Ah, don’t think about it. You mustn’t; it’s over, her mind warned her as she struggled to find words. “I... How you must despise me now. And oh, I am old enough to realize that to say like a child ‘I did not think’ is no excuse at all! Aunt Harriet was right. I am too rash, too impetuous, too unmindful of... I suppose I should have drowned myself after all! It was what I had planned to tell Mrs. Langford in case she... Oh, but I think I could bear anything except that you should think badly of me and be disappointed in me, although I cannot blame you for it.”
“Now just you look here, my girl—that’s quite enough out of you along those lines, do you hear?” Alexa had never heard Sir John speak so roughly to her before, nor had he ever grasped her by the shoulders as if he meant to shake her. “Dammit, I won’t have you turning into a whining, self-flagellating... And why the blast should you think that after I’ve done my best to teach you to think for yourself I should turn about and despise you for doing so? Eh? Or blame you for being young, and human, and impetuous? You ‘ve been brought up differently from the likes of those others—” he gave a jerk of his head in the direction of the house “—and thank God for it. But because you’ve got a mind, my girl, you’d better use it before you think up any more explanations, because your drowning story won’t do, you know. Hah!” He shook his head disgustedly. “No one’s going to believe you were trying to succeed in drowning yourself for the past three or four hours—not even Mrs. Langford.”
“Oh! I suppose I didn’t think of that. But...but you see, I did go in the sea, not that I meant to, but...” Alexa was glad Uncle John’s sharp eyes could not see her flush as she went on hurriedly, “But since I am quite soaked through and my hair is still so wet...it was the only explanation I could think of.”
“Hmm!” Sir John’s voice was dry. “Bathing in the ocean is supposed to be good for the health—and I’m sure it was wise of you under the circumstances. His idea I take it?”
How could he have guessed? And what had he meant by... But Sir John must have taken her puzzled silence for assent, for he nodded in a satisfied way before his manner suddenly changed; becoming unusually serious and almost solemn as he caught both of her cold hands in his before saying gravely:
“Alexa my dear, we’ve known each other for quite a few years now, haven’t we? Let’s see, the first time I met you, you were seven? Eight? Hard to remember exact dates at my age.”
“It seems to me as if I have known you forever!” Alexa said in a fierce whisper, squeezing his hands back. “And you've always been my very best friend in all the world— the only person I can talk to about anything at all.”
“Do you think you can trust me, Alexa? Completely?”
“But you know I do! Only I don’t understand why...”
“I know you don’t understand, my dear. Not yet, anyhow. But I promise you that after we have dealt with Mrs. Langford together, we’ll have a chance to talk. For the moment, I’m asking—and hoping—that you trust me enough to be absolutely sure that I’d always do only what’s best for you. I’ve had a few hours to think things over, and... Well, the most important thing of all is that even if there are any consequences of what took place tonight, you’d be protected. No slurs on your good name or your parents’ either. And in case you don’t... Well, you won’t be held to anything, you know! I’ve made you my heiress in any case. Meant to tell you before you had to go back home, of course, but now’s as good a time as any, I suppose. Now—what do you say to facing the music and getting it over with?”
“But I...but Uncle John, I don’t quite understand yet. What am I supposed to say to Mrs. Langford? And what...”
“Don’t want you to say anything at all. A few maidenly blushes would do, and if you can’t force the blushes you can look down modestly and twitch at your skirts. I’ve seen that particular trick work very well. But just you leave the speechmaking to me, and try not to show that you’re either shocked or surprised when you hear what I intend to tell Mrs. Langford, eh? Put a stop to any gossip at all. Even she’s not going to dare say a nasty word, I promise you. Only solution, my dear, so come along now!”
