We did not understand how she came to be alone. We wished to know more, the more that she alone could tell us. It was well understood in our village that Adela was a beauty, albeit a beauty past her heyday. But this was of little consequence to us, no?2
We came not to spy and discover if indeed her bloom had faded; we came because Mother did not nod to Adela in the street when so rarely she passed, under a parasol despite there being no sun; we came because we knew that on occasion Adela had a guest of queer character who alighted in her courtyard well past the witching hour; we came because Father fumbled to attention when we dared mention “Adela” at supper, piping her syllables into the linen of our diminutive napkins; and finally, we came because Adela alone welcomed us: we, the unconsidered, the uninvited, the under five feet high.
Uncountable afternoons that year, after we had gotten our gruel3—some of us trammeled up with the governess, others, the tutor—we raced en bloc to the back of beyond, letting ourselves into the bedimmed foyer of Adela’s ivy-shrouded, crumbling house. She who was alone could not wish to be, yet she alone had made it so, and we altogether wished to know why. Fittingly, we slid in our tender, immature fingers to try and pry Adela open. Perchance she felt this to be a merciless naïveté; as if we, Edenic formlings, did not yet have the knowledge of our collective strength.
What is it, the youngest of us ventured to ask, that has caused you to cloister yourself all through your youth? A thwarted wish to be a nun or a monk?
It was child’s play for us to envision Adela pacing down a windowless hall, needlework dragging over stone, her nun’s habit askew.
Her stockinged toes working their way into the topmost corner of the divan, Adela fluttered in her crinoline. She pressed the back of her hand to a crimson’d cheek, laughing, Oh dearest children, why it has been years since I have blushed! I suppose I must confess that it was as lamentable a story as any of you could wish . . .
One with pirates, we asked, one of dead Love and dashed Hope? Then we all at once paused, for her eyes summoned a darkling look as if she had drifted somewhere parlous, somewhere damned.
Pirates? Adela? Pirates?
No, she cried with a toss of her head. The lamp dimmed and the window rattled, lashed by a burst of sudden rain.
Adela, we did chorus, Adela?
Her silhouette bolted upright. Children? The lamplight returned restoring Adela’s dusky radiance. You curious cherubs, why it’s a foolish tale of romantic woe. I was in love and my love turned out to be quite mad, and well we know, no candle can compare to fire. And so I have chosen to remain alone. Mystery solved.
But for us the mystery had only begun. Who was this Unnamed Love? Was he of our acquaintance? Had he wed another? Was his corpse buried in the village graveyard? Was he locked in a madhouse wherein he paced the floors, dribbling “Adela” into the folds of his bloodstained cravat? We wished to know and demanded that she tell us.
Oh, he is quite alive, murmured Adela languidly, pouring herself a glass of Madeira, meio doce, to the brim, stirring, spilling it with her little finger, passing the glass around when we begged for a driblet.
Is he married? we asked, our lips stained with wine.
He is not. Though I have heard it said that he is betrothed . . . to a lovely heiress of a small but respectable estate in North Carolina.
We choked on our commutual sip. Won’t you stop him if indeed you love him? You will, won’t you? Tell us you will, Adela, do!
No indeed. I wish them happy, she said with a deep violet tongue.
We did not think she could mean what she did say. We pressed her as we refilled her glass, Do you love him still? Was it not a lasting attachment?
Oh yes. I’ll love him forever. But what of it? she asked.
How was it possible, we mulled aloud, that Love did not rescue the day? Was this not what she had read to us from these very volumes by which we were surrounded? What of The Mysteries of Udolpho? Lord Byron’s Beppo?
Adela nodded in affirmation yet was quick to forewarn, Do not forget the lessons of Glenarvon!4
But should not Love and Truth strive against aught else, ergo it is better to Perish Alone in Exile? Adela, you must be mistaken, we assured her, the oldest patting the top of her bejeweled hand, for if your Love knew you loved him in perpetuum, he would return and return in a pig’s whisper!
That would be ill-judged, nor would I permit such a thing, she snapped. As I said, he is quite mad and impossible to abide. Please, let us not speak of it, it was all too too long ago.
