Surrender To Love. Rosemary Rogers

no such thing as a broken heart, or she would have died on that incongruously bright summer’s day when her best friend, eyes sparkling, had whispered her “secret” and had kept talking on and on without noticing how still and quiet Harriet had suddenly become. Turned into stone and just as cold by a Medusa with short, shining curls crowned by a filet of pearls and a pointed chin and red, pouting lips that men stared at. Even he. But no one had known her feelings. She had not let anyone see, even when the pain inside her screamed for release. “That’s nice. Of course I’m so happy for you. And of course I’ll be one of the witnesses.” Smiling, sensible Harriet.

      Ceylon had seemed a long way from England, thank God, and unlike the other planters’ families they had never felt the urge to go “home” on leave or even to visit. Home to what?

      Besides her brother, Martin, and the man whose name Harriet never permitted herself even to think, the only other human being that she had let herself love was Alexa. Alexa had needed a strong influence in her life—someone who would concentrate on her. It had not been difficult to take Alexa away from Victorine, who tended in any case to regard a baby girl as a burden inflicted upon her by fate. Victorine was a silly woman, and a helpless one—the kind of female who would cry and wring her little hands and do nothing at all to help herself even if it was a matter of survival.

      Alexa, Harriet had decided a long time ago, would be brought up differently; the way Harriet wished at times that she had been brought up. Strong, self-reliant, not afraid to demand whatever she wanted, or to reach out and take it if she had to. Not above playing a role in the charades imposed by men if she had to, but always letting her head rule her heart. Hearts, they said, broke too easily, and giving way to emotion invariably made matters worse instead of better.

      Alexa really must learn to control her temper, Harriet thought fretfully before she managed to regain control of her own emotions. Patience and self-control were the hardest lessons to learn, after all; but Alexa had always been possessed of a very quick mind. And if she could be brought to see tomorrow night as a challenge, it might well turn out to be the proving ground that might transform the young Amazon of the hill country into the sophisticated young lady.

      The soft chimes of a clock reminded Harriet that dinnertime (and it would be an early dinner tonight, Mrs. Mackenzie had announced) was less than two hours away. Alexa had not stirred, and indeed seemed to be sleeping so soundly that Harriet could not help thinking it would be almost cruel to wake her now and have her hurry to get ready while she was still in a stupor. In fact, it would be much better to let the poor child sleep tonight and then spring her on the assembled company tomorrow when she would be rested, refreshed, and at her best.

      Her mind made up, Harriet pulled briskly at a velvet bell rope that summoned at least three servants within minutes. She was in her element giving orders. A tray with an assortment of fresh fruit and a carafe of cold water that had been boiled and filtered (one couldn’t be too careful here) to be left for her niece in case she woke up, with perhaps a decanter of dry white wine as well. And for herself, she must have bath water immediately. Her authoritative commands resulted in the delivery of everything she had requested, and in less than the time she had allowed herself Harriet was bathed and dressed in a dark purple watered silk that was sedate without being dowdy.

      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!

      3

      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