Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  Reaching the pantry, Blythe was glad she had had Suzie squeeze some lemon juice earlier, thinking Sara would like a cooling drink when she awoke from her nap. She put some of the juice in a pitcher, mixed in sugar, added water, then arranged it on a tray with tall glasses garnished with sprigs of mint.

  As she was bringing it out to the porch, she overheard Mr. Montrose say to Rod, “So Garnet is married.”

  “Yes, sir. By now, the happy couple should be well on their way to Europe.”

  “Well … we can only hope she’ll be happy. All we can hope for anyone is happiness,” Mr. Montrose said.

  Rod’s eyes narrowed slighdy. “Well, sir, I’ve heard it said, ‘Happiness can be getting what you want or wanting what you get.’The trick is knowing what will really make you happy.”

  “That may be true, boy, if one is wise enough to recognize it.” The older man sighed.

  The following Thursday, before getting ready for her visit to Cameron Hall, Blythe prepared Sara’s tray. Always meticulously following the instructions Garnet had given her, Blythe covered it with the freshly ironed linen cloth with its drawn-work edging and monogram. Next, she folded the matching napkin into a precise triangle, then placed the hand-painted china cup and saucer beside it. She would make the tea last of all, making sure the water was boiling vigorously before pouring it over the tea leaves. Then the small silver pot must be covered so the steaming brew was kept hot.

  Her last task was to measure out exactly two spoonfuls of laudanum into the tiny crystal glass to ensure Sara a restful nap while she was away.

  Malcolm had told Blythe to accept Mrs. Cameron’s invitation, but Sara had fretted. “You won’t be gone long, will you? I don’t like to awaken with no one to come when I ring.” With one frail hand, she gestured toward the small silver bell on the table beside her chaise, a summons Blythe had learned to answer speedily.

  “Oh, I’ll be back in plenty of time to bring your tea,” Blythe assured her.

  “Well, I know how visits can go on and on without noticing the time—” Sara’s voice had trailed away with a hint of self-pity.

  Still, aside from her surface pettiness, Sara was to be admired, Blythe felt. Overall, the invalid bore her physical disability with courage and poise and had managed to build a life for herself within its narrow confines. She had somehow been able to survive the blows fate had dealt her—the death of two sons, watching her once strong, proud husband come home in defeat to a ravaged plantation and diminished fortune. Yet Sara had not given in to despair. She read voraciously, wrote dozens of letters to friends and relatives, maintained her appearance.

  Malcolm’s homecoming had obviously done wonders for Sara, so Blythe harbored no resentment of their loving bond. At times, however, she could not help wondering if Rose had ever suffered this same feeling of exclusion. But no one ever spoke to her of Rose.

  Hearing the grandfather clock in the hall chime the quarter hour, she hurried upstairs to get dressed. With much thought and trying-on the night) before, she had resolved the matter of what to wear. She had chosen a light-weight cotton print in a tiny bluebell pattern with puffed sleeves and a collar of crocheted lace.

  Mrs. Coppley had given Blythe the dress along with a confession. “I made it for my niece, Sally, before she married. But with three babies in as many years, it don’t fit no more. It ain’t hardly been worn.”

  Again, it was her hair that posed the biggest problem. The humidity forced the curls tighter, and Blythe fought to smooth them into the neat roll she had practiced. Before she was satisfied with her efforts, however, she heard the sound of Rod’s horse and buggy on the drive below. Not wanting to keep him waiting, she grabbed her wedding bonnet and was tying its strings as he pulled up in front of the house.

  Blythe ran down the veranda steps to meet him, her skirts billowing out from her tiny waist. She was unaware of the pretty picture she made … or that the man observing her envied Malcolm Montrose his uncanny good luck. Rose had been a stunning brunette, but this young woman had a fresh, innocent beauty of her own.

  The ride to Cameron Hall passed pleasandy. Blythe believed Rod Cameron to be one of the most relaxing persons she had met since coming to Virginia. With Mr. and Mrs. Montrose, she often felt shy; with Malcolm, uncertain of what to do or say, awkward in the extreme.

