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ALEXANDRA ILLYRIA BATHENBROOK arrived in Georgetown from Cuba aboard a United Fruit Company Caribbean banana boat transporting ten thousand flies. Such fragrant passage left her unbathed and desperate for a good meal. It was common knowledge that this upper corner of South America was desperately humid and a few decades behind the times. While she waited outside the customs building, melting under the midday sun, nothing of the port’s ballyhoos was of surprise. Moored freighters were being loaded with bales of rice and sugarcane. Sun-wrinkled farmers peddled plantains and fishermen yelled out the going price for their fly-ridden catches.
Hardly any automobiles rumbled over the dusty roads. An open-air bus came to a halt. It was swarmed by a sweaty crowd tossing up their belongings to a man standing on its roof.
Outside of the white colonials, the denizens held lineage to African slaves brought over by the Dutch or indentured servants from the Indian subcontinent who had arrived unchained.
There were very few native Indians.
Regardless of ancestry, everyone went about their business dressed in light loose clothing, wore some style of a sunhat, and sweated despite the waving of hand-held fans, improvised hat fans, or even flip-flopping empty hands. What proved surprising to Alexandra was that her father was not here to greet her. She placed down her heavy Globe-Trotter leather suitcase and pushed back her sunhat to wipe her brow; quickly taken to cool fantasies entailing ice and lemonade.
Alexandra had yet to grasp that she was a millionaire. She splurged on hotels and bought trendy clothing, but such living felt peculiar. Growing up, she lacked nothing other than access to her trust fund and attention. She had gotten by with financial support from her father and Will to go to college, travel, and have a few dollars left in her pockets for books, meals, and mischief. It was for this reason that after waiting an hour, her instinct was to walk to her lodging instead of hopping aboard a donkey-cart taxi.
A government car pulled up, interrupting her exodus.
A robust patrol officer presented himself. “Miss Bathenbrook... fullest apologies for our delay.”
She had no clue why he knew her. “What is this about, sir?”
“We are here via Government House to see to your transportation needs,” the officer attested. “Your father’s ship from Puerto Cabello is delayed. If you please...”
The driver had already loaded her suitcase by the time the officer opened the back door for her. She slid in and they were off. They passed a group of sailors enjoying shore leave from the Royal Navy cruiser docked at the harbor. The car came to a halt in the capital’s mercantile district. Alexandra was escorted into a boutique, closing in on the vapors. She kissed the young Guianese girl that handed her a glass of iced tea sweetened with molasses.
The elderly proprietor stepped forward. “Miss Bathenbrook... such a pleasure to be of service.”
“What is this about, madam?”
“Government House wishes us to see to your formalwear needs.”
A hive of seamstresses swarmed in from the sewing room and started measuring Alexandra out, jotting down numbers and running their tape as she did her best imitation of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man. She had planned out her wardrobe for going birding in the jungle, with no gumption for any need for a lavish evening dress.
Alexandra was assured that her custom-fitted garments would be delivered within hours, and once more, she was on her way with the patrol officers. They drove to Woodbine House. If one were to stay in Guiana, there was no better place. The guesthouse had hosted Edward, Prince of Wales, during his royal visit five years earlier, and it remained the premier forum for high-society soirées. The flower-filled grounds were well-manicured and peaceful. A Guianese bellhop and maître d’hôtel stood waiting for her arrival.
“Miss Bathenbrook... so honored by your stay.”
“What is this about, sir?”
“The governor has asked that we see to your every comfort,” the maître d’hôtel replied.
With their end of the mission completed, the patrolmen tipped their caps and departed. Alexandra’s suitcase was already in tow as the hotel manager escorted her to a shaded table on the sun patio. Dwarf palms and crimson canna lilies ornamented the courtyard. A glass pitcher of iced tea, topped with lemon rinds, made for the perfect centerpiece. A smiling waiter poured out the first round.
