by Jane Peart
Steven reached for Bryanne’s hand, saying, “I missed you terribly after Venice.”
“I missed you, too, Steven.”
“I kept seeing things I wished I were seeing with you. You had a way of looking at things, pointing them out, that made them more…more everything.” The pressure of his hand on hers tightened. “Bryanne, don’t go. Please don’t go back to the States. Stay here and marry me.”
She drew in her breath in a little gasp. Instinctively she almost said the obvious-—This is so sudden.
Steven seemed to read her reaction, because he immediately said, “Maybe to you it seems to be sudden and certainly not the kind of thing a well-brought-up Englishman should do, but"—he kissed the hand he was holding and looked into her eyes—“I love you. I think I knew it almost from the first, when I saw you on the boat to France. Then when we kept meeting—it couldn’t have been all coincidence, could it?”
“But Steven, we hardly know each other. I mean, really know each other. We’ve seen each other in a kind of out-of-the-ordinary set of circumstances. There’s so much you don’t know about me.”
“Everything I know, I love.”
“No, listen, Steven. There’s so much more.”
For a long time she spoke in a low, intense voice. She told him about her life as a little girl, about the tragedy of her mother’s death in the Titanic disaster, and about how she had been raised here at Birchfields by her grandmother and a nanny before being sent off to boarding school. She talked honestly about her father and how she felt about him. Then she went on to tell him about how she had discovered the gift of her artistic talent.
“I adored my father, even though I wasn’t with him much. I guess I idolized him, built him up into some kind of hero. Maybe I thought that if I was really good at art, he would notice me, love me more. I know that probably sounds strange, but it’s how I felt.” She took a long breath. “Earlier this summer I traveled with him to Scotland. And I think it was there that I came to terms with our relationship.” She shook her head. “I guess I grew up.”
“Being in love is a very grown-up thing, Bryanne,” Steven said softly.
“I know. And I wouldn’t want you to think I was looking for a substitute father or anything like that.”
“Haven’t you ever been in love, then? Has there never been someone?”
Bryanne thought of Sean, of the spring she had come from England to Mayfield and he had been working for Scott at Cameron Hall, of their rides together through the woods, those first tentative steps toward friendship that grew into affection and then into love. It had all been intensely romantic. She had grown up believing in fairy-tale endings, and Sean was shy and sweet and far from home. They had been so young…. Then she remembered the shock of learning of his death. Recalling it now, she shook her head and told Steven, “Yes, there was. But we were just kids. And it was over before it had really begun.”
Bryanne sighed. She had been such a dreamer, picturing a thatched cottage in an Irish glen, firelight in a stone hearth, Sean coming home, hair windblown, cheeks ruddy from his ride…It had been like a painting in her mind, not real at all. “You see, after Sean died, I never thought I’d marry. I mean, I never planned to. I thought to be an artist—you have to be alone, without other commitments, other obligations. That’s the way my father is, you see. That’s where I got the idea, I guess.”
“Don’t you think you can have both, Bryanne? I love who you are, what you do. I’d never interfere in any way with your art. It’s part of who you are, and I love you.” He looked at her earnestly. “Do you believe me?”
“I want to. More than anything, Steven.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to see that you’d never regret it.”
He put his hands on either side of her face, turning it toward him. The moon slipped behind a cloud and then emerged, illuminating her upturned face. Steven kissed her softly, slowly. Bryanne closed her eyes and sighed a little against his lips. The kiss was sweet, tender, but promised so much more. If only she would believe it, it could mean the end of longing and loneliness.
Moonlight streamed into the bedroom. Bryanne, in her nightgown and robe, sat curled up on the window seat, looking down on the garden where it had all taken place.
Could she trust her heart? Love had never been real to her. Or it had had another name. What she had felt for Sean, the young Irishman, had been an affectionate friendship. They had been too young to understand what love really was. And it had all been over so soon, so tragically. She had read dozens of romantic novels and seen movies that depicted love in various ways, but she had never really known it herself.