  Kate Cameron came out on the porch to greet them. “Welcome again, Blythe, dear! It’s been much too long since we’ve seen you, but with the wedding and graduation … well, things around here have been busy, to say the least.” She broke off with a light, lilting laugh. “We’ll begin today to remedy all that. I’m longing to get better acquainted.”

  Blythe felt instantly at home. So this was a true Southern lady—this model of charm and decorum and genuine warmth. Up close, Kate looked older than her slim, girlish figure would imply from a distance. But although her face was lined, her manner was serene, and she seemed much more interested in others than in herself. She knew exactly what to say and do to set each person at ease. And she did it without affectation or effort.

  “We’ll sit out here where we can catch some breeze.” She led Blythe over to a shady corner of the side porch. “Dove is planning something cool and lovely for us to drink.”

  Blythe settled gratefully into a white wicker chair. Nearby, a round table was covered in pink linen. On it, a cut-glass vase held a fragrant bouquet of roses.

  “What beautiful flowers,” Blythe said admiringly.

  “Yes. I love roses, too,” Kate agreed. “The gardens are just coming back. They were ruined during the War. Those Yankees rode their horses right through them, trampling everything—” She broke off, her mouth tightening slighdy as if remembering the desecration. “After that, I concentrated for a while on growing vegetables. But, let’s not dwell on unpleasant things.” She waved a slender hand in dismissal. “This afternoon I just want to get to know you.” She smiled at Blythe. “Now, do tell us all about California. Since I doubt I shall ever see it myself, I’d like to hear from one who has lived there.”

  Before Blythe could even wonder how to begin, Dove appeared. Once more Blythe was struck at the contrast of her snow-white hair and youthful features. Her hair must have turned white as the result of some great shock, probably the death of her husband Lee.

  “Here’s our Dove now. Come sit here by me.” Kate said, patting the flowered cushion of one of the chairs nearest her. Turning again to Blythe, she asked, “How is Malcolm these days? We miss him. We thought he’d be over more once he got back from the West. But we haven’t seen him since Garnet’s wedding. When he was a little boy, he practically lived at this house. He was great friends with the twins, of course, and Garnet worshipped him. We always considered him part of the family.”

  “He spends a lot of time with his mother,” murmured Blythe, realizing this to be a poor excuse for neglecting old friends. But how could she explain Malcolm’s reclusiveness when she couldn’t understand it herself?

  “I suppose, like so many others, he has some adjusting to do. Seeing the damage at Montclair must have been a terrible blow,” suggested Kate. ‘Those of us who lived through the Yankee invasion and occupation saw it all crumble, bit by bit. And we’ve spent a great deal of time trying to recover, rebuild. But for someone who didn’t see it happen … only the aftermath … well, I’m sure Malcolm needs time to put things into perspective.”

  Just then, a little girl of about six or seven years of age peered around the corner of the porch.

  Seeing her, Kate called, “Don’t play shy, little Dru! Come on out, precious, and meet our company.”

  Right away the child ran to Dove, who put an arm around her and drew her close. From this safe haven, the little girl peeked at Blythe’s mischievous blue eyes.

  Her masses of dark curls were tied back with wide, white satin ribbon, and she was wearing a starched, ruffled pinafore over a pink candy-striped dress. Blythe thought she had never seen such an enchanting child.

  “This is Dr
uscilla Montrose, Leighton and Dove’s little one. Say ‘hello’ to your new Auntie Blythe,” Kate instructed.

  The child dimpled and put one finger to her mouth, squirmed a little, but managed the greeting as she had been asked. Then she whispered something in Kate’s ear.

  “Where are your manners, sweet!1” admonished Dove. “We don’t whisper in front of company.”

  Kate laughed indulgently. “She just wanted to know when the tea party was going to be. Very soon, darling,” she told the child. “I see Mina coming with the tray now.”

  An elderly black woman shuffled out onto the porch, and Rod rose to help her with the tray of refreshments.

  “Mina,” Kate said, “this pretty young lady is Mr. Malcolm’s new bride.”

  The old woman grinned a toothless smile and bobbed a little curtsy toward Blythe. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Mistuh Malcolm is a fine gen’lmun.”