Adela, we wheedled, won’t you at least tell us the name of your lost love? Don’t you trust us, Adela? Why there is nothing you do not know of us! Nothing we have not gotten down on our knees to confess! You know that we borrowed Father’s gun and we shot it; that we broke Mother’s vase and we buried it; that we contemplated our governess and tutor in the long grass giving off strange grunts and divers groans till their caterwauling ceased in a cascade of competing whimpers.
Now hush! Didn’t I tell you not to speak of that? Very well. His name is Percival Rutherford, she yawned, entreating us to close the blinds.
*
IT WAS A bad plan. A wicked plan. We did not know if it came from us or the Devil so full was it of deceit. At home, milling in the library, in perusal of our aim, we selected a volume of Shakespeare’s Comedies since they all ended in marriage and marriage was by and large our end. The Bard, we suspected, had a number of strategies upon the matter.
We set about with quill and ink and put our nib to paper. Sitting cross-legged on the dais of a desk whilst we huddled below in consternation, the oldest clapped us to attention to declaim, feather aloft:
∼ Dressing as boys or the boys of us dressing as girls!
We were uncertain as to what this would achieve and thus struck it off.
∼ Dressing Adela in disguise so that she can visit Percival and get high-bellied!
We were equally uncertain as to whether Adela was past the fecundating age.
∼ Have Adela rescue her love from a lioness thereby making him everlastingly indebted to her!
While there was no doubt in our collective hearts that Adela could, if put to the test, best a lion—was she not the owner of a mighty sword that hung on her wall belonging to her long-deceased father?—we did doubt we could procure a lioness in this part of the country. The second oldest elbowed their way up to the desk, chastising the oldest for bothering to scribble down a strategy that was so abominably foolhardy. The oldest sneered back that the second was the one with no veritable sense of Byronic ideals. To which the second scoffed, Airmonger! But the oldest merely chose to employ a snub and concluded:
∼ Fake Adela’s death and give Percival report of it? Or! Send a false missive to each, swearing that one loves the other!
Enough, barked the second oldest, crossly claiming that no remedy to our ails could be hit upon in the Comedies. Thus, we began undividedly to search elsewhere in the Canon and quickly fell upon our consensual favorite, Othello.5 We conferred, then confirmed by a show of hands: we must find Adela a beau to make her lost love jealous; Percival, in turn, would wrestle with the arrogance of his tortured soul until goaded into a violent show of love which would cure him of his madness, whereupon they would be wed, us serving as the bridal party.
Our unanimous impetus was thus: one day, someday, one by one, we would leave this village and behind us, Adela: a tawny, companionless outcast. This we found insupportable.
IT HAD COME to our attention that the ladies of the village were increasingly fond of the new architect, Mr. Quilby, who had taken a lodging above the apothecary. Our aunts were made prostrate admiring his finely wrought neckties and excellent leg. He is not quite Brummell,6 the second oldest of us had quipped, not thoroughly convinced of Quilby’s suitability let alone his foil status. However, the oldest had been quick to counter that Adela was a spinster by most everyone’s calculations—though no lamb dressed in ewe’s clothes, with a countenance that was beyond pleasing to the eye—still most of the unattached gentlemen would think her a Tabby. However, Mr. Quilby, the oldest had gone on to expostulate, has streaks of silver in his sideburns plainly visible. A man of his years will be less concerned by Adela’s being a Thornback.7
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON we tromped through the fields and into the village square where we found Mr. Quilby at his drafting table, his sleeves rolled high. Under our arms we had baskets of fresh-baked bread and preserves, for we knew how to be satisfactorily winning children, to lisp and wreath smiles when such a display was demanded.
Mr. Quilby was intrigued by our description of the enchanting recluse with whom all men dangled and yet no man had ever snared. He quizzed us as to why we thought him the one to win such an elusive prize? Though Quilby admitted he well understood that as the village’s newest bachelor, matchmaking mamas would be upon him, he owned he was surprised to find that they would recruit their children to employ such endeavors.
We said in one breath that we believed Adela to be lonely and thought perhaps it would cheer her to have a worthy friend near to her age in whom she could confide. Quilby, breaking off a chunk of bread said, betwixt his chews, that he was not averse to such a meeting. The second oldest of us deplored the profusion of Quilby’s crumbs, hissing that Quilby was not capable of being the understudy’s understudy let alone the rival. But Quilby, unmindful of this sally, inquired, How do you think you could lure such a confirmed hermit?
