Alana

by Barrie, Monica

  Alana tried to smile, but she could not.

  ~~~~~

  Chaco’s long legs stretched out over the flat ground; his chest rose and fell powerfully with each deep breath he took. He was a mile from Cape Town, and the freedom of the open plateau and the scents brought to him by the sea-bound breezes all stirred his senses.

  Every day for the last months, when he was not traveling with Alana, he had come to the edge of town, removed all but his pants, and had run beneath the gentle sun.

  Chaco’s promise to Crystal and his devotion to Alana–as well as his lingering guilt over what had happened in New York–kept him in Cape Town, rather than returning to the interior and to the people from whom he had been stolen thirteen years before. He would not desert Crystal or Alana until yhey’d foundRafe Montgomery and Alana no longer needed him. Only then, would he return to his people and become the man he had been destined to be since birth.

  Chaco slowed his pace and finally stopped. He looked down at the small tattoo, just below his left nipple, put there just after his birth. No one in Cape Town, white or black, had ever seen that mark. None would until Chaco returned to Basutoland to claim his rightful place.

  Chaco, only nine when they had kidnapped and enslaved him, was the grandson of Moshweshwe, the greatest king of the Basuto people. Moshweshwe had aligned his people with the British when the Boers started their great trek through Basutoland and had allowed the British to protect them from the Boers.

  It was during that time that the last bands of white slavers roamed the plains looking for blacks to capture and sell far across the ocean. It had been Chaco’s misfortune to be out at that time practicing the hunt, as was his duty.

  When captured, they had tried to break his spirit, but he had not let that happen. Instead, he had taken refuge in silence, swearing to himself that he would not speak again until he had returned to Basutoland.

  Now Chaco was almost home. And each day that he ran free, he began to use his long-neglected voice. At first, he’d discovered he could not speak at all, and he feared his years of silence had become permanent. But when he ran, he tried to chant a tribal song. As the weeks passed, he started to make strange, almost strangling noises. Once he found he could make sounds, he forced himself to continue.

  At the beginning, the pain was intense. The taste of blood always rose in the back of his throat. But it had not stopped him, and on this day, even as Alana read Crystal’s letter, Chaco took a deep breath and let out a loud, piercing shout that echoed across the flatlands.

  “I am ready!” he declared to himself.

  A half hour later, he was in the black section of Cape Town. This too had become a daily habit for him. He stood silently wherever groups of his people gathered, listening to the rumors that were always rife within the community.

  This afternoon he sensed a difference in the atmosphere. Standing in the shade of a small building, Chaco watched a group of men whom he knew to be Zulus. A few moments after he’d arrived, an excited babble broke out. Chaco watched two emaciated men being half-carried between several others.

  They looked fearfully around, and when they were certain there were no whites about, the other natives lowered the men to the ground.

  Chaco pretended disinterest, but his ears were sharp. He discovered the two were escapees from a prison mine, and as he listened, he heard a tale of horror that made the memories of his slavery return fresh to his mind.

  It was even worse, he realized, as the men told of their desperate escape. They spoke, too, about a white man who was with them, a man who was shot a half day after they had broken free.

  Slowly, trying not to show any emotion, Chaco went over to the men. In the Basuto language, he asked about the prison and especially about the white man who had escaped with them. He realized he had broken his vow of silence, but the information meant more to him than his oath.

  The escaped prisoner he spoke to looked up at Chaco and studied him silently. Then he responded to something he saw within Chaco’s face. “He was a good man, a brave man. He said he was from a land called America.”

  “Describe him,” Chaco commanded. In that instant the eyes of all the other people were upon him, and somehow they sensed that he was not just another man. The tone of his voice and his commanding stature told them he was much more than he appeared to be.

  The escaped prisoner gave Chaco a description of the man, telling of his full beard, light eyes, and dark hair. He told Chaco about the prison mine they had been in, deep within the Vaal, a mine worked by black political prisoners and white criminals. When he was finished, Chaco had no choice but to believe that the man who had died was Rafe Montgomery.

  He left, trying to figure out how he could tell Alana what he had learned. He knew Alana was a strong woman and that she would survive this as she had the other difficulties in her life.

  Yet Chaco understood how much his words would hurt her, and his anger at the way people used other people erupted dangerously.

  “Dear God! How is it possible?” she asked, turning her back to Chaco after he had conveyed, in sign language, the information he had learned.

  He had not spoken aloud because he did not want to shock Alana any further and because he still believed in his vow. Until he returned to his people, he would resume his silence.

  Alana turned back to him. “How can you be certain?”

  Chaco signed his answer; the finality of his statement only added to Alana’s grief.

  “I shan’t accept that. Not until I see his body and kiss his lips one last time!”

  Then she fled the room. Alone in her bedroom, she allowed herself to cry out her grief and loss, even though her sorrow went against what she had told Chaco moments before.

  When Edward returned at the end of the day, Alana greeted him dry-eyed. With Chaco present, she told him Chaco’s story.

  Edward stared at her and felt Alana’s sorrow. “It seems hard to believe. Is he the type of man who would try to escape?”

