Alonso found himself alone most evenings after eight. He would retreat to his quarters on the second floor and if no other task or occupation laid claim to his time, he would usually catch himself falling asleep before long. He had grown used to the loneliness. The time would continue to pass though, in spite of his ambitions. Every so often, when the house seemed silent as the grave, Alonso would make his way to the libraries on the ground floor. Cruella DeVil had never barred his presence from those rooms, so it never occurred to Alonso to seek permission.
The two libraries were his personal study now. Like puzzle pieces that had been broken apart and scattered across the room or hidden within the books, clues in Cruella DeVil's past were provided as letters found amongst the aging encyclopedias. Usually hand written, the letters detailed the life of one General Maurice DeVille and his excursions accompanied most of the more well-worn collections. Other letters, in a much daintier handwriting with swirls and extravagant flourishes of ink showed another signature which differed from the ones he had previously come to recognize. The signature always included a single name with the initial of the last; Avis D. These letters were usually colorful in descriptions, naming off names of General's wives and actors, photographers and models. Only when he had reached the end of a small collection assembled in a book detailing the French Revolution did Alonso find the connection. The elusive signature was that of Cruella DeVil's mother. From the descriptions of magazine advertisements, photo shoots and designers constantly calling, Alonso had deduced for himself that her mother had been a fashion model. He was surprised however by the notable lack of correspondence between mother and father regarding their only daughter. He spied the name Lenora only two or three times in the multitudes of letters which were being discovered on a weekly basis.
And so, week by week, only sneaking away after hours, Alonso had started on the second level of book shelves from the very top level of the ladder, all the way down until he reached the floor. He skipped chapters at a time, skimming through the musty pages tanned and brittle from age until he could see handwriting or in best cases, a folded note concealed within the sleeve. On occasion, with the notes, were long strips of papers which looked as if they had been put through a shredder which contained dashes and dots vertically down their slender bodies. It took having to find several of these, along with the transmitter which was hidden in a box beside the door, before Alonso realized that they were notes sent by Morse code.
Alonso wondered if Cruella DeVil had even been aware of the existence of such intimate history in her father's possession. He knew it was something he could never make known to her willingly. Thinking to himself again the disorder of the room was the product of years of obvious neglect. Cruella DeVil had no concern in preventing the study to deteriorate in a forgotten part of the mansion. Then again, knowing her occasional demand for one of the books from the very library in question, Alonso realized she could not have been entirely without consciousness of the wealth of surviving ancestry.
When Alonso came to the first book in a set on the geography and wildlife of Kenya, there was a letter in a new handwriting. He looked at the bottom of the letter and saw the signature in an over the top cursive spelling the name Lenora DeVille:
Father,
I will take your invitation to join you in Nairobi when the term ends. The girls I've been forced to keep company with irritate me. Stuck in the Serengeti could be no worse than their frivolous hours of idle gossip. It has been a long time since I have tried my hand at wild game. It will be a thrill to hunt again. Surely, you will teach me proper techniques this time? What I know is child's play to what I know you and your men practice daily.
I don't see a brother in my future to come along and usurp my claim to your men. Teach me instead.
Lenora DeVille
(Ps. I had best not be sleeping on bare earth or kept in a tent with company; it may content the savages but not me. See to it if you please)
The smell of the books began to settle in Alonso's nostrils, when he was caught in the pursuit he lost track of the time and more than once found himself sneaking back up the stairs in the early morning hours and forcing sleep, even for a few hours. He chastised himself when this happened; he was always probed by Cruella DeVil when he seemed drowsy in his morning routines. Alonso offered simple explanations; bad dreams, restlessness, anything to satisfy her and conceal the facts. It was always torturous to him, however, that the glimpses into her past which left holes begging for explanation he could never muster up the courage to ask Cruella DeVil herself. Perhaps someday, Alonso thought to himself, he could find himself in a position of a confidante and conduct an interview. He realized, when the thought of an interview crossed his mind, that Cruella DeVil herself seemed shut off from the press. For being the head of a house of high fashion, it surprised him how little the world knew of her private life. He could envision multitudes of magazines, Vogue, Vanity Fair, and Life, all clamoring for their chance to show the world the real Cruella DeVil. Alonso felt a burst of pride fill his heart, realizing he knew more than any magazine could dare hope for.
Alonso pieced together what he knew for himself.