As she lifted her drink, Alexandra paused, unsure if iced tea fell under her theorem on British indoctrination techniques. As she was parched, she erred it did not. Two months free from the clutches of the empire’s surreptitious nectar had allowed her to detoxify. She had said nil zero times, was no longer pronouncing schedule as shed-ule, and when the last time she had uttered whence was anyone’s guess. An inexplicable impulse to start a flower garden had subsided, Yorkshire pudding was once again deemed repulsive, and even her teeth looked healthier in the mirror.
Two cheerful local girls delivered trays of food. One passed to Alexandra a bouquet of pink and white sacred lotuses.
“Miss Bathenbrook. So lovely you visit our country.”
“They’re beautiful,” Alexandra said. “Who arranged for these?”
The girl smiled. “Guiana be happy you’re here.”
The girls left to get a vase, leaving Alexandra to her feast. There were fried plantains marinated in coconut milk, chicken curry with rice, and a fruit plate that held her favorite delicacy of passionfruit. She dug right in.
Once stuffed, Alexandra requested to see her room, refraining from sharing her plan to nap to avoid someone being sent up from the lobby to sleep it for her. The interior of the hotel was ornately colonial, with brick pillars, crafted woods, and plush seating.
Her room had a sunny verandah, a listless ceiling fan, and its bed beckoned before she inspected much more.
Three hours later, a knock rapped on the door.
Alexandra tossed on her silk robe to answer.
Six women carrying steaming buckets of water greeted her. They marched into the bathroom to fill the tub. One said, “Rest time is over, Miss Bathenbrook... the reception’s only two hours off.”
Alexandra felt foggy. “What reception, miss?”
“Your reception, sweetie. You will look divine!”
Three women stayed, and Alexandra took to the tub. They scented the bathwater with flower petals and eucalyptus oil. She lounged and pondered any chance the hotel would offer scones for breakfast, or if she’d have time to take in a cricket match.
She must have been falling behind her mysterious overseer’s shed-ule, for soon the women entered and began washing her hair. Once rinsed off and towel-dried, they seated Alexandra at the vanity. One woman combed out her hair, another worked on her nails, while the third laid out her undergarments, which had been washed and dried in swift fashion.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball. Just you see.”
Alexandra wondered if she was being processed to wed a benevolent dictator or to serve as a semi-virginal sacrifice to a South American sun god. “They don’t plan to marry me off, do they?”
“I’ve seen it before,” the hairdresser conceded. “Rest assured, you’ll look beautiful.”
The full salon treatment raged on. They plucked things overdue for plucking and powdered regions Alexandra had never assumed needed powdering. Her hair was pinned high and fanciful. By the time they colored her eyes and lips, it was closing in on seven in the evening. Her dresses arrived. Alexandra inspected both options, choosing the simpler blue one as it was best to avoid black in the tropics unless attending a funeral or facing a firing squad. It was elegant, sleek, and slid down her silk slip effortlessly.
The hairdresser walked her to the full-length mirror.
It was the first time Alexandra had been fitted out in such luxurious style since her disastrous meeting with the Explorers Club.
She studied her reflection, chuffed to bits.
—‡—
“‘BOOMSIE’ IT IS?” ALEXANDRA asked her dancing companion. “You must have been an artilleryman in the military.”
“It largely became my nickname,” Boomsie confided, “on account of my diverticulitis.”
The ornate and expansive drawing room at Woodbine House was bursting with the colony’s upper crust mingling in smart tropical attire. Alexandra had been introduced to most, sharing a quick shake or kiss on her hand as an honoree. A string quartet played the music of the ages, and it seemed to last forever.
Once free of the receiving line, she had fallen captive to the dance floor, being handed from one eager luminary to the next. It had commenced with a waltz in the arms of the governor, Sir Cecil Hunter-Rodwell, who knew her father from the South African War. She was then passed down the ranks of Royal Navy officers wearing number 2 mess dress and now found herself with local administrator Boomsie Hilton, who was doing a masterful job in abating the crueler dispositions of his gastrointestinal system.