PART II
Chapter 14
The skirts of Alexa’s new black taffeta dress, belled out from her tightly corseted waist by six starched petticoats, swished and rustled with every step she took; and even when she sat or stood. Now, as she stared back at her reflection in the mirror, it was like observing a stranger, only slightly resembling the old Alexa who had looked back smiling and merry-eyed, sometimes even going so far as to pull a face or stick out an impudent tongue. But this sober-looking person she saw would never do anything so childish or look so happily carefree either. Looking back at her was a somberly clad woman who might have been thirty years old, with a pale, drawn-looking face and slate grey eyes that seemed enormous and quite blank, as if they had been painted on. The colorless lips that were held firmly together had surely never learned how to smile. Only the bold, dark slash of her brows belonged to that other Alexa, who would never have worn her hair in such a severe style either—all pulled back from her face and parted in the center with tightly woven braids coiled into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck. Every curl or riotous tendril that tried to escape had been firmly pinned in place. Why, it’s not me at all, she thought involuntarily before the treacherous thought too was firmly caught back. The me of only a week ago no longer existed; changed irrevocably by a cynical, jungle-eyed stranger who had invaded her life for a short time and had caused almost everything that had happened since.
She must learn to control her thoughts, to prevent them from straying in spite of herself. Suddenly, Alexa had to squeeze her eyes shut, gripping very tightly at the edge of her dressing table. How unreal, how impossible it still seemed that so many shattering events could have taken place within the space of hours—altering her whole existence and leaving her with this cold numbness that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her to freeze even her mind. She moved about and ate without tasting anything and slept when she was told to and even spoke when she was spoken to without remembering afterwards what had been said or what she had said. Everything familiar and comfortable that she used to take for granted was so different now. Even her relationships with the people she had been closest to seemed to have changed, and sometimes she felt as if she wasn’t real either but caught up in a bad dream she couldn’t wake up from. She was sleepwalking, as Freddy used to... Alexa’s mind pulled quickly away from that thought, and she chose instead to remember the look on Mrs. Langford’s face when Sir John, holding her firmly by the elbow to keep her from turning coward, had led her into the house that night.
“So you have found her after all. You cannot imagine how sick with worry we have been, Charlotte and I, as the long hours ticked by. Naturally, neither of us could sleep a wink! I must tell you that I did try to make your servant understand that you had to be informed, but he... Ohh!” Belatedly taking in Alexa’s bedraggled appearance, Mrs. Langford had gasped as if she was choking, her hand going to her throat. “Oh, dear heaven! I cannot believe that I am seeing... No!”
By then, Alexa had begun to feel very strange, as if all the voices she heard were coming from some distance away and had nothing to do with her. But she would not, at any cost, give Mrs. Langford the satisfaction of seeing her fall into a guilty swoon at her feet.
Breathing deeply, as she recalled doing then, the young woman dressed in black let herself sink onto the padded stool before her mirrored dressing table, keeping her eyes fastened shut as she tried to remember everything that had been said. But only snatches of the conversation that had gone on over her head and some isolated phrases came back to mind. “Compromised”—she remembered that word very well, and what it seemed to mean. Uncle—oh dear, she really must remember to call him Sir John—had explained that he and Alexa had been strolling on the beach together, talking of the future. Had he used her story, in part at least? That part was hard to recall now, but she did remember the
look of venomous chagrin on Mrs. Langford’s face and more tears from Charlotte. And Mrs. Langford had actually kissed her wetly on both cheeks as she almost hissed with deadly sweetness, “So lucky!” Alexa had almost laughed. If Mrs. Langford only knew that her dearest, most gallant Uncle John had gone to the length of pretending he wished to marry her only in order to save her reputation!
“Alexandra has had quite enough nervous strain for one night, I think. Must insist she go off to bed at once— Velu!—while you and I continue our discussion, eh, Mrs. Langford? Know I can count on you to help out, of course. Colonel Langford’s a lucky man, and I shan’t fail to tell him so when I see him next. Hope he might consent to being best man at the wedding—unless Alexandra changes her mind before then. Woman’s privilege, you know!”
“Oh, but I’m positive Miss Howard would never dream of doing so, not when...one of our most eligible and elusive bachelors, if I may say so.”
