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“With my mother’s few personal possessions, which are all I have left of her? I do not think of it as either ‘poking about’ or ‘meddling,’ dear Aunt!” The taken-aback, almost shocked expression on Harriet’s face encouraged Alexa to continue in the same stiffly cold voice. “It was Papa who gave me the key to my mother’s old trunk and told me Mama wished me to have it to do as I please with its contents. Under the circumstances, you’ll forgive me for saying that I saw no reason why I should ask your permission to enter my mother’s room to look for something that now belongs to me.”
“Harriet, why what is the matter? Heard loud voices. ...Ah. You did find it after all, my dear, so I must have remembered...wanted you to have it. No one else. Promised Victorine. Harriet, what have you done with her? Put her out of her own room...?”
As Papa stood there swaying as he peered into the room, his brow creased with puzzlement that was turning to annoyance, Harriet put her hand on his arm and almost shook it as she said quickly: “Hush, Martin! And try not to make a fool of yourself, pray. You should remember very well that I told you the doctor ordered everything possible taken out and burned to prevent the infection from spreading to others. Like Alexa, who did not have the measles in childhood!”
“Oh...”
With his shoulders slumping again as the distant look returned to his eyes, Papa had already turned to leave when Harriet looked angrily at Alexa and hissed under her breath, “You see how easily upset he is? Now he’ll probably forget—” She broke off when her brother turned back again to smile somewhat pathetically at Alexa with his head cocked inquiringly to one side.
“Ah, but there my sister’s wrong. Some things I don’t forget, eh, my dear? Promises, for instance. Promised me you’d wear one of your mama’s pretty gowns down to dinner one night, you remember? The pale green, my favorite! Little bronze slippers she’d wear with it and an embroidered reticule to match. Quite the thing, you know; and how proud I was to be escorting her the first night she wore it. Think every other man envied me! You remember, don’t you, Harriet? You were there that night too, with—”
“I have never chosen to dwell in the past, Martin, as you should know very well. But I’m sure that if Alexa made you a promise she will surely oblige you tonight, now that she has found what she was searching for at last.” Turning to Alexa, Harriet added expressionlessly, “I’ll send one of the servants upstairs to carry the trunk into your room for you, shall I? You might find it easier that way. And then I think we should all take a nice long nap before dinner. Don’t you agree, Alexa?”
In spite of her brusque, almost caustic tone, Alexa noticed with a slight, unwilling pang that Harriet’s face had suddenly begun to look grey and pinched and old; making her swallow the words she had meant to blurt out and say stiffly instead, “Yes, of course, Aunt Harriet.”
“Well, if Victorine thinks I should rest, then perhaps I will. Perhaps I will.”
“Papa...!”
“Will you let him alone? He’ll be changed again by tonight if he’s allowed to rest!”
Harriet’s fingers grasped Alexa’s arm, halting the rest of her impulsive speech until he had wandered away and she could argue. “But don’t you see that if I do wear one of Mama’s gowns it might only help to make matters worse? And I did not really promise. I just...did not say anything when he suggested it.”
“Then if you had really hoped that he would forget about it, perhaps you should have waited longer before claiming your mother’s legacy. We can only hope, I suppose, that it doesn’t turn out to be like Pandora’s box.” Harriet’s face had become stonily expressionless again to match her voice as she continued without inflection: “But I suppose it’s too late for regrets now, and if Martin believes you made him a promise, I think you had better humor him, or he might become even more upset—and angry, as well as hurt. I do happen to understand my brother much better than you do or ever could, my dear Alexa—as I’ve said before. I’ll have the trunk brought to your room at once, and if you will find the green gown and give it to Ayah I will see that it is pressed for tonight And I’ll come up early to help you with your hair, if you’d like. Your mother never would cut hers, even if it was the latest fashion, and I can remember helping her quite often.”
