Moonless

by Crystal Collier

  Surely this Amadeus had been mistaken. Her protector, mentor perhaps, must have rescued the girl from a situation of distress or enslavement, or taken her away like Bellezza.

  She swallowed, recognizing the pattern. Would she be next? Did losing everything she loved mean being taken away? And to what end? Being locked back up like Bellezza?

  Or perhaps the German belonged to the wealthy elite who were “acquiring” Passionate subordinates. How was she to know whom to believe?

  In the daylight, she found her skepticism stepping in. Ru had been right to question, to worry, and she’d lied to him.

  35

  Ticking Clock

  Mid-September rains spattered Alexia’s window, and still her protector did not manifest to dispel her growing concern. Perhaps he really was a villain. Perhaps he’d been tracked down and imprisoned for trial. Or perhaps the time for abduction had yet to come.

  Soon.

  She couldn’t sleep. No matter how she tried to subdue herself, slumber wouldn’t come. She decided to check on Mother and dressed.

  The woman’s winter sickness had come early this year. As of last week, Father stopped insisting Mother join them for meals, nor did he request she dress up when friends came to call. Instead he abandoned her to the solitude of her bedchamber.

  Alexia’s breath caught. Mother’s door stood open, light flickering from within. Why would a candle be lit unless there was trouble? She slid to the doorframe.

  Mother lay in her recent fashion, hair loose, skin pallid, tucked under the covers but awake. She gazed uncertainly at something Alexia couldn’t see.

  A strong male figure rounded into sight, his scar catching the light. He leaned over Mother, brushing a hand across her forehead.

  What was he doing here? How did he gain admittance to the house? Why didn’t she witness terror in Mother’s sunken eyes? And where had Father gone?

  “Rosalind, it is worse this time.”

  Alexia gasped. His eyes flashed her direction. She moved away quickly, but he’d seen her. How did he know Mother?

  “What can you do?” her croak carried into the hall.

  “I can postpone it.”

  “How much time?” The words were laced with agony, with despair.

  “Not much. Is there a reason?” The compassion in his query moved Alexia. “It would be much more merciful to let it come.”

  A brief silence yawned.

  “After all I have done!” The woman began to weep.

  Alexia rested against the wall. Not much time?

  Memories reared: the occasions they’d shared on the veranda, pleasant moments in a beauty parlor as Mother educated her on the finer quality of women’s apparel, time spent bouncing in an open buggy as she tried vainly to emulate the proper woman’s upright example.

  The candle extinguished. Alexia brushed a tear away, wondering how long she’d been standing here thinking and what occurred in her mental lapse.

  The door shut and she stood facing him.

  She wanted to voice a hundred questions, but they wouldn’t come. He nodded finally and turned away, down the corridor, silent as a ghost in the moonlight.

  ***

  The weather left a chill in her bones after a night of sleeplessness. Alexia listened from the hall as Father spoke in his study with a physician about Mother’s health.

  “. . . you are certain?” he asked.

  “Nothing is certain, but she is weakening, and fast. I would prepare to say your goodbyes.”

  Dying? She was so young, so beautiful . . . and Alexia hardly knew the woman! She always wanted to be closer—and here, their time had nearly come to an end.

  Father pressed the door open to allow the doctor out. She stepped back.

  “Child?”

  “I am sorry, Father. I did not—”

  “No apologies now.” He sighed and rubbed at his temples. “You must look in on your mother. She has been asking after you.”

  “Of course.”

  She returned upstairs to where the same candle from last night flickered. What would she say to the woman who’d always been so distant?

  When she saw that sallow face lying helplessly on a pillow, all fear extinguished and she hurried to Mother’s side.

  “Is that Alexia?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman’s lips sealed. Alexia studied her pale complexion, loose blonde hair, lips that were normally such a cheery red now colorless and gray.

  Mother swallowed. “You have questions for me, no doubt.”

  “So many, I fear I should not have time to voice them all.”

  “But you shall.”

  “I will not leave your side even to rest if it might please you.” She laid her head next to the wintry woman’s.

  “Why?” Pain crinkled Mother’s eyes. “Why are you so anxious to please me? Have I not been sufficiently indifferent?”

  “How can I deny the longing to know and serve the one who brought me into the world? I should be a beastly child if I did not desire this.”

  The pale face turned away. “I am tired. Leave me. Send Sarah.”

  New tears burned at the back of Alexia’s eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

  She alerted her aunt to the request and resorted to her room. She settled upon the bed and cried herself to sleep.

  ***

  Daily interviews commenced at that dreadful bedside, always the same thing:

  “Why have you come?”

  “To speak with you if you are able.”

  Withdrawing her hand, Mother would turn her face to the wall. “I am tired.”

  And the duration of the visit passed in silence.

  Alexia exhausted so many hours trying to comfort her taciturn parent that she found herself in frequent tears, drained of strength. Sarah had become Mother’s only solace, and Alexia finally understood the true meaning of jealousy.

  Father grieved silently. She caught him weeping in the study one night—unbeknownst to him.

  A general air of gloom hung over the house. Servants didn’t prattle. Meals waxed dismal and quiet. Even the gardens held little cheer, golden and tranquil as they’d become.

