forced to concede to what Aunt Harry had called the inescapable facts of life—if you were a woman, that was. She had been allowed the taste of freedom for as long as she could remember, allowed to learn and think for herself and express her own opinions—to “run wild,” as some of the neighboring planters’ wives put it. And then…
“But why have I been allowed to have such freedom if I was only meant to lose it some day?” Alexa never cried, but the words had been a cry of despair in themselves. “You know Freddy doesn’t know anything about running a plantation, and he’ll never take the trouble to learn about it. I could help him, couldn’t I? I could…”
“Could be his right-hand man until he takes a wife, who will hate you and want you out of her house? Yes, her house, Alexa, for all that you’ve looked upon it as your home for most of your life. Freddy will inherit the plantation, and when he marries it will be his wife’s home, not yours.”
All it had amounted to was that Alexa should be practical and think logically and should begin to prepare for what her future must be. It was after their talk that Alexa had finally agreed to accept the invitation to Queen’s House for the Governor’s Ball, which would really be a birthday ball held in her honor—like a “coming out.” But snatches of that unusually frank conversation with Aunt Harry still floated through Alexa’s head.
“There have been women throughout history, my dear, who were clever enough and wise enough to rule countries and empires through their men. You might remember that.” What a strange thing for Aunt Harry to have said.
“There’s the main gate of the Fort up ahead of us now. It won’t be too long before we arrive at Queen’s House!” One of the young subalterns who had escorted them leaned down from his horse to give the young woman he usually called “Alex” a grin and a wink. He grinned even more broadly when she gave him one of her famous scowls. “It’ll be a lot cooler there, you know. Sea breezes and all that. And you’ll save me a dance tomorrow, won’t you?” Seeing Alexa’s eyes narrow dangerously, he winked at her again before he straightened up hastily, turning his grin on his brother officer. Poor old Alex! She must be furious, suddenly being turned into a female. He couldn’t even recall, come to think of it, that he’d ever seen Alex in skirts before. Wonder if she knew how to dance? Well, at any rate he and Eric had talked about it in the mess last night, and they’d decided that since she was such a good sport it would only be the proper thing for them to help her out; and they’d taken a solemn oath not to laugh and tease her if she tripped over her flounces and furbelows—for one thing, she’d probably come after both of them with a pistol if they did, and, female or not, Alex had a damned cool head and a deadly aim! He’d seen that for himself, and they’d all heard the story of how she’d finished off a wounded and enraged bull elephant in mid-charge.
“Did that young man say we were almost there? Lord, I cannot believe that I actually fell asleep in spite of all the rattling and bumping around!” Straightening up, Harriet delved in her reticule for a handkerchief to mop at her face with. “I hope to goodness it’ll be cooler once we get closer to the ocean. Such heat! I’d almost forgotten how hot Colombo can be.”
Alexa had been gritting her teeth so hard that she was surprised to find her jaws were not locked together. She said with syrupy sweetness: “And were you giving me an example of how to rattle on like an empty-headed young thing, Aunt Harriet? Since I’m up on the auction block now I suppose I really must try harder, mustn’t I?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alexa, let us not become dramatic!” The snapped-out reply sounded more like the Aunt Harry she was familiar with, at least. “And shake out your sleeves. They’re looking positively wilted in spite of the lining I had that stupid tailor stitch into them. And put your bonnet on at once! It was not meant to be a fan, you know. I don’t know who else will be staying with the Mackenzies, but I do want everyone who might be there when we arrive to know that even in the hill country we try to keep up with the latest fashions.”
Alexa’s slate-colored eyes, so dark they could look almost black, flashed dangerously even though her voice remained sweetly docile. “The latest fashions? But all the journals we receive from London are at least four or five months old! If I had been consulted I would have begged Mrs. Mackenzie to make it a fancy dress ball tonight; and then I could have attended as a Sinhalese woman and be cool all evening.”
Realizing the girl was riding on a short rein, Harriet was wise enough to shrug and say only, “Well, I’m sure that the ball gown that Sir John means to surprise you with will be truly exquisite and in the very latest style, so that you will outshine every other female there. He has such good taste!”
At the mention of her adopted “uncle,” who was one of her father’s best friends, Alexa could not help but lose some of her earlier feeling of resentment, even if he had been one of the instigators of this birthday ball for her. How could she not continue to love and respect her beloved Uncle John? It had been Sir John who had presented her with her first thoroughbred and had taught her to ride it like a man—Sir John who had taught her about guns and how to shoot and not to flinch even from the kick of a heavy elephant gun. And how she had loved being allowed to listen when Sir John and Papa would begin talking about the wars they had been in and the exciting battles they had fought under Wellington.
“I’ll wager that you wish you’d been there too, don’t you, Alex?” Sir John would tease her sometimes, but he never teased her in the condescending way of grown-ups; and Alexa would nod vigorously, her eyes wide and shining as she imagined how it must have been—the noise of cannons and the smell of powder and the keening sound of a musket ball whistling past your head; the excitement of a charge with your sword drawn, facing a screaming foe, and hand to hand combat; and if you died you died gloriously and with honor, and if you lived you always knew you had been there, so close to death that you had brushed shoulders with it and had still survived.
It was only to Sir John that an older Alexa, only a few months ago, could confide seriously: “I know it’s probably only because I’ve been hearing the stories for most of my life—yours and Papa’s—but sometimes I really feel as if I have lived through wars and battles. It seems so real, as if I know what it’s like. Even to the smell of horses and dust and blood, and the sounds of clashing swords, and how you feel inside in battle…”
He hadn’t laughed—she remembered that. “Well, my dear, I lived in India for quite some time, as you know, when it belonged to the old John Company, and the Hindus there, they believe that souls are born and reborn over and over again. And that it’s possible for some people to remember past lives. Who knows, my dear, who knows? It’s something I’ve often wondered about myself.”
Harriet, of course, could hardly know of the thoughts that had raced across her niece’s brain during the past few seconds. But by mentioning Sir John Travers she had done exactly the right thing, she recognized with relief, seeing the almost imperceptible relaxing of Alexa’s tensely held shoulders. Sighing, Harriet said, “I really hate to admit how weary I am. All those miles and miles of traveling and the change of climate—I’ll be glad of a nice cold bath, I can tell you that!” She noticed with relief that Alexa was actually putting on her hated bonnet, although she did so with a wry face, adjusting it over her decorously pulled back hair and actually tying the wide ribbons in a bow under her chin.
“If either Eric or Basil make any comments when they see me in this…!’ Alexa sounded so fiercely threatening that Harriet had to force back a smile. In spite of the fact that she would be eighteen years of age tomorrow, Alexandra could sometimes sound very much like a hoydenish little girl. But the child must face the fact that she was a woman now and a whole year older than her own mother had been when she had carried her. Poor little Victorine, so helpless, always so pretty…
As she usually did, Harriet closed her mind firmly on unwanted memories of the past.