  After Mina had made a painfully slow exit, Dove poured tea, adding lemon, sugar, and sprigs of fresh mint as she passed the cups. “We—Dru and I—lived at Montclair during the War,” Dove explained to Blythe. “Of course Dru was just a baby and doesn’t remember much about it. But the three of us—Cousin Harmony Chance, her litde girl, Alair, Garnet, and I—and Miss Sara, of course, all stayed there together while the men were off fighting.”

  “And how is Sara?” Kate asked Blythe.

  “I suppose she is as well as possible … under the circumstances,” Blythe replied cautiously. “Of course, I’ve only known her a short time … and not at all before the accident—”

  “Oh, very few did. That happened years and years ago. Malcolm was only five or six at the time.” Kate shook her head sadly. “Sara was the most beautiful young woman I’ve ever seen—a charming hostess, an excellent horsewoman. That’s why the accident was so devastating! You know Malcolm witnessed it, don’t you? A very shocking thing for a child. I believe that to be the basis for his absolute devotion to his mother.”

  “Are you taking care of her then?” asked Dove. “I know how she depended so on Rose—” Dove stopped mid-sentence, her face going pink. “Oh, dear! Forgive me, Blythe.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Of course, I know about Rose,” she said, flushing a little herself as three pairs of eyes regarded her.

  “Well, of course, you would,” Kate interjected smoothly. “Sara has a habit of making people her slaves. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, but after her maid Lizzie left—ran off up North by the Underground Railroad, some think—Rose took over. Then, after poor Rose died, Garnet stepped in, so I know how demanding Sara can be. Not to be uncharitable, but just to warn you, dear Blythe … you must not let yourself be trapped into becoming her maidservant. If you’re not careful, Sara will monopolize both of you, and you and Malcolm must have a life of your own.”

  At that moment little Dru, jiggling in her chair, tipped it precariously, and the ensuing scramble to keep her from spilling the contents of her glass provided a distraction that ended the discussion, to Blythe’s immense relief.

  The little girl seemed to be the joy of the three adults and, without being the least spoiled, added a sparkle to the afternoon. Blythe could not help thinking wistfully how different things might be at Montclair if there were a child.

  But how could that ever be? Malcolm would never be a true husband to her as long as he was obsessed with Rose. Even in death, Rose was the true mistress of Montclair … and of her husband’s heart.

  Unconsciously, Blythe shivered.

  “Are you getting cold, dear?” Kate asked solicitously. “Perhaps it is getting too shady on this side of the porch. Suppose we move our chairs into the sunshine.”

  Jolted from her morbid thoughts, Blythe said quickly, “Oh, no, I’m fine! But I think I’d best be going. I promised Malcolm’s mother I would be back by four.”

  Rod got to his feet, followed by the ladies.

  Spontaneously, Kate hugged Blythe. “I’m so glad you came. I feel I’m beginning to know you already. Please come anytime and … if you ever need to talk—” Her kind eyes held Blythe’s for a long moment. “It must be lonely for you sometimes. Montclair is the most isolated plantation in this part of the county. But we shan’t let you be a stranger here. Do remember that.”

  chapter

  13

  KATE CAMERON’S parting words remained with Blythe as Rod handed her into the carriage and they started down the drive back to Montclair.

  “Your mother’s so lovely and so kind,” she said. “She made me feel very much at home … me … a strangerF Blythe shook her head wonderingly.

  Something curious flickered in Rod’s eyes as he asked, “Haven’t you ever heard the biblical admonition, ‘Do not forget to entertain strangers for by doing so, some have entertained angels unaware’? Maybe my mother thinks you’re an angel.”

  Blythe blushed, knowing he was teasing her. “Well, all the same, it makes me feel very warm and happy,” she replied. “You’re very lucky, you know, to have your mother still. My mother died when I was just a little girl, younger than Dru.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rod spoke gently.

  “But, of course, I barely remember her,” she hurried on, hoping he had not thought her self-pitying. “Pa was wonderful, and the women in Lucas Valley were all real good to me—helping him out with my clothes, teaching me to sew and cook—”

  Rod nodded, and a little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “All very useful knowledge, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, yes. Every woman, no matter how privileged, should know how to cook and sew and run a household.” She stopped, realizing she was engaging in “prattle,” in Malcolm’s words. Then, “I liked Dove right away, too. They were both so nice to me.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be? You’re easy to be nice to.”