She was in a daze. Italy was like a dream. But now here was Steven, stepping out of that dream and into reality, asking her to share his life, be his love. What she felt for Steven wasn’t a substitute for anything else. She wasn’t looking for a father. She wanted someone her own age, someone with whom she could laugh, be young, travel…That’s what she wanted. That’s what Steven said he wanted, too.
Maybe this was it, and she just needed to recognize it. It was slowly becoming clear, beginning to feel right.
Sunday Steven attended church with them, and afterward Bryanne went with him to see him off on the train to the nearby village where his parents made their home.
“We always seem to be saying good-bye at train stations,” he remarked ruefully. “I hope we won’t be doing this much longer. Bryanne, I wish I could tell my parents you’ve said you’ll marry me. They’d be so happy, because it would make me happy. I don’t want to push. I know this is a big step. But I love you so terribly. I want us to spend the rest of our lives together. We could be so happy. Do you see that, Bryatnne?”
They had talked for hours. Steven had kept telling her it would work out if only she’d trust him. He told her about all the places they would go together. Maybe to Greece so Bryanne could see the famous Parthenon, visit the ancient temples, see the statues. Bryanne’s heart was lifted. Here was someone who said he loved her, wanted to make her happy. So why did she hesitate? She couldn’t doubt the candor in Steven’s clear eyes.
The train whistle blew. It was time for Steven to go. He held both her hands in his. His gaze was steady, holding both a plea and a promise. All around them, people were making their farewells, saying good-bye, boarding. They heard compartment doors banging shut, one after the other.
“Bryanne, will you? Can I tell my parents?”
The train whistle shrieked again. “Yes, Steven,” Bryanne heard her voice above it. “Yes! I want to. I will.”
Steven hugged her, kissed her cheeks. “You won’t be sorry, I promise you! I’ll come down in a day or so, ask your grandmother formally for your hand.” As he made a run for the now-moving train, he shouted, “I love you!”
The expressions of people standing nearby were horrified at this breech of English propriety. Bryanne didn’t care. She knew she was smiling as she ran a few steps along the platform, waving to Steven, who had jumped aboard the train and was leaning out to wave good-bye.
Bryanne stood there for a few minutes, looking after the disappearing train, then walked slowly back toward Birchfields.
On her way she passed in front of the small village church and stopped. Ivy clung to its gray stone walls. Adjoining the churchyard was the cemetery, with its ancient, lichen-covered tombstones. Jill had once told her that some of her ancestors were buried there, the Marsh family, who had once owned and occupied Monksmoor Priory, the rambling mansion on the hillside, now a private school.
Bryanne felt an urge to go inside. She needed a time of quiet to think about the weekend, Steven’s proposal, before returning to Birchfields, where there would be questions she was not yet ready to answer. She pushed through the gate and walked up the well-worn stone path to the front of the church.
At the entrance there was a small sign written in Gothic letters—"We are always open for prayer. Come in and abide awhile with your Lord.” Bryanne pushed open the do
or and stepped inside. Hardly any light from the sunny day outside penetrated the church’s dim, arched interior. Familiar smells wrinkled Bryanne’s nose—dust, burnt candle wax, wilted flowers, damp old stones.
She moved slowly up the center aisle and slipped into one of the front pews. Looking around, she recalled coming here as a small child with her nanny. She had not been here for a long time. But somehow she felt that this was the place where she and Steven should be married.
Bryanne knew that once she told her grandmother, Garnet would take over, manage everything. It would become another of her projects. It certainly would not be the quiet wedding Bryanne would prefer. She felt some resistance, then gradually let it go. It would give her grandmother so much pleasure. After all, she and Steven had the rest of their lives.
