“Please come at once if you possibly can. I cannot explain what prompts me to write such a frantic kind of letter, but I think you know me well enough to...”
“Alexa? Alexa, why on earth have you bolted your door?” Aunt Harriet sounded slightly out of breath from the stairs, and annoyed as well, and Alexa’s. heart had leapt into her mouth for a moment.
Recovering her wits the next instant, she called out in a sulky-sounding voice that she only wished to be left quite alone for a while until she felt less upset. She could almost feel Aunt Harriet’s hesitation before she said at last in an exaggeratedly patient tone, “Very well, my dear. I suppose you will have it your own way, as usual. But I did want to have a little talk with you before dinner, and I am quite sure you must agree that we have much to discuss.”
“Well—perhaps. But only if I feel I am in a better frame of mind.”
“I hope you are not going to throw one of your childish tantrums again, Alexa. This is no time for that. Very well, I will come back in an hour then.”
Footsteps retreated, and with a ragged sigh Alexa turned her attention to finishing her letter. It was only when it was addressed and sealed that she had slipped it under her mattress for safekeeping that she remembered with a sinking feeling of dismay that she had no money for postage. Nor could she suddenly ask for money after the scene that had just taken place.
Alexa started to rack her brains, almost driven frantic with frustration by now. The servants? No! Too embarrassing, and they would probably not have enough saved up, not even her faithful old ayah who sent all of her meager salary to her only son and his family. The housekeeping money that Harriet always kept in her desk? But that would be stealing, and if she was discovered... No! Well then, perhaps she could find some change in one of her dresser drawers? In the pocket of a dress perhaps, or in one of her reticules. Alexa began to rummage through all of her possessions, uncaring of how Ayah would grumble when she had to tidy everything up again. Nothing—except for a few pennies.
She had begun to think, driven by sheer desperation, that perhaps if she could somehow get her letter to Letty or to Paul along with a note begging them to have it mailed for her, she might yet be “saved” (such a Gothic word!). Then a sudden thought—a faint recollection—made her narrow her eyes thoughtfully. She had gone through all of her reticules of course, but—the trunk! Mama’s blue trunk! And Mama had always left change lying about everywhere, in all of her reticules as well. Why, Alexa and Freddy used to play “treasure trove” when she would sometimes allow them to search for and keep whatever coins they could find. And the little bronze learner reticule that matched those bronze slippers had felt... Yes, when she had opened it to slip in her handkerchief, she was positive she’d heard the jingle of coins at the bottom.
Alexa had carefully put the key to the trunk into the pocket of one of her oldest gowns; and now she retrieved it, thanking her good memory while she twisted and turned until she heard the tiny click as the lock opened. It should be right on top, along with the slippers. And there it was! Opening the drawstring top, she put in her hand and began to take everything out, item by item. A handkerchief— hers. A small enameled snuffbox. Had Mama really indulged in such a nasty habit? A silk and lace handkerchief... But wait! It was knotted at one end to conceal something heavy. With some difficulty Alexa managed to untie the knot, and a heavy gold ring fell onto her lap. There was no doubt that it was gold, of course, both from its weight and... But it was a man’s signet ring. Far too big for a woman’s dainty fingers. And here was a crest she did not recognize, circled with tiny diamonds set cunningly into the gold to form the shape of a shield. Alexa frowned down at it. A very costly ring, a man’s ring. But how on earth had her mother come by it, and why had she left it here so carelessly? Was this the legacy she had meant? But even a ring of gold set with diamonds will not serve my present purpose, Alexa thought crossly. Perhaps later she might sell it if she had to, but not until she had found out whom the crest belonged to. She knotted up the ring again and then, with a burst of impatience, turned the reticule upside down onto the carpet. Ah, here were a few coins after all! They were all English coins, of course, but they would probably do. Silver shillings, more pennies, and here—a real treasure trove indeed—was a golden guinea! Setting the coins aside, Alexa began to thrust everything else back into the purse, including a folded piece of parchment that had been right at the bottom. How official it looked, despite the fact that it had been folded so many times that it almost looked crumpled.
