by Sarah Bryant
“So,” he asked bitterly, “how did he try to turn you against me?”
A part of me knew those words were nothing more than logical. Yet they were also a very real and threatening indication that Alexander had something to fear from Dorian. Looking at him, I was even more certain that I saw doubt and fear looking back at me.
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
Alexander sighed. “Eleanor, I’ve told you, Dorian and I were opposed to each other before any of us came to Eden. I’ve also told you why he might wish to turn you against me.”
I shook my head. “Why do you think that I would listen to him?”
Alexander looked at me a moment longer, then he embraced me, smoothing my hair as if I were a child. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
We sat again in silence. It was only then that I realized the rain had stopped. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two o’clock.
“Alexander, I’ll tell you all of it tomorrow. But right now, I need to go to bed.”
“You must be exhausted,” he agreed. We both stood up. “Do you want me to come with you? Or would you rather be alone?”
The questioning of what before had been an unspoken agreement opened the crack in our fortress a little wider, but I didn’t have the energy to confront it then.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I said.
Alexander was asleep within minutes, but I lay awake, my mind turning over all that Dorian had said. Finally, unable to stand my own unyielding thoughts any longer, I got up, rummaged around on the dressing table, and located the bottle of chloral hydrate. I mixed up a strong dose and drank all of it off, then lay down to an uneasy sleep.
I awakened early. I lay for a long time, leaden with the after-effects of the drug, watching the breeze move the curtains out into the room and then draw them back against the screens. Through their gauzy lens I could see that the sky was clear blue, with high, billowy clouds. It was not unlike the sky of a Boston summer day: the first like it I had seen in Eden since the winter. For the first time since I had moved away from the city, I felt a pang of homesickness.
I could tell by his breathing that Alexander was awake. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe we should go back north this autumn.”
He propped his head up on his elbow and looked down at me, his face more animated than it had been in a long time. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“I suppose it’s as you’ve been saying. Eden is too secluded. I certainly won’t further my career staying here. Nor will you, and if you go . . . well, I can’t imagine staying here without you.”
“So . . . you have not changed your mind about me?”
For the first time, this expression struck me as odd—entirely inadequate for the situations in which it is so often used. “It’s my heart that matters,” I said. “And that will never change.”
Something that had hardened in his face the night before finally relaxed. “In that case . . .” he said, then pulled his jacket from the chair by the bed and rummaged in the pocket. “I did lie to you, Eleanor.” When he brought his hand out, there was something closed within it. My heart was suddenly beating hard. “I didn’t go to Baton Rouge to meet an agent yesterday. I went for this.”
He handed me a small, velvet-covered box. The room seemed suddenly bereft of air. Perhaps it was naïve, but I had never seen this coming. Suddenly all of the past night’s anger and hesitation made sense.
I opened the box. Inside was a ring of white gold, set with a rose-cut diamond.
“It’s been in my family for a long time,” he said. “It was one of the things we managed to save. Will you wear it, Eleanor? Will you marry me?”
Before I could reply, Mary’s voice called up the stairs. “Eleanor! Are you up yet?” There was a hint of irritation in her tone.
The room was spinning, but Alexander’s eyes were still. “Yes,” I heard myself say, then, “yes,” again, more definitively. Alexander paused, as if he couldn’t quite believe it; then he smiled, and slipped the ring onto my finger, and gathered me into his arms.
“Eleanor!” Mary called again.
“Her timing has always been terrible,” I said. I got out of bed and opened the door a crack. “I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes, Mary,” I called.
She didn’t answer, but I heard her speaking to someone down the corridor. I opened my door wider and leaned out into the hallway. They were too far away to distinguish their words, but I knew the other voice was definitely Dorian’s. I shut the door.
“It’s him,” I said.
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“No.” I sat down on the bed, suddenly tired and heavy again.
“You must stay away from him, Eleanor.”
“It might not be possible,” I answered, averting my face from his penetrating eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Whatever else he might be, he’s the only person here who knew the twins.”
He smiled bitterly. “And what’s to stop him lying to you about what he knew?”
Looking at the diamond on my finger, I wondered how much of Alexander’s aversion to my contact with Dorian was a product of his own pride and jealousy.
“It’s all I have,” I said without thinking.
Anger flashed across his face. “Is that man destined always to come between me and—” he began. Seeing the look on my face, he stopped himself. I wanted to cry for the rift we were widening with every word.
“Eleanor,” he said softly, taking me in his arms. “Elenka. I’m sorry. Again.”
“And you’re right, again,” I said. “He means to drive us apart, and it seems he works on us even in his absence.”
“It is his way,” Alexander agreed. “He speaks in riddles, confuses common sense, makes one imagine the most terrible things. . . .”
“Then we must hold on to the truth,” I said. “Let me tell you what he has been saying—”
Alexander was shaking his head. “It was my pride which asked you that. You are not beholden to me. I trust your heart, Eleanor.”
