by Jane Peart
“In Lucas Valley. I lived there with my Pa. Malcolm was very ill when he came to our ranch. He’d been prospecting in the high country until he took a fever. Another miner found him and brought him down the mountain to our place.”
“But I don’t understand.” There was a puzzled expression on Rod’s face. “How did you come to marry?”
“Malcolm stayed on until he was well and afterward, since he didn’t have anywhere else to go … or so he said … Pa hired him to work the ranch. Not long after, there was an accident and … well, my Pa died last year and—”
“Please,” Rod said, “don’t go on if it’s too painful.”
“Oh, I guess it will always be painful. … Anyway, Pa was real fond of Malcolm, and Malcolm of him. … So when Pa died, Malcolm asked me to marry him, told me that’s what Pa had wanted. So—”
Just then, Garnet, carrying china plates and a snowy tablecloth over her arm, came back into the room. “I’ll set the table in the dining room;” she explained briskly. “After Malcolm comes down, I’ll go up and settle Sara, then we can have supper.”
“Where is Mr. Montrose?” Rod asked.
“He went to Savannah to see Aunt Lucie, Sara’s sister. There was some problem about their stepmother’s will. He should be back by the end of the week.”
“He’ll be relieved that Malcolm’s home to help run the plantation and deal with the workers,” Rod remarked thoughtfully.
“What plantation? Most of the fields go unplanted, and there are few workers left who are worth their pay. And with all the government paperwork to be done—” She sighed heavily.
“I know. Horses are less trouble.” Rod grinned, and Blythe noticed that his face was boyishly handsome.
“You’re lucky!” commented Garnet. “We all should be grateful that Cameron Hall escaped the worst of the burning and looting, though having Yankees quartered there was not the most pleasant thing at the time. Still, it could have been burned to the ground. And Dove’s idea for the school … now that was an inspiration.”
Blythe sensed that Garnet was avoiding engaging her in conversation. The exchange between brother and sister seemed, in a way, designed to cover the awkwardness of her unexpected presence. They don’t know what to think of me, or do with me, Blythe thought.
“I must fix Sara’s tray,” Garnet said and turned to slide a silver tray from the cabinet.
Blythe knew that Sara Montrose was an invalid. Malcolm had told her of the terrible injury Sara had suffered when thrown off her horse—an accident he had witnessed, which had remained a vivid childhood memory.
Just then, Malcolm walked into the room and, on seeing Rod, called his name hoarsely. Wordlessly, the two men moved toward each other, stood looking deeply into the other’s eyes, then embraced. These two who had been boys together, then comrades in arms in a lost cause, were bound by ties stronger than those forged by blood, by roots so deep they bridged the years that had separated them.
They broke apart at last, arms still locked, each searching the other’s face for traces of the experiences they had endured separately since they had last met.
“It’s good to see you, Malcolm,” Rod said in a voice husky with emotion.
“And you, Rod.” Malcolm quickly shook his head. “About Stewart—”
“I know,” Rod quickly interjected. “And Lee and Bryce—and all the rest. I know.”
Garnet disappeared to deliver Mrs. Montrose’s tray, and the men talked quiedy together as if there were no one else in the room. Blythe felt invisible, for the two men had entered a world that no longer existed, except in their memory. Worse, it was a world she could never share with Malcolm. She listened, only half hearing their reminiscences, until Garnet reentered the room.
“Your mother wants to see you again,” she said to Malcolm. “She’s very drowsy, but wants to assure herself that you’re really here.”
“Of course,” he said and left without a backward glance.
Rod, noticing Blythe’s discomfort, smiled apologetically. “It still seems like a dream that Malcolm … and you … are here. But we’re forgetting our manners, Garnet. Shouldn’t you be showing Blythe where she can freshen up before supper?”
Garnet seemed flustered she had not thought of it herself.
Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that there’s been so much confusion—” She bit her lip. “Come along upstairs. We weren’t prepared for … but you can use my room.”
“I just need to wash up a litde. Maybe I could use the kitchen pump,” suggested Blythe, trying to be less of an inconvenience.