  “With every ounce of his strength.”

  “I am sorry,” Edward whispered. “Where was this prison?” he asked Chaco.

  Chaco began to sign, but he realized that his signing vocabulary was American and that he could not sign the African or Dutch names. Instead, he slowly spelled out the letters.

  “Germiston mine,” Alana translated.

  “That makes no sense,” Edward said, shaking his head slowly.

  “Why?”

  “It is a well-known prison mine. It is also a poor surface mine–the diamonds are of little value. It is used for colored political prisoners and for only the worst white offenders. It’s regularly inspected and the officials would discover a man not properly sentenced. But I shall check on it, Alana, I promise you.”

  Alana said nothing as a spark of hope rekindled in her breast.

  Chaco, looking at her now hopeful face, was not so certain. He was experienced in the ways of the white man, and he knew that those in control did things with impunity. Chaco believed Rafe was dead. But Chaco’s face did not reflect the blame he placed upon himself for Rafe’s death.

  Two weeks later, Edward learned the story of the escape at Germiston prison camp and told it to Alana.

  “I was wrong,” he admitted. “The white man who escaped was not on the roster of prisoners. He was an American, and–” Edward paused when he saw the flash of pain cross Alana’s features. He made himself go on, knowing that to soften his words would only add to her hurt.

  “His description matched the one you gave me of Rafe Montgomery. He was tall with dark hair, and he was very clearly an American. It seems there is only one American sentenced to serve in a mine, and that man is four hundred miles from Germiston. I am afraid, Alana, that it was indeed your fiancé who was killed.”

  Alana accepted his words stoically, but a moment later, her eyes flared. “Then I will claim his body and give him a decent burial.”

  Edward shook his head slowly. “That is impossible. He has
been dead over a month. He–they never buried him. They left him in the bush. That is the way with escaped criminals.”

  Alana’s eyes dulled. She stared at Edward, turned, and left the room. She went up to her bedroom, closed the door, and sat on her bed. No tears spilled from her eyes; rather, her mind brought out her memories of Rafe, and she willed herself to relive them, from the very first day they had met at Riverbend a lifetime ago.

  She refused to accept Rafe’s death, and she refused even to think of it as she retreated within her memories. Soon, she was safe within a world she created for herself, a world where she and Rafe lived and loved and were happily at peace.

  Edward, knowing how grief-stricken Alana was, left her alone. But when the night passed and two more followed without her emerging from her room and with her refusing all food sent to her, he could no longer stand idly by.

  He went to her on the third day and found her standing motionless, staring out the window, wearing a plain nightdress. Her tangled hair hung limply around her face. Her eyes were dry, red-rimmed, and vacant. Her face showed no emotion; her skin was as white as a ghost.

  Edward’s heart grew heavy with compassion, but he ignored his pity as the knowledge of what came next ruled his mind.

  He took Alana’s arm and spun her to him. Then he looked deeply into her eyes, hoping to find some semblance of the fire that had once dominated their gemlike blue depths.

  “You can’t do this to yourself, Alana,” he began.

  Alana’s only answer was an attempt to turn away.

  Refusing to allow that, Edward made her look at him. Suddenly his hand whipped up and cracked against her cheek.

  Alana’s eyes widened momentarily; then her face returned to a passive and unresponsive mask.

  “Damn it, Alana,” Edward shouted. “Cry! Let it free!” His hands tightened on her arms, squeezing painfully to make her aware of herself.

  As she stared at him, the waves of her terrible grief and loss broke loose. Tears welled; great wrenching sobs bubbled from her mouth. Her low moans of grief filled the room, and Edward pulled her into the security of his arms.

  She cried for a long, long time and was unaware when Edward walked them both to the bed and laid her down. He lay next to her, still holding her, still letting her cry against him until she fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  When she awoke the next morning, she remembered everything that had happened and felt gratitude toward Edward, mixed with the loss of the love she would never again know. But she was alive once more, and with that came a determination to know which people in South Africa had been responsible for Rafe’s death. While Crystal gained her information about Allison in New York, she would do the same in South Africa. I will have my revenge, she vowed silently.

  That morning, Alana drafted a long letter to Crystal telling her everything that had happened and promising that she would continue to seek revenge with every breath she took. The letter left three days later on the Marabella, which was making its return voyage to Charleston.

  By late summer of 1868, Alana had come no closer to determining Allison’s counterpart in South Africa, even after another two months of traveling across the country. What she had discovered instead was that her feelings toward Edward were changing.

  Ever since that awful night when he’d forced her to release her grief, she had found herself growing more and more dependent on the security and help he offered.

  Edward had also taken on the role of business adviser, and in the eight months since she’d left New York, Alana, with Edward’s help, had begun to make Landow Shipping into a major force in the shipping industry.

  By late summer, the Landow fleet had grown from two ships to five, three of which were used exclusively for the Maklin-Parkins shipping trade. The Harmony and the Marabella traveled the American route, while a third ferried between England and Cape Town. Landow Shipping was not only solvent; it was beginning to show profits, according to the latest communications Alana received from Carlton DuPont.