  The book Alexia had brought couldn’t deter her thoughts as she sat beneath her favorite rowan. She blinked around tears, the garden merging into a blob of color, and wished she could reverse time, pleading wordlessly with an unfamiliar deity for mercy on Mother’s behalf.

  36

  Compassion

  Kiren leaned on the tree as he studied her.

  She sat on a green blanket, her legs tucked up to one side within the generous folds of her ivory skirt. She had abandoned her book, shoulders trembling while she silently wept—still so proper, even in her sorrows. He loved that about her. Dark curls spilled loosely down around her neck, just as unbound as she had become in these last weeks.

  His fingers bit into the bark. He would do anything to relieve her suffering, but the only thing he could really do was lighten her heart.

  Summoning a warm grin, he spoke. “Not a bad view.”

  Her head snapped around, jade eyes wide with surprise. Redness around her lids witnessed she’d slept poorly, and they were puffy from the length of her crying. She wiped at her cheeks, shaking as she rose.

  He gave her a reassuring smile and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket. “I am sorry to have been away so long. There are matters beyond my control which have—”

  “What did you do to her?” She approached him. “Why can you not save her?” Her eyes filled with the request, the vague hope he could miraculously reverse Rosalind’s state.

  He placed the handkerchief in her hand, unable to meet her mute plea. “It is her time.”

  “But you can heal her.” Her fingers curled around the cloth, clutching his through it.

  Everything within him was crumbling. Please do not ask this of me, Alexia!

  “Why will you not?” she barely whispered.

  He fixated on her abandoned book, pages splayed across th
e green blanket.

  Her voice thickened with anger. “You saved me twice. Why not her?”

  “That is different.”

  “Why?” Her nails bit into his skin. “Because you are protecting me, but not her?”

  He took a hold of her wrist and extracted his fingers. He wanted to say, I cannot be on hand every time Rosalind falls ill. Though he had. He had made himself present and extended the woman’s life a good many years on Alexia’s behalf. But he was breaking rules, and if discovered?

  He couldn’t meet her glare. “It does not work that way.”

  She growled and stepped past him, her ambrosia scent wafting forcefully into him. Pomegranate and amber. He inhaled and caught her arm, sudden need slicing through his veins.

  Her pupils widened, her mouth falling slightly open.

  He lowered his lips, ready to taste her and abandon the fight. But then, what would become of her? If they discovered his attachment—he could not even fathom the outcome!

  He halted, and turned to her ear. “I would do something for her if I could.”

  She blinked back at him and pulled herself free, nostrils flaring. “Why are you here?”

  “Tonight there will be no moon.”

  Her lips trembled.

  He smirked, despite himself. Didn’t she realize he would keep her safe? “Stay indoors, balcony locked. Try not to become too—” He debated running a thumb down the length of her arm. “—agitated.”

  She glared and stormed away, tossing his handkerchief behind her.

  He watched her go, aching for her—in more than one way.

  37

  Chilling Discoveries

  Mother grew steadily worse. Alexia wondered why the woman insisted on seeing her daily if she would not speak! Every day she asked questions only to be met with cold silence.

  Father’s drinking flared out of control. He consumed more brandy by the hour. The housekeeper stopped purchasing the stuff at her and Sarah’s insistence, despite his tantrums. She spent long hours, when not detained in the silent chamber of death, wandering the shedding garden, thinking about her future: the curse of losing all she loved.

  Is this how it would happen? Would everyone simply die? Would she be left alone in the world with naught but his enigmatic appearances to comfort her?

  As she drifted the barren walkways, her maid came running from the house.

  “Your mother, she calls for you!”

  Alexia hurried up to the dark room, entering anxiously to the same sight as always, but the mood had changed.

  “Alexia!” the woman called. “Sit next to me.”

  She did.

  Mother coughed twice. “I realize that I have been cruelly unfair to you, though it is not your fault.”

  “Whatever do you speak of—?”

  “Do not interrupt me! I have only few short breaths and this must be said.”

  Alexia folded her hands in her lap, stunned by the reproach.

  The woman licked her cracked lips. “We had been married a year when I discovered I was with child. I loved him then. I think I might have always loved him just as naïvely if I had never known . . .” She shook her head feebly. “My time came. I delivered the child stillborn. Dead.” The memory reared behind her eyes, the horror and sorrow entering her whisper. “She had Charles’s dark hair. I begged God for another chance. I would be a good mother, I promised, if I might only have the opportunity.”

  She convulsed suddenly. Alexia caught her shoulders, holding her in place. At length, the spasm concluded, and she settled the woman back under the covers. Mother’s breathing became even and rattled as it often did, leaving Alexia to question if it would stop altogether. The movement of lips pulled her nearer.

  “I found him in the arms of another woman.” A rush of disbelief seized Alexia. “A servant. I had her thrown out—” More wheezing, some coughing.

  She didn’t want her to continue.

  A frail hand caught her bodice and pulled her nearer. “She died in childbirth—with my husband’s child! If anyone knew the scandal . . .” She shook again, but this time would not be calmed. Alexia supported her absently, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  Why would Mother defame Father before her? He was a good man! A good man.