  Blythe glanced at Rod, dien down at her hands folded in her lap, not certain how to reply.

  They jogged along the road without talking for a time before Rod asked, “Tell me, did Malcolm find any gold out there?”

  Surprised that this had not been discussed on the first night he and Malcolm had stayed up so late talking, she answered, “Well, not much anyway. And what he did find was stolen.”

  Rod shook his head. “Too bad.”

  She nodded. “Gold fever! That’s what Pa called it. It makes people crazy, he said. They’ll do anything—steal, lie, even kill for it.”

  “But your own father was a miner, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but Pa was one of the lucky ones,” Blythe said. “He came to California not long after they found gold at Sutter’s Mill. After my mother died, he had a couple of good claims, both rich. So he took me to Sacramento, put me in a convent boarding school there, then went back to the gold fields. He stayed three years working his claims and saved enough to buy the land and some livestock and build the house.”

  “Your father was wise. I’ve heard tales of so many who struck it rich, then squandered it all.”

  “I know. I heard him tell Sister Helena when he came to take me home with him, There’s the gambler’s risk and there’s being a fool, and I’m neither one. Sure, I could go on prospecting. There’re still untapped mines in those mountains. But I’ve got my health, and this little daughter of mine to think about.’“ She paused, looking at Rod, wondering if she had said too much. “Anyway … that’s how we came to be in Lucas Valley.”

  “And Malcolm stayed on with you?”

  She explained how her Pa had taken a liking to Malcolm from the beginning, how they had sat for hours on winter evenings, drawn up in front of the pot-belly stove talking about books while she listened. She felt the familiar twinge of homesickness, a fresh wave of grief.

  “Then what happened? When he was well, why didn’t Malcolm go back to his mine or come home to Virginia?”

  Blythe shook her head. “I don’t know. Sometimes he’d talk about Virginia. Montclair. He said it had been his dream to find gold, make his fortune, and come back here to rebuild the plantation. Well�
� after all that happened, and with so little family left… I guess he thought he hadn’t anything to come home to. That’s when he told us about his wife and little boy.”

  Rod deliberately slowed the horse from a trot to a walk as they neared the turn-off to Montclair. ‘What changed his mind?”

  “Pa’s death, I think,” Blythe answered. Rod seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she took a long breath and told him about the accident, about her need for Malcolm’s help on the ranch. “A few weeks before Pa died, Doc Sanderson tried to prepare me, even suggested a place in town where I could live. But, of course, that wasn’t necessary.”

  “How was that?” Rod asked.

  Blythe turned to him, her eyes wide. “Why, there was Malcolm! He wanted to marry me, to take care of me.”

  There was a long pause, then Rod slapped the reins and the horse trotted obediendy up the road leading to Montclair. “I see.”

  Blythe felt a sense of uneasiness. Maybe she had said too much. Malcolm might not be pleased. But Rod was so kind, so caring, and she had not had anyone to talk to in such a long time-—

  Long shadows were criss-crossing the overgrown yard in front of Montclair as Rod reined to a stop in front. Blythe hopped down without waiting for him to come around and assist her.

  “Thank you so much. I had such a good time. Please tell your mother again how much I enjoyed the afternoon.”

  “Our pleasure,” Rod said, lifting the brim of his hat slighdy. “Regards to Malcolm … and to Mr. and Mrs. Montrose.”

  “I’ll tell them,” she promised and then turned and ran lighdy up the steps and into the house.

  The first thing Blythe saw upon entering was Malcolm’s trunk to the left of the front door. The second was Malcolm himself, coming down the stairs with Sara’s tray in his hands.

  “You’re late,” he said in mild reproval.

  Blythe darted a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the hall. The hands pointed to nearly five.

  “I’m sorry!” she apologized, knowing that, if Rod hadn’t slowed down while she was telling her story, they would have arrived on time. “Was your mother upset?”