Surrender to Love

“Here we are! Harriet, you prefer your meat not too rare, don’t you? Two slices? And...” Catching his inquiring look, Alexa felt a sudden rush of affection mixed with contrition towards him for having forgiven her for her outburst.

She said quickly, with a small, tentative smile, “Very rare, please, Papa. The way I always like it. And just one very thin slice, please.”

“What’s this? Rare, did you say? But, my dear...why, you’ve always said you could not bear the thought of...well...red meat!”

“But I’ve always—” Alexa began before she suddenly broke off. It had been Mama who could never stomach rare meat and always begged for the slice at the end.

While she looked up dismayedly, searching for words, Papa said benignly, “No need to feel you must try it rare, my love, just because everyone teases you. Here you are— your very favorite part of the roast!”

Alexa remained silent as the houseboy set her gold rimmed plate before her and while Harriet passed her the gravy with a grimly warning look. She was even able to help herself to a square of the Yorkshire pudding and a serving of boiled cabbage and potatoes. Once Papa had eaten something he’d be himself again, of course. Surely it wasn’t because of her that his mind had chosen to regress again; although Harriet would probably say so, of course.

“Well? Shall we begin before our sumptuous repast is cold? Ah, very good indeed! Must remember to tell Cook he’s really outdone himself this time, eh? But, my dear! Is your portion not quite to your liking? Would you prefer that I give you a slice from the other end?”

Alexa had opened her mouth to say hastily that she was quite satisfied with her slice of roast beef when a sudden, stubborn instinct made her pause instead and take a deep breath before saying in as normal a voice as possible, “It is a very nice slice of beef to be sure, Papa, and just thin enough; but I had hoped you might remember that I prefer my roast beef as rare as can be—just as you do.”

“But I don’t understand!” Papa said querulously as he put down his knife and fork and knitted his brows in a confused fashion before looking towards Harriet as if for support. “Harriet, you can confirm it, can you not? Hasn’t Victorine always preferred the slice at the very end? Surely...”

“But, Papa—Papa, please look at me! Please see me! I am not my mama!” Disregarding Harriet’s warning exclamation, Alexa left her seat and ran to him, bending over him urgently. “I’m only dressed up in one of Mama’s old gowns to please you, Papa, but I’m not...Victorine. This is Alexa you see, and I am not your wife, dearest Papa, but your daughter. I know you understand!”

“What? What? Victorine...?” When Papa looked up at her his eyes seemed glazed and puzzled, and his mouth worked.

“Alexa! Papa, please look at me! I am your daughter, Papa!”

“Daughter?” He looked from her to Harriet, his voice turning petulant “I have no daughter, have I, Harry? Stillborn, they told me. Both of them. My poor Victorine...”

Strangely enough it was to Alexa and not her brother that Harriet directed her angry reproof as she burst out, “Don’t you think you’ve stirred up enough trouble for one night? Be silent now, for God’s sake, and leave him alone!”

But it was too late now to stop herself from saying what she felt had to be said; for Papa’s sake and for her sake, Alexa thought stubbornly as she held onto the arm of his chair as if for support and went on speaking as if she had not heard her aunt.

“You listen to me, Papa, and try to understand that it is only because I love you so that I... Oh, Papa! I am your Victorine’s daughter, don’t you see? I am a part of her, that is why you see her in me. And you haven’t lost me, any more than you have really lost Mama, because... because she’ll always be close to us and live with us in the memories of her that we carry in our thoughts. Don’t you see? Even if Mama had to go, she left me behind to take care of you and comfort you—if you will let me. But you must see me for who I am, Papa! My mother’s daughter, not my mother!”

“See you? See? Ah yes...I suppose...the eyes. Not Victorine’s eyes, are they? Victorine’s pretty ball gown, but— but you are my Victorine’s daughter, aren’t you? That’s right! Part of her. Of course! She wouldn’t leave me all alone. I should have known it, shouldn’t I? She had to go because of little Freddy. Softhearted, wouldn’t want him to be alone! But she left part of herself behind, didn’t she? Victorine wouldn’t leave me all alone either—I should have had more faith, shouldn’t I? Why, I feel as if she’s so close sometimes! Feel her. Sometimes think I hear her voice...”

“Papa...!”

Alexa had not realized that she had been clutching at the arm of his chair until he suddenly patted her hand with a faint sigh.

“Yes. Thank you, my dear, for helping me to understand. Of course. Victorine’s daughter. Her flesh and blood. Support and comfort. I should have known my Victorine wouldn’t leave me quite alone, shouldn’t I? ‘Ye of little faith...’ My apologies! And now, why don’t we do justice to this excellent roast, eh? Have boy bring your plate back to me, my dear, and you shall have a slice of beef as rare as you please!”

Chapter 20

After that night even Harriet had been forced to admit, albeit a trifle grudgingly, that Papa had changed for the better and become more like his old self. He had begun making an effort to leave his bed early enough to ride out and inspect what was being done on the estate, and he came down to dinner every single night and talked quite sensibly of business matters. Sometimes, he even made an effort to be humorous and to tease Alexa, especially when he found her hard at work in his office. He would pat her on the cheek or on the arm in an almost absentmindedly affectionate manner, as if he wanted her to know that he noticed her; and he had got in the habit of expecting her to be ready to pour out his tea for him in the morning room when he returned from his daily tour of inspection.

“Your mama always sat in here waiting for me, looking so fresh and pretty. Insisted on pouring my tea herself, too. You remember, don’t you, my dear? She wouldn’t want you to wear black either—never wore it herself. ‘Reminds me of those ugly old carrion crows!’ she used to say. You should wear her colors; she’d like that. Pretty pale greens and pinks and lavenders; yellow too.”

Of course she wanted to please Papa and to show him how happy and grateful she was to see him making an effort to take up the threads of his life again. And if all he asked of her was to wear her mother’s favorite colors and take over some of her mother’s duties

... Alexa reminded herself frequently that it was little enough to ask of his only child and heiress, after all.

Suddenly, and almost without being aware of it, Alexa found that she had fallen into a kind of set routine that ruled all her time and all her days. It was her duty to be a comfort and support to her Papa, just as she had promised. Aunt Harriet reminded Alexa of it whenever she showed signs of restlessness and spoke impulsively of visiting Kandy or going hunting with some of her old friends.

“Perhaps when everything has gone back to being more normal and we all have more time to ourselves...” Harriet would say vaguely after Alexa had admitted that perhaps she was being selfish and inconsiderate after all.

Perhaps... perhaps... ? As one day followed another with an almost agonizing slowness and sameness, Alexa realized that those nebulous perhaps were all she had to look forward to. After her morning ride with Papa— sidesaddle now, because she was a young lady and not a gypsyish hoyden—they would go upstairs together to change; and then she would run down to the morning room to sit behind the dainty little table with its silver tea set and pour out tea for Papa and Aunt Harriet. After that it was accounts and then tiffin. Her afternoon nap—even if she didn’t really take a nap at all and tried to read a book instead. And then...

When she started thinking along those lines Alexa had to catch herself back sharply. “Stop it. You mustn’t think that way!” There were a few occasions when she almost said the words aloud, to startle the inquisitive birds and squirrels who hid in the trees outside her open windows. She told herself that she was restless because of the heat.

September was harvest time and one of the hottest months of the year, each day seeming hotter than the day before. Far too hot to wear layers of clothing in the afternoon, especially in the privacy of her room; but since Papa had taken to popping his head in unexpectedly to ask her some question about the accounts, Alexa found herself forced to wear some light garment at least; usually an old cotton petticoat that had seen better days.