1935
At first Bryanne and Steven had talked of a Christmas wedding. But neither Lynette nor Jill could leave their families during the holidays. Bryanne had explained to her disappointed fiancé that she couldn’t get married without her sister and dearest friend in attendance. Her father was cabled but had already left for an extended tour of the Orient, so Gareth, who was coming in any case, was asked to give the bride away.
He had come in time to spend Christmas and meet Steven, who arrived to be at Birchfields for part of the holidays. The wedding date had been set for the twelfth of January.
Lynette and Jill would be Bryanne’s attendants, and Steven’s brother, Martin, would be his best man. Bryanne had already visited the Colby home, where she had been warmly welcomed. It had been an immediate and mutual affection. Tom and Vanessa Colby were thrilled that Steven, who had seemed at such loose ends when he left on his European journey, had returned so full of optimism and purpose for the future. That he was happy was an unexpected bonus. He had decided to return to Oxford and complete his education after the honeymoon. He was leaning toward medicine as a career, so his physician father could not have been more pleased. Both parents told Bryanne how delighted they were to be gaining a daughter.
Bryanne was right about her grandmother. Garnet liked nothing better than being in charge. She insisted that Bryanne wear a traditional bridal ensemble. Bryanne chose a princess-style gown of creamy velvet. A short tulle veil was wreathed in white rosebuds intertwined with bright-red berries, in keeping with the festive season. An exquisite bar pin of diamonds and sapphires, which her future mother-in-law had given her, and Steven’s engagement ring were Bryanne’s only jewelry.
The winter morning of the wedding surprised everyone by being sunny, although it was crisp and cold.
Garnet looked superb in a gray satin redingote with a fluffy fox collar and cuffs, exactly like the ones worn by Queen Mary. Garnet had even placed one of her gemstone brooches at the same angle at which the British monarch wore a crown-shaped diamond pin. And Garnet looked every bit as regal, Bryanne thought in affectionate amusement as she watched her grandmother make a stately entrance into the small church and be escorted to the front pew.
At the back of the church, Lynette arranged Bryanne’s headdress for a third time. As they heard the introductory chords of the familiar processional, Jill gave Bryanne a reassuring hug. Gareth held out his arm with a grin. “Ready, little Sis?”
Bryanne nodded. “Ready.” Until Steven she had never felt ready or sure. Now she couldn’t imagine her life without him, didn’t want to imagine it without him!
She reached the altar and turned toward Steven, and a sudden stream of sunshine, coming through the narrow arched windows, illuminated her face, appearing almost as much a benediction to the couple as the vicar’s words. “To have and to hold, from this day forward…”
Bryanne raised her veil to lift her face for her new husband’s first wedded kiss. Instead, she found herself staring into his eyes, looking so deeply that she felt she was touching his very soul. She saw in Steven’s eyes the pure love she had longed for and searched for most of her life. Thank you, God, for this gift, was her heartfelt prayer.
As Steven suggested, they went to the south of France for their honeymoon. They stayed two days in Paris and experienced a sense of frenetic gaiety everywhere they went. It had an unsettling effect on Bryanne, who was particularly sensitive to atmosphere. It was like dancing on the edge of a volcano.
They were happy to leave and head for the small coastal town where they had rented a small villa on a hillside overlooking the sea. The sun felt delightfully warm on Bryanne’s upturned face, her bare shoulders and legs, as she stretched out on the chaise on the stone terrace. Through half-closed eyes and sunglasses, she could see the ocean stretching in blue-green stripes to the far horizon, its surface sparkling as if covered with jewels.
Steven stretched out upon the lounge beside her, reached out his arm, covered her hand with his, gave it a gentle squeeze. Holding his hand tightly, Bryanne said softly, “Oh, Steven, I’m so happy. I don’t remember ever being this happy.”
