Joan Smith (23 page)

I used to take my afternoon break from writing in Emily’s lovely garden. After coming to know her better, I found myself viewing the world with a keener eye. I felt its mysteries in my blood, as though every sense were preternaturally acute. The sky looked bluer, the grass a hundred shades of green. Each blade had its own life. At such moments, I truly felt a part of nature, connected by an invisible power to the whole world. Lord Raventhorpe, of keen interest to me because of his kinship with Alexander, agreed to have Arabella’s mortal remains interred beside Alexander. He sent me a letter that had something of Alexander’s charm and insouciance. He wrote:

Dear Belle— May I call you Belle? After having seen you on the telly so often recently, I feel I know you already. I am charmed by your interest in my famous relation. Of course Arabella must be buried beside her fiancé. But for an accident of fate, she would be a Raventhorpe. You make me feel culpable for not having taken the matter in hand myself. It seems like Providence that, although the family graveyard is quite crowded, there is one empty plot on the left side of Alexander ‘s grave. No one could tell me why it had been left vacant. Now we know who it has been waiting for, all those years.

He continued with the time and place of the interment, and ended, “Of course you will come. I look forward with the greatest anticipation to meeting you, and thanking you on behalf of my late cousin.
Adieu,
Raventhorpe.”

The letter had been done on a word processor and printer, so that I had only his signature to judge his handwriting, but its flourishing, bold strokes were not unlike my Alexander’s.

The ceremony took place on a sunny morning in early June. I felt Alexander was looking on to see how things turned out. I could almost hear him scolding. “Demme, about time you got here, woman!”

I was pleased to see that Lord Raventhorpe had chosen a white marble headstone to match Alexander’s. It bore a simple inscription: Arabella’s name and dates, and “Betrothed to Lord Raventhorpe.” Beneath it he had added the inscription on the back of the locket, the single word, “
Toujours.”
How did he know? I had not told that to anyone who interviewed me. But of course, Emily was a relative; I assumed she had told him. In any case, it was exactly the right epitaph.

Besides a hundred newsmen and cameras, a large contingent from Lyndhurst attended the burial. Mollie, in a dark balloon gown and a wide-brimmed black feathered hat; Emily in a sedate blue dress; Henry Thorndyke; and Sappho in a very elegant gown of unrelieved black with a veil covering her face. She said she had decided not to write about Arabella and Raventhorpe. She was researching Emma Hamilton and Admiral Nelson instead.

The sun shone on the open grave before us and the gravestone there beside it. It seemed incredible that Alexander’s marble headstone should be worn smooth on the edges, with moss creeping up the sides. His death seemed so recent to me. Arabella’s stone would look garishly new beside it. But with the passing of the centuries, hers, too, would be smoothed by the hand of time. Wind and rain would soften its sharp edges, until the two stones appeared coeval.

Adam—I have saved the best for the last—was still using a cane after his accident. He was not an exact reincarnation of Alexander, but the resemblance was striking. He was tall and well formed, with black hair and those same sloeberry eyes as my beloved. It seemed impossible that the family characteristics had continued so strongly over so many years. He looked aristocratically elegant in a formal gray morning coat and top hat. When he removed the hat for the burial, the sunlight struck his hair, glinting rainbows off its sable smoothness. His expression was sober rather than sad.

He came forward and stood beside me during the ceremony. When it was time to throw the handful of earth on the coffin, he put his cane under his arm and held my hand with his free one. He didn’t speak, but just looked in such a familiar way that I felt I had known him before—that I had known him forever. When it was over, he turned to me as if we were old friends and said, “You will come up to the house now, Belle. You will want to see some of Alexander’s things. Demme, this busted wing holds me back.”

“Where did your accident happen?” I said, half-afraid to ask the question.

He cocked his head in a way I had often seen Alexander do and replied, “You don’t remember? Tsk tsk. Let me refresh your memory, my pet. I saw this beautiful woman—what else would make me lose my head at such a perilous moment?—on a bus just outside of Stratford. She looked demmed familiar. I didn’t see the lorry coming half a block away. Is it coming back to you at all?”

I felt faint, as if the blood were rushing from my head. “It was you!”

He just went on looking in a way that answered my question. "Not the optimum spot for our reunion, but beggars can't be choosers. I want to show you the letters Arabella wrote to Alexander. I've saved them for you all these years."

"You've only know of me for a few weeks."

"A little longer than that," he said, softly smiling. "A century or two. It's seemed a couple of millennia. We have a lot of lost time to make up."

“I don’t mind waiting,” I said in a weak, disbelieving voice.

Again his eyes met mine in a spine-tingling way. His lips curved in a smile that accentuated his resemblance to Alexander. There was knowledge in his gaze, and impatience, and love. “No, what are a few more moments to us, eh, Belle? We are experts at waiting.”

In that instant, I knew beyond doubt the enchanted boundary had opened, and by some kind intervention of providence, I had found him again. This time nothing would keep us apart.

Copyright  1994 by Joan Smith

Originally published by Fawcett Crest Books

Electronically published in 2002 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.