Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  Dreams die hard. A small sob escaped Blythe’s throat as her own dreams of love and the hope of motherhood dissolved.

  chapter

  11

  “BUT, OF COURSE, you must go, Malcolm!” Sara was insistent. “Garnet is your sister-in-law, your brother’s widow. And the Camerons are our oldest and dearest friends. Kate would be terribly offended if the Montrose family were not represented at the wedding.”

  “But, Mama—” Malcolm’s mild protest was weary.

  “Now, I’ll not hear another word. You and Blythe must be there. What would people think if none of us showed up? They would think we didn’t approve.” Sara paused, adding, “Not that I really do. At first I thought Garnet had lost her head marrying a Yankee. But when Major Devlin was so very helpful during our humiliation at the hands of those undisciplined troopers—” She shuddered with the memory. “Well, I must say he conducted himself like a gendeman. And I understand”—she brightened perceptibly—“that he is well-educated and wealthy besides!”

  “All right, Mama,” Malcolm interrupted, getting up from the chair beside his mothers bed. Passing a hand across his forehead as though it ached, he sighed. “I’ll go. We’ll go.” He glanced over at Blythe who was putting Sara’s freshly laundered nightgowns into satin bags, placing them in the sacheted drawers of the bureau.

  Coming as she did from the West, and having been unaware of the bitterness that still existed in the South toward all Northerners, Blythe was astonished to learn that Garnet’s marriage to Jeremy Devlin had caused such a flurry of gossip in Mayfield. Personally, of course, she was delighted—not just because the young woman posed some kind of threat to her happiness with Malcolm, but because she genuinely liked Garnet despite the cool reception she had been given upon her arrival.

  Not only that, but ever since she had passed the tall, wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance to Cameron Hall, she had been curious about the great house at the end of the drive. Now she would see it for herself.

  Blythe looked over at Malcolm, wondering about his grudging consent to attend Garnet’s wedding. Was he reluctant because he did, indeed, care for his brother’s widow? She pushed away the thought. It was like so many other questions begging answers, questions she dared not ask.

  After Malcolm left the room, Blythe turned to Sara and asked shyly, ‘Whatever should I wear to such an occasion?”

  Sara turned a critical eye upon her. “Well, it will be an afternoon ceremony, so it doesn’t call for formal attire. And goodness knows, few of us have any money anymore for new gowns, so I don’t suspect the guests will be too fashionably dressed.” She surveyed Blythe for a long moment. “I suppose nothing you have is suitable.” The comment was phrased more as a statement of fact rather than a question. “Come here, child, let me see—”

  Blythe obeyed.

  “Perhaps, with a bit of altering … you do sew, I take it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then go over to the armoire.” She waved an imperious hand in the direction of the large, ornately carved fruitwood closet. “I have a gown that might just do.”

  Blythe did as she was told. Opening the doors of the large French clothes closet, she caught the scent of the sweet, subde fragrance of the potpourri balls hanging there.

  “The blue taffeta, the one with niching … bring that out and let’s take a look at it. It’s not the latest style, of course, being over ten years old, but then, as I said, no one else will be wearing ? dernier en either.” She fingered the material. “Hold it up to yourself. Ah, yes. The color is perfect with your hair. I think it might do nicely. Sadly, I only wore it but once myself. But no one is likely to remember. Try it on, and we shall see.”

  Blythe quickly slipped off her pinafore and the calico dress and into the beautiful silk gown that felt cool against her skin and rippled deliciously over her petticoats.

  Standing in front of the three-sided, full-length mirror in Sara’s dressing room, Blythe turned this way and that. Even if the style was outdated, to her, this was the finest, the most elegant dress she had ever seen. She turned happily toward Sara Montrose, waiting anxiously for her decision.

  Sara did not speak for a full moment. For the first time, she saw the perfect proportions of Blythe’s tall figure. The girl’s magnificent hair wreathed her face in a flaming aureole, and her eyes sparkled. She was a beauty!

  Not given to flattery, Sara pursed her lips and nodded slowly. “Yes, I think that shall do nicely. Very nicely, indeed.”