I looked at him for a long moment, and the devotion I saw made me despise myself for having allowed Dorian to speak his terrible words the night before. I vowed not to be so caught by him again.
“I’ll need to stay out the summer here,” I said, brushing the hair out of his face, “and then we can leave him and all of this behind.”
Alexander took my hand and kissed it. “Don’t think that I underestimate the importance of Eden to you. Just remember that I love you, and I can never accept that it is worth sacrificing any part of yourself.”
I nodded. He stood up then and began to get dressed. When he was finished, I said, “Will you have breakfast with us? Mary will want to congratulate us both.”
“Let me go home and see to a few things; I’ll come before lunch. All right?” I nodded again, and he kissed me.
I stood in the doorway until he disappeared around the curve of the stairs, then went to the front window to watch him on his way home. It was some time before he emerged from the front door, and when he did, Dorian was with him. They faced each other like unfamiliar cats: warily, with thinly covered hostility charging the space between them. They exchanged a few words, then Alexander stiffened, turned, and walked quickly toward his house. Dorian watched him go, and though he was too far away for me to be certain, I could have sworn that he was smiling. Sighing, I began to get dressed.
The day was cooler than most that summer had been, but the residual effects of the chloral made me as listless as the most stifling heat. When I came down to the dining room and found Mary waiting for me with a chastising look, it was all I could do not to turn around and go back to bed.
I sat down across from her, sipped the coffee she poured for me, and then pushed it aside.
“Have you stopped eating, Eleanor?” Her look was oddly guarded; if I hadn’t known better, I would have
gone as far as to say it was wary.
“I’m not hungry,” I answered.
“Dorian’s just left.”
I sighed. “I know.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “And you didn’t come down to ask after his trip home last night? Honestly, Eleanor—to think you’d let him leave in that kind of weather.”
“I was with Alexander.”
Mary’s look changed to one of disbelief. “Alexander?”
“He came back late last night.”
“Well, that’s love, I suppose.”
The mention of Alexander had dissolved Mary’s acrimony. At least, I thought, he had charmed her as effectively as Dorian had. I knew that I should tell her about our engagement, but her sharp words had made the moment seem wrong.
So instead, I asked, “What did Dorian want?”
Mary handed me a piece of paper that had been lying beside her breakfast plate. “Only to give you this. The guest list for the party.”
“So he really means to go through with it.”
“What do you mean by that?” The annoyance had returned. “Honestly, Eleanor, you agreed to this party.”
“I’m sorry, Mary, I’m exhausted this morning. Please don’t take anything I say to heart.”
She looked carefully at me, straining against her weak eyes for a clue to my ailment. Now I was certain that there was distrust in her look, and that she was trying to hide it. “Haven’t you been sleeping well?”
“It’s the heat,” I answered.
“Have you had more nightmares?” She put this question to me carefully, as though she had been thinking about it but did not want me to know that she had.
“No,” I answered, “I haven’t had any more nightmares.”
“What about your medicine?”
“It makes me feel worse than not sleeping.”
“Eleanor,” she said, her tone suddenly gentler. By the blood rising in her face, I knew what she was thinking.
To save her the embarrassment of asking me outright, I said, “I’m not . . . in that condition, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She looked up quickly, the blush deepening. “I didn’t mean to pry, but after all—”
“You’re within your rights to wonder,” I said.
She was silent for a moment, then finally said, “Eleanor, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Alexander. About your . . . relations with him.”
I felt my defenses rising, and reminded myself that this conversation was to be expected, was indeed long overdue. Yet any desire I’d had in the past to discuss it with her was gone.
Mary smiled uncomfortably and looked down at her hands. “Eleanor, you know that I’m not old-fashioned in my views, and I suppose I know the . . . the extent of your relations with him.”
“Mary—” I began, but she plunged on.
“Alexander doesn’t seem the type to abandon you in unpleasant circumstances, and so I see nothing wrong with the affair myself.”
My cheeks burned. “Mary, please—”
“But you can be certain that there will be other people who will see it differently—who won’t take it lightly. In Boston, for instance—”
“Mary, we’re engaged.” I lifted my hand from beneath the table; the diamond glinted in the morning sunlight.
I had imagined many reactions to this announcement, but not the horror that froze her face. I went cold.
“Eleanor,” she stammered finally, “I had no idea . . . I would never have gone on so . . .”
“It’s all right,” I said, but she still looked panic-stricken. “Although, I had rather thought you would be happy for me.”
She tried to smile. “I am happy for you, Eleanor . . .”
“But?”
“Well . . . you’re so young, and he’s so much older.”
“Is that so unheard of?”
“No, but . . . are you quite certain of him, Eleanor?”
I couldn’t quite find it in myself to be angry with her when she seemed so very concerned for me, despite its apparent senselessness. “As certain as I’ve ever been of anything,” I told her. “Don’t worry about me.”