  Alana knew that Edward was in love with her, and for several months, she tried to love him in return. She never spoke of this to him; she just tried to find within her the emotion that she wanted to give him. Each time she willed herself to feel love for him, Rafe’s image barred the way.

  On one warm August night, as they sat on the porch of his house, Edward turned to her, his face lined with tension. “It has been almost eight months since you learned of Rafe’s death, yet you still remain here. I can only hope it is because you are starting to feel something toward me.”

  Alana gazed at him, her mouth suddenly dry. Reaching out, she covered his hand with hers and started to speak, but before she could, he stopped her.

  “There is much I must say. Let me, please.”

  Alana silently nodded.

  “I have loved you since I met you. I have spoken of it only once and never again because Rafael Montgomery was still alive. He no longer is, Alana, and I can no longer pretend to feel only friendship for you.

  “My wife and son died fifteen years ago. Since then, I have not wanted to share my life with another until I met you. Now I cannot bear to think of life without you. I love you and I want to marry you,” he said at last.

  Alana gazed warmly at him, thinking of all he had done for her. “Edward,” she began, slowly shaking her head.

  Again, he would not let her continue. “I am twenty years older than you. I know you don’t love me the way you did Rafe, nor would I ever think that I could take his place in your heart. But, Alana, your life must go on. You are too vital a woman to spend your life alone. You need a man to be with you–and I want to be that man.”

  Alana gazed at him for several seconds after he fell silent. She had listened intently to every word he’d spoken, and the memory of the past year spent with him–guided and protected by him–rose within her mind.

  They shared a special relationship that was a strong and warm bond of friendship. And that bond told her more than his words could. In that moment, she put Rafe’s memory to peace.

  “I will try, Edward. I will try to love you as you love me.”

  Edward did not reach out and draw her into his arms; it was not his way. Instead, he smiled gently at her. “That is all I will ever ask.”

  On September 17, 1868, Alana Belfores Landow became Alana Parkins, Duchess of Claymore, and the wife of the wealthiest man in British-controlled South Africa. The small, private wedding Alana had insisted on was viewed by Cape Town’s high society with more than a little suspicion.

  Alana knew nothing of this, for Edward did not want to bother her with such mundane gossip. He was determined to make her happy, to protect her against all evils, and to show her that she could be happy and content with him.

  It was on their wedding night that Alana understood that she had made the correct decision in marrying Edward Parkins.

  In the dressing room of the master bedroom, Alana stared into the mirror. Her hands trembled slightly while she brushed her hair, and she had to put the brush down and clasp them together.

  “How will I be able to do this?” she asked herself. Ever since she’d taken off her wedding gown, bathed, and put on the soft white nightgown, her nerves had been on edge.

  She knew that once she entered Edward’s bed, she must forever give up her dreams of Rafe. But Rafe had been her first love, and the only man who had ever made her body sing with passion, joy, and life. Although he was dead, forgetting him was still no easy thing to do. Discounting Ledoque’s attack, no other man had ever made love to her.

  How will I made Edward happy if I feel no passion for him? she wondered.

  Alana pushed those thoughts aside, knowing that she must do the best she could, for Edward deserved no less. Nor would she resort to the tricks that Crystal had told her of, so that a man might believe he had stirred a woman’s desire although the woman felt nothing at all.

  No, she must be honest with herself and with Edward and trust that he would unde
rstand.

  Alana picked up the brush and, with new determination, smoothed out her raven hair. Willing herself not to show just how frightened she was, she left the dressing room and entered the master suite. She crossed toward the hand-hewn bed, but before she reached it, she realized Edward had not yet changed; rather, he was sitting on one of the two chairs near the window.

  Stopping, she turned to study his face. “Is something wrong?” she asked in a low voice.

  Edward stood and came over to her. He cupped her face tenderly in his hands. “No, you have made me very happy. But I do not know if it is wise for us to share this bed yet.”

  “I–I don’t understand,” Alana whispered.

  “You have married me, but I don’t know if you love me. I have waited a long time for this night, Alana; I can wait longer if necessary.”

  Tears welled in Alana’s eyes, and a lump built in her throat. Blinking, she tried to forestall what his sweet words threatened to bring out. As she gazed into his soft brown eyes and kind, handsome face, a new feeling was born.

  In that moment she realized the love she had for Rafe would always remain sacred within her heart, but that there was room to love another. And as the sensation of this new love spread through her, she felt the certainty of conviction.

  “I do love you, Edward, how could I not?” she asked truthfully. With her admission came the understanding that there was more than one type of love. She did not feel the wild and thrilling passion or the undying need that had always been a part of her love with Rafe, and she knew she would never feel that intensity again. But the gentle glow of her emotions told her that the love she had for Edward was a good love, a love that could only grow stronger with the passage of time.

  “Please, Edward,” she said as her hands covered his, “come to bed now.”

  When they were in the large bed, Edward turned to her and drew her to him. Just before their mouths met, she placed her finger to his lips. “I’m frightened, Edward,” she whispered. “Help me.”

  Edward didn’t speak; instead, he drew her closer to him. He did not caress her; he only held her tightly until the trembling in her body eased.