  Blythe felt heads turning and curious eyes upon her as she and Malcolm entered the drawing room at Cameron Hall. Word had circulated quickly in Mayfield that Malcolm Montrose had brought home a bride from the far West, and everyone was eager to see her and make their own evaluation. Malcolm had told her that most of the men felt there was no need to go farther than the state of Virginia to find a pretty and talented wife. But this was the second time, she knew, that Malcolm had broken this unwritten code.

  Knowing that she was the object of avid interest, Blythe’s hand tightened on Malcolm’s arm, although she felt reasonably sure she looked presentable in the periwinkle blue dress. She was taller than Sara, so they had cut off the train and made it into a fluted flounce for added length. Sara had loaned her a charming blue velvet Empress Eugenie hat with a pale blue feather that curled forward over her ear.

  “Welcome to Cameron Hall, my dear.” Kate Cameron held out both her hands as Malcolm presented her. “We’re delighted you could come. And you, too, Malcolm dear. You’re quite thé stranger since bringing home such a lovely bride.” She held her cheek upward for his kiss. Then she turned again to Blythe. “And you’ve come all the way from California!” She shook her head as if the idea were incredible. “Do take seats, won’t you. The ceremony will be starting in just a few minutes.”

  What a lovely woman, thought Blythe. Slim as a girl, Mrs. Cameron’s dark auburn hair was threaded with silver, but the gray eyes were clear and shining as a child’s as she moved among her guests, graciously greeting one, then another.

  Blythe and Malcolm took their seats in one of the rows of chairs placed in a semi-circular fashion in two sections facing a white marble fireplace banked with yellow and creamy ivory roses. Above the mantelpiece hung crossed sabers and a portrait of the Cameron family, painted when the children were young. The handsome parents were seated on a curved-back velvet sofa. Standing on either side were two red-haired boys, who must be Rod and his twin, Stewart, while the pixie-faced little girl with red-gold ringlets sitting in her father’s lap was surely Garnet.

  Even as Blythe gazed at the charming portrait, a piano in the adjoining parlor began to play softly. There was a rusde of movement as the guests turned toward the center hall where Garnet, on her brother’s arm, was slowly descending the wide staircase.

  All around came murmurs of approbation—“Radiant!” “Never saw her look lovelier.”

  Garnet was dressed in an almond moiré-silk, demure yet elegant in its simplicity. Her tawny hair was worn high, swept back from her face, and a sprig of ivory roses nestled in the coiled chignon at the nape of her neck. As she passed, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows made her gown shimmer with iridescent lights.

  Although Garnet was not beautiful, she was undeniably attractive, and she moved with the confidence of someone who has always been loved and pampered. Everything about her seemed to glow—her skin, her eyes, her hair.

  A tall, darkly handsome man waited at the side of the fireplace. There was a poignant moment when Garnet lifted her face for her brother’s kiss before he handed her over to Jeremy Devlin.

  Garnet looked happy as she met her bridegroom’s adoring gaze. Perhaps, Blythe sincerely hoped, whatever Garnet had once felt for Malcolm had been replaced by this new, and obviously satisfying love.

  “Dearly beloved—” The minister began the ceremony,

  Blythe risked a glance at Malcolm, wondering if he were remembering the day only a few months ago
when they had stood together in the little church in Lucas Valley, exchanging these same vows. But she was shocked to see his face set in stony lines. With a flash of unflinching honesty, Blythe realized it was another wedding day, another bndc-Rose—he was thinking of.

  She turned back quickly, focusing her attention on the intimate scene at the improvised altar. As she did so, she was suddenly aware that Rod, from his seat across the aisle, was looking at her. She met his thoughtful glance. Could he have possibly read in her expression the longing, then the dismay she felt?

  Determinedly, Blythe concentrated on the marriage service taking place, even though each word struck a blow to her wounded heart.

  “May God, the Author of all good things, give you steadfast love to live together in such mutual harmony and full sympathy with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, that your hearts would be united in praise to Him and your lives would glorify him. Now, receive and welcome each other as Christ has welcomed and received each of us, by the exchange of these rings.”