Words had followed her, but she had been, by then, wrapped in a cocoon of sheer exhaustion, and nothing made sense or mattered either. She’d had a hot bath and several cups of hot tea, and had felt relieved that all responsibility had been taken from her; that she could escape, for the moment, from the effort of explaining, thinking, remembering anything she would rather not remember. She had still been the old Alexa, whose moods were as different as sun and shadow and who could push carelessly out of her mind anything she did not care to think about—occupying it instead with something else, something new. In that “then” time, there had been nothing capable of keeping her upset or depressed for too long, and oh, why couldn’t she have continued that way? Why couldn’t everything in the enchanted garden she once lived in have remained unchanged and unchangeable? Who needed Princes to break down fairy walls meant to keep all who dwelt within their magic boundaries safe? Because when the walls collapsed and crumbled she had been unprepared and unready—helpless and far too vulnerable.
When Alexa’s eyes opened to look into their own reflection, they looked almost black, tormented and staring as her clenched fists pressed into her temples as if to grind out all sound and thought. But how could one stop thinking?
Thoughts formed pictures in her mind. Sir John’s study and herself seated comfortably in one of his wing chairs. “You’ll join me in a spot of cognac? Despite the fact that it’s called after that blighter Napoleon, it’s excellent stuff. Although you needn’t mention that I offered you any.”
Even then, she had not taken any of it seriously but only a ruse to save her, and her reputation, from Mrs. Langford’s vicious tongue. Until Sir John had made her realize, although in the gentlest and kindest way possible, what kind of predicament she might have found herself in if he had not stepped in.
“But I’ve heard you say so many times that you enjoyed a bachelor’s life and would never marry! How could I let you sacrifice yourself just because I was so stupidly thoughtless?”
“And, my dear, I wouldn’t dream of expecting you to sacrifice your youth and beauty and capacity for living for an old fogey like me. I’ve always wanted the best for you—every opportunity life has to offer, freedom of choice above all. You’ll have it, too. Either way, I mean to make sure of that. Only, getting back to what’s more urgent, there’s always the possibility, you see? Finger-counting— not that I’m trying to tell you conception is as easily and quickly accomplished as some think. But if it should happen, then...romantic elopement, you see!”
“But, I do not think you... That is...” She had tried to tell him that his sacrifice was needless, that she was still... But was she? “Men will say anything...” he’d said. Could he have lied to her, in case she accused him? What did she really know about him?
While Alexa stammered with embarrassment and hesitated over her choice of words, Sir John had stricken her into silence with his brusquely delivered speech.
“My dear, I want you to know that... Well, to put it quite bluntly, even if it comes to pass that we are married there’ll be no question of...hmm...conjugal rights, you know. Not possible in any case—battle scars! Explain it later, if you don’t understand. And as for the rest of it, well, you might want to know you won’t have to worry about being tied to an old codger for too long. Wouldn’t want you to tell anyone else—our secret, eh?—but the damn fool doctors tell me I’ll be gone in a year—eighteen months if I’m lucky and take care of myself, hah! Point is, though, that you’d be a very rich young widow. Able to pick and choose from the very best, live in any way and any style you choose.”
Choose, he had said. At the time she had not wanted to think of the meaning of what she had been told and had put all her efforts into not letting him see how deeply upset she was. But already—she could see it now—the safe, solid foundations of her life had started to crumble and nothing would ever be the same again. Never, ever! What she had left was choices. Belatedly, too many different choices.
“Alexa!” She heard Aunt Harriet’s voice, impatient and brusque, and the sound of her black leather boots going along the polished wood floor of the passageway. “I trust you will be down in a very few minutes. They are all here.” Thank goodness Harriet had gone on instead of opening her door to discover her staring into the mirror.
With an effort, Alexa lowered her fists from her aching temples and unclenched them, wiping her clammy palms down the sides of her rustly black gown that was buttoned all the way up to the high neck where she had pinned an ivory and jet brooch. Black was such an unsuitable color for a young woman, she had always been told. And she had never liked black, for it reminded her of the carrion crows who hopped along the tree branches outside her room and watched her with their beady black eyes. Oh, she hated black! But today, wearing black suited her mood—and after all, black was also the color of mourning.
