “… and the other one was a baby.” She stared at Margaret as though in great pain. “I remember them, Maman … I remember something now. How could I have forgotten?”
“Maybe it was all too painful for you then. Maybe it was easier to forget. You didn't do anything wrong. You had a right to a new life. We loved you very much, and we did everything we could to make you happy.” She looked so bereft, suddenly it was as though with one fell swoop she had lost her only daughter, and Alexandra went to her and put her arms around the woman she had known as her mother for thirty years.
“You are my mother, Maman. You always will be. None of this will ever change that.”
“Do you mean that?” She needed to hear it, and cried unashamedly as Alexandra reassured her. “It's so awful that these people have come back to haunt you now, they have no right to do so.”
“Why have they come back?” Alexandra looked at her with eyes full of questions.
“Arthur Patterson, the man who arranged your adoption, was a friend of your family's … of your parents … and he wants to know now that you and your …” She almost choked on the word, “… sisters … are all right. And if possible, he wants to bring you together.” Alexandra looked shocked.
“Do they know where the others are?”
“Not yet. But they're looking. And they found you, so I suppose they'll find the others.”
Alexandra nodded. It was a lot to absorb at once. Suddenly, in one afternoon, she had acquired two sisters, and a father who had killed a mother with red hair who was probably French, and the mother she'd loved all her life was no longer her mother, not to mention two adopted fathers she'd discovered instead of one. It was a bit much to swallow at one sitting, and she smiled weakly at Margaret and took a big swig of wine, with an apologetic look.
“I think I need it.”
“So do I.” And with that, Margaret stood up, and rang for André, and when he appeared she told him to bring her a double bourbon. “American habits die hard, particularly in moments of crisis.” And then she turned to Alexandra, over her drink, as she slowly swirled the ice cubes with one finger.
“Do you want to see them, Alex?”
Alexandra looked up at her thoughtfully. “I don't know. What if we all hate each other and are terribly different? Thirty years is a long time.”
“That's what I told Chapman. In truth, it's ridiculous. What can you possibly have in common?”
Alexandra agreed, and yet there was an undeniable attraction to meeting the others. But there was another problem she had to deal with first, a more pressing one. Her husband. “What do you suppose Henri would say to all this, Maman?” She eyed her mother cautiously, but they both knew what Henri would say. He would be outraged. “Do you really suppose it will make a difference to him?” Margaret could see that she desperately wanted reassurance. But she couldn't give it to her. The scandal would surely be too much for Alex's husband.
“It shouldn't, if he loves you. But I think it would be a shock to him. That's inevitable. And frankly, I still don't see why you should tell him. Your father and I talked about it when you married him, and we decided it wasn't important. We love you, you are our daughter in every possible way and what happened thirty years ago is no one's business. Perhaps not even your husband's.”
“But that's so dishonest, Maman. I owe it to him to tell him. Don't I?” Her eyes were still full of questions.
“Why? Why upset him needlessly?” Margaret tried to sound calm, but the whole thing was turning into a nightmare.
“Because the fact that I'm the daughter of the Comte de Borne is very important to him, Maman. He believes in all that lineage, and you know it. He's barely able to tolerate the fact that you're American, for heaven's sake, and only the fact that he knows what a fancy family you're from makes him willing to overlook it. How about telling him instead that my father was an actor, and killed my mother, origin unknown. I am the daughter of an unknown murderer and suicide, American to boot, with two unidentified sisters.” She grinned in spite of herself. It was a difficult situation. “Frankly, I think he'd drop dead from a heart attack. And if he survived, he'd divorce me. And take my daughters if he could get away with it. But if I don't tell him, I'm being knowingly dishonest.”
“Don't be foolish, Alex. This isn't the Dark Ages. He couldn't be that unreasonable. And besides, I still don't think you should tell him.”
“You don't know my husband. If I tell him, he might leave me and the girls, but the rest of it's not so farfetched. Particularly with his political aspirations. My God, mother, he'd die…. And if he found out in some other way … if I didn't tell him … if someone else found out.” Alexandra visibly shuddered as she paced the room, and Margaret couldn't disagree with her.
“I told you. Don't tell him.”
“And if he finds out? If there's a scandal? At least before I didn't know most of it myself. But now that I do, how can I not tell him? That's deceitful.” It was before, too, but now she was hiding a veritable mountain of information.