The long days of sunshine were about to end for the world, but these two were unaware of anything but each other.
chapter
10
New York
1935
READING THE PAPER, Kitty was suddenly overcome. Bold headlines shouted,
Italy Invades Ethiopia—Mussolini’s Troops Sweep into the North-African Country, Slaughtering the Crudely Equipped and Poorly Trained Ethiopian Forces
In the Far East, Japan and China were enmeshed in a fierce territorial struggle. The world was in turmoil. The possibility of another war crept ever closer. Didn’t anyone else realize it? Kitty moaned. Horrible memories welled up within her. How, in less than twenty years, could the world let this happen again?
She thought of Richard, of how he had been when she first met him, then later—body broken, gallant heart weakened, bright future blotted out. What might he have accomplished if he had been allowed to live? What might their lives together have been?
They had had nearly four beautiful years together as kindred spirits, soul mates, lovers in the deepest sense of the word. And he had left his legacy of poems. That’s the way Richard’s valiant spirit, forever young, lived on. She had received dozens of letters from readers who appreciated what he wrote. The most sensitive of them understood the meaning beneath the lines. One fan of Richard’s had enclosed a poem by Laurence Binyon, Britain’s poet laureate. The words had been written at the end of the war:
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
It was all very well to write poetry in memory of those lost lives, Kitty thought. The truth was harsher. Those young men had been deprived of all that might have been in the future. She thought of children she and Richard might have had together, and felt bitter.
She worried about Luc and others his age—idealistic, patriotic young men who might be misled into thinking that war was something to be glorified. In a few short years they would be old enough to fight. If America was drawn into another European conflict, their lives would be wasted. Kitty let the newspaper drop to the floor, then put her head down on folded arms and wept heartbrokenly.
Over two years ago she had had the idea for a book. Although she had made notes—scribbled on the back of envelopes, on scraps of paper, when she was traveling, or sometimes late at night when she couldn’t sleep—the book had never been written. It was all a jumble. She needed to organize her material, see if she really had something important to say. She wouldn’t put it off any longer. She would start right away.
Checking her calendar, Kitty saw she had two more scheduled readings at colleges—one in Maryland, the other in Virginia after the first of the year. That gave her over two months to get organized. After her second reading engagement, she would drive on to Mayfield. She could hole up in Eden Cottage and write without interruption.
Montclair
1936
Cara had just come from the barn and was walking up toward the house, when she recognized Kitty’s small blue coup
e pulling up the driveway. She stood and waited for the car to stop. Kitty opened the door, slipped from under the wheel, and stepped out.
Cara was suddenly conscious of her own baggy knitted sweater, her scuffed boots, her worn riding pants. Kitty looked smart and citified in a coffee-colored bouclé suit and a triangular silk scarf in which orange, rust, and gold mingled like spilled watercolors. Ironically, Cara remembered that she herself used to be the twin who was clothes conscious. Living in New York had changed Kitty’s appearance as well as her attitudes.
With a sudden pang, Cara remembered the last time Kitty had been to Montclair. Had Kitty forgotten their awful quarrel? Cara remembered how close they used to be, how they always seemed to think alike. Now they were so different, so far apart___Quickly, Cara pushed aside those troubling thoughts and greeted her twin.
“Kitty! How wonderful! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Not that it matters! I’ve got all kinds of empty rooms. Just pick one.”
“Thanks, Cara, but I plan to stay at the cottage. I’ve come to work on my book.”
Cara looked puzzled. “What book is that? Some more of Richard’s poetry? “
“No, this is my own. A book about my nursing experiences in the war.”
Cara started to ask more but decided against it.
“I just came up to let you know I was here. In case you saw lights on and wondered if there was an intruder or something.”
“Well, of course you’ll stay for supper? I’ll send word to Scott. Jill’s in England, and he’s wandering around Cameron Hall like a lost puppy. We’ll have a grand reunion, the three of us.”
“I don’t think so. Not this evening, Cara. I need to unpack and get settled.”
Kitty was being deliberately cool. So she hadn’t got over what happened last time. Determined not to let her twin’s attitude get to her, Cara said, “Well, come on in and at least have some coffee so we can catch up.”