  When the final benediction was pronounced, the couple turned to the friends and family who clustered about them with embraces and congratulations.

  Throughout the room, the mood of solemnity shifted to one of light-heartedness. The doors of the dining room had been thrown open, and Mrs. Cameron was inviting everyone in where a magnificent three-tiered wedding cake stood waiting to be cut as soon as toasts were made to the bride and groom.

  As Blythe moved with the crowd across the hall toward the high-ceilinged dining room, she felt Malcolm’s fingers press into her upper arm. Surprised, she turned to hear him whisper, “As soon as we’ve paid our respects to Garnet and her husband, we’re leaving.”

  Words of protest died on her lips as she saw the thin line of his lips, the clenched jaw. Why would Malcolm want to rush off just as the celebration was starting? These were his friends, people with whom he shared bonds of childhood, wartime comradeship, affection. Surely it would be impolite to leave so soon.

  He made no reply to her unspoken question, merely propelled her into the room with its flower-decked, festooned bridal table.

  Was it because Jeremy Devlin had been an officer in the Union Army that Malcolm did not want to stay for the festivities? Blythe recalled the embarrassing scene in New Orleans when Malcolm had refused to shake hands with Captain Thompson.

  “Miss Blythe.” A mellow voice greeted Blythe, bringing her back into the present moment. She looked up into the kind face of Rod Cameron. “Good to see you again, and you, old friend.” He nodded to Malcolm.

  Mrs. Cameron joined them. At her side was a fragile, dark-eyed woman, whose hair was nearly white in spite of her youthful, peach-bloom complexion.

  “Blythe, my dear, I wanted you to meet our Dove. I just realized you two are sisters-in-law. Dove’s husband was Malcolm’s youngest brother, Leighton.”

  Dove held out a tiny hand and smiled. “I’m so happy to meet you. My Lee adored his older brother Malcolm.”

  Blythe was touched by Dove’s gende warmth.

  “It was Dove who provided the lovely background music for the ceremony. She’s the music teacher for our school,” explained Kate, putting an affectionate arm around the young woman. ‘There will be more music later and dancing once the toasts are over. Do you like to dance, my dear?” she asked Blythe.

  “Oh, yes, very much!”

  “Then I shall claim a dance right away before you are swept away by the rest of the gendemen who have taken note of the newcomer in our midst,” Rod teased.

  At his words, Blythe blushed with pleasure.

  But there was to be no dance with Rod … or with anyone else. As soon as the series of toasts were given to the bridal couple and the ceremonial cake-cutting had taken place, Malcolm grasped Blythe’s arm and, gripping it tighdy, steered her through the open French windows and out onto the terrace. There, he dropped her arm and strode over to the horse and small wagon in which they had ridden to Cameron Hall.

  Blythe had no alternative but to follow. With the sound of dance music tantalizing her ears, she climbed silendy into the seat beside Malcolm. Without another word, he flicked the reins, turned the horse, and started down the long tree-lined drive to the gates.

  Only once on the way back to Montclair did Blythe glance over at Malcolm’s stern profile. Her heart ached with pity for him, and a little for herself.

  Had everything gone out of life for him—all the bright happiness of music, gaiety and laughter? Would he ever enjoy a time, an occasion, a world—without Rose?

  chapter

  12

  THE EARLY July heat was stifling, and only a random sultry breeze drifting in the open kitchen windows stirred the curtains lisdessly.

  Blythe lifted her head from the bubbling kettles and turned toward the window. All morning, she had supervised Lonnie and Suzie as they made jelly and pickling sauce from the wild berries and crabapples they had gathered in baskets. But the women had gone home at noon, leaving Blythe to watch the thick liquid so it cud not burn while it simmered.

  She wiped her damp forehead with the hem of her apron. Her hair was plastered against her cheeks in tight little tendrils from the steam.

  “I must get some fresh air,” she said aloud and placed the lid on the kettles.