“Oh don't be so bloody innocent for heaven's sake.” She took a huge sip of
bourbon and looked at her daughter. “You can't always be the perfect wife. You have to think of yourself from time to time, not that you do it very often. And it would be stupid to make a confession to Henri. What purpose would it serve except to cause you a great many problems?” And she could hardly disagree with her mother. There was so much at risk. She could lose everything. Her husband. Her marriage. Her children.
“But what if I decide I want to see the others? How do I explain that? How do I slip away to America to meet my sisters? I can't exactly say I'm coming here to lunch and then disappear for five days, can I?”
“Are you so sure you want to go?” Margaret was disappointed to hear it, but Alexandra shook her head.
“I'm not at all sure … but if I wanted to, I don't know what I'd tell my husband.” Margaret's solution would have been not to go at all then, but she knew it wasn't fair to say that. She had her own reasons for not wanting Alexandra to go, it was foolish but she was afraid that in some way she would lose her, to the specter of a mother long dead, and three sisters who would help prove that blood was thicker than water. It was childish, but she wanted Alexandra to turn her back on them. But she was wise enough not to say it.
“I don't think you should say anything to him, Alexandra. Nothing at all. You would be wisest if you kept your own counsel.” She scribbled something on a piece of paper then, and handed her John Chapman's name, and the name of his hotel and phone number. “Mr. Chapman wants you to call him, so he can explain it all to you. If you want to, you can call him at the Bristol.”
“Why is he here?”
Margaret hesitated, but only for an instant. “To see you.”
“That's why he came to Paris?” Margaret nodded in answer. “Then I'll call him. I owe him that at least.” And as she slipped the paper with his name into her bag, she saw the time. It was after five o'clock, and she was horrified. She had to get home to Henri and the children. It had been an amazing afternoon, full of unexpected admissions. And Margaret walked her to the door, and hugged her long and hard before she left, as Alexandra looked into her eyes with tears rolling down her cheeks again. “Maman, please know how much I love you.”
“You'll always be my little girl.” The tears began sliding down her cheeks again, and the two women held each other for a long time before Alexandra left her. It had been a shocking afternoon and she could hardly think straight on the drive home. She kept hearing a voice from the distant past … Axie … always remember how much I love you….
Chapter 21
Alexandra was still in shock when she got home. It was difficult to absorb everything her mother had told her. She felt as though she were moving in a dream, and she kept trying to remember things that had been gone for years … the woman with red hair … and the little girl she had called Hillie.
“You're late.” Henri was waiting in her study as she walked into the room, feeling as though she had lead weights on her shoulders.
“I'm sorry, I …” She jumped when she saw him, startled from her reverie. But to Henri, it made her look guilty. “My mother had some papers I had to discuss with her … I didn't think it would take … Henri, I'm sorry.” There were tears in her eyes when she turned to him, and he was looking at her as though he didn't believe her.
“Where were you?”
“I told you …” Her hands trembled as she hung up the jacket to her suit. He made her feel as though she had somehow betrayed him. “I was at my mother's.” She tried to make her voice sound calm, but she sounded nervous, even to her own ears.
“Until now? It's six o'clock.” His voice was filled with disapproval, but suddenly she turned on him, her nerves frayed beyond control. She needed time to think, to absorb what she'd been told … she needed time to remember.
“Look, I'm sorry I'm late. I told you, I was at my mother's.”
He backed down quietly, but he still looked angry. “See that it doesn't happen again. I don't know why she keeps you this late. She knows you have important obligations.”
Alexandra clenched her teeth so as not to answer him. Her mother had kept her late so that she could tell her she had been adopted twice … and her natural father had murdered her mother … that she had two sisters she'd entirely forgotten about … little things like that. Nothing important.
She dressed hastily in a black silk dress, and sheer black stockings. She slipped into black satin pumps, washed her face, changed her makeup, redid her hair, and put her lipstick and compact in a black satin handbag. And within twenty minutes she was downstairs again, joining Henri in the front hall as they left for the evening. She barely had time to say good night to the girls, and when she did, she almost cried. As she looked at them, she was reminded of the sisters she had all but forgotten.
“Be good to each other, you two,” she whispered as she kissed Marie-Louise good night. “You don't know how lucky you are to have each other.” And a life such as theirs, filled with people who loved them, safe from harm. She herself had been lucky to be adopted by Margaret and Pierre. But now suddenly, as she looked at Henri, she fel as though she had a guilty secret.