I wonder if I ever really knew Aunt Harriet
either? Can any human being really know another? The trunk had been carried into Alexa’s room, all dusted off; but now, even after inserting the key into the rusting padlock, Alexa felt curiously reluctant to turn it. Pandora’s box, Harriet had hinted grimly. And suddenly it seemed almost like an invasion of privacy, even though it had been Mama’s last wish that Alexa should have her pathetic little trunk and all its treasured contents. Not Harriet, not even Papa, as close as they had always been. Alexa, the daughter who had always been more Harriet’s than Victorine’s. But even after that thought had driven her into opening the trunk with some difficulty, Alexa still hesitated to touch anything inside as she deliberately procrastinated by choosing to recall the dialogue between Harriet and herself just a few minutes earlier. Following in the wake of the servant who had carried in the trunk, Harriet had actually sounded quite affable as she said, “Well, here you are, my dear! You’ll want it placed under that window there where you’ll get enough light to see what you’re doing, won’t you?” And then, after they were alone, she had offered in her usual brisk tone. “D’you want me to help you unpack? The clothes at least will need to be shaken out and pressed before they’re hung up, I’m sure. The materials that were fashionable in those days, like muslin and tulle and gauze, for instance, always did tend to crease dreadfully after they’d been packed.”
“Thank you for offering, Aunt Harriet, but there’s really no need to have to start unpacking everything right this minute, I suppose. I think, if you don’t mind, that I’d rather have my nap first, and then perhaps...”
“Well, have it your own way. But do try and remember to hang the gown you will be wearing for dinner on the back of that chair by the door so that Ayah can have it pressed and ready for you in time.”
With a shrug of her spare shoulders Harriet had already turned to leave the room when Alexa’s sudden burst of speech had halted her.
“Aunt Harriet! Please, there is something I feel I must say to you now—before we go down to dinner. Because— well, you have always reminded me to be practical, logical; to face the...the realities of life, have you not? And that is why I...”
“I hope that I have also taught you to come quickly to the point you wish to make without having to stammer awkwardly over every sentence, my dear Alexa. Well, what is it you find so difficult to come out with?” Harriet’s sarcastic tone and raised eyebrows made Alexa flush with anger before she made herself pause long enough to take a deep breath, trying to choose her next words more carefully. This time, she found herself thinking fiercely, I will not let her intimidate me or make me angry enough to stutter! “Well? Or have you changed your mind?”
“No, I haven’t, Aunt Harriet.” Somewhat to Alexa’s own surprise, her voice sounded quite even. “What I wanted to say was that even if I am to wear fancy dress to dinner this once in order to humor Papa’s whim, I feel that I cannot... I will not sit silent and allow him to imagine that I am...his wife! Don’t you see that for his sake as well as mine he has to start seeing me all of the time as myself, as his daughter? As Alexa, not his Victorine. I only wanted you to understand, don’t you see? You know I wouldn’t for the world do anything to hurt Papa—I love him as much as you do! And mat is why he has to be led back to facing and living with what is; instead of being allowed to keep on pretending! You do understand don’t you? Aunt Harriet...?” Stretching out her hand appealingly, Alexa had let it drop in the face of her aunt’s stony look.
“Since you have made it more than clear that your mind is made up, then whether I might approve or disapprove of your decision is surely irrelevant. Do as you will—and as you think fit, Alexa. The responsibility is yours.”
Responsibility. The word reminded Alexa of what she had to do at this particular moment. No more procrastination. But at least she did not have Aunt Harriet looking over her shoulder!
Lifting off several layers of yellowed tissue paper, Alexa’s first discovery was a white muslin gown with tarnished silver spangles and a small train. Mama’s wedding gown? Shaking it out, she saw that the material had yellowed slightly along every crease and fold, and felt a sense of sadness. How sheer and how pretty it must have been when it was new, with its low-cut, high-waisted bodice and tiny puff sleeves that would be considered daring today. There were dainty silver slippers in a satin case tucked to one side; and just beneath the dress, also wrapped carefully in tissue, a pretty silk shawl with fringed edges.
