by Jane Peart
At last all departed with best wishes and blessings, and a sleepy Natasha was tucked in for the night. Evalee was too excited to sleep. She kept looking all around the house, grateful for her good fortune. There was still much to do, much to plan, before she could get her project underway, but it was a beginning. A wonderful beginning. She was profoundly thankful.
Upstairs in the larger bedroom, Evalee saw in the corner the trunk that had arrived from Paris only a few days ago. It had not yet been unlocked or opened. It contained some of the things from the small Paris flat she and Andre had rented after their marriage, the apartment in which she and Natasha had lived all these years.
She was almost afraid to unpack it, because of all the memories its contents would evoke. It was like all the other things she had kept locked in her heart since the accident, things she did not dare to examine too closely. She was afraid that the feelings she had dammed up out of necessity might burst forth and drown her.
But: unless she dealt with those suppressed emotions, she knew, her wounds would never heal.
Resolutely she got out her keys, opened the locks, and lifted the lid. One by one she removed the items. Tablecloths edged with lace crocheted by Aunt Thalia’s skilled hands, monogrammed napkins, a few Limoges fruit plates that had been wedding presents. There were piles of Natasha’s baby clothes that Evalee had not been able to discard or give away, a christening robe and bonnet, tiny satin shoes. Then, at the very bottom, she took out a square swathed in tissue paper. It felt heavy in her hand, and she knew that was because of the silver frame. Slowly she unwrapped her wedding photo. She had put it away the night of the accident and had never been able to look at it again.
She stared at it for a long moment. Even though the wedding had been preceded by emotional scenes with her stepsisters and concerned talks with her mother, it had been a most beautiful one. But the bride looked like a young girl she did not know.
Studying the picture now, Evalee remembered each detail. Her gown had been a dream of satin, her veil an illusion of lace-trimmed tulle. She had worn the Oblenskov tiara, made of diamonds and amethysts, lent to her by her mother-in-law. When she brought it to Evalee, the countess had recounted the harrowing experience she had had when she smuggled her jewels out of the country, with the Bolsheviks literally at their heels.
“Ve escaped vit only the clothes on our back and our jewels!” she had told Evalee dramatically. But the jewels were worth twenty fortunes, and the large family of émigrés had survived for many years by gradually selling them. There had been just a few of the priceless heirlooms left by 1930.
Evalee’s tears blurred the image of Andre. How splendid he had looked in the beribboned uniform of an honorary officer of the White Russian Army. If the Revolution had not happened, he would have automatically been a member of an elite guard.
Their wedding had taken place in the small Russian Orthodox chapel established and attended by the community of Russian refugees living in Paris. It was small and dark, illuminated by dozens of flickering candles set in wrought-iron candelabra before icons—strange, garishly painted wooden images of venerated saints of the church. There were decorated swinging doors, edged in gilt, separating the worshipers from the altar, and the heavy odor of incense was almost suffocating.
Accompanied only by a few members of both families, Evalee and Andre had driven to the chapel together. Andre’s hand seemed damp and shaky in hers as they walked solemnly the short distance down the aisle to where the bearded priest, in robes rich with embroidery and gilt trim, waited to perform the marriage ceremony.
Young as she had been that day, dazed as she might have been by the candlelight, by the strange language being spoken, and by her own excitement, Evalee’s heart was nevertheless full of thanksgiving. She knew God had brought Andre and her together—she believed that with all her soul. They were meant for each other. Coming together as they had from far-distant lands was God’s destiny for them.
And so she had continued to believe, through all the hardships they encountered. The strength of their bond had grown even stronger through the trials they endured. The birth of their child had been a shared joy.
Tears began to stream down Evalee’s cheeks. For the first time, she allowed herself to weep for all she had lost. She wept without trying to stop, and it was like the rush of a springtime thaw over frozen land. She had never given in to it before. She had needed to be stoic and resourceful and strong. There was the baby to look after, a living to be earned, Andre’s relatives to comfort, the horrible tragedy to face.
