Candace Camp - A Stolen Heart

“Oh, no, dear, she would have been so lonely.”

“I don’t know. She didn’t want to come. She didn’t even want me to. But I wouldn’t listen. I was so sure that she would be better with me, that she would enjoy it once we got here—that she was just afraid to travel, you know.”

“I am sure she is better with you. It’s better that we can…well, keep an eye on her. You would have worried yourself silly if we had been over here and your mother back home, and you had no idea what she was doing or if anything had happened to her.”

“Yes, but she’s so much worse!” Alexandra shot to her feet and began to pace. “I’ve been selfish. I wanted to see England, to visit all the places I’ve always heard and read about. I was so sure it would help our business.”

“And it has, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so. And I have enjoyed myself. There is no denying it. I would have hated to give it up. But Mother has been acting so strangely—locking herself up in her room, saying odd, wild things. Why, do you know last night that she looked at me as if she didn’t even know who I was! And today, throwing a pot of tea at that poor girl. I don’t care how cold it was or how little she wanted tea. It is decidedly bizarre behavior for a grown woman.”

Aunt Hortense sighed. “Yes, it is.”

“I mean, it isn’t as if she were some ignorant person who had grown up in the wilds somewhere. Why, she used to be a diplomat’s wife!”

“I know. And she was excellent at it. Rhea was always so good at giving parties, so skilled in getting people to talk and enjoy themselves. She always had odd turns, of course, when she was rather melancholy, but most of the time she was quite vivacious and happy—sparkling, really. I used to envy Rhea her ability to make friends, to draw people to her.”

“What happened to her?” Alexandra asked bleakly.

Her aunt shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. She has been getting worse for years. It was better when you were young. But even then, it seemed to me that she had very melancholy moments. I often wonder—well, she was never the same after she came home from Paris. Hiram’s death affected her greatly, you see. They were most devoted. I’ve often suspected that she saw things during that Revolution, horrible things that affected her long afterward. She had a great deal of trouble sleeping at first. I could hear her up, pacing the floor long after everyone had gone to bed. Sometimes she would cry—oh, fit to break your heart. I felt so sorry for her. But what could I do? All I could think of was to take care of you and the house as best I could, to help her with all the business things that she disliked so. Even with Mr. Perkins managing the shipping business and her cousin running the store, she hated to have to listen to their reports and try to sort out their advice. I don’t know, perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps I took away too much responsibility from her. But she seemed so helpless, so needy…”

“I know. I’m sure you did what was best. Mother could not have handled raising me or managing the house by herself, much less running a business, too. You must not blame yourself.”

“And you must not, either,” her aunt retorted decisively, bobbing her head. “Your mother is the way she is, and who’s to say she wouldn’t have been worse if you had left her back in Massachusetts with only servants and distant relatives to take care of her? She is used to having the two of us with her. She probably would have taken it into her head that we had abandoned her or some such notion.”

“That’s true.”

“And don’t tell me that you shouldn’t have come to England at all, for I won’t hold with that. You can’t live your whole life around your mother’s…oddities.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’s just so distressing to see her this way. Sometimes I—” She stopped abruptly.

“Sometimes you what?” Aunt Hortense turned to look at her niece when she did not continue.

“Nothing.”

“It sounded like something to me. Out with it. Is something else troubling you?”

“No. Only—” Alexandra’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “Do you ever wonder if Mother is—well…” She twisted her hands, frowning, reluctant to voice the fear that had been nagging at her for some time now. “What if she’s not just odd? What if she’s mad?”

“Wherever did you come up with such nonsense?” Aunt Hortense demanded indignantly. “Your mother is not mad! How can you say that?”

“I don’t want to think it!” Alexandra cried, her voice tinged with desperation. “But you’ve seen how she acts. Most of the time I tell myself that she isn’t insane—obviously she’s not insane. After all, she doesn’t run screaming naked through the house or tear her clothes and try to do herself harm like Mr. Culpepper’s sister did.”

“I should say not!” Aunt Hortense crossed her arms pugnaciously.

“But sometimes I can’t help but think these things she says and does are not simply genteel eccentricities. Aren’t they something worse? More peculiar? In a person without wealth or standing in the community, mightn’t they be called evidences of madness?”

“It doesn’t matter what they’d call it if she were poor, because she isn’t and never has been. She’s not mad. She’s just…more fragile than the rest of us.”

“I hope you’re right.” Alexandra summoned up a small smile for her aunt, but she could not completely rid herself of doubt. Nor could she admit, even to Aunt Hortense, the other cold fear that lay beneath her worry. If her mother did indeed lean toward madness, would the taint of it lie in her own blood, as well? Might she, someday, disintegrate into insanity?

ALEXANDRA TOOK A LAST LOOK AT HERSELF in the long mirror of the hallway; then, satisfied that she would look her best among the titled crowd this evening, she turned toward the staircase. Her deep rose satin gown would doubtless be outshone by many of the gowns on the ladies present at the ball. Her clothes, while of good cut and material, were not in the first stare of fashion in London, and she had not brought her very best ball gown with her, not thinking that she would attend anything dressier than the opera. Still, she knew that the dress was fashionable enough to cause no comment, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that its rose color was excellent on her, bringing out the rose in her cheeks and contrasting stunningly with her black hair. Her hair was done up in a mass of curls, thick and shining, with a pale pink rose nestled on one side as adornment. In her hand she carried, besides her fan, a small corsage of rosebuds delivered an hour earlier and sent, she was sure, by Lord Thorpe, though the card had contained no message.

Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she walked into the formal drawing room. Much to her chagrin, she saw that Thorpe was already seated there with her aunt. Alexandra had made it a point to come downstairs as soon as the maid had brought her word of Thorpe’s arrival precisely because she did not want Lord Thorpe to be subjected to her aunt’s inquisition. From the frozen look on Thorpe’s face, she guessed that he had already been here for several minutes, and Alexandra was struck with the suspicion that her aunt had deliberately bade the servants to delay taking Alexandra the message that his lordship had arrived.

As she started into the room, Lord Thorpe was saying tightly, “I assure you, madam, it is a most respectable party, given by one of the leading peers of the realm.”

Alexandra had to stifle a smile at the man’s barely concealed look of affront.

Her aunt continued blithely. “Be that as it may, Lord Thorpe, I don’t know any of your peers of the realm, so their respectability is unknown to me. I’ve heard stories of some of the doings of so-called noblemen, and it’s not what would be called suitable in America. The Hellfire Club, gaming hells, houses of—”