She nodded. “I suppose you can announce your engagement at the ball.”
Though this idea was hardly appealing, I smiled. “That’s a fine idea.”
“At any rate,” she said hurriedly, as though trying to push the conversation behind her as quickly as possible, “you’d best see a doctor about your sleeping problems. You can’t plan a wedding if you’re exhausted.” She smiled with a touch of pity and that new, strange anxiety. “We worry about you, Eleanor.”
The “we” sent a shiver down my spine, but again I made myself smile. She reached across the table and took back the list I had not yet looked at.
“Don’t worry about these,” she said. “Colette and I will write the invitations. All you’ll have to think about is a suitable speech, and a costume.”
“Costume?”
She sighed. “Remember, Eleanor, it’s a costume ball.”
“Where will I find a costume, here?”
Mary’s eyes narrowed with an idea. “Perhaps one of those gowns from the attic will fit you. You can go as one of your own ancestors!”
To me this idea was repugnant, but she was immediately caught up in it. Before I knew quite what had happened, I found myself holding a candle in the attic while Mary rummaged in the old trunk.
On close inspection, we found that many of the garments had borne the attacks of mice and moths, and others were the wrong size. However, buried beneath the yellowed wedding dress, where I would have sworn that there had been nothing but a layer of brittle tissue paper, lay two dresses I knew would fit me only too well. One was made of crimson silk shot through with gold, the other of a fluttery white fabric. I suppose I ought to have been shocked to see them there, but like so many recent oddities, I felt almost that I had expected it.
“Do you think they could really be . . . ?” Mary said as she picked up the red one.
“They certainly look like the dresses from the painting,” I answered.
Apparently oblivious to my grimness, she held the dress up to my shoulders. “You’d look lovely in this, Eleanor.”
I reached into the trunk, picked up the white gown, and shook out the wrinkles. It looked as though it had never been worn. “I think it would be more fitting if I wore my mother’s,” I said, the words falling flat on the heavy, dusty air.
As I said it, part of me wondered what difference it made; the rest knew that it didn’t matter. My choice was driven by the same intractable purpose that drove me in search of a truth that could deliver only pain. Whatever was happening to me would continue to happen whether or not I understood why.
“Of course,” Mary said, then added, “perhaps we ought to bring the wedding dress down, too. You might want to have it re-cut.”
I looked at the yellowed silk, desiccate as book pages, and wondered how Mary could even suggest it. Willing away the feeling of foreboding, I said, “I don’t think it will be that kind of wedding.”
“Ah, well,” she sighed as she bent to put the red dress back into the trunk, “you know where it is if you change your mind.”
We went back downstairs. As I turned toward the music room, Mary called back to me, “Letter for you.” She picked up the envelope that lay by my untouched breakfast plate. “From Paris; I wonder what that could be?”
She didn’t wait to find out, but bustled off about her tasks, leaving me staring at the return address. When she was gone, I tore open the envelope. The letter inside was written in English.
Mlle Rose,
With regard to your enquiry into the death of Elizabeth Ducoeur: I regret to inform you that I have been through all of the records of 1905 and find no account of a woman by that name being admitted to our hospital, for typhus fever or any other ailment. Moreover, I have contacted the authorities with whom such a death would have been registered, and they have no record of it, eithe
r. I am sorry not to be of more help, but I do wish you luck in finding the information you are seeking.
Yours sincerely,
Etc.
My first thought was to run to Alexander with this information. However, it was no different from what he had expected, and after our talk that morning, I had no wish to delve again into unpleasant topics. In the end I folded the letter back up, put it in my writing desk, and forgot about it.
FOUR
OVER the next few days, no conversation about Dorian or the twins interrupted the harmony that had existed between Alexander and me since we had become engaged. Yet though our days resumed something of their old pattern, a subtle tension imbued everything we did, no matter how routine. Moreover, my sleep, though still dreamless, was as troubled as it had been since the night of Dorian’s party; not even my medicine helped any longer. The combination of nervous energy and insomnia exhausted me mentally and physically. Practice at the piano was a labor, and my daily sessions in the music room grew continually shorter and less productive.
The prospect of the costume ball had thrown a further pall over everything. I felt out of my depth in the local society, and I dreaded Dorian’s reaction to the announcement of our engagement. However, I dared not speak this fear to Alexander; I couldn’t face another argument.
Two days before the event, he and I sat reading in the shade of one of the rose arbors. I was staring into space, my book face-down in my lap, trying to ignore the noise of Mary and Colette’s bustling preparations, when Alexander said:
“Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“How did you know?”
He smiled. “You will need to do some work if you mean to keep your feelings from me.”
I sighed.
“It’s the party, isn’t it.”
“You know me too well!”
“Is it the thought of entertaining that worries you?”
“No. It’s only that . . . I haven’t seen Dorian since that night—”