Andre, a newly licensed taxi driver, had died instantly in an automobile accident on a stormy night at a rain-slick intersection. He was inexperienced behind the wheel of a car, and he was a man whose mind was more often preoccupied with dreams of glory than focused on traffic. At twenty-eight, all his education, bright dreams, hope for the future, were gone—leaving a widow and a little daughter, who was, ironically, a countess, heiress to a lost dynasty.
Evalee placed the photograph on the bureau. It all seemed like a story that had happened to someone else. Their marriage had been idyllic and tragically brief.
She stood gazing at the picture a little longer. Having confronted the worst blow of her life, she now had to play the hand she had been dealt.
She would always have the Paris of her youth. What she and Andre had shared—love, pure and true, without hidden purpose or past secrets—would never be completely lost. She and Andre had been each other’s first love, and that memory would always remain pristine.
Now she could go on, build a new life, a good life, for herself and Natasha.
With God’s help.
chapter
14
EVALEE AND NATASHA had settled in happily. The upstairs apartment of the gatehouse was now very like its tenant—exotic. The treasures Evalee and Jill had gleaned from the attic mingled with others they had discovered while foraging through secondhand stores in nearby towns. In front of the rosewood Victorian sofa, which was piled with petit point pillows produced by the skilled needle of Evalee’s grandmother, Dove Montrose, was a low, glass-topped coffee table. On it Evalee had placed a Fabergé box and several lavishly illustrated art books. Nearby, beaded art deco lamps stood on French tables with curved legs. More pillows were scattered at random along the window seats around the two bowed windows overlooking the wooded backyard. Evalee’s bedroom, reflecting her own personality, had a luxurious ambiance. The wide bed had a satin coverlet, and beside the bed were lamps with fringed silk shades.
The remodeling of the downstairs took a little longer. Evalee had decided that her enterprise would have a dual focus—it would be both a boutique and an interior-decorating business, and it would be called Gatehouse Interiors. She had definite ideas of how she wanted her new store and office set up. She needed room to display gift items, drapery and upholstery materials, sample furniture, and antiques, and she needed room to do her work—making phone calls, scheduling appointments, creating designs, meeting with customers, keeping records.
It was during this time that Evalee became fully aware of what it meant to be among family, who cared about her and were genuinely interested in her success. Gareth, who was a skilled carpenter as well as a landscape architect, volunteered to do some work for her. And Scott and Jill were particularly help-fid. Scott adamantly waived any rent from Evalee until the business showed a profit. “What are families for, if not to lend a hand when needed?”
During these months Jill became Evalee’s close friend. Their personalities, although very different, complemented each other, and they were both creative, energetic, and enthusiastic about the project. Jill shared Evalee’s European taste, for she had been educated in Switzerland and had vacationed with her family in the south of France. As a result, they found working together a rewarding experience.
At last it was time to open the doors for business. Evalee wanted to do it with a flare. She hoped to immediately get the attention of the clientele she kn
ew she must attract for her enterprise to succeed.
Jill helped her compile a list of potential customers, to whom she sent out invitation cards printed in elegant Gothic lettering that announced an open house at Gatehouse Interiors. Evalee had debated whether to use her royal title with her name on the invitation but concluded that it added to the cosmopolitan image she wanted to project. For the same reason, she decided to modify her first name slightly. It seemed too southern somehow. Countess Eva Oblenskov sounded better.
She planned the opening down to the last tiny detail, thinking, It’s the little things that make the difference. The tulip-shaped glasses she planned to sell later were set on a table covered with a Battenberg lace cloth. Red roses in crystal vases added a special touch.
Evalee, in a simply cut black velvet dress and wearing the Oblenskov pearls, greeted people at the door. Most were stunned by her soigné appearance—the blond hair swept up from her slender neck, the dark eyes and pale skin. Looking at her, the uninformed might have had the impression that this was someone who had never lifted a finger to work, that this boutique was only the whim of a wealthy woman who used it as a pastime.