As Alexa laid everything carefully aside, the faintest scent of violets drifted to her nostrils. How strange that perfumes could linger for so many years! Carefully lifting off more layers of tissue paper, she found herself wishing fervently that this would be the green dress Papa had spoken of with such nostalgia, so that she would not have to delve any further this afternoon. But revealed, instead, was another muslin gown cut more plainly than the first, with tiny sprigs of red and yellow roses against a pale pink background. Two more pairs of shoes—pink satin slippers and soft kid boots. A calf-bound volume of verses wrapped in a silk scarf. Feeling slightly ashamed of her curiosity, Alexa could not help opening it to glance at the flyleaf. “To my Dearest and Only Love, from One whose Heart is Forever Yours...” The untidily scrawled words were almost indecipherable, and the single initial at the bottom of the page, while it could have been an M, might also have been any other letter of the alphabet The affectionate inscription had been dated 1819—two years before she had been born, Alexa thought; carefully rewrapping the small volume before she tucked it away once more in a corner of the trunk and lifted out a scrapbook. She glanced through it quickly and without too much interest. There were yellowed clippings from old newspapers that told of old battles and listed their casualties. A few pressed flowers and autumn leaves. All of the pages had not been used up, so Mama must have become tired of cutting and pasting in the end! The war between Greece and Turkey— Lord Byron—he’d been the fashionable poet of the day, of course, and the author of the book of verse she had just set aside.
Closing the scrapbook impatiently, Alexa replaced it and picked up a folder containing several sketches done in charcoal as well as pen-and-ink. Why, here was Papa, looking quite boyish in spite of dashing side-whiskers and a high uniform collar. And Mama herself—so pretty and young, with a half-smile on her lips that made her dimple just like Alexa, her hair secured by a band across her forehead that did not prevent it from spilling over in a froth of curls. There were several other sketches as well, but all of people Alexa did not recognize until she came to one of Aunt Harriet, of all people, and thought, staring down at it, Why, how pretty she must have been once! Short dark curls framing her face provocatively, and an open smile that showed her strong white teeth. A high collar setting off a slim neck. How was it possible that this happily smiling young woman had turned into the Harriet that she knew? Sour, mistrustful, her lips tight and permanently turned down at the corners; how sad it seemed! Turning quickly to the last sketch, Alexa found herself gazing down at the face of an exceptionally handsome young man—an officer, to judge from his uniform collar. Clean-shaven, with curly hair cut short in the fashion of the day. Intense eyes that seemed to look right into hers under straight, well-defined brows, and firm lips that almost smiled. A face that arrested Alexa’s attention for some reason, and made her frown suddenly when she found herself wondering irritably how she could have thought she’d felt, even for a fleeting moment, the strangest sense of recognition or something familiar in those regular features. Impossible, of course! Catching the faintly penciled dates in one corner of the sketch, Alexa shook her head at her own silliness. “1798-1821.” Poor handsome young officer! Such a short life he’d lived.
It had all happened such a long time ago—and she mustn’t allow herself to become morbid, Alexa reprimanded herself. Putting aside the folder of sketches with decision, she also laid aside several packets of letters tied with ribbon, gauze scarfs, a pair of satin dancing slippers with the soles almost worn through, and a little round music box that played a tinkling wal
tz tune when she opened it and which was crammed with all kinds of trinkets and sparkling ornaments for the hair. And here, at last, lay the pale green dress with its matching silk petticoat that seemed to be as sheer as the thin lawn dress itself. It had been laid under some fashion journals of the same period, with the satin case containing the bronze kid slippers and matching, prettily embroidered reticule tucked in beside it. And now, as she shook away more tissue paper, Alexa discovered a wide ribbon of a darker shade of green embroidered with bronze and gold thread that must have set off Mama’s dark curls to perfection on that evening that Papa remembered so well.
I have accomplished quite enough for one afternoon, Alexa thought to herself. I can go through everything else later when I have more time. Keeping out only the pretty green dress and its accessories, Alexa dropped everything else back into the trunk before closing the lid; and then, after hesitating a moment with her teeth worrying her lower lip, she locked it again.
Chapter 19