But we were there well before him. The next evening, the youngest of us was meant to take part in a glee at the chapel, a recital to which Adela had long been promised to attend. In this fashion was Quilby gulled and the first act of our accursed cabal complete.
ON THE DAY in question, we were trembling in our boots and slippers, shaking in our corsets and caps, when at long last Adela slipped in at the back of the church. She was a trifle hagged, but we conjectured that if our star was noticeably dimmed, Quilby would only be made less shy on his approach. In the final applause, the oldest of us mimed to Quilby that he should come make her acquaintance, which Quilby did with a genteel air, bowing and being so courtly as to bestow a light kiss atop Adela’s hand. The second of us was obliged to yield an approving nod. That blush which we ourselves had beheld only the other day returned and we pursued it down Adela’s throat and across her breasts. Bobbing a sketch of a curtsey, Adela made to turn, fretful for her carriage, but Quilby was quick to inquire, Ma’am, is it you that lives in the old Nelson place?
Why yes, sir, I am a Nelson. My father passed it on to me when he died.
Ah, I am an architect. I had thought it quite a rare specimen of local architecture.
Very likely, sir, she mumbled.
Ma’am, I do wonder if I might take it upon myself to intrude upon you, and pay a visit to view the interior?
Feeling the weight of the eyes of the village bearing down upon her, Adela flung out her consent and fled.
Mother appeared at our sides, peeved we’d been seen speaking to Adela, though she would not show her displeasure before Mr. Quilby, with whom she became something of a coquette.8
But we, with the newly acquired address of Percival Rutherford in our combined grasp, sent our hero an invitation for Adela’s forthcoming, fictive nuptials to Quilby, thus setting the stage for a disastrous second act.
HE WAS NOT what we expected. No, he, who burst into Adela’s parlor inarticulate and unannounced, in a mode of dress which was slightly outmoded. He, who had not even donned a white, frilled poet’s shirt to our thronged disappointment. On first perusal, his chin flapped, his considerable belly paunched and his forehead accordioned. It was a Rum go,9 his hasty shuffling to the pianoforte, where moments before we had been in concert, ranging from soprano to falsetto, the boys of us having dropped neither balls nor voices, while Adela played and Quilby turned pages with gusto.
Adela got to her feet, crying out in wonderment, Percy? But this, too, was a disappointment: an unsatisfactory sobriquet. It would have been better had he been named Orlando or Ferdinand or Rhett, even calling him Rutherford we thought would have more than sufficed.
I apologize for coming without so much as sending my card, but I find I must speak with you, his breaking voice inviting despite the want of delicacy in his manner.
Adela flushed, confirming that we had made no synchronized misstep. Pray Percy, this is—you, sir, are unexpected. I have guests.
We sensed it was not us to whom she was referring and used this vexed pause to reexamine our attempt at a retrieved Gallant. Percy did have a thin black mustache of which the second oldest was mightily pleased, and waves of disheveled black hair of which the oldest suspected the application of curl papers, but we contemporaneously disregarded this for Percy displayed the requisite lock clutching. His skin was appropriately pale, a near silky iridescence and we could forgo, on this occasion, to note the plump shadows beneath both his eyes. Lips ruby, chin cleft, sadly brown not blue eyes—yet he was the owner of a fine aquiline nose that any Antony might have had.10 We would have continued to be encouraged by our mustered précis as we concomitantly plumbed our imaginations in order to restore the bloom of his cankered youth, had not Percy abruptly swooned, causing Adela to bid us: Fetch me the smelling salts!
To this very day, we are haunted by the image of Percy splayed unceremoniously across the divan, his black curls crushed in Adela’s lap whilst she wafted him awake. Mr. Quilby, mumpish, hovered, desperate to comment on the impropriety of Percy’s head resting so near Adela’s nether region. But Quilby bit back his tongue, bided his time and played his part, inquiring, Should a doctor be fetched?
Adela brushed back Percy’s hair as he blinked awake and struggled to sit. I do apologize. Percy blenched. I am not altogether well.
Ashley Quilby, declared Quilby coming forth to shake hands. How do you do?