Lenora DeVille was born in October the year 1957, the only child of English model Avis (her given name he had yet to find) and French commander (and later General) Maurice DeVille. In the few times Lenora DeVille had been mentioned amongst her parent's letters, each time a different school or academy was named. The time difference was never very long, leading Alonso to believe she had been passed between them unexpectedly for reasons he had yet to discern. Each time, however, the mother never conveyed the news with surprise. Alonso could assume, knowing her temper now, as a child its presence may have been tenfold of what it was as an adult. Cruella DeVil as a little girl seemed more than capable of being the perfect terror to an unfortunate educator. Given the number of gifts mentioned being sent back to England from the General's excavations and the unlimited sum of money bestowed during the month of her birthday, Alonso could also assume she was a well-kept, spoiled little rich girl with nothing in the world her father could deny being so distant so frequently. He assumed, with the sudden loss of correspondence in the summer of 1965, that Avis DeVille had died unexpectedly. Despite this, Alonso saw no increase or even a trace of regular letters between Lenora and her widowed father.
When he reached the small collection on the histories and counties of England, Alonso found to his surprise a worn, officially sanctioned deed to an estate. The property was listed as being ten miles north of Ipswich, in Suffolk. It was authorized as being purchased by Maurice DeVille in the spring of 1972 for the sum of two hundred thousand pounds. Blueprints which seemed even older than the book it was concealed in accompanied the deed in a stamped envelope. It was a sprawling mansion, even larger than Cruella's in-town residence. Two entire farm houses complete with barns and grazing fields for livestock were included in the multi-acre estate.
Alonso began to wonder what the breadth of the DeVille fortune truly was.
Alonso, compared to the DeVille family, had what everyone could call humble beginnings. His father had for most of his life had been a mechanic in a shop servicing European vehicles of all types and models. He was an only child; his mother had taken odd jobs in the neighborhood where he lived to help make ends meet. Alonso had been instilled the value of hard work early on in his life. He often joined his mother for those days, usually loving hard labor or tasks which required the full use of his faculties.
Alonso found himself thinking of his mother unexpectedly as he came across another letter from Avis DeVille.
The lack of affection, or even terms of endearment when referring to the little Lenora DeVille depressed him. The letters were stoic, as though they were writing about a shared patient between two doctors rather than a little girl who for reasons unknown, had again been suspended from a boarding school for tearing at the hair of a fellow classmate. Avis DeVille made no mention of speaking to her daughter or berating her on the unruly behavior. The tone of the letters revealed to Alonso that they wrote of her as if she were a separate entity, something disconnected from the immediate lists of concerns which her mother and father corresponded over.
Just as he reached the end of the letter, Alonso heard the bell toll from the clock. He counted the chimes. It was midnight. Alonso folded the letter between his hands and set it back inside the leaf of the book.
Having found he was alone in the house with nothing to occupy his thoughts, Alonso allowed his focus to make study of the very room he had passed through countless times without notice. The foyer of the mansion was a set of grand staircases which on the first landing, split into two sets of stairs on either side leading to the second floor. The walls were covered in portraits, each one showing an ancestor (to his assumption) of the DeVille family. Between the portraits were artifacts, no doubt brought back from the General's many trips across ancient lands and ruins. Alonso recalled in that moment too, the reason for the glass cases and displays in the front foyer of The House of DeVil were also home to these precious artifacts. Anyone who had not known the origin of Cruella DeVil's family history with such priceless proofs of history would find them strange to be in the possession of a fashion designer. Especially since according to Alonso's knowledge of her transactions, Cruella DeVil was no longer an active collector of anything save furs and pelts. All of this was proof enough to Alonso that much of the décor was the result of an inheritance.
Glancing back towards the grand foyer one last time before entering the darkened hallway to his bedroom, he felt the weight of the house lay on his subconscious like the effects of a bad dream. The house was truly devoid of anything which Alonso could identify as homey. The museum treatment further alienated him from any trace of feeling as though the building had been lived in on a familial scale.
Alonso found his mind envisioning past events. He wondered if the halls of the DeVille house ever echoed with laughter, or bustled with the lively chatter of friends and acquaintances.
Never before had Alonso felt the impulse to love Cruella DeVil as strongly as he did then. Had he been born with a spine filled with bravery and confidence, he could fantasize the moment when hand in hand, he would take Lenora DeVille and show her what it meant to have a devotion which went beyond the material security which her father had provided. Perhaps than, he theorized, her unsettling relationship with a deep seeded disillusionment could finally give way to reveal the woman buried beneath; encased in layers of tough, thick fur which like the skin of a bison provided protection from the everyday daggers. Most days he didn't believe such an interior existed. Against his judgment, the conviction became his only comfort. She must, Alonso thought, everyone has a heart. It seemed impossible.
And even after illusions are lost, everyone, Alonso caught him thinking, deserves to be loved. Even if that love may have gone unnoticed or unrequited, the realization of the void of human affection which encircled Lenora DeVille reprised his faith; at least in his own heart.