Rosemary Rogers - Surrender To Love

She had already prepared the excuses she would offer on Alexa’s behalf—the strain of a long journey coupled with the excitement and natural anticipation, and a degree of nervousness, of course. The Mackenzies, who had eleven children between them, would surely understand. As Harriet descended the stairs, escorted by no less than two turbaned house servants wearing red cummerbunds over their spotless white camboys, she prepared herself for an evening of pleasant conversation and no doubt a discreet exchange of gossip once the ladies retired after dinner, leaving the men to their port and cigars.

Hearing the subdued sounds of laughter and voices, both male and female, as she descended a second flight of stairs, Harriet was doubly pleased that she had allowed Alexa to remain asleep tonight. Small, private dinner, indeed! There must be at least twenty people here, if not more, and all dying from curiosity, no doubt. Well, they would just have to wait until tomorrow, wouldn’t they, Harriet thought before she composed her features. Tomorrow we’ll show them all, Alexa and I!

Alexa had never been able to fall asleep easily, usually not drifting off until she was completely worn out and hardly able to keep her eyes open. But then, once asleep, she slept as heavily and as deeply as a child. There were weeks on end when she would only catnap—an hour or so in the afternoon because it was required of her, and perhaps four or five hours at night after she had finished reading whatever book she had become immersed in. Always active and used to spending as much time as she could outdoors, she seemed to exist during these periods on nervous energy alone. And it was during these times too that she was most reckless—whether she was riding by herself or hunting with the pack of hounds she had trained, or else challenging some of the young officers stationed in the district to a race over the most difficult terrain imaginable or a wager as to which of them could bag the most dangerous animal during a hunting trip. She was like a young, healthy animal herself and seemingly indefatigable, until there came a time when she would become irritable for no apparent reason and snap at everyone around her before retiring, finally, to her own room to “meditate” as she called it.

Harriet, who always recognized the signs, would usually give Alexa an hour or two before she would open the door to find her sound asleep, sometimes with her head down on her desk and sometimes sprawled out on the floor. Her sleep at such times was almost like a trance, and Harriet would have her carried to her bed and order her old ayah to sit with her, and then the girl would usually sleep from twelve to eighteen hours or more at a stretch.

“Oh! I feel reborn!” Alexa would laugh, stretching her arms high above her head. And for a while she would act as if she had in truth been renewed—sunny-tempered, easy to please, and wanting to please everyone around her, even to the extent of reading for hours on end to her brother, who adored her at these times and avoided her at others.

Usually, when Alexa had one of her “deep sleeps” as Harriet called them, she did not dream. Perhaps on this particular occasion it was the doing of the young, barefoot maid, who had drawn apart the heavy drapes that were meant to keep out the sun, and then pushed open the heavy wooden shutters to let in the smell and the sound of the restless surf along with the cool ocean breeze. But in any case, Alexa did not lie in bed as inertly as a toppled marble statue, and the habitual blackness of her sleep was laced through with strange dreams that made her twist and turn uncomfortably even though she did not want to wake up just yet.

Riding into battle, always as a man. And Uncle John asking her, “Well, Alexa, have you made up your mind yet?” About being reborn, he meant of course; and she could hear herself answer: “No, not yet. But I think I should have been born a pagan woman who would delight in nothing more than feeling without having to think; and then perhaps being born a woman would not be so bad without being hedged about with rules and regulations and people who are always telling you that to be happy and enjoy yourself is wicked!”

“Were you ever a pagan woman before? In what countries were you born as a woman?” She did not recognize the voice that had asked her that question. Perhaps it had only floated in on the sea breeze that carried with it the scents and sounds of a myriad different countries touched by the same ocean moving back and forth and back and forth uncaring what names it was given because it knew it was life and beginning and end and always.

Not wanting to dream so deeply even in her fragmented dreams, she almost surfaced as she thought…countries? Spain…why did she think Spain? Papa had fought in Spain… “bitter-sweet,” he had said of the music. Moorish influence… “they call it flamenco”…in her dream she saw herself dancing by herself in a red dress with only the sound of a guitar…then a voice…hers, somehow. Why would she sing when she was so sad? Sad…waiting…never, the words of the song said. Gone…gone…never…It had nothing to do with her!

Alexa almost woke then, but not quite. Floating between sleep and wakefulness, she heard someone playing minor chords on a guitar, a voice singing in Spanish. The almost cloying perfume of night-blooming flowers drifted into the room. Queen of the Night, Jasmine. Temple Flower. Gardenia. Alexa, knowing Spanish (as well as four other languages), understood that the song was a cry of unrequited love—of happiness followed by sadness—until it ended on an ugly, discordant note. “So, enough! There are too many centuries of bitterness embedded in the music of Spain. An English song, perhaps?”

There were more voices and sounds now, drowning out what she had almost felt and almost reached. Turning over on her side, Alexa burrowed her face into a too-soft pillow, still not wanting and not prepared to wake up quite yet. She was drifting as lightly as a lotus blossom on the surface of sleep when she heard Harriet come in, followed by a servant. A tray was to be removed and another with fresh fruit and fresh, cool water and wine brought in to replace it. She felt Harriet bend over her, pulling up the cotton sheet that had slipped down to her waist. Poor Aunt Harry. An uneasy mixture of conservative and liberal. Think free, but do conform on the surface. What had happened to the man she had loved who had married her best friend?

“Have all the young missy’s clothes been pressed before they were hung up?”

“Oh, yes, lady. I look after everything. I sit up all night if young missy want something.”

“Good. Thank you—Menika, was it? I’m sure you’ll see to everything. And I intend to go to sleep myself. No, I don’t need any help. Well, just the buttons at the back, perhaps, and then I shall manage quite well.”

Breathing evenly, Alexa floated in and out of sleep in spite of the fact that the sheet Aunt Harry had pulled up as far as her neck felt scratchy and far too hot. Poor Aunt Harry. Poor dear. She needed her sleep too…. She could hear the faint sounds of the sea from outside, and over that the sounds of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves and voices calling out good-byes. Soon everything would be quiet and the night would belong to the sounds of the sea again. The faint aroma of a cigar made her wrinkle her nostrils, and she thought: Smells like one of Uncle John’s. He always smokes the very best. And he had given her the very best of himself too. His wisdom, his understanding…

How pleasant it was to lie like this and drift along the borders of sleeping and waking. So many thoughts floated in and out of her mind without ceasing, one dream thought melting into the next. She saw herself as a rebellious, questioning child who resented the hampering skirts she was supposed to wear—until Aunt Harry took her side. And then in her next dream picture she was a pirate on a ship that rocked under her bare feet, fighting with a cutlass until the last and then, with a laugh of defiance, turning to plunge into the sea. How cool and pleasant it was, the sea. Like a friend she had always known. Green or blue or grey shading to black. Foam-tipped and salty. Both friend and foe. Nemesis or lover.