Chapter 58

I poured myself a large scotch over ice and sat down in a comfortable chair next to Johnny. He was talking to Malcolm, while the baron and John Senior were discussing something that I could not make out. As I waited for Johnny to finish, I sipped my drink and thought.

I considered my surprising reaction to Bonnie’s news and to my lack of one to the exploits of my father. It was like I was numb in one area while hypersensitive in the other. I was quite sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with those observations, but that did not change anything particularly.

Invoking the promise was another matter. It had a material effect on my decisions going forward. I could choose to ignore the consequences based on my moral compass, but there was an unknown element involved that might be laid at the door of superstition on the one hand, or prudence on the other. I was jumpy enough without involving the possibility of karmic retribution. That Stanley had couched our pledge in a lot of mumbo-jumbo, implying a higher and darker authority, prevented me from simply ignoring the consequences of breaking my word. It was an effective ploy. Score one for Stanley. He was still a sneaky bastard in my book. He could be as cold as steel or extremely helpful, depending on an agenda that he alone was privy to.

There was also the letter from Alice. At least I assumed it was. I had to get away and read it, which was not an easy task given the social obligations stacked up before me. I decided that reading the letter was priority one. Talking to Johnny was priority two, and the rest would just have to follow when I could get to them.

I whispered to Johnny that I would meet him upstairs and made a hasty retreat.

I went out the front door and around the kitchen and the servants’ quarters. The sky was gray with hints of darker things to come. Gusts rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees while the pines moaned and sighed. I passed in front of the garage until I found the spot I was looking for.

There was a stand of seven cypress trees to the east of the south lawn. When Johnny and I were small, we discovered that we could enter the stand from one end. Inside was a cathedral. The trees vaulted high above, and the air was filled with incense from the scent of pine. Hazy beams of sunlight would slant diagonally across the spongy floor in the late afternoon. It was a mystical place, hidden from outsiders and steeped in the ancient genetic memories of fairies, dwarves, and druids. Johnny and I lived and conversed with them for years, until we grew too tall to fit comfortably inside, at which point they continued on without us, silent as before.

Someone, probably Harry, had placed a bench behind the trees so that it was hidden from the house, and one could be alone and unobserved. I sat down and pulled out the letter.

It was from Alice after all. I knew her hand by now. She wrote:

 

My dearest Percy, my little blessing,

You will not be little when you read this. I would have loved to have seen you all grown up, but the amount of time I have left is uncertain. My body grows weak. Some have pointed to a life of excess. My doctors tell me that, but they are wrong. I have ventured too far down the paths I have chosen, and the methods I have used have taken their toll. There are limits, and I am approaching mine.

I write this while I can and have entrusted it to Stanley to deliver at the appropriate time. He is loath to do so for reasons you will understand, but I have overridden his objections by invoking my darker side, of which he is aware. You are reading this because he is the man he is. I hope he has forgiven me, but enough; it is done, and here we are.

I wish to relate to you two incidents that changed all of our lives.

The first occurred in Florence, some years ago.

I was passing through the city and had stopped at a small hotel for lunch. It is my custom to be inconspicuous when traveling abroad. I chose a table that was away from public view. A couple came in and sat down close by. It seemed they too wished some privacy, and for good reason, as I would learn. I was reading, as is my routine when I am alone at meals. They were speaking quietly, but there was an intensity that drew my attention, and then the man spoke more forcefully. There was no mistaking. The voice was that of my ex-husband, Lord Bromley. The girl’s name was Mary. I learned over the course of the conversation that she was pregnant. Although he was categorically the father, Lord Bromley stated in no uncertain terms that he would not marry her. She asked him what she ought to do. His advice was incisive and abrupt: “You either get rid of it or you get Hugo to marry you right quick.” She replied that they had yet to engage in sexual relations and the speaker knew that. He told her to find someone else then. Specifically, he said, “Anne will know of a likely candidate. She is very resourceful.”

And there it was.

Over time I knew them all. Anne eventually married my half-brother, John, and Mary is, of course, your mother. We are good friends. I doubt there are many things more freakish and preternatural than that moment and its consequences, but such is life. Lord Bromley is your father. I cannot say it plainer. I will refer to him as such going forward in this letter.

Mary married quickly, and her secret was safe. Unfortunately, the couple had a great deal more to deal with.

It was I who counseled John that he offer to take the child and bring him up in his own household. He asked me why, of course, but I explained that I was aware of the unlucky couple’s troubles and wished to help. I had even set aside a trust to cover all the child’s future expenses. John could field no objections and, in fact, welcomed the opportunity. He and Anne had wanted a companion for Johnny in the form of a brother or sister, but Anne had been unable to conceive again due to complications during Johnny’s birth. It was a gift that satisfied their most optimistic expectations, and so it came about that you and Johnny were brought up together.

John has surely wondered at my motives, but I have never disclosed the truth to anyone other than Stanley. He is a most penetrating observer, and one day he recognized my former husband in you. He confronted me with his observations, and such is our relationship, I told him everything. We had quite the exchange. It was the only time I seriously wondered if he would remain in my service. He was so put out by my revelation and your certain and continued presence going forward, that he told me he would be gone that night, but I too have my methods. I went down on my knees and grabbed his legs like the supplicants of old. I begged him not to leave me. I told him a simple truth. I loved him and would die if he left me. We had been through enough together for him to know the veracity of it. He almost leaped out of his skin when I did this, but I can be damn quick. I held him in a grip of steel. He had no choice but to acquiesce. It was the only time I have ever used that weapon, and I won’t again. It was cruel, but women are cruel — much crueler than men when provoked. When I had extracted his most solemn promise to remain with me, I let him go and begged his forgiveness. He said he could deny me nothing but would like an explanation. I will now give you the same.