  She could not see the front drive from the kitchen, but as she came through the house toward the veranda, she thought she heard hoofbeats on the crushed shell. When she walked out onto the porch, she was just in time to see Rod dismounting.

  She had not seen any of the Camerons since Garnet’s wedding, hearing only through the inter-plantation grapevine that, after a honeymoon at White Sulphur Springs, the newlyweds had returned to Cameron Hall for a visit before leaving for an extended honeymoon trip to Europe. Since the Academy was in session until late June, Blythe guessed they must all be very busy.

  Not that she had really expected to see any of them. She had loved both Mrs. Cameron and Dove at once and longed for the chance to become friends. But there was slim hope ofthat. So, Rod’s coming was a happy surprise.

  I must look a sight] she thought, wiping her hands on her apron, then brushing back her hair from her flushed face.

  But Rod did not seem to notice. He swept off his broad-brimmed straw hat, made her a little bow, and smiled up at her. ‘This Virginia summer hot enough for you, Miss Blythe?”

  “Plenty hot, Mr. Cameron,” she replied with a smile.

  She couldn’t help admiring Rodrick Cameron. No matter the circumstances, he was always pleasant, good-natured. Unlike Malcolm, he did not seem embittered by the tragedies that had touched his family—the loss of his twin, his own wound, his diminished fortune. He seemed to have risen above the adversities, become stronger, made the most of what was left.

  The sun glinted on his red-gold hair, giving it a fiery sheen, as he moved into the shadow of the porch and seated himself a step below Blythe.

  “Too hot for man or beast.” He laughed. “But I came with a purpose.”

  “I’m sorry Malcolm isn’t here—” began Blythe.

  “My mission doesn’t involve Malcolm, ma’am. It involves you.”

  “Me?”

  “I came to deliver a note from my mother.” He withdrew an envelope from his linen coat jacket and handed it to her.

  She accepted the cream-colored square, sealed with a tiny blob of blue wax and stamped with a crest, staring at the beautiful script.

  “Open it,” he encouraged. “It’s an invitation. Now that our school has been dismissed for the summer, and Garnet is safely wed and off on a European honeymoon, Mama has time to do some entertaining. She wants you to come to tea next Thursday. I’ll come for you myself in our refurbished phaeton.”

  “Why, thank you. How nice of your mother to ask me.”

  “She’s wanted to have you over before this, but the school has kept her busy. Getting twenty young ladies packed up and off to their homes after the winter is quite a project.” He grinned mischievously. “Even w
ith my help!”

  “And do you teach, too?” Blythe asked. Rod did not strike her as the schoolmaster type.

  “Me? Teach? No, ma’am. I’m the riding instructor. And all these little students seem determined to become proficient horsewomen. Since their parents are willing to pay extra for the privilege, I’m more than willing to do my best to instruct them.”

  “They’re lucky,” said Blythe a little wistfully, thinking of her mare Milly, who had been sold along with the rest of the ranch horses after Pa’s death.

  “Well, I’m going to be hard put to keep our horses exercised until fall.” He paused, eyed her quizzically. “Do you ride?”

  “Oh, yes. At least, I used to. On the ranch. Mostly bareback, of course. No formal instruction.”

  “You probably don’t need it.”

  Just then Mr. Montrose came out on the porch. “I thought I heard voices,” he said. “Rod, my boy, it’s good to see you! We don’t have much company anymore. Where’s Malcolm, my dear?”

  “He’s taking a walk … I think,” Blythe replied in a small voice.

  “Ah, yes. To the cemetery.” Mr. Montrose shook his head. “He goes every day. I wonder if it’s good for him—”

  Blythe felt Rod’s eyes upon her, and she asked quickly. “You will stay for a while, won’t you, Rod? Malcolm may be back any minute, I’m sure, and he’d be disappointed if he missed you.”

  “Well, thank you, I will then.”

  The two men settled into rocking chairs, and Blythe cast Rod a grateful glance. It would be good for Mr. Montrose to have someone to talk to, someone who understood the old days.

  “I’ll make some lemonade,” she offered, rising to go into the house.

  “That would be splendid, my dear,” said her father-in-law.