If she consumed all the world’s tea, Alexandra would still have difficulty comprehending the propensity of Brits to adopt chummy nicknames, or as with T.E. Shaw, invent a new one. While there were countless Alexandra’s throughout history, she felt confident there were likely to be few, if any, Alexandra Illyria’s, and positively none with the surname Bathenbrook.
It was hers, exclusively, and the only thing other than her soul to which she held absolute ownership.
Women came into this world with the expectation they would surrender their family name for another. Alexandra might do so come the day, but she’d need to be disturbingly in love to make such a sacrifice. While there remained a chance she would have to entertain temporary subterfuge if becoming a spy or have cause to go on the lam, altering it for anything less baffled her.
She had yet to share more than a hasty greeting with the man responsible for her being her—Olde Archie. If he didn’t cut in soon, she might have to wait to speak with him until morning.
While the reception and dancing were all very nice and nerve-wracking, Alexandra could sense not everyone circulating the room appeared so welcoming. Her contemporaries of marriageable age did not bother to disguise their trenchant snipes with glance or whisper. Prince Edward had caused a stir upon his royal visit by requesting his first dance to be with a Guianese beauty over the pick of the colonial litter. Alexandra was sure such snotty scuttlebutt to be reminiscent of that weathered by the lady dubbed the “Duchess of Georgetown.”
A clique of bachelors, primed to chat her up, waited for their turn. Until then, they engaged in speculative conversations about George Dyott’s mission. Colonel Fawcett’s disappearance was of local interest, as Georgetown often served as a base for explorers seeking the fabled riches of El Dorado.
None ever returned.
“May I, sir?”
“By all means,” Boomsie boomed. He ceded Alexandra’s hand.
“Jolly good to see you, Father,” she commented. “Pray tell, what the bloody hell is going on?”
“I’m unaware,” he casually related as they danced. “Colonials will seize upon any occasion to host a reception. Their life under the harsh sun would otherwise seem empty.”
“Rubbish! They’re here to honor you.” It was clear there was no bigger fish wading the Crown colony’s waters than her father. “I’ve heard that you have the ‘ear of King George.’ What say you?”
“Bureaucrats, even governors, tend to render rosy reports to the Colonial Office on the state of their fiefdoms. Buckingham Palace has entrusted me to attain a more precise account of things. Word has leaked, and thus I am now gloated upon to the extreme.”
“Bravo!” Before anyone could interrupt, she requested, “Escort me outside for some air.”
He led her to the sun patio, stopping to gather her purse along the way. Several men stood about smoking, sipping cocktails, and chatting over the mission to find Colonel Fawcett.
Archibald assessed his daughter with prideful delight. “Much has changed since last we said farewell. I’ve fallen so much older, and you have gone about engaging the world with such panache.”
“I showed up at the docks in sixes and sevens. It took an army to put me together.” Alexandra sighed. She thought he looked worn. His hair was thinner, and his mahogany walking stick was no longer being spun in hand merely for show. His voice sounded tired. She rummaged through her bag for a small cedar box and handed it over. “La Gloria Cubanas. Missed your birthday again.”
“My precious, Alee-girl.” He kissed her cheek and did not hesitate to liberate a cigar.
Alexandra said, “I suspect you’ve cued up some of my jobs. Who else could have directed the Foreign Office to locate me whilst in Jerusalem? Have you, Father?”
He blew out his first satisfying smoke ring. “They selected you on your merits. I simply pointed.”
“And the Explorers Club? Was my meeting on your accord?”
“The Explorers Club?” He scoffed. “It took them a year to find you in Montana.”
“When shall we take to the river?”
“Two days,” he reported. “It sounds like residing in London has left an imprint on you.”
Alexandra waved it off. “I’m wise to their wicked game, but they seized occasion to serve me iced tea, spiking it with lemons to lure me in. I shall sweat it free of my being over the coming fortnight.”