This is Percy Rutherford, said Adela, then looking down meaningfully, Percy, no doubt you are fatigued. Why don’t you retire to the guest bedroom while you are thus indisposed?
Percy staggered up, nodding vaguely, his greatcoat slipping to the carpet, his stare fixed but not seeing, a rolling intensity in that mad, reckless eye.
Percy having taken his leave, Quilby signaled to us. We affected to be admiring the parlor’s wood paneling. He then asked Adela with the utmost civility, I take it that he is known to you? Does this gentleman come unannounced often?
Percy is—we were, you see, childhood friends, wavered Adela.
Friends, repeated Quilby.
Well to own the truth, when I was very young and very silly, we almost eloped.
Good God, ejaculated Quilby, laughing.
Adela’s smile did not reach her eyes. Yes, well never fear, we were caught by Percy’s mother, and we outgrew such . . . pranks.
Quilby asked Adela to take a turn in the garden. She put out her hand. That does sound agreeable. Will you excuse us, my angels?
Of course, we curtsied and bowed. But as the joint benefactors of her fortune, we naturally followed, concealing our youthful limbs in the bramble.
Once in the garden, Mr. Quilby pumped her palm, saying, Adela, my darling girl—I mean to say, dear madam—I am compelled to confess that since making your acquaintance, I have felt myself enraptured in your presence. This has not happened, nor did I imagine it ever would, since a mild case of calf-love in Virginia almost thirty years ago!
Adela looked pained but primly amused. I thank you. I expect at our age it does seem that it is past all hope.
I suppose it is all too soon but I feel the expediency of—Mr. Quilby dropped to one knee crushing the toes of her slipper and she yelped. Oh sweet heart, forgive me! I am all nerves. Ahem, Quilby cleared his throat, Adela, my pet, I would like permission to pay my addresses to you.
We shuddered in the shrubbery. We had not expected this hasty realization of our fiction. Adela’s expression remained bland, as if Quilby had merely inquired about the weather. Eventually, she made a movement, lifting her chin, looking up at what seemed to be the heavens, but what we side by side saw to be the guest bedroom window, and with a gleam in her eye, she said: Why, yes.
AFTER MR. QUILBY had departed, we stationed ourselves at the parlor windows which looked out onto the garden. Ensemble’d, we watched Adela while she read, or rather tried in vain to read, flinging down novel after novel. Hearing a heavy tread on the stairs, she paused and we shrank to the sill, pushing the windows open an inch. Percy came striding through the parlor doors, promptly accosting her, So he’s the man you are going to marry? Foisting himself upon her where she lay curled on the divan, he lifted up her skirts to administer some tutor-like touching, from which Adela, no governess, tore away.
You’re being a dead bore. She cuffed him.
I find myself unable to resist, came his protest.
You hypocrite, Adela said. What would your betrothed have to say to this vulgarity?
Percy began to turn wildly about the parlor. I don’t care! I got the invitation!
Adela watched him from beneath heavy lids. What invitation? You haven’t changed. Do I not have a right to happiness after all this time? I’m not a girl in the first blush of youth.
But I am meant to be the one, Percy sobbed, tearing at his corkscrews.
We, Adela included, were similarly disconcerted; we did not expect that our Gallant should blub.
Pray Percy, don’t be vexed. How did you get here? she asked, leading that sad romp back to the divan.11
Putting his head on her shoulder, the ramshackle Percy wiped his nose against her sleeve. I suppose you’ll think it ill-judged of me, but I borrowed my mother’s carriage, he said.
Your dibs out of tune again?12 she asked.
Percy shrugged, tracing the plunging neckline of Adela’s gown. I’m at a stand save for Mother’s coin. She leaned back languidly, watching the movement of his fingers. Percy slipped a hand between cloth and flesh. Is that it, Adela? He groped, pinching. You’re marrying that man for his money?
Adela was rueful with an air of recklessness we had never witnessed. Pooh, I’m not going to keep correcting you. Though Quilby is a kind, most obliging man. One could not wish for more. In a husband.
Percy kissed her down the side of her neck. I may not have Quilby’s annuity, Adela, but you shall always be She and I am He.
Adela seemed to collect herself and fobbed him off. Oh, fetch me a drink.
