Forcing himself out of his daze, he studied the hieroglyphics more intently. Hieroglyphics which she drew. She had spoken her prophecies in his language, a language he couldn’t ignore, a language she did not know. She had spoken to him in a manner she knew he could hear.
Reluctantly he turned his head to stare at his book of translations, which he hadn’t opened in weeks. Then he looked at Alita’s painting.
Val Huntington, the Captain of the 7th Dragoon Guards and the Earl of Ravensdale, opened his book of translations and began to work.
47
Domestic Tranquility
“Alita, won’t you paint with me?” Lady Elaina asked quietly, pretending to consider her canvas when she would have far preferred to toss it in the fireplace, which was where it belonged.
“No, Ma-ma, not just now.” Without moving her gaze, Alita ran her fingers along the delicate leaves of the blue hydrangea in a vase even as the lavender chiffon curtains moved slightly in the breeze.
Lady Elaina sat with Alita daily, limiting both her work at the hospital and her political and social activities. For a woman who had been likened to a cat on hot bricks, the picture of domestic tranquility she presented as she painted, embroidered, played music, and had tea with Alita surely gave pause to those who knew her well.
Now my daughter needs me.
Sitting on a lilac satin fainting couch while staring out the window, Alita’s face was pinched and her mouth down-turned. Her buttercream velvet robe, which used to look so well on her only served to amplify the sallow shades of her skin.
It seemed the double duress of having her heart broken and breaking someone else’s had been more than Alita could bear. According to the duchess, Alita had been painting frantically for the last week they were in Cairo, barely sleeping or eating, which had added to her ill health.
One thing Elaina knew. William Priestly was honestly devoted to Alita, visiting her almost daily. He didn’t seemed to see or care that she was losing her bloom.
Elaina shook her head. I can’t help but think it was a mistake to let that one go.
She began to doubt her daughter’s judgment for the first time in her life.
“Why don’t you wish to paint, Alita?” Lady Elaina asked, attempting to keep the worry out of her voice. This was unprecedented. Alita had drawn and painted since was three years old. She had always before found pleasure and even solace in painting, and her parents couldn’t have stopped her from producing art if they had wished to.
“I won’t say the last picture I painted will be my last, but it took something out of me I am unable to recapture,” Alita stated simply.
“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?”
Alita would not even look at her, much less answer her.
“Alita, you are worrying me.” Lady Elaina sighed heavily, even as she managed to splatter green pain on her artist’s frock. “What are you staring at so intently?”
“Just a little hummingbird. He’s going to tire himself out with all that activity.”
“A little activity might do you a bit of good, my dear,” she muttered.
“Those poor little birds are so busy, and then they die.”
“Hmmm…I see.” But she didn’t. “Alita, I do need some assistance. What do you think I can do to improve this painting?”
Lady Elaina could see Alita was not going to budge, so she took the painting to her, smearing paint on her hands in the process.
“Oh, my. If you…if only there was a touch of…”Alita stole glances at her mother’s poorly executed renditions and, in her charity, sought to offer gentle suggestions. Lady Elaina knew herself to be a terrible painter.
Most fortunate, indeed.
Even in her exhaustion Alita could not help but offer assistance. She was so kindhearted she was unable to view anyone as a hopeless case, which Lady Elaina knew herself to be but was remiss to divulge.
After several weeks of this exercise, at some point Alita picked up a tablet to illustrate her point.
Lady Elaina knew herself to be a gifted musician, an educated nurse and mathematician, not to mention an astute politician. And yet, on more than one occasion, it served Lady Elaina’s purpose well that she was thoroughly untalented in the arena of Alita’s interests.
“Oh, Mother, no! Don’t cut the flower there!”
“Here then?” Lady Elaina asked, moving the sharp scissors closer to the precious plant.
“Stop! You’ll kill it, Mother!” Slowly Alita moved toward her across the dark walnut floor, concern written all over her face. “Allow me to do it. Please.”
“Of course, dear. It wouldn’t do for a nurse to kill anything.”
While Alita painted and arranged flowers, she began to speak, the activities apparently freeing some of the suppression her mind had self-imposed. “Did Papa know he loved you from the first? ‘There was never anyone for me but Elly,’ he always says.”
“Yes, I believe so.” Lady Elaina set her brush down, even as the familiar pain resurfaced. “But I didn’t know I loved him. Well, I knew, but I couldn’t allow myself to know what I knew. If that makes any sense.”
“Not truly. How could you hesitate, Ma-ma, from the first moment of knowing him?” Alita asked, perplexed. “His character, his intelligence, his looks—all remarkable. You are so perfect for each other.”
“It seems nonsensical now. But recall I was the daughter of a duke. Your father was the son of a tenant farmer, with no other profession eminent. Our being together was, frankly, ridiculous. It was unheard of. Much of his education began with the books I provided.”
“And now he is a world-famous scientist.”
Lady Elaina sighed. “I should have been able to see beyond societal expectations—I did with everything else—but I had aspirations. It was my gift and my curse.”
“Aspirations?” Alita sighed, her lip quivering. “How could anything possibly be more important than true love?”