Friends of the family, as well as the curious, flocked in. The driveway was crowded with cars as streams of people came to congratulate her and browse, many simply to price the things on display, a few to buy.
Some, Evalee suspected, had come skeptically. Sure enough, she soon overheard predictions that such a store was doomed to fail. “The economy the way it is, who has any money nowadays for such luxuries?” She ignored such comments. She had to remain positive.
Eyes followed Evalee as though she were a rare specimen from some far-off planet, unlike anything that had yet been in Mayfield. They watched her gestures, the graceful movement of her hands with their red-lacquered fingertips, as she chatted vivaciously.
In this small, conservative Virginia town, Evalee stood out like an exotic butterfly among gray, drab moths.
People were intrigued by the unusual. Evalee, with her sharp sense of merchandising, knew that was the key. Even negative attention could be an advantage. She was used to criticism. She had always drawn it. She knew that most likely it was motivated by envy, and she wore her difference like a badge.
Natasha, adorable in a black velvet dress with lace collar and cuffs, was her mother’s little shadow, following her among the guests, offering them a small tray of canapés.
Dru looked proud and pleased as she played hostess, refilling cups from the cut-glass punchbowl borrowed from the Cameron collection. Observing her daughter, she prayed that this venture would be successful. She was happy to see that so many people had come. She knew how hard Evalee had worked toward this event, how very important its success was.
Dru wished she could help Evalee more with finances. Her late husband, Randall Bondurant, had been wealthy to an extent, but he had also been a gambler, a high-risk player. In his last years he had played the stock market, and they had suffered heavy losses, as had so many, in the 1929 crash. When he died, there was a mountain of debt that had to be paid off, leaving Dru with only a small annuity that he had resisted borrowing against. Everything had to go—the island home, Hurricane Haven, on the South Carolina coast; the cars; the jewelry. All except the large ring, made of clear amethyst flanked by two baroque pearls, that he had given her as a gift on their twentieth anniversary.
Cara and Kip arrived, too. In spite of all the old antagonism between the cousins, Cara hugged Evalee. She declared, “This is incredible! What a marvelous place. I had no idea you were so talented.”
At her somewhat careless remark, a flicker of annoyance crossed Evalee’s face. However, she curbed the temptation to respond angrily. Dru, the only one who noticed this incident, had held her breath. Even as a child, Evalee had resented the Cameron girls. Dru was relieved to see that even if Evalee’s childhood jealousy could still be aroused, she was able to overcome it.
As the afternoon wore on, people continued to drift in, to linger, to visit among themselves as though at a party. Evalee knew that the grand opening had been successful beyond her wildest dreams. Even though her feet were aching in her high-heeled sandals and her face felt stretched from smiling, her throat dry from talking, she was elated. The business cards she had placed in a small stack on a table near the door were dwindling fast. All had been taken, she hoped, by potential clients.
Outside it grew dark. Evalee turned on two of her prized Tiffany lamps. Shining through the beautiful stained-glass shades, the multicolored light cast a soft glow At length people began to leave, complimenting and congratulating her and promising to be in touch.
Only a few stayed, mostly family members. It was then that Gareth came up to her, bringing with him a lanky young man. “Here’s someone I’d like you to meet, Evalee. Alan Reid, an old friend. We were classmates at Briarwood,” he said, naming the prep school both Gareth and his father had attended in Arbordale. “He teaches there now.”
Evalee regarded Gareth’s companion. He was casually dressed in a corduroy jacket, and his plaid tie was slightly off center. But he had an intelligent expression, eyes that were intensely blue, and the most endearing grin she had ever seen in a male over the age of ten. When he spoke, his drawl was typically Virginian. “I’m happy to meet you"—he hesitated—“Countess.”
“Oh, no,” she said, laughing. “No titles, especially in front of my cousin here ! “
“We just wondered if we might take you out to dinner after everyone clears out,” Gareth said. “I know you must be exhausted and certainly won’t want to cook or—”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Gareth, but I’ll have to say no, with thanks. Natasha has to be fed and put to bed, you see, and after that I shall probably flop. Thanks anyway.”
