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“With regret, my dear. With regret.”
Now the two gentlemen rose politely to their feet (Papa was swaying slightly) and the ladies could leave the table at last. Alexa had never felt such profound relief and gratitude for the existence of a custom she had always bitterly despised before.
Chapter 16
In the end it took the concerted efforts of Senhor da Rocha and two of the servants to carry Martin Howard upstairs to bed after the brandy had finally overcome him and he had fallen asleep with his head down on the dining table. And, as Alexa said fervently to Harriet afterwards, she felt that she would always owe a debt of gratitude to Letty Dearborn for having carried everything off in such a matter-of-fact, ordinary manner.
“She is the dearest, kindest woman imaginable, and so understanding. Did you notice that she never said a word about Papa afterwards, and never once asked a single prying question? And we can be quite positive of course that neither she nor Senhor da Rocha will mention anything of what took place to anyone else. I think people who are honest and n
aturally direct themselves never stoop to idle, vicious gossip.”
Harriet, who had also been more shaken than she cared to admit by the implications of her brother’s strangely erratic behavior that evening, said more sharply than she had intended: “Well, I’m sure I never said anything to imply that Letty Dearborn is a gossip or anything but a goodhearted creature and a helpful neighbor, did I? But there’s no use your trying to make a saint out of her either, just because she did her best to help us all through some very trying moments. I daresay you or I would have done the same thing under similar circumstances. We’re all merely human, with faults and fairings, my dear Alexa, and Letty has hers.”
Alexa had appeared to be attacking her tangled mass of hair rather than brushing it when Harriet had entered her room to talk with her a short while ago; and now, still far too tense and overwrought to remain calm, she flung her tortoiseshell-and-silver-backed brush away from her and sprang to her feet with her eyes flashing as she confronted her aunt.
“And if by faults and failings you mean to remind me of the nasty rumors circulated by those busybody women who are discontented with their own husbands and jealous of the freedom that Letty Dearborn has, I must tell you that I don’t give a damn for them, even if it is true that she takes lovers; for that is her own personal life, and what difference should it make to anyone else? And what is more I don’t even care if Paul da Rocha is her lover or not. He is a gentleman, and he too is kind, and intelligent, and—and I like him very much indeed and enjoy conversing with him.”
“Alexa!” Harriet started to interrupt warningly, but Alexa merely swept on defiantly, “And I might as well tell you, Aunt Harriet, that I have already accepted Mrs. Dearborn’s invitation to go to her home for dinner next week and to spend the night there, naturally!”
“Have you indeed, miss?” Harriet snapped back tartly. She snorted as she gave Alexa’s anger-flushed face a narrow-eyed look. “Hah! So you’re suddenly beginning to feel your oats now, are you, and want to prove how independent you’re getting to be? Well, my girl, let’s hope for your sake that you’re wise enough to understand that there’s a great deal of difference between freedom and license; and let’s hope that it’s not the thought of that young Portuguese senhor of Letty’s that’s the real reason for this sudden show of spirited independence! Because that would never do at all, as you should be well aware. And even if all you’re after is intelligent conversation and the company of someone young and closer to your own age than most of our friends, you’d still do best not to encourage a friendship to develop there, my dear.” As angry spots of color stained Alexa’s cheeks and her lips tightened mutinously, Harriet raised her brows before saying in an acidly sarcastic tone: “I am quite aware in what very low esteem you hold gossip and those who spread it, of course; but I must hope that you are also intelligent enough to realize that other people might not hold the same opinions. Even you have proved from your quick defense of your new friend Mrs. Dearborn that you’ve heard all the rumors and sly whispers that have been going the rounds, eh? So you must obviously realize that whether you like it or not people will talk and whisper and make ugly insinuations that others might choose to believe.”
Unable to remain silent any longer, Alexa burst out angrily: “But why should I be concerned if other people who don’t matter to me choose to spend their time twisting the truth into ugly lies if I know that everything they say is untrue? People like Mrs. Langford and her daughter, who enjoy making the very worst out of nothing more than the exchange of a smile or a few words in a language they couldn’t be troubled to learn. Why, I...”