“I was not like other girls, Alita. I rebelled against having no identity of my own. Unfortunately, I allowed the most undesirable aspects of society to blind me to true love.”
“When did you know…that you loved Papa?”
“When I met Jon next, he had obtained respectability, having completed his doctorate at King’s College. I would have married him in a heartbeat. There was no hiding from my heart any longer.” Lady Elaina shook her head. “However, it was too late…Or so I thought.”
“Why, Ma-ma?” Alita asked anxiously, moving forward in her chair, her eyes recapturing some of their glow. “Why was it too late?”
“I had hurt him so badly he didn’t want me any longer.” She looked away. “It added insult to injury for me to want him now that he had respectability in the eyes of the world.”
“So why didn’t you marry someone else?”
“I didn’t want anyone else.” Lady Elaina raised her eyebrows as she looked up, somewhat startled by Alita’s expression. “I don’t know how to explain the workings of my mind, Alita. I was never practical. The only time I was practical was the worst mistake I ever made.”
“Not choosing Papa?” Alita whispered.
Lady Elaina nodded. “If I couldn’t have precisely what I wanted, I never stood for second-best. I had my profession, I had dear friends, I had wealth, and I had no intention of giving all that up to revolve around a husband who did not engage my heart.” She laughed. “And who would want such a wife, anyway?”
“No one except Lord Phillip Priestly.” Alita stared at her mother wide-eyed, giggling in spite of herself. “Only the catch of the season.”
“Oh, that.” Lady Elaina Stanton shrugged. “Phillip didn’t love me, so that can’t be counted. That marriage would have been all about promoting Phillip’s success without regard for my aspirations.”
“I believe you may have misjudged the depth of Lord Maidenstone’s love,” Alita replied softly. “But I understand being able to settle for no one else but the love of your life.”
W
hat happened in Egypt? Elaina knew there was another suitor involved, but her mother had had surprisingly little information on this score. The duchess seemed as confused as anyone.
“You, I think, are different, dear heart. You want to be married and to have a family. You might be happily married to any number of gentlemen, I expect.”
“It is not a gentle man whom I want,” Alita whispered, almost inaudible. Elaina caught her breath as she heard the pain in her daughter’s voice.
At least there was a voice at all. Alita had only started speaking of it.
“Who is it you want, dearest?” Lady Elaina took her daughter’s hand.
“A bewildered, broken soldier who wants to save the world.”
“Have you seen…will you be together?”
Alita shook her head. “I have seen.” Her breath caught in her throat. “We will not be together.”
“There is a young man who is perfect for you, Alita. Perhaps you simply haven’t discovered him yet.”
“I have,” Alita said solemnly. “I’m not perfect for him.” Tears began to form. “Ma-ma, I don’t know what is wrong with me.”
“Nothing is the matter with you, my dear.” Lady Elaina put her arm around her daughter. “You are simply in love and feel just as you ought.”
“But it hurts so much.”
“Of course. If the love were not so deep and not so real, it would not hurt so much.”
“Did it ever stop hurting when you were apart from Papa?” Alita dotted her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Not truly, but much of the time I was so busy to the point of distraction. And if I was lonely, I tried to find someone else who was lonely and reduce their pain. Then it didn’t hurt as much.” She shrugged. “I had to either accept my fate and live with it or marry someone else. I chose the former.” And the pain kept us united so we might one day be together.
Lady Elaina smoothed her daughter’s hair and kissed her forehead.
She knew Alita would come to a solution acceptable to her, but Elaina hoped her precious daughter didn’t have six years of suffering ahead of her, as she herself had.
Or worse, a lifetime.
48
A Prophecy Realized
I owe this newfound sense of value, still both strange and intoxicating to experience, solely and exclusively to my darling Alita. Val paused, looking up from his notebook to stare at the now-framed painting, his prized possession and a reminder of so many forceful words once spoken to him. The memory was like an otherworldly Dvorak melody only he could hear.
Why don’t I go after her? He laughed out loud, the answer obvious as he stared at his words. She who had been remarkably prophetic, who had shown herself to be a seer of incredible accuracy, had said it would not be.
What more do I need than that?
She must have seen into her own heart, it certainly wasn’t his.
By her own admission, Alita was either already spoken for or no longer cared for him. Probably both. His only option was to thank God for the time they had together. And to let her go.
He had written her a hundred letters. And mailed none of them. How could he? What would he say?
I love you, return to Egypt and watch me work.
He had nothing to offer Alita Stanton, now more than ever. Captain Lord Ravensdale was floundering…and unfinished. He was only now beginning to have the slightest idea what he wanted to do with his life, not knowing if it was feasible or possible. He was in no position to take a wife.
A wife. She was probably married to that Sherwood fellow by now. Val let his pen trail off the page as he clenched his fist.
He didn’t know where this path would lead him. He was, at this seasoned age, starting a new journey. A man who asked a woman for her hand in marriage had to know what he was about and be firmly established.
Especially with a woman who was the granddaughter of the Duke of Yarbury, and heiress to the Stanton fortune.
For six months, Val had been applying himself to his work, as well as beginning a personal diary of his reflections, something he had never undertaken before he met Alita.