“Why doesn't your mother take her problems to her attorney or her banker?” Henri asked in a voice filled with annoyance as they drove to the restaurant where they were meeting some new acquaintances of Henri's.
Alexandra looked vague as she glanced out the window. “She thought I could help her. That's all.” He laughed, as though it were a ridiculous suggestion.
“She could at least come to me. I could be of assistance.” But she knew perfectly well that Margaret would never go to her husband. They barely tolerated each other.
They arrived at Taillevent, and Alexandra looked around the familiar decor distractedly as Henri led her to their guests and made the necessary introductions. The room was filled with le Tout-Paris, men in dark suits, and beautiful, elegantly dressed women. The room was as magnificent as it always was, with the rich panelling, magnificent chandeliers, and goblets filled with fresh flowers. It was a place where only the most elite were able to get in, and even they had to wait months for a reservation.
It was Henri's favorite restaurant, and he enjoyed going there with her and their friends, and even business associates like tonight. The people he was dining with were potential backers for his political career, and Alexandra could sense that the evening was extremely important. But no matter how hard she tried, she found herself unable to concentrate, and by the end of the evening she was near tears, as Henri glared at her, and she fought desperately to stay afloat in the conversation.
“Excuse me?” she said for at least the tenth time that evening. She had totally missed what the woman said … had it been something about the south of France … or was it something about her children? “I'm terribly sorry …” Alexandra's eyes filled with tears and she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, as though she were coughing. She felt as though the evening were never going to end, and Henri was furious with her when they left.
“How could you do that to me?” He railed on the ride home. “Your attitude was an open insult!”
“Henri, I'm sorry … I wasn't feeling well … I couldn't concentrate … I …” But all she could think of was John Chapman at the Bristol, and how desperately she wanted to call him.
“If you weren't well, you shouldn't have come tonight. You did more harm than good.” He was livid.
“I'm sorry … I tried … truly I did …” There were tears sliding down her cheeks. She hated to let him down, but there was so much on her mind now.
“You have no excuse!” He raged. But she did. And she couldn't tell him. “I won't tolerate your behaving like that.” And then, the final blow. “You're always impossible after you've seen your mother.” As though she were a naughty child, and he had a right to scold her.
“My mother has nothing to do with it, Henri.” Alexandra spoke in a quiet voice as she blew her nose, and he glared at her as they stopped at a light on the way home. He didn't even care if their driver
heard him.
“Then where were you tonight until six o'clock?” That again. Alexandra only shook her head, and stared out the window, and then looked back at him again.
“I told you. I was at my mother's.”
“Was anyone else there?” He had never been suspicious of her before, and it hurt her deeply.
“Of course not. My God, what do you suspect me of?” She wanted to tell him that she didn't engage in the same sports as he, but she didn't want to open a Pandora's box that would cause even greater problems. She reached out and touched his hand then, but he showed no inclination to soften. “Henri, please …”
“You disgraced me tonight.”
“I'm sorry. I had a terrible headache.”
He never said another word to her, but when they reached the house on the Avenue Foch, he courteously opened the door to her, and then went to his own rooms, and firmly closed the door behind him.
Chapter 22
As soon as Henri had left for the office the next morning, Alexandra looked up the number of the Hotel Bristol, and dialed the number. She asked for John Chapman, feeling her hand tremble on the phone, and her voice cracked as she identified herself to him. It was like high espionage, and she was extremely nervous. If Henri had any idea what she was doing, or what she had learned, he would very probably divorce her.
“You've spoken to your mother?” Chapman had a calm, smooth voice, and she found him easy to talk to.
“Yesterday … I … I had forgotten everything.” Even that she was adopted. She had allowed herself to deny it to herself for all these years … not to mention the fact that she'd been adopted once before … and Hillie … and the woman with red hair … But Chapman didn't seem to condemn her.
“Maybe it was easier for you not to remember. There was no reason to.” He paused for a moment, and then spoke to her gently. “Could we meet sometime today? … er … uh … I'm terribly sorry, I don't know your married name. All I know is your mother's name now.” He sounded very polite and well-bred and well educated. She had been nervous that he might be one of those seedy investigators one saw in B movies.
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