In spite of her hurry, Alexa felt herself hesitate; and then, not quite knowing why she suddenly felt impelled to do so, she began to unfold the parchment. How creased it had become! And slightly yellowed at the edges as well. All the creases made it difficult to read at first, and even the ink had faded from what must have been black to a brownish shade. But it was still quite legible, especially when she held it closer to the lamp.
“Certificate of Marriage,” she read. At least that was printed clearly enough. Her mama’s marriage certificate?
But what a place to keep it! “Victorine Angelique Bouvard, seventeen years of age.” Only seventeen? But there must have been a mistake. This wasn’t Papa’s name at all! Perhaps the clerk at the registry had not heard right and had had to draw up yet another Certificate of Marriage; and Mama had kept this as a joke. Alexa read it over again. “Gavin Edward Dameron, aged twenty-two.” But how could there have been a mistake when there were the two signatures at the bottom? And the signatures of two witnesses as well, one of them... This was surely a day of surprises! Surely that was Sir John’s familiar signature?
Alexa sat back on her heels, beginning to feel numb. In January, eighteen hundred and twenty-one, her mother had married— not Martin Howard, her papa, but an utter stranger whose name she had never heard mentioned before. Gavin Edward Dameron. This same creased piece of paper she held in her hand had made those two man and wife. And in August of eighteen twenty-one Victorine had borne a daughter who had been named Alexandra Victoria. Not Dameron, but Howard. But how could that be possible?
Gavin Edward Dameron. Alexa remembered the scrawled initial that could have stood for almost any letter in the alphabet; but now, with his signature under her eyes, she knew that that initial had been a G. Almost without her own volition Alexa’s cold hands rummaged in the trunk and brought out the slim volume of poetry, opening it at the flyleaf. “To my Dearest and Only Love, from One whose Heart is Forever Yours!” Passionate, if rather flamboyant, sentiments, scrawled in Gavin Edward’s sprawling hand. Her... Even though her mind hesitated over the word, she had to think it. Her real father? It would account for so many half-finished sentences, so many other hints she had not noticed before. “Daughter? I have no daughter. Stillborn—both of them.”
“Victorine! God, how I loved her. Would have taken her under any conditions.”
What had Martin Howard meant? Was he her father after all? If Gavin Dameron had died in the wars or in some tragic accident soon after their marriage, then her mother could very well have turned to Martin Howard who had “always loved her” for comfort and solace.
But I have to know, Alexa thought fiercely. I won’t be able to rest now until I know everything. Now she understood Harriet’s warning about Pandora’s box and the intent way Harriet had studied her face for a while. Harriet had been afraid she might find something. But why did they not want her to know the truth?
With a cunning that was quite foreign to her nature, Alexa folded up the precious document carefully and returned it to its hiding place before she carefully closed and locked the lid of the trunk. They must not know yet. And for the sake of her own peace of mind, she must somehow find out whose daughter she really was.
Strengthened now by her feeling of resolution, Alexa began to strip off her yellow dress with a shudder of distaste. She hated that particular shade of yellow! And all those ruffles, row after row of them, had made her look and feel like a china doll. Fragile, docile, and abo
ve all, virtuous, because that was what every young lady’s dear papa expected of her, was it not? And what would he do if he knew how very close his pure and innocent little Alexa had come to losing her so-called virtue to a dark visaged stranger on a moonlit night?
“Alexa, my dear, why do you shut me out? Didn’t I make you understand why I said all those things I said? It is because I care for you so much—because I could not bear to see my Victorine’s innocent child tarnished and besmirched. You won’t stay angry at me, will you? Please, my dearest...”
Alexa could feel an involuntary shudder coursing up her spine again, and she had to close her eyes tightly before she could answer that pleading voice. “I—am not dressed. You tore my pretty new gown, you know.”
“But you can have two new gowns— three more, if you like—to replace that one. You know how sorry I am, and that I did not mean anything I said. Surely you know it? Don’t—don’t draw away from me now! I need you, don’t you know that? Would never hurt you—only protect you! Please, my dear, won’t you let me come in?”