“I hope that when your temper cools somewhat you’ll realize that you too are choosing deliberately to evade the truth, Alexa. Or certain inescapable facts, if you will.” Harriet’s voice was cold and her face hardened as she continued: “I only wish to remind you that to give people an opportunity to spread their poison would not only be a foolish and childish act of defiance that you may very well regret bitterly some day, but that you would only succeed in hurting and affecting deleteriously the very people who love you and care about you the most. And if you are not concerned for your papa’s feelings or mine, then you might think of Sir John, at least. You’d make him a laughingstock—have you thought of that? An older man with a young fiancée who shows a decided preference for a handsome and much younger man soon after their engagement? Your Mrs. Langford would make capital out of that, I’ve no doubt!” Seeing the color recede from Alexa’s face as she bit down on her lip, Harriet gave a disgusted snort and marched, stiff-backed, to the door before turning with her hand on the latch for one parting shot. “If I were you I’d be honest enough to play fair by Sir John and think up some tactful excuse to break off this engagement of yours before you start making a fool of yourself. Good night!” How dare Aunt Harriet be so unfair as to jump to all kinds of conclusions merely because she had mentioned that she liked Paul da Rocha and had enjoyed his company? And then speak down to her in such a cutting, contemptuous tone, as if she took it for granted that Alexa would... No, almost as if she had already done something terrible that put her outside the pale of society and brought disgrace and shame to her loved ones. Fists clenched at her sides, Alexa continued to glare at the door for some moments before she remembered herself and turned away abruptly, thereby avoiding the urge to throw something at it. Why, it was almost unbearable to be reminded that she should accept society’s edict that if a young man and a young woman were allowed to meet alone and unchaperoned it was inevitable that they would sin! Even he, that night on the beach, had had the insolence to imply the same thing, the hypocrite! Feeling the blood heat her face and neck, Alexa slammed both her clenched fists down on her dressing table with such force that the small crystal bud vase Mama had given her one Christmas almost toppled over. No! she told herself fiercely. No, I will not allow myself to think of it. It never happened, any of it. Only a bad dream. I will never think of it again and let those thoughts spoil everything for me. All men are not the same, thank goodness.
In an attempt to calm herself Alexa sat down on the edge of her bed and began to braid her still-tangled hair while she deliberately made herself conjure up the young Senhor da Rocha’s face in her imagination. He and Letty Dearborn had been given connecting rooms with only a door that locked on both sides between them. Did they lock it? Would that door have been quietly unlocked by now? Strange thoughts that made her uneasy and angry at herself for indulging in surmise. She didn’t want to think of anything at all tonight, not even of poor, unhappy Papa, who had to drink himself into a stupor in order to stop himself from thinking of anything painful.
Letty Dearborn, in her usual understanding way, helped Alexa to understand Papa better as they rode together the next morning. Tactfully, Paul da Rocha had dropped back some distance when Letty, riding abreast of Alexa, leaned closer to say in a voice that was soft for her: “It might help you to understand, my love, that sometimes it is so much easier to push away certain things that are too painful for the mind to accept. Deep wounds take time to heal, you know, and some find it harder than others to face what they don’t want to face. But in time...” Straightening up, she had returned abruptly to her usual cheerful manner, giving Alexa a wink before saying, “At my age, though, thinking of time only reminds me of gather ye rosebuds while ye may!” Laughing and turning her head to look back, she said, “Eh, Paul?”
While she was riding back home with Muttu still trailing her at a respectful distance, Alexa felt even more grateful to Letty Dearborn for helping her to understand the reason for Papa’s strangeness last night. Why, he hadn’t really seen her at all, because in his poor drink-befuddled mind he had managed to conjure up the image of his beloved wife in place of her daughter. No wonder he had looked so dazed, and stayed shut up in his room with his decanter of brandy to help him forget that Mama was gone. Remembering how close they had always been, Alexa felt a rush of compassion that helped erase the horrid, strangely frightening feelings of last night. I’m going to try not to think so selfishly from now on, Alexa resolved firmly. And I’m going to do all I can to help and to encourage Papa to get well again. I’ll never leave home as long as he needs me.
Time, Letty Dearborn had said. As well as all the patience and understanding we can give him, Alexa had added to herself. Alexa was to recall Letty Dearborn’s words and her own inward resolve that very afternoon when the sound of the office door opening made her look up from frowning over one of the daily account books to discover Papa standing there.
For just an instant, Alexa could feel herself freeze with inexplicable apprehension, hating herself for it soon afterwards when he said with a slight smile: “So there you are, my serious little Alexa. Poring over the books as usual, eh? Clever little mind for figures too. Can’t deny what a help you’ve been! You’re a good child, and always trying to make yourself useful, aren’t you, my dear?” He looked so tired and sad, Alexa thought painfully, but at least this time he knew her
.