“The kitchen?” echoed Garnet. “Oh, of course not! Come.” She moved toward the hall.
Blythe felt her cheeks grow hot. Once again, she had committed some unpardonable breach of etiquette. She was glad Malcolm had not been there to be embarrassed by her gaucheness.
Blythe gave Rod a grateful nod, then followed Garnet up the winding staircase and down a long hall with many doors on either side. Finally, Garnet came to one at the end and opened it, stepping inside.
“There are fresh towels on the washstand … whatever you need … I think,” she said. “When you’re ready, just join us downstairs.” On her way out the door, she turned and asked, “Do you think you can find your way?”
“Oh, yes!” Blythe assured her with false enthusiasm.
She looked around. Was this Gamer’s own room?
It was very grand. The high canopy bed with its tall carved posts and the marble-topped bureau and washstands with their fruit-pull handles gave evidence of an opulent era, though the rug, draperies and bed curtains were faded with age and needed replacing.
She poured water from the rose-patterned porcelain pitcher into the matching bowl on the washstand, then unbuttoned her bodice and hung it on the back of the chair. She took one of the linen cloths hanging on the rack, rinsed and wrung it out, and began to refresh herself. The cool water felt soothing as she cleansed away the grime of the train and the dust from the carriage ride along the country roads.
Finally, she tackled her hair. On the ranch, she had done little more than keep it clean and brushed, much like currying the horses in the barn. Sometimes, when the thick hair hung heavy on her neck, she pulled it back with a scrap of ribbon or plaited it in a single braid that reached to her waist. But it seemed this thing of being a lady required great skill, and she wondered if she would ever learn all that was demanded.
She worried with the mass, arranging it as best she could in some semblance of the elegant figure eight Amelia had taught her. But the strands escaped her fingers and curled in wispy tendrils about her face. In frustration, she left it, hoping the sight of her would not bring another frown to Malcolm’s face.
Feeling somewhat more presentable, she ventured into the shadowy hallway. She made her way to the top of the stairs and descended slowly. At the landing, she stopped to study a series of portraits hanging along the wall.
These must be Malcolm’s ancestors, since the portraits of the men bore a striking likeness to him—noble features, dark wavy hair, an air of intelligence and fine breeding. And the women, each with a unique beauty—an exquisite brunette, gowned in crimson velvet with gilded lace ruffles; a brown-eyed, rosy-cheeked girl with swirling blond hair; a striking, auburn-tressed young woman in riding habit. But it was at the next portrait that Blythe paused longest, enchanted by the wistful expression.
The woman’s gleaming dark hair parted in the middle, hung in clusters of curls on either side of the pale oval of her face, and spilled onto her alabaster neck and shoulders. She was dressed in an apricot satin gown with a wide, ofF-the-shoulder bertha of lace. A handsome little boy with tousled dark curls leaned on her knee, his alert expression and wide brown eyes much like those of his beautiful mother.
Something about the child tugged at Blythe’s heart. Could this be a portrait of Malcolm with his mother, for she knew Sara Montrose was a legendary beauty? But no, Malcolm’s eyes were a deep blue. Who then—?
As Blythe stood there, pondering the possible identity of this portrait, she heard a door close, then footsteps coming along the hall above. She saw it was Malcolm and turned toward him eargerly. He seemed distracted and as she spoke, looked at her almost as if were trying to remember who she was.
“Are you going to take me to meet your mother now?”
“Not tonight. She was drifting off when I left her, worn out with all the commotion of our coming.” He kept looking at Blythe as if trying to place her in this setting into which he had brought her and where she did not yet belong.
Shyly, Blythe slipped her hand through his arm. “I was just looking at these paintings,” she said. “I thought perhaps this one was of your mother and you … is it?”
“No,” he said shortly. ‘That’s Rose, my wife.”
Blythe cast him a sidelong glance. A veil had dropped over his eyes. Why had he said “my wife,” as if the lovely woman were still living?