I embraced the view of diminished worthiness and disposability with which both my family and country beheld me and, on a deeper, unspoken level, viewed myself in the same light.
I am determined I shall live. Possibly for the first time.
Val paused from his writing, formulating his thoughts, attempting to put words to his emerging observations.
“My dear friend died by my own hand, leaving his children fatherless, I can never excuse that act. Nor will I ever again be the man who performed that murder. I pray for Banafrit’s soul, and I pray I shall have an opportunity to redeem my own. I can add nothing more on that score.
Val knew he could kill in self-defense or to protect his country or his loved ones, but he would never again kill, unquestioning, at someone else’s orders, for greed, self-aggrandizement, or for the pleasure of revenge.
He glanced at the beautifully rendered painting. Strange how a terrible scene of suffering was so dear to him, warming his heart merely to rest his eyes upon it. On the surface, the rendition meant one thing, but it represented something entirely different to him.
Transformation.
A found life.
As for Alita’s claiming I possess a propensity for diplomacy, the very idea remains preposterous in my mind.
But it was also preposterous that he had written a book slated to be published. Which was, in fact, the case.
Translating an ancient story of particular interest, he had submitted the idea to a British publisher with his own variations, aiming the story towards older children: A young Egyptian warrior who served the pharaoh deeply longed to be an artisan and to paint the sacred hieroglyphics in the pyramids, ensuring the pharaoh’s entrance into eternity. This desire burned inexplicably in the young man’s heart although his family was of the proud warrior class and belittled his ambitions.
The narration told of the young man’s visions teaching him the art of hieroglyphics, though he had received no formal training. Were the visitations from the dead, the angels, or a product of the young man’s imagination? This was for the reader to decipher, in the same way hieroglyphics must be interpreted and translated. Val included drawings of the hieroglyphs to fuel a child’s curiosity.
Centuries later, a man on horseback fell from his horse and discovered a hidden pyramid, magically hidden beneath the sand. The fallen rider views the young warrior’s paintings on the walls of the pyramid of Unas, the last king of the Fifth Dynasty, revealing to the reader our warrior artist realized his dream of creation rather than the destruction of life.
The publisher was enthusiastic. Your book draws on the intense interest the English-speaking public has for ancient Egypt. Most submissions in a similar vein do not have the legitimacy and scholarly aspects of this fascinating tale of fiction.
Or is it fact? the publisher added with humorous intent.
Val held the letter in his hand, dated six months after Alita Stanton’s departure from Egypt.
The Immortal Warrior, by Captain Lord Valerius Huntington, 5th Earl of Ravensdale, to be published. The inscription…To Abdul-Rashid and Jendayi and to their father, Banafrit, who gave his life for his beloved country, Egypt, and for the freedom of his people. He lost his life but not his honor.
The Earl of Ravensdale with a published children’s book. He knew his family would be embarrassed rather than proud.
Val shrugged, dismissing the thought. For the first time in a long time, he had a sense of purpose.
My life is a canvas upon which a beautiful dream is unfolding, as if some fantastic imagining crossed over from the realm of dreams to the realm of reality. The only thing wanting is a qualified painter to apply the colors. I am a color-blind painter who is grappling for the paints and throwing them everywhere, dropping and misapplying them.
Val’s lips formed a half smile as he recalled reading The Immortal Warrior to Rashid and Je
ndayi, watching intently for their reactions. He returned to his private study to make changes accordingly. In subsequent stories he was developing, he started with a direct translation of hieroglyphics, embellishing them with his own imagination before running the stories by Rashid and Jendayi.
For a short time they could all forget their pain in traveling to another world together. The children craved his companionship, while he looked to their responses. Somehow, visits that had been so difficult became mutually rewarding.
For the thousandth time, he desperately wished he could give Rashid and Jendayi back their family instead of a book. Banafrit had been reduced to a single phrase in a dedication.
It took an adult mind to understand their father was merely a casualty of war.
A child’s heart knew the truth.
Val set his notebook aside and picked up the letter from The Gresham Publishing Company in London for the hundredth time, turning the formerly crisp and elegant paper round in his hand. When he began the translations, he had been acting on blind faith—blind faith in Alita, not in himself—and she had been correct on every point.
He moved the kerosene lamp on his desk to improve the lighting. Alita had seen another reality, and because he believed her, that possibility had been realized.
Val still didn’t believe in even the next step, but he did believe in Alita, inciting him to take that step.
God, I miss her.
The Nile outside his window faded, replaced by the stars in the vast Egyptian sky. He could still hear the flow of the longest river in the world though he could not see it.
She has never left me. She is with me every day, and I remain irrevocably changed from having known her.
The torturous longing filling me when I think of her is almost a comfort. Because it keeps me close to her. The slight smile at the corner of her mouth, scintillating in its simplicity. The twinkle in her eyes and the utter lack of pretense in her nature. Her steady, unflinching gaze, ethereal and translucent. Her bravery and determination, meeting me equally in all matters and facing my attempts at intimidation. Her quick intelligence and constant observations.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic Page 37