ease his fevered brain. But for all her goodness, I sense in Alice an unfortunate tendency to
obstinacy
. When she might have served as prop and comfort to her Mama, she prefers to ally herself with the younger children—Leopold, for example, upon whom she foolishly dotes.
And
Louise.
And
Helena. They refer to me as “Eliza” behind my back; Alice is the prime mover in all my children's conspiracies.
“Pity your poor Mama, my child,” I began, “and do your utmost to console her—though none
can,
considering the
All-in-All
I have lost.”
“You have my pity, Mama,” she returned dutifully. “Of that you may be certain.”
“Pray sit down, dear child.”
Near at hand was a settee, placed in an alcove of the wall; after an instant's hesitation, Alice bowed her head. She sat.
“I am so very tired,” she murmured.
“Naturally.” The word had more asperity than I intended. “You have sacrificed yourself perhaps too much for poor Papa—waiting upon him tirelessly, as though there were not a household of servants and doctors at Windsor, possessed of far greater experience and wisdom! But your vigilance could not keep Death from the door, my unfortunate Alice.”
“No,” she agreed. “Quite useless. All my love and anxiety for him—”
“I notice that your brother is now resident in the Castle. Who summoned him from Cambridge, pray?”
She raised her head. “I did, Mama. I could not allow Bertie to remain ignorant of Papa's crisis.”
“
You
could not allow!” Overwhelmed by a sick feeling of despair and helplessness—uncertain what
could,
or
ought,
to be revealed to such an innocent of her brother's moral lapse—I was, for an instant, deprived of speech. “Are you unaware, Alice, that it is because of
Bertie
—his transgressions, the severe anxiety his weak character has caused—that your Papa lost all will to live? You did very wrong in summoning him. But for Bertie's presence in the Blue Room—”
“—Papa might have rallied?” Her lip trembled. “Good God, Mama, when will you see the truth? Papa has been ill for weeks—months, perhaps!”
“Your father was well enough before the Prince of Wales broke his heart,” I cried. “And then
you
must dig his grave for him!”
Alice's hands twisted convulsively in her lap, but her eyes remained fixed; she did not break down.
“I hope you will behave with greater modesty, in future,” I said lamely. “There is a degree of self-consequence in all your actions, Alice, that cannot be considered either proper or becoming. I shudder to think how your future husband may remark upon it.”
“Yes, Mama.”
I hesitated; there was much I yearned to know. And yet Alice is such a difficult creature—so aloof, so acute in her understanding . . .
“You were almost the last to attend him,” I observed. “You were by his side from morning until night. Never, from this day until the hour of your death, my dear, shall you have the slightest call to reproach yourself. You may be happy in the knowledge that you did your Duty.”
“Yes. I have that comfort.”
“He was so cold at the end,” I murmured. “His hands, his face, almost blue. As though the midnight of Heaven had wrapped itself already around him.”
Alice looked at me finally. I sank down beside her, clasped her hands in mine.
“And he whispered in your ear. German, of course. A few words, I think?”
Abruptly, she rose.
“Dear child, what did he tell you? Did he say anything of . . . the family? Anything, perhaps, of . . .
me
?”
Alice's eyelids flickered. “There are other people in the world, Mama, besides yourself. Though you can never be brought to see it.”
Such cruelty, at an hour when too much has already been torn from me! I rose and faced her.
“Pray consider, Alice. Do you think it is
quite
what Beloved Papa would wish—that you should
refuse to confide
in your suffering parent?”
She sighed, and closed her eyes. “Papa's words were utterly
obstinacy
. When she might have served as prop and comfort to her Mama, she prefers to ally herself with the younger children—Leopold, for example, upon whom she foolishly dotes.
And
Louise.
And
Helena. They refer to me as “Eliza” behind my back; Alice is the prime mover in all my children's conspiracies.
“Pity your poor Mama, my child,” I began, “and do your utmost to console her—though none
can,
considering the
All-in-All
I have lost.”
“You have my pity, Mama,” she returned dutifully. “Of that you may be certain.”
“Pray sit down, dear child.”
Near at hand was a settee, placed in an alcove of the wall; after an instant's hesitation, Alice bowed her head. She sat.
“I am so very tired,” she murmured.
“Naturally.” The word had more asperity than I intended. “You have sacrificed yourself perhaps too much for poor Papa—waiting upon him tirelessly, as though there were not a household of servants and doctors at Windsor, possessed of far greater experience and wisdom! But your vigilance could not keep Death from the door, my unfortunate Alice.”
“No,” she agreed. “Quite useless. All my love and anxiety for him—”
“I notice that your brother is now resident in the Castle. Who summoned him from Cambridge, pray?”
She raised her head. “I did, Mama. I could not allow Bertie to remain ignorant of Papa's crisis.”
“
You
could not allow!” Overwhelmed by a sick feeling of despair and helplessness—uncertain what
could,
or
ought,
to be revealed to such an innocent of her brother's moral lapse—I was, for an instant, deprived of speech. “Are you unaware, Alice, that it is because of
Bertie
—his transgressions, the severe anxiety his weak character has caused—that your Papa lost all will to live? You did very wrong in summoning him. But for Bertie's presence in the Blue Room—”
“—Papa might have rallied?” Her lip trembled. “Good God, Mama, when will you see the truth? Papa has been ill for weeks—months, perhaps!”
“Your father was well enough before the Prince of Wales broke his heart,” I cried. “And then
you
must dig his grave for him!”
Alice's hands twisted convulsively in her lap, but her eyes remained fixed; she did not break down.
“I hope you will behave with greater modesty, in future,” I said lamely. “There is a degree of self-consequence in all your actions, Alice, that cannot be considered either proper or becoming. I shudder to think how your future husband may remark upon it.”
“Yes, Mama.”
I hesitated; there was much I yearned to know. And yet Alice is such a difficult creature—so aloof, so acute in her understanding . . .
“You were almost the last to attend him,” I observed. “You were by his side from morning until night. Never, from this day until the hour of your death, my dear, shall you have the slightest call to reproach yourself. You may be happy in the knowledge that you did your Duty.”
“Yes. I have that comfort.”
“He was so cold at the end,” I murmured. “His hands, his face, almost blue. As though the midnight of Heaven had wrapped itself already around him.”
Alice looked at me finally. I sank down beside her, clasped her hands in mine.
“And he whispered in your ear. German, of course. A few words, I think?”
Abruptly, she rose.
“Dear child, what did he tell you? Did he say anything of . . . the family? Anything, perhaps, of . . .
me
?”
Alice's eyelids flickered. “There are other people in the world, Mama, besides yourself. Though you can never be brought to see it.”
Such cruelty, at an hour when too much has already been torn from me! I rose and faced her.
“Pray consider, Alice. Do you think it is
quite
what Beloved Papa would wish—that you should
refuse to confide
in your suffering parent?”
She sighed, and closed her eyes. “Papa's words were utterly
Similar Books