I was never able to have a child at any time. I knew this when I married Lord Bromley. I was remiss in that I never told him from the beginning. I should have. Many things would have been different. I had had an operation when I was young. One of the collateral effects was that my ovaries were removed to prevent any further recurrence. It was both a blessing and a curse. I would not have lived the life I have had I been able to conceive, but it left a hole. This has weighed on me off and on, but your presence in my life has helped me fill it, and I thank you for that.

I loved your father at the beginning. I truly did. He was perfect for me. We should have loved forever.

He was flawed when I married him. I knew this. I was not blind, but we all choose to overlook what we must. Good and bad exist in everyone. I knew what I was doing and accepted him for what he was. Your father has a cruel streak, different than mine. It is capricious. Why do you think Loki was a man? It is worth considering in relation to yourself going forward, but more on that later.

I will tell you about the second incident.

It was on our honeymoon. Your father loved horses. He probably does still. He never wore a hard hat. He said it was for wimps and cowards. Foolish man! While out riding one fine morning, he had a wreck. He was brought to me unconscious by a pair of grooms accompanied by the mutual friend who had invited us. It was in Shropshire, and although the doctor was called promptly, it was several hours before he was able to arrive and examine him. Eventually, your father regained consciousness but not before the doctor had pulled me aside and cautioned me on the severity of the injury. He told me to expect a change in personality or, at the very least, a change in behavior similar to those who have suffered a stroke. There was damage and likely clotting in the brain, but the facilities he had available to treat the injury were inadequate. My husband needed to be transported to a hospital as soon as possible. It was most urgent.

Once your father was conscious, I tried to persuade him to seek additional care, but he refused. We had a schedule to keep, and he said he would recover with no ill effects. True to his prediction, the next day he was completely recovered and himself. And so it seemed, until we journeyed to Italy. It was there that the delayed reaction finally caught up with him.

I will elaborate no further than to say I suffered terribly from the changes that overtook him. Our marriage dissolved as my heart bled tears and my willingness to continue leaked away with their drops. Toward the end, we fought incessantly, and one night at Rhinebeck in a fit of rage, I finally told him that I had been barren all my life, and that I was glad of it because that way I could make sure his line died with him.

Nothing I have ever said before or since has affected someone like those words. I saw to my horror that in his heart he loved me desperately in spite of the mental sickness that had consumed him. Until we met, he had never known the emotion fully, but with my cruel deliberate words, I killed what little remained, as surely as if I had plunged a knife into his chest. I too died that night. In our folly, and in mine most of all, we had managed to kill our most precious possession. I think we both went mad then. In fact, I’m sure of it. He, because I had killed his capacity to love, and me for the same reason. He never forgave me for that, and I never forgave him for what followed. I will spare you the specifics. If you must know, speak to Stanley. He will tell you, or he will not.

Sometime later, after we divorced, I nearly shot your father dead. It was in the jungles of Ecuador. What stayed my hand was the echo of the love we shared, and for that I give thanks. Had I done so, you would not have been born, and my life would have been that much more barren.

I have never chosen to display my feelings toward you, not because they don’t exist, but because it was how Stanley and I agreed to continue going forward. Both of us have chosen not to act. I to not express my affection and he to not express the opposite. He hates your father, not just for what he did to me, but for what he was unable to do himself: to protect me from harm. To me, you are a living memory of a brief but sparkling happiness, but to him, you are a constant reminder of his powerlessness and his failure to keep me safe. I am sorry beyond measure for his anguish. He deserves better. He is the best of men.

I have two more things to tell you.

If life has given us gifts, what do we owe for having squandered them? To whom do we owe exactly, and what will the payment be?

The Furies, the Erinyes, as the Greeks called them, were never particularly kind. Their most severe torment was madness. Many may forget them, but that doesn’t mean they’re dead. They live. I’ve seen them. This is a warning to you for what is to follow. It is not a threat, but I would be irresponsible if I did not tell you of the consequences.

I have placed the Rhinebeck house in one trust and provisions for its upkeep in another. My half-brother is the trustee for both but with an as yet named beneficiary. That beneficiary is you, if you wish to accept it. The assignments are enclosed.

You will be responsible for the house and all its contents both physical and otherwise, including the libraries and artifacts. It is a heavy burden. Failure to care for the intangible interests that reside here carries heavy penalties and unknown consequences. Consider this carefully before you accept. What might be a gift may not be.

Lastly, Dear One, hear me, for this I consider to be most important:

I do not know if it is true that the improprieties of the fathers are visited upon the children and upon the children’s children. Exodus says this, but the Bible and I were never close. It was the fall that broke your father. In those sunny days before it, he and I loved and held each other in a higher place. I prevented him from traveling down the dark paths of his past, while he did the same for me. It was supposed to be forever, but it wasn’t. Untethered, we degenerated back to our baser selves. This was our sin.

You have the capacity for great things, but you also carry the potential for your father’s excesses. I am anxious for you. Perhaps this is only the natural concern of one generation looking at the next. Time will tell whether you have the strength and ability to do better. I think you are capable and pray this is so, but you may wish to consider this advice:

Surround yourself with good people. Find someone strong to love, who will love you back. Make it last as long as you can. These words I know to be true. It worked for me for a time, until powers greater than my own intervened. Short as my brief period of celestial happiness was, it has sustained me through the rest of my days and nights.

I wish I had known Stanley sooner. It is my only regret.

I also wish I had been able to have a child, but then, maybe I did.

Love always,

Alice

PS I told you tonight that you and I are of two worlds and that we live in twilight. We travel the edge of light and dark. You know the truth, but understand you now have several names. Choose the one you wish. Become the one you want. May the ancient ones continue to bless you and keep you. Rely on them, for they rely on you. You are what my heart wanted most but was unable to conceive.

A.