“Another time, then?” Alan asked shyly.
Evalee looked at him. There was something about him—a quiet strength, a clarity in his eyes, a hint of humor in his mouth. He would be someone it might be nice to get to know as a friend.
“Why, yes, thank you. Another time,” she said.
Just then a couple came up to say good-bye and ask about a pair of Hitchcock chairs by the window, so Evalee excused herself and left the two young men. As she walked away, Gareth asked Alan in a low voice, “What did I tell you?”
“That was the understatement of the year,” Alan replied, smiling. “She’s fabulous.” Then he shook his head. “But I’m not sure she’d find a schoolmaster good company. She’s probably led a pretty glamorous life. Europe, hobnobbing with royalty…What could possibly interest her in someone like me?” Even as he spoke, Alan’s gaze followed Evalee across the room.
“Maybe it’s just what she does want,” Gareth said. “I think my cousin has had a large enough dose of European nobility. I think some good solid American company is just what she needs.” He looked at his friend. “Take a chance, old friend. What have you got to lose?”
New York
1937
Kitty came into the foyer of the apartment building, got her mail out of the box, then took the elevator up to her apartment on the fourth floor. She unlocked her door and went inside, removed her suit jacket and, taking the pile of letters with her, went into the small kitchen. She turned on the electric stove, filled the kettle, and placed it on the burner. While she waited for the water to boil, she sifted through her mail.
It was then that she saw the envelope with the name and address of a publishing firm. It was not the same company that had published Richard’s poetry, the one to which she had sent her manuscript. Curious, she opened the envelope, unfolded the letter. Her eyes raced down the page to the signature, which she did not recognize. She began to read.
Dear Mrs. Traherne,
Tour manuscript No Cheers, No Glory was given to me by an editor friend at another publishing firm, to whom you originally submitted it. He was concerned that this book might be too controversial for his company, but he thought I might be interested.
I must t
ell you that your name was familiar to me from the two books of poetry by your late husband, Richard Traherne, which you edited and for which you wrote the introductions. Although I understand that this is your first effort at writing, I was impressed by your initial fifty pages. I would very much like to meet with you to discuss this project. Please call my office at your earliest convenience so we can arrange a meeting.
Sincerely,
Craig Cavanaugh
The shrill whistle of the boiling kettle jolted Kitty back to reality. Automatically she turned off the burner. Her hands were shaking as she reread the letter two or three times. The impressive letterhead seemed to indicate that the publishing firm was a prestigious one. And the editor was definitely interested in what she had written. Was this letter the answer to her prayers?
DARING BRIDE
Manhattan Publishers
Editorial Office
The man who rose from behind the desk to greet Kitty was younger than she had pictured him. Shouldn’t editors be gray, bifocaled, elderly pontifical? For a minute she was taken aback.
Craig Cavanaugh was quite tall, well built. Under a tweed jacket he wore a button-down shirt, a knitted tie, a V-necked sweater. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair, and his eyes, clear and very blue, contained a hint of humor, as though he surveyed the world with an amused cynicism. His complexion was ruddy, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He looked as if he should be tramping hills somewhere rather than holding down the position of acquisition editor in this handsome office.
“Mrs. Traherne, I’m delighted,” he greeted her. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” He politely indicated the chair opposite his desk.
Cavanaugh regarded the young woman as she sat across from him and folded her hands, gloved in gray kid, demurely on her lap. He thought, So this is Katherine Traherne. She was not at all what he had expected from the strength of her prose. Not at all. She was dressed with understated elegance in a gray pin-striped suit, not mannish but exquisitely tailored to indicate a slender, small-boned figure. She wore a tiny hat with a veil that just touched the tip of her delicate nose and did not hide her beautiful brown eyes. But her mouth, though nicely shaped, had forgotten to smile. Cavanaugh had the impression that for all her youthful appearance, this woman had known great tragedy, had borne much disappointment and sadness over the years.