“I told you, Papa—I am—I am not dressed. I am trying to pick out something to wear...”
“You’re alone, my dear? Got the curtains tightly drawn? Well it doesn’t matter if it’s your papa who comes in, does it? You’ll still be in private, won’t you? Know you’re a good child, my dear. Modest too. But you mustn’t feel that way with me, you know. Little Victorine...”
I am going to be sick! Oh God, I know he is drunk from the way his words slur and run together, but I cannot stand anything more! If he...
“Martin!” Oh—Alexa thought, almost abruptly—oh thank God Aunt Harriet had come! “Martin, what do you think you are about? You are making such a racket that I could hear you halfway down the stairs. And you are quite intoxicated again, aren’t you? You had better come back to your room with me before you make a complete fool of yourself.”
“But I have to talk to her, Harry. She’s angry with me now. Can’t have her staying that way— Victorine never stayed angry! Why isn’t she more like my Victorine? Victorine trusted me with her, didn’t she? Must make sure Alexa won’t be led astray. Women—so weak!”
“You can tell me about the weakness of women when we have both arrived in your room, Martin. And in the meantime, you mustn’t frighten Alexa with all these wild, drunken speeches. Come along, Martin, you can talk to Alexa later. Isn’t that so, my dear?”
“Yes—and thank you, Aunt Harriet. We will talk later, won’t we? After I have found clothes to put on.”
Through the door she heard protesting mumbles that were drowned out by Harriet’s sharp, imperative tones; and at last, while she held her breath, footsteps that moved away—followed within a minute or so by the slamming of a door.
It was only then that all the stiffness left her body, and Alexa crumpled where she stood like a rag doll with the sawdust running out of it.
Chapter 22
Dreams were such pleasant escapes, like fairy tales one chose to believe in as a child; all peopled with pretty spangled princesses and handsome princes. And in dreams, as in fairy tales, everyone lived happily ever after. Why, then, were dreams as tenuous as those little wispy swirls of mist that clung for such short moments around the hilltops before they vanished as if they had never existed? Why did nightmares never seem to end but go on and on? Dreams seldom came back, but the nightmares did—forcing her to relive everything, hear everything over and over again until there were words and phrases that seemed scorched onto the very tissues of her brain.
In all of Alexa’s nightmares there were doors. Long, dark passageways and doors. Voices behind doors—calling, crying out, quarreling. “Alexa! Alexa, don’t shut me out! It is only your loving Papa, my dear! You can be quite private with Papa, can’t you? No one shall defile you, my good, innocent child. No one but...” Papa?
Voices tearing away veils, opening up Pandora’s box that was so pretty on the outside to reveal all the ugly hidden things inside. Secrets, covered up and put away in a box, but always lurking there beneath the pleasant stage set facade.
The nightmare had already begun, although she hadn’t known it at first. She had been puzzled, she had been angry, she had been almost frantic with frustration and an almost unreasoning kind of fear that urged her to run— run barefoot and alone into the night and keep running anywhere at all as long as it was away. But no, she had always been used to facing her fears instead of running away. And that was why she had opened her own safely bolted door and walked barefoot along that wood-floored passageway that led past Harriet’s room and what had been Freddy’s room, past the empty space that had been her mother’s and to the next door, which was the very last.
She had been wearing a white cotton gown that needed pressing, but it was not one of the new doll-dresses that were so pretty and ruffled and laced. White for purity, she remembered thinking. And again and again in her nightmares she would feel under her bare feet the worn place in the thin coconut fiber matting and see the line of yellow lamplight that crept from under the door. Hear the voices, holding her there a listener, silent and motionless.
“Martin, for God’s sake, come back to your senses! She’s Victorine’s daughter, not Victorine! She looks on you as her father, not...”