He spied the Madeira. Your father’s brand? You think me a fool but I will not let you get away with this, he growled, pouring.
Behind the window, our mouths were watering.
Whatever do you mean? She stood and we ducked.
I won’t, he said and polished off the Madeira, holding out an emptied glass. If your precious Quilby knew what you really are, do you think he would still countenance the nuptial?
Nuptial? Stop it. You wouldn’t. Adela filled his glass and handed it to him but not before dipping in her little finger.
But I would, he countered. Depend upon it. Percy took that finger in his mouth and suckled. Adela tried to pull away.
She frowned. Your mother would not permit us to be together now as she did not permit it then.
Percy threw her hand from him: O blast your secret! tossing his glass in the fire, almost rousing us to burst into collaborative applause. He shall not have you! our summoned Gallant roared and flew up the stairs, leaving Adela with the arduous task of picking up hundreds of shards of glass.
This too was not what we had expected. Adela had a secret. And this secret was spoiling our plot. We bunched under a marble cherub to consider a concurrent abandoning of ship. But the second oldest leapt up on the angel’s knee, a hand round its marble neck and holding a penknife high, condemned us roundly as traitors to the cause, rasping, We must needs rally! Each of us must take a blood vow to help Adela no matter what the twist!
Hand in hand, we solemnly rose to the penknife and were poked, suckling our little fingers as hard as any Percy. In line unbroken, we marched and orbited Adela who was still kneeling in the shards.
Weep no more, we have come! But before we tell you the wrongs we wish to undo, you must tell us, Adela, what is your secret? What are you?
Adela brushed her mussed dress with shaky fingers. Oh no. Oh my dears . . . You see, my father was not a gentleman but a pirate, and he saved Percy’s father’s life. His sole request was that Percy’s father keep watch over me, his motherless daughter born on the wrong side of the blanket. Yes. That Merry-begot was myself.13
Till then we had never met a Two-legged Tympany!14 We in- spected her anew for signs. Why did your father jilt your mother? Was it at the altar, we asked, our eyes filling with the image.
Adela turned to gaze into the fire, muttering, It is abominable that this should happen now. I thought I should be safe! Oh but why did I ever hope to escape?
Will you toss Quilby aside, Adela? we asked rubbing our hands together. You must! The second oldest averred, Quilby will certain not want you, Adela, if you are a base-born.
But Mr. Quilby has been all tenderness. Dear children, please be kind, please endeavor to understand what you cannot possibly . . .
We moved as one to tug her skirts but exchanged this tactic for a rough shake. Percy knows your secret and still loves you, Adela! We will go and fetch him and he will whisk you away!
No, she cried, you will not! I will not!
Is there something more that you are not telling us? we inquired.
No, don’t be silly, little ones, she said.
You would unburden all to us, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t want to wound us by keeping more secrets. Mother might ask what we’ve been up to all day and why we look so blue-deviled. It makes us ever so sad that you do not trust us as we thought. Why, we are positively sick! we choked. We’re about to have spasms! On cue, the youngest of us started sobbing. Oh won’t Mother wonder why all our eyes are so red, why our complexion is so wan? Shall we unburden ourselves to her, Adela, shall we?
Adela stared at us as if we she hardly knew. I am so tired, she said in a strangled voice not quite her own. No. Don’t, please. I will tell you. I will have done.
We lay on our fronts, our chins on our fists, rapt to receive!
My father was a tawny-moor of the West Indies and because of it, Percy’s mother would not allow us to be married.15 He is badly dipped and lives practically on her purse strings.
We will here divulge that we were jointly taken aback. We had never seen the daughter of a tawny-moor before, let alone stood in the daughter of a tawny-moor’s library. We did not desire to think of Adela differently, but we could not deny that she had become someone quite Other.
You have been unfaithful to us, Adela, we quavered and asked if we could touch the hair of a black base-born.
She lowered her head, saying, But you must believe that I had no intention of breaking your trust.
The oldest of us traced her cheek as if a slight swarth should rub off.16 Our fingers fingering her, the second oldest speculated, Her moorness merely lends her character—the secret was only an error in judgment. And she does not look yellow-pined, the oldest approvingly replied. No indeed, she is perfectly fair, the second urged and concluded, Why the curtain is not down, but we are in another tale entirely!