  “I-I took the child in, pretended she was mine. She should have been.” Another attack stole her breath. “I tried to love her—I tried, but every time I looked at her I saw that girl, and my heart . . .” She reached for Alexia’s face but her hands fell short. Alexia took her outstretched grasp in a daze. “I should have been . . . you . . . so innocent!”

  She held the woman as spasms lifted her out of bed, trying to steady her, but who would stabilize Alexia?

  “You should know . . . you should . . . I am sorry.” Mother’s hand fell feebly away.

  Alexia held her, the weak thread of life pulsing irregularly. She didn’t trust herself to move. The shock, the terror . . .

  Mother rested, peaceful. Oh that she could find some calm for the storm billowing through her mind! She settled the woman under the covers, placed a kiss on her forehead, collected her grieving heart, and exited the quiet sanctum.

  She was a bastard? The product of an unwholesome relation? Not a proper heir?

  Devastating wonder inundated her and she wandered the halls absently, unaware how she arrived in the attic, uncertain why she’d gone there or what she sought.

  Her eyes swept over the dusty collection of trunks, sheeted furniture and empty picture frames. Images of Sarah and she dancing about a mal-constructed fortress of piled treasures flooded her mind. They’d spent hours unpacking and repacking the chests, discovering an old tea set, a discarded doll, aged journals, once-fashionable hats.

  Black wood buckled beneath tarnished silver latches. She forced the lid open with trembling hands and brushed back aged satin. A familiar musty scent drifted across her nose as she pulled out Father’s hat, medals and military vesture, setting them neatly aside. Underneath slumped a pair of boots with blemished spurs.

  She remembered that day several years ago when one of these spurs had caught the chest’s lining.

  She felt for the loose thread and tugged it along the front side, facing coming free. A palm-sized canvas fell into her hand. The miniature.

  The girl in the portrait looked sixteen with dark hair, vibrant skin, warm cheeks, and imperial green eyes. She stood against a background of trees, smiling uncertainly around long lashes with an off-white blossom perched over one ear.

  The first time Alexia saw this picture she thought it too lovely to be real—a fictionalized creation. Now she knew better. The smiling girl possessed the same luminescence that brightened his countenance, Bellezza’s, her own.

  She closed her eyes and imagined the girl alive and life-like. A servant, a child, the subject of an adulterous affair.

  She turned the portrait over and read, “Dana, 1744.”

  She read it again, and again. Seventeen-forty-four? Five years before Father married?

  Had he known her before Mother? Had he loved her before Mother?

  She wanted desperately to disbelieve the tale, but how could she? Hadn’t Mother truly despised her all these years—and wasn’t she justified?

  Roles reversed, Alexia might have sent the child away, or hired her out to a noble family, or left her in a basket on a door step. But Mother took her in as her own. She sheltered her and Father from slander.

  Several hours passed in the lonely attic, fighting to grasp this new reality.

  At three in the morning she received word. The suffering heart, which she had finally come to understand, had found rest.

  Father took up wailing, but Alexia disappeared into the solitude of her chambers, horrified by what she’d learned. She couldn’t look at Father the same. He wasn’t the man she’d admired all her life.

  She couldn’t look at herself the same. She was no longer a noble brat.

  Who had her real mother been? Who was she? Did she have othe
r relatives somewhere in the world—Passionate ones? Did she belong here in society or somewhere else—circumstances more humble, more befitting a half-breed? Is that why he had come to her? Is that why Father loathed him?

  She had to know. She had to.

  38

  Dana

  Charles sat in the study, staring absently at the coals, no longer inebriated, although he ached to dive back into the bottle. He wouldn’t. The girls needed him now.

  The door creaked and Alexia’s curly head appeared. He smiled and patted the couch next to him. She sat.

  “Father, tell me about Dana.”

  He stiffened. “How do you know that name?”

  She tossed the miniature onto the table before them.

  He stopped breathing. Dana’s emerald eyes peered up at him from the canvas, a lush glade of mystery. He ached to brush one misbehaving spiral behind her ear, to feel her silken skin pass below his fingers, to inhale her cinnamon essence and bask in the chime of her magical laughter. But she was dead.

  His lips snapped shut. “Where did you find this?”

  “The attic.”

  His jaw tightened. The muscles worked, twitching downward as he labored to control himself, too late to deny he knew her. “She was a servant girl.”

  Alexia crossed her arms. “A servant and you have a portrait of her?”

  He slammed his fist into his knee. Alexia jumped. Why must she dig and nudge? Did she have to know the truth, to mourn for things past, things that could never be?

  “She is . . .” He exhaled, closing his eyes. Dana would want her story told. “She lived at a country inn.”

  “An inn?”

  He frowned. “My regiment was returning from assignment when Jonah, Rupert’s father, fell ill. I stayed behind with him.”

  The musty inn flooded into his mind: its worn floorboards and faded paint, the bright-eyed girl who followed him everywhere he went, her shy smile.

  He closed his eyes. “I grew fond of the girl who fed and kept me company, and when at last Jonah recovered I was . . .” He blinked at the memory behind his eyes. “. . . reluctant to leave.”