“Papa? Oh, Papa, I...Aunt Harriet and I have done the very best we could but we’ve needed your strength so!”
As she started to rise from her chair, Alexa found herself stayed by the pressure of his hand on her shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze before he said almost absently: “Strength? Ah, you’re kind to say so, dear, but I’ve never possessed a really strong nature, I’m afraid. Not like your Aunt Harriet. Not a physical coward, mind—cannon balls and shells never made me afraid. But there are other things....” He had begun to wander aimlessly about the small, cluttered space with his hands thrust into the pockets of his old shooting jacket that needed patching at the elbow, his shoulders slumped. “Harriet’s always told me I wasn’t capable of facing reality, you know. Suppose she’s right as usual. I...”
“Papa, you mustn’t think that way. I love you and there’s no need to explain or to apologize for anything to me.”
“Yes...” He had patted her head almost absently in the way he used to when she was much younger. “You’re a kind-hearted girl, my dear. A rewarding child. Always quick at picking things up—a great help with the accounts. Afraid I’m not quite up to them yet; my head sometimes seems to get... But perhaps soon, eh? Can’t keep you slaving away indoors all the time, can we? Harriet was just saying that I must begin to...think the word she used was ‘involve’ myself in work again. Very forceful woman in her way, my sister, Harriet, although she’s a tower of strength when you need her. Your mama...”
He had stopped his pacing abruptly, and Alexa’s breath caught in her throat when she saw his mouth work slightly. Should she say something very quickly to redirect his thoughts before he became too upset again? Or should she...
“I had almost forgotten, you know. Promise I made to her just before she began to ramble in her mind. The fever. Well, I suppose Harriet is right in saying there is no point in dwelling on the sadness of the past when I have so many beautiful memories to sustain me. More than most men can say, I’m sure. But here—before I forget again—she asked me to give you this key, my dear. It unlocks the old tin trunk she’s had since she was a girl. Souvenirs—the usual girlish mementos, I suppose. Pressed flowers, old sketch books, favorite gowns she couldn’t bear to part with, those little kid shoes...” His voice shook before he cleared his throat loudly. “Well, she wanted you to have it. Her only legacy, she said. You may do as you please with everything, of course, but perhaps...perhaps you would not mind...”
“Yes, Papa?” Alexa felt her voice sting and her throat contract achingly so that her voice emerged almost as a croak. No, she had to warn herself sternly. It would be the very worst thing she could do—to cry.
Clearing his throat again, he said in a diffident, almost pleading voice: “Perhaps one night at dinner—when there will only be ourselves, naturally—it would please me very much if you wear something of hers. I don’t like the ugly way women dress these days. She always looked so lovely, so ethereal almost, in the classical simplicity of the Grecian style. But I suppose I’d better leave you to the accounts, eh? Think I’ll go back upstairs and lie down for a little while. Seems to help....”
The key felt warm against the coldness of her palm as Alexa remained staring sightlessly at the door Papa had just closed gently behind him. A small, silver-colored key. Her fingers had closed almost convulsively over it when he had given it to her off his key ring. All of her mother’s girlish souvenirs, her dearest memories. Favorite gowns and shoes, pressed flowers. Had Mama ever kept a diary? Had she been silly and giggly and dreamed of knights in shining armor? Mama had always been Mama; and before now she had somehow never thought of Mama having once been her age, with the same uncertainties and questions about life and the same feelings. Had she ever experienced the frightening, overpowering sensation of being lost to everything but a strange inexplicable need for...for...
No! With an effort, Alexa opened her cramped fingers and looked down at the key that lay in her palm. Mama’s memories would all have been sweet and pretty and clean. She and Papa had loved each other, and theirs had been a perfect love. All Mama’s souvenirs would also be souvenirs of her papa, of course. Letters they had exchanged when he was off to the wars—perhaps a locket containing a lock of his hair. Her own wedding dress that she had kept for her daughter to wear some day; a symbol of the kind of true love every woman dreamed of finding.
Why, Mama had almost never spoken of her girlhood or her young womanhood or of anything that had happened before she had met and married Papa, Alexa realized with a feeling of surprise. She and Mama had hardly ever had any real talks at all, for it had always been Aunt Harriet she had turned to for advice and guidance, and Aunt Harriet who had taken charge of her education and had made the decisions. I never really knew Mama, she thought suddenly and felt her eyes sting again before she squared her shoulders determinedly and took a deep breath before slipping the little key into the pocket of her gown.