All the while Adela stood, unmoving, watching us from far back in her eyes.
However, we all must agree she is metamorphose’d and that for this she must suffer, the oldest said feverishly kissing her hand in the manner of a Percy.17
Adela flushed, snatching it away rigidly. How dare you! Do not touch me! You are but still in the Nursery!
The oldest climbed on Adela’s desk, clapping us to attention, declaiming, quill aloft:
∼ Suiciding by poison or suiciding by knife!
We were dubious as to what this would achieve and thus we struck it off.
∼ Bake her children in a pie, then invite her to the feast!
Not only did Adela not have children, but we were equally uncertain as to whether we wanted to be in a Revenge Tragedy.
∼ Be strangled, be drowned, have her eyes gouged out?
While there was no doubt in our collective minds that Adela could, if put to the test, achieve a nobly gory end, we did not know how to go about it.
The youngest of us tripped forward, opening Troilus and Cressida. Zounds! cried the oldest, Adela’d make a beautiful prisoner of war. We can sell her and our early idyllic notion of the ownership of love will remain ours evermore. False as Cressid, concurred the second.
Just then Percy, the Percy whom we ourselves had procured, whom we had selected as the hero of our hobby-horse,18 leaned in the door with a pistol cocked. You naughty children, he smiled yet snarled. Now since you are so anxious to be a part of Adela’s fate, I will prevail upon you all to tie up my darling girl with the curtain cord.
We shall not, we sputtered. We haven’t sold the Negress so she is not yet yours!
The Devil she isn’t! he shrieked, lifting the pistol.
Percy, you fool, they are but children! Adela exclaimed.
Yet Percy pointed his gun at us. I suspect it is these brats who have entrapped you. I wouldn’t have taken you for such a milksop, Adela. O my sweet martyr, Percy cackled. My little devils, shall you help your bit of ebony to her cross?
We did not want to do it but we all together did; the sum of us helped the villain. Adela offered us no violence, not even when some of us, being fascinated by her whimper, tightened the cord so that it bit into her breast.
So my underlings, how would you choose this story to end? Love or Death? Percy pointed the barrel at the oldest: You, choose.
The oldest of us looked to the rest of us, but we shook our heads, having come to no unanimous answer. We had not had the time to parley.
Come child, let me see how well Adela has magicked you, he said.19
L-l-love? stuttered our oldest and the rest of us, knowing it necessary, absolutely necessary, to preserve an absolutely unified front, followed suit: Love! Love! Love!
Percy crowed. Well I do believe Love has conquered all. Adela, my sweet, Percy congratulated her wryly, you have taught them so well.
Not I, replied Adela. For I would have chosen Death.
Don’t be such a ninnyhammer, spat Percy, shaken.
No, she corrected, you cannot think me so chicken-hearted. All these years I have done without you, what makes you suppose I should want your uneven tyranny now?
All plus Percy were silent. Then he intoned: It would be best to gag her mouth, she’s ruining my arc. We, wrenching down more curtain rope, pushed it into the wetness of her mouth.
However, Quilby, unheralded, unexpected, taking us by unawares, burst into the parlor, bellowing in horrified accents, Adela, my poor girl! Damme, what has this blackguard done?
She’s a black base-born and she wants Death! we shouted.
Quilby’s eyes fairly started out of his head. She is God’s creature, he said, throwing off his coat then loosening his cravat. And you shall not harm her.
The two men, prodigiously embroiled in fisticuffs, grappled at each other, vying for the pistol. Adela worked furiously to extricate her wrists and, once free, pulled down her gag, crying, No you shall not! rushing toward Percy. And we, en masse, ran as one toward Death, wedding our wee bodies with hers, until her, our, their fingers wrapped about the pistol.
O Adela, though we now know the Why, that How is known solely by those individual fingers which pulled the lone trigger. We only know presently, and indeed knew then, that he looked more elegant in death than we ever knew him to be in life, or even when we first had collaboratively imagined entangling him.20
We, no longer the children we have been, have never forgotten that, no matter what shade the skin, the blood is always red. And for this denouement, we beg you, Adela, to forgive.
Finis.