“Be careful, Harriet, be careful what you say! Victorine’s daughter—part of my Victorine, all that’s left of my only love. But not my daughter, sister dear, as you well remember I’m sure. Gavin’s daughter! You remember your old beau Gavin, don’t you? Sure he was going to marry you, the way you kept him dangling in spite of my warnings. So sure of yourself and him you let him meet my Victorine. Did you know you were playing procureuse when you did, Harry? Did you?”
“Martin, there’s no use in going over and over the dead past. Dead, brother. Like Victorine.”
“No! D’you understand that? No! She’d never leave me—promised me. She loved me—ah yes, she did when she knew how patient I could be, how gentle with her. When she knew how much I loved her she started to love me too! Did that make you jealous, Harriet? That why you hated my Victorine so? Gavin wasn’t her fault. Yours! She was so innocent; not at all worldly wise as you were, even then, with your books and your clever tongue and the bon mots that made everyone laugh. But what did that get you? You let Gavin seduce my pure little angel, and you were so damned blind you did not even see what was happening under your nose until it was too late!”
“You’re losing control of yourself, Martin. Victorine’s gone and the past with her. Alexa...”
“Alexa? Ah yes—my little Victorine. Still unspoiled. Still untouched. Still is, isn’t she? You watched over her in Colombo? You didn’t let any man get too near her? Alone with her?”
“Martin, don’t you see that you have to—you must forget this—this unnatural obsession of yours. Yes, it is unnatural! I cannot allow...”
“Allow, did you say, sister? And—‘unnatural’? Alexa’s not my daughter, is she? Not my name on her birth certificate as father, is it? Not incest, my dear Harriet, if that’s your devious meaning. And it’s not for you to allow or disallow me anything! You understand? Do you?”
She was backing away from the door, step by step. Hands over her ears to cut out the sound of the voices. In her nightmares Alexa always tried to put up her hands to block them out before they could begin, but the words came through her damp palms to fill her ears. Halfway down the hall there was her door, standing open. Ayah standing there shaking her head at her, her grumbling scold like a rescue. She would keep Ayah with her. “Quick!” she told the old woman. “Bring your sleeping mat up as quickly as you can to missy’s room. Yes, now!” She must sleep here all night. If he came—if his voice came through the door, pleading and wheedling and calling her “little Victorine...”
But it was only Harriet’s voice that called, “Alexa? Alexa, you must let me in,” through her bolted door this time.
“Alexa, there are certain things that you do not understand yet, but I can only hope
that you still retain enough trust in me to do as I must advise you to do, without asking too many questions.” Harriet’s face, so gaunt, suddenly so old-looking. She had never really looked at Harriet before, had she? She had always been just “Aunt Harriet”—always there.
“I was outside his door when you were talking. So I think I do understand now. I have to go away.” Alexa’s voice, even in her own ears, sounded dead. In her nightmares the other voices were still beating against her mind, crawling into it like the ugly coconut beetles with their spiky, clinging legs.
Harriet’s voice seemed to rise and fall like sea waves or the sound of the wind outside in the monsoon season. Now only certain words, certain phrases repeated themselves in her nightmares and her memory.
“I was afraid this might... For the last few days I have been... Letty Dearborn...”
“Letty?”
“Yes. I suppose she had started to— wonder. Wrote to him, I don’t doubt. Not that she has any right to interfere, but what’s done... Anyhow, he’s staying there instead of coming straight here as he usually does. Had a note by one of her coolies a while ago, but of course I did not tell Martin. It’s the best thing for you now, though. Never mind anything I said before. It’s all changed now....”
“He? I don’t know who you mean!”
“I do hope you have been paying attention!” A return to the old, acid-tongued Aunt Harriet. “I just told you, I’m sure. Sir John Travers. Must have been Letty, but anyhow he’s here. Wants to call tomorrow. And better he than... At least I’m sure he’ll be kind to you. And you’d have everything you want too, as Lady Travers.”
“Lady Travers? Lady Travers! Ma’am?”
Alexa started up in bed, wondering why there was no movement beneath her with some part of her mind while the rest of her reveled at escaping from the nightmare.
Surrender to Love Page 27