He had never said much about his first wife—only that she had died while he was away, fighting with Confederate General Robert E. Lee, and that they had a litde boy who lived with his mother’s relatives in Massachusetts, a child he had not seen since he was three years old.
That must be he, the little boy in the portrait with Rose. Jonathan.
Malcolm had retreated again into the past. Blythe felt keenly that cool distancing as they continued on down the steps and into the dining room.
The four places set at one end of the banquet-length table seemed dwarfed by the high-ceilinged room with its massive buffet and tall chairs. Garnet was already seated, looking up briefly at Blythe’s entrance. Rod rose and held out a chair for her. Malcolm, still preoccupied, did not stop to assist her, but passed by, seating himself at the head of the table.
Garnet murmured a few words of blessing for the food, then began passing the dishes. “It’s not much of a welcome-home feast, Malcolm,” she said. “Certainly no fatted calf.”
“For the return of the prodigal son?” Malcolm lifted his eyebrows.
“It looks fine to me!” Rod said heartily, and Blythe suspected he was attempting to cover some subtle undercurrent with a forced good cheer.
Td Blythe, accustomed to the plain ranch fare, the supper seemed more than adequate; the cold chicken, string beans, rice, cornbread and home-canned peaches, all served on elegant china and in cut-glass bowls, seemed “company” enough for anyone. She was very hungry and enjoyed every bite.
The conversation during the meal was mostly a dialogue between Rod and Malcolm about old friends, things that had happened in Malcolm’s absence, comrades in arms, and the vanquished military leaders and politicians of the Confederacy who, after the War, had fled to such far-flung countries as Egypt and South America to escape living under a despised regime. They spoke also of those who had survived, had prospered, or had faded into the oblivion of defeat.
Still hungry, Blythe was reluctant to ask for seconds. When she saw that Garnet had barely touched the food on her plate, Blythe folded her hands in her lap, wondering if perhaps it wasn’t ladylike to eat heartily.
At the end of the meal, the men continued talking. Excluded from their discussion and, with no effort on Garnet’s part to draw her into a separate conversation, Blythe began to feel the fatigue of the long day.
Finally, Garnet rose to remove the plates. At last! Here was something Blythe could do to make herself useful. “May I help? “ she asked eagerly.
But Garnet waved aside the offer. “No bother. Suzie will be here in the morning to clean. I’ll just stack the dishes and leave them for her. If you’d like, I can show you to your room. I aired the bed and put clean sheets on earlier.”
Blythe got to her feet and stood behind her chair. Should she wait for a pause in the conversation before excusing herself? Or, better still, would Malcolm notice and join her?
But it was Rod who once again spared her further humiliation by rising. “You’re leaving us, Blythe?”
“Yes, I’m very tired. So, I’ll just say good night.” She looked to Malcolm for guidance, but he was lost in some private reverie.
“Well then, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” Rod spoke with such warmth and kindness that Blythe felt a rush of pure gratitude.
With that, Malcolm pulled himself wearily to his feet, regarding Blythe with a curious detachment. “I’ll be up in awhile. Rod and I have much to talk about after such a long time … you understand?”
“Of course.” Blythe denied the sting of hurt at Malcolm’s indifference. Could he not even have escorted her to their bedroom their first night at Montclair? But here was Garnet with a lighted lamp, standing by the door, waiting.
“Good night then,” Blythe murmured and turned quickly away to follow Garnet up the stairs.
After Garnet left, Blythe stood in the middle of the room, feeling lonelier than she had ever felt in her life. She walked over to the window and looked out. A new moon was rising behind the tall trees, and she could just make out the dim outline of the driveway leading from the house.
A sharp twinge of homesickness bit deep, a longing for friendly faces, for a familiar landscape, for home.
“This is your home now,” she reminded herself aloud. But in her heart, she could not help asking, Is it really? Can it ever be?
There had been no fire laid in the fireplace, and the room felt damp, chill. Shivering, Blythe turned back the crocheted coverlet, the sheets. She undressed, crawled up into the high bed, and pulled the blanket up to her chin, fervendy wishing Malcolm would come up and take her in his arms to warm and comfort her.