Downstairs the usually sunny and airy morning room that had been her mama’s favorite room in the house looked so different with all the wooden shutters tightly closed and black crepe draped over the delicate white and gold French Provincial furniture that had been brought here all the way from England. Entering to take her place between Harriet and her father, Alexa found herself wondering almost savagely why everybody felt they must converse in hushed whispers. Did they imagine that the dead could hear and might be disturbed in their permanent sleep? The dead. What difference could it make now if they all sat here with their hands clasped together and their heads bowed while the bishop, who had come all the way from Kandy, and the little bald vicar from the church in Gampola read the funeral service? The dead couldn’t hear. The dead couldn’t know or care!
“It will be just the family and a very few close friends. That’s the way your father wishes it.” Aunt Harriet, in her usual competent way, had taken charge and seen to everything while their whole private little world was collapsing about them. Her father looked as if he wasn’t really here with them. He had been locked in his room when Alexa had arrived from Colombo yesterday, and she had not seen him until now. Harriet had said it was better so. In his black suit, with his shoulders hunched and his eyes unfocused, he had not yet shown her any sign of acknowledgment or recognition; a sad stranger who had taken the place of the confident, joking Papa she remembered.
The bishop cleared his throat as a signal that the service was about to begin, and Harriet pushed a leather-bound prayer book into Alexa’s black-gloved hands. She could not help glancing sideways. Was Papa really aware of anything that was taking place? Was he actually reading the words in the book he looked down at? Or was he thinking as she was that solemn phrases and responses read ceremonially out of a book could not assuage grief, any more than words of comfort and reassurance, no matter how well meant, could ease the pain of loss. The so-called “barbaric” customs that prevailed in other cultures and other parts of the world were surely more natural. What was more natural after all than to weep and wail and tear your hair and your garments until all the feelings of pain and anger at Death the Robber were spent? And to Buddhists and Hindus death was not an end but
a new beginning, like passing through a doorway into another room.
The monotonous buzzing of a fly somewhere in the room seemed to form a counterpoint to the droning voices and hushed responses. A funeral service, not a burial service, for the climate of Ceylon did not allow for delays and opened coffins that friends and relatives could parade past dutifully. No, the burial had already taken place by the time that the mail coach had delivered a dazed and confused Alexa back home. By then there had already been two freshly dug graves in the Gampola cemetery, and only Martin Howard and his sister Harriet had been present to watch the moist earth cover up the coffins that contained the mortal remains of Victorine and Frederick Howard, deceased.
Measles, Harriet had said. “Measles, of all things! First a feverish cold, and then... Your mama never said a word about not having had the malady herself, and of course she insisted on staying up night and day to nurse Freddy. Martin and I had it as children, and neither of us thought that she might not have. I suppose her system had become too weak to resist the sickness from all the sleepless nights and not eating properly, and she would not have the doctor over until they were both so ill that I took matters into my own hands. By then, of course, there was-nothing he could do. Brain fever. How could any of us have guessed? I saw no point in sending for you, since you have not had the measles yourself and it would have done no good to have had another patient on our hands.” Ah, strong, always practical Harriet.
Alexa’s fingers had begun to ache from gripping them together. Her neck and her shoulders ached as well—physical, outside hurts that even helped in some peculiar way. But inside herself she felt as if her heart had turned to ice. Perhaps Papa felt that way too as he stared vacantly down at his prayer book without turning over the pages while his lips moved automatically when it was time to make the responses. She had noticed how bloodshot his eyes were and how his hands shook as they held the prayer book; and she had wanted, for an instant, to fling her arms about him and bury her face against his shoulder that had always seemed so strong and reliable while she let the ice inside her melt into tears. But he hadn’t even seemed to see her or realize that she was standing there beside him, and so she had said nothing and done nothing, suddenly understanding in a painful, adult kind of way that he needed the protection of his self-imposed isolation that detached him, for a time at least, from the unbearable agony of reality.
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