But Malcolm did not come.
For a long time Blythe lay there, tense and hopeful. Once, she even got out of bed and tiptoed out to the hallway, leaning over the banister. The low murmur of masculine voices could still be heard from the dining room. Then, surprisingly, the melodic ripple of feminine laughter!
Blythe felt the loneliness of an outsider. Those three downstairs had a lifetime of memories binding them in a circle of closeness she could never hope to enter.
Sighing, she crept back to the wide, lonely bed, and finally fell asleep. Sleeping soundly, she never heard the sound of Rod’s horse galloping down the drive just before dawn, nor Garnet’s tread upon the stairs shortly after. She did not know, until the next morning, that Malcolm had never come to bed. He had flung himself on the sofa in the library and there slept resdessly, his dreams haunted by the ghosts of old griefs and longings.
chapter
9
BLYTHE WAS UP, bathed, and partially dressed when a knock came at the bedroom door. She tied the sash of her wrapper about her waist and, with her hair still tumbling about her shoulders, went to answer.
It was Malcolm. She could read nothing in the expression on his face. He neither explained nor offered an apology for the night before.
“Mama has asked us to have coffee with her,” he said without preamble. “She is anxious to meet you.”
“Now?” Blythe felt a leap of panic.
“Yes. Well”—his eyes swept over her—“that is, as soon as you’re presentable. How long will it take?”
She put a hand to her tousled curls. “Oh, only a few minutes more.”
“Then, I’ll go down and get the coffee. When I come back, we’ll go in together.”
He left, and she closed the door behind him.
What to wear was her first frantic thought. For Malcolm’s sake, Mrs. Montrose’s first impression of her must be a favorable one, Blythe realized.
As she inspected her meager wardrobe, she knew at once that the disastrous outfit she had bought for this occasion was the worse for long wear, besides its ruinous altering at Malcolm’s hands. Her wedding ensemble, with its ruffles and flounces, would doubdess be all wrong, too.
The only other possibility was the black bombazine Mrs. Coppley had hurriedly remodeled for her father’s funeral. It was plain and severe, with just a tiny rim of white niching edging the h
igh neck and long sleeves. In the early spring of Virginia, it seemed much too heavy and hot, but Blythe had no other choice.
Her hands shook nervously as she did up her hair, striving for the same look that Amelia had achieved with such ease. But the natural waves resisted the confining pins and insisted upon escaping about her forehead and neck. There was no time to take it down and start all over, for there was another tap on her door. It would be Malcolm with the coffee.
Starting down the long hallway at his side, Blythe smoothed the folds of her skirt^ touched the neckline. “I hope your mother will like me,” she said, desperate for some small reassurance.
“She doesn’t know you.” His tone was civil, if curt. “It will take time. Remember, all this … our coming … was very unexpected.”
Eager to meet Malcolm’s mother and hopeful of her approval, Blythe stepped into the sitting room with an expectant smile. To her dismay her new mother-in-law’s first words were “Oh my! That dreadful dress! “Black is so depressing! It reminds me of death and funerals, and we’ve had too much of death and dying here. Please, child, never wear that in my presence again!”
Blythe turned a stricken look on Malcolm. “I’m … so very sorry,” she murmured.
“Blythe could not know your aversion to black, Mama,” Malcolm intervened in a diffident manner. “She was able to bring only a few things with her. But, I’m sure, in the future she will wear … happier … colors.” Malcolm quickly dismissed the subject.
But Sara had not concluded the matter. “Do excuse my impulsive reaction, my dear,” Sara said sweetly to Blythe. “My nerves are frayed, I fear, and thus I sometimes speak before I think. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Do come closer so I can see you and greet you properly.” She held out both thin hands to Blythe.
As Blythe moved hesitandy forward, Sara sighed, “Why, Malcolm, she’s hardly more than a child!”
Blythe felt her face grow hot under the older